#Pulses Broker

[leading-inpherno]

Okok- What's your opinion on your faction members? :0 Like Scythe, Medkit, Broker, etc etc. - @simply-windy

"Er...I'm gonna be honest I don't know most of the...individuals in my faction. But I do know those names! Scythe is....a criminal. That Broker guy is too, & Medkit is a fugitive that Pulse is lookin' for. Wait- he's a faction member? He's in Lost Temple?!"

"Fuck...I gotta tell Pulse now."

[austinbutlerslovers]

Obsession

Label Mature 18+

Summary Betrothed to Feyd-Rautha, the dark and terrifyingly handsome Na-Baron of Giedi Prime, you should be filled with fear, instead you are obsessed with him.

Harkonnen wedding traditions are brutal and cruel, a series of tests meant to prove your undying obedience yet you find yourself giving everything on your wedding night to ensure you are his one true Baroness.

🚨 Depraved Smut 🚨 foreplay•Dune style stimulation devices•temporary restraints •ovulation stimulator •breeding kink•multiple interchanged sex positions•multiple orgasms

🔗 Masterlist

📖 Proof Reader @purejasmine 🫦 Smut Consult @burnthheparaphilia 🩸slight mention of blood, Feyds from a chalice for the wedding

Yes 🤤 the unnatural obsession with Feyd is so real

Obsession

Your heart raced as the shuttle descended through the thick, polluted clouds of Geidi Prime, the dark, industrial planet that would soon be your new home. The vast, mechanical landscape stretched below, black and gray, a dystopian sprawl where nothing grew naturally. It was stark, oppressive, and utterly foreign to you—just like the man you were about to marry.

Feyd Rautha Harkonnen. The name alone made your pulse quicken. He was dark, enigmatic, and dangerous, whispered about in terror. The nephew of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, Feyd was next in line to become the Baron himself, a title that would grant him dominion over the cruel, shadowed world of Geidi Prime and all who lived under his rule.

You had heard of him long before you ever saw him in person. The stories reached your ears like venom, laced with fear and awe. Even on your distant homeworld, far from the brutal politics of Giedi Prime, Feyd’s reputation preceded him.

He was a figure of dark fascination—a Harkonnen prince known for his ruthlessness in the gladiatorial arena and his cunning in the shadows of the political court. But it wasn’t until the day you saw him with your own eyes that the name took on a new, enticing meaning.

The Harkonnens had come to broker a deal with your ruling family—a subtle tightening of their grip over your people. Your father, proud and stern, had never been one to show emotion, but even he couldn’t mask the strain this decision was putting on him.

The meeting was held in the grand hall of your father’s palace. You were present but only as an observer, careful not to draw attention to yourself.

The Baron sat smugly in his chair, Feyd standing just behind him, a dark figure of quiet menace. Every so often, your eyes would dart to Feyd, stealing glances at the way he held himself with a confidence that bordered on arrogance.

His sharp features, the cold intensity in his eyes, but that alone had been enough to stir something dangerous within you.

This was the final and longest of several negotiations, and you could see the tension simmering beneath the surface, the unsaid truths weighing heavily on your father.

He was prepared to give you away as part of this dark, political bargain. The deal had been struck weeks ago, an agreement to cement an alliance with the Harkonnens in exchange for protection and resources…at the cost of your hand in marriage.

Your father’s voice wavered as the meeting wore on. “She is my daughter,” he said, his tone strained. “I want assurances—more than just words.”

The Baron’s smile was a twisted thing, devoid of warmth. “You’ll get what was promised,” he replied, his voice heavy with the weight of unspoken threats. “The bargain is set. There’s no going back now.”

That’s when your father’s voice began to escalate torn between the weight of his obligations no longer able to contain his frustration.

“We made the bargain between our planets, yes,” he said, his voice rising, sharp with anger. “But my daughter is a princess—my daughter—and I will not stand by and watch her be treated like some pawn in your twisted games! I want assurances—real assurances—that she will be unharmed!”

The Baron’s smile deepened with a steely coldness as he clasped his hands together. “This is no place for sentiment,” he interrupted. “You’ve already sold her future. You would do well to remember that.”

That is when the discussion escalated, voices from your father and his advisors rising with every point of contention, their frustration growing louder in the face of the now cackling Baron, and then something shifted. The air grew charged, dangerous, and you could feel it coming before anyone else did.

One of your father’s personal guards—a man known for his loyalty, yet prone to impulsiveness—had stepped too close to Feyd, perhaps provoked by the tension in the room. His words had been a sharp insult against the Harkonnens.

You watched, heart pounding, as Feyd moved faster than anyone expected.

With a fluidity that defied his size, Feyd was upon the guard before anyone could blink.

The guard didn’t even have time to react Feyd’s movements were a blur—brutal, efficient, and terrifyingly precise.

In a heartbeat, he slammed the guards head against the table, his knife pressed to the man’s throat, his eyes alight with a cold controlled fury.

There was no hesitation, no moment of indecision. Feyd had claimed dominance in an instant, the guard left shocked he was now under the threat of death.

Feyds control over the situation was absolute. The room held its breath, waiting for him to make the kill, and for a moment—you thought he would.

The room was silent, the only sound the faint rasps of the guard’s breathing under Feyd’s blade.

But Feyd didn’t kill him. Instead, he leaned in close, his voice low and dangerous as he whispered something in the guard’s ear. Whatever it was, you couldn’t hear it, but the look of sheer terror on the guard’s face told you enough.

Feyd withdrew the blade slowly, deliberately, as though savoring the moment. Then, just as quickly as he had attacked, he stepped back, his face returning to a mask of cold indifference.

You had felt your pulse quicken, excitement rushing through you. There was something about him—his precision, his control, the way he could command a room with nothing more than a glance and a blade.

You had heard tales of his brutality, but seeing it in person was different. It was intoxicating. Where others might have felt fear, you felt something else—something far more dangerous.

It was in that moment, as Feyd stepped away from the trembling guard, his gaze sweeping across the room, that his eyes met yours for the first time. The connection was brief, just a flicker, but it was enough. His lips curved ever so slightly, as he stared at you as if he had already claimed you.

There was no warmth in his gaze, no affection—only the cold certainty that he saw you as his inevitable prize. And yet, the intensity of his focus made it impossible for you to think of anything else. It was almost maddening the way he could make you feel like he already owned you, without ever laying a hand on you and it was the beginning of something darkly inevitable.

He had seen you watching him, and you had seen him for what he truly was—a force of control, of power, of dominance. You had always heard the Harkonnens were dangerous, but it wasn’t until you saw Feyd that day you realized how deeply you craved that danger. And from that moment on, your obsession with him began to grow.

You hadn’t been given a choice in the matter; the day of the marriage ceremony had already been arranged on Giedi Prime.

It was assumed you would be an unwilling captive, terrified of this unhinged manipulative Harkonnen. Everyone warned you to be prepared for the worst, to expect coldness, cruelty—maybe even pain.

But they didn’t know you.

As the shuttle landed, your anticipation only grew, a thrill sparking deep inside you. You were completely obsessed with him now, this future Baron whose reputation was so dark, so cruel. You craved what others feared. And tomorrow, on your wedding night, you would finally be his.

The wedding was a cold, efficient ceremony. The Harkonnen traditions were harsh, foreign to you, but strangely exhilarating.

The current Baron watched carefully, his calculating gaze never leaving you as the guards led you forward to Feyd-Rautha.

The Baron had anticipated seeing you recoil at the sight of his nephew—his cruel sneer already forming as you placed your hand in Feyd’s.

But the excitement that rushed through you as you laid eyes on the tall, imposing Feyd-Rautha was hidden behind a mask of composer. You kept your expression calm, but inside, the thrill of standing next to him, of touching him, surged through you.

You couldn’t wait to be his, your obsession for him building from the moment you laid eyes on him. He was powerful and irresistible, your desire for him deepening with every glance you stole in his direction.

He had barely spoken a word to before the ceremony but his presence sent waves of anticipation through you. He was strong, and intelligent, his angular features making him impossibly attractive in a sinister way.

His blue eyes gleamed with something dark, something dangerous, and you knew instantly you wanted him, all of him, no matter how twisted or cruel he might be.

The procession began at dawn, the sky a sickly red as the first light filtered through the grimy atmosphere of the planet. The ceremonial gown they had chosen for you was unlike any wedding attire you had ever imagined, an artifact of Harkonnen cruelty.

It was not designed for beauty or grace, but to impose dominance, to encase you in the rigid structure of their traditions.

You were sewn into the gown, the black fabric clinging so tightly to your body that it was suffocating in its embrace, your chest the only thing free from the bodice.

The garment was designed to restrain you—to remind you of the life you were about to enter, one ruled by dominance and power.

Feyd, standing at the altar, wore a regal garment—black with crimson accents, the Harkonnen emblem across his chest.

His presence was commanding, his expression cold and unreadable, but you could feel the intensity of his gaze, his claim laid into to you long before the ritual even began.

The ceremony itself was a test, not just of loyalty, but of strength, a series of grueling customs meant to solidify the union between you and the Harkonnen House.

The first was a Blood Oath, an ancient Harkonnen tradition that required both partners to spill their blood as a symbol of their commitment, not just to each other, but to the house itself.

A ceremonial blade was presented to Feyd, its edge gleaming dangerously in the low light of the grand hall.

Feyds blood was the first to be offered,a symbol of his dominance and control, and you felt your breath quicken as you watched.

Feyd sliced a shallow cut across his palm, the dark blood pooling in his hand. There was no hesitation in his gaze, no sign of pain—just the cold, calculated determination you had come to expect from him.

You had known this moment was coming, had steeled yourself for it, and yet when he reached for your hand, the weight of the ritual suddenly became far more real.

Feyd’s grip on your hand was firm, his fingers wrapping around yours pulling your hand over the chalice. The cold steel of the blade brushed against your skin, and Feyds eyes searched yours for any hint of fear or hesitation, but you held his gaze, refusing to look away.

The blade hovered just above your palm, the sharp edge gleaming as Feyd pressed it gently against your skin. You could feel the pressure, the promise of pain, and then, with one swift motion, the blade sliced through the delicate skin of your hand.

The sting was immediate, sharp and precise, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to narrow down to that single point of contact.

You gasped softly, the sound barely audible in the silence of the hall, as warm blood began to trickle from the cut. It slid down your fingers in slow, deliberate streams, mingling with Feyd’s blood as it dripped into the chalice below. The crimson liquid swirled together, yours bright red, his dark and thick, a tangible symbol of the bond you had just forged.

Your heart raced, the steady thrum of it loud in your ears as you locked eyes with Feyd again.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. The weight of what had just transpired settled heavily over you, as though the air itself had thickened.

You were no longer two individuals. You were bound by blood, by ritual, by something far deeper than any wedding ceremony could signify.

Feyd held your gaze a moment longer, the intensity between you almost suffocating, before he finally let go of your hand. The cut still throbbed, the blood still trickled down your skin, but the pain was secondary now— your fate had just been sealed.

The chalice, filled with the mingling blood, was lifted by the Baron as your hands were mended, a cold twisted grin of satisfaction playing at the corners of his lips as he inspected the contents. He swirled the blood together, indistinguishable now, just as your fates had become.

“You are one now,” the Baron rasped, his voice carrying a note of finality. “Bound in blood, as it should be.”

He offered the chalice to Feyd, who drank from it readily, his throat moving as he swallowed. You watched intently, your heartbeat quickening, knowing you were next.

Feyd offered the chalice to you held in both hands. His eyes bore into yours, filled with expectation and a dark intensity, silently urging you to drink. There was something in his gaze—commanding, almost daring—as if he needed to see you do it, to watch you take part in this ritual that bound you to him.

Determined to honor his custom, you took the chalice from his hands into your own and did not look at what you drank, only swiftly bringing the edge to your lips.

Just a swallow—and immediately, you knew Feyd’s blood was different, like ink spreading along your tongue, the metallic taste thick and lingering, refusing to dissipate just like this moment, you would never soon forget.

But it wasn’t enough to simply give your blood.

The next custom was known as the Trial of Chains, an ordeal designed to test your endurance and your willingness to submit to the will of House Harkonnen.

You were led to the center of the hall, where an iron structure loomed—a symbolic relic of Harkonnen dominance. Heavy, dark chains were draped over your arms and shoulders. You were forced to stand, unmoving, while the Baron himself recited a list of oaths you would take.

The weight of the chains grew unbearable with each passing moment, your muscles straining under the pressure, but you knew that showing weakness was not an option.

Every Harkonnen wedding had this trial, a display to prove the new spouse’s fortitude. Failure meant dishonor, and in some cases, death.

As the trial continued, Feyd watched you closely, his eyes scanning your every movement, gauging whether you would falter.

But you did not. Despite the heaviness of the chains, despite the cold sweat that began to form on your brow, you stood still, the weight nothing compared to the determination to please him.

By the time the Baron finished the oaths, you felt as though the chains had become a part of you—symbols of the power and control you had willingly accepted.

The last and most chilling custom was The Binding of the Will, a psychological test unique to the Harkonnen lineage.

A dark room was prepared beneath the Grand Hall, filled with a hypnotic scent that that made your lungs feel heavy with every breath.

A veil was placed upon your head, its fabric heavy and oppressive. It was made from a black intricate fabric that seemed to shimmer faintly in the low light. It was woven with delicate, sinister patterns—symbols of submission, of ancient power.

The weight of the veil was almost suffocating, obscuring your vision slightly, casting everything around you in a dim, distorted haze.

You could feel its texture against your skin, cold and unyielding, a physical reminder of the role you were about to play.

You were made to kneel on a white cold stone altar, your knees resting on the unyielding surface as you felt the weight of the veil draped over your head.

Feyd took his place in front of you and you were left alone together in the dimly lit room.

In the heavy silence, you could hear your own shallow breathing, loud and uneven beneath the heavy veil.

Each breath felt more labored, the weight of the ritual and the veil combining to stir a slight panic in your chest.

For a brief moment, it felt overwhelming—the room, the ritual, the weight of the fabric that seemed to trap you in place. But then, through the haze of the veil, you caught sight of Feyd’s eyes.

He was watching you, his gaze almost reverent for what you had endured, and that look alone—anchored you to him.

His hand reached for yours, lightly tracing his finger along your outstretched palm.

It was something you somehow knew was against tradition, against his customs, and yet you couldn’t help but smile at him, utterly enamored.

He met your eyes, and there was a flicker of satisfaction in them, a possessive gleam that held you in place. Then, just as quickly, his hand slipped away, clasped behind his back.

The doors to the room slowly opened as an ancient Harkonnen master entered draped in a cloak of shadows.

In his hands he held a metal prism. His movements were slow and paced, his form almost blending into the darkness that surrounded him.

He approached Feyd offering him the prism without a word which Feyd accepted with reverence bringing it to his forehead before lowering it to his chest.

It was an old relic ancient even, passed down through generations of Harkonnens, The dark, polished surface gleamed under the low light.

Feyd then brought the prism toward you and under your veil. His hand was steady as he pressed a hidden mechanism. With a soft click, the panels unfolded and a cloud of smoke plumed from it.

You tried not to inhale it, but the smoke found its way into your lungs thick and sweet with every shallow breath.

Slowly a warmth began to seep into your veins, spreading inch by inch through your body, a creeping sensation, as though something dark was settling inside you, rooting itself deep within.

You softly gasped as everything around you blurred, the room seeming to shift and warp before your eyes, becoming both infinite and claustrophobic all at once.

Your limbs grew heavy, but your mind floated away, detached from the physical weight of your body.

The air was no longer suffocating but welcoming, each breath drawing you deeper into a dreamlike haze.

Feyd watched you closely until your head lulled your eyes fluttering, then he closed the lid removing the prism.

The master began speaking a series of words in a language you didn’t recognize, words that held a strange, almost hypnotic power.

The words, when spoken, worked deep into your mind, attempting to root out your fears, your weaknesses, and plant a binding suggestion that you would never defy the will of your husband, nor the Harkonnen family.

This binding wasn’t meant to break your spirit completely, but rather to tether it—making sure that, while you might fight or resist, you would always come back, always remain under his control.

The master’s voice was a low, droning chant, and with every word, you felt an eerie surge of calm settle over you, as though the very air was wrapping around your mind, coaxing it to bend.

By the end of the ritual, you felt a strange sense of liberation and captivity.

You had passed every test, met every challenge. You had shown them that you were worthy to stand beside Feyd Rautha, but in doing so, you had also surrendered a part of yourself to the darkness that was the Harkonnen legacy.

As the ceremony concluded, Feyd stepped toward you, the cold, calculating look in his eyes replaced with something deeper, more genuine. He took your hands in his, and though the touch was possessive, you felt a connection, a burning energy between you.

The Baron watched from the shadows as Feyd removed the veil, his lips curling into a twisted smile. You had passed the tests and now you belonged to Feyd-Rautha, bound by blood, chains, and will.

As you walked together from the hall, the dark traditions of the Harkonnen now coursing through your veins, you realized you had entered their world, and you would never leave it.

The moment the heavy doors of the ceremonial mating chambers closed behind you, the air between you shifted, the atmosphere thickening with unspoken tension.

Feyd’s eyes bore into you, calculating what he do with you now that you were alone.

His dark gaze made your pulse quicken, and you could feel the anticipation thrumming through your veins.

“You enjoyed the ceremony, didn’t you?” Feyd’s voice asks with a low rasp, as he took a slow step toward you, his strong frame towering over yours.

“You are the first bride to complete it,” he reveals, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.

You meet his gaze without flinching, though a strange haze clouds your thoughts, a light sweat dampening your skin.

Whatever they had given you during the ceremony still lingers in your body, making everything feel distant and sharp all at once.

Your heart races with your limbs feeling heavy and light at the same time but a dangerous, daring look flickers in your eyes.

“Maybe I am not like most brides.” You respond the words slipping from your lips.

A wicked smile tugs at the corner of Feyds lips with intrigue. “No, I suppose you’re not,” he says, his eyes dark with something unspoken as he watches you, his gaze lingering on the subtle glisten of your skin.

He moves closer, his hand suddenly gripping your chin, tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

His touch is firm, possessive, his fingers cold against your skin, but it only makes you crave more.

“Do you know what’s expected of you tonight?” he asks, his voice low and dark, watching the way your eyes flutter slightly under the heavy weight of opium coursing through your veins from the ritual.

You nod, your breath catching in your throat. “Yes.”

Something flickers in Feyd’s eyes—interest, surprise—and a slight grin forms at the corner of his lips.

“On your knees,” he says, his voice low and commanding. His tone leaves no room for hesitation, and your legs move of their own accord, sinking into the cold black stone floor beneath you.

Feyd takes his time, circling you , assessing you. His footsteps are slow, deliberate, as the anticipation increases within you, your skin prickling with both fear and excitement.

“You think you understand what tonight is,” he muses, stopping behind you. His fingers sliding into your hair, pulling gently at first, then sharply enough to yank your head back making you cry out.

“Pleasure and pain” he says softly releasing your hair. “Because only through one can you fully experience the other.”

Your heart races as he leaves your side, pressing a button that makes a sleek ledge rise from the floor. When it reaches the desired height, a lid slides back, revealing several items on its surface.

You can’t see what he’s selecting, but the soft clink of metal makes your breath catch in your throat, sending a wave of anticipation coursing through you.

He returns, standing before you once more, and in his hands, he holds two items—one, a smooth handled device with a phallic tip that that glints menacingly in the dim light, and the other, a small, polished stone that pulses with a faint, white inner glow.

His lips curl into a smirk as he crouches down to meet your eye level.

“Do you know what these are?” he asks the question rhetorical as you look at each object.

“No” you breathe looking up to him.

“These will show me everything I need to know about you—how much you can take before you break.” He grins.

He manipulates the handled phallic device turning it on with a quiet hum that makes your nerves tingle. Without warning, he lifts your gown pressing the phallic tip between your legs against your clit, its vibrations intense and immediate.

Your body jerks at the sensation, your muscles tightening against the onslaught of stimulation. Feyd’s eyes darken as he watches you struggle to maintain control, your hips rocking as you begin to give in.

“You will stay still,” he commands, his voice laced with authority. “No matter how much you want to move, you will stay right here until I say otherwise.”

You stifle yourself as the device steadily hums against you, its pulsing rhythm sending waves of pleasure through your body teasing the edges of your desire, leaving you aching for more.

Feyd watches every twitch of your body, every slight movement of your hips as you try, unsuccessfully, to remain still, enduring the pleasure. His eyes gleam with sadistic delight, savoring your frustration as your arousal drips from the device onto the floor.

You want to scream in pleasure, and just when you think you can’t handle any more, Feyd reaches for the glowing stone. The warmth radiating from it as he places it against your chest where it remains in place without his touch.

A sudden, electric current emits from the stone, shooting through your chest, igniting every nerve ending in your body. It is unlike anything you have ever felt before —and the dual stimulation of pleasure and pain begins to overwhelm your senses.

The vibrations from the device meld with the energy from the stone, sending jolts of pleasure and pain coursing through your body. Your muscles tense and weaken under the unrelenting stimulation, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as each wave of sensation builds, layer upon layer, until you’re trembling in desperation.

“Not yet,” Feyd whispers as his hands finally began to roam over your body. His fingers grazing your constricting gown with approval, amplifying the sensation of the two forces at work within you. He is testing you, pushing you to the edge, but will not allow you to fall.

His hand grasps your chin tilting your face upwards to meet his eyes. “You’re mine, and tonight, you’ll learn what that means.” He says looking at you with a grin, his black smile so seductive you involuntarily moan for him.

He twists the handled device between your legs, forcing the phallus inside of you. The onslaught of pleasure is relentless, its rhythm changing every time you think you might get used to the intensity.

The stone on your chest begins sending sharper pulses of pain through you, alternating with the vibrations, each shock more intense than the last.

You try to stay still, try to obey, but your body starts betraying you. Your hips move involuntarily with the device, and a low tsk from Feyd tells you he has noticed and is displeased.

His hand is suddenly in your hair, yanking your head back, his other hand pressing the stone harder against your chest, making the sensation intolerable as you wince in pain.

“If you come you will be punished ” he rasps darkly, his voice sharp in the silence of the room.

“But if you last I will please you greatly.” He says releasing the stones intensity. “But until then, you will endure” he commands.

His words send a fresh wave of desire coursing through you, the challenge in his tone igniting something deep within. His test pushing you, daring you to prove yourself to him.

His hand begins to stroke your chin as you look up to him tears brimming your eyes faint cries rolling from your lips as you endure.

He revels in your torment, the way your body does not react to what he knows is agonizing you in the most pleasurable way.

The sensations start to become too much, your entire body feels as if it’s on fire, each pulse from the stone, each vibration from the device driving you closer and closer to the edge of madness as a startling sound rips from your throat.

And then, as if knowing you are breaking, Feyd yanks the stone from your chest, now intensely glowing red as you fall to the floor gasping and trembling.

The metallic device still pulses inside of you, amplifying only the pleasure which now floods your body and the intensity is unlike anything you’ve ever felt—so extreme it feels like it’s tearing through you.

Unable to hold back any longer, you feel your body finally give in. Every muscle tightens as your thighs tremble uncontrollably and a shudder runs through as you gasp against the floor.

Feyd watches you closely, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction as you come, your body quivering until you finally go limp, completely spent.

He waits for a moment, savoring the sight of you laid before him, your chest rising and falling as you pant, utterly drained.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he reaches for the handle of the device, gripping it firmly.

His movements are controlled and methodical, as he pulls it out of you, the sound of it leaving your body echoes in the stillness of the room, the slick, drenched surface glistening under the low light.

You lie there, weak and breathless, every nerve in your body still on fire from the intensity of what you’ve just experienced.

Feyd slowly grabs a blade from the table, his eyes never leaving yours as he kneels over you, the cold steel gleaming menacingly in his grasp.

The sight of the blade sends a shiver of anticipation through you as Feyd brings it closer to your body, his smile dark and dangerous. His hand traces the lines of the dress, sewn tightly against you, a symbol of the Harkonnen dominance.

“This dress was made to bind you,” he rasps, the blade gleaming in his hand. “When I cut you free, you are mine entirely.” He reveals as he lowers the blade.

His movements are deliberate, calculated, and when the sharp edge of the blade touches the fabric of your gown, you can feel your heart beat quicken.

With a slow, precise motion, he drags the blade through the fabric, the sound of tearing cloth echoing in the stillness of the room.

The gown gives way easily under the sharp edge, the fabric splitting open in precise lines that expose your skin inch by inch. He carves through the material with deliberate precision, freeing you from its confines.

As the last of the gown falls away, you inhale deeply, no longer constricted by the fabric that bound you, the cool air of the room inviting against your bare skin.

Every inch of you is exposed to Feyd, the sensation sharp and invigorating, heightening the awareness of your vulnerability beneath him.

Feyd smirks as he looks down at you, his blade in hand, fully aware of the power he holds over you.

His eyes linger on your nakedness, and you can see the way his desire intensifies, the subtle shift in his expression betraying how aroused he is.

His gaze travels over you with an almost possessive satisfaction, taking in every inch of you knowing you are his to command.

“I will breed you now,” he says, his fingers brushing your skin, just lightly enough to drive you mad. “And you will come for me many times before dawn.”

He stands over you, his dominance absolute, his eyes never leaving yours as he places the blade upon the table.

He removes his ceremonial garments, pulling and unclasping each piece from his body until he’s fully revealed. Beneath the dim light, the chiseled lines of his physique are striking—each muscle sharply defined, his body sculpted with raw strength and power.

His broad shoulders and chest taper down to a trim waist, the smooth, hairless perfection of his skin highlighting the contours of his abs and the hard lines of his arms.

His pale skin gleams under the dim light, his presence is overwhelming, his body a masterpiece of raw strength and dominance.

Your gaze travels down his body, exploring every inch with growing anticipation. When your eyes settle on the impressive size of his cock, you are filled with awe. The pink tip stands proudly from the thick, veined length of his shaft, and you can’t help but feel a surge of reverence, even honor, knowing that he intends to claim you.

Feyd is a force—ruthless, calculating, powerful and the knowledge that you now belong to him fills you with anticipation and desire.

He takes your arms, pulling you from the floor with a firm grip, and presses you down onto the cold, smooth surface of the mating altar.

The slick texture beneath your back sends a shiver through you, amplifying your sense of submission and vulnerability.

Without a word, he grasps your ankle, guiding it into a stirrup, securing it firmly before doing the same with the other.

Your legs are spread apart, knees bent, leaving you completely vulnerable to him. The air feels heavy as Feyd stands before you, his gaze dark and possessive, ready to take what is his.

His hand trails down your body, possessive and slow. “Tonight, you’ll know exactly what it means to belong to me,” he muses, his voice laced with dark promise.

Without breaking his gaze from yours, he presses a button, opening a small compartment on the panel at the foot of the alter pulling out a sleek syringe.

It faintly glows as he dispenses a translucent gel onto his fingers, the substance shimmering slightly in the dim light.

Feyds eyes are dark and calculating, as he slowly reaches between your legs, his fingers moving with deliberate precision.

His touch is cold at first, the gel slick as it coats his fingers, and with a slow, measured motion, he begins to slick it along your folds, his fingers tracing with meticulous care.

Feyd smirks as he softly spreads the gel between your legs, his eyes dark and calculating. “A special preparation, designed to ensure the legacy.” He says pressing his fingers against your entrance.

Then without hesitation he pushes his fingers inside of you, the gel cool and slick heightening every sensation.

“The Harkonnen lineage demands results,” he says, his tone filled with authority, “and I will make sure you fulfill that role.”

He slowly glides them deeper into you, the gel’s slickness easing their penetration. He watches you closely, his expression unreadable as his fingers move with a precision that makes you fully aware this is only the beginning of what he has planned.

His fingers reach a depth that makes you instinctively tighten around him, then he pushes slightly further, finding that perfect place as sudden a gentle ache begins pulsing on both sides of your core.

He pulls his fingers back possessively, his eyes locking onto yours.

“Another night, I will waste you entirely this way,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “But tonight is ensuring you belong to me, body, mind, and future.” He reveals his gaze deep with determination at the thought of owning every part of you.

The wedding night has only just begun, and already, you are his—completely and utterly his to control.

He runs his hands affectionately down your trapped legs, the touch unexpectedly soft, savoring the moment. His fingers trail along your skin, leaving a path of warmth in their wake, before he grips your legs firmly, holding them in place.

“You will fulfill your role as Baroness” he says with a slow, deliberate motion as he settles between your legs his weight pressing down on you.

“Your body will serve me in ways that will bind you to me forever.” he says almost to himself as his fingertips slowly trail along your cheek.

His gaze is deep, penetrating, as if he’s looking into your very soul, claiming you before a single word is spoken.

You reach up, grabbing hold of Feyd’s neck pulling him down, your lips pressing against his in a heated desperate kiss.

The boldness of your action surprises him, a low sound of approval escaping his throat as your body presses against his, your breaths mingling together.

You kiss him harder, your fingers digging into his neck, your desperation undeniable. “Now,” you whisper between breaths, “I want—I want all of you, now Feyd”

Feyd pulls back slightly, a wicked grin spreading across his face, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.

“You will have all of me, and more than you know how to handle.” he rasps, his voice certain.

Then, without another word, he positions himself, his cock hard and heavy in his hand as he strokes it, squeezing to the tip until pre-cum beads at the slit.

The intensity in his gaze never leaves yours as he takes his time pressing his large cock into you. He’s agonizingly slow, making sure you feel every ridge, every vein as your body stretches around him.

You moan in pleasure your grasp tightening onto his neck “Yes,” you breathe out, your voice trembling as he pushes deeper, “yes, yes,” the words slipping from your lips as he begins to thrust into you, the fullness of his cock overwhelming in its size exactly what you craved.

His grin only deepens as he takes you, savoring the moment, “I thought you’d resist…—fight against your new role…—but here you are, begging for it.” He says on every push of his hips.

“Yes,” you breathe, barely able to contain the rush of sensation. “Yes, I want it.”

His smirk deepens, black teeth gleaming as he sets a relentless pace into you.

Your vision blurs, the room spinning as your mind struggles to process the sheer intensity of what’s happening.

The wedding night is unlike anything you had imagined, and yet, it was everything you craved.

Feyd was unhinged, just as they had warned you: possessive, controlling, his thrusts rough and intoxicating, every part of your body fulfilled, pushing you to your limits.

Your moans of his name are so loud he thinks he is breaking you, pushing you too far, but he didn’t know you.

Every time he pushes harder, you revel it, moaning his name, craving more. The harder he breeds you, the more you respond, your body meeting his every thrust, your breathless gasps filling the room.

Feyd’s eyes widen as he realizes what is happening—that you are in pleasure, as unhinged as he is, that you crave the same intensity he does. A grin spreads across his face, wild and dangerous and he leans in, pressing his lips to your ear.

“You enjoy this, don’t you?” he whispers, his voice rough with desire.

“Yes,” you gasp, your nails digging into his back, pulling him closer. “I want more Feyd.”

Something shifts in him hearing those words, his expression darkening with pleasure. He grips your wrists, pinning them above your head as he looms above you, his breath hot and heavy.

“You’re more resilient than I thought,” he reveals with a grin his voice filled with both awe and approval.

“I will give you what you desire” he says his eyes gleaming with a twisted satisfaction, as if this unexpected strength only fuels his desire to push you further.

He watches you with a heated, intense gaze, his eyes dark with hunger as his hips snap forward, driving his deepest inside you.

The world narrows to just that moment—the raw, intensifying pleasure that feels too much, too good.

Each thrust after sends shockwaves through your body, and you can feel yourself unraveling, the sensation in your veins too powerful to contain.

Your breaths catch as your mouth opens in desperate moan, your eyes locking with Feyd, the way he takes you wracking your body in ways you never thought possible.

The sensation is dizzying, overwhelming, pushing you right to the edge of sanity. You can barely think, your mind clouded, altered, willing to surrender everything just to have more of him, more of this.

He continues to thrust his hardest, the force of his cock sending a tidal wave of ecstasy that crashes through, leaving you trembling, breathless.

Your body can no longer keep up with the intensity, and every nerve is on fire as you fall, completely undone, spiraling into bliss as everything inside you clenches tight, then releases in a flood of sensation that leaves you gasping.

Feyd feels you clenching on him as he stares into your eyes watching a strangled moan escape your lips, your body shaking as you come.

As your walls tighten around him, his control wavers, his face softening with a raw, unguarded intensity. His hands grip you tighter, fingers digging into your skin as if anchoring himself to keep from completely falling apart. A low, primal sound emits from his throat, rough and strained, as he fights to maintain control.

You look up into his eyes, meeting that fierce, possessive gaze, and in that instant, something shifts. The warmth of his come spreads deep inside you, filling you with a sense of completeness that takes your breath away. You gasp, the moment overwhelming, binding you to him in a way words could never convey.

His hold tightens further, a silent claim, sealing the connection between you, leaving no doubt that you are his—now and always.

Before the aftershocks have even faded, you already crave him again, desperate for more, for him to fill you and take you over and over again until there’s nothing left but pleasure.

“-Please…” you beg him feeling the heat in your body remain.

Feyd chuckles, low and dark, his voice heavy with satisfaction as his lips brush against your ear, “I’ve completely wrecked you… and you still want more.” His hand cups your face, forcing your eyes to meet his, the smirk on his lips wicked.

“You’d do anything, for me wouldn’t you?” He asks pulling his cock back, just enough to make you feel the loss. “And I’m just getting started.”

The night continues, a blur of pleasure and pain, of control and surrender. Feyd pushes you further than you thought possible your obsession with him deepening with every new position.

He releases you from your restraints flipping onto your front and taking you again, his hands pinning your arms to the mat. The tension between his grip and the rhythm of his thrusts building until you come, trembling beneath him.

He pulls you back on your hands and knees his hand firmly at the back of your neck pressing your face into the mat. His hips driving into you from behind, each thrust harder than the last, until he finally comes satisfied with his release deep within you.

He brings you on all fours his fingers teasing your clit to work you faster as you push back against him until you come together.

He pulls you into his lap, hands cupping your breasts his mouth drawing new waves of pleasure from your core as he leans in to suck on each one. You ride him hard, feeling the heat between you growing until you shatter in his arms.

And as the night goes on, position after position you realize he is just as obsessed with you as you are with him.

He has found someone who can match his intimacy, someone who craves the same things he does, and it thrills him to no end.

By the time dawn breaks over the cold, industrial landscape of Geidi Prime, you lay together, your bodies spent, his arm draped possessively over you. His eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he looks down at you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin.

“You surprised me,” he says, his voice softer now more affectionate. “I didn’t think you could handle me. But you did… and more.”

You smile, feeling a sense of victory, of pride. “I told you… I am not like most brides.”

Feyd chuckles, his lips brushing against your temple. “You will make a fine Baroness for me.” He says, with a deep sense of satisfaction.

“I will have you as my Baron many times,” you whisper, the words sending a thrill through you. You had craved him, all of him—his strength, his control, his darkness. And now, you had it.

Feyd smiles down at you, his fingers brushing along your hair. “Good.” He says his voice a dark satisfied rasp. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

⚔️END ⚔️

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[fayes-fics]

Awakening

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: You experience an awakening a few days into your arranged marriage with the Viscount.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, female masturbation, slightly dom/sub (use of little one/my lord), innocence, corruption kink, vaginal fingering, oral sex (m to f).

Word Count: 3.4k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Request fill for Anon, HERE, about Anthony being arranged married to an innocent reader. Sorry it's taken me so long to write this, Nonny, but I hope you still enjoy it, even though I changed the parameters of the request slightly. Enjoy <3

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton is most perplexing. 

He is all at once both the best and the worst person you know. A providing husband, but an absent one. A polite, undisputable gentleman, but one who has barely said more than a handful of words to you, his supposed wife. An arrangement was brokered with your father, and now, merely weeks later, you are walking the halls of Aubrey Hall as the new Viscountess Bridgerton but barely feel as if you know your husband.

The night before your wedding, you had received a very vague talk from your mother about how you should expect your new husband to enter your bedchamber and perform his “spousal rights” and that, as his wife, you must allow whatever he decides to do. You still have no earthly idea what that might mean; your room has never once yet seen his presence—on that night or, indeed, any of the four nights since. Part of you worries you have somehow failed to be the wife he needs; part of you is relieved he has not done anything to you that you must endure in some way.  

There is one thing you are certain of, though. While Anthony may be distant, almost an absence from your life, always busy with some business or other, there is no doubt you find his countenance pleasing. He is so very dashing and handsome. Earlier today, he swept in from a hunt wearing very tight tan breeches, and the sight caused a funny, warm tingling low in your gut. Between your legs, really.  He nodded politely as he swept past you in the hallway, continuing his discussion with his brother as he did so. You twist to watch his retreating figure, wishing you could have the opportunity to speak with him, but the view of his shapely bottom in those tight trousers is at least partial compensation. 

So as you lay under the covers on your fifth night alone, your ladies' maids having brushed your hair and taken their leave, you sigh deeply and snuggle into the crispy white sheets. Your thoughts turn to your husband again and that outfit he was wearing. The way those trousers clung to him, the movement of muscle as he strode purposefully. And that sensation rears again—the pulsing between your legs. It seems like your body needs something, but you do not know what. Flushed for some reason, you push away the covers. Before you know it, curiosity has the better of you. While you replay the image of him walking in your mind, your legs fall apart, your hand reflexively falling between them to provide a remedy—almost like an itch you need to scratch.

Your fingers slide through folds of flesh there, and strangely, there is unfamiliar sticky dampness. When you pass your fingers over a particular spot where your two lips meet, you get a pleasurable spike that makes your mouth slack.

Oh.

Almost without meaning to, you keep touching that spot, a call and response that is impossible to resist. The more you rub right there, your body swelling slightly under your movements, the better you feel. A languid buzz in your brain that feels both stimulating and relaxing. When your husband's image pops into your head again, everything suddenly gets sharper and more urgent. And so you do. You think of him. His handsome face, the way his forearms flex when you sit across from him at dinner, and he eats with his sleeves rolled up and again those legs and bottom in those tight trousers. Tumbling images that speed up in your mind as your fingers do the same, powerless to resist. 

You are soon gasping and writhing, yet you do not stop; it feels too good. Something almost violent happens in your body, your lungs restricting, your brain buzzing, and suddenly, with a crest of physical delight, you are experiencing something completely novel. There is a squeezing, rippling inside, and you cry out as a remarkable ecstasy takes your body. When eventually the feeling subsides, you collapse back down, panting and bewildered; your whole body flushed, your fingers, still resting between your legs, wettened with a slick substance that could only have come from within you. 

Whatever just happened, it's nothing you have been told about before. Not fully understanding, all you know is you want to experience it again. It's addictive, powerful, and so very relaxing once over. You instantly fall into a deep, sated slumber and wake up the most refreshed you have felt in many months.

And so it becomes a habit. 

Whenever you feel the need and have a private moment, you retire to your room and touch your body until you feel that pinnacle—often thinking upon the Viscount as you do so. His name even falls from your lips, breathy, almost a tasty morsel, as you find your peak. It is no longer something you only do when you retire to bed for the night. You find yourself doing so any time of day, whenever the mood strikes you, an addictive, fun, illicit thrill. You wonder idly if such a thing is taboo, but you struggle to believe something that feels so good could ever be unacceptable behaviour as long as you are in private, alone.

One week after your wedding, on an uneventful afternoon, you put down your needlework and huff a sigh, your eyes drawn by movement outside. There, riding towards the house at speed across the lawn is Anthony. It's a sunny summer day; he wears only a shirt billowing in the breeze with sleeves pushed up around his elbows. And again, those tan breeches flexing around his legs as the horse gallops, him moving with the beast in a rhythmic motion. Time seems to stand still as you are inexorably drawn to the window to watch the sight coming closer and closer. The whole time your breath becomes more rapid, that telltale throbbing between your legs flares. You decide there is only one course of action.

When he veers off to the left towards the stables to the side of the house, you turn heel and run up the stairs. Keen to have that incredible high. This new, enthralling image will be the star of your thoughts this time. You pass his valet on the stairs and politely nod before scurrying and closing your bedroom door behind you.

You drop your underwear onto the floor, hitching up your dress and chemise around your hips as you throw yourself onto your bed, not even bothering to pull back the bedspread, so very keen to touch yourself.

It doesn't take much, that familiar slick already there, painting your fingers as you slide them against your nub, one hand reaching behind to grasp the headboard as you writhe on your fingers, all thoughts of Anthony and that repetitive bouncing motion of him upon his steed. So wrapped up in pleasure, his name on your lips, you do not hear the knob turning and the door opening.

“My valet told me you were here….” his loud baritone voice rings out around the room but grinds to a halt mid-sentence.

You squeal in surprise; the star of your fantasies standing right before you, skin sunkissed and his hair tousled from his ride, a look of utter shock painting his face.

Instinctively, you clamp your knees together and attempt to push down your dress, but it’s too little, too late. He has seen exactly what you were doing, and now he looks distressed, hIs breathing uneven.

“Did you…. Did you say my name?” The tone is not one you have heard from him before, rough but straining.

You sit up slightly and avert your gaze downwards, abashed he has interrupted your private moment.

“Yes,” you confess quietly.

He takes a hesitant step forward towards the bed and swallows heavily.

“You were touching yourself? And... and saying my name?” he looks almost winded.

“Yes,” again, it's soft, and you chew your lower lip, thinking perhaps you are about to be chastised. He certainly looks very… agitated.

“Do you know what you are doing to yourself?” he blurts out, a vein in his forehead prominent as he locks his jaw.

“Not really,” you admit, “only that when I think of you, I get an ache between my legs, and it feels wonderful when I touch it.”

He makes a strangled noise and closes his eyes, his head tipping back slightly.

“I… I did not expect to consummate yet,” he mutters heavily, “I thought I had more time.” He seems to be talking to himself as much as you.

“What does that mean? Consummate?” you inquire, your mother's words coming to the forefront. Perhaps this is what she was referring to.

“As your husband, I have perhaps been neglectful of my spousal duties,” he says slowly, his head tipping back down to look at you, his eyes intense.

“Duties?” you frown.

“What you were doing to yourself…” he begins, moving closer now so he stands by the bed, “it is because you desire me. I had not considered that may be the case.” He twists his mouth into a thoughtful pout, but you do not miss how he seems to stare at your breasts as they rise and fall inside your stays. “But now that I know it is true… it… changes things.”

“How?” you look up at him, wanting to understand.

A smirk tugs at the left corner of his mouth. “It means there are things I can teach you, things you should know that can happen between a man and a woman. Things you will find pleasurable, just like when you touch yourself. It is my responsibility, as your husband, to show you such things now.” His hand reaches out, and you inhale sharply as it lands upon your raised knee.

“You make it sound more like an obligation than something you want to do,” you respond, voice wavering at the distraction his hand is causing, the viscous throbbing between your legs even heavier now.

“Oh, nothing could be further from the truth; I want to, now that I know you desire it too.” His voice is a soft thrum that makes your nipples peak and a shiver run down your spine.

“Why have you not come to me before, husband?” it sounds breathy even to your ears.

“I thought you disliked me. That this was an arrangement you were enduring. That I should be polite and respectful. Keep my distance, at the least, until you adjust to your new life as Viscountess. Until an heir is needed. But now I know that is not the case…” 

His voice is a pleasant low rumble as his hand starts to move, slightly calloused fingertips skirting the soft skin of your inner thigh, your dress and chemise bunching around his toned forearm as he does so.

“What are you…?” your breath quickening now.

“Shhhh, Viscountess, let me help you,” he hushes, and you stare at him with wide eyes as his warm fingers reach your folds. He hisses at the heat and wetness he finds there. “Oh, you really do like me,” he purrs, and something in you makes you lean slowly back onto the padded plush headboard, unable to look away from his face.

“Yes…” you whimper as his thumb, much broader than yours, makes a sideways swipe over your swollen nub.

“How often?” he murmurs, shifting to take a seat on the bed next to you, his thumb never wavering in its slow, intoxicating rhythm,

“How often wh-what?” You stutter, rapidly losing the ability to form words as your body riots, grasping the bedspread on either side of you, scarcely believing how amazing it feels when someone else touches you, especially him.

“How often do you touch yourself and think of me?” his voice gravelly.

“Everyday… so-sometimes m-more than once,” you pant out, your lips tingling, holding his fiery gaze.

“Oh, you naughty little thing,” he growls, and it sets your face aflame. “Touching yourself multiple times a day and thinking of me. Do you reach a peak every time?”

“Y-yes, my lord….”

His eyes flash; he leans in closer so you can smell spiced cologne and traces of his natural body scent, heightened from his riding exertions.

“Please call me that when I'm touching you,” he asks, but it almost sounds like an order, one you are happy to obey.

“Yes, my lord,” you respond instantly.

“Good little one,” he compliments, and the praise makes something bloom inside you, an urgent want to please him.

He changes his thumb’s motion to a circular pattern and presses more insistently. You gasp loud, glancing down at the slight of his toned arm flexing as he moves, his fingers obscured by your dress rucked up around his wrist.

“Tell me, have you put your fingers inside yourself?” his tone still velvety.

“No? What do you mean? I just,” you pause to whimper, “do as you are right now.”

His face turns into a handsome smirk you can't look away from.

“Would you like to find out how it feels to have someone inside your body, little one?” The question is molten, and you swear your entire skin feels too heated and tight.

You just nod, snagging your lower lip with your tooth, and then your eyes bulge as a finger slips lower and presses into a fleshy barrier that resists his touch.

“I can feel you are still intact, a chaste maiden indeed,” he rumbles, and part of you wonders what that means, but you do not ask. “Luckily, there is just enough of an opening for me to do this…” 

You moan as a single finger pushes a fraction into your body, something completely novel and profound. You stare at him open-mouthed

“Oh, my dear little thing, I have barely even put the tip of my finger inside and look at you. Wait until it's my cock,” he warns darkly.

“Your what?” 

He grabs your hand off the bedding and guides it to the junction of his thighs. Something is hot and hard under there, and you cannot hide your shock even as your hand curls around it and squeezes instinctually.

He growls. “That’s it, feel it. My cock is going to go inside you, right here….” he lectures, and his finger that was teasing pushes deeper into your pussy, aided by the pool of wetness leaking from within.

Again you moan at the invasion, and he looks so proud, pumping the digit slowly as his thumb restarts its movements on your clit.

“Oh my god,” you exclaim in a harsh whisper, the feeling so utterly mindblowing.

“No, your lord,” he corrects, preening from what he can do to your body.

“My l-lord….” you amend stutteringly.

He nods his approval and leans over you, his breath warm on your face as he observes your expressions, gauging your response to each move he makes. It's so overwhelming that he is touching you inside and outside your body.

You are rapidly losing the ability to do anything besides make noises and chase sensation; your knees falling further apart, your hand still on his cock, pressing unconsciously with the same rhythm his fingers play your body. He glances down at his lap, his other hand moving from its grip on your wrist to cover yours, his hips tilting a fraction, pressing more insistently into your palm. 

“Would you like to come right now?” his breath almost as ragged as yours.

“W-what is that?” you stumble.

He huffs a bemused sound. “When you reach your peak, little one. It is called coming.”

“Yes, please, my lord,” you answer the instant you understand, spiralling fast now, your lungs heaving, your slit hot and slippery, where he teases you.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs, and you obey instantly. 

He gently removes your hand from his cock, and his fingers slip out of your body. You sense movement on the bed, and he manhandles your feet outwards and upwards towards your hips. Cotton brushing the back of your thighs, and a wave of warm air across your inner thighs, so open and exposed now. A few seconds later, you feel something entirely new— a wet, hot, thick mass sliding through your folds unlike anything else. Your eyes fly open, and you startle to see that Anthony has crawled between your legs and his head is now buried at the apex of your thighs. Then you cry out as he does the same thing again, realising he is using his tongue.

“What the….?” you can't even complete the sentence.

“It is not just my fingers I can use, little one,” he tutors, his tone dusky, his breath hot on the patch of hair between your legs as he pulls up slightly to talk, his eyes burning into yours.

You watch, mesmerised, as he flattens his tongue wide and lowers his face to lick a long strip through your entire slit, morphing into a spear as he maps your clit, swirling around all sides. It's so intense your channel flutters, wishing his fingers were still inside you. 

“Yes, that is it, you like that, do you not? Come on,” he coaxes as he takes a deep breath, inhaling your body scent. The way he is handling you, so absorbed in you, a euphoric feeling burns behind your ribs at the idea he wants your pleasure.

He envelopes your clitoral hood and sucks hard. His eyes flashing with pride as he has to grab your hips and hold you down, your back arching off the bed, crying out without caring if anyone can hear. The way he growls as you do so tells you exactly how much he wants to hear it, his pride that he can do this to you.

Something primal washes over you as he bites gently on your swollen clit, holding it between his teeth as you feel two fingers at your entrance pushing in, making you cry as you stretch around him, your body accommodating them even as you feel so filled.

“Anthony… Anthony, my lord,” you chant repeatedly as he holds you down with one strong arm and rocks his fingers shallowly into your body, his tongue swirling. It’s a sight that you can’t look away from. His hips flex into the bed almost involuntarily, as if his cock needs friction, too.

You feel that tide rising somehow more potent when orchestrated by him, a white-hot burning where he plays you and a tension in all your muscles.

“Give it to me,” he snarls, muffled, feeling the ripples around your clit and pussy against his face and fingers.

He redoubles his efforts, almost mercilessly lashing you with his tongue, varying pressure and speed. Entirely without meaning to, your hands fly into his hair, loving the sensation of thick curls sinking between your fingers as you grasp his strands, making him cry out right into your body. And it’s precisely what you need.

Every fibre of your being held taut and shaking now snaps, the pressure inside you like a dam breaking, so much more intense than you have ever experienced from just your fingers. Something almost inexplicable, ephemeral, your body experiencing a hundred different things firing at once. Your world contracting and exploding. You can feel your own heartbeat in your extremities, a rush of blood in your ears, eyes screwed shut as you shudder under him, and yet he moves with you as your hips roll in waves, his mouth never leaving your body. You know you are leaking onto his face, your inside clenching powerfully around his fingers. Dimly, you are aware the noises you make are loud, but you find yourself unable to prevent it and don't even want to.

As you recover, he crawls over your prone body as you lay there panting, fundamentally changed in the sharing of this experience with him, of him to be the one to make your body reach its peak. A true awakening of your senses.

It’s then he kisses you for the first time since a cursory brush of lips at the altar on your wedding day. His face musky with your juices, his lips hot, soft and damp as they press to yours. This is so different to that kiss. It's lingering and hot, his lips plush on yours.

His handsome face breaks into a dazzling smile as he looms over you, the back of his hand gently brushing down your cheekbone as you stare up at him dazed, the taste of yourself seeping through your lips. “Rest for now, my dear wife.” His tone is softer now, the use of wife instead of little one making your breath catch.  “I shall return tonight, and you shall become a woman,” his voice laden with untold promise.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @Mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23

[speaknow-sw]

𝒦𝐼𝒩𝒦𝒯𝒪𝐵𝐸𝑅 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦

17/10/2024, Prompt : Incest, Daddy Kink, Orgasm Denial, Breeding kink, Threesome with Clayton Beresford & William Beeman

A/N : mdni, incest, daddy kink, slight orgasm denial, slight breeding kink, threesome.

Third fic yay ! This one is hella long and scrumptious as fuck. Don’t search the logic. Anyway enjoyy !

𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉 𝒶 𝓁𝒶𝒹𝓎 : 𝒶 𝑔𝓊𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝒷𝓎 𝐵𝑒𝑒𝓂𝒶𝓃 & 𝐵𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓈𝒻𝑜𝓇𝒹

You step out of the sleek black car, feeling the crisp autumn air brush against your skin as you glance up at the towering glass skyscraper. Clayton Beresford, your fiancé, stands beside you, his presence calm yet commanding. With his sharp suit tailored to perfection and his eyes glinting with confidence, he’s every bit the billionaire CEO the world knows him to be. But to you, he's just Clay—the man who makes your heart race with every smile.

As you both make your way through the lobby, the gleaming marble floors echoing beneath your heels, you can't help but feel a sense of nostalgia. It’s been years since you last visited your father’s office. William Beeman, the legendary stock-broker and CEO, is known for his financial empire, but to you, he’s always been "Daddy," even with all the business aura surrounding him.

Clayton places a reassuring hand at the small of your back as the elevator doors slide open. "Ready?" he asks, his deep voice smooth and steady, a stark contrast to the nervous flutter in your chest.

You nod, offering him a small smile. "As ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s see if my dad still as intimidating as I remember."

The elevator ride is swift, the numbers flashing by until it reaches the top floor, where the empire your father built waits. As the doors part, you're greeted by the familiar scent of polished wood and leather. William Beeman's office is a blend of power and legacy, the walls lined with shelves of finance books and framed photographs of world leaders he’s shaken hands with.

Your father looks up from his desk, his expression unreadable at first. Then, a slow smile spreads across his face as he stands to greet you both. “Ah, finally. The future Mr. and Mrs. Beresford.” His voice carries the same authority that’s made him a titan in the industry, but there’s a softness reserved just for you.

You step forward, your pulse quickening as you prepare to introduce Clay to the man who’s shaped your life in more ways than you can count. « Hi, daddy » you smiled brightly, hugging him.

Will's arms wrap around you in a tight embrace, pulling you close against his firm chest. You can feel the warmth of his body seeping through his crisp dress shirt, and smell the faint hint of his cologne - a spicy, masculine scent that always reminds you of home.

"My baby girl," he murmurs into your hair, his large hand stroking the length of your back. "I've missed you. How have you been, sweetheart?"

He pulls back slightly to look at you, his intense blue eyes searching your face. There's a hint of concern etched in the lines around them, and you know it's because of the accident that left you hospitalized.

"You’ll always be a little Beeman…" he whispered affectionately. "Are you feeling better? I hope that Clay here has been taking good care of you." His gaze shifts to your fiancé, a hint of challenge in his expression. "Because if he hasn't, well... let's just say I won't hesitate to teach him a thing or two about how a real man treats a lady."

His tone is light, almost teasing, but there's an underlying current of protectiveness that sends a shiver down your spine. Even after all these years, your daddy's love can be both comforting and intimidating.

Clay steps forward, his presence filling the space between you and your father. He extends his hand to Will, his grip firm and confident.

"Mr. Beeman, it's an honor to finally meet you. I'm Clayton Beresford, your daughter's fiancé. And yes, sir, I've been taking excellent care of her. She's my priority, always."

His gaze locks with Will's, a silent challenge passing between them. Clay's not one to back down easily, and it's clear he's not about to let anyone, not even his future father-in-law, push him around.

"I've heard so much about you, sir. Your reputation precedes you. I look forward to learning from your wisdom and experience." There's a hint of respect in Clay's voice, but also a subtle assertion of his own status and accomplishments.

You smiled but stayed in your father’s arms « He’s so sweet daddy… like you » You wiggled your hips.

Will's eyes darken as he feels you wiggle in his arms, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. He tightens his hold on you, one hand sliding lower to rest on your hip.

"Is that so, baby girl?" he purrs, his voice low and husky. "Well, I'm glad to hear Clay is treating you right. But remember, no matter how sweet he is, he'll never be able to love you the way I do."

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "And don't think I haven't noticed the way you're pressing yourself against me, little minx. Your daddy knows exactly what you need."

Will's hand on your hip squeezes gently, a silent reminder of the connection between you. Even in front of your fiancé, he's not afraid to show his possessive side.

He pulls back slightly, his gaze shifting to Clay. "I hope you know what you're getting into, son. My little girl is precious, and I expect you to treat her like a princess. Because if you don't..." He trails off, leaving the threat hanging in the air.

Clay's jaw clenches slightly at Will's words, a flicker of irritation crossing his features before he schools his expression into a neutral mask. He takes a step closer to you both, his presence a stark reminder of his own strength and authority.

"Mr. Beeman," he says, his voice calm but firm, "I assure you, I have every intention of treating your daughter like the treasure she is. My love for her is unwavering, and I would never dream of hurting her."

He reaches out, his hand gently cupping your cheek as he turns your face towards him. "She's my world, and I'll spend every day of our lives proving that to her... and to you, sir."

There's a challenge in Clay's eyes as he looks at Will, a silent message that says he's not about to be intimidated. He may respect your father, but he's not afraid to stand his ground when it comes to you.

You pouted and brushed your fingers slightly against your dad crotch.

Will's eyes widen slightly at your bold actions, surprise and excitement dancing in their depths. He doesn't stop you, instead, he shifts his hips slightly, allowing you better access to his crotch. His voice is low and husky as he speaks.

"Baby girl, what's gotten into you today? Trying to stir things up, huh?" He chuckles softly, the sound deep and resonant. "Let's see how long Clay can keep his cool while you're playing with Daddy."

Will's hand rests on your thigh, his touch light but possessive. He turns his attention to Clay, a knowing smirk on his face.

"I see you're quite the gentleman, Clay. But I wonder, how long will that last when my little minx starts getting frisky?"

His gaze is challenging, daring Clay to rise to the occasion. Will's not backing down, and it's clear he's enjoying the tension that's building in the room.

Clay's eyes narrow slightly as he watches you play with Will's crotch. A muscle twitches in his jaw, betraying his annoyance, but his voice remains steady when he speaks.

"Darling, perhaps we should keep things civil," he says, his tone gentle but firm. "Your father and I have just met, and I'm sure he wouldn't want us to be too... forward in his office."

He turns to Will, his expression unyielding. "Mr. Beeman, I understand your desire to protect your daughter, but I assure you, my intentions are pure. I only want what's best for your daughter, and that includes maintaining a respectful relationship with her family."

Despite his words, Clay's hand tightens slightly around yours, a silent reminder of his claim on you. He's not about to let your father provocations go unchallenged, but he's also not going to stoop to the same level.

"Now, why don't we focus on getting to know each other better, without any unnecessary distractions?" He suggests, his gaze never leaving your dad’s one.

The sight of you spread out before them, your legs parted invitingly, is enough to break the last of their resistance. With a low growl, your dad descends upon you, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss.

At the same time, Clay positions himself between your legs, his fingers trailing teasingly along your inner thighs. He leans in, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive skin as he whispers, "You're so beautiful, baby. We're going to make you feel so good."

Will's hands roam over your body, exploring every curve and dip with a hunger that sets your skin ablaze. He breaks the kiss to trail his lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at the delicate flesh as he goes.

Clay, meanwhile, is focused on bringing you pleasure. He parts your folds with his fingers, his touch gentle but insistent as he explores your most intimate places. He groans at the wetness he finds there, a testament to your desire.

Will continues his assault on your senses, his lips blazing a trail of fire down your body until he reaches your breasts. He takes one hardened nipple into his mouth, sucking and flicking it with his tongue as his hand massages the other.

The dual sensations of your dad’s mouth on your breasts and Clay's fingers between your legs are almost too much to bear. You arch your back, pushing yourself further into their touch, desperate for more.

Clay, sensing your need, begins to thrust his fingers inside you, his pace steady and deep. He curls his fingers just right, hitting that spot that makes you see stars.

Will, not wanting to be left out, moves lower, his tongue replacing Clay's fingers as he laps at your dripping core. He moans against you, the vibrations adding to your pleasure.

Together, they work in tandem, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. The sounds of your combined moans and the wet, obscene noises of Will's mouth on you fill the room, creating a symphony of lust.

Your moans and the way your body writhes beneath their touch spur Will and Clay on, driving them to new heights of passion. They continue their relentless assault on your senses, determined to bring you to the peak of pleasure.

Will, his face glistening with your juices, looks up at you with a wicked grin. He increases the pressure of his tongue, alternating between long, slow licks and rapid flicks against your sensitive clit. His eyes never leave yours, watching the ecstasy play out across your face.

Your fiancé, his fingers still buried deep inside you, leans down to capture one of your nipples between his teeth. He tugs gently, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. His free hand comes up to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your neck, which he proceeds to lavish with kisses and bites.

The combined sensations are overwhelming, and you can feel your body beginning to tense as your orgasm approaches. Will senses it too, and he doubles his efforts, his tongue working furiously against your most sensitive spot.

Your fiancé presses a third finger inside you, stretching and filling you in a way that feels so incredibly good. He matches the rhythm of his fingers with the movement of his mouth on your nipple, creating a delicious friction that sends shockwaves through your body.

As you teeter on the brink of ecstasy, they both seem to sense the impending explosion. They redouble their efforts, their touches becoming more urgent and demanding. Will's tongue circles your clit, while Clay's fingers piston in and out of you, hitting that perfect spot inside with unerring accuracy.

With a final cry, you come undone, your body convulsing as wave after wave of intense pleasure washes over you. Will and Clay continue their ministrations, prolonging your orgasm and drawing out every last drop of pleasure.

Clay's breath hitches as you turn around and take him into your mouth, your skilled tongue swirling around the head of his cock. He tangles his fingers in your hair, guiding you deeper onto his shaft. "Oh, fuck, doll. Your mouth feels incredible," he groans, his hips rocking forward to meet your movements.

Will, not wanting to be left out, moves behind you, his hands gripping your hips as he positions himself at your entrance. He rubs the tip of his cock against your slick folds, coating himself in your juices. "You're so wet, baby girl. I can't wait to feel you wrapped around me."

With a single, powerful thrust, Will sheaths himself inside you, stretching and filling you in a way that makes you moan around Clay's cock. The dual sensations of being filled from both ends are overwhelming, and you can't help but push back against Will, wanting more.

Clay, meanwhile, is lost in the sensation of your warm, wet mouth. He fights the urge to thrust into your throat, instead allowing you to set the pace. His grip on your hair tightens as he guides you, encouraging you to take him deeper. "That's it, baby. Take all of me."

Your dad, sensing your desire, grins wickedly. "Oh, baby girl, you want Daddy and Clay to breed this sweet little pussy of yours? To pump you full of our seed and make sure everyone knows who you belong to ? I was waiting for a grandchild but who knows ? It could be your sibling ?" He grinned menacingly.

Clay, nodding in agreement, leans in close, his breath hot against your ear. "We'll fill you up so good, doll. Pump you full of our cum until it's dripping down your thighs. Everyone will know that you're ours… but I’ll be the one to knock you up."

As you continue to bob up and down on Clay's shaft, Will establishes a steady rhythm, his hips slapping against yours with each powerful thrust. The sound of skin on skin fills the room, mixing with the moans and grunts of the three of you as you lose yourselves in the throes of passion.

Will leans over your back, his chest pressed against your shoulders as he reaches around to play with your clit. His fingers circle the sensitive nub, adding to the intense pleasure coursing through your body. "You like that, don't you, sweetheart? Having both of us inside you, filling you up?"

Clay, feeling your walls tighten around your dad’s cock, recognizes the signs of your impending orgasm. He pulls your head back, forcing you to release his cock, and captures your lips in a searing kiss. "Let go, baby. Come for us," *he commands, his voice rough with lust.

Suddenly you felt yourself being pulled off Clay’s cock and bounced furiously on Daddy’s one.

As Will pulls you off Clay's cock and bounces you furiously on his own, you can't help but let out a loud moan. The sudden change in position and the relentless pace of Will's thrusts send shockwaves of pleasure through your body, and you can feel yourself getting closer to the edge.

Clay, not wanting to be left out, moves in front of you, his cock bobbing mere inches from your face. He wraps his hand around the base, guiding it towards your mouth. "Open up, baby. Let me feel those pretty lips again."

You eagerly comply, taking your fiancé’s cock into your mouth once more. The taste of him mixed with your own juices is intoxicating, and you find yourself craving more. You suck and lick, your tongue swirling around the shaft as you bob your head up and down.

Will, feeling your walls tightening around him, knows that you're close. He leans over your back, his teeth sinking into the flesh of your shoulder as he continues to pound into you, chasing your orgasm. "That's it, baby girl. Come for Daddy. Let me feel you come undone."

The combined sensations of Will's cock hitting that perfect spot inside you and Clay's thick shaft filling your mouth are too much to bear. With a muffled cry, you reach your peak, your body shaking and convulsing as wave after wave of intense pleasure washes over you.

As you come down from your high, Will and Clay continue to move, their own releases approaching. Will's thrusts become more erratic, his grip on your hips tightening as he chases his own orgasm. "Fuck, baby girl, I'm going to come. Are you ready for Daddy's load?"

Clay, feeling your throat constrict around his cock, grabs your hair and holds you in place as he thrusts into your mouth. His body tenses, and with a low groan, he releases himself inside you, his hot seed spilling down your throat.

A few moments later, Will reaches his own climax, his hips stuttering as he empties himself deep inside you.

As they switch places, you feel a momentary emptiness before Clay is sliding into you from behind, his cock replacing Will's. He groans at the feeling of your tight heat enveloping him, and he starts to move, his thrusts deep and powerful.

Meanwhile, your father moves in front of you, his cock, still hard and ready, brushing against your cheek. He cups your face, guiding you to take him into your mouth once more. "That's it, baby girl. Suck Daddy's cock while that little fucker fills you up."

You eagerly comply, your lips wrapping around Will's shaft as Clay pounds into you from behind. The new position allows you to take Will deeper, and you relax your throat, letting him slide all the way in.

Clay, his hands gripping your hips, sets a brutal pace, his thrusts rocking your entire body. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with your muffled moans around Will's cock and the grunts and groans of the two men.

Will, his eyes locked on yours, watches as you take him deep, reveling in the sight of you so thoroughly debauched. He rocks his hips, fucking your face with shallow thrusts, his cock hitting the back of your throat with each movement. "Fuck, baby, your mouth feels so good. You're such a good girl for Daddy."

You chocked on his gigantic cock, tears running down. « Daddy… » you moaned around his shaft.

The sight of you choking on his cock, tears streaming down your face as you moan around him, only serves to drive Will wild. He grips your hair tightly, holding you in place as he continues to fuck your face. "That's right, baby girl. Take Daddy's cock. You look so beautiful like this, all choked up and desperate for my attention."

Clay, noticing the tears, slows his pace slightly, his thrusts becoming more deliberate and controlled. He leans over your back, pressing his chest against yours as he whispers in your ear, "You okay, baby? Do you need a break?"

Despite the tears and the choking, you shake your head, your eyes locked on Will's. The love and devotion you feel for him, along with the intense pleasure coursing through your body, keeps you going. You want to please him, to show him how much you adore him.

Will, sensing your determination, nods approvingly. "Good girl. You're doing so well. Daddy's proud of you."

He continues to thrust into your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat with each movement. The combination of pain and pleasure is overwhelming, and you can feel another orgasm building within you.

Clay, feeling your walls tightening around him, picks up the pace once more, his thrusts becoming faster and harder. He reaches around to play with your clit, his fingers rubbing in quick, firm circles, pushing you closer to the edge. "Come again, baby. It’ll be good."

The dual sensations of Will's cock in your mouth and Clay's fingers on your clit are too much to resist. With a muffled cry around Will's shaft, you come undone, your body shaking and convulsing as another powerful orgasm rips through you.

As you ride out the aftershocks of your second climax, stars in the eyes, Will and Clay continue to move, their own releases approaching. Will's thrusts become more erratic, his grip on your hair tightening as he chases his own orgasm.

As your body trembles with the intensity of the pleasure, Will and Clay sense your impending orgasm. They want to prolong your ecstasy, to keep you on the edge for as long as possible. In a show of dominance, they tighten their grip on you, preventing you from reaching that final peak.

Your father pulls out of your mouth, his cock glistening with your saliva. He leans down, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth and tangling with yours. At the same time, Clay slows his thrusts, his hips undulating in a slow, sensual rhythm that teases rather than satisfies.

You whimper into the kiss, your body begging for release, but Will and Clay remain relentless. They continue their ministrations, keeping you in a state of constant arousal without allowing you to climax.

Breaking the kiss, Will looks down at you, his eyes dark with desire. "Not yet, baby girl. Daddy wants to feel you come undone when he's deep inside you. Can you hold on for me a little longer?"

Clay, echoing his sentiments, whispers in your ear, "We want to feel you shatter, sweetheart. Give us just a little more time, and then you can let go."

They resume their movements, Will's cock sliding back into your mouth while Clay picks up the pace once more, his thrusts growing more forceful and deliberate. The dual stimulation is almost unbearable, and you can feel your orgasm building again, even stronger than before.

As you struggle to maintain control, Will and Clay continue to push you higher, their hands roaming your body, pinching and squeezing your sensitive flesh. They're determined to drive you to the brink, to make you beg for release before they finally grant it to you.

« Daddy please….Clay… I n-need to….please please… » you begged, crying shakily. Your desperate pleas and the sight of your tears are enough to sway Will and Clay. They've pushed you to the limit, and they can see the desperation in your eyes. It's clear that you need release, and they're not determined to give it to you.

Will pulls out of your mouth, his cock slick with your saliva. He cups your face, wiping away your tears with his thumb. "Shh, baby girl. Daddy's here. We're not going to let you come now, I promise."

Clay, his thrusts becoming more erratic, nods in agreement. "That's it, doll. Don’t you dare let go. If you come there’s going to have a punishment, baby." He slapped you butt cheek earning a cry. 

You sobbed, trembling « Please…please…I’m a good girl….i can have it…please… »

Will slides back into your mouth, his cock gliding effortlessly past your lips. At the same time, Clay's thrusts become more forceful, each one driving deep into your core and hitting that perfect spot inside you. "That's it, baby girl," Will encourages, his voice strained with his own impending orgasm. "Take Daddy's cock again. Let go and come for us."

Clay, his fingers digging into your hips, picks up the pace even more, his thrusts becoming almost violent in their intensity. "Come on, doll. Let it happen. Show us what a good girl you are."

The combined sensations of your father’s cock in your mouth and your fiancé’s thrusts pounding into you finally push you over the edge. With a muffled cry around Will's shaft, you come undone, your body convulsing as wave after wave of intense pleasure washes over you.

The feeling of your walls clamping down around him is too much for Clay, and with a guttural groan, he releases himself inside you, his hot seed filling your depths. Will, feeling your throat constrict around him, follows suit, his own release pulsing down your throat. He pulled away and tapped his fat cock against your cheek, laughing.

As the three of you ride out the aftershocks of your shared climax, they collapse on top of you, their bodies covering yours in a warm embrace. They pepper your face and neck with soft kisses, praising you for being such a good girl and taking everything they had to offer. « This is how a real man treat a lady, Beresford. » your Dad patted his back.

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Most Wanted (Mafia Boss!Toji x Spy!Self-Insert!Reader 18+ One Shot) [COMMISSION FILL]

"I’m gonna make sure you remember tonight and what happens when you fuck with a guy like me."

*IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: THIS WORK CONTAINS R*PE & NONCON SEXUAL ACTS. PLEASE MIND THE TAGS AND READ LIGHTLY.

Pairing: Toji Fushigiro x Self-Insert!Reader (Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: You’re a highly skilled hitwoman. You’ve been doing this for years–getting paid to take hits on the wealthy and corrupt at your agency’s order. You figure taking a hit on the renowned Tokyo mafia boss Toji Fushigiro won’t be any different. However, things take a terrifying turn for you, and your skills are put to the test when you go undercover as a dancer at his favorite club and give him a private dance. But instead of killing you, Toji takes it upon himself to punish you and show you what happens when you fuck with him.

Warnings: Smutty Smut, 18+; Porn with Plot; Physical Fighting; Gun Play; Knife Play; Noncon/R*pe; Forced Deepthroat; Mutual Oral; Forced Orgasm; Lap Dancing/Pole Dancing; Doggystyle; Spit Play; Degradation + Praise; Rough Sex; Choking; Hair Pulling; Unprotected PIV Sex; Creampie; Some Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer’s Note: Here you go lovely!! @curiouscutie143 I hope you & everyone other toji lovers enjoy this. I had so much fun writing this & I tried to make it as nasty as I could lol. I may write another mafia!toji thing in the future just cuz this shit was soooo fun. Enjoy! -Jazz

*********

“Peaches, you’re needed in the backrooms.” 

You resist the urge to smile as you turn around from your seat at the bar, sipping on some water after your dance and sweet-talking a middle-aged bank broker into his pockets. It’s important to keep up the facade.

“Comin’,” you tell your coworker and turn to the broker who looks ready to dive into your cleavage. 

“Sorry, but I’ve gotta run,” you sigh, acting apologetic. He frowns at you, making the wrinkles and lines in his face more evident. “But this shouldn’t take too long. Find me afterward?”

The broker puts his hand on yours, accidentally using the hand his gold marriage band sits on. “You’ve got it, baby,” he purrs. “I’ve got some dollars just waitin’ on ya.” 

He gives you a wink before polishing off his whiskey and walking away from the bar, leaving you to breathe and collect your thoughts. You turn to the bottle girl, waving her down. “One shot of Patron, please!” you yell above the music blaring from the overhead speakers. She nods, scurrying to fetch you a much-needed shot. It will be the first alcoholic drink you’ve had since your shift started. 

You suddenly hear a buzz from your right ear and instantly put your hand up against it under your hair. “V,” a gruff voice says into your earpiece. “Come in, V. It’s been 20 minutes since we last talked. Did you get him yet?” 

You scan the upscale strip club pulsing with purple and red strobe lights and booming with activity: businessmen and regular-degular customers tossing money at the dancers on stage who spin around poles and do splits in their thongs and heels.

“Target was sighted five minutes earlier, sir,” you whisper into the earpiece given to you by your agency. “He is currently in the backrooms waiting for me. He came alone. He made eye contact with me ten minutes ago, so he may be asking for me.” 

More like you made eye contact with him and had been since he walked in. He is impossible to miss with how tall and buff he is. His black V-neck tee stuck to his pectorals and abs while his jeans hung low on his hips.

You had expected he’d be flashier with his wealth by wearing obvious designer clothing, but you figured that he had to keep a low profile as well. Beneath the V-neck that hung from his neck, you could see the tattoos that roped over his chest just like his arms. The healed scar at the corner of his smirk as his green eyes scanned the place over told you that this was, indeed, your target. 

He stood between two bodyguards in suits half his size, giving off an intimidating aura, especially with the guns at their hips. But you’d expect nothing less from Toji Fushigiro, Tokyo’s most notorious mafia boss. 

He is powerful. He is wealthy. He is known throughout Tokyo and Japan for being the head of Tokyo’s infamous mafia gang, the spot being passed down by his father. He is also a criminal. White-collar crime, organized crime, drug trafficking––you name it, Toji does it. 

He is also known for his scare tactics on those who owe him a debt. He’s held man over bridges, threatening to drop them in the murky waters below. He’s pistol-whipped. He’s choked. He’s stomped. He’s jumped guys in alleyways and left them for dead. He is a man of his word. If he tells you he’ll fuck you up if you don’t give him his money in a certain amount of time, he’ll do it. 

He is the number one man current on your hitlist…and your agency’s. They knew it was a good idea to employ you, their top hitwoman, to Toji’s favorite club to take him out for good. Though he didn’t show up when you started at the club a couple of weeks ago, you knew it was only a matter of time until he showed up. 

And now, he is. As soon as he was in the club, everyone’s eyes were on him. Dancers scurried to the pole and backstage to change into their best outfits to milk him out of his pockets. Bartenders and bottle girls quickly wiped down counters and took care of customers as quickly as possible so they could tend to him. Your manager barreled toward him with complimentary champagne and a spot in the VIP section. 

As Toji walked with your manager, your eyes met across the room. They met again while he sat in the VIP section when he should’ve been watching a dancer twirl around the pole in front of him. Both times were fleeting, but they affected you completely. His green eyes, like mirrors to a forest, sent chills down your spine and made your stomach flip. His gaze was intense. Intimate. His eyes made it hard to relax or act like a normal dancer working her shift at the club. 

He seemed to know what he was doing to you or he was sizing you up because he would simply smirk and sip on his whiskey on the rocks and puff on his cigar, his soft lips forming Os and blowing the smoke into the strobe-lit air. You can understand why so many women fell for him, but you aren’t one of them. The tiny gun strapped to your hip proves it. 

Your real boss sighs in relief. “Excellent work,” he praises. “Unfortunately, we can’t see what you’re doing from over at headquarters and we’re still working on connecting the audio to hear what’s happening around you, so just fill us in on what you do next until then. All you have to do now is walk back there and complete the mission as we discussed.” 

You toss an arm over the bar, stretching your coffin-shaped nails along the polished bar. “Of course,” you reply with a smirk. “Don’t I always?”

The bartender returns with your shot and you down it at once, relishing the burn and the way it loosened you right up. “I’ll keep you informed,” you say. “Just stay near the phone.” 

“Be careful,” your boss says before the line cuts. You check your makeup in the bar before you get up from the bar and strut over to your beautiful, blonde coworker in her red lingerie and heels. “Hey, Yuki,” you greet her. 

She smiles at you and guides you to the backrooms where the wealthier customers usually take the girls to get a dance…or something more. Sexual exchanges aren’t allowed, but the manager never complains if they bring in more money. You and Yuki peer down the hallway to the double doors of a private room where Toji’s bodyguards stand. 

“Why the guards?” you ask, pretending to be confused. “Is the President here or somethin’?” Yuki turns you to face her, her eyes wide. “Even bigger,” she replies. “He’s the hot guy with the scar who comes in here often. He’s a mafia boss, apparently. Super hot, but very powerful. The bossman gave him his pick of any girl he wanted and he picked you.” 

You do your best to hide your smirk. You knew you had him. “Me?” you ask breathlessly. “Why me?” Yuki shrugs, just as clueless. “Don’t know, but I was sent out to fetch you. He’s willin’ to pay double the amount of a regular lapdance, but he didn’t say if he wanted it topless, naked or not.” She gives you a worried look, furrowing her blonde brows. “You sure you up for it, hon?” she asks. “I know you’ve taken high rollers before, but he ain’t even a high roller! He’s beyond that!” 

To sell it even more, you bite your lip, acting nervous but intrigued. “I can do it,” you reply. “Just hold my hand when you walk me in there.” Yuki obliges and squeezes your hand as you begin to walk toward the guards, heels clicking across the floor. 

“Target is in sight,” you whisper into your earpiece, turning away from Yuki and putting your mouth in your arm to muffle your voice. “I’m walkin’ to the backrooms now where he’s located.” 

“Excellent, V!” your boss says. “Just do it as we discussed. Don’t falter, don’t yield, and don’t lose focus.” The three rules of being a spy. You never forgot them. Finally, you come to the guards and Yuki smiles up at them. “I’m here with Peaches,” Yuki announces. “The girl Mr. Fushigiro asked for.” 

You plaster a bright, charming smile on your face. It must work because the guards budge and step out of the way for you. One of them opens the door for you and Yuki, holding it. “Step in,” he orders. You thank him and scurry inside the dimly lit room with an included mini-bar, a single stripper pole, and leather lounging couches. Toji currently sits in one of them, legs spread and eyes hooded as he puffs on a blunt and sips on his drink. 

His green eyes pierce into your very soul when he eyes you in the doorway. “Here she is, sir,” Yuki says. “Just as you requested. And she’s just as pretty as I told you she is.” She moves your hair out of your face, exposing your pretty false flashes, Fenty Beauty gloss, and accentuated features to the boss. 

Toji hums, liking what he sees. “Yes, she is,” he agrees. “Tell your boss thanks. He can expect some good business out of me once the night is through.” Yuki nods and gives your arm a squeeze. “Good luck,” she whispers before heading off. The doors close and you are left alone with your hit. 

Neither one of you moves toward the other, staying posted to your spots. Toji takes a puff on his blunt and lights taps it above the ashtray next to him. “Y’know, you’re mighty pretty up close,” he purrs. “I’ve been wonderin’ what you’d look like up close instead of across the room.” 

You finally look at him, noticing how big he is even sitting down. “So you’ve been watchin’ me tonight?” you ask. He nods, his eyes trailing down your form. “I knew I hadn’t seen ya before,” he continues. “I come here often and I would’ve remembered seein’ a face and a rack like that.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Charmer, aren’t you?” you sarcastically question. 

He smirks at your wittiness. He likes that bite in a woman. “When I wanna be, but you’ll have to forgive me; the liquor makes me bolder than I already am.” His tongue jets out to lick his lips. “But you’ve gotta give a guy credit for bein’ honest and that lil’ outfit don’t leave much to the imagination.” 

You go to wrap your arms around yourself but then stop. You need to sell this and if you’re forced to stand here in a mini dress that barely covers your ass or titties with heels that could crush a bitch in front of your hit who also happens with me enticingly sexy, then so be it. Toji’s gaze softens somewhat, noticing your discomfort. “You are very beautiful, Peaches,” he genuinely says. “Is it okay if I use your name?” 

“Thank you, Mr. Fushigiro,” you softly reply. “And no, it’s fine. It’s what I’m known as around here anyway. I started here five weeks ago.” He nods, sipping on his whiskey. “Call me Toji.” 

“Toji,” you parrot, slowly striding towards the pole in the middle of the room, an overhead speaker playing soft R&B overhead. “You’re quite the man. The entire club seems to be in a frenzy over you.” 

His smirk widens, proud and cocky. “They always are,” he chuckles. “Don’t know why. This place gets plenty of people bigger than me all the time, especially international celebs. I heard Drake was here not too long ago.” You give a dry “mm-hmm” as you grasp the pole. Toji takes that answer another way. “What, you don’t like Drake?” he snorts. 

“He’s okay,” you reply, short and impatient. “So what are you here for? To talk or to watch me dance?” You wrap a hand around the pole and pop your hip out, waiting for him to give you an order. 

“Depends.” He sits up, leaning forward to get a better look at you. “What are you willin’ to do tonight for me? ‘Cause we can just sit here and talk. I wouldn’t mind hearin’ that pretty voice all night.” His green eyes gleam with mirth and a small hint of lust.

“Definitely a charmer,” you chuckle. “That’s fine if you’re willin’ to pay, though we don’t have a rate for conversation.” 

He laughs at this, the sound deep and raspy yet pleasant to the ear. He takes another puff on his blunt before he lowers it down onto the ashtray. “Then let’s cut to the chase,” he sniggers. “It’s $500 for a 10-minute dance, right? I want 20 minutes, so that would make…”

He begins to count on his fingers but then stops. “A lot,” he chuckles. “I’ll probably ask for you to strip though. Are you okay with that, Peaches?” 

You feel something flip inside of you at the mention of all of that money and how passive he is about it. Any girl working here would do whatever he wanted for 20 minutes! “I’m a stripper,” you reply passively. “What else am I gonna do?” 

Toji tsks, grimacing at you. “Damn, what kinda attitude is that?” he laughs. “A beauty like you should be more adamant about showin’ off her body. Can I offer you a drink to get you in the mood?” He nods at the mini bar overflowing with bottles of tequila, vodka, and liquor.

“I don’t drink on the job,” you reply. “Music helps.” You suddenly hear a buzz in your ear and then your boss’ gruff voice: “Give me the rundown, V,” he demands. 

You want another drink?” you ask. You nod at Toji’s empty glass and he agrees, so you walk over to the bar. To him, you’re seemingly looking for a bottle of whiskey, bent down to look through the racks. “With the target now,” you whisper. “Just waiting for the right time to attack. Give me a second.” 

Once the line goes dead, you walk back over to Toji and pour him a bottle. As you bend down, you give him an ample view of your titties much to his enjoyment. As you do, you slip the gun out of your dress and place it under the couch where only you can find it. Once done, you leave the bottle with him, and step back, hands on your hips. He sits back against the couch, preparing for the show. “Whenever you’re ready, darlin’,” he purrs, his eyes filled with obvious lust and attraction. 

With a slow song playing above and the lights dipping into an almost ominous red shade, you begin to move to the beat. You roll your hips, swaying them side to side and front to back, almost as if you’re grinding on Toji despite him being several feet away from you. You let the music take control of you as you grasp the pole and begin to grind against it, dipping low to wind your ass in his face. 

You do a few tricks on the pole for him–jumping and spinning around it, your thighs wrapped tight around the metal pole; squatting and lifting up your dress to bounce your ass, etc.–before you turn to look at him over your shoulder, flipping your hair. Toji’s eyes are hooded and lustful, all from the weed, the whiskey, and the effect you’re having on him. Despite the situation, it feels good to have an attractive man ogle at your plump frame. 

“Take off the dress,” he demands, a slight growl in his voice. You don’t turn to face him, instead still facing the wall as you carefully unzip the back of your dress. The thin piece of clothing falls off of your body, revealing all of your rolls, curves, and the matching glittery bra and thong set. 

“Shit!” Toji hisses, ogling at your asscheeks in your glittery thong. “Your back don’t hurt carryin’ that around?” 

You finally turn around and find him leaning forward, his hands clenching his thighs. “You don’t look like you’re ready,” you giggle, winding your hips and toying with your titties in their cups. “Did you talk too much big game, Toji?”

The boss looks like he can’t even speak, his scarred lips parted as he stares you down. “Goddamn,” he hisses. “How some horny fuck didn’t propose to you and steal you out of here yet is beyond me.” 

You give a light, tittering laugh, smiling down at him. “Well, if someone did that, I wouldn’t be here with you.” He looks happy with that response. You then twist around and bend over for him, giving him a full view of your full, round, perfect ass. “Can you handle it, baby?” you purr. “Can you handle me?” 

You quickly pop up and turn around, finding him shifting in his seat and gritting his jaw. “I should be askin’ you that,” he growls. “Come the fuck here.” Deciding not to tease him any longer, you strut over to him, feeling sexy and irresistible. It’s strange that the same man you were sent to kill is doing this to you. 

His eyes have grown several shades darker, reminding you of the deepest, darkest parts of a jungle. “Dance for me,” he demands. “Not on the pole; on me.” He opens his legs wider for you and pats his lap, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Though clients often get handsy when dancers give them lapdances here, you decide that it’s best to do as he says. 

Plus, you’d be lying if you said that you aren’t curious to feel him for yourself. So you place your hands on his thick, muscular highs and begin to roll your body before squatting down, popping up between his legs. You reach up to drag your palms and long nails down his chest, feeling up his abs and toned stomach. He allows it, staring down at you with a look that would make a nun blush. 

You then stand up between his legs before turning around and lowering yourself down into his lap. “Shit,” he whispers, watching the way you work your ass along his lap and the jean-clad bulge that has begun to make an appearance. You twerk and bounce on top of him before he takes a drag of his blunt, blowing the air away from you. “You ever shotgun before?” he asks, his lips close to your ear now. 

Your body grows hot from him being so close, the attraction ironically magnetic. Slowly, you shake your head and Toji chuckles, adoring your mix of cute and sexy. “C’mere.” You lean back and tilt your head up while he takes another puff of his blunt. He holds the marijuana smoke before puckering his lips up and leaning down as if to kiss you. Slowly, the smoke travels from his lips to yours in an indirect kiss that leaves you breathless and your head dizzy. 

You can’t deny it: you’re wet. Your pussy has never been this wet for any man before…and he’s the enemy! Toji seems to feel it too judging by the hard-on you can feel pressing into your thigh. You shift onto his knee and begin grinding your ass back, doing your best to not grind your pussy against his thigh. 

“So you got a name other than that stripper shit?” he randomly asks you. You are immediately taken out of your lustful haze, remembering why you’re here. “I don’t remember us talkin’ about personal shit,” you dryly reply. “I don’t give my real name out to men I don’t know.” 

Then, for the first time tonight, Toji touches you. His big hand lowers onto your thigh and squeezes. You don’t try to move it but you are alarmed. “Oh, but you do know me, darlin’,” he replies, digging his fingers into your flesh. “And I know you, V.” 

At the mention of your real name, you freeze. The world freezes with you, everything seeming to cease their existence including the music that continues to play overhead. But you don’t hear it. All you can hear is your own blood pumping loudly in your eardrums. Toji releases you and you quickly jump off of him, turning toward him. 

He just sits there staring at you, a humorous smirk playing on his lips. The smile is no longer attractive to you anymore. Suddenly, you feel disoriented. You feel like you may vomit or drop to the floor in your heels. Your earpiece buzzes to life again in your ear. “V!” your boss calls. “We just got the audio working again. What’s happening?” He sounds panicked, just as much as you are. 

Toji bares his pearly whites at you as he calmly reaches for his whiskey. “Ah, now them wheels are turnin’ in that pretty little head,” he chuckles. “You know, you dance almost as good as you lie. I can see why you were put here to go undercover.” He takes a sip and licks the remnants away from his top lip, still staring you down. 

“Ain’t that right?” he asks and it feels like a snake has just silvered up your back and sunk its teeth in you, paralyzing you. 

“Y/N, he knows!” your boss hisses. “Stand down! Don’t do anything stupid!” He continues to yell and scream at you about aborting the mission and telling you that someone will be there soon, but you can’t quite hear him. It’s like you’re underwater and he’s standing above ground, his voice muffled and murky. 

For a few seconds that seem like a lifetime, you and Toji stare each other down, waiting for the other to make the first move. Your body kicks into fight or flight, the freeze stage having already been awakened. Inisctively, you shift into fight mode. Quickly, you take the bottle of whiskey and bring it down towards Toji’s head, but he catches your wrist like it’s nothing. 

You grunt, wincing at the pain of his grip. “Oh, you wanna play, huh?” he cackles. “Goin’ against your boss’ little rules just to take me out? How cute.”

With a wail of effort, you swing your other hand at his head but he catches that too. Counting on this, you bring your leg up and kick him hard in the groin. He immediately releases you and lurches forward, holding his junk, giving you a chance to grab your gun from under the couch.

“Don’t move,” you growl, cocking the gun at him. “You move and I’ll shoot.” 

Toji, red in the face and panting, glares up at you. “Please,” he scoffs. “You act like you’re the first bitch that’s put a gun to my head.” Before you can blink, he is swinging the bottle at you. You duck which is a mistake because Toji uses that opening to tackle you to the ground. You struggle and growl, turning into an animal as he wrestles with you for your gun. 

He ends up winning, flipping you over and pinning you down to the floor with his body. “Get off!” you scream, still wriggling around. “Get off me!” Click. The barrel of your gun presses to your temple. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll make you regret it,” he growls. 

His fingers move your hair back away from your ear and pry the earpiece out of your ear. He snarls at it as if it’s nothing but a bug. “God, they made these things so much smaller now.” He stands up, keeping the gun on you, and stomps on the earpiece, breaking it. “Whoops!” he mockingly says. “They should still be able to find ya though. I don’t plan on movin’ ya to another location…if you don’t piss me off.” 

The gun clicks again. “Turn around slowly,” he demands. Despite your reluctance to do so, you slowly turn around and face him, lying on your back with your own shit pointed at you as Toji stands above you. “How did you know?” you whisper. 

He smirks, appearing like the Devil in your eyes. “It wasn’t hard, darlin’,” he chuckles. “Dancers don’t eye me up the way you were. You looked like you were out for blood, not dollars. Not to mention the gun I saw at your hip.” You flush, cursing yourself. You should’ve been smarter. Of course, he would know. He spends his days having people hunt him down. 

His smirk fades, his expression darkening. “Who sent you?” he demands. “And don’t lie. You don’t wanna know what I do with liars.” The gun cocks, his finger trained on the trigger. You glare at him, hating his guts even more than you had before you met him. So you weakly confess. He guffaws, shaking his head in disbelief. “Damn, those guys? They’ve been after me for years!” 

“You’re a criminal,” you hiss despite the gun in your face. “You only got this far because of you dippin’ your hands in crime and gettin’ blood on your fists. I’m here to stop you.”

Toji’s brows raise in shock though he’s intrigued by your stubbornness. He squats down in front of you, still pointing the gun at your head. “And how are you gonna do that, huh, little girl?” he asks. 

Not even thinking, you hollow your lips and wallop a glob of spit in Toji’s handsome face before quickly turning over and scrambling to the door. However, Toji is just as fast and has his big, tatted arms wrapped around you, squeezing you tight. You can’t elbow him anywhere because your arms are stuck in his, leaving you to kick and wriggle.

“Oooh, I love a feisty bitch,” he chuckles. “Makes it a lot more fun to break ‘em.” 

He begins to walk with you over to a nearby wall and slams you against it, knocking the air out of your lungs. You find yourself pressed against the wall and him who is equally as hard and unmoving as the solid wall against your front.

He shoves the side of your face into the wall while he pins your arms behind your back, causing your muscles to explode with pain at being stretched back too far. “Get off!” you cry. “O-Ow, that hurts!” 

Toji tugs on your arms again, emitting a weak whine of pain from you. “That’s what you get for fuckin’ with me,” he growls. “Now what should I do with you? Kill you? Leave your agency to find you here?” The gun once again presses against your temple, cold and unrelenting. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears pushing back the ducks. You can’t beat this. You can’t fight this. “Do it,” you sob. “Just do it!” You go limp against him, waiting to feel that bullet penetrating your skull and for the void to come to collect you…but instead, Toji takes the gun away from you, leaving an indent on your temple. “No,” he says. “I’ve got a better idea.” 

You open your eyes, confused but also scared. What else is he planning to do with you? Before you can answer, you hear the undeniable sounds of his zipper coming down and the clinking of his metal belt buckle. Your body instant seizes, fear flooding your insides.

“I’m gonna make sure you remember tonight and what happens when you fuck with a guy like me. Tonight, babydoll, you’re mine. You don’t have a choice. You’re mine and I’m gonna show you what that means.” 

With his belt finally in his hands, he trains the gun on you. “Put your hands against the wall and stick that ass out,” he demands, his voice void of all emotion. “Do it now.” Outnumbered and out of tricks, you do as he says, trembling as you do so. 

“Bad girls like you need to be punished,” he says before the belt comes down hard onto your right asscheek. WHACK! The sharp sound of the leather hitting the soft, jiggly flesh of your ass penetrates the air. It feels like fire has licked your skin and your knees buckle at the pain. “Ow!” you cry out. 

Toji cackles at your agony, finding enjoyment and cuteness in it. “What, that hurt?” he laughs. “You don’t like the pain? I’m sure a girl like you has taken plenty of worse things before.” He raises his arm and whips the same cheek twice.

WHACK! WHACK! You flinch at each sharp hit, each one becoming more painful than the last. “Hurts, don’t it?” he snickers. “Don’t you regret pullin’ that shit with me now, babydoll, hm?” 

He then proceeds to whip your left cheek, not allowing you any time to recover or breathe. 

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! You bite your lip so hard that you nearly draw blood, the burning of your backside too much to bear. “S-Stop!” you whine. “Please stop!” 

Toji’s big hands wrap around your mouth, covering it. “Don’t speak,” he whispers into your ear, his breath the scent of whiskey and mint. “You don’t get to speak. Just take it.” You have no choice but to do so as he wails on your ass again and again, the leather cracking like fire against your jiggly ass. “God, that recoil,” he groans. “I’m gonna enjoy my time with you, baby doll.” 

You don’t answer, too busy holding back tears that have begun to push at your eye sockets. Toji finally stops and tosses his head back to laugh. “Are you cryin’?” he laughs in disbelief. “Damn, and all from some spankings? And here I thought you were this tough bitch.” 

You burn with resentment and humiliation, but all of that is pushed aside when he forces you to stand up straight and tugs your arms behind your back. You begin to panic but don’t say anything as he tightens his belt around your wrists and locks the belt buckle around them. “Turn around,” he finally says. 

Despite your tiny sobs, you do so and face him. His eyes are hooded and dark with obvious lust for you. He uses one big hand to force you onto your knees, right in front of his open fly and hard cock that you can see pressing against his designer briefs. “I’ll give you somethin’ to cry about,” he growls. He points the gun at your face, specifically at your lips. “Open your mouth and suck on it.” 

His expression, dark and chilling you to the bone, makes you feel as if you don’t have a choice..and not the loaded gun pressing to your lips. Swallowing hard, you shakily open your mouth and he slides the pistol in. The metal feels cold and hard in your mouth, making you cringe. “That’s it,” Toji chuckles. “Take that shit, baby. C’mon, don’t you wanna please me?” 

Slowly, you begin to suck, hollowing your lips out against the gun. Though you tremble and shake, you squeeze your eyes shut and try to imagine the gun as a hard, warm, throbbing cock instead. Toji moans as if you’re sucking on him, watching your tongue swirl along the barrel and your head bob. 

“Fuck, baby doll,” he groans. “You’ve got such a mouth on ya.” He slides it in further, the metal scraping against your teeth, until he reaches your throat. You gag and try to pull away, but Toji grips the back of your head.

“Uh-uh, mama,” he snickers. “You don’t get to get outta this. C’mon, just open your throat and breathe through your nose. You can do it.” He continues to push and pull, the gun sliding in and out of your mouth, while you struggle to breathe. You can feel sweat pool under your pits and between your cleavage all from your fear. Toji’s finger isn’t on the trigger anymore, but it doesn’t matter. He could change that in a second. 

So you suck and you slurp and you bob your head up and down like a good little slut, staring him into his eyes while spit drips from your lips. Finally satisfied, Toji pulls the gun out of your lips now coated in your saliva. “You fuckin’ slut,” he pants. “Now I need to try ya out for myself.” 

He pockets the gun and, with one hand, pulls down his briefs. His big, long, throbbing, veiny, perfect-looking dick springs to life. It damn near hits you in the face, making you gasp. “Sorry, mama,” he chuckles. “He just likes you.”

He wraps a hand around his 12-inch dick, pumping it lewdly in your face. “So you finna stare at it or suck it?” he deadpans, but he doesn’t wait for you to answer or recover. 

“W-Wait,” you stammer.

That’s all you get to say before his cock is pushing between your lips and into your mouth. He releases a moan when he first slides into your mouth, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of your wet mouth, soft lips, and tongue wrapping around him. Meanwhile, you’re struggling to take him. His girthy dick stretches out your jaw and your throat as he pushes himself in deep. 

“C’mon, babydoll,” he chuckles. “That can’t be all you can take of me.” He continues to push, filling your tongue and nostrils with the scent and taste of him. The walls of your throat have no choice but to accommodate his size though it burns and you gag as he begins to slowly yet roughly thrust into your mouth. “Maybe this will help ya out,” he says. Suddenly, he retrieves a pocket knife from his pocket and flicks it open. 

Fear flares into your stomach, making you want to jump away, but his large hand keeps you locked down on his cock. He presses the knife to your throat, chuckling as he does. “Careful now,” he warns. “You lean too close and that pretty neck might get sliced. I just wanna encourage you to do a good job.” He grips your hair and wrenches it up to look at him. “And you will do a good job for me, won’t you?” he asks. 

His tone makes it so you can’t refuse, so you say yes and allow him to force your head back down onto his cock before pulling it back. He does that for a while––pushing and pulling your head down onto his dick like you’re his toy while he uses your sloppy, wet mouth like it’s a fleshlight. “Fuck!” he shouts to the ceiling. “This fuckin’ mouth is heaven, baby. I hope your pussy is just as tight as your tight ass throat.” 

You gargle and mumble on his cock, causing pleasurable vibrations to travel throughout his body and his heavy balls that drip with your saliva. He continues to fuck your face and ruin your makeup, marveling at how beautiful you look choking on his cock. “Look at you, you little slut,” he dreamily sighs. “Makeup all fucked up. Hair ruined. You’re just a little mess for me, aren’t ya?” 

He slides his cock out of your throat and you take a grateful gulp of air, strands of your hair stuck to your wet lips and chin. He takes the knife and slides it along your chin, smirking down at you. “Now it’s my turn to taste you,” he murmurs. Before you can protest, he is picking you up, tossing you over his shoulder, and placing you on your stomach with your arms still tied behind you. 

“Please!” you sob, beginning to cry again. Toji straddles your ass, one hand massaging the globes of fat in your thong while the other holds his knife. “Please what, baby?” he mockingly coos. “I ain’t even touch you yet.” You then feel the cool metal of the knife dragging up your spine, sending shivers down your spine. “Time to get your sexy ass out of these fuckin’ clothes,” he growls. 

You flinch when you feel the knife drag up to your left shoulder where it cuts the bra strap. He does the same to your left one before positioning you onto your knees with your wrists slung over the couch arm. Your tits are now exposed, hanging like ripe, juicy fruit beneath you. Then off comes your thong with two swipes of the knife cutting through the thin straps. You sob helplessly as the cool air touches your sodden, wet pussy. 

“Damn, baby!” Toji cackles. “Are you wet from all this? You naughty little girl.” His middle and forefingers gently probe your entrance and slide up and down your slit, dragging unwanted moans out of you. “I’m gonna have some fun with you,” he chuckles. “Make sure you never forget about me.” 

He then bends you over the couch and proceeds to put his hot, wet, experienced mouth on your pussy while the knife stays pressed against your thigh. You whine at the feeling of his soft lips and tongue swirling along your clit and every sensitive part of you, opening your pussy up to more of him. He drowns in your pussy, pushing his face into it as far as he can and letting his tongue do all of the talking. 

You can’t stop the moans and gasps that escape you. The pleasure is just too much and too good! What a shame that a man who is so good at eating kitty is the same man you were sent here to kill. “Toji,” you moan, using his name for the first time ever. “Please…please!” 

Toji’s one hand massages and smacks your ass, becoming aoslutely obessed with it. “What do you need, babydoll?” he coos against your clit. “You need somethin’?” You nod helplessly though you have no clue what you need at this point. “Tell me you’re mine then,” he growls. “Say it and fuckin’ mean it. Say you’re my good little slut.” 

You keep your lips clamped tight, not wanting to swallow your pride or give up that tiny part of you that hates him still. SPANK! Your ass stings from his assault on your ass, his hand no doubt leaving a handprint. “Say it!” he bellows. 

At the blinding pain, pleasure, and delirium, you break. “I’m yours!” you sob. “I’m your good girl! Your good little slut! I’m everything you want me to be!”

Toji, pleased, presses soothing kisses to your burning asscheek. “Good girl,” he praises. “See how easy that was? Now you get your reward.” Suddenly, you feel his thick cock smack against your pussy once, twice, three times and then he is sliding home inside of you. 

Your mouth goes slack and your eyes grow wide as he begins to rocks his hips into, allowing you to get used to him. He is big. You can feel him stretching out every part of your cunt as he sinks deeper into your velvety, wet walls. “Fuck,” he sighs, one hand clutching your hip. “Not bad, babydoll. Your pussy is definitely the best one I’ve fucked…so far.” 

He begins to fuck you harder, faster, railing you as if this will be his last time doing so. Your moans and huffs of breath become louder and more intense the harder and deeper his cock plunges inside of you. “W-Wait!” you gasp. “Slow down! I can’t…can’t!”

Toji chuckles, watching your ass bounce against his pelvis as he fucks you. “Sorry, honey,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “I couldn’t help it. You just sound so cute.” 

Your thighs clench and your body writhes as he rails you, unable to take this deep dicking into the couch. You try to move away but the knife suddenly sliding against your throat stops you. “Uh-uh, babydoll,” he growls. “Don’t run from me. I wouldn’t try it if I were you.” He then pops his knee up, his foot up on the couch, and reaches a part inside of you that makes you feel unimaginable pleasure. 

“Just take me like a good girl, okay?” he whispers. “You can do that for me if you wanna live.” You don’t have a choice in the matter, mostly because of the hold he has on your arms, pulling you back as drives himself forward again and again. The sound of your moans, his grunts, and the lewd plap, plap, plap as his balls swing against your overly-sensitive clit and his hips slam into your ass fill the air, drowned out by the music playing outside. 

“Who would’ve thought,” Toji pants into your ear. “C.O.D.E.’s good little spy gettin’ her brains fucked out on a mission, huh? I bet they’d love to see this.” His free hand releases your arms and yanks on a handful of your hair. “I bet they’d love to see you full of me,” he growls. “Full of this dick and my cum.”

He presses the knife deeper into your throat, just enough for you to feel the sharp, jagged edge of the blade. “You wanna cum for me, baby?” he asks. “You gonna be a good slut and take all my cum too?” 

“Please!” you whimper, losing your mind and all of your pride. “Please just make me cum! I’ll do whatever you want, Toji!” He takes the knife from your throat and replaces it with his hand, choking you as he fucks you stupid. “Then do it,” he demands. “Fuckin’ cum on this cock while I fill you up. Cum with me now!” 

“Ah, ah, fuck, I-I’m gonna cum!” you deliriously sob as he continues to pound into you. “I’m gonna…gonna–!”

You don’t get a chance to finish because your pussy has finally reached its limit and explodes all over him, your walls squeezing around him and your clit shuddering. You reaching your peak triggers Toji and he grips your throat and ass as he comes to a still, his entire body tensing. “Fuck!” he bellows, cumming deep, deep, deep inside of you. 

You gasp as you feel a rush of warm liquid flood into your pussy while you gush all over his cock, dripping down his balls. He fills you to the brim, giving you so much that it has no choice but to trickle down your thighs. He doesn’t immediately pull out though––he continues to fuck you, albeit slowly and sloppily, before giving your tit one feeble squeeze and finally pulling out of you. 

You weakly moan at the feeling of being empty yet used, your pussy twitching and aching. “Mmm, now look at that,” he sighs dreamily, staring at your cum-soaked cunt. “Now that’s a properly fucked pussy if I do say so myself.” He takes a handful of your chin, squeezing your cheeks together, and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Not bad, babydoll.” 

You don’t respond, too weak and too tired to do so. You’re too tired to even feel any amount of disgust for him and shame in yourself for failing the mission and enjoying the sex. “Let’s get this off of you,” Toji says, his hands unbuckling the belt from your wrists. “I’m gon’ need it for myself, anyway.” He releases your wrists and lets you lay on the couch, panting and coated in sweat. 

Your makeup and hair are ruined. Your underwear is in tatters. You feel used and fucked-out. You can only stare at Toji as he quickly gets dressed and straightens out his clothes, his cock still covered in you. “I’m sorry, baby, but I’ve gotta go before your people get here.” He gives you an apologetic smile. “But gimme a call since I’m sure you can find that out. Maybe we can do this again.” 

He then moves to the extra bathroom behind the couch and retrieves a robe which he covers you with. “See?” he chuckles. “I ain’t that big of an asshole.” He presses a kiss to your lips before bending down to pick up your thong. “Thanks for this,” he says, dangling it in front of you. “And the dance. I’ll cherish both forever.” 

You don’t say anything, even as you watch him leave, taking your thong and your dignity with you.

Then you are alone. At some point, you find the strength to stand up and wobble to the bathroom where you take a hot shower, washing the scent of sex and cum off of you. When you return, dressed in your robe, the door busts in, and your boss and fellow spies enter the room, guns drawn and masks on their faces. 

“V!” your boss shouts, instantly dropping his weapon and running to you. His eyes widen at your state, looking for any bruises or scars. There are none…that are physical, anyway. “V, what happened?” he asks. 

And as the events of tonight come flooding back to you at full speed, you muster up the most believable lie you can, clutching your robe closed: 

“He overpowered me.” 

[thewulf]

Frosted Steel || Cassian

Summary: Request -Can i request a Cassian x Reader?? Here's what I'm thinking-Reader is from winter court. She's gifted with unique ice-binding magic from her home and arrives in Velaris to help Rhysand finalize a critical peace treaty?... Read Rest Here

A/N: Well... this one got away from me hahaha but I had a blast writing it. Def in the zone writing these ACOTAR fics so please keep sending them my way!

Pairing: Cassian x Female Reader (Winter Court Reader)

Word Count: 9.8k + (WHOOPS)

TW: swords, reader gets cut, blood, general ACOTAR warnings

In the silent, shimmering halls of the Winter Court you stood before Kallias, your father and the formidable High Lord. His piercing blue eyes reflect both concern and determination as he addresses you. The throne room was usually a place of austere beauty but felt colder today. The frost patterns on the walls mirroring the tension in the air.

"Velaris is not just another city, and this is not merely a diplomatic visit my daughter," Kallias begins. His voice resonant and commanding. "Rhysand needs our support to finalize a peace treaty that could stabilize relations of the Winter Court for generations. I need someone who can represent our interests with both power and delicacy. Someone like you."

You shift slightly with your boots whispering against the icy floor. "But father, my magic is suited for creation not conflict. Surely there are others better suited to navigate the intricacies of a peace treaty?" You tried your best to convince him, but it was sure to fall of deaf ears. When he had a plan there was no talking him out of it.

Kallias rises. His height and presence filling the room with an almost tangible force. "No one else possesses your unique abilities or your perspective," he insists. "You understand the fragile nature of peace. This treaty needs more than just political acumen… it needs the trust and bond that only your magic can foster." You knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to flatter you. You lowered your gaze knowing there was no talking him out of this. You felt the weight of his expectations pressing into you. It is an honor yes, but a daunting one, nonetheless. The responsibility feels as heavy as the ice that clings to the peaks of your homeland.

Seeing your hesitation Kallias softens before stepping down from the dais to place a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "I would not ask this of you if I did not believe in your ability to carry our hopes," he says. His tone infused with a rare warmth. "You have always risen to the challenges presented to you, greater though they may seem."

Drawing a deep breath you nod, accepting the mantle he's offering. "I will go to Velaris. I will help broker this peace." You spoke even though you truly did not want to go.

Kallias smiles with pride evident in his eyes. "Rhysand has arranged for an escort to meet you at the city gates. They will ensure your safety and aid in your acclimation to the Night Court's ways. Spend some time there. Get to know them. It will only aid in our recovery efforts after the war.” As you turn to leave your heart steadies itself. The path ahead is uncertain and is filled with potential alliances and hidden perils. But as the frost air fills your lungs you feel your resolve harden. You will meet this challenge as you have met all others with the cool grace and quiet strength of winter itself.

He didn’t give you long to get ready to leave. Within a day you were already finding yourself at the outskirts of Velaris, the once hidden city of the Night Court. As you step through the threshold into the city your senses are immediately overwhelmed by the vivid contrasts. Unlike the icy, silent elegance of your homeland, Velaris pulses with life. Its streets bustling with faeries of every conceivable form and hue. The air here carries the warmth of starlight even into the night. It was a stark contrast to the crisp, cold air of the Winter Court. Your unique ice-binding magic was a rare gift in your cold dominion, and it stirred within you responding to the latent energies of this foreign land.

Your arrival isn't just a mere visit as your father had informed you. It's a mission charged with the weight of potential peace or conflict. Directed by your father you are here to assist Rhysand, the famed High Lord of the Night Court and one you were incredibly intimidated by, in finalizing the critical peace treaty. The responsibility weighs heavily on your shoulders as the outcome could define the future relationships between your frigid realm and the temperate lands of the Night Court.

As you glide through the throngs of fae your eyes marvel at the architectural wonders of Velaris. The buildings around you display intricate designs that emit an ethereal glow, seeming both ancient and vibrantly alive. Despite the surrounding beauty you remain vigilant, your magic at the ready. Your heart beats a complex rhythm of excitement and caution as you near the meeting point. In Velaris, amidst allies and strangers, you must navigate the intricacies of court politics. Utilizing your magical talents for diplomacy and perhaps learn to defend yourself in more ways than one.

However, a different sensation stirs within you—a blend of nervousness and unease—as you anticipate your first encounter with Rhysand and Feyre. Both are Daemati, a kind of power that deeply unsettles you. This fear stems from a harrowing past encounter with a Daemati under Amarantha's command who had mercilessly killed twelve children of the Winter Court. One of these children was your Ivy. She was a young fae you were mentoring. Ivy, like yourself, possessed potent abilities but her promise was brutally cut short. She was a loss that still haunts you to this day.

Now as you approach the House of Wind with your escort a mix of fear and determination tingles through your nerves. You replay the pain of your past and the loss that continuously gnaws at your spirit. Yet, you steady yourself with the knowledge that your father has prepared you well to shield your thoughts. He had trained you relentlessly once he returned from under the mountain. At the time it frustrated you but now, in this moment, you are profoundly grateful for his persistence.

Rhysand and Feyre greet you at the grand entrance. Their presence was both awe-inspiring and intimidating. Rhysand's dark hair and piercing gaze are balanced by a surprisingly warm smile. While Feyre's poise and grace exude a calm strength. Though their reputations are fair and just leaders precede them you can't shake the lingering trepidation of their unique abilities.

"Welcome to Velaris," Rhysand says. His voice both smooth and inviting. "We are honored to assist the Winter Court in these crucial talks."

You manage a polite nod making sure to keep your mental shields tightly woven, an invisible armor against any potential intrusion. Rhysand’s eyes seem to glimmer with a hint of understanding, but he makes no move to address the unspoken tension.

Feyre then steps forward with a gentle smile. Her empathy palpable even without words. "We hope you find comfort here during your stay. If there's anything you need at all, please let us know."

As they lead you through the corridors of their home filled with the light of glowing crystals and the scent of night-blooming flowers you remind yourself of the mission at hand. You are here to negotiate peace. To secure a future for your court. Despite the warmth of their welcome, you remain vigilant, prepared to protect your thoughts and heart from the painful memories of the past and the daunting power of the present.

After showing you to your room, a beautiful space with a view of Velaris that twinkles like a starlit sky, Feyre gently suggests that you join them for dinner. As you follow her down to the dining area your nervousness manifests subtly. Your leg shakes rhythmically, a silent tick showing the unease churning inside you. The room is beautifully set with candles flickering softly. They cast a warm light over the array of dishes that smell of spices and something sweetly floral.

You take your seat making sure to deliberately avoid the gazes of Rhysand and Feyre who try to make the atmosphere as welcoming as possible. Your leg continues to shake under the table and despite their friendly demeanor you find yourself unable to meet their eyes. You choose instead to focus on the intricate patterns of the tablecloth. You felt terribly out of your element. Why had your father sent you here? You couldn’t even look them in the eyes, how were you going to negotiate peace with them?

Noticing your discomfort Rhysand addresses the elephant in the room with a gentle directness. "It must be quite unsettling being far from home and surrounded by strangers. Especially strangers who possess abilities that might seem... invasive. We both understand the significance of mental privacy and consent," he begins. His tone imbued with empathy. His acknowledgment of his and Feyre's Daemati powers catches your attention prompting you to glance up briefly.

"We're committed to using our powers to protect and heal, never to harm or coerce," Rhysand continues hoping to ease your worry. "It's a rule we hold sacred in Velaris. A promise to each other and to those we welcome into our home."

As Rhysand speaks there is a sincerity radiating with each word. You find the courage to lift your eyes and meet his gaze for the first time this evening. Something in his expression, a deep-seated earnestness, cuts through the fog of your apprehension. You nod slowly acknowledging his pledge and the safety it promises.

"Thank you," you speak quietly. "I've heard much about both of you and your abilities. Forgive me for being so… cold." The smirk that follows is light and tinged with the irony of your homeland's icy reputation.

Your gaze shifts between Rhysand and Feyre. Their attentive postures encouraging you to continue. "The reason for my caution," you explain, "stems from a… an awful experience. One of the children taken by Amarantha's enforcer was under my protection. Her name was Ivy. I was supposed to shield her. Protect her. To nurture her abilities. But I could only watch helpless as her mind was torn apart. Piece by piece. It was... traumatizing to say the least. The fear of that power. The fear of it being used again so mercilessly has stayed with me." You let out the breath you were holding feeling a weight being slowly lifted off your shoulders in your admission.

Taking a deep breath, you fight through the tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. "Ivy was more than just a pupil to me. She was like a daughter," you begin. Your voice trembling as the words spill out. “Young and brilliant. Her very presence could brighten the darkest winter nights. She had a rare gift for ice magic. The kind that comes once in a generation. Ivy could weave frost into intricate sculptures of breathtaking beauty. She could coax snowflakes into patterns that told stories. Her magic wasn’t just powerful, it was art. Art in the purest and most captivating form."

Your voice cracks as the memory surges forward, raw, and as sharp as the day it happened. "When the enforcer came, I tried to shield her. I stood between them. I begged him to take me instead. But he just laughed..." Your hands clench into fists at the memory with you nails digging into your palms as if to anchor you against the pain. "And then he turned his attention to her. Ivy was just a girl. A beautiful little girl brimming with potential, and I had to watch from a distance… utterly powerless, as he ripped it all away. Her screams... the look of sheer terror in her eyes... it's etched into my memory. A nightmare that never fades."

Pausing, you swallow hard, feeling the sting of tears as they threaten to breach your composure. "I couldn't save her. The guilt of that moment, the utter helplessness. It’s haunted me ever since." You wipe away a tear that manages to escape, your voice a whisper now. "That’s why I’m so wary around Daemati. That’s why your powers… even though I know you use them for good, initially stirred such deep fear in me. The memory of what was done with similar abilities. It terrifies me still."

As you finish the room is enveloped in a heavy silence. Rhysand and Feyre absorbing the depth of your pain. Each of their faces etched with compassion and sorrow for your loss. Feyre's reaction is immediate and visceral. Her eyes fill with tears, and they silently overflow as she listens to the end of your harrowing experience. Moved deeply by your pain and the horrific loss of Ivy, she can barely contain her distress, reflecting her profound empathy.

"I'm so sorry," Feyre whispers. Her voice quivering as she reaches across the table, seeking to provide comfort even as she struggles with her own reaction. "That you had to go through that, to witness such horror... it's just unthinkable. I can't express how deeply sorry I am for your loss and your pain."

Rhysand's expression is one of solemn resolve as he observes both you and Feyre. He places a reassuring hand on her shoulder offering her a silent strength before turning his attention to you with a serious yet compassionate gaze. "What happened to Ivy, the terror she endured—such things are what we fight against every day," he says firmly. "Under my watch we hold ourselves to a promise: that we use our power to protect, to heal, not to harm. What you experienced will not happen here. You have my word." He nods his head in reverence.

The sincerity in Rhysand's voice and his protective assurance coupled with Feyre's empathetic tears create a poignant moment of understanding and solidarity. It offers a small yet significant reassurance that in Velaris you might find not only safety but also allies who genuinely care about your well-being.

As dinner progresses the conversation gradually shifts towards lighter topics. Focusing on the details of the peace treaty. The atmosphere has eased significantly with Rhysand and Feyre both engaging in thoughtful dialogue about the future plans and the roles each court might play in fostering peace. You find yourself becoming more invested in the conversation feeling a bit more at ease with each passing moment.

Just as you're beginning to relax fully the door bursts open and two figures storm in, deep in a heated debate. Their voices are raised, each trying to overpower the other with their arguments.

“You think charging in without a plan is the answer, Cassian? That’s reckless, even for you,” the darker-haired one asserts, his expression intense and clearly frustrated.

“And you think waiting around is going to solve our problems, Az? We can’t just leave it unresolved!” the larger man retorts with his broad frame gesturing emphatically.

Rhysand sighs, setting down his utensils before looking between his two friends. “Alright, what’s this about?” he asks, ready to mediate with a practiced ease.

As Cassian and Azriel's loud entrance interrupted the dinner your eyes immediately locked with Cassian's. Despite the intensity of their ongoing argument something about his direct gaze halted all other thoughts. It was as if a gust of wind had swept through the room, leaving you momentarily breathless. Amidst the unexpected disruption the corner of your mouth quirked up in amusement. Such candid, boisterous dynamics were a rare sight back in the Winter Court and the sheer openness of it all struck you as refreshingly odd. Even as the argument continued your focus remained riveted on Cassian. You found it impossible to break away from his gaze, his eyes holding a mixture of passion and warmth that was intensely captivating.

Catching your amused smile, Cassian halts mid-sentence. A playful glint appearing in his eyes. “And who do we have here?” he asks. His tone shifting to one of curiosity mixed with a hint of charm. “A spy from the Winter Court come to watch us squabble like market hagglers?”

Azriel rolls his eyes at Cassian’s dramatics. “Ignore him. Cassian thinks every new face is part of a grand intrigue.”

Rhysand chuckles and intervenes before Cassian can respond. “No spies here, just Kallias’s daughter from the Winter Court. She’s here to assist with the peace treaty negotiations. Remember?” Rhysand explains gesturing toward you with a warm smile. “And apparently to witness the Night Court's General and Spymaster in their, let’s say, natural habitat.”

Cassian’s face lights up with a broad grin as he extends a hand in greeting. His earlier fervor now redirected into welcoming you. “Well then, welcome to Velaris! I’m Cassian, the General. And the brooding shadow over there is Azriel, our Spymaster. Seems you’ve got a front-row seat to our tactical disputes.”

Azriel gives you a nod, his earlier annoyance fading into a reserved smile. "It’s good to meet you. Please don’t mind us. We argue, but it’s all in the spirit of making the best decisions for our people."

Your initial amusement grows into a genuine smile, touched by the warmth and candidness of their welcome, even amidst their lively disputes. This evening has certainly turned out to be full of surprises. Painting a vivid picture of the Night Court as a place of vibrant personalities and fierce loyalty.

As the energy from their spirited discussions simmers down and the laughter echoes into a comfortable lull you take the opportunity to express your amusement at their robust debate. Greeting Cassian and Azriel warmly you share how refreshing you find the candid nature of the Night Court. It's a stark contrast to the more reserved and formal interactions typical of the Winter Court, sparking your curiosity about the dynamics of this lively group.

"Well, it's certainly different here," you comment with a light laugh. "I'm looking forward to seeing more of this... enthusiasm during my stay. I'll be here for a month or so. I hope to learn as much as I can."

Rhysand, seizing on your mention of an extended stay, exchanges a quick glance with Cassian. He gave him a sly smile as he senses his brothers attention shifting toward you almost immediately. "A month or so gives us plenty of time," he says thoughtfully. "If you're interested in learning more than just politics perhaps you'd like to join some of our training sessions? Cassian here leads our warriors and I'm sure he could arrange something that accommodates your skills and interests."

Cassian’s eyes light up at the suggestion. He was always eager to bring someone new into the fold of his training regimens. Especially someone as unique as you seemed to be. "Absolutely," he agrees with an enthusiastic nod. "It’s not all sword swinging and strength training. We focus on strategy, agility, and even some elemental control that might align nicely with your ice magic. It could be a good way to blend some of the Winter Court techniques with ours."

As Rhysand suggests joining the training sessions you hesitate, a flicker of doubt crossing your face. "I appreciate the offer but I'm not really a fighter," you admit slightly apologetic in your nature. "My strengths lie more in diplomacy and magic, particularly ice magic. I'm not sure how well I'd fit into a warrior's training regimen."

Rhysand, observing the interplay at the table, seems particularly keen on your participation. His insight as a leader might allow him to sense the undercurrent of interest from Cassian toward you. Something potentially deeper than it appears. He pushes gently but with a knowing smile, "It’s not just about fighting. It’s about understanding different perspectives and disciplines. It could be a valuable experience."

Cassian although typically straightforward and jovially aggressive, adopts a slightly softer demeanor. His usual bravado tempered by earnestness. "Training can also be about balance and harmony. About integrating the physical with the magical. Your skills could bring a fresh perspective, not just to our tactics but to our understanding of magic and combat."

Then Azriel, who normally stays quiet in such discussions adds his own encouragement. His subdued voice carrying weight. "It’s worth exploring. Sometimes stepping into unfamiliar territory reveals more about our strengths. It could be enlightening for all of us."

Cassian's expression briefly reveals his surprise at Azriel’s interjection. It was a small, almost imperceptible lift of his eyebrows signaling to you that Azriel's encouragement is out of the ordinary. This small gesture subtly hints at the importance of the moment.

Feyre as if sensing the nuanced shifts in the conversation supports their suggestions with a warm and inclusive gesture. "It’s also a way to connect with everyone here. Our training sessions are as much about building relationships as they are about building skills. It would be wonderful to have you join, even just a few times to see how it feels."

Encouraged by their collective support and Cassian's surprised yet approving glance following Azriel's seemingly rare endorsement you find yourself reconsidering their proposal more seriously. "Alright. I'll give it a try," you agree, a tentative excitement building within you. "This will be very… interesting."

"Excellent," Cassian says. His eyes brightening with enthusiasm. "We’ll start at a pace that feels right for you. It’s about growth and learning, not just exertion."

As the dinner concludes and plans for your training begin to take shape you can't help but feel an intriguing pull towards what lies ahead. The possibility of new friendships and perhaps deeper bonds begins to form, hinting at the start of an enriching journey within the Night Court.

On your first day at the training grounds, the crisp morning air of Velaris is invigorating, filled with the sounds of clashing weapons and distant calls from sparring partners. Cassian leads you to a quieter section reserved for one-on-one sessions away from the more vigorous activities of his usual warriors. The atmosphere is slightly tense. The space between you filled with cautious curiosity. Each of you is clearly gauging the other trying to find a comfortable rhythm in this new training partnership.

"Let’s see what you’ve got," Cassian suggests. His tone friendly but carrying a hint of challenge. He watches intently as you demonstrate some basic maneuvers with your ice magic. You created delicate yet sharp frost patterns that float gracefully in the air. His nods of approval are sparing, and you can tell he’s mentally noting each display of skill though he keeps his feedback measured and professional.

As the days progress the initial stiffness that marked your interactions begins to melt away. Cassian’s coaching style is intense. His commands are sharp, his expectations high. However, as you meet his challenges with increasing confidence you begin to understand the method behind his rigor. You also start to catch glimpses of humor in his sharp eyes. A sign that there’s more to this formidable warrior than just discipline and strength.

"Try not to freeze my soldiers. We’re running out of good men as it is," he jokes one morning after you skillfully direct a swirl of ice around a training dummy skillfully stopping just short of a group of soldiers watching nearby.

With a small laugh you shoot back, "I thought the Night Court could handle a little cold."

His laughter in response is hearty. A sound that seems to echo around the quiet corner of the training grounds. It's a turning point, signaling a shift from mutual respect to something warmer, more friendly.

By the end of the week your training sessions are characterized by easy banter and playful challenges. One afternoon Cassian dodges your icy projectiles with nimble grace only to slip slightly on a patch of ice you cunningly left in his path. "Not bad for a scrawny little thing," he grins while steadying himself with the agility of a cat.

In response you flash a mischievous smile and with a subtle flick of your wrist, you freeze his boots to the ground. "And not bad for a brawny brute," you retort. Laughter bursts from a few nearby trainees who have started to look forward to these exchanges between the two of you.

Cassian manages to break free before brushing ice from his boots with mock indignation. "You’re going to pay for that one," he warns though his eyes sparkle with amusement.

As the week draws to a close the training ground has transformed from a place of cautious appraisal to one of growth and friendship. Your sessions with Cassian are no longer just about learning to integrate your ice magic with physical combat. They’re also about the laughter shared over slipped footing, the shared grins after successful maneuvers, and the light-hearted jests that now flow freely between you. This evolving camaraderie promises not just improved skills but a deepening bond, hinting at the development of a relationship built on respect, challenge, and mutual delight in each other's company.

The atmosphere at the training grounds is usually charged with the sounds of diligent practice but today there’s an added layer of excitement due to some young onlookers from the Night Court. Cassian plans a session that balances demonstrations of your unique ice magic with some basic combat techniques hoping to impress not just you but the eager young fae watching from a distance.

Wearing your elegant Winter Court attire, which was more suited for display than combat, you find yourself not in your usual training leathers. Today was supposed to be about finesse and control not full-contact sparring. As Cassian readies the next exercise you catch the eyes of the children peeking out from behind the trees. Their expressions were filled with awe and curiosity. Smiling back at them your attention momentarily drifts from the task at hand.

Cassian notices your distraction and the intricate fabric of your attire raising an eyebrow in mild concern. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to change into something more... practical?" he asks you once more. His voice laced with skepticism.

You shake your head while stepping forward confidently. "I believe today's session can benefit from a different approach," you explain. Your voice steady, confident. "My attire from the Winter Court is designed not only for aesthetics but for mobility in a certain style of combat. It’s more strategic and less about direct confrontation. It might offer a new perspective for your warriors."

Cassian looks dubious but intrigued by your assurance and the potential learning opportunity for his trainees. After a moment of consideration, he nods slowly. "Alright," he concedes. His tone cautious yet curious. "We'll adjust today's training to focus on technique and precision. We'll go light on the physical combat to accommodate your attire."

Grateful for his flexibility you prepare to demonstrate that finesse and strategy can be as effective as brute strength hoping to prove the value of your unique approach and the versatility of your court's combat style.

As dusk deepened over the training grounds, the session with Cassian was intensifying. He was fully focused on you, guiding, and challenging you with each swing of his blunted training blade. He did not notice Azriel's silent approach until his brother was almost beside them, landing softly. The sudden appearance of Azriel, so smooth and silent, caught your eye at the crucial moment.

Cassian, thinking you were prepared and about to dodge, continued with his planned attack and swung the blunted blade in a broad, sweeping motion towards you. Normally you would have sidestepped smoothly but distracted by Azriel's unexpected arrival you froze. The blade, though blunt for training, struck directly against your side with surprising force due to your lack of movement. The impact was hard enough to slice through the delicate fabric of your Winter Court dress and nick your skin, drawing a line of blood.

Immediately realizing the mishap Cassian dropped his sword and rushed to your side, his expression flooded with concern. "Are you alright? I thought you saw me coming," he asked quickly as his voice was laced with worry.

Trying to mask the sharp sting and the sudden warmth of blood seeping through your dress, you attempted to reassure him, "I’m okay, Cassian, really, it was just a shock more than anything—"

But as you spoke a wave of dizziness overwhelmed you, your knees buckling under the dual assault of pain and sudden faintness. As you started to fall Cassian instinctively reached out, catching you just in time. His hands which were initially meant to steady you felt the wetness of blood through the fabric of your dress. His eyes widened in horror as he saw the bright red on his hands realizing the cut was more serious than a mere scrape.

Without a moment's hesitation Cassian scooped you up into his arms. His movements were swift and filled with urgent care. He looked up at Azriel who had stepped forward, concern etching his features. "Keep the training going, Az. I’m taking her to Madja, now," Cassian instructed firmly. His voice carrying the weight of his resolve.

Azriel nodded understanding the gravity of the situation and stepped back to allow Cassian to pass. Cassian, holding you securely, moved with purposeful speed towards the infirmary. His mind was racing with worry. The flight was quick. His powerful wings beating against the cool air of the evening, each stroke propelling you further away from the training grounds and closer to the healing hands of Madja.

As he flew you clung to him feeling the cool air against your face, which helped alleviate some of the dizziness. "I'm really okay, Cassian," you tried to assure him again, your voice soft, noticing the tension in his body, the way his jaw was set with worry. "It’s just a little cut, I think. I’m sure it’s already healed up."

Cassian only tightened his hold, a gesture of protective care. "We're not taking any chances," he said firmly. His tone brooking no argument. "You’re getting checked out, no arguments."

Suspended in the air, held securely in Cassian's embrace, you noticed the tension in his expression. His jaw set firmly as he navigated through the skies. Wanting to alleviate his concern and lighten the mood you looked up at him, your voice competing with the rush of the wind. "Okay, no arguing," you conceded with a soft, reassuring smile. "But how about an even less swordy day at training tomorrow?"

"You know, maybe we should consider taking a rest day tomorrow," Cassian suggested hesitantly. His voice carrying a protective tone. "Just to be sure you're fully recovered. It might not be wise to jump right back into training."

You looked up at him feeling the warmth of his care but also a spark of your own determination not to be sidelined by a small injury. "I appreciate your concern, Cassian, but really, I feel fine," you countered quickly. A hint of stubbornness in your tone. "A light day as planned with some tactical drills. Nothing too strenuous. I think it would be good for me. For you"

Cassian raised an eyebrow with a small smile breaking through as he sensed your resolve. "Oh, how quickly you've changed your tune, princess," he remarked with a playful smirk. The affectionate tease in his voice floated on the wind as he continued to fly, his grip around you reassuring and strong.

The brief exchange brought a light-heartedness to the moment and Cassian's smile broadened slightly appreciating your spirit and resilience. "Alright, tactical drills it is then. But at the first sign of any discomfort, we're taking a break," he conceded. His tone still carrying a hint of caution but softened by his growing trust in your judgment.

As you both neared the infirmary the flight through the crisp evening air felt less like a rush to aid and more like a shared journey back to stability. Cassian's initial hesitation faded, replaced by a quiet confidence in your resilience and a deepening sense of connection between you. The city of Velaris spread out beneath you, a silent witness to the bond that was strengthening with every beat of Cassian's wings and every word exchanged above the rooftops.

Landing smoothly at the infirmary Cassian carried you inside where Madja was already preparing her tools. Cassian gently laid you down on a cot as his hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary. His eyes were searching yours for any sign of further distress.

Madja quickly assessed the situation. She cleaned the wound and confirmed it was shallow. Though the blood loss and the shock had caused your faintness. "You'll be fine. Just a little rest and you’ll be up in no time," she reassured both you and Cassian, more so Cassian, who finally allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief.

You turn to Cass with a smirk playing on your lips. "See, told you so, General," you tease in an attempt to ease the palpable tension that had followed you from the training grounds.

Cassian's relief is immediate and visible. He lets out a deep breath, the tightness in his shoulders relaxing as he returns your smirk with a wry smile. "Fine, you were right. But let’s avoid making this a habit, shall we?"

Before you can respond the infirmary door swings open abruptly. Rhysand strides in, his expression a mixture of concern and command clearly having been summoned by Cassian’s urgent mental call. His eyes are wide as he quickly scans the room landing on you sitting relatively unscathed on the infirmary bed.

"Are you alright?" Rhysand asks. His voice tight with concern. He moves closer. His gaze flicking from you to Cassian, seeking an explanation.

You nod reassuring him with a calm smile. "I’m just fine, Rhys. Really, it was much less dramatic than it seems. Cassian has been worried enough for everyone," you say, glancing at Cassian with a playful raise of your eyebrows, signaling that all is truly well.

Rhysand's gaze softens though the lines of worry don’t completely disappear. "Cassian briefed me but seeing you well makes a world of difference. These training accidents... Well, they shouldn’t happen. We’ll review the protocols to ensure this is an isolated incident."

Turning to Cassian, Rhysand claps him on the shoulder. A gesture of support mixed with a mild reprimand. "Take care of her. Make sure she follows all of Madja’s instructions," Rhysand instructs, his leader’s tone resurfacing.

Cassian nods solemnly, "Understood. I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again."

With a final nod and a comforting smile directed at you Rhys exits the infirmary, his presence leaving as quickly as it arrived. The room feels lighter now, the earlier tension dissipating with the confirmations of your well-being.

Cassian stays by your side. His relief evident but his watchfulness remaining. "Now, about that 'less swordy' day tomorrow..." he begins, ready to shift back into the lighter, teasing dynamic that has marked your growing friendship. Grateful that the day’s scare has ended on a reassuring note.

As Cassian suggests a less physically demanding day focused more on magic you can’t help but giggle. A slight relief moving away from any activities involving bladed weapons. “That sounds perfect,” you agree with enthusiasm brightening your voice as you discuss potential exercises that would let you showcase and refine your control over ice magic without the physical strain.

As the conversation continues Cassian helps you up ensuring you’re stable on your feet and offers his arm for support as you begin the walk back to your quarters. The corridors of the Night Court feel quieter than usual. The soft echo of your steps mingling with the fading adrenaline of the day’s events. There’s a palpable shift between you and Cassian. A new layer of closeness brought on not just by the day’s scare but also by the accumulated time spent together over the past few weeks.

Cassian’s voice breaks the comfortable silence. His voice softer, more reflective than before. “I’ve really enjoyed these last few weeks with you,” he admits. His gaze fixed ahead. “You’ve taught me more than you’ll ever know.” His words hang in the air laden with a sincerity that draws your attention fully to his expression. It’s open, honest, and there’s a hint of vulnerability there that you hadn’t noticed before.

You look at him, touched by his confession, noticing the slight hesitance as if he wants to say more but is holding back. Maybe it’s the fear of crossing an unseen boundary or the uncertainty of your reaction that keeps him from continuing.

Encouraged by his openness you respond warmly, “And I’ve learned a lot from you, too, Cassian. Not just about fighting or training but about what it means to really care about your warriors, your friends.” You pause searching his face for a reaction. “It means a lot to me, all of this time we’ve spent together.”

Cassian’s eyes meet yours and there’s a moment of silent communication. A mutual understanding and appreciation that seems to deepen the bond between you. “I’m glad,” he finally says with his voice low. “I hope we can keep this going, no matter what the training schedule says.”

As you reach your quarters there’s a reluctance to part between the both of you. A desire to prolong the connection that has clearly grown beyond the confines of instructor and trainee. Cassian lingers at your door, his usual confidence tempered with a newfound tenderness.

“Get some rest princess,” he says softly before stepping back with a reluctant smile. “We’ll start fresh tomorrow. Less swordy, more... magical.”

You nod, smiling back at him, feeling a warmth that extends beyond the fading pain from your injury. “I look forward to it, Cassian. Thank you for everything today.”

He nods, then turns to leave, but not before throwing a look over his shoulder. It was a promise of more shared moments, more lessons, and perhaps, deeper revelations yet to come. The door closes softly behind you leaving you with a sense of anticipation for what the next day might bring, both in training and in your evolving relationship with Cassian.

After the incident at the training grounds and a night of rest you dive back into the treaty negotiations with renewed focus. As the talks commence you are at the forefront, your diplomatic skills shining as you navigate the complexities of the discussions. Your adept use of magic not only impresses but also serves as a poignant reminder of the Winter Court's strengths and capabilities. The treaty talks progress smoothly and a successful agreement begins to take shape much to the relief and satisfaction of all parties involved.

However, despite the importance of the negotiations and your central role in them your thoughts intermittently drift to Cassian. The memory of his concerned eyes, his protective stance, and the warmth of your conversation lingers with you, distracting you more than you'd like to admit. As you mentally rehearse your next points in the discussion, you find your mind replaying moments from the training sessions, his laughter, his teasing remarks, and his unexpectedly gentle care.

Unbeknownst to you, your mental shields—usually so meticulously maintained—begin to slip slightly amid your daydreams. Rhysand, who was not actively probing but is always somewhat attuned to the emotional and mental state of those around him, picks up on your wandering thoughts. He catches snippets of your internal musings about Cassian, not enough to grasp the full context but enough to piece together the gist of your distraction.

Throughout the meeting a knowing grin slowly forms on Rhysand's face, amused by the realization of your burgeoning feelings for his brother. He doesn't comment on it during the talks. Making sure to maintain his professionalism and focusing on the successful closure of the treaty. However, the little smile that occasionally plays at the corners of his mouth doesn't go unnoticed by those who know him well.

Later, as the meeting concludes with handshakes and a collective sigh of relief over the treaty's ratification. Rhysand pulls Cassian aside just before your evening training session. In a quiet corner away from prying ears Rhysand's grin broadens.

"I think someone has managed to catch more than just your training expertise," Rhysand teases as his eyes twinkled with mirth. "Our Winter Court princess seems to be a bit distracted by a certain general." As Rhysand delivers his playful revelation, Cassian's initial surprise quickly shifts to a broad, almost uncontrollable grin that spreads across his face. The sudden display of joy is uncharacteristic of the usually composed general, revealing just how deeply the news has affected him.

"Oh? And what makes you say that?" Cassian tries to maintain a semblance of composure, but his voice betrayed a hint of excitement beneath the casual façade.

Rhysand notices the change in Cassian's demeanor. The light in his eyes that hadn't been there moments before. "Well, let's just say that her thoughts were a little less guarded than usual," Rhysand replied. His voice laced with amusement. "She might be more interested in the person teaching her than just the lessons themselves."

Cassian's smile widens and he shakes his head slightly almost in disbelief but clearly delighted by the prospect. "Is that so?" he murmurs more to himself than to Rhysand, his mind already spinning with the implications.

Rhysand watches Cassian's bright grin, a knowing look crossing his face as he teases, "Seems like those training sessions are about more than just tactics and spells."

Cassian’s expression remains upbeat but a hint of seriousness creeps in. "They’re enlightening," he admits while giving a nod. "There’s something unique about her… beyond just her skills."

Sensing the depth in Cassian’s tone, Rhysand's demeanor shifts slightly, becoming more contemplative. "Just be careful, Cass. It’s easy to let your guard down when strong feelings are involved."

Cassian pauses as he felt a weight in Rhysand's caution. He looks at his brother, a silent plea for understanding without words. Rhysand, ever perceptive, senses the depth of Cassian’s feelings, realizing this might be more than just a fleeting fascination. "Cassian, do you think she could be…" Rhysand trails off leaving the implication hanging in the air, heavy with the weight of possibilities. His question is subtle, probing—asking if Cassian feels the deep, fated connection of a mate.

Cassian meets Rhysand's gaze with his own eyes reflecting a mix of hope and uncertainty. "I don’t know," he confesses softly. "But there’s something there. Something that feels… right. More than I've felt before."

Rhysand nods slowly as he processed this new revelation. His initial caution softens into a more supportive stance. "Then take it seriously but carefully. If this is what I think it might be, it’s not just significant for you but could be for the Night Court as well."

He places a hand on Cassian’s shoulder with a firm, reassuring grip. "Follow your heart but keep your head with you. She’s not just any visitor. She could and is likely to be much more."

As Rhysand walks away leaving Cassian to ponder the future the conversation not only cements Cassian's resolve but also clarifies the stakes. It’s a turning point. Marking a shift from casual interest to considering the profound potential of a deep, lifelong bond. Cassian feels empowered and cautious now acutely aware of the significant path that might be unfolding before him. This is no longer about training or simple affection. It could be the beginning of the rest of his life, your life.

As dusk settles over Velaris with the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the training grounds, Cassian awaits your arrival. His mind a jumbled swirl of thoughts from the earlier conversation with Rhysand. His anticipation is palpable, heightened by the significant discussions about feelings and futures that may be closer than he's admitted to himself.

During that first meeting in the dining hall his mind was a whirlwind of emotions. As he and Azriel entered mid-argument his initial focus was entirely on their spirited debate not the important dinner he was walking into. The sudden sight of you was an unexpected and striking presence. You brought a sharp halt to his thoughts.

Cassian was immediately struck by your poise and the quiet confidence with which you held yourself among such esteemed company. His first impression was of your elegance and the serene way you observed the dynamic entrance he and Azriel made. There was something about the way you carried yourself as a blend of strength and grace that captivated him instantly.

Embarrassment quickly flooded him with a blush creeping up his neck as he realized the discordant note their arrival struck in the otherwise serene setting. There you were, seated elegantly among the dignitaries of the Night Court with an aura of quiet confidence radiating from you. Despite the potentially disruptive entrance your expression remained unflustered. The slight, knowing smirk playing at the corners of your lips, and the amusement twinkling in your eyes spoke volumes. It was clear you were not only unfazed by the raucous disruption but also mildly entertained by it.

What struck Cassian more deeply was the way your attention seemed focused solely on him, as if the room and its other occupants had faded into the background. This singular focus, paired with the amused arch of your brow, left him feeling both exposed and intrigued. It was as if you could see right through to his typically hidden insecurities prompting a mix of vulnerability and a compelling desire to engage further.

Cassian felt a twinge of chagrin for not having presented a more composed entrance. Especially in front of someone who commanded such a presence as you did. The initial embarrassment, however, slowly morphed into a quiet determination. He was keenly aware that he had an opportunity to make a more meaningful second impression. One that could perhaps intrigue and draw you in just as you had captivated him from that first shared glance.

As he moved to regain his composure, smoothing back his hair, and adjusting his jacket, Cassian was already plotting how to transform this awkward beginning into an opening for deeper connection. The evening had just begun, and he was determined to show you a side of him that resonated with the depth and discernment he now saw reflected in your gaze.

When Rhysand later suggested that Cassian take the lead on your physical training, he seized the opportunity without hesitation. Training was his domain where he felt most in command and most himself. He anticipated that in the structure and discipline of physical training, among the straightforwardness of drills and exercises, there might be space for more informal interactions. For laughter and light conversations that could bridge the gap between formal dining hall introductions and a genuine connection.

Cassian saw each upcoming session as a canvas. As an opportunity to impress and engage you, not just with his skills but with his insights and his approach to teaching and leadership. Privately he knew he’d have to thank Rhysand for the suggestion—whether it was a calculated move or just a fortuitous throwaway idea, it had given him a golden opportunity to explore the potential that he sensed bubbling beneath your initial poised exterior.

He was intrigued, more so than he had been for a long time. The initial physical attraction was strong. Yet it was your demeanor, the intriguing mix of diplomacy and candor, that truly piqued his interest. Cassian left the dining hall that evening with his mind full of questions and curiosities about you. He was eager for the next opportunity to interact and perhaps to understand the compelling figure you were beyond just the surface.

From the memories of that first dinner to the present moment on the training grounds, Cassian's journey of understanding and admiration for you had woven through weeks of anticipation and subtle discoveries. Each interaction had added layers to his initial perception, enriching the image he held of you in his mind.

Then as if to punctuate his thoughts you appeared for the training session, garbed unmistakably in Illyrian warrior attire. Much different than the training leathers and Winter Court apparel he had grown used to see you in. The traditional leathers of his people clung to you, accentuating both strength and grace in your every move. The sight of you in such commanding attire sent a jolt through Cassian. His reaction visceral and immediate. His eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and admiration flashing across his face as he took in every detail—the way the leather fit you, how it moved with your body, and the undeniable air of confidence it brought to your demeanor.

The transformation was not just in your appearance but in the energy you exuded. Standing there you embodied the strength and resilience of an Illyrian warrior, qualities that resonated deeply with Cassian’s own identity. It struck him then how seamlessly you seemed to integrate into his world. How naturally you adopted its symbols and its strength. This was no longer just about training or sharing skills. It was a visual affirmation of your integration into his life and culture.

As he approached you his initial shock gave way to a profound respect. The way you carried the weight of the armor, the casual yet respectful nod you gave him as he walked up. These small actions spoke volumes. Cassian felt a renewed sense of connection. A deeper bond forming not just from shared interests and conversations but from seeing you embrace a part of his heritage with such ease and honor.

In that moment as he closed the distance between you, Cassian realized how deeply he was drawn to you, far beyond the physical allure. It was your spirit. Your willingness to step into his world, to don the armor of his people and stand ready to engage on equal footing. This realization brought a warmth to his chest and a smile to his lips. One that was both proud and welcoming.

As you stood before Cassian in the Illyrian warrior attire your presence was a striking blend of determination and slight apprehension. The soft evening light cast long shadows across the training grounds accentuating the quiet resolve in your posture. You were about to propose a change to the day’s lighter, planned routine. While confident in your suggestion there was a hint of nervousness tinged your voice, reflecting the care you took in challenging the agenda.

"Um, Cassian," you started, your voice carrying a cautious undertone, "I know we planned for a less sword-intensive session today..." You paused trying to gather your thoughts. But before you could continue your eyes met Cassian’s, their intensity like a direct challenge, causing a sudden vulnerability to flutter in your stomach. His gaze was penetrating, studying you with a warmth and focus that unnerved you. For a moment the confidence you felt started to waver under his scrutiny. The depth of his attention making you want to melt into a puddle right there on the training grounds.

However, drawing a deep breath, you summoned your resolve. Despite the shake in your confidence, you pressed on bolstered by the knowledge that this was an important step in your training. "I feel fine. But I've been thinking. I'm already quite familiar with my magic, and not as much with swordsmanship." Your voice grew slightly firmer as you continued, "Maybe, if it’s alright, we could incorporate more of that?" As you reached the end of your proposal a slight stammer betrayed your nervousness. "If you're okay with that, that is," you added with a nervous smile. Eager yet uncertain of his response.

Cassian, still somewhat in awe of your striking appearance and the commanding aura you exuded in the traditional leathers was momentarily taken aback. His response was on the tip of his tongue, an agreement forming, when Azriel quietly joined the duo. Observing the scene, Azriel noted your determined stance and Cassian’s admiring gaze. A knowing smirk crept onto Azriel’s face. "Looks like she’s going to give you a run for your money, brother," he teased unable to hide the amusement in his voice.

Cassian was caught between his brother's teasing and your challenging proposal but managed to regain his composure. He cleared his throat and stepped forward, his confidence rekindled by the familiar banter and the prospect of a spirited training session. "Alright then," he agreed with a nod. A smile breaking through as he embraced the challenge, "swords it is. Let’s see what you’ve got."

As the session progressed Azriel lingered on the sidelines, his eyes shifting between the clashing swords and Cassian’s animated instructions. Every now and then he couldn’t resist throwing in a light-hearted jab especially when it seemed like Cassian was particularly impressed by your quick learning curve or deft movements. "Careful, Cass, I think she might just outdo you in your own game," Azriel called out after a particularly skillful maneuver from you. His tone teasing but proud of you.

Cassian shot a mock-glare at Azriel, but his eyes sparkled with humor and something softer, an undeniable delight in your prowess and enthusiasm. Despite himself Cassian found that he enjoyed this, the mix of training intensity and the undercurrent of playful rivalry. Not just between him and you but with Azriel's involvement as well. It felt oddly, natural. You’d found a way to integrate yourself into the court within only a month of being in Velaris.

Throughout the training Cassian’s admiration for you only grew. Every block, every parry you performed with increasing confidence seemed to not only impress him but also deepen the sense of connection that he felt. This wasn’t just about teaching you how to handle a sword. It was about sharing a piece of his world, his passion, and seeing you embrace it with such fervor was both exhilarating and endearing.

As the sun dipped below the horizon Azriel’s teasing remarks faded into the background, replaced by a quiet acknowledgment of the shift he saw in Cassian. It was clear to him that his brother was, indeed, in trouble. But in the best possible way. Cassian's usually unshakeable demeanor was softer when he looked at you, filled with a mix of pride, respect, and a burgeoning affection that went beyond the confines of the training ring.

When the session finally wound down and the cool evening air settled around, both you and Cassian were catching your breath, reveling in the afterglow of intense physical exertion. It was then that Azriel, unable to resist the opportunity for a little brotherly teasing, stepped forward. Clapping Cassian on the back with a broad grin he couldn’t help but comment, "Well, that was quite a performance. And here I thought today was supposed to be less about swords."

Cassian, still a bit winded from the session, shot Azriel a quick, warning glance. But even he couldn’t hide the amused smile that tugged at his lips, indicative of his own acknowledgment of the shift in plans. Your puzzled look darted between the two brothers catching the tail end of their dynamic, your smile mirroring Cassian's albeit with a touch of confusion.

"Less swords, more magic, but I guess plans change when you're dressed for battle," you chimed in attempting to play off Azriel's comment, still somewhat oblivious to the deeper layers of teasing.

Azriel’s smirk widened as he observed the interplay, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Absolutely, plans do change. Especially when a certain someone decides to show up looking ready to join the ranks of Illyrian warriors," he teased you, turning his gaze back to Cassian with a sly expression. "Makes a general reconsider his strategies."

Caught in the moment, you shared the origin of your attire, a light chuckle escaping you. "Feyre absolutely insisted on me wearing the traditional leathers," you explained, your smile fond as you recalled Feyre's insistence. "I thought it was just for protection, given the training. She seemed really adamant about it."

Cassian’s expression softened at this with a brief smile acknowledging the hidden hand of Rhysand in this setup. Though he connected the dots, realizing his brother's likely involvement in Feyre's insistence, he chose to keep this revelation to himself. Instead, he simply nodded, appreciating your earnestness and perhaps, deep down, thankful for the unintended push it gave him to see you in a new light—strong, capable, and utterly captivating in Illyrian leathers.

As the training session drew to a close and the night deepened around them, the playful banter and shared laughter began to ebb. Azriel's remarks, though lighthearted, had hinted at the shift he observed in the dynamics between you and Cassian. A development that seemed to promise much more than just companionship in the future.

Recognizing the cooling air and the perfect, serene evening that enveloped Velaris, Cassian suggested a leisurely walk back through the city. "How about I walk you home tonight? It's a nice evening to cool down and stretch out after training," he proposed. His voice casual but with a hopeful undertone.

Azriel caught the subtle inflection in Cassian’s tone and simply couldn’t resist one more jab, his knowing smile broadening into a full-blown, mischievous grin. "Sure, take your time," he teased, his voice rich with implication. With a final chuckle and a wink at Cassian, Azriel spread his wings and took to the skies leaving you both to the quiet of the evening streets.

Cassian walked beside you there was a thoughtful distance in his initial steps. As if he was contemplating the right words or simply savoring the shared silence. Gradually, he drew closer, his presence a comforting constant at your side. The soft lighting from the streetlamps cast gentle shadows and the faint rustle of the leaves created a backdrop that enriched the moment with a quaint, almost magical quality.

Every now and then his hand would lightly touch your arm or guide you around an uneven patch on the cobblestones. Each contact sending a quiet thrill through you. Despite the casual nature of the walk there was an undercurrent of something deeper. A thread of anticipation weaving through the air between you.

"Same time tomorrow?" Cassian finally broke the silence. His voice a blend of softness and something undefinable yet unmistakably tender.

"Definitely," you replied with your smile genuine and wide. The connection you felt with Cassian was undeniable and while you might not fully grasp the depth of his feelings, the pull towards him was strong and only growing stronger with each passing day.

When you reached your quarters Cassian lingered for a moment, his demeanor protective and gentle. He seemed reluctant to part ways, but he was satisfied to know you were safe for the night. "Make sure you rest well tonight," he said with his hand resting briefly on your back, his smile warm and lingering as he wished you a good night.

Retreating to your room, the echoes of the evening replayed in your mind. The laughter, Azriel's teasing, the soft, serious timbre of Cassian's voice asking to see you again. There was an excitement brewing within you. An eagerness for what these sessions and these new feelings might lead to. It was an intriguing mix of anticipation and a bit of nervousness, stepping into this newfound connection with Cassian, but every instinct told you it was a path worth exploring. As you settled down with thoughts of the next day’s training, and more importantly, of seeing Cassian again, it filled you with a warm sense of expectation and a quiet joy.

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[mothiir]

all is fair in love and war, part i

In which our favourite diplomat faces an assassination attempt, and Sicarius and Roboute must address some feelings.

Cw: gore. No sex. That’s in the next part.

—

—

An Inquisitor is aboard the ship. An Inquisitor is aboard your ship, in your space, they are here. Fear pulses through you; the instinctive dread of a prey animal learning that the wolf is just around the corner. You have no firsthand experience of the Inquisition, but by the Emperor you have heard stories — colleagues who were threatened into taking part in the cruellest of traps, luring rebellious worlds into an accord, only for the Inquisition to burn the planet to cinders. Worse than this: you have heard stories of those who refused — lobotomised, servitorised, and not just them but their families, their friends, punishment that runs along the most tenuous of connections until everyone who heard the name of the would-be hero was dead, or wished they were. It cannot be chance that the Inquisitor has arrived now, when the Primarch has taken all of the battle-ready ships and most of the men to deal with a section of the webway benighted by daemons, coming to the assistance of their Eldar allies, a comradeship that you were instrumental in brokering. Aboard the diplomatic vessel the Hestia, with nothing more than a barebones crew, sheltered deep in Ultramar’s space you thought yourself safe. And you are — but only from external threats. 

The rot within the Imperium still finds you here, apparently. 

As the most senior civilian official here, you join the welcoming party, standing beside Captain Icarus, a now-retired guardsman who — having served decades on the frontline of the Imperium’s battles — knows the ways of the Inquisition all too well. There are no Astartes aboard the ship, only baseline humans — formidable foes, practiced veterans all — and yet as the Inquisitor and her retinue board your ship (the continent-sized bulk of her ship dwarfing your own, blotting out the stars) you find yourself possessed by the mad urge to gather the men beneath your non-existent wingspan, to shelter them. 

“My lady Inquisitor,” you say, with a deep and respectful bow. “It is an honour —“

”Are you really the most senior diplomat here? Hm. I suppose you will do, until the senior officials arrive,” says the Inquisitor. Oh, what a promising start. What a truly excellent start. You straighten up immediately. “I am Kagha, of the Ordo Xenos. I was under the impression that the Lord Primarch was resident here and came to offer my services.”

You take a moment to gather yourself, trying your utmost to keep your eyes fixed on Kagha — and not her Deathwatch bodyguards, looming like obsidian-wrought gargoyles; nor the cherubim hovering behind her, fleshy abominations with blank, unsettling faces. The other woman is a little shorter than you, hard-featured and haughty, but possessed of an ageless, sharp beauty that speaks of those rejuve treatments the upper-classes so love. Her copper hair is swept up in an elaborate braided style, ornamented with gold skulls with glowing red eyes. You would wager your life’s savings on those hairpins being secret, deadly weapons. Her outfit is equally impressive: a long black leather coat, embroidered with a motif of heretics burning in a flaming pit while an impassive angelic figure watches; skin-tight trousers; an elaborate lacy blouse that closes at her throat with a ruby the size of your fist.

She’s wealthy. Well-connected. Experienced. And yet there is something not right; an itch under your skin. 

You look to the Deathwatch marines, as briefly as possible. There are five of them — more than enough to annihilate the paltry crew here, should they wish — and all are helmeted. Two carry shields slung over their shoulders; huge oblongs of metal longer than you are tall, ornamented with strange milky stones, like opals, and yet somehow familiar —

Your blood turns to ice. Spirit Stones. The funerary custom of Craftworld Eldar is to keep the souls of their dead in these psychic tombs, thus preserving their fallen comrades, and keeping them safe from the endless maw of She Who Thirsts. To break a Spirit Stone is to send the soul contained within to eternal damnation; it is one of the cruellest fates you can imagine. And to decorate your weapons with them — and to bring these weapons to the ship of a diplomat you know brokers peace with the Eldar —

You know then what is happening, and you would laugh at the flagrant arrogance of the Inquisition, if you were not so fearful. They are so used to having nothing stand in their way — why would they be subtle about an assassination? You make a quick gesture with your right hand, keeping it pressed tight to your side. In battle-cant it means call the Primarch. Bring him back. We are in danger. 

To Kagha, you beam, trying to appear every inch the young idiot she appears to think you are. “Would you care to join me in my quarters for tea? I can send a vox to my senior — he is currently aboard a ship in the Ultramarine’s fleet, and will answer as soon as he can.”

A bluff, of course. You have no senior. And yet Kagha — arrogant, stupid Kagha — nods tersely. “This is acceptable.”

—

You do not think it arrogant to claim that you are more that a little adept at the finer points of conversation — it is, after all, much of your job to be personable and engaging. Indeed, this talent is in such short supply across the Imperium that you sometimes wonder if you count as a prodigy, just because you can engage in small talk without threatening anyone, or going on a half hour diatribe about the Emperor’s endless benevolence. You once even made a Harlequin laugh! Yes, it was because you fell over — but it still counts. 

And yet Kagha is a brick wall — no, that is an insult to masonry. She either does not answer your questions, or does so in a way that suggests she considers you the stupidest woman alive for even raising the point. Still, she is kind enough to pour the second round of tea, so you sip, and resign yourself to silence. 

After around twenty minutes, the ring on your index finger — a nondescript circlet of silver, set with a tiny little sapphire — tightens minutely. Thank goodness for that. You offer Kagha a bright smile. 

“If I were you,” you say. “I would have a word with your sources.”

Her brow furrows. “Excuse me?”

”Well — they’re clearly quite out of date. I did have a superior diplomat overseeing my work here — her name was Sara Buchanan, and she was wonderful — but she returned six months ago to be with her grandchildren. I’ve been running the show here ever since.”

Kagha’s brow furrows. “If you are suggesting —“

“I am not suggesting. I am telling. Do you really think you are the first member of your Order to come calling to the Primarch’s fleet, thinking that they can disrupt our mission here? Granted, you are the first one to approach myself directly — but we know your sort. The arrogance of you! You’d see the Imperium remain steeped in shadow and ignorance if it kept your position safe.”

Genuine anger bleeds into your voice, and your throat tightens. You cough into your hand, cursing the sudden flare-up of — what? Allergies? Gunshots echo outside; lasgun facing lasgun. The Primarch has returned home, and is not best pleased with what he finds. 

Kagha’s lips skin back, showing her teeth. “You stupid xenos loving bitch — you have no idea what you are doing here.”

”I know exactly what I am doing here. Following my Lord Primarch’s orders. You are the heretic who claims to know better than the son of the God-Emperor —“ you break off into another bout of coughing, this time more strenuous. It feels like something is clawing up your throat. The door to your chambers crashes open, Cato Sicarius storming in, wreathed in smoke, spattered with blood. 

“Careful!” you yell out at the gunfight outside. “Don’t break the stones on the shields!”

”We know that,” Sicarius snaps at you. “We are well-aware of the Deathwatch’s tactics —“

Whatever he was about to say is amputated as you double over and vomit. A dark grainy substance puddles at your feet, like recaf-grounds. Behind you, Kagha sniggers. 

“So, so clever — but didn’t think to check the tea, did you?”

Oh for the love of the Emperor’s left bollock — you curse your oversight. She’d poured the tea. Ample time to slip poison into it, even though you had been watching her the whole time, because Inquisitors are nothing if not swift with their petty, lethal blows. You choke on another upsurge of bile, pain now radiating from your stomach, and collapse onto the floor. 

The next two things happen so swiftly as to be synchronous. Kagha reaches for her hairpin, presumably to activate some kind of suicide device, and Sicarius leaps towards her. Before she can complete whatever last-ditch resort she was planning, Sicarius has flipped her upside down, holding one scrawny ankle in each of his gauntleted hands. Kagha shrieks in astonishment — a shriek that soon turns to a wordless, senseless wail of agony as the Astartes moves his forearms, just a little, and rips her in half. Gore showers him, and you avert your eyes, but you can still hear the wet slop of organs falling to the ground in a bloody puddle; the popping and breaking of bones, rent apart like matchsticks. 

“That is my woman,” growls Sicarius — or, at least, you think he does. The world is starting to blur at the edges; the pain is receding — or perhaps you are receding, falling away into the dark. Your last image is of Sicarius bending down to you, reaching out. And then it is all black, as black as the void between stars. 

—

You blink awake to cool white light, and soft white linen. For an absurd moment you think you’ve perished, and this is the Emperor’s rest — an endless bed, where you can sleep as much as you wish (sleep being the one resource you were always so scarce of). 

Then —

“Ah, the wench awakes. Good. I was getting sick of looking at your sleeping face.”

Cato Sicarius sits by your bed, a paperback book open on his knee. The title reads Duty and Love: The Steamy Romance of a Kriegsman and a Sister of Battle — but before you can comment on it, he’s whisked it away, hiding it in one of his armour’s many compartments.

”How long — how long has it been?”

Your voice is rough; your throat aches. Sicarius tosses you a canteen of water. 

It’s metal. It’s Space Marine sized. You can’t catch it; it hits you in the chest and bounces off, leaving another bruise to deal with. 

“Next time, catch better.”

You have no idea how to respond to that. With shaking hands, you unscrew the lid and gulp at the icy water. 

“The poison ate through your oesophagus,” says Sicarius, conversationally. “Just as well it spared your tongue — a mute diplomat is no use to anyone, and we would have had to get someone new aboard. Can’t be doing with that.”

Perhaps it is your drug-induced delirium, but you smile at him. “Are you saying you’d miss me?”

”Absolutely not. Give me that.”

He snatches the canteen back, spilling water over you both. It’s his canteen. There’s a jug of water on your bedside table, and he gave you his canteen — but before you can dwell on that , Sicarius is back to grumbling. 

“We had to divert our entire mission because of you. Lord Gulliman was not best pleased that the Ordo Xenos was causing trouble for him and his, so we had to go halfway across the galaxy to Kagha’s home base. He’s spent the last five days putting every Inquisitor he can find to the sword. Burned a couple of planets that were still perfectly useful just because they wouldn’t tell us what we needed to know.”

There is far too much there for your sluggish brain to process. You manage: “Five days?”

”Yes. You’ve been out for six. That poison almost killed you. It didn’t. Fortunately.”

You stare down at your hands. They are almost as pale as the sheets: sunless, drained. “And the Primarch —?”

As if in answer to your question, the door opens, and Roboute himself enters. You immediately try to greet him properly — stand, curtesy, even salute — but your body won’t obey, and you just manage to tangle yourself up in your sheets, tumbling from the bed. The Primarch catches you before you hit the ground, swaddling you up in your linen like a newborn babe, settling you back onto the bed. His armour is tarnished, swathes of it stained rusty with old blood, and he reeks of smoke. Deep shadows hang under his eyes. He looks like he has come fresh from the battlefield. 

“There,” he says. “Better? Glad to see you with us.”

Your arms are pinned to your sides, which is just as well, since you suddenly want to stroke his tired brow, comb your fingers through his hair. 

Roboute looks over at Sicarius. “Thank you for your watch, brother.” To you, he adds: “Sicarius stayed —“

”Here because I was ordered to, and now I must leave to attend to proper business,” says Sicarius, all in a rush. 

Gulliman stares at him. And stares at him. Then looks at you. Then back at Sicarius. 

“…is that really what you want to say,” he says, in a tone of infinite, weary patience. “Really. After all this. That’s your parting riposte.”

Sicarius stands up straight, throwing up a parade-ground salute. 

“I fulfilled your orders, my lord. Watched her for the five days and nights. But now I have to return to my battle brothers for my actual purpose.”

Gulliman stares at him for another long, long moment. You twitch in the cocoon that Gulliman has forced you into, feeling deeply awkward but not entirely sure why. 

“Last chance,” says Gulliman. Sicarius frowns. 

“Not sure what else I should say, Lord Father.”

”Right,” says Gulliman, and sighs, turning back to you. He tucks you in more firmly — clearly intending it to be a comforting gesture, but managing to strait-jacket you to the point where you think your fingers are going numb. “Theoretical: the potential of losing you drove me to depths of fury that I had not felt in quite some time. This was in part due to the Inquisitor’s meddling, but largely to do with the prospect of not having you by my side.”

He strokes your hair gently.

”Practical: when you are well enough to stand, you will come to my quarters and we will have nice non-poisoned tea. And we can talk. And enjoy one another’s company.”

You squeak. “S-sounds like an excellent strategy, my lord. Yes. Please. Would like to play my part for you and the Legion and —“

”Perhaps not the entire Legion,” says Gulliman. “Not yet, anyway. Oh, and Sicarius? Why are you still here?”

Sicarius’ face is frozen in a rictus of pure, delirious rage. “No — no reason at all Lord Primarch. I will…I will take my leave.”

No one can say Gulliman did not give his idiot son a chance. He leans forward and kisses you gently on the forehead, pausing to inhale the scent of air. It smells of home. 

[windswept-ocs]

"I don't gotta worry 'bout some of the demons in m'faction. My little snakelet Scythe keeps everythin' unda control and Broker's always been an oddball. He's normally just fuckin' off somewhere and makin' sure his job's done right." "Both of 'em are reckless to an extent, yeah, but I always trust they'll come right back safe n sound. Broker's like your little Subspace, always gettin' intah trouble but he always seems to get outta it without much issue." -> She shoots her second dart, clicking her tongue softly as this one gets much lower on the board. Oh well.

[FOR SNAKEWHIP]

Another Lost Temple leader. He looks...so very different.

"Ey! I heard there were alternate versions or somethin'? I wanted to make my presence known, heh!"

He's short & stocky, a wide & broad man. His face is rough, scarred with visible signs of aging. The cowbell that dangles from around his neck clangs & bangs as he approaches Snakewhip.

Just by looking at him you can tell he's extremely wealthy from the decorated hat, to the gold tooth, to the gold belt buckle with the Lost Temple logo on it, to the cowboy boots with golden spurs. His gear is in a holster on his belt, his gear gold plated & decorated to his liking.

-@leading-inpherno [COWBELL]

-> Snakewhip notices the approaching male and scrunches up her nose already. She wasn't too keen and meeting new people or the whole "making friends" concept. "Ya look like some rip-off cowboy..." -> She scoffs, looking down at her perfectly cut and green-colored nails, clearly bored already. "And yeah, I'M the leader of Lost Temple. Ya can call me Snakewhip."

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Gambles - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

"They won't take the loss lying down. Vi's a Peacekeeper. Medarda backed her."

"Now, her backing will be our leverage." The pad of his thumb rests in the notch between Sevika's wristbone. Her pulse beats a little faster. "Last week, she paid Zaun a visit.  We ironed out the details of the Safeguard Act. I secured the Council's signatures for our medicinal Shimmer. In return, a number of their representatives will be allowed to conduct research in Zaun."

"And I still say we should've kept it under wraps. Made the medicine into a monopoly. Leveraged it against the Piltovan banks."

Silco doesn't smile, but the urge is there. Sevika's a shrewd businesswoman. But her endgame is straightforward: stability and security. Silco's is more all-encompassing. 

Beyond a nation's transformation, to its resurrection.

"You forget," he says. "For the Fourth Horseman to succeed, we need them close. We need their resources. We need their trust. But Medarda's the true test case. Her influence in the halls of power is unrivaled. If she sanctions our medicine, the rest of the Council will follow suit. They'll have a vested interest in seeing Shimmer succeed in foreign markets. In turn, we'll have a direct line to their Hexgates."

Sevika's distaste is plain. "She's a risk. One foot in our camp; the rest in theirs."

"She holds the keys to the kingdom. We can't operate without her."

"Can't we?"

He knows what's coming. But it's come before, so he knows how to head it off at the pass. A good lie, he's found, is not about guilt or innocence, but the mechanisms of the mind.

And it only works if the gears stay clean.

He never lets guilt clog his daily dealings with Medarda. Never lets the memory of their trysts—all burning glances, barbed desires and bared flesh—cloud the bottom line. The dalliance is but a gilded diversion; hard business is transacted in between.  His role's banal enough: the jaded rake, his ennui soothed by her supple charms and honeyed airs. Hers: the doe-eyed nymph, caught between furtive fascination and genteel flight.

It's a dance that's always lent a frisson to their baseline dealings. That it's a cliche—and they're both cognizant of the cliche—doesn't rob it of potency.  Especially for two seasoned players, for whom the pretense of unpretentiousness holds a rare, rich thrill. 

Lately, though.

Lately, the game feels less like a game. Less the diversion than the real deal. She'd called him Schatze, and he'd felt the strange, disused string quiver at the base of his spine. A melody to match the madness.

The Medarda effect, he'd dismissed, because he'd be a fool to let it sway him.

Desire's a commodity like any other: to be bought and bartered at will.  And the Medardas are consummate brokers.  Ten years younger, Silco knows, and she'd be no prurient itch under his skin, but a real threat to his sanity. Worse, he'd sense the shift in her, too—that same perilous tipping-point where pretense gives way to a more profound entanglement—and he'd be the one on the backfoot. The one losing sleep, losing focus, losing coin. 

Losing everything—for the sake of a smile. 

Fortunately for Silco: he's not ten years younger.

That makes it easier, once their calls conclude, to cut the fantasies short. To wish Talis a long, healthy lifespan—when during their tete-a-tetes he fumes with blood-drenched dreams of that handsome face pulverized under his boot. To tip his glass in a solo toast to Ambessa Medarda's continued vitality—when, while her daughter recounts miserable tales of childhood neglect, his hands ache with the urge to strangle that motherfucking bitch.  To damn the Council to the bottomless hells for the fucking injustice that still keeps his city suffocating—when, as Medarda sighs through the phone until he practically feels the heat ghosting his skin, all he wants is her beautiful throat bared in an arch of surrender, his cock buried between her thighs, and their bodies entwined in a lover's knot.

In union.

In profit.

In fucking peace.

It's dangerous, as all such gambles are. But in a pinch, they're no match for the real deal.

And Silco, old and jaded, knows what it's like to play for keeps. Knows the difference between a back-hand and a full-house. It's business, on both sides. But one's a means; the other's the end. He knows better than to let the two mesh.

He meshes his and Sevika's fingers, instead, letting the gesture do the talking. A shorthand: Don't be jealous. And: Have faith. And: We've come this far.

Sevika's scowl doesn't ease.  But her eyes soften.

That, in itself, is a victory.

"Medarda's green-light," he says, "will clear a path for the rest. The Safeguard Act will prove to the other nations that we're a viable trading partner. Zaun's currency will rise in value. We'll have a steady stream of revenue. A foothold on the international stage, beyond Piltover. Beyond even the continent. It will open up the world to our trade. Better still, Piltover will need us to flourish. They can't do without us."

"Like a marriage."

The remark bites. He doesn't let it show.

"Don't think of it as a marriage," he corrects. "Think of it as a contract. Our terms will keep them in check. Theirs will keep us thriving. Soon, we can dictate the next steps of our advancement. We can trade our own terms."

A half-sigh. Her own shorthand: I believe you. And: Don't make me regret it.

[dearaur0ra]

one

young silco x fem!oc

tw- dark themes, mentions of death, blood, violence

prologue ao3 masterlist next

—

the tips of my fingers dig into my brow, pressing deep as i try to push back the throb threatening to split my skull. the ache clings to my vision, clouding everything with its steady pulse. a few stray strands of hazel hair fall from the messy knot i put together earlier, blocking what little light’s left.

a knock rattles through the quiet, sharp and insistent. my jaw tightens, my gut already sinking. sevika. i don’t need to hear her voice to know what’s coming. demands, threats, maybe both. another round of pressure, another round of problems i didn’t sign up for.

with a groan, i drag myself upright. the chair screeches across the floor as i push away from it, the sound scraping at the edges of my patience.

the apartment feels colder than usual, empty in a way that claws at my chest. doesn’t matter how many times i rearrange the furniture or change the paint—nothing’s ever really different. old habits run deep.

the knock turns to a pound, heavy and relentless, vibrating through the walls. “mercy! open up!” the voice is sharp, frantic. i don’t even need to guess who it is.

i hesitate, fingers hovering over the door handle. for a second, the weight of it presses into me like a reminder i’m not who i used to be, but i twist the knob anyway.

the door creaks open, and she’s there—eyes wide, hands shaking, her breath coming too fast. felisha bumps into me as she storms past, her shoulder knocking into mine, as if she expects me to move out of her way.

“...and hello to you too,” i mutter under my breath, following her inside and shutting the door behind us.

her chest heaves as she spins to face me, her voice low but urgent. “i’m royally fucked.”

“do tell,” i reply, the words slow but sharp. i cross the room toward her, the distance between us filled with unspoken tension. there’s something in the way she stands—too stiff, too tense—that tells me this isn’t just another bad day.

she takes a shuddering breath, fingers running through the dark roots of her purple hair. her eyes flicker, like she’s weighing something heavy. “i can’t say yet. not… not just yet.” the words hang in the air, thick with the promise of something much worse to come.

“lis-,” i start, my eyes pleading with exhaustion, the weight of a hundred sleepless nights pressing against me. vander and silco might have brokered deals with a few of the smaller rebel factions, trying to find others who share their hopeful vision for the future of zaun. good for them, i guess. but they're not the ones hunched over their kitchen table at all hours, sorting through endless piles of letters, playing at diplomacy. they’re not the ones answering to everyone. i am.

“i know, merce, just—“ she cuts herself off, hands flailing in frustration, like she’s trying to force the words out, but they’re caught somewhere deep inside. whatever this is, it can wait. it has to wait.

“look, it’s late, and i’m busy. can this wait until morning?” the words spill out sharper than i meant, rough with the sting of exhaustion. it’s in my tone, evident in the way i barely control the edge in my voice.

her eyes shift, the way they settle on the mess in the room—clothes thrown across the floor, the disarray of another long day i couldn’t be bothered to tidy. she hesitates, as if weighing the distance between us. “i shouldn’t have barged in like that, i-“

i cut her off with a wave of my hand, the gesture dismissive but soft, a shield for something i don’t want to admit. “nonsense. it’s alright. i was just—surprised. that’s all.”

she steps closer, eyes narrowing as she takes a good look at me. the changes are there, in the hollowed cheekbones, the pale skin, the deep shadows under my eyes. sleep’s been a stranger to me for so long now, it feels like i’m living in a world of perpetual twilight.

“oh mercy...” she sighs, her hand rising, brushing gently against my cheek. the warmth of her touch feels too intimate, too right in a world that’s turned so cold. i flinch, just barely.

“get some sleep,” she says, her voice softer now, like she’s trying to hold onto me, to steady me before i break.

i close my eyes for a moment, leaning into her touch, letting the warmth of her hand seep into my skin, even as the exhaustion crashes over me. “if you insist,” i mumble, my voice thick, drowsy, as if i could just drift away right here, in the quiet of her presence.

she pulls her hand away, brushing past me to stand at the door. she pauses, looking back at me, that knowing smile flashing across her face. “tomorrow. last drop?” the question is light, casual, but there’s something deeper there. something that lingers.

a smile tugs at my lips, despite myself. i nod, watching her flash her teeth at me, that familiar spark in her eyes.

the door creaks open, and she’s gone, leaving the apartment colder than before. her absence is like ice creeping in, crawling over the floorboards, wrapping around me like a second skin. the burn of her touch still lingers on my cheek, warm against the chill of everything else.

i stare at the door for a long moment, willing myself to move. to do something. anything. the apartment feels too big now, too quiet. the dark corners mock me, the silence echoes.

i drag myself toward the lavatory, trying to rinse away the weight of the day. clean my face. brush my teeth. but nothing feels real without her here, the warmth of her presence fading with each step.

my bed calls to me from the center of the bedroom, a cold refuge that promises nothing but emptiness.

—

my days don't follow clocks; they follow tasks. today’s agenda is as follows: deliver letters to various important people, meet with our informant topside, visit welsh, and finally, drink.

the first task goes smoothly enough. a curt knock here, a quick exchange there—packages and letters tucked into rough hands without much ceremony. every message carries weight I’ll be burdened with by fully knowing, but that’s just the job.

the meeting with the informant is similarly brief. topside is always a gamble; the air’s a little too clean, and the gazes a little too sharp. the informant—a slick man with a grin like oil—passes me a folded paper and a string of cryptic information, containing our next job. i nod, tuck it into my coat, and head back to where the air tastes like metal and home.

the house comes into view, that same faded red door hanging on its hinge. it’s as though it hasn’t aged a day, even though everything else feels older, heavier. the sound of my boots scuffing the worn step echoes as i knock lightly, hesitating just long enough to steady my breathing.

welsh opens the door. his crutch clicks against the wooden floor as he leans into the frame, his lips curling into a grin. “well, well, look who finally decided to pay a visit.”

i smirk, brushing past him into the warm, cluttered familiarity of the house. “what can i say? busy saving the world.”

welsh chuckles, stepping aside to let me in fully. “come on. don’t get cocky.”

the house feels like stepping into an old memory. the faint scent of stew simmers in the air, mingling with the chaos of mismatched furniture and piper’s scribbled drawings stuck to the walls. it’s a stark contrast to my apartment—lively, crowded, lived-in. i hate how it makes my chest ache, like i’ve betrayed it by leaving. like i've betrayed everyone by leaving.

i glance over my shoulder as welsh limps back to his seat by the fireplace. the crutch clatters against the chair as he sits, leaning back with a wince he tries to hide. his leg is still bandaged—stiff and swollen under the wrap.

“leg giving you trouble again?” i ask, nodding toward it.

he shrugs, nonchalant. “just the usual. you know, nothing a good drink wouldn’t fix.”

i snort, settling onto the edge of a battered armchair nearby. “careful. mom’ll start watering down the whiskey again if you keep drinking through it.”

welsh laughs, the sound filling the room in a way that warms my heart. its a pleasure to hear it, after so long. “as if she doesn’t already. so, how’s life up in that little hideout of yours? still lonely as hell?”

i force a smile, shrugging. “it’s quiet. good for focus.”

his eyes narrow slightly, as though he’s not buying it. he's always been able to read me, better than anyone, i think. “quiet, huh? sounds miserable.”

“it’s fine, really,” i say, brushing it off. “how’s piper?”

“she’s good. out with kerman right now, probably terrorizing the markets.” his grin fades slightly, his tone softening. “she misses you, though. you should come by more.”

i glance down at my hands, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. “yeah. maybe.” the guilt is back, weighing heavy on my heart again. now, more than ever, i am starting to doubt this is all worth it. if zaun is just a dream we are chasing to get our minds off the horror we call life. I hope not, truly. if we are right, and life was fair, my brothers would still be here.

the room falls quiet except for the faint crackle of the fire. welsh leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as his eyes flicker over me. “alright, mercy. spill. what’s eating at you?”

“nothing,” i say quickly, too quickly. i fumble for a distraction, pointing at the bandages on his leg. “i was gonna ask how you’re holding up after—”

his gaze sharpens, cutting me off. “don’t do that. don’t deflect.”

damn him. i try to hold it together, to smile and laugh it off like i tend to always do in situations like these, but his eyes don’t leave mine. they’re searching, waiting. my throat tightens.

“mercy,” he says, softer now. “talk to me.”

the words are like a crack in the dam. before i can stop myself, my face crumbles, and everything i’ve been holding back spills out all at once. my shoulders shake, and i bury my face in my hands, the tears coming hot and fast.

welsh is out of his chair in an instant, dropping his crutch and pulling me into a hug. his arms wrap around me, solid and warm, grounding me as i sob into his shoulder. “hey, hey,” he murmurs, his voice steady. “it’s okay. let it out.”

“i—i should’ve been here for you guys,” i choke out, my voice breaking. “if i hadn’t left—if i’d stayed—”

“stop,” welsh says firmly, his hand rubbing soothing circles on my back. “none of this was your fault.”

“i keep seeing them,” i whisper, the memories flashing behind my closed eyes. “-and the collapse, the dust, the—” my voice falters, and i clutch him tighter. “rey and roese—they didn’t deserve that.”

“no one there did,” welsh says quietly, his own voice thick with emotion. “but you can’t carry it all, mercy. you’ll break under the weight.”

the words hit hard because they’re true. i’ve been trying to hold everything together—living alone, taking on responsibilities that don’t belong to me, running from the guilt that follows me like a shadow.

i pull back slightly, wiping at my face with trembling hands. “i just... i miss them.”

“i know,” welsh says, his eyes glistening as he rests a hand on my shoulder. “i miss them too.”

the fire crackles softly, filling the silence between us. for a moment, we just sit there, the weight of shared grief hanging in the air. it doesn’t feel lighter, but it feels less lonely. and that, at least, is something.

—

the chill of the night bites at my skin as i step out of the house, pulling my coat tighter around me. the sky above zaun is a dull, muted haze, a few faint stars managing to pierce through the gloom. the familiar route to the last drop stretches ahead, but it feels longer tonight, heavier. each step drags with the weight of the conversation i just left behind.

my chest tightens as i picture their faces, burned into my memory like the ghost of a photograph. rey’s sharp wit, always two steps ahead, the way he could make even the worst situations seem manageable. roese’s laugh, light and clear like wind chimes, a sound that could brighten even the darkest days.

and now they’re gone.

my boots scuff against the uneven cobblestones, the sound muffled by the hum of distant machinery. the air smells of oil and smoke, thick with the life of the undercity. i try to focus on it, on anything to keep my mind from spiraling, but the images won’t stop coming.

the collapse. the dust. their voices calling out, swallowed by the chaos.

my throat tightens as i blink back tears. i tell myself to stop, to keep it together, but the ache won’t let me go. my vision blurs as a single tear slips free, trailing down my cheek. i swipe at it quickly, as if the act of wiping it away can erase the feelings that caused it.

months, and yet the pain feels as raw as it did the day i lost them. i believe it now, that we are fighting for something. safer environments for our workers, a fairer wage, a place to feel safe. i wonder if they had felt safe in the mines before it had collapsed, i wonder if they felt any pain, or if they called for help.

i stop in my tracks, my hands trembling as i press them into my coat pockets. their faces flash in my mind again, but this time it’s different—less vivid, more faded. like they’re slipping away, piece by piece. a part of me hates that. another part is terrified by it.

because if i lose them in my mind, what’s left?

i force myself to keep walking, my boots striking the ground harder now, as though the motion alone can push me forward. the lights of the last drop come into view, the familiar neon sign casting a faint glow against the surrounding darkness. the sight should bring some kind of comfort, but tonight, it just feels hollow.

a shaky breath escapes me as i pause just short of the entrance, my eyes tracing the glowing letters. i reach up, brushing the dampness from my cheeks before anyone inside can see. no one needs to know how close to breaking i am. not here, not now.

my hand grips the handle of the tavern door, the worn wood cold beneath my fingers. i draw in a deep breath, steadying myself before pushing it open. the creak of the hinges is almost drowned out by the noise inside—the rumble of conversations, the clinking of glass, the muffled thrum of music that fills the air like a living thing. it’s the kind of noise that wraps around you, pulls you into its pulse. i step inside, the heat of bodies pressing against me, the smoky air thick with the scent of burning wood and spilled liquor. the tavern feels alive—chaotic, messy, but familiar. a place for the lost and the broken, where the weight of the world can be forgotten, if only for a few hours. just how we'd dreamed of.

my eyes scan the room, landing on the familiar slim figure hunched over the bar. his sharp profile cuts through the haze of conversation, his focus fixed on the paper in front of him. i move through the crowd, weaving between bodies, the smell of sweat and booze clinging to my skin.

as i approach, vander’s eyes flick to me, a warm, welcoming smile spreading across his broad face. without a word, he grabs a glass and begins to fill it with something dark, something strong. the comforting clink of the bottle meeting glass cuts through the noise.

“tough night?” vander asks, his deep voice a soothing rumble beneath the cacophony. he gestures toward the empty barstool beside silco, who doesn’t seem to have noticed me yet.

“you could say that,” i murmur, dropping onto the stool with a sigh. my hand presses against my brow, the headache from earlier still lingering, dull and relentless.

i turn my head slightly, watching silco, who’s still absorbed in whatever he’s scribbling on his paper. his hair, tied back into a neat knot, frames his sharp features, his eyes hidden beneath the weight of his thoughts.

the sound of my voice cuts through the haze, and silco slowly lifts his gaze. his eyes, sharp and calculating, meet mine. there's that flicker of amusement, barely noticeable, before he lets out a quiet chuckle.

“you look like hell,” he observes, the words dripping with a quiet mockery, but there’s something almost affectionate beneath the surface.

vander laughs, the sound rich and easy, as he slides the filled glass in front of me. i don’t hesitate—grab the glass, take a long, slow sip. the burn of the liquor slides down my throat, a welcome sting against the fog of exhaustion in my mind.

“laugh it up,” i mutter, smirking, then lean back in my chair. “it's been a long day.”

silco raises an eyebrow, eyes flicking over the drink in my hand. “bit early for you, isn't it?” he says, his voice tinged with the same sharp amusement that laces his every word. his gaze lingers on the liquid sloshing in my glass as i set it back down on the bar. “you know, you're not the only one with problems, mercy.”

“problems,” i repeat, chuckling dryly. “i’m sure we all have our fair share.”

the low murmur of conversation swirls around us, but it feels distant now. here, in this space, the world outside doesn’t matter. it's just us—vander, the giant with a heart too big for his own good, silco, the enigma with eyes that see everything, and me, caught somewhere in between.

i take another sip, savoring the burn. the alcohol’s warmth starts to spread through my chest, chasing away the last of the cold that’s settled in my bones. for a moment, the noise of the tavern becomes a dull hum, like the world’s slipping into a quieter space where nothing matters but the moment.

vander leans back, folding his arms across his chest. his eyes glint with something close to concern, but it's masked by his usual easy smile. “what’s on your mind, mercy? you’re a long way from home.”

silco doesn’t speak, but his gaze sharpens, flicking to me as though he’s waiting for something—an answer, a hesitation. he knows when I’m hiding something, when I’m trying to keep the weight of it from spilling out.

“everything's falling apart, vander,” i murmur, my voice low, almost lost under the hum of the tavern. “deals are being brokered in the shadows, things are shifting, and i feel as if I can't keep up. i don’t know where i fit into it anymore.”

there’s a beat of silence, then vander’s hand comes down on the bar, firm but steady. “you fit in here, mercy. you always have.”

the words hit harder than i had expected, and i swallow them down, letting the familiar comfort of the tavern settle over me. though, my expression fills of doubt, “everything I do is for them, i only worry if i sacrifice too much, my mother will be left with one less child.”

silco’s eyes remain cold, but there’s something there—a flicker of understanding, of recognition. maybe he feels it too, the shift in the air. the tension that’s been building, not just between us, but in the very bones of zaun. “we all have our place,” silco says quietly, his voice measured, but there’s an edge to it. "whether we like it or not."

i glance at him, meeting his gaze, and for the first time tonight, i feel like we might be on the same page. the air between us crackles with something unspoken, something heavy.

a low laugh escapes my throat, almost bitter. "great. just what i need—more responsibility."

vander snorts, then pours himself a drink. “more like a headache,” he mutters, his usual grin returning. “but hell, you've survived worse.”

—

the hours slip by unnoticed, the tavern slowly emptying out as the night stretches on. the clinking of glasses and murmured conversations fade, leaving behind the murky hum of the few still lingering. vander and silco’s voices become the only constant in my ears, the ebb and flow of our conversation shifting from idle chatter to the weightier things we’re too tired to ignore.

vander pours another round, his hands as steady as ever. the low light carves shadows into his face, his solid frame seeming even larger in the dim glow. he’s a calming anchor, unshaken. silco, by contrast, cuts a sharper figure, his sharp eyes darting, never still, like he’s always a step ahead of whatever’s coming.

“i don’t trust him,” silco says, his voice low and cold, each word deliberate, like they weigh more than they should. the air between us tightens, the room seeming smaller. “too many inconsistencies.”

i glance down at the slip of paper our informant passed me earlier, scanning it for whatever flaws silco sees. “he was right last time,” i offer, not ready to let go of the lead just yet.

silco’s gaze cuts to me, unyielding. “last time doesn’t matter. i trust my instincts, and they’re telling me he’s compromised.”

“noted,” vander rumbles, his voice calm but firm as he wipes down the bar. he doesn’t look up, but the weight of his presence settles over the space, grounding us. the silence that follows feels heavy, like the air itself is pressing in.

i sigh, more tired than frustrated. “fine. then you find the next one. i’m done chasing ghosts.”

silco doesn’t miss a beat. “i will.” his tone is clipped, final, as he turns his attention back to his notes.

the conversation drifts, the quiet becoming more pronounced, the steady hum of the city outside settling into a soft but oppressive backdrop. the muffled sounds of footsteps on cobblestones outside catch my ear just before the door swings open, and the familiar jingle of the bell rings above it, snapping me from my thoughts. I glance up, half-expecting a round of trouble, but instead, it’s her. felicia.

her presence fills the room with a breath of fresh air, like a gust of wind that sweeps away the dust. the warmth of the tavern seems to brighten just a little as she strides in, grinning, eyes already scanning the dim corners of the room. her steps are light, carefree, and when she spots us, her smile widens—mischief dancing in her eyes, like she knows something we don’t.

“was starting to think you weren't going to make it,” i mutter, watching her glide over to the jukebox, her hands already working the machine without hesitation.

“didn’t think you’d make it at all,” she calls back over her shoulder, her voice warm, teasing, a little lilt to it as she slides a coin into the jukebox. her fingers flick the switch, and soon the soft strains of music fill the air—a nostalgic tune that somehow seems to soften the edges of the room.

vander clears the bartop of glasses, washing and rinsing them with a steady rhythm. as he dries yet another glass, he looks up at felicia by the jukebox. “what's the occasion?” he asks, his voice rough but affectionate, as he places the glass down to pick up another.

“can’t a lady just be in the mood for a familiar song?” she quips, a smile dancing on her lips.

“not this lady, and not this song.” vander chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to fill fresh glasses.

i look back to felicia, her body swaying effortlessly to the music. there's something soothing about the way she moves, like she belongs here, like she belongs with us. her steps lead her back to the bar, her eyes gleaming as she meets vander’s gaze. it's a look that's both teasing and comfortable—like they've known each other too long for anything less.

she props herself up beside me, her hand reaching for one of the glasses vander just filled. the bar seems to glow in the low light, and despite the minimal crowd, there's an energy here. a warmth that fills my chest and reminds me that—yes, it's been a long year, and yes, I'm exhausted—but in this moment, it's all worth it. surrounded by people I love. all we do is fight, but tonight, we're reminded of why we fight.

felicia turns to me, her eyes flicking between vander and silco, the faintest spark of amusement in them. “tonight, a harebrained scheme these two bozos cooked up to turn a dank crack in the earth into a thriving, healthy community, became a reality.” she smiles, raising her glass to clink with vander’s.

i smile back, reaching over to hand silco his glass. he nods in thanks, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than it should. vander, ever the tease, laughs.

“tonight, huh? you hear that, bozo two? we made it, we're done." his grin is wide, but there's something in his eyes—a flicker of pride, of relief.

silco takes his glass, meeting ours with a small but genuine smile, the faintest curve of his lips. “oh, you’re sadly mistaken. I’m bozo one.” he says, and for just a second, I almost forget everything else.

vander raises his right hand in toast. “a night of revelations.” he says, before taking a deep, slow sip of his drink.

everyone smiles, sipping in time, when felicia’s voice cuts through the soft music. “I’m knocked up,” she announces with a grin, leaning against the counter. it’s so casual, so unbothered, that it takes a moment for the words to land.

vander, silco, and I exchange looks of confusion. it's only a moment, but it feels like a brief hesitation in time.

without a word, vander fills a fresh glass with juice, pulling her empty one away with a quiet, protective gesture. the room is still, save for the gentle hum of the song, and his unspoken care speaks louder than anything he could say.

“a girl,” felicia predicts, leaning into the counter, taking the glass greedily. she sips, eyes flicking to each of us in turn, a hint of something softer behind her words.

vander leans on the bar, still looking at her with that unshakable steadiness. “how do you know?”

felicia shrugs, striking the juice with the straw, but there’s a vulnerability in her expression, one she tries to mask with bravado. “wasn’t really part of my plan, but... guess that’s everything when you’re living week to week.”

silco sets his notebook down with a soft thud, the pen dropping with finality. he stands, his hand brushing my shoulder as he passes, the briefest squeeze making my pulse stutter before he moves to lean next to felicia, his presence close, but not overwhelming.

“what did connel say?” vander asks, tilting his head as he studies felicia. there’s a bond there, a history that none of us could ever quite fully understand, but we don’t need to.

“I haven’t told him yet,” she breathes out, a forced enthusiasm that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “still working up the nerve.” her voice falters, just for a second, before she steadies it again.

silco shifts his weight, leaning closer to the bar, his eyes flicking over felicia and vander before locking onto mine. the briefest of smiles plays on his lips, a look that's as unreadable as ever, but there's something behind it—something like understanding. like he's always understood.

felicia sighs, one hand reaching up to massage her neck, her thumb rubbing the back of it like she's trying to soothe away the nerves. “I don’t know anything about kids,” she scoffs, the humor in her tone masking the uncertainty there. “I get sweaty, being alone with one.”

vander cuts in gently, a smile in his voice. “hey. you’re gonna be a great mother.”

his words are simple, but they settle over her like a promise, and she meets his gaze with something soft—vulnerable, even.

“shut up, I’m not really for that,” she grumbles, but it’s a friendly tease. “i started trying to come up with a name, and it hits me—this one word is a decision she’s gonna live with her whole life.”

“i can't protect her from all the shit down here, and work out how to be a parent at the same time. then I realized,” she takes a slow breath, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “i don’t have to.”

i swallow another sip, looking at her with a soft curiosity. “why’s that?” i ask, the question more for myself than anyone else.

“because the second i told you,” she grins, a playful glint in her eye. “i put you on the hook. you three are gonna figure the zaun thing out. I don’t care if you have to carve it out of the bedrock, covered in blisters. you’re not allowed to fail anymore. for her. for me.”

vander raises a brow, his lips curling into a fond, knowing smile. “what’s the point if we can’t raise an ankle-biter or two?”

there’s a moment of quiet laughter before silco meets my eyes, that unreadable smile still lingering. it’s a look that feels too intimate for this room, too unspoken. and for just a beat, everything else fades away.

he raises his glass once more. “to zaun, then, blisters and bedrock,” he proposes, his voice quiet but firm.

“blisters and bedrock,” vander repeats with a soft chuckle, as we all raise our glasses in agreement.

there’s a moment of quiet contemplation after, the soft music filling the gaps in our words, before vander, ever the sentimental one, looks up with a thoughtful expression. “i’ve always liked the name violet.”

—

the night air is cool as we step out into the street, the city's hum muffled beneath the weight of the sky. my footsteps are a little unsteady, the buzz of the drink still humming beneath my skin, but it feels good. right, even. the kind of comfortable warmth that comes from being around the people you care about, in a place where everything feels… a little more possible.

silco walks beside me, his silhouette looming against the flickering lanterns that line the street. there’s a stillness in his movements, like he’s in no rush, and something about the way he lingers at my side keeps the air between us charged—quietly, but undeniably so. every step, every breath, feels like a whisper of something that’s just out of reach.

i glance over at him, trying to gauge his mood. he's usually so unreadable, but tonight there's a softness in the way he holds himself, a warmth to his presence that’s almost… comforting. like he’s letting the walls come down, just a little. i wonder if it’s because of the drink, or if it’s because of tonight. maybe a little bit of both.

“you know,” i start, the words slipping out easier than i expect, “i never thought felicia would be the one to… well, announce something like that.”

there’s a faint, amused glint in silco's eyes, but his gaze is still fixed ahead. “you never do know with her,” he says, his voice low, almost tender. “she always keeps us on our toes.”

i chuckle, the sound a little unsteady. “yeah, she really does. but…” my words trail off for a moment, as i try to put my thoughts together. "i just… don't know if i can imagine her as a mother. not like that, anyway."

silco’s gaze shifts to me, his brow slightly furrowed, but there's no judgment in his expression—just that quiet, knowing patience that he always carries. “you're not alone.” he says, his voice steady and assuring.

i nod, feeling the weight of his words. my thoughts drift back to felicia, the way she held herself tonight. there was a strength to her, but there was also fear, an uncertainty beneath the bravado. it reminded me of myself, in some ways. reminded me of the people here—how we all keep pushing forward, even when we don’t know what we’re doing half the time.

“i just… i want her to be okay,” i admit, my voice a little quieter now. “she's always been there, you know? for me, for all of us. it feels like we owe her something more than just… existing down here.”

silco’s expression softens, his steps slowing just slightly, as if he's considering my words. then, after a pause, he says, “it’s more than that. we don’t owe her just survival. we owe her the chance to thrive.” his gaze flicks over to me, and for a moment, there’s something in his eyes—something that makes my heart beat a little faster, something deeper than just the conversation. “and maybe we can give her that. maybe we can give everyone that.”

i feel a flutter in my chest at his words. something in the way he says them, so quietly, like he’s not just talking about felicia. like he’s talking about all of us. about me.

“you sound like you’ve got a plan,” i tease, but even to my own ears, my voice is too soft. too knowing. i wonder if he can hear the shift in it.

he doesn’t smile, not fully. but there’s a faint curve of his lips, just enough to show a glimpse of what’s behind the carefully guarded walls. “perhaps i do,” he murmurs, the words barely a breath in the cool air. “but it’s not just about a plan. it’s about a chance. a chance to do something bigger than what we’ve been fighting for. something… lasting.”

his words hang in the air between us, quiet and heavy. i stumble slightly, the drink making my balance a little more fickle than usual, and silco’s hand shoots out to steady me. it’s a simple gesture, one he’s done countless times, but tonight it feels… different. there’s an intensity in his touch, as if he’s grounding me, holding me steady in a world that constantly seems to shift beneath our feet.

“hey, watch it,” he murmurs, though his tone is gentle, the edge of concern making it sound almost… affectionate.

i look up at him, my thoughts suddenly a little more scattered than before. “sorry. guess i’ve had a bit too much to drink,” i mutter, a laugh escaping me that’s a little too soft, a little too vulnerable.

“doesn’t bother me,” he says, his voice low and steady, and there’s something in the way he looks at me—something unspoken, something lingering. “you’ve been through a lot. we all have.”

the quiet between us deepens then, the streetlights casting long shadows on the ground, and for a moment, it feels like time slows. the world outside the two of us fades away, leaving only the soft rhythm of our footsteps and the steady presence of him beside me.

finally, i break the silence, the words slipping out before i can stop them. “what’s your plan, silco?”

he takes a breath, glancing sideways at me with an expression that’s both guarded and open, like he's deciding just how much to reveal. “my plan?” he repeats, almost thoughtfully. “to give this place a future. our future. something worth fighting for, not just surviving.”

the weight of his words hangs in the air like a promise, something more than just a casual statement. it feels like a commitment—like he’s asking me to believe in it with him.

i hesitate, my heart picking up speed in my chest. "you think we can do it?" i ask, quieter now, a little breathless.

there’s a long pause, where silco doesn’t speak, but the way he looks at me—like he’s considering me, truly seeing me—makes something in my chest tighten. finally, his voice cuts through the stillness.

“i don’t think we have a choice.”

and there it is—the same intensity in his voice that always makes everything feel real. like there’s no turning back from whatever path we choose. but in the same breath, it feels like a challenge. one i’m ready to take.

we walk a little further, the weight of our conversation lingering, neither of us willing to break the quiet just yet. the night feels endless, but in a good way—like it holds the promise of something new, something unknown. and with silco beside me, it feels like maybe, just maybe, we can finally carve out a place for ourselves in this city.

as we reach the door to my place, i glance at him one last time, the words nearly escaping before i can stop them.

“thanks,” i say, my voice soft as velvet. “for tonight.”

he nods, his gaze lingering on me just a moment longer than necessary, before he speaks in that low voice of his. “always.”

and with that, he turns, fading into the night, leaving me with the quiet warmth of the evening—and the weight of the future that we’ve only just begun to imagine.

—

1.5 YEARS FUTURE

in the recent months, things have been shifting-grinding against the edges of everything we've tried to build. fights are breaking out across the undercity, the echoes of rebellion rising like a storm cloud. i suppose you could blame us, for planting the seed of hope, for dreaming of something bigger, something better. but what's a world without hope? without the chance to change? without the dream that maybe, just maybe, things can be different?

the people, they feel it too. the fire burning beneath the surface. but not everyone shares our idea of peace. far too many are content to cower in the shadows, bound by invisible chains. they're afraid to fight for freedom, afraid to take the risks it requires to make things right. these are the ones who cause us the most trouble-the ones who think that silence and submission are safer than rebellion, than standing up for something.

things have changed since then, in ways that make it harder to breathe. what started as a handful of us has swelled into nearly all of the lanes. loyal and unyielding, kind people just trying to survive. the tension between us and the others grows, every day pushing us toward something we can't stop. it's been like this for months. they follow us now, because they believe in something—a dream they can't quite see, but they feel it. they want to believe.

the last drop, though... it's become home. more than just a refuge. it's a place where our found family gathers-vander, silco, felisha, benzo, sevika, and even the ones who aren't quite part of us but still fight for what we've built. it's where plans are made, dreams are shared, and even amidst the chaos, we find moments of laughter and camaraderie over drinks that taste too sweet in this bitter place. this, this is what life should be like.

we call it a democracy, a vision where the people have a say, where we listen to them and they listen to us. it's a perfect system-or so i tell myself. everyone wins. everyone has a part to play. but deep down, i know... not everyone wants to be a hero. not everyone is willing to fight, to risk their lives for this cause. and i can't blame them for that.

i sit at one of the booths inside now, the constant tapping of my pen against the wood almost rhythmic, like my thoughts. waiting. waiting for the plan. waiting for a message to tell us how we should fight back against the rising rebel group that thinks violence is the only language they understand. i hate it. i hate that we're forced into this corner where it seems like we're left with no choice but to meet force with force.

but the truth is, i don't want violence. i never have. it only leaves destruction in its wake, and no matter how much you tell yourself it's for the greater good, the harm never goes away. the wounds don't heal.

yet vander and silco have seemed to convinced themselves that it's the only way to show these rebels that the lanes are ours, that we won't be pushed around. they think it's the only way to keep the peace. but in the back of my mind, something tells me that the more we fight, the more we lose. the lanes aren't ours. not really. they belong to the people. zaun is a place for everyone, not just the ones with enough blood on their hands to claim ownership. it's a place where we don't have to fight. we shouldn't have to fight.

the door bursts open, and huck rushes in, his eyes scanning the pub before landing on me. there's a familiar urgency in his steps as he moves through the crowd, holding something tight in his hand. a plan, no doubt. i sit up straighter, trying to shake off the weight of the internal conflict l've been carrying.

i wave him over, my face softening as he makes his way to the table. his nervousness is clear, and he tries to hide it with a quick smile.

“got something for me?” i ask, my voice low, even though i already know the answer.

“oh! yes, here,” huck says, his hands shaking just enough to make the paper rattle. “vander says stay put, and they'll be back within the hour.”

i take the paper from him, my fingers brushing his. “thanks, huck. stay safe, alright?”

he nods, his relief visible in the way his shoulders relax, then turns to leave quickly, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft thud.

i watch him go, then turn my attention back to the paper in my hand. i fold it up, but my fingers linger on the edges of the creases. the music from the bar, faint in the background, feels like a distant hum against the storm building inside me. my heart races, but not from excitement, from worry.

i pull the paper back out again, my eyes scanning the words. something inside me twists, a knot tightening. a sense of unease settles low in my gut.

“shit.”

the words slip out before i can stop them. i close my eyes, trying to steady myself. this isn't the way i wanted things to go. we're fighting in the streets when i've always wanted peace. we're pushing forward into something bigger than we can control, and the consequences... they're already starting to pile up.

but l'm not sure if we can stop it anymore.

—

the night hung heavy over the lanes, a thick blanket of silence stretching across the streets. the usual hum of life had dwindled to a distant echo as the last rays of sunlight fought to hold onto the horizon, leaving behind the muted gray of twilight. the streets felt like they were holding their breath. as if waiting for something they couldn't name.

we hadn't planned for the night to take such a turn. the tension had been building for weeks, and despite the slow but steady growth of our ranks, there were still those who wanted to tear down what we'd built. and what we'd built, despite all odds, had become something strong.

i stayed seated at one of the booths inside the last drop, my eyes tracing the dark wood grain of the table. the flickering lights above cast soft shadows across the room, and the air inside was thick with the mingling smells of wet clothing, stale beer, and the lingering scent of something more desperate. a low hum of conversation filled the space, quieter than usual, as if the patrons were waiting for something too.

benzo and sevika had arrived first, and soon after, silco joined us—his sharp gaze never leaving the door as he took a seat, the weight of his presence undeniable. vander walked in last, his broad frame filling the doorway as he shook the rain off his coat. the usual comfort of being with family was replaced by a quiet, unspoken tension.

i could feel the heaviness in my chest, the conflict stirring within me. every word i said had been a battle of its own— one side urging for peace, the other pushing for strength. and that strength, the very thing that had kept us alive, was now the thing i feared most.

“where's felisha and connel?” benzo asked, his voice quieter than usual. he was looking at vander, a brow arched in curiosity.

vander hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking toward the floor. "they're safe," he said finally, his voice calm but firm. "felisha's at home, resting. connel's with her, making sure she's taken care of."

i knew what that meant-vander's decision to keep them out of the fighting wasn't just about keeping them safe. he was trying to protect them from the darker side of this life, the side we all knew too well. the side that made people lose themselves in the struggle.

“is she okay?” i asked, unable to keep the concern from creeping into my voice. felisha had been so strong during her first pregnancy, and i knew she wanted to be here, to help in any way she could. but vander had insisted she stay behind, and now with the threat escalating, it feels like the right decision.

vander gave a small nod. “they're both fine. we'll make sure it stays that way.” his gaze locked onto mine, his words carrying more weight than i wanted them to. “but you know we can't afford to risk their safety now. not when things are this close to the edge.”

i sighed, the weight of our situation pressing down harder than i could bear.

“we can't let them have the lanes,” sevika said, breaking the silence, her tone hard but focused. “not after everything we've built. they'll destroy it all.”

“we won't let them,” silco adds, his voice colder than i wanted to hear. he hadn't spoken much since we walked in, but now, his eyes were fixed on the others, intense and unwavering. “the problem is, they're getting bolder. we can't fight this quietly anymore. it's either we show them we're stronger, or they'll burn it all down, and we'll be left picking up the pieces.”

the room grew quiet at his words, the tension settling over us like a storm cloud. silco's words were always direct, never sugarcoated. he saw everything in terms of power and survival, and sometimes, his vision felt too narrow.

“i don't want to fight,” i say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper, though I knew everyone heard me. my hands were shaking slightly, though I tried to still them. “i didn't sign up for this... this violence. this isn't what we wanted for zaun.”

“i know,” vander replied, his voice gentle but heavy with understanding. “but sometimes, it's what we need to survive. i don't want it either, mercy. but we're cornered. and i won't let them take what we've fought for.”

i looked at him, feeling the weight of his words more than i could explain. he wasn't wrong, but that didn't make it any easier to accept. every day, i fought this internal battle— struggling to keep our vision alive, to protect the people who had come to believe in something better. and yet, every day, i feared we were getting further from that dream.

—

the night faded to black, the kind of uneasy calm that clung to the air like a fog before a storm. the sky above the lanes was thick with gray clouds, the weight of a storm that hadn't yet broken. it was as if the city itself was holding its breath, waiting. the main street was marked with the signs of everyday life-makeshift carts selling bread, trinkets, cheap medicines-rusted pipes leaking steam into the thickening evening air. people lingered in the shadows, watching with wary eyes, as if sensing the shift before it happened. the low hum of the streets seemed to vibrate with the quiet tension that had settled over everything.

at the heart of it all, we stood-those of us who were the pulse of the lanes, the ones who kept it from falling apart. vander was at the center, as always, his broad shoulders square with the weight of leadership, his hands resting casually on his hips but ready to move. benzo stood off to the side, watching the surroundings, his lips pressed into a thin line as he muttered something under his breath to sevika. she shook her head, but there was that familiar smirk on her lips.

and then, there was silco. always at the edge, always watching. his dark eyes scanning the alleyways, the rooftops, every corner where someone might be lurking. there was a coldness in his stance, a sharpness to the way he held himself. but there was also something... else. something deeper. the kind of confidence that came only from knowing exactly who you were and what you were willing to fight for.

i was at the center with them, as much a part of this as the rest. but unlike the others, my thoughts weren't fully focused on the fight that was coming. my mind kept circling back to what vander had said before this.

“it's going to be bad,” he'd said, looking up from his work, his face shadowed by the light of the forge. “you know that, right?”

i had nodded, though part of me wished i didn't. the truth was, i'd been expecting this.

“you don't have to be there. i know what i said earlier, about needing to fight. but not all of us.” his tone softened, almost pleading. “welsh, piper, kerman, your mother-they need you safe. keep your head down.”

but i couldn't promise that. not when they were threatening us like this. not when they were willing to take food and medicine away from our people. they've hit warehouses, and stashes for the hungry over the past few weeks, and we've done nothing of value. silco was right, they won't change. i clenched my fists, trying to push the feeling of anger down.

“this is about more than safety, vander,” i'd said, voice low but steady. “you said it yourself, it's about showing them that we don't bow down. we're not just scraps to be picked over.”

he had paused, looking at me for a long moment, his gaze dark with concern. but there was something else there too-pride. he didn't argue, but his next words were quiet, heavy with weight. “just promise me one thing... keep the family out of it. they don't need to see this side of things. not yet.”

and i had nodded, though i knew it wasn't just about keeping them safe anymore. it was about showing them all that the lanes were ours, and we wouldn't give them up to anyone.

i shook myself out of the memory as the sound of boots echoed in the distance.

the rebels arrived in a group of fifteen, swaggering into the street with the kind of arrogance that only comes from thinking you can take anything. their leader, a wiry man with a sneer that seemed permanent, led them forward. his eyes flicked from us to the surroundings, as if deciding which part of the street he'd claim as his own.

“thought you'd come out to play,” he called, his voice a mockery, trying to rattle us.

vander didn't flinch. he stepped forward, his voice booming. “you've made your mistake.”

the leader scoffed, his eyes narrowing. “what are you gonna do? you think you scare me?”

“i don't need to scare you,” vander said, his voice steady. “i just need to remind you that the lanes belong to us.”

that was the last moment of quiet before everything erupted.

the first punch came from the leader, a swing of his bat aimed at vander's head, but vander was already moving. he caught the bat mid-swing and with a grunt of effort, yanked it from the man's hands and tossed it aside like it was nothing. the force of the move left the leader staggered, and vander capitalized, landing a clean blow to his jaw that sent him crashing to the ground.

but the others were quick to close in, and the chaos unfolded like a tidal wave.

i kept close to the group, staying with benzo and sevika as we pushed back the first few pretenders who tried to surround us. sevika was a whirlwind of power, each strike from her fists sending her opponents reeling. her face was a mask of concentration, but beneath it, there was the familiar smirk-because sevika always had a way of enjoying herself in the fight.

benzo was quicker than most expected, using his size and speed to outmaneuver the attackers who underestimated him. he was like a shadow, slipping between them, landing precise hits that had their opponents staggering.

but it was silco i kept watching. his movements were smooth and fluid, his fists like steel, landing punches with surgical precision. i watched as he dispatched one man with a swift uppercut, his eyes flashing with deadly focus. then another came at him with a knife, and silco's reaction was immediate—a sidestep, a quick jab to the ribs, and the man crumpled.

the fight moved like a dance, each of us weaving in and out of chaos. fists landed, bodies hit the cobblestones, and the sound of bones snapping echoed in the night. i lost track of time, focused only on staying in the fight, staying with the group.

but the pretenders couldn't keep up. they were outmatched, unprepared for what they'd walked into. slowly, they began to fall, groaning and retreating as they realized they were on the losing side.

the rain poured down harder now, the steady rhythm of the droplets masking the heavy breaths of our fleeting and exhausted crew. the alley where the fight had just taken place seemed almost peaceful in the aftermath, though the air still hummed with tension. blood and sweat mixed in the rain, turning the cobblestones into slick, treacherous ground. the violence of the streets was never far, but in that moment, there was a brief, hard-earned respite.

i looked at silco, standing there with his back against a brick wall in the opposing alley, the rain dripping from his hair and down the lines of his face. nearly out of sight, but close enough.

he was wiping his hands off, his eyes scanning the aftermath, making sure no one was left standing who shouldn't be. he exhaled slowly, an almost imperceptible sigh that spoke volumes about the burden he carried. i had learned, over time, that silco never truly stopped watching, never truly stopped calculating.

but he had no more words for me just yet. instead, i cross the street toward him, the bottle of antiseptic still in my hand, a small cloth in the other. he glanced at me but said nothing, his face hard, but his eyes giving me an open invitation to step closer. i did, silently, offering him the comfort of something i knew he wouldn't ask for.

his gaze never wavered as i reached for his jaw, gently dabbing at the cut on his forehead. it was a simple gesture, but it carried more weight than any words could. “you're starting to make this a habit,” he said, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

i couldn't help the playful retort that escaped. “maybe you should stop getting hurt, and i wouldn't have to.” i pressed the cloth against the cut, careful not to cause him any unnecessary pain. he flinched slightly but didn't pull away.

“you box too much,” i added, as lightly as i could. “starting to think you enjoy getting punched.”

silco's smirk deepened, the edge of it softening. “keeps me sharp.”

“keeps you arrogant,” i teased, my laughter escaping before i could stop it. the sound was light, but it felt like the first real moment of levity in days, maybe weeks.

“you could take it easy once in a while,” i murmured, my tone quieter now, the concern underneath unmistakable. the words felt more fragile in the air between us, and i knew silco felt it too. he gave me a long look, the kind that made my heart stutter, before his smirk faded into something more genuine, more serious.

“and miss moments like this?” he asked, his voice low but steady. it lingered between us, hanging in the cool, damp air like a promise.

without thinking, i leaned closer. his lips met mine, the kiss wasn't rushed or frantic, but it was undeniably real. there was something grounding in it, something that anchored us both in the moment, something that spoke of unspoken trust, of the way we had come to rely on each other in this chaotic world.

i pulled back just slightly, my hand coming up instinctively to cup his bruised cheek. the taste of his blood lingered on my tongue, and for a brief moment, i thought he might pull away, but he didn't. his hand moved over mine, colder than usual, and it was as intimate as it was chilling.

i broke away, our faces still close, only inches apart. his eyes locked onto mine-darker now, burning with something deeper. there was a hunger there, a need that i wasn't sure either of us was ready to acknowledge.

he scoffed softly, a cocky grin tugging at his lips. “you're trouble,” he said, his voice gruff, but the hint of a laugh was there, hidden beneath the words.

i chuckled softly, my hand falling back to my side. “you wouldn't have me any other way,” i replied, my words slipping out before i could catch them. his expression softened just a little, the weight of the moment not lost on either of us. the lightness in the air was replaced by something deeper, something that carried a seriousness neither of us could deny.

the moment didn't last, though. the sounds of the lanes pulled me back to reality. the people we fought for, the people who had come to rely on us-silco's vision for zaun, for this place, needed to be upheld. and i knew the peace we longed for was still out of reach.

we moved, both of us-without words, but with a mutual understanding. the rest of the group would be waiting. the last drop was our gathering point, a place where we could plan, regroup, and make sure the people of the lanes were taken care of. as we walked, the rain began to let up, though the streets remained slick and dangerous.

when we arrived at the pub, it was as chaotic as it had ever been. the soft sounds of laughter mixed with the faint, comforting hum of quiet conversations. the patrons of the last drop, the lifeblood of the lanes, were being patched up, their injuries cleaned and bandaged by those willing to step up.

vander stood near the back, his strong arms folded as he watched over everyone. benzo was at the bar, speaking with one of the regulars, while sevika sat at a table, her usual cold expression softened by the quiet solace of being surrounded by family. but it was silco i kept watching. his presence was undeniable, his movements smooth and fluid, even as he made his way through the crowd to join the others. his eyes flickered to mine once, a silent acknowledgment that we were still in this fight together.

we weren't just fighting for the lanes anymore. we were fighting for our families. for felisha and connel, who had chosen to stay home to keep their own safe. for violet, their daughter, who deserved a future without fear. for my mother hurting at home, burdened with the unnecessary loss of two of her children, and for my remaining sibilings, who deserve more than they know.

i find a seat beside sevika, who sends me a nod, a quiet understanding. I return the favor, my eyes trailing the new bruise forming around her eye. we're surrounded by many familiar faces, which are now battered and bruised. the sight makes me sick, but they don't seem upset. they seem happy, cheering over the drinks benzo took over pouring.

if they can enjoy it, then so can I.

i hear a glass ding, as vander stands taller than everyone else, ready for a speech. the room quiets to a solid silence, awaiting what vander has to say as he moves to centre of the room.

“whatever is thrown at us next, we stand together. we hold this ground, and we hold each other up. we fight for this place, and we fight for each other. because that's what this is about-our bond, our commitment to this place and to one another.”

his eyes scanned the room slowly, catching the gaze of each person who had fought tonight, their faces marked by the grit of battle. some were nursing bruises, others nursing wounds, but their eyes, every one of them, reflected the same thing: a quiet but fierce determination. vander's gaze lingered on sevika, benzo, silco, and then me, before moving on to the others.

“you see, it's not about winning every fight,” he went on, his voice stronger now, infused with that familiar authority we all respected. “it's about showing them that we will never stop standing. that we will never stop fighting for what's ours. because when you stand together, nothing can tear you apart. not threats, not betrayal, not the weight of the world on your shoulders. nothing.”

the air in the room felt thicker as his words settled in, like the weight of everything we had lost and everything we still had to protect was bearing down on all of us. but it was a weight that we bore willingly. we had no choice. we had to fight, because if we didn't, there was nothing left. no lanes, no family, no home.

“tonight, we reminded them,” vander said, his voice rising just a bit, “that the lanes belong to us. and we will protect them, no matter what it costs.”

he stepped forward, his eyes unwavering as he looked out at everyone. “we are Zaun. and we are the future of this place. no one is ever going to take that from us. not now, not ever.”

there was a fire in his words, a flame that ignited something deep inside each of us. we weren't just a ragtag group of survivors anymore. we were a family, and this family wasn't going to be torn apart. no matter the cost.

vander's voice softened as he spoke again, but the weight of the words carried all the more. “promise me that we stay strong. promise me that we keep our word, our bond, no matter what happens. because together, there's nothing that can break us. not a damn thing.”

a long silence followed. the room was heavy with the force of his words, but also with a sense of unity that filled the spaces between the old wooden tables. we weren't just a group of people trying to survive. we were a force, a family that fought for each other. and that made us stronger than any outside force that tried to break us.

one by one, the room began to raise their glasses, eyes gleaming with a quiet promise. “to the lanes,” benzo said, his voice steady.

“to the lanes,” sevika echoed, her gaze firm as she took a long drink.

silco, standing to the side, met my eyes briefly before he raised his glass. “to the lanes,” he said, his voice low, yet filled with something deeper. respect. loyalty. and something that had always been hard for him to show-trust.

i followed suit, my own glass raised. “to the lanes.”

and in that moment, it was like the air had shifted, lightened just a bit, as though the fight, though still fresh, had solidified something between us. we had won tonight, and that meant something. it meant we weren't just fighting for the lanes, for the land. we were fighting for each other, for what we stood for, for a future where we could live without fear of being driven out, of being crushed under the weight of others' ambitions.

vander's words had done what they always did. they had bound us together, reminded us of our strength, and given us the resolve to push on.

“whatever comes next,” vander finished, “we face it together. as family.”

and just like that, the room was filled with the sound of glass clinking together in silent solidarity. the tension that had been holding us all tight seemed to ease, just for a moment, and for that moment, we were united in more than just cause. we were united by something deeper. something stronger.

we were family. and we would protect what was ours.

[yoursinisforgiven]

TO THE BONE ──

pairing: asirel x reader (pet) 

cw: major character death, mentions of blood, themes of obsession(?), cannibalism(but not really?) 

you are responsible for your own media consumption

Vampires didn't eat humans.

It wasn’t necessary. They only needed the blood—the lifeblood that pulsed through the veins of their prey. The rest—flesh, organs, bones—was discarded, inconsequential. The blood was what sustained them, kept them alive, like a fragile tether between the undead and the living world. Everything else was little more than waste, nothing more than a physical shell.

It was rare that a human ever died during feeding. When it did happen, it was always a death of vanity, of ego—an act born of carelessness or hubris, a final refusal to acknowledge the fragility of life.

Vampires, for all their immortality, knew better than to squander the precious gift of life coursing through a human’s veins. Each drop of blood was an exchange, a delicate balance, a tether to something fleeting, something irretrievable. To kill a human unnecessarily was to insult the very essence of what they represented: mortality, impermanence.

But you hadn’t been a vampire your whole life. You hadn’t always known the rules, the boundaries, the limits of this new existence. And now, with Asriel, it was different.

When you first came into his life, it was transactional—an arrangement, a deal brokered in shadows, nothing more. You had been bought, bound by the chains of necessity, an unnatural creature cast in the role of a servant, a companion. He had taken you in, offered you sanctuary from the world, but always with that same unspoken distance. He was your owner, and you were his pet. There was nothing more to it.

Except now... now, there were thoughts—unbidden, raw, dangerous thoughts that gnawed at the edges of your mind, threatening to overtake you.

You wondered if Asriel had ever understood this. When he bought you from the trader, had he known the temptation he was inviting into his life? You were a vampire, yes, but you were also something else. You were... alive in ways he would never fully understand. You hungered in ways that went beyond blood. You hungered for him.

Could you eat him? Would it be wrong to want to?

You had fed on humans before. You had taken the life of others, but it was always just that—life. A fleeting moment, a mere transaction. Blood in, blood out. Nothing more, nothing less.

But Asriel was different. The thought of consuming him—of devouring him, not just for blood, but for everything he was—was something more than a craving. It felt like an ache, a longing that gnawed at your insides. What would it be like? To taste his skin, to swallow him whole and feel his essence merge with your own?

How would he taste, you wondered? Would his blood be sweeter, richer than any human’s? What would it be like to hold him in your grasp and feel him give himself up to you—not as a meal, not as a sacrifice, but as something offered freely? Something bound in love.

The thought, though unbidden, was growing stronger, more insistent.

You turned your gaze toward him.

Asriel was sitting at the desk, his back to you, hunched over some papers or letters, but there was a tightness in his posture, something you hadn’t seen before. His shoulders were drawn, his breath quickening ever so slightly. He was upset—no, hurt. You could feel the pulse of his emotions, the fragility of his heart, like a delicate thread weaving through his chest.

"Pet."

The sound of his voice tore you from your thoughts, sharp, but not unkind. The way he said it now, though, was different. There was a tremor to it. A softness that wasn’t there before.

You shifted in the window seat, pushing yourself upright, and turned your full attention toward him. Your eyes, dark with hunger, tracked his every movement.

“A—friend of mine has passed.”

"Vic."

"Correct."

A pity, you thought, though you hadn’t cared for the man much. Vic had been a fleeting presence in your shared world, just another human who had come and gone. But the sadness in Asriel’s eyes, the way his lips trembled as he spoke—that was different. You had never seen him like this before. He was usually so composed, so in control, like a marble statue that only cracked beneath the harshest of pressures.

But now, in the wake of his loss, there was vulnerability. There was a softness, a human fragility you hadn’t noticed in him before. You could hear the quickened beat of his heart, could sense the tension in his breath. He was grieving.

You let out a simple hum of acknowledgement, turning back to the window—It had begun to rain.

 ──

Vic’s death hadn’t affected you. You were certain of it.

A fleeting presence in your life—nothing more than another transient human whose absence wouldn’t be felt for long. You had seen it before, countless times. One life extinguished, only for another to take its place. In a world where your existence stretched on forever, the death of a human was like the fading of a candle’s flame, a momentary flicker before being snuffed out. It was inevitable.

But still, as you sat in the quiet room, the pulse of Asriel’s grief brushed against you. It wasn’t the kind of grief you were familiar with—no, this was human grief, raw and sharp, something that made Asriel tremble like a leaf in the wind. His emotions were spilling over in a way you hadn’t seen before, and it was like the walls between you and him were starting to erode.

Vic’s death, in its simplicity, made you think of Asriel differently.

Not about his grief—that was merely a ripple in the larger current—but about his mortality, his fragility. Vic had been here, in this very house, speaking with Asriel not too long ago, and now he was gone. Erased. A blink in the eternal expanse of time. The speed of it, the ease of it, unsettled you. Asriel had witnessed it, and perhaps that was why he was so different now, trembling in the wake of his own vulnerability.

You couldn’t help but wonder—if Vic could be gone so easily, then what about Asriel? Could he, too, vanish in a moment’s breath? Could his life, just as fragile, slip through your fingers the way all humans did, without warning?

That thought stung.

You were no stranger to death, not by any means. You had lived through decades of it. And yet, in the quiet ache of your bones, in the stillness of your immortal life, Asriel’s mortality became something more than a distant fact. It was close, too close. A silent echo of something you couldn’t hold onto.

Asriel was the last human tether in your world, the only one you still saw. And yet, you were forced to witness the truth you had so carefully kept at bay: He was dying, even now. Time marched on relentlessly for him, just as it had for Vic, just as it would for all humans. The clock was ticking.

This wasn’t about Vic. Not really. His passing was just a whisper in the wind.

But with Asriel, it was different.

He was here—alive, present, tangible. His heartbeat, fragile and fleeting, pulsed against the silence. Every breath he took felt like a prayer, and yet it was one that would eventually end.

The weight of that truth pressed down on you.

You turned from the window, the rain now heavier, drumming against the glass like the beating of a heart. Asriel sat at the desk, his hand still trembling slightly as he smoothed out a piece of paper. His gaze remained focused on the task before him, but his mind was elsewhere. He didn’t speak, but you could feel the tremor in the air—the unease, the weight of loss.

You stepped closer, silent as a shadow, your presence an almost imperceptible shift in the room. The tension was thick between you.

It was strange, how you had once been so content with the arrangement—the understanding between you. You were a vampire, bound to Asriel in a way that kept you anchored to this world, and yet you had always held the distance between you. He was the master, you the pet. It had been clear from the start, and it had made sense. You were a creature of shadows, of hunger, and he was human—he lived and died in ways you could never understand, perhaps once before you did but not anymore. 

And yet, here you were, standing so close, unable to ignore the gnawing ache that seemed to come from within you now.

You had fed on humans—thousands of them, in your long and endless life. Blood was life, and you had taken it, knowing its value. But this... this wasn’t about blood. This was different. This was about him. About Asriel.

 ──

Vampires didn't need to eat humans.

It was something you had to constantly remind yourself. It had been exactly one week since the announcement of Vic’s passing, and in that entire week, you had refused to feed from Asriel. He was catching on, ever so observant, even in his state of grief. His usual sharp eyes missed nothing, and though he didn't confront you about it, the subtle shifts in his behavior told you everything. His gaze lingered a little longer when you crossed his path. His voice, though soft, carried an edge that wasn’t there before. He had begun to notice the distance. The avoidance.

You couldn’t possibly drink from him. Not now. Not when you feared that you might lose control.

The hunger was different this time. The pull toward his blood, toward him, was no longer a mere craving for sustenance. It was deeper, darker. You could already feel it: the temptation to sink your teeth not just into his flesh, but into something more—something much more dangerous. To devour not just his blood, but his very essence. You couldn’t allow yourself that. Not again. Not with him. Not when you feared your instincts would overpower everything else, shattering what little you had left of your restraint.

You rolled to your side, the plush of the bed shifting beneath you, the familiar sensation of the sheets cradling your form doing little to ease the restless tension coiling in your chest.

You hadn’t been sleeping with Asriel as you usually did. The bed, once a shared space of silent comfort, had become too much of a reminder of your fragile boundaries. Instead, you had withdrawn to your own room. It had once been a punishment—a place where you were kept when you failed to obey, when you overstepped. But now, the cold emptiness of that room offered something else: protection. Protection for him, not just for you.

 ──

One week and four days since you last fed.

You were starving yourself. And part of you wondered if it would be the death of you.

Lying in your bed, you could feel the hunger clawing at your insides like a ravenous beast. You hadn’t left the room in days, the weight of the hunger pressing down on you. You longed to step outside again, to feel the air on your skin, but you couldn’t. Not yet. Not until you had starved this hunger into submission.

But it wasn’t just blood you craved. You craved him.

You lay on your back on your bed—you hadn't left this room in days, you longed to go outside again. 

But you couldn't. Not until this hunger starved itself out.

 ──

Two weeks had passed.

Two weeks of hunger.

The kind that gnawed at you from the inside, a relentless, insidious ache that swallowed reason and clarity whole. Your mind had grown foggy, disjointed from the constant need—no, the desperation—that pulsed through your every fiber. You hadn't left your room. You hadn’t dared.

You couldn't. Not until the hunger had been pushed, fought down into the depths of yourself where it could be ignored, buried under layers of restraint. Restraint. It was all that kept you tethered to your humanity—what little remained.

And yet, the thought of him lingered. Of Asriel.

The thought of him had become a dark obsession, an aching desire that filled the cracks where your restraint once lived. You could feel his presence all around you even now, even in the silence of your room. His heartbeat, the sound of his breath, the pull of his emotions—they were as much a part of you as the blood that ran through his veins.

But you couldn’t feed from him. Not yet.

There was still a part of you that clung to the rules, to the old teachings that kept you from crossing lines you knew, deep down, would destroy you both. You had lived through centuries of hunger, of temptation, but this—this was different. The hunger, now, was not just about survival. It was about possession. It was about him.

You wanted him in a way you had never wanted another human before. You wanted him to be yours in the most intimate, invasive way possible. To feel him inside you—not as a fleeting taste, but as a part of you forever. His blood, his life, everything about him, tethered to you in the dark expanse of eternity.

The thought made your skin burn.

You shuddered, pulling your knees closer to your chest, burying your face in the crook of your arm. You hadn’t slept. You hadn’t eaten. Not properly.

The hunger clawed at you in waves, now, suffocating you.

But then, a door creaked open.

The faintest shuffle of footsteps, and the air shifted, heavy with the weight of his presence.

"Asriel," you breathed.

It wasn’t a question, more a recognition. A statement of fact. He was here.

You didn't raise your head. You couldn't bear to face him. Not when the hunger threatened to consume you completely. He had been the cause of it—his presence, his blood, his life... and yet, he stood there, unwavering, as if he knew what you were, and perhaps even what you wanted.

His shadow stretched across the floor, and then, with a softness that made your chest tighten, he sat beside you.

"Pet," his voice, gentle but firm, brushed against your ear. “You need to feed.”

You closed your eyes, turning your face away, the sweet torment of his proximity pulling at the very core of your being. You could smell him—the warmth of his skin, the scent of the blood running beneath it, the subtle perfume of his body. It made your throat burn, a fire that you couldn’t quench.

“I don’t want to,” you said, your voice weak, barely a whisper. It was a lie. You wanted to, more than anything. But not like this.

You felt the weight of his gaze on you, the tension in the air thickening with each passing moment. He didn’t push you. He never did. Asriel had always been the one in control, even in his grief, even now. But now, there was something else behind his eyes—a sharpness, an urgency you hadn’t seen before.

“You’re starving, and you know it,” he said. “I’ve been patient. But this… this can’t go on.”

You wanted to tell him that you were fine. That you could control it. But your body betrayed you. The hunger twisted violently inside you, and you gasped, a soft, desperate sound.

His hand found yours, warm, strong. The touch made you flinch, but it didn’t let go. His voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m here. I want to help.”

Help.

It was the softest thing he’d ever said to you, and it cracked something deep inside of you. The ache deepened.

"I can’t..." you whispered again, even though it was a lie. Your mind screamed at you, but the hunger was louder.

Asriel sat beside you, the warmth of his body radiating against the cold, stifling air of the room. He didn’t speak at first, just remained there, the silence thick with unspoken words and the heavy, almost suffocating tension that hung between you.

His presence seemed to draw out every emotion, every need, every hunger you had pushed down for so long. You could feel him now, so close, his heartbeat like a steady drum in your ears, the pulse of his blood something you could almost taste on the air. The warmth of his skin, the scent of his flesh—it all combined into a heady perfume that dragged you to the edge of reason.

He knew what this was doing to you. He had to. He could feel the tremors in your body as you fought to keep your composure, to hold yourself back. You closed your eyes, fists clenched in the sheets, desperate to block out the overwhelming hunger that clawed at you from within. But it was impossible.

You couldn’t ignore it anymore.

You turned your face slightly to the side, trying to hide the desperation that leaked through, the way your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. “I can’t…” you whispered again, barely able to make the words come out, the knot in your throat so tight it hurt. It was a lie. It had always been a lie. But you couldn’t bring yourself to face him, to let him see how far you had fallen.

But Asriel, in all his quiet intensity, didn’t let you pull away. His hand found yours, warm and firm, his touch a tether to reality that only seemed to pull you deeper into the storm of what you were becoming. He didn’t say a word, but you could feel his emotions swirling around you, a quiet storm of understanding, of patience, of something darker you hadn’t expected.

And that was the breaking point.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The hunger—no, it was more than hunger now—had become a need. A desperate, ravenous ache that was no longer just about blood. You needed him. Needed to consume him. To possess him in a way you could never let go.

The tears, unbidden, welled in your eyes, not out of sorrow, but out of the pure, unrelenting longing for him.

And as if the darkness in your heart had finally taken hold, you turned to him. His hand was still in yours, gentle and warm, but the need that twisted inside you surged like a tidal wave.

You lifted your gaze, and for the first time, Asriel’s eyes flickered with uncertainty. He saw you now. Truly saw you. The hunger, the wildness that had taken over your expression. He knew what you wanted.

Before you even fully realized it, your body moved without your command, your teeth instinctively elongating, the tips like sharp knives that could cut through flesh and bone with ease.

"Asriel..." you breathed, his name a prayer, a promise.

His breath caught in his throat, and he flinched slightly as you leaned closer, but he didn’t pull away. The distance between you vanished in an instant, and his pulse—steady and slow—became all you could hear, all you could feel. You could almost taste it on the air.

And then, with a sharp, desperate movement, you sank your teeth into the soft, vulnerable curve of his neck.

The taste was everything.

His blood rushed to meet you—hot, intoxicating, and thick with life. It poured into you like fire, flooding your senses, pushing out all thought, all restraint. His flesh beneath your lips, warm and soft, yielded to you without resistance. And as you drank, you felt the sensation of his life slipping away, merging with yours, binding you to him in a way you hadn’t understood until now.

You could feel his heart stutter in his chest, could feel the beat of his blood slow, and your hands clutched his skin tighter, pulling him closer, wanting more, needing more.

As you drank, the hunger—no, the need—grew inside you, more insistent, more desperate. The world narrowed to just him. To his blood, his life, the pulse of his soul. His blood was sweeter, richer than any human you'd ever tasted. It was more than sustenance. It was everything.

You wanted him to stay with you, wanted him to be part of you forever. The thought of him gone, of him fading like so many before him, was unbearable.

And then, just as quickly as the hunger had seized you, the reality of what you were doing hit. The way his blood filled you, almost like it was meant to, a union you never asked for, never wanted, but craved more than anything.

Your teeth sank deeper, the urge to consume, to keep him with you forever overwhelming you.

But then—then—he gasped. His body went rigid beneath you, a shudder running through him. His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, and his pulse weakened, a soft, fragile flutter against your lips.

His hand gripped your wrist, weakly, his voice a rasping whisper against your ear, "Please…"

But it was too late.

You couldn’t stop.

And then he went still.

The warmth left his body in a rush. His heartbeat—the thing that had once thudded like the pulse of a drum—was silent. The warmth that had filled you was gone, replaced by a hollow coldness that spread through your chest.

You pulled back, the blood dripping down your chin, his limp body cradled in your arms. Your breath came in ragged, desperate gasps, but there was no more to take. He was gone.

A sharp, bitter grief sliced through you—harder than anything you’d ever felt in your immortal existence.

You had killed him. You had taken his life.

He had been there, right beside you, a person, a warmth, a tether to something real, and now… now he was gone. Gone forever.

You held him, cradled him in your arms as if he could be restored, as if there was some way you could undo what you’d just done. But there was no undoing it.

The tears finally broke free, slipping down your face, mixing with the blood on your skin. You had killed him.

A wave of guilt, hot and suffocating, crushed you. Your heart—if you could even still call it that—broke, and the ache was unbearable.

You had wanted him. You still wanted him. But not like this.

Not this.

And now, as you held his lifeless body in your arms, you realized the truth. You had consumed him, yes. But it had never been about feeding.

It had been about keeping him with you. Keeping him close, even after death. And now, in the emptiness that followed, you realized you had lost him. Not just the man, but everything he had been—the warmth, the gentleness, the connection.

He was gone.

And you were alone again.

──

author's note: i just finished bones and all and couldn't help myself. my letterbox in case any of you are interested.

and no, i don't proofread my work. (i should start though)

[king-zacharyy]

Part 1 (Here) Part 2

EDIT: I fixed some spelling/grammar errors and added some things to a couple areas.

TW: Injury, hospitals, surgery mentions

——————————————

"Four chimes. Max."

Nancy had barely finished speaking before Steve was out the door of the Creel house, sprinting back the way they came. He wove through the forest on muscle memory alone, a resurgence of adrenaline fueling his exhausted, wounded body.

The pain and lightheadedness faded away under the constant stream of Max Max Max because that's his kid. His kid, who he let get put in danger. His kid, who he wasn't there to protect, and she has to be okay. She has to be.

Because they had plans for a concert in summer that he had spent months saving up for just for her. And she has to be okay, because if she isn't, he doesn't know what he'll do with himself. He doesn't know how he could possibly live without one of his kids. Without Max. Without his little sister. Without Max.

The sound of loud, gut wrenching, sobs and screams cut through his thoughts, and he stuttered to a stop. Dustin. He bolted in the direction of the sound, absent-mindedly stepping over the demobats littering the ground, motionless.

In the center of the bats, sat Dustin, hunched over a motionless form, his shoulders shaking with the sobs that were much louder now that he was closer.

Steve's shoulders drooped at the sight of Dustin alive before his brain registered who Dustin was slumped over and the state he was in, and he had to bite back a sob of his own. Because there lay Eddie Munson in a pool of his own blood. Munson, who clearly pulled some hero shit, and damn it, Eddie, I told you not to be a hero!

Steve slid in front of Dustin, causing the boy to look up. "Steve! Steve, you have to help him! Eddie, he– he cut the rope– and– and—" Dustin's voice trailed off into sobs again, and Steve sprung into action.

"Dustin, you gotta move. I'm gonna help him, but I need you to move." The curly haired boy nodded, hiccuping, and moved out from under Eddie.

Steve was quick to check his pulse, finding a faint, but very much there, thump thump thump. Steve ripped off his jacket and tied it around the wounds on Munson's side. He took a deep breath to steady himself as he hefted Eddie into a bridal carry and stood.

When he turned, he was met with Nancy's determined face. "Dustin said Munson cut the rope, so I won't be able to get him through there. I want you to take Dustin back through the gate in the trailer and call for an ambulance to Fred's gate. After that, go pick up the kids. Robin, you're with me. Meet us at the hospital."

His tone brokered no arguments as they set off in the direction of the highway, his thoughts a constant stream of Eddie Eddie Eddie and Max Max Max.

The next moments were a blur of movement and sound as they got Eddie and themselves through the gate and into the ambulance once it got there.

They rode in the ambulance with Eddie, Steve making sure the paramedics were doing their job. As soon as they got to Hawkins General, Eddie was taken into surgery, and Steve and Robin were alone in the parking lot.

As they entered the lobby, they were met with chaos. He wove his way through the crowd of people seeking treatment or waiting for loved ones and went to the reception desk, Robin following closely behind him.

"Excuse me, was a Max– um Maxine Mayfield admitted recently?" He asked the nurse there, body thruming with anxiety. She clacked away on her computer for a minute before turning to him.

"There was. Are you family? I'm afraid I can't give any more information unless you are."

"I am. I'm her brother? Please, we got separated, and all I know is she got hurt. Is she– is she okay?"

Pity swirled in her eyes, and he tried not to snap. She glanced back at her computer, reading something before answering, "She's in surgery right now, I'm sorry, I don't know much beyond that."

He nodded shakily, stepping back from the counter. He stumbled as the adrenaline faded. His vision blurred, he felt lightheaded, and his sides burned.

"Steve? Steve!" Robin shouting was the last thing he heard before he collapsed, and his world went black.

●●●●●

"Scoops! I work for Scoops!" He thought he escaped. Why was he back in the base? His head felt light and floaty, so they must've drugged him again. Robin. Where's Robin?

"Steve! Calm down! You're in the hospital. We're not in the base. We got out. I'm right here. Breathe, dingus. You're okay. I'm okay."

Slowly, Steve's breathing evened out, and his vision cleared. He took in the white walls around him and sagged against the bed. White, not steel gray. He glanced to his right, where Robin was sitting, gripping his hand, and he relaxed fully.

The memories of the last week rushed back, and he fought the panic that threatened to rise. Robbie squeezed his hand, reading his mind, and said, "You collapsed because of your wounds and had to be rushed into surgery. You've got some damage to your throat from being strangled, and your bat bites got a minor infection. Your back is also raw and had some cuts on it. The doctor said you'll have a lot of scars, and you'll likely need some physical therapy to rebuild the muscle the bats took, but you should be okay. Don't ever scare me like that again, though, Dingus."

He squeezed her hand, urging her to continue. "Max is.. She's hurt pretty bad. She has a broken arm, both of her legs are broken, and her eyes took a hit. They're not sure if she'll ever walk again, and they have to wait until she wakes up to know if she'll be able to see, but they're hopeful. She's in a medically induced coma so she can heal.

Eddie got here just in time. He lost a lot of blood and needed several transfusions, but he's alive. He'll probably need physical therapy, and he'll scar, but he's gonna be fine."

Steve practically collapsed in relief. They were okay. Hurt, but alive. He squeezed her hand in silent thanks, a question in his eyes when he looked at her.

How is everyone else?

"Everyone else has minor injuries. Erica has some scrapes and bruises from Andy tackling her, and Lucas had to get some stitches because of Jason. Apparently, they attacked the kids, and Jason went all pitchforks and torches on Lucas. Max's Walkman broke in the scuffle, and that's why she got all hurt."

Steve had to breathe for a minute to stave of the murderous rage he felt and the sudden and all-consuming urge to kill the bastards who dare lay a finger on his kids.

"Down, boy. Jason got killed when the gates split open, and Andy is currently in custody. And before you ask, the gates closed pretty soon after they nearly split the town open. We don't know how or why, but they're closed.

Back on the topic of everyone's health, Dustin got a sprained ankle when he went back through the gate after Eddie cut the rope, so he's got an ankle boot for that, but he'll be fine. Nancy and I are okay. The only injuries we got were from the vines choking us, but there was no lasting damage."

He nodded, opening his mouth to talk, barely getting a word out before he's thrown into a coughing fit. Robin handed him a cup of cold water, and he was quick to gulp it down.

"Try not to talk. Like I said, you've got a bit of damage to your throat, so it's gonna hurt to talk for a little."

He nodded again and mimed writing. She grabbed a legal pad and a pen that sat on the table by the bed and handed it over.

'Any word from the Byers?'

"Yeah, Jonathan was able to get into contact a few hours ago. He said they were on their way back to Hawkins and would explain what happened on their end when they got here."

'How long have I been out?'

"About a day. Your surgery lasted for a few hours, and then you were in and out of consciousness a couple of times after the anesthesia wore off."

'Why was everything chaos when we got here yesterday?'

"When the gates initially opened, it caused a pretty massive earthquake, and a lot of people got injured. Now, enough questions. You still need rest. When you wake up next, I'll see if I can convince a nurse to let you see Max. Sleep, everyone will still be here when you wake up, and I'm not gonna leave your side."

With that last bit of reassurance, he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Part 2

——————————————

This was mostly an excuse to write Steve passing out from his injuries in Season four and some Steve and Max sibling-ism!

[theladyofbloodshed]

Chapter 26 - You're The Closest To Heaven I'll Ever Be

‘I don’t want to be here,’ Nesta hissed as Azriel settled her onto the ground.

The waist high grasses and its wild flowers had been trimmed down to the ankles and night had swept into Illyria leaving a star-flecked sky above their heads.

‘Where would you rather be?’ He gestured at the vast expanse of wilderness behind them, voice taut with barely contained rage. ‘Back there? The House of Wind? Where, Nesta?’

His chest rose and fell rapidly reminding her of a cat that readied itself to lash out. She wrapped her arms around herself.

This was not the Azriel she knew. He was a spymaster. Calm and collected. Unruffled. Yet Nesta had made him run out of the patience that seemed never-ending. Guilt swelled in her chest. There were only so many times people could take being pushed away. She ran the risk of losing him – and that scared her more than she wanted to admit.

At the same moment that she took a hesitant step forward, Azriel’s expression softened. ‘It’s colder here than Dawn, even in spring. Take a hot drink with my mother.’

Peace had been brokered unexpectedly. She allowed his fingers to slip down her back as he guided her towards the front of the cabin. The lights were still on in the windows downstairs so it was not too late, she expected.

Rovena opened the door, her hair unbound and flowing freely to her waist. Whatever she read in their expressions had her opening her arms to receive both of them. They were pulled into a shared embrace so all three bodies knocked together.

‘It’s so nice to see you both. I was thinking of you earlier.’

‘Are you a seer?’

Azriel’s mother smiled as she led her into the house, leaving her son to close the door. ‘No, just a mother who misses her son. I hoped he would bring you to see me soon.’

There was something about the closeness of her body – the softness of it – that had Nesta sinking deeper. Rovena stroked a hand against her hair which had been roughened by her impromptu sleep. ‘Have you eaten? Let’s find something for you.’

Nesta nodded, trying to push away tears. She had always known the sort of mother that she would be and that was the opposite of her own. She’d give her child love and comfort, praise and celebrate the smallest milestones, and never ever use them. But Nesta hadn’t realised how badly she needed that mother for herself too. Even if Rovena had been in the middle of another task, tending to Nesta’s needs had pulsed to the forefront.

They ate sticky layered pastries that seeped with honey and were drizzled with nuts on the top over a pot of strong, black tea. Rovena had insisted upon wrapping a blanket around Nesta’s shoulders then tugging off her shoes and lifting her feet up onto the couch.

‘A bad day for both of you?’

‘How did you guess?’

Rovena gave a smile of understanding as she turned back to her knitting. ‘Azriel only comes home when he feels guilty that he’s been away so long or if he needs a break from everything. Today, it’s a mixture of the two.’

‘I will tell him to visit more often.’

‘With you?’

Nesta swallowed. They were only two words, but there was a heavy question loaded within. Rovena knew they were mates. Knew the significance of their situation.

She focused on the cup in her hands, examining the pattern etched into the pottery. What was there to kick out and complain over? Azriel was a good male. He was patient and kind with a dry humour that she wished she saw more often. There was nothing wrong with him. None of her dissatisfaction came from him. It was the lack of choice. The life that she’d been forced into. And if she could turn back time – then what? She would still be mortal and he would still bond to her. His heart would still point to her. He’d have the agony of watching her grow old and die while he remained young. What life would she have had? There would be a mortal husband at her side who expected many children and little else from her.

‘It’s so hard,’ she whispered. ‘I keep wanting to go home but I don��t think I’ve ever had a real home.’

Rovena paused from her knitting. ‘I am biased,’ she said, touching a hand to her chest, ‘because he is the most wonderful thing in my life. My son is not like the others. He will be walking loops around this house, bullying himself for whatever has occurred today. He will never think to fly when it’s in an Illyrian’s nature to do so. Legend says Ramiel could fly before he could walk. Azriel’s early years were not good. Not kind.’ She was quiet for a while as if waiting for a spark of recognition from Nesta that she knew his upbringing. Azriel was often a closed book. She knew little of his past. ‘Azriel carries the weight heavily. He won’t ever put it down.’

‘He hasn’t done anything wrong,’ explained Nesta. ‘He is the best part of my days.’

‘Have you told him that?’

No. To lay her feelings bare that way left them open to be hurt. It wasn’t fair to offer him hope when she didn’t know whether she’d have the bond severed at the Blood Moon.

‘I am not trying to influence you in anyway, Nesta. You have had too many choices taken away from you. My son has also suffered greatly in his life. He is not a daemati; he cannot read your thoughts. He will only know what you tell him.’

For a while, Nesta lay there with her eyes closed. She was unashamed to do it. Rovena had abandoned her knitting entirely and stroked a hand against her hair. It was tempting to accept the bond so she could see Rovena whenever she wished. She wanted a mother so badly.

Azriel entered with damp hair from the drizzle that had started. He gave a nod of satisfaction at the sight of them relaxing together.

‘I will go to bed,’ announced Rovena. Nesta stood to embrace her. She didn’t want it to end.  Rovena squeezed her tightly. ‘Come and visit soon, please. I want to know you better.’

‘You don’t.’

She stroked Nesta’s cheek. ‘I do. I really do, Nesta.’

Left alone with Azriel, Nesta wanted to bury her head beneath the blanket that she’d discarded on the couch rather than have this discussion. She didn’t even know why he’d brought her here. Maybe to chastise her about speaking to his precious Rhysand that way.

She folded her arms again, bracing herself for whatever storm he’d bring.

‘Who was Clare? Your friend. Who was she?’

His words were not laced with interrogation. They were tender, like a healer examining a wound.

‘My only friend,’ she rasped. ‘With money. Without it. Clare was-’

Nesta pressed her hands against her face.

Says the woman who gave an innocent girl’s name in her stead for Amarantha to butcher as well.

Whatever ending that Clare had found, it had not been good. If Beron Vanserra had not brought her up, Nesta would have been none the wiser. Clare would always be a ghost that trailed her, demanding that Nesta did not forget her. Now that she knew the truth of it, it made nothing easier. The closure brought no healing.

‘I never asked Rhys directly about those years. We do what we must to protect others. More and more, I’m learning that there were no limits to who he’d hurt to protect us in Velaris.’ Azriel forced out a bitter laugh. ‘My fault. A spymaster should know better than to pull at loose threads that a High Lord tries to cut away.’

Nesta did not understand his cryptic words.

‘Maybe we should sever the bond.’

Air caught in her lungs.

‘What?’

‘I’ve heard things. Whispers from that time beneath the mountain. I didn’t want to believe them. I heard her name – Clare – heard that he’d given a fake mortal name to Amarantha. Not that she was real. That her family had suffered too.’

Nesta did not dare to interrupt him.

‘Rhys hurt Feyre. Night after night.’ Azriel shook his head. ‘I told myself that Rhys wouldn’t do that. That’s his mate. He loves her. Those whispers were tainted – but now I know them to be true. Neither will speak of those days and I thought it was because they suffered too much. It’s because they don’t want us to know what happened between them. Did Feyre truly forgive his actions or is there no limit that can be crossed due to the bond? The bond will always pull them together, will always make them forgive and forget.’ His hazel eyes scorched her as he met her gaze. ‘What if I’m like that?’

‘You won’t be like that,’ she vowed.

Azriel shook his head. ‘I saw you. The meeting. Saw how scared you were when I… Eris.’

‘You think I’m afraid of you? Azriel, I had never seen anything like that before – but I’m not scared of you. Eris was out of line. And knowing that you’d damn all the consequences to protect somebody you care about, it matters to me.’

Her hand reached for his. She sensed his instinct to draw it away, to shield it from her view, but still she reached for him, practically pleading with her eyes to not reject her this way. His fingers slid over her skin.

'It scares me,’ Azriel admitted, turning Nesta’s hand over to trace the lines of her palm. ‘I’ve been at Rhys’ side for over five hundred years but I was so ready to jump to your side. If you had said the word, I’d have avenged your pain.’

Nesta did not have to think so deeply to understand his meaning. He’d have been at her side no matter what. That's what mates did for each other.

‘Cass knew,’ he continued. ‘He saw my hand go to Truth-Teller then called your name. It made you pause - and me.’

‘Is that fear too much?’

‘No,’ he promised, voice ardent. ‘It just scares me because I don’t think there’s a limit for me either of what I’d do for you.’

Those words hung heavy between them. It hadn’t been anger that had made Azriel fly her here at all, she realised. It had been such sorrow and shame for his actions in the meeting, his fear that he’d pushed her away. His black hair was falling into his eyes as he kept his head tilted downwards. It was a face that Nesta could gaze upon for days at a time without ever growing weary.

‘I want to try.’

Azriel glanced sidelong at her. ‘What does it mean? You want to try. What does it mean?’

Maybe like her, Azriel needed those declarations. It was scary and overwhelming to put it into words. Scarier still to put it into practise. But he was worth it, wasn’t he? Worth exposing her fears and stepping into the light for.

‘I’m not ready for everybody to know – not yet. You are not a secret. I’m not ashamed of you,’ she managed to stutter out. ‘Don’t think for a moment that I am. It’s just-’

‘You are a private person.’

‘Yes,’ she said, glad he understood. ‘We can try to be… together. In private. I don’t know how fae courtship rituals play out.’

‘Can I kiss you?’

The words shot out of him suddenly as if they could no longer be contained.

‘Can you kiss me?’ She echoed, breathing heavily. ‘Can you kiss me?’

Azriel waited. He’d only take as much as she offered.

‘Yes.’

The shadow singer moved closer, tilting his head and pressing his lips to hers. It was a scorching undoing. His hand settled on her side, the other cradling her face to lift it where he wanted it. Nesta breathed in the scent of chilled mist and pine from his skin. He was so gentle with her. When he brushed his tongue against the seam of her lips, she parted them, allowing him to deepen the kiss.

He pulled back slightly, lips brushing her own as he said, ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes.’

His nose touched hers, rubbing it softly before kissing her gently once more. ‘You’re frozen.’

Nesta swallowed, well aware that she had been afraid to move a single inch. Her hands were clenched at her sides and her back was poker-straight.

‘I haven’t had a lot of experience.’ By that, Nesta meant the sum total of her kisses was at two. A playful sweep of the lips by Clare, after which they’d dissolved into giggles, and a horrible experience where Tomas Mandray had been too forceful and rough that resulted in her crunching her forehead against his nose.

Azriel drew back, blinking a couple of times as he connected the dots. Realisation dawned on him. ‘Oh.’

‘Oh?’

His hand smoothed her hair against her head. ‘I hadn’t considered that aspect. Not entirely. Young and mortal. Unwed.’

‘It’s bad?’

‘No. Everything is at your pace.’

Nesta felt greedy to even ask it. ‘Can we kiss again?’

‘We can kiss until every star in the sky fades if that is what you wish.’

***

A kiss from Nesta Archeron was better than anything Azriel could dream of. He wished he could bottle this moment to savour for later. He had to be careful with her. Instinct demanded that he be rough to take what was his. Years of one-night lovers meant he had perfected every skill to leave them dreaming of him after he left, but the more tender moments – the intimacy – was something he’d always struggled with.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

It blared in his ears. Nesta would not pull away. She would not run from him once she saw what he was inside. Mates understood.

Her years were few, experience non-existent. Azriel could not fuck this up. She meant far too much to lose.

What was a spymaster, if not patient?

When he ended their kiss, Azriel was hollow afterwards like Nesta had taken her heart with her.

‘Shall I take you back to Dawn?’

Nesta weighed up her options. It had her brows furrowing. ‘I can’t. Not yet. I can’t see them. Can’t we go in the morning – spin a lie that I was too uneasy in a new place?’

He touched her hair once then was amazed she allowed such a thing. ‘The Town House then. It’s not too late. Perhaps Elain is still awake.’

He extended his ruined hand to her. It was a declaration that he wanted to try too. Azriel would be as he was, scarred hands and all. It made him vulnerable, which he hated – but for Nesta he would try.

‘Can we stay here?’

Illyria? Did she mean it?

Azriel caught the bob of her throat, her nerves rising at the suggestion.

‘Do you have a bedroom here?’

He had to pause and force himself to breathe before he passed out. Nesta wanted to stay in Illyria. With him. In the same bed.

Silently, he flexed his fingers to signal to Nesta to take them then he led her through the living room, into the kitchen, past the pantry and into the small bedroom at the end of the house.

‘It’s down here so I don’t wake my mother when I come and go.’

‘Do you come and go often?’

There was no teasing on her lovely face, no realisation of the innuendo that she’d walked into. Yes, all of Azriel’s previous dalliances could be described as coming and going. He never spent the night with a lover. It was too much, too intimate. He never wanted the awkward dance in the morning, the lies that they’d see each other again. Once people realised who he was – what he was – they never wanted another moment with him. But that wasn’t what Nesta meant. She was too innocent to realise.

‘I come here more than the others think I do. Less than my mother wants me to,’ he replied vaguely. Those sorts of answers wouldn’t fly. They weren’t fair on her. ‘She’d have me here every night if she could to make up on a lost childhood together. The others think I’m out in pleasure houses or with lovers or spying and I let them believe what they want.’

‘But really you come home to your mother.’   

He gave a guilty grin. ‘She’s a good cook.’

The room was not particularly large because most of his possessions remained in Velaris. One day, Azriel would tell Nesta the truth of his childhood – how it made him the way he was. Illyria was like a boot stepping on his throat, but this small pocket of paradise that his mother had cultivated was the one place he could breathe without hiding parts of himself. One day, he’d tell her everything. Azriel searched through the wide oak dresser for softer clothes for bed. Although Nesta was tall for a female, her frame was slight. Any bottoms he had would slip off of her. For her, he found a tunic gifted from Helion when they visited the Day Court years earlier. It was a garish gold, but it was the only thing he had that would reach Nesta’s knees.

‘You? Gold?’

‘Helion,’ he replied, as if that said it all.

‘What is wrong with him?’

Azriel paused from searching for his own clothes. There was nothing wrong with Helion except for his over-zealous affection. Everybody liked him. He won friends with smiles. Rhys had needed to tell Azriel to stop spying on him and the court when nothing insidious was ever found about him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘When he wasn’t staring at me like I was his next meal, he couldn’t take his eyes off of Eris’ mother.’

He shrugged one shoulder and began stripping for bed.

‘Come on,’ Nesta said, voice tinged with something like amazement. ‘You must know what I mean.’

Azriel turned and caught a glimpse of Nesta’s bare back as she changed facing the wall. Shadows jumped up in front of his face, blocking her – much to his dismay.

‘I don’t know what you mean, Nesta.’

‘Doesn’t he look like…' She stopped short. 'You don’t know? You haven’t ever noticed?’

Who was the spymaster – him or her? Nesta refused to elaborate on her cryptic words, instead she insisted that he forgot she ever said anything.

He heard the creak of the bed as she eased herself into it. It was large to accommodate the sprawl of his wings comfortably, but Azriel was determined to find a way to be close with her. I want to try, she’d said. If only she knew that Azriel had never done this before either. He had never climbed into bed with a female and only wanted to sleep beside her.

It was easier in the dark. After the lamp was extinguished, he moved closer to Nesta. When she didn’t object to his arms eclipsing her body, he took it as a good sign.

‘What will we tell the others?’

‘I’ll handle it,’ he reassured her. They were his nosy family to deal with.

Near his feet, Azriel could feel the press of his shadows as they curled up like a dog at the bottom of the bed. His mother’s room was upstairs at the other side of the house and Nesta was in his arms. There was nothing more he could ask for in life. This was what he had been waiting for. Every year that passed where his heart ached with loneliness had been leading up to this. And it was all worth it.

‘Will you kiss me again?’

His eyes shot open. Who was he to resist such a request?

Feeling bolder in the dark, Nesta’s arms twined around his neck as they kissed. Each one was special. One more than he ever thought to have. The press of her lips to his stoked a fire in his belly. This slow, smouldering undoing was the best thing to happen to him.

They moved on the bed with Nesta tugging him down to her like her restraint had snapped. His chest pressed to hers, the softness of her breasts beneath him was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Her heart sung to his. Each soft murmur from Nesta had his cock hardening. It pressed against her, solid and unyielding. Did she know what she did to him? He rolled his hips once, testing. The rub of his cock against her thigh had Nesta giving up of a breathy moan.

A shadow stung him on the neck in warning not to get too carried away. It didn’t need to all happen tonight. Nesta wanted to try with him; they had time.

Azriel eased back onto his side, his weight resting upon an elbow. He kissed her forehead gently. ‘Goodnight Nesta.’

She lay on her back, panting for a moment.

‘What? That’s it? You’ll just kiss me like that and say goodnight?’

Azriel chuckled. ‘What else do you want?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I can have.’

He brought her hand to her lips then kissed the knuckles. ‘Anything.’

With her sudden burst of bravery spent, Azriel took the lead. When he rolled back on top of her, Nesta gave an answering moan of satisfaction. Her tongue sought his, more desperate than their earlier kisses. His hand went to her breast, squeezing it softly until he felt her nipple harden beneath. There was so much of her that Azriel wanted to touch, to taste. He had to be patient – even if it was the hardest fucking thing he’d ever done. His cock ached. Each whimper from Nesta had it throbbing in response. One day, she’d have her mouth around it. One day, he’d take her hard and fast with it. Tonight, he’d be patient.

‘Will you touch me?’

His hand skated down her body. As his fingers brushed her stomach, Nesta inhaled a fluttery breath. He touched her sex over the cloth.

‘Here?’

Nesta’s hips rose up in response, but Azriel needed confirmation.

‘Say it.’

‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘Touch me.’

He found her wet and ready. The slick heat of her cunt was a summons too difficult to ignore. He traced a finger through her folds, parting them gently. All the while, he kept kissing her. Nesta’s moans were muffled by his lips. Each circle of his thumb against her clit had her writhing beneath him. Had she touched herself before, he wondered. Did she know the ways to make her body tremble and shake? Azriel pressed himself against her again, so that his cock rubbed against her thigh to give it a slight release. The cloth of his trousers was driving him mad. The need to taste her, to plunge his cock deep inside her cunt was bellowing in his mind.

Patient. He had to be patient.

It would hurt her to press his fingers inside despite his desperation to feel her tight walls clenching around them.

They had time. She wanted to try. He didn’t need to rush in and take it all tonight.

Azriel kept on kissing his mate, savouring the wetness that seeped from her with every kiss. His thumb worked in small circles until her body went taut. With a more forceful hand, Azriel guided Nesta over the edge – and kept on kissing her as she jerked and moaned beneath him, wringing out every last drop of her pleasure.

He blew across her skin when Nesta had finished to cool the heat burning there then he held her close. She snuggled against him, satisfied and spent. Pride swelled in his chest knowing he was the first male to bring her that release – and hopefully the only male that would ever get to touch her that way.

When her breathing slowed to a heavy rhythm, Azriel lay his head beside hers and closed his eyes, content and happy for the first time in a long time.  

The dawn brought showers with it to Illyria. The soft pattering of rain against the glass woke them both. They did not speak of what had occurred last night although he felt Nesta’s eyes on him often as he dressed. He hoped it wasn’t regret.

With his mother still sleeping, Azriel wrote a note to explain that they’d departed. Nesta had to write at the bottom that they’d return again soon which had him smiling and drawing her to him to kiss again.

‘Are you ready to continue the meeting?’

‘Not really, but we must do these things,’ she replied, nodding once.

It was dry in the Dawn Court. The hazy sun was touching the land with its golden fingers.

Cassian jumped up from the couch when they exited the bedroom. ‘Thank fuck. They’ve all gone to breakfast. I said you two had gotten up early and gone for a walk. Where have you been? I went to get my things to sleep on the couch and you were gone. Both of you.’

‘We were busy,’ replied Azriel flatly.

‘Doing what?’

‘None of your business,’ Nesta snapped, eyes flaring in warning at him.

To anybody else, it might have been effective. To Cassian, it was the equivalent of waving a red flag at a bull. He would make it his business to know.

On their hurried walk down to breakfast, Cassian kept trying to catch his eye, fishing for information. Azriel played dumb. Acted as though he couldn’t see the inquisitive looks his brother was casting his way even though Cassian had covered for them. He'd lied and said that they'd both slept on couches so Nesta could have the room. He'd owe him for that.

Each court had assembled at their own table for breakfast with the exception of Spring and Autumn who had not returned. Helion was at their table, an arm draped around the back of Feyre’s chair to annoy Rhys. Their conversation halted as they arrived. Azriel pulled out a chair for Nesta then tucked her in before taking up the one beside her so that Cassian could not.

Mor leaned forwards, her blonde hair tossed over one shoulder. ‘Gone for a walk? Either Thesan needs better guards or somebody is lying.’

An accusation that Azriel didn’t like laced Mor’s tone. Was it jealousy that he could detect? She’d gone to bed with Helion – but she had the audacity to be jealous that Azriel hadn’t waited outside of her door all night.

‘We were in Illyria,’ Nesta replied swiftly, helping herself to a jug of milk to pour a glass.

That wasn't part of their plan.

Rhys choked on his scrambled eggs at the other end of the table. ‘You took Nesta to Windhaven?’

Azriel glanced to Nesta, waiting to see if he should lead or her. Her wrist snapped downwards, opening a serviette with a practised gesture before spreading it across her lap.

‘No. I was upset. He took me to spend time with his mother. Can you pass the toast, Feyre?’

‘You took her to your mother?’

The room went suddenly quiet at Mor’s raised voice.

Nesta buttered her toast with more aggression than was warranted. ‘Do you have an issue with that, Morrigan?’

If this ferocious, possessive side of Nesta was what happened each time Azriel gave her an orgasm, she was having them five times a day. He quite liked it.

Mor looked to him. She seemed betrayed. Like Azriel had no right to take somebody to his own mother’s home.

‘You never take anybody there. Not even me.’

‘My mother wanted to meet Nesta,’ he said, shrugging off the looks of the others around the table.

‘I didn’t want to be here,’ added Nesta. ‘It seemed like a good time to go. Would you like toast, Azriel?’

They eventually slipped back into their conversation although Mor’s eyes kept darting between them like there was a secret she wasn’t privy to, but needed to know. He felt Cassian’s boot kick him in the shin then his brother was wiggling his brows up and down. Azriel ignored it all. Last night had been the best night of his life and all that mattered to him was that Nesta was happy. They’d face today’s meeting – face whatever the hell was coming next. As long as Nesta wanted to try with him, they would face anything.  

[phightingheadcanons]

Scythe is cold blooded. Relies on external heat to keep her pulse up. Her ‘beauty sleep’ is just her sunbathing and sleeping at the same time. Went to blackrock once and she didn’t wake up till she was back in crossroads. Who dragged her unconscious body back, nobody knows. Probably broker. But other then that, it’s the only reason she has the energy to break out of banland every time banhammer tries to catch her.

also she likes the taste of pickles.

-🪝anon (will be back later with more possibly idk)

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