#Radiant Impasse

[ash-and-starlight]

important question.

(if u voted Yes please feel free to tell me What kind of tramp stamp he’d have)

[pin-k-ink]

NOISE COMPLAINT ★ KOZUME KENMA

DAY SEVEN ➵ kenma’s neighbor’s the total package—sweet, sexy, and always bringing him dinner like it’s nothing. only problem? the walls are thin, and he’s stuck hearing every second of your late-night hookups. so, he gives you two choices: cut out the noise or bring it straight to him.

cw ➵ dírty talking, teasing, sexúal tension, manhàndling, fingéring, pet names, praise kínk, unprotected séx, mastúrbation, making out, squírting

wc ➵ 6.5k

kinktober masterlist

The muffled thump of the headboard slamming rhythmically into the wall stirred Kenma from his restless slumber. His eyes snapped open, pulse immediately kicking up in dreadful recognition.

Another night, another disturbance bleeding through the paper-thin walls from your apartment.

Even without straining his ears, Kenma could make out the unmistakable sounds - breathy feminine whimpers escalating into desperate cries of rapture...strangled masculine grunts punctuating the squeaking bedsprings...a raunchy symphony of skin slapping against sweat-slicked skin in primal desperation.

He groaned defeatedly into his pillow, already shifting amid the tangled bedsheets as familiar tendrils of heated arousal began lapping through his veins despite his misery. The wearied bags under his eyes seemed to throb in time with the steadily increasing tempo of those obscene noises filtering through the walls.

How many nights had it been now? Three weeks? Four? Kenma had long since lost track of the innumerable bouts of interrupted sleep thanks to your nightly...activities. All he knew for certain was that his admittedly gorgeous new neighbor had ushered in an era of unrepentant sex noise pollution mere days after moving in.

At first, he'd tried to simply tune out the rhythmic slap of headboards and feminine keening in polite embarrassment. You'd seemed so lovely and sweet upon your first meeting - demurely introducing yourself and offering warm smiles while explaining the little homecooked meals you enjoyed preparing for neighbors were just your way of making friends.

Kenma couldn't deny a part of him looked forward to those casual hallway interactions with your radiant presence each week, eagerly anticipating the casual brush of fingers as you passed off those tupperware containers still warm from the oven. Your mere existence exuded such an effortless warmth and caring aura, it was difficult not to bask in your light.

Which made the mortifying initiation into your...nocturnal hobbies that much more shocking upon its inaugural event.

The first time those gasping cries of bliss punched through the stillness and burbled into Kenma's apartment had nearly made him choke on his Mountain Dew. He distinctly remembered pausing his game, whipping his head around in stunned search of the source, only for a particularly lewd crescendo in your orgasmic bliss to solve the mystery.

Heat erupted across Kenma's face and throat in a scalding wave, making his ears ring with visceral clarity of each panted syllable punching through the walls at that moment. His mind's eye immediately conjured the accompanying visuals almost by autonomic instinct - your form convulsing in throes of rapture, radiant features contorted into a rictus of pleasure as a lean, sweat-slicked man plunged relentlessly betwixt your lewdly parted thighs.

Kenma shook his head feverishly, attempting in vain to dislodge the unsolicited glimpse into your most intimate moments. Yet the more frantically he fought against the sensory assault, the more insistently those lascivious details seemed to burn themselves into his consciousness.

In the weeks since that first incident, he'd settled into a torturous routine of being subjected to your impassioned lovemaking sessions through the thin wall separating your living spaces. Each night more partners, more feverish cries, more lurid noises that seeped into Kenma's subconsciousness and bloomed into vivid erotic imaginings he couldn't quite scrub away no matter how desperately he tried.

It didn't help that you seemed to make zero effort to stifle or restrain your amorous escapades, even in deference to respecting your neighbors' needs for undisturbed rest. If anything, the lack of inhibition and abandon with which you flung yourself into intimate pleasures only further stoked Kenma's lurid fascination.

You, the sweet-natured neighbor who cooked him hearty soups and delivered his mail with a smile, indiscriminately enjoyed night after night of mind blowing sex right next door. What's more, by Kenma's rapidly dwindling calculations, you appeared to have a healthy rotation of lovers filtering through to satiate your endless hungers.

Kenma swallowed thickly against the throb pulsing insistently in his throat as you cried out in trembling euphoria once more, that sultry cry shredding through the thin walls and engulfing his feverish cocoon of rumpled sheets. Try as he might to convince himself otherwise, his overwrought body simply refused to remain indifferent to the live pornographic soundtrack mere feet away.

You always did possess a certain magnetic allure, after all - one that initially drew his curious gaze whenever passing you in the halls. Those effortlessly tousled locks framing your radiant features...the serene, perpetually contented expression that put him in mind of a sated feline...the artful swell of your feminine slopes beneath casual clothing, all lush inviting curves just begging to be mapped and—

Kenma bit back a strangled whimper as your husky exhalations spiked up a fevered octave, punctuated by gruff masculine grunts of exertion in tandem. He could practically see your heaving forms through the drywall - those shapely legs scrambling for purchase against rippling masculine musculature...the frantic undulations of your torsos joined at the hips, driving that thick intrusion deeper with each ravenous surge...

"F-Fuck..." he hissed through gritted teeth, shoving one sweat-dampened hand beneath the elastic waistband of his shorts and fisting his swollen cock with aching desperation.

There was no denying the visceral reality any longer. Not when every punched-out whimper and throaty keen from your direction insistently transfigured itself into lurid flashes of you — gloriously nude, hair wild, curves glistening with a sheen of ecstasy as you coiled around whomever's form currently stretched and claimed your tender passages in long, unhurried strokes.

Kenma bit down harder against his plush lower lip until he tasted copper, frantically pumping his dick in time with the obscene rhythms driving the bedsprings into a squealing cacophony mere feet away. Wanton imaginings swamped his consciousness until he swore those velvet cries and muffled snarls resonated directly in his ringing ears.

His jaw slackened around a soundless howl as release detonated at his core like a cascading eruption, hips jerking in desperation as if seeking to bury himself to the root inside your honeyed embrace. Wave after rippling wave of ecstasy crashed over Kenma's nerve endings, leaving him slick and utterly spent, his harsh panting mingling with the tapering aftershocks of your mutual sated bliss.

At least until the inevitable guilt and shame could ebb back in alongside your even breathing slipping back to repose...

"Nnngh..." Kenma groaned in delirious agony, dragging his ruined palm down his sweat-sheened features in vain hopes of scrubbing away the delicious images. "How the fuck am I ever gonna look you in the eyes again after this...?"

But even as he squeezed his eyes shut against the blistering tides of remorse, Kenma couldn't erase the exquisite sensory memories seared behind his fluttering lashes this time. Of you - his sweet neighbor, his considerate friend - transcending all notions of purity and utterly immolating him upon your pyre of salacious rapture unwittingly night after night...

Kenma jolted awake to the intrusive rapping of knuckles against his front door, grimacing as the foggy vestiges of a mere few hours' rest still clung to his consciousness. He pried open bleary eyes to the dim glow of late afternoon filtering through the drapes - courtesy of another marathon night spent tossing and writhing in his own torment.

Even through the thick haze muffling his senses, the unmistakable scent of heavenly spices and savory aromas tickled his nostrils insistently. Kenma groaned in weary realization, scrubbing his hands through his disheveled hair as he forced himself up onto unsteady feet.

With the crisp recollections of the previous night's indulgent fantasies still playing on an endless loop behind his eyes, the very last person Kenma wanted to confront was the living, breathing catalyst itself currently standing on the other side of that door.

But his rumbling belly betrayed him with an insistent pang, fully aware that only one person could be responsible for the mouthwatering scents currently permeating the hallway. Defeat sagged Kenma's slender shoulders as he resigned himself to padding over and cracking the entrance open - only to freeze like a statue in the threshold.

There you stood in all your radiant, soft-lit glory, an easy smile playing over those plump, perpetually kissable lips that recently starred in such salacious reveries. One of your hands remained raised in preparation for another insistent rap while the other clutched an overladen tupperware dish, no doubt positively brimming with your latest home-cooked exploits.

"Kenma! Good, you're awake!" you chirped in that effortlessly warm cadence of yours, smile only brightening upon drinking in his form. "I was worried I missed you again for our usual weekly drop-off here."

Something about the genuine, guileless delight shimmering in your gaze at that simple prospect robbed Kenma's lungs of oxygen. Despite the erotic symphony still echoing through his shattered psyche from the night before, you reflected nothing but that same compassionate sincerity he'd come to associate with your presence over the months.

A cloaked juxtaposition of your debauched indulgences and this affable persona currently gazing up at him with such open warmth and care in your eyes. Kenma's mouth worked uselessly for a few breaths, utterly disarmed by the ease in which you toggled between those two extreme personas now.

"You...uh, I'm sorry...what?" he managed to stammer at last, feeling the heated rush of mortification prickling up the back of his neck.

Your tinkling laughter in response very nearly made his knees buckle treacherously. "Always so spacey in the afternoons, my sweet neighbor," you teased lightly, leaning closer with unmistakable concern creasing your lovely features. "But you look even more out of it today than usual. Everything okay? Did you sleep alright last night?"

The seemingly innocuous question slapped Kenma like a sucker-punch, flooding him with an onslaught of viscerally lurid recollections: of falling into sweaty, helpless raptures mid-fap session while your ecstatic cries echoed through the walls...of straining at his very limits to shove deeper into the phantom sensation of your honeyed, snug cunt swallowing him up in salacious convulsions...of your glistening, disheveled visage branded behind his fluttering lids while scalding release crested through—

"Hey now," your melodic chiding cut through the spiraling haze, utterly oblivious to the torrent of raunchy fantasies swamping Kenma's consciousness in your presence. "Don't you check out on me yet! I asked if you were sleeping okay."

Before he could marshal his thoughts into any semblance of coherent response, your hand darted out with shocking swiftness. Kenma's breath hitched in his throat as your soft, cool fingertips cradled his jawline with infinite tenderness, angling his stunned gaze towards the scrutiny of your concerned perusal.

Up close, you dominated every iota of his senses in an utterly dizzying assault - the rosy warmth of your exhalations caressing his parted lips...the headier, subtler hints of your feminine fragrance wafting into his flaring nostrils...the molten shimmer of attentiveness flickering behind those depthless irises as you drank in every weary nuance playing out across his features...

"Kenma..." you murmured, lips pursing into an adorable pout as your scrutiny traced the dark hollows of fatigue undoubtedly ringing his eyes. "Have you seriously been sleeping properly at all lately? You look absolutely exhausted right now, sweetheart..."

The unconscious endearment sheered whatever tattered scraps of composure remained within Kenma's enfevered psyche. Something seemed to wrench the air from his constricted lungs in a harsh exhalation, leaving him wheezing against the onslaught of forbidden imaginings your simple concern unleashed in his sex-addled mindscape.

He saw it all in the span of one stuttered breath - your tender expression melting into a lascivious smirk of dark promise...those plush lips parting in a wordless summons as you laced your fingers into his shaggy hair and dragged his stunned countenance lower, lower, until—

"It's...complicated," Kenma rasped, averting his gaze as something hot and mortified blazed in the pit of his gut. He hoped the dim hallway obscured the flush now surely mottling his cheeks. "And kind of...a weird situation, if I'm being totally honest."

You hummed a thoughtful note in clear skepticism, hand finally withdrawing from its cradling posture and allowing Kenma's lungs to expand once more. He greedily gulped down oxygen to sooth the embers of temptation smoldering madly at his core. But even that simple reprieve proved only a momentary salve against the sensual assault you presented.

"So..." Your amber eyes flashed with simmering humor and that familiar playful cadence as you cocked one hip out invitingly, "Since you're clearly being a stubborn pain and won't just tell me what's bugging you, how about you at least invite your friendly neighborhood chef inside for a bit?"

You punctuated the ostensibly innocuous declaration with a not-so-innocent swipe of your tongue over those plush lower lips in a subconscious gesture of pure distraction. But in Kenma's current overheated state, the fleeting indecent flash of tongue and teeth made his insides clench with violent, visceral want.

Images of you sinking to your knees before him in wanton invitation sliced through his psyche like lightning forks of arousal. Of trailing that soft, velvet muscle along the rigid length of his swollen cock with maddening leisure before wrapping those sinful lips around the engorged tip and taking him in to the root with one delirious—

"A-Actually," Kenma bit out roughly, shamefully aware of the increased strain in his cotton shorts now as insistent arousal began taking covetous form. "I'm not so sure that's such a good idea after all..."

Because having you in the same airless space after the lurid reveries plaguing his consciousness all night would only tempt fate beyond his already-strained endurance. Kenma wasn't sure just how much punishment his libido could withstand before something inside of him finally snapped and reshaped their dynamic into unknown, precarious territory.

Yet as your smile took on a touch more crestfallen resignation, a reckless part of Kenma couldn't deny the whisper-soft urge to draw you into his space, just to experience more of your physical proximity up close and personal. To stop simply fantasizing his deepest cravings and finally sample the temptation of you in the flesh consequence be damned...

"Okay, fine..." The assent rasped out before he realized the words had even taken shape. "But only for a little while - I really need to try and recharge after...well, everything lately."

A slight frown creased your brow at his vague yet loaded allusion, but you didn't voice whatever reservations flitted behind your chestnut irises in that moment. Instead, you simply brushed past Kenma's slender form into the dimly lit apartment, immediately allowing your feminine presence and intoxicating fragrance to saturate the air with heady invitation.

He stifled a shuddering inhalation through flared nostrils, resolutely shutting the door behind you before trailing after your wandering exploration. Despite the churning uncertainty and liquid arousal thrumming through every nerve ending, Kenma couldn't deny the illicit thrill singing in his veins at having you so casually inserted into his private space.

After nights of fantasizing his most lurid cravings onto your imagined visage and phantasmal presence, the realization that you were finally here in the flesh within touching distance was almost too potent to withstand. Kenma clenched and flexed his hands at his sides as you drifted like living temptation throughout his living room.

"So," you began over one slender shoulder, expression set in casual curiosity. "What exactly is going on with you, Kenma? Nothing serious I need to call emergency services over I hope?"

He swallowed convulsively around the fragmented keening noises threatening to splinter past his composure at any moment. "N-Not exactly. It's...well..."

Seizing your full regard head-on like a grounding lifeline, Kenma searched those attentive, inquisitive depths for enough courage to simply lay his depraved nocturnal admissions bare. Just come out with the blistering truth of how he'd pleasured himself to exquisite heights imagining you in the throes of passion scant feet away for weeks...

But before the words were even halfway formed in his racing thoughts, the reality of uttering such profanities aloud while drowning in the molten sincerity of your concerned stare short-circuited his ability to vocalize. Terror unlike anything Kenma ever remembered experiencing clamped like a vise around his chest at the very notion of shattering the fragile equilibrium between you both into something impossibly precarious.

Yet you only cocked your head to one side with infinite adorable patience, waiting expectantly for the earth-shattering truth to finally manifest. One perfectly manicured hand rose to habitually tuck a stray lock of silken tresses behind your ear - a subconscious gesture Kenma zeroed in on like a laser sight aimed directly at his spiraling libido.

That same lock tumbled free again moments later, your radiant features arranged in studious attentiveness. Just waiting with those utterly captivating doe eyes blinking slowly for him to finally man up and vent whatever profane confessions roiled at the forefront of his psyche.

"I...it's..." Kenma's mouth shaped the syllables, over and over, only for them to die stillborn on his tongue. Until at last, mounting desperation and frustration with his own cowardice propelled him into a blunt truth that fell like a granite guillotine blade between you both.

"I can't stop jerking off to the sounds of you fucking every goddamn night, okay?!"

Dead, viscous silence choked the airless living room as the last echoes of his guttural admission faded into nothingness. For a small eternity, neither of you so much as twitched a muscle - simply stared at each other across the scant few feet of separation with twin expressions of dawning horror on opposite ends of the spectrum.

A fresh wave of shame swamped his senses at your astute observation being laid so bare between them. At the implication that his own tormented cravings had become all too apparent in your innocent presence as of late. Kenma fleetingly considered simply wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole to escape this fresh torment.

But as you reached out to lay one soothing palm over his twitching knuckles in reassurance, a frisson of bone-deep yearning lanced through Kenma's core like a lightning strike. One undeniable truth roared up from those instinctual reserves of masculine hunger - he no longer possessed the willpower to retreat or dissemble from this tipping point you'd instigated.

Either he severed this infected root between them decisively in the next few moments, or surrendered all lingering control and simply seized what his primal urges had been howling for all this interminable time...

"So I have a proposal for you," he growled out in a rumbling baritone far deeper and more bestial than he'd ever heard himself utter before. "You can either cut the shit with your nightly fuckfests right now and give me some goddamn peace and quiet."

Kenma knew his searing glare alone could sear flesh from bone in that instant. But some unraveling part of him no longer had any compunctions about revealing the full breadth of his ravenous wants to you, even through brutally crass demands. Not when your own perpetually teasing presence and unsolicited carnal offerings had eroded away every ounce of his restraint over time.

However your features remained completely unruffled - not a single flicker of surprise or indignation flickering across those serene features marred only by that taunting shimmer of reflected firelight. As if you'd been awaiting this pivotal confrontation and reckoning for just as long as Kenma had been dreading its inevitability deep down.

At last you leaned forward, closing the already scant distance until your exhalations ghosted across his lips in soft bursts of temptation. "What's the other option, sweet neighbor?" You murmured in a husky, sin-glazed timbre that simultaneously sent red-hot lances of hunger spiking through Kenma's veins.

A shuddering inhale of that inebriating floral fragrance of yours was all it took for the final strands of his control to shred asunder. Kenma's hands lanced forward with utterly zero finesse or restraint remaining, fisting twin handfuls of your disheveled tresses to crash your mouths together in a punishing, open-mouthed clash of tongues and teeth.

You swallowed down his guttural snarl of overwhelming relief and possession like a sacramental offering. Your form melted back against the cushions as Kenma's body instinctively pursued, pinning you amidst a feverish tempest of roving hands and slick, carnal violation marking every slick inch of your succulent mouth in lurid ownership.

Finally, you broke away from the devouring kiss with a breathless gasp that stoked the banked fires consuming Kenma even higher. Your eyelids remained hooded to mere slits, dazed and molten with that same fiery promise that had driven him steadily towards the edge of utter madness these last few weeks.

"Or...?" You prompted with a wrecked rasp, somehow echoing his own thundering hunger even while sprawled out in beautiful disarray beneath him.

"Or..." Kenma paused to swallow another fortifying inhale, letting the lingering wisps of your sweet breath swirling between them only stoke his fearless momentum higher. "You let me be the ONLY one plowing that sweet pussy from now on...whenever and however the hell I want. No more random assholes clogging up the rotation, just me stretching you out night after filthy night."

He punctuated the shameless declaration with a forceful grind of his caged erection against the apex of your thighs, savoring your choked mewl of surprised delight. Part of you never wanted this rapturous, primal joining of forms to ever cease. To remain tangled and desperately intertwined with Kenma's lean, quivering frame forever while he plundered your mouth in deep, ravenous sweeps that stoked molten embers throughout your core.

But another part - that same mischievous, teasing part that found such wicked delight in driving your sweet neighbor to the brink of desperation through the walls each night - couldn't resist prolonging this aching torment just a little further.

With a trembling inhale, you summoned what tattered scraps of willpower remained and inched backwards, severing the sultry clash of lips and tongue with a slick pop. Kenma's eyes remained hooded to mere gunmetal slivers, glazed with a deliriously intoxicating lust that robbed you of the very air in your lungs.

"W-wait..." he rasped in a tone shredded from the intensity of your furious make out session. Those long, agile fingers flexed convulsively against your waist as if to reel you back in against his solid planes.

You pressed a finger to those beautifully swollen lips, feeling another sizzling jolt shudder down your spine at his desperate whine of protest. With monumental effort, you dragged your hooded stare up from the lewd distraction of his parted mouth and found his gaze swimming behind a turbulent sea of yearning and frustration.

"Don't worry, sweet neighbor," you breathed in a husky rasp that had his fingers spasming against your hip with renew fervor. "I'm not running off and leaving you like this...not after finally getting a taste of what I've spent weeks dreaming about..."

Kenma's features tightened imperceptibly, throat clicking in a labored swallow as you allowed your hands to trail from his chiseled jaw down the tensed cords of his neck. You knew those clever fingers would be mapping every whisper-soft tremor rippling beneath your touch in achingly intimate detail even through the lust-drunk haze.

"I just..." You ducked your chin to the side, allowing your hair to spill across the delicate arch of your jaw and expose the tender, perfumed hollow of your throat in a subconscious lure. "I think we could both use a little time to cool off after that mind-blowing make out session, no? Let these urges simmer back up to a full boil while we go about the rest of our evenings..."

Your eyes slanted back up to merge with Kenma's molten, hooded stare. Unconsciously, your tongue slipped out in a slow sweep over your parted, slick lips as you drank in the blatantly rapacious promise flickering behind his simmering regard.

"Then later on tonight...I'm going to slip back into your place and we can finally indulge in all those dirty fantasies for real." The husky promise rippled through the airless living room in a sibilant purr. "And this time...there won't be any walls between us to stifle a single sinful sound, sweet Kenma."

He shuddered violently against your palms, sinewy form going taut like a drawn bow as you confirmed what his devouring stare alone had been silently imploring. The raw, hungry sound that slipped free from between his teeth made your knees buckle treacherously.

Before you could react, Kenma surged forward once more to capture your lips in another drugging, open-mouthed clash. But there existed no coy restraint or building heat in this possessive plundering kiss - only the scaldingly intense desperation of a man who had finally glimpsed his darkest temptations writ flesh and realized he couldn't bear to wait a single second longer.

You whimpered against his savagery, fingers splaying against the hewn slabs of his chest as he tilted your skull back and pillaged your mouth without quarter. His hands roamed across your curves with restless authority, as if mapping each silken hollow and slope to pristine, photographic memory for future reference. By the time Kenma finally relinquished your gasping, bite-swollen lips with a filthy groan, you were delirious from the visceral intensity.

"Tonight," he growled with sub-bass resonance into the damp, musky sanctuary of your throat. Each syllable rumbled through your bones like a full-bodied caress. "I don't care if it's five minutes from now or five hours...you WILL come back again like you promised, babygirl. Are we crystal fucking clear?"

The feral heat radiating off Kenma's hypnotically swaying frame threatened to melt you into a prostrate puddle then and there. You could only swallow and nod in meek, stunned surrender as he searched your features with that ravenous intensity you'd only imagined in the most lurid of your late-night reveries.

At last, he seemed to find whatever confirmation of your compliance he required simmering behind your glazed stare. With one final lingering caress over the rapidly blossoming masterpiece of bruises he'd tenderly sucked into the skin of your throat, Kenma released you with obvious reluctance.

You staggered free on shaky legs, hyper-aware of how intimately disheveled you appeared - ruddy blush staining your cheeks, hair tousled and wild, lips swollen from repeated plundering, and the stickied slickness of arousal undoubtedly glistening between your thighs for anyone to see. Kenma remained framed in the doorway like a stoic obelisk of masculine covetousness refusing to let you leave his sight again until the time was right.

With one final, simmering look over your shoulder, you allowed the wrecked promise of tonight to linger between you like a balmier prelude. Then you turned on shaking heels to retreat, every nerve ending screaming out for the interminable wait to simply be over already.

Because in the smoldering aftermath of everything that had transpired, only one sizzling truth remained perfectly crystallized between you and Kenma at last:

There would be no more barriers separating hungry fantasies from rapturous reality any longer. Only the welcoming, inescapable promise of delirium rapidly rushing to consume you both whole once and for all.

The rest of the evening passed in a feverish blur for Kenma. No matter how he tried to distract himself - games, movies, mindless internet browsing - his thoughts remained consumed by you.

He kept replaying your heated makeout session over and over, body thrumming with echoes of your intoxicating taste and softness pressed against him. The featherlight scratches you'd left along his back in your passion had scorched themselves into his memory.

Most of all, Kenma couldn't stop obsessing over your brazen promise to return that very night, ready to shed any remaining barriers between you. Just imagining your beautiful form slipping through his door, eyes hooded with want, made his throat run dry with anticipation.

As the hours ticked by agonizingly slow, Kenma paced restlessly. He found himself checking the time again and again, willing the luminous numbers to flash closer to midnight...to the threshold of when you might appear on his doorstep once more.

A part of him worried whether you'd actually follow through, or if this had all been an elaborate tease. But your half-lidded gaze during your last searing kiss branded the back of his mind, stoking his patience blessedly.

At last, a little past midnight, Kenma's front door buzzer sounded like a cannon shot in the stillness. His heart leapt into his throat as he vaulted off the couch and raced over, peering through the peephole with bated breath.

There you stood in the dimly lit hallway, silhouette cloaked in a large trench coat that swathed your form from collarbone to ankles. A shiver of mingled excitement and confusion went through Kenma - was this your idea of building suspense?

He swiftly unlatched the door and pulled it open. You greeted him with a coy smile that made his pulse spike, stepping over the threshold and brushing past him into the apartment's shadowed interior.

Kenma's brow furrowed slightly as you strode further inside, still swathed in that oversized coat. Despite looking sinfully alluring sheathed in mystery, a small part of him felt a pang of disappointment that you hadn't shed your outer layers yet in preparation.

Swallowing down the brief uncertainty, he closed and re-locked the door, turning to gently grasp your shoulders from behind. His nose instinctively nuzzled the soft hair at your nape, breathing in your sweet, intoxicating scent.

"Should I...help you out of this?" Kenma murmured huskily into your ear. "I was hoping to pick up where we left off earlier..."

With a soft hum of assent, you reached up to lightly clasp his wandering hands. Then, maintaining that coy, heated eye contact, you shrugged the trench coat off in one smooth motion...

...to reveal your gorgeous form left tantalizingly nude beneath the discarded garment.

Kenma's breath stalled in his lungs as his eyes raked shamelessly over your bare skin, drinking in every lush curve and tantalizing dip finally laid bare before his ravenous stare. You really had come to him with no barriers remaining - in more ways than one.

His palms roved downwards, sliding around to splay across your lower stomach and draw you against his front. Your soft gasp as Kenma's hardness pressed against your backside made his pulse leap with visceral satisfaction.

"Do you like what you see, sweet neighbor?" Your voice dripped like honey, a sensual purr of temptation.

"You have no fucking idea," Kenma growled. His fingertips traced a slow path up the plane of your stomach to cup both breasts in his palms, savoring their weight and plush fullness.

A choked sound slipped from your throat as he teased and rolled your nipples, alternating his grip on your ample flesh. Kenma's lips latched onto the sensitive skin of your neck, kissing and nipping a trail along its length until he reached the fluttering hollow of your pulse point.

The salty-sweet tang of your skin flooded his tongue as he suckled, savoring the way your hips ground back against his erection. One hand slipped away from your breasts to travel downwards, skimming along your supple curves with reverent exploration.

By the time his questing fingertips brushed over your mound, Kenma was throbbing painfully with need. But he wanted to enjoy this moment, to drink his fill of you in the flesh before he claimed what was his.

As if sensing his ravenous intent, you parted your legs invitingly and arched back against his chest. Kenma groaned into your throat, dipping two fingers into the soaked seam of your pussy and coating his digits in your arousal. He spread you open, pressing down on your swollen clit while pumping his fingers in and out. Your whimpers of encouragement made his cock ache, his free hand gripping your hip tightly for support.

"F-Fuck...I've been dreaming about this pussy for weeks," Kenma moaned against your jaw, grinding his clothed erection against your ass. "It feels even better than I imagined."

Your hands rose to wind around the back of his neck, fingers twining into his hair as his deft fingertips plunged deeper and faster. He could feel you starting to tremble, breathy whines slipping from your throat as you arched into his touch.The knowledge that he'd driven you so far so quickly sent a jolt of primal triumph through his chest.

Kenma shifted his hold, sliding his other hand around to the apex of your thighs and sinking his thumb into your dripping core. His palm curled, providing pressure against your engorged clit while he pumped and scissored his digits inside your molten walls. Your spine arched against him, gasping moans echoing in the air as his fingers thrust and rubbed mercilessly.

"Come on, babygirl. You've been a naughty little tease to me for weeks, haven't you?" Kenma growled. "Time for a little punishment."

The added friction against your clit was too much for you to handle. With a strangled cry, your release crashed over you, pussy clenching down on his fingers and soaking his palm. Kenma moaned at the sensation, burying his face into the crook of your neck and breathing deeply as you rode out the waves of ecstasy.

Slowly, his grip eased as you came down, easing his fingers free from your soaked folds. With a groan, Kenma lifted his cum-soaked digits to his mouth and licked them clean, savoring your sweetness. He was so entranced, he didn't notice you had turned to face him until your tongue lapped up the remainder of your arousal, sealing your mouths in a fierce, devouring kiss.

His arms locked around your waist, tugging you flush against his chest. Your lips parted on a sigh, allowing his tongue to plunge inside and share your essence. You tasted exquisite, a heady cocktail of feminine want and salty-sweet arousal that went straight to Kenma's cock.

He backed you into the living room, never breaking the kiss, until the couch hit the backs of your knees. You sank down onto the cushions, dragging him with you. Your thighs parted, allowing Kenma's hips to settle between them. The sudden proximity of his throbbing erection made you moan into his mouth, sending another jolt of pleasure down his spine.

After a few moments, Kenma broke away, panting heavily. He reached up to palm the back of his shirt, shucking it off over his head in a single smooth motion. The sight of your eyes trailing hungrily across his naked chest made his cock twitch, a growl rising from his throat as he dipped his head to nip and lick a fiery path along your throat.

His fingers tugged and yanked at his pants, trying desperately to free his aching erection. At last, Kenma succeeded, kicking the unwanted garment off and wrapping a firm hand around his cock. Your breath hitched as his hardness brushed against your dripping entrance, rubbing the sensitive tip up and down your slit.

Kenma braced one arm above your head, propping himself up so he could drink in your reactions. The other hand gripped his base, guiding his length to your core. With a groan, he slid the crown between your dripping lips, nudging your clitand making you gasp.

"Look at me, babygirl," he demanded, waiting until your eyes met his. "I want to see you as I'm fucking this sweet pussy for the first time."

Your eyelids fluttered, lips parting on a ragged exhale. Kenma smirked, his cock throbbing at the way your expression tightened with desperation and hunger. Slowly, he eased the tip inside, moaning at the exquisite heat and pressure.

"You're mine now, understand?" Kenma growled, eyes burning into yours. "No one else gets to see this pretty pussy, hear those filthy sounds, taste this sweet cunt...just me. Say it."

You nodded, whimpering as his thickness stretched you open. "Just...yours...fuck!"

With a snarl, Kenma thrust the rest of the way in, filling you completely. Your back arched, mouth dropping open on a sharp gasp. You were so tight and wet, he had to fight the urge to spill inside you immediately.

Gritting his teeth, Kenma eased out slowly before thrusting in again. The slide of your slick heat along his cock was sublime, and he knew he wasn't going to last long. He began pumping his hips, savoring the sounds you made as he took you with slow, deep thrusts.

Your hands scrambled along his chest, nails scoring red lines into his skin. Kenma hissed, snapping his hips harder. He was already addicted to the way you reacted to his every move, the way your pussy squeezed his cock and how your eyes never left his.

"Fuck, you’re so hot," Kenma panted, grinding his hips. "Can’t believe I get to fuck you whenever I want, babygirl. Got this tight little cunt all to myself."

Your only reply was a keening whine, body rocking into his as his pace increased. Kenma knew you were getting close, could feel your walls beginning to flutter around him. He was too, his balls already tightening with impending release.

One hand trailed down to rub circles around your clit, eliciting a string of cries and whimpers. Kenma fucked you relentlessly, his free hand reaching up to grab a fistful of your hair. The combination of sensations pushed you over the edge, pussy clenching down hard on his cock and making him hiss.

Kenma groaned as you came, feeling the hot spray of your arousal as it drenched his length and thighs. His hips pistoned faster, chasing his own orgasm as you gasped and writhed beneath him. It didn't take long, not with the way your cunt was practically milking his cock.

With a guttural shout, Kenma came, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down for a sloppy kiss. He kept thrusting, drawing out his orgasm, until finally he had to break away, gasping for breath.

Kenma collapsed on top of you, resting his head on your chest. His arms slid around your waist, pulling you close as his cock softened inside you. You nuzzled his hair, one hand coming up to stroke his sweat-dampened strands.

For several minutes, you remained intertwined like that, basking in the afterglow. Finally, Kenma reluctantly withdrew from your heat, rolling over and tucking you against his side. His hands trailed idly up and down your back, reveling in the softness of your skin.

"So..." You broke the silence first, tilting your head up to look at him. "Same time tomorrow?"

Kenma's lips twitched, a smirk curling at the edges. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm not letting you leave my apartment for the next three days, at the very least."

You raised an eyebrow, though your teasing smile remained firmly in place. "Oh, really? And here I was thinking you were more of the reserved type, sweet neighbor."

"Well...you tend to bring out the worst in me," he retorted, a low purr rumbling through his chest as he drew you closer. "But don't worry. I have every intention of punishing you for all the trouble you've caused."

Kenma could already feel himself growing hard again, his spent cock beginning to thicken once more. You squirmed against him, biting your lip and shivering as his fingers slipped down to trace the soaked seam of your pussy.

"In fact," he murmured, nipping at the delicate shell of your ear, "let's get started on that right now."

[ohproserpine]

lamb to the slaughter

alastor finds heaven kneeling before an exterminator tags. alastor x gn! exterminator! angel reader, religious imagery & symbolism, implied death, blood, dark romance

Alastor holds no reverence for heaven.

He himself was far from holy, his rotten soul resistant to the act of prayer and worship. The humility required to kneel and plead for mercy is an attribute that seems alien to him.

But never before had he beheld such beauty.

Alastor eyes were fixed on you. Before him, you loomed, a majestic creature with pearlescent wings outspread, a radiant halo encircling your horns, and draped in golden robes.

In the grip of your divine gaze, Alastor's thoughts wandered back to the verses he had half-heartedly listened to in the hallowed halls of the church. The utterances of the pastor, the haunting melodies of the choir, and the impassioned prayers fervently uttered by the congregation—all appeared to him as a futile worship. Amidst it all, he remained a solitary figure, impervious to the sanctity of the holy prayers.

Had he known that beauty could materialize into a being such as you, he would have uttered all those holy prayers in your name instead.

"Kneel," you commanded. Something within him seethed, growled, and clawed at his thumping chest.

Despite the tremors in his knees, he feigned composure, sinking to kneel before you. The fabric of his pants tore on the coarse gravel, leaving his knees scraped and bloodied. As he raised his gaze to meet yours, a chilling sensation coursed through him, your heavenly eyes seemingly scorching his skin.

Dimly aware of the pain induced by your blade piercing through muscle and meeting bone, a crazed euphoria enveloped him, numbing the stinging sensation.

Alastor found it somewhat hilarious. Creatures like you, born to worship and embody symbols of holiness, bore wings that were perpetually stained with the richness of cardinal red.

A soft, involuntary groan slipped past the demon's lips as you abruptly yanked the spear from his flesh, forcefully pulling him closer to you. Despite the searing pain, he bit down on his tongue, commanding himself to silence.

"How shameful," your voice cooed, a mellifluous cadence that felt like honey to his ears—soft and warm. Alastor felt the edge of your bloodied spear against his throat, yet he made no move to stop you.

There was nothing heavenly about this, and yet it was the closest he felt to heaven.

What's heaven compared to you anyway?

You moved closer towards him, the spear shifting from his throat, tracing a path toward his jaw before aiming it to strike his head. All the while, Alastor gazed up at you with an expression akin to that of a lamb.

"Beautiful," Alastor spat out, blood seeping from between his teeth. The gleam in his razor-sharp smile held a disturbing charm.

"This praise will not purify you."

His laughter echoed in the air, a breathless and bittersweet symphony that mingled with the metallic tang of his own blood.

Forgive him. Alastor pleaded one last time as you raised the spear high. For he has sinned.

And yet, kneeling before you now, hands bloodied with the golden blood of your kin, he knew he would do it again.

[dee-writes-angst]

DAFFODILS (Chapter One)

FEATURING Eris Vanserra x pregnant!reader

SUMMARY The Spring Court has gone to shit, and while you would normally be able to tolerate it, the new discovery that you were pregnant pushes you to the gates of The Autumn Court and unknowingly into Eris' arms.

CONTENT WARNINGS pregnancy, Eris being a slight douche (you know how it is yall), violence (reader is kicked in the stomach), and mentions of Tampon (Tamlin).

AUTHORS NOTE who's excited for the kick-off of yet another series? I am! Of course, I had to start an Eris series, I love him too much not to! Strap in, darlings, I have a feeling this is going to be a long one.

SERIES MASTERLIST

The once vibrant Spring court had gone to shit, a shadow of its former glory. Tamlin, the once revered and compassionate High Lord, had vanished, abandoning his people to suffer in the decay his negligence had allowed to fester.

Amid the desolation, there were attempts to salvage what remained of the Spring Court. Lucien's name surfaced as one who strove to preserve our home. I recall his desperate sacrifice on Calanmai, offering himself to Ianthe in a futile bid to rescue us. He still occasionally visits, perhaps clinging to a hope that he might stumble upon signs of revival, our High Lord restored to his former benevolence. Yet each return only reinforces the stark reality of our decline, leaving him unsurprised by the sight of our dwindling realm.

And now, here I stand, just beyond the borders of the Autumn Court, clad in nothing but the ragged remnants of my escape, imploring the impassive sentries to grant me sanctuary within their walls. They offer no response, their stoic countenances unmoved as I plead and weep at their feet.

In my disheveled state, I must present a pitiful sight—my attire threadbare and stained, my once-glamorous countenance marred by streaks of dirt and smudged cosmetics, my limbs adorned with bruises like macabre adornments.

As I teeter on the brink of desperation, a voice cuts through the stillness, emerging from the depths of the forest to my right. The guards snap to attention at its sound, their posture stiffening even further, if such a thing were possible, in deference to its commanding presence.

"What is the meaning of this?" The voice, smooth as silk and sharp as a blade, belonged to a man with cascading locks of fiery hair, who strode forth from the underbrush with an air of regal authority.

Gods, he was a vision to behold. Despite the earthy stains marring his attire and the tousled state of his tunic sleeves, he exuded an otherworldly allure.

"A mere denizen of the Spring Court, attempting to beg her way into our domain, my lord," one of the guards grumbled, offering a curt bow before callously nudging me aside with his boot. I winced as the blow landed squarely in my stomach.

"And what, pray tell, do you think you are doing, you imbecile!" The fiery-haired man's voice dripped with disdain as he strode forward, confronting the offending guard with palpable fury. "Can you not discern her condition, you fool? She carries life within her."

My heart lurched as I instinctively cradled my abdomen, a protective gesture born of maternal instinct. Though every fiber of my being yearned to retaliate against the guard's callousness, I forced myself to breathe deeply, refusing to succumb to the animalistic urges that society expected of Spring Court members in these desperate times.

"Are you alright?" the man inquired, his amber eyes ablaze with a captivating mix of concern and authority, their gaze so intense that it stole the very air from my lungs.

"I'm… I'm fine," I managed to utter, brushing aside the tangled strands of hair obscuring my face and inhaling deeply to steady my frayed nerves.

"I must apologize for the behavior of my soldier. Rest assured, appropriate measures will be taken, my lady," the man assured me, his smile radiant as he inclined his head with graceful deference. His charm nearly brought a wry laugh to my lips.

"No need for such formalities," I replied weakly, the weight of my displaced status as a refugee gnawing at my throat like a persistent ache. But I steeled myself with the thought of my unborn child, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. "I am no longer a lady—well, not in the traditional sense, anyway."

"How so?" the man persisted, his expression a blend of curiosity and genuine concern, prompting me to draw my arms tighter around myself.

"I find it quite audacious for someone whose name I don't even know to ask such personal questions," I retorted, feigning a hint of indignation that rang hollow even to my own ears.

"Fair point," he conceded with a charming grin, though his adherence to formality still grated on my nerves. "Allow me to rectify that oversight. My name is Eris. Eris Vanserra, Heir to the Autumn Court," he declared, and I felt a strange mixture of relief and weariness wash over me at his introduction.

Eris. Lucien had spoken sparingly of his older brother during his time in the Spring Court, but whenever he did, a profound sense of affection tinged with melancholy colored his words. I shook myself from my reverie, extending a hand in a gesture of polite acknowledgement as I reciprocated with my own name. Eris repeated my name softly, testing it on his tongue, and my heart twinged at the striking resemblance in mannerism between him and Lucien, one so distant yet familiar, the other painfully close.

"Now," Eris began, his hands making a smooth, sweeping gesture that hinted at his readiness to delve deeper into the matter at hand, "what brings you to the borders of the Autumn Court, my lady?"

"The Spring Court is…" My voice faltered, and I let out a weary sigh, my hand instinctively resting on my still-flat stomach for comfort.

"It's gone to shit," he finished for me, his smirk sharp but not unkind.

"Well, I wouldn't have phrased it quite so bluntly, but yes," I responded, my fingers tracing small circles over my abdomen. "That place and its ruler are no fit environment for a child. Considering the proximity of your court, I was hoping I might find a new beginning here."

"What about the father?" Eris inquired, one eyebrow—a mirror image of Lucien's—arching skeptically.

I clear my throat awkwardly and look at my well-worn shoes. How does one tell the Heir to the Autumn Court that they are pregnant with his youngest brother's babe? How does one also explain how he is mated to another female, that they knew as soon as that brother found out about said babe, he would give up all hope to find his true mate in order to be there for his child?

"Not in the picture," I manage to say, my voice faltering slightly as I reach up to scratch the back of my neck, a gesture betraying my discomfort.

Eris hums, a low, thoughtful sound that vibrates with suspicion, his striking eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes my uneasy demeanor. The weight of his gaze feels like it could peel back the layers of my hastily constructed defenses, compelling me to confront truths I'd rather leave unspoken. Eris's scrutinizing gaze doesn't waver, and the silence stretches taut between us like a bowstring. "Not in the picture," he echoes thoughtfully, each word heavy with the promise of unasked questions.

I nod, feeling the weight of the moment settling around us. The air in the forest seems to hold its breath, the usual whispers of leaves and distant calls of woodland creatures falling into a hushed reverence. "And you must understand, my lord, that my child is my utmost priority," I assert with unwavering resolve, emphasizing his title with a hint of disdain, as if challenging the very foundations of our unequal stations.

The guards stationed behind me draw in sharp, anticipatory breaths, seemingly prepared for their lord to mete out swift retribution for my boldness. I steel myself against the expected blow, a silent rehearsal of defiance.

Yet, the expected strike does not materialize. Instead, Eris regards me with what could only be described as admiration. His gaze, intense and calculating, appraises me not as a threat, but as a formidable presence in my own right.

"Well, little fox," he begins, his voice carrying a playful undertone that belies the depth of his contemplation. He strokes his chin thoughtfully, his fingers tracing the lines of his jaw as if to physically underline his ponderings. "It appears you've presented quite the compelling argument for yourself here."

The use of "little fox" — a term perhaps meant to denote cunning and resilience — sparks a flicker of amusement within me, mixed with a surge of cautious optimism. His demeanor suggests a blend of challenge and respect, hinting at a dynamic that could evolve beyond mere formalities or supplications. This man before me is not just the heir to a court; he is a strategist weighing his next move.

"You seek shelter for yourself and the babe?" Eris inquires with a hint of slyness, as if to subtly test my resolve, though it's a point I've already made abundantly clear.

"Indeed," I retort sharply, refusing to waver under the weight of his penetrating gaze.

"Then shelter you shall have," he declares, pivoting on his heel to fix the guards with a stern glare. "You will allow her passage," he commands, his tone uncompromising. The guards, obedient to their lord's decree, quickly acquiesce, parting to allow me entry with a mere flick of Eris's wrist.

The heady scent of spices and autumnal freshness assaults my senses as I approach the threshold, beckoning me forward with its tantalizing allure. It's as if the very essence of this court implores me to embrace my true purpose, to seize control of my destiny without hesitation. The boldness of it all catches me off guard, stirring a sense of rebellion that courses through my veins like wildfire.

Pausing at the threshold, I find myself suspended between the tranquility of the wilderness behind me and the vibrant chaos of the court ahead. I hesitate, grappling with the weight of the choices that lie before me.

Eris slows his stride beside me, as if attuned to my uncertainty, and extends his arm—an offering both courteous and suggestive. His demeanor exudes confidence and assurance, as if he expects me to surrender to his lead without question.

But I refuse to yield to the expectations of courtly decorum. Chin held high, I meet his gaze with unwavering resolve, ignoring the disheveled state of my attire as I assert my independence. My feet remain firmly planted, refusing to advance until I am ready, on my own terms.

Eris's arm lingers in the air for a moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his features at my defiance. His amber eyes search mine, silently probing, yet beneath the scrutiny, I detect a glimmer of curiosity and… respect.

"I am quite capable of managing on my own," I declare, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within me.

His expression softens, and he nods, gracefully retracting his arm. "As you wish," he concedes, gesturing for me to take the lead as we finally step through the threshold together.

The walk through the streets of Autumn was like stepping into a painting come to life. The cobblestone pathways wound gracefully between quaint buildings adorned with intricate carvings and vibrant splashes of ivy. Overhead, colorful banners fluttered in the gentle breeze, their designs depicting scenes of seasonal splendor and courtly festivities.

Stands and stalls lined the streets, each one a miniature wonderland of treasures waiting to be discovered. From intricately woven tapestries to gleaming trinkets and baubles, the offerings were as diverse as they were captivating. Merchants called out to passersby in melodious voices, their wares displayed with care and pride.

The smells that wafted through the air were a symphony of sensory delights. Spices mingled with the scent of freshly baked bread, their fragrances intermingling in a tantalizing dance that made my mouth water. Roasted chestnuts crackled and popped over open fires, their warm, nutty aroma floating on the breeze alongside the sweet perfume of ripe fruit and fragrant flowers.

Eris's sudden change in direction pulled me from my reverie, my gaze following his lead as we approached a magnificent structure nestled within the heart of the Autumn Court. The Forest House loomed before us, its grandeur and mystique commanding attention as we drew nearer.

Surrounded by a wrought iron gate, the house stood as a bastion of elegance amidst the bustling streets. Tall trees swayed gently in the breeze, their branches reaching out to embrace the ancient structure with a sense of reverence. Vines climbed the walls, their verdant tendrils weaving intricate patterns against the weathered stone.

The sight of the Forest House sent a shiver down my spine, a visceral reaction to the aura of power and mystery that seemed to emanate from its very core. It was as if the house held secrets untold, whispering tales of bygone days and forgotten legends to those who dared to listen.

"Wait!" I called out, the urgency in my voice halting Eris in his tracks. His steps faltered, and he turned to face me, a glint of amusement dancing in the depths of his eyes. The sunlight filtering through the canopy overhead cast dappled shadows across his features, lending an air of intrigue to his already enigmatic presence.

"Yes?" he inquired, his voice smooth and tinged with playful curiosity, his smirk hinting at secrets hidden just beneath the surface.

"What's going to happen to me? Where will I stay?" I blurted out, the fierce confidence I had summoned earlier dissipating like morning mist in the face of uncertainty. Nervously, I began to pick at my nails, the weight of the unknown pressing down upon me like a heavy cloak.

Eris regarded me with a knowing glint in his eyes, as if he had anticipated my question long before I had voiced it. "You will stay with me, of course," he replied simply, his voice carrying an air of nonchalance that belied the gravity of his words. There was a subtle confidence in his demeanor, a quiet assurance that spoke of his authority within the court.

I recoiled at his casual response, a surge of apprehension coursing through me. "But what about Beron? Won't he object to having a… a lowborn in his household?" I ventured cautiously, the weight of his father's disapproval looming like a specter in the back of my mind.

"Nonsense," Eris scoffed, his arms crossing over his chest in a dismissive gesture. "You are now a member of this court, and given your condition," he added with a subtle nod towards my abdomen, "it is only fitting that you reside in more suitable accommodations." His words were tinged with a hint of defiance, a silent challenge to anyone who would dare question his authority.

Despite his reassurances, doubt gnawed at the edges of my mind, uncertainty clouding my thoughts like a thick fog. "Absolutely not!" I protested vehemently, a surge of protectiveness coursing through me as I instinctively placed a hand over my stomach, as if to shield my unborn child from the absurdity of Eris's suggestion. "I refuse to stay in your chambers, Eris. It's… it's utterly preposterous."

Eris's eyebrow lifted slightly, his gaze holding a hint of amusement mixed with something darker. "Stubborn, aren't we?" he remarked, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "But if you prefer to sleep on the streets, far be it from me to stand in your way."

His words, though seemingly casual, carried a sharp edge that hinted at the depth of his cunning. It was a subtle reminder of his position of power, a reminder that I was at his mercy whether I liked it or not.

I bristled at his thinly veiled threat, my jaw clenching as I met his gaze with a glare of my own. "You wouldn't dare," I challenged, though a flicker of uncertainty danced behind my eyes.

Eris's smirk widened, the glint in his amber eyes turning predatory. "Try me," he replied, his tone dripping with promise and menace in equal measure.

With a frustrated huff, I reluctantly relented, realizing that I was in no position to defy him. "Fine," I conceded through gritted teeth, my hand slipping from my stomach to clench into a fist at my side. "But don't expect me to thank you for it."

Eris's smirk softened into a smirk, his gaze lingering on me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. "Who said anything about gratitude?" he mused, his voice low and husky. "I'm merely extending a courtesy to a fellow refugee."

His words were laced with sarcasm, a reminder that his generosity came with strings attached. It was a stark contrast to the charming facade he wore, a glimpse of the ruthlessness that lay beneath.

I swallowed hard, a bitter taste rising in the back of my throat as I followed him towards the Forest House. It was clear that my time in the Autumn Court would be far from easy, but as I glanced back at the crumbling ruins of the Spring Court behind me, I knew that I had no other choice.

As we reached the grand doors of the Forest House, Eris turned to me with a smirk. "Welcome to your new home, little fox," he remarked, his tone dripping with irony. "Try not to get too comfortable."

My brows furrowed at his words, suspicion creeping into my mind. "What's the catch?" I asked warily, narrowing my eyes at him.

Eris chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. "Though I do have one condition," he said, his smirk widening into a grin.

"And what is that?" I asked, a sinking feeling settling in the pit of my stomach.

"You must walk with me once a day for the duration of your stay," Eris declared, his tone teasing yet firm.

My jaw dropped in disbelief. "You're joking," I exclaimed, disbelief evident in my voice.

Eris's grin widened, his amber eyes dancing with amusement. "Do I look like I'm joking?" he retorted, his tone challenging.

I narrowed my eyes at him, a surge of defiance rising within me. "This is ridiculous," I protested, shaking my head in disbelief. "I won't be your captive audience."

Eris's expression softened, a hint of something unfamiliar flickering in his eyes. "It's not about being captive," he said softly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Consider it… a chance to explore the court, to clear your mind. Besides," he added with a smirk, "I could use the company."

I bristled at his suggestion, my pride warring with my better judgment. "And if I refuse?" I challenged, crossing my arms over my chest.

Eris's smirk widened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Then you'll miss out on some truly breathtaking views," he replied, his tone teasing yet earnest.

I sighed in frustration, realizing that I was fighting a losing battle. "Fine," I relented, though the words tasted like ash on my tongue. "But don't expect me to enjoy it."

Eris's grin widened into a smirk, his eyes alight with amusement. "Oh, I have a feeling you'll come to enjoy it more than you think," he remarked cryptically, before turning to lead the way into the Forest House.

As Eris escorted me to the grand Forest House, his steps were measured, exuding an air of regal confidence that was unmistakably his. His fiery locks seemed to dance with each movement, and his amber eyes held a glint of mischief, hinting at the cunning that lay beneath his charming exterior.

Upon entering my chambers, Eris's gaze swept over the room with a critical eye, a subtle smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "I trust the accommodations meet with your approval, my lady?" he inquired, his voice smooth as honey but tinged with a hint of sarcasm.

I nodded, unable to suppress a smirk of my own at his thinly veiled jest. "They're quite lovely, thank you," I replied, matching his playful tone with one of my own.

Eris's smirk widened into a grin, his amusement evident in the curve of his lips. "Excellent," he remarked, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than strictly necessary before turning away to survey the room once more.

As I explored my new surroundings, I couldn't help but notice Eris's watchful gaze following my every move. It was as if he were sizing me up, gauging my reactions to the opulence that surrounded us. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to him than met the eye, a depth of character hidden behind his charming facade.

Spotting the single daffodil on the table near the window, I couldn't suppress a chuckle at the sight. It was a quintessentially Eris gesture—playful yet meaningful, a subtle reminder of our earlier exchange. I picked up the note beside it, the elegant script a testament to Eris's attention to detail.

"I will be seeing you real soon, little fox. Wouldn't want you slacking off on our daily walks now, would we?" the note read, the teasing tone perfectly in line with Eris's mischievous nature. I couldn't help but smile at his audacity, the unspoken challenge sparking a flicker of excitement within me.

Setting the note back down, I turned to find Eris watching me with a knowing smirk, his amber eyes alight with amusement. "I take it you approve of my choice of decor?" he quipped, the smirk widening into a grin as he met my gaze.

I rolled my eyes playfully, unable to suppress a laugh at his antics. "It's certainly… unique," I replied, the hint of sarcasm in my tone mirroring his own.

Eris chuckled softly, a sound that sent shivers down my spine. "I'm glad to hear it," he replied, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than strictly necessary before turning away to hide the flush that crept across his cheeks.

TAGLIST

@purple-writer8 @defnotlucienvanserra @cherry-cin @julesofvolterra @mirandasidefics @mandziaaa @lilah-asteria @littlestw01f @skylarkalchemist @babypeapoddd

[novaursa]

To Win a Princess (as one)

- Summary: Once you come of age, the realm seeks to curry the King's favor once more by seeking a hand of his younger daughter. You. 

- Paring: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous chapter: the eclipse of the alliance

- Next part: a gift of fire

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The Great Sept of Baelor is resplendent, every stone and column adorned in the colors of House Targaryen and House Lannister. Red and gold banners drape from the high arches, interwoven with shimmering silver threads, casting an ethereal glow beneath the light of hundreds of candles. The scents of lavender and myrrh fill the air, mingling with the soft murmur of noble voices and the hushed reverence of those gathered.

At the center of it all, you stand beside Tyland, your hands joined, facing the High Septon. Your gown flows in layers of crimson silk and delicate gold embroidery, each thread catching the light as you move. A delicate circlet of dragon-inspired filigree rests on your head, glinting with the same fire as the rubies that adorn Tyland’s collar. He stands tall and composed beside you, his Lannister red cloak draped proudly over his shoulders, the lion of his House embroidered in striking gold against his back.

King Viserys, seated on a dais with a commanding view of the ceremony, watches with a warm, contented expression that you haven’t seen in some time. The weariness usually present in his face seems softened by pride and happiness, his eyes shining as he observes this union he so clearly supports.

Next to him, Rhaenyra’s gaze is radiant as she watches you both, her smile broad, her posture relaxed as she holds Laenor’s arm lightly. She exchanges the occasional meaningful glance with Harwin Strong, who stands near the edge of the gathered guests. Her glances are discreet, but there’s a warmth and anticipation in her gaze each time her eyes meet his, adding an undercurrent of intrigue and joy to the scene.

In contrast, Queen Alicent sits stiffly beside Viserys, her expression polite but guarded, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She is dressed in her traditional Hightower greens, yet the vibrant reds and golds of House Targaryen and House Lannister dominate the Sept, making her seem more an observer than a participant in the celebration. Beside her, Otto Hightower looks even more uncomfortable, his gaze wary as he takes in the sea of red and gold, a color scheme that seems to shadow the greens of House Hightower entirely. His face is impassive, but his clenched jaw betrays his unease.

The High Septon’s voice rises in solemn cadence, reciting the ancient vows, his tone reverberating through the Sept as he lifts his arms to bless the union.

“Today,” the Septon intones, “we witness a bond forged not only in duty but in loyalty—a union that joins two noble Houses in service to the realm. May the fire of House Targaryen and the strength of House Lannister become one, a beacon of unity and strength in these uncertain times.”

He turns to Tyland, his gaze stern but benevolent. “Lord Tyland of House Lannister, do you swear to honor and cherish the Princess Y/N, to protect her and hold her above all others?”

Tyland’s gaze never wavers as he meets the Septon’s eyes, his voice clear and unwavering. “I swear it.”

The Septon then turns to you, his expression softened, as though recognizing the unique weight of your choice. “Princess Y/N of House Targaryen, do you vow to stand beside Lord Tyland, to honor and cherish him, to bring strength to this union as both Targaryen and Lannister?”

You hold Tyland’s gaze, feeling the depth of your love and commitment reflected in his eyes, and your voice is filled with quiet conviction as you reply, “I swear it.”

The Septon gestures for Tyland to take the crimson and gold cloak resting nearby. Tyland lifts it, draping it over your shoulders with reverence, symbolizing the joining of your Houses. The cloak settles over your gown, its weight warm and comforting as it rests upon you, and a murmur of approval ripples through the gathered nobles, their voices hushed with admiration.

The Septon raises his arms, his voice resonating through the Sept. “By the gods, old and new, I proclaim this union sealed. May it bring peace, prosperity, and strength to the realm.”

A chorus of applause fills the Sept, the nobles and guests rising to their feet in celebration as Tyland turns to you, his gaze filled with pride and affection. He takes your hands, pulling you close, and as tradition allows, he leans down, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that is both tender and full of promise.

The applause swells, and as you pull apart, you find yourself smiling broadly, your heart brimming with joy. Tyland’s hand finds yours once more, his grip steady, as you turn to face the gathered court together.

Viserys rises from his seat, lifting his goblet in a toast, his voice carrying through the crowd with a vigor that surprises even you. “To House Targaryen and House Lannister, united in loyalty and strength! May this bond be a beacon for all of Westeros!”

The guests echo his toast, raising their goblets in unison, and the hall fills with the warmth of shared celebration. Rhaenyra raises her own goblet, her eyes meeting yours as she offers you a smile full of pride and sisterly affection. Beside her, Laenor toasts as well, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

Alicent, however, raises her goblet with restraint, her smile polite but strained, while Otto remains composed but tense, clearly uneasy with the magnitude of the Lannister presence and the strength of your House’s new alliance.

As the ceremony concludes, Tyland leans down, his voice a quiet murmur in your ear. “We did it, my love. Against all odds, we’re here.”

You smile, a quiet joy filling you as you whisper back, “We’ll face whatever comes.”

Hand in hand, you step forward, joined not only by duty but by choice, as the new union of House Targaryen and House Lannister is solidified before all of Westeros.

The Great Hall is transformed into a vibrant sea of color and celebration, the tables laden with a lavish feast in honor of your union. Music fills the air, the lively notes of lutes and harps accompanied by the laughter and cheer of noble guests who have gathered from across the realm. The wine flows freely, filling goblets with rich reds and golden ambers, and the scents of roasted meats, spiced fruits, and freshly baked bread drift through the hall, mingling with the hum of voices.

You sit beside Tyland at the head table, feeling the warmth of his presence at your side as guests approach one after another to offer their congratulations. Lord Jason Lannister is among the first to approach, his usual confident grin even more pronounced as he claps Tyland on the shoulder with a hearty laugh.

"Tyland, brother!" Jason exclaims, his voice carrying over the music. "You've done it, haven’t you? Tied yourself to the greatest House in the realm. Our House couldn't be prouder."

He turns to you, his gaze respectful but glinting with the charm that marks every Lannister. "Princess, you’ve chosen wisely. I’ve no doubt Tyland will be the most loyal and dedicated of husbands."

You smile, inclining your head graciously. "Thank you, Lord Jason. I am honored to join your family, and I look forward to what our Houses can achieve together."

Martyn Lannister, standing beside Jason, adds his own good wishes, though his tone is softer, more sincere. "You both have the support of the Westerlands. This union is a true strength, a symbol of what loyalty and alliance can build." He bows slightly, his gaze warm. "May the future bring you both joy and prosperity."

Tyland nods appreciatively, exchanging a look of quiet pride with his cousins. "Thank you, Jason, Martyn. Your support means more than I can say. Together, we’ll bring honor to both Houses."

As they depart, other lords and ladies approach, each offering their own blessings and toasts. Their voices blend together in a chorus of goodwill, though you catch glimmers of ambition and curiosity in some of their eyes—an unspoken acknowledgment of the power your union represents.

However, amidst the sea of well-wishers, a familiar figure makes his way forward, cutting through the crowd with his usual self-assured stride. Daemon stands before you both, his expression one of casual amusement, though you can see the flicker of irritation in his eyes.

“Well, niece,” Daemon says smoothly, his tone carrying an edge of sarcasm, “you’ve truly outdone yourself with this match.” His gaze shifts to Tyland, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “A lion among dragons. It’s almost poetic, isn’t it?”

You meet his gaze evenly, refusing to rise to his provocation. “I think it’s fitting, Uncle. Tyland and I have found strength in each other. Isn’t that what family is supposed to be?”

Daemon’s smile turns sharp, his eyes glinting with a challenge. “Perhaps. Though I’d have thought you might choose a Targaryen over a Lannister. Someone who understands the fire in our blood.”

Tyland’s grip on your hand tightens slightly, though his expression remains calm as he meets Daemon’s gaze. “I assure you, Prince Daemon, I understand what it means to stand with House Targaryen. And I have every intention of honoring that.”

Daemon’s smirk widens, though there’s a faint bitterness to it as he nods. “So you say.” He casts one last look at you, a mixture of resentment and reluctant admiration flickering in his gaze. “May you both find what you seek, then.”

You incline your head, offering a polite but dismissive smile. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Daemon lingers for a moment longer before turning away, his expression dark as he melts back into the crowd. You let out a quiet sigh, feeling the tension ease as Tyland’s arm slips around your waist, grounding you in the warmth of his presence.

Tyland leans close, murmuring softly, “You handled him well.”

You smile, your fingers brushing his hand. “I’ve had practice.”

Before either of you can say more, the music shifts to a lively tune, signaling the beginning of the dances. Tyland rises, extending his hand to you with a faint smile. “Shall we, my lady?”

You take his hand, feeling the thrill of the moment as he leads you to the center of the hall. The crowd parts, their eyes following you with admiration and curiosity as you come together, your hands finding their place, your movements instinctively synchronized. The music swells, and the two of you begin to dance, moving gracefully across the floor in a swirl of red and gold.

As you twirl in Tyland’s arms, the hall seems to fade away, leaving only the rhythm of the dance and the warmth in his gaze. The rest of the world feels distant, even the scrutiny of the court reduced to a faint whisper. Here, in his arms, you feel truly at peace, the strength of your union tangible in every step, every glance.

As the dance continues, you catch sight of Larys Strong standing in a shadowed corner, his gaze fixed on you both with a calculating intensity. He watches in silence, his expression unreadable, though you sense he is cataloging every detail, every move, with a quiet, unnerving interest. But as you turn back to Tyland, the weight of Larys’s gaze slips away, unimportant in the face of the joy you feel in this moment.

Tyland pulls you close, his voice a low murmur as he spins you gracefully. “Let them look, let them wonder. We have nothing to hide, and nothing to fear.”

You smile, pressing your hand against his as you move in perfect harmony. “Let them,” you agree softly. “Together, we are stronger than any of their doubts.”

The music swells to a crescendo, and as the final note rings out, Tyland dips you, his gaze locked with yours, filled with affection and pride. Applause erupts around you, the lords and ladies cheering as you rise, still entwined in each other’s arms.

In this moment, surrounded by admiration and the blessings of your union, you feel truly unstoppable—unshaken by the whispers, unbothered by the watchful eyes. For now and always, you and Tyland stand united, unbreakable.

Otto Hightower stands near the edges of the hall, observing the festivities with a calculating gaze. His expression is reserved, his thoughts hidden behind the impassive mask he wears so well. Beside him, Alicent’s gaze is sharp, her lips pressed into a tight line as she watches you and Tyland dance at the center of the hall, your figures close and moving in perfect harmony. She catches Ser Criston Cole’s eye, and a subtle look passes between them—a shared understanding, a quiet but mutual disdain for the scene unfolding before them.

Alicent lets out a low sigh, leaning closer to her father. “They are fortunate,” she murmurs, her tone edged with a trace of bitterness, “fortunate that Viserys allowed this… farce of a marriage to cover up their urges.”

Otto raises an eyebrow, glancing at his daughter with a hint of curiosity. “Urges, you say?”

Alicent’s gaze remains fixed on you and Tyland, her expression calculating as her eyes narrow slightly. “Oh, come now, Father. Just look at them—how closely they’re dancing, how freely they move together. It’s painfully obvious.” Her tone drips with restrained disdain as she watches you laugh softly, Tyland’s hand resting securely at your waist.

Otto’s gaze darkens slightly, his brow furrowing. “You’re suggesting… they’ve already consummated their union?”

Alicent’s lips curve into a tight, humorless smile. “Of course. A blind man could see it. They’ve shared their intimacy long before the vows were exchanged. And now they’re basking in it for all to see, believing themselves untouchable.” She pauses, her gaze hardening. “One wonders how they’ll endure the shame of the wedding night when their secret is out for all to see.”

Otto’s expression remains unreadable, though a subtle shift in his posture betrays a hint of discomfort at her words. “Alicent, that is a serious accusation,” he says quietly. “Such claims could damage both their reputations.”

Alicent’s gaze doesn’t waver, her tone cold. “The proof will be plain enough when the night is over, Father. When the princess is revealed as anything but innocent, and there is no… proof to present of their union.” She glances at him, her voice laced with quiet satisfaction. “Let them face the consequences of their indiscretion. They believe themselves above reproach, but the court will see them for what they truly are.”

Otto’s gaze flickers between Alicent and the couple dancing at the center of the hall, his mind turning over the implications of her words. The closeness between you and Tyland, the familiarity, the comfort—it all aligns with Alicent’s suspicions, and he can’t help but feel a trace of unease at the thought. But he tempers his reaction, speaking in a measured tone.

“Such matters are delicate, Alicent,” he replies quietly. “The King is pleased with this match, and any challenge to it could have consequences for us all.”

Alicent’s expression tightens, a hint of frustration flashing in her eyes. “I understand the need for caution, Father. But the Lannisters’ influence is growing unchecked, and Tyland’s hold over the princess only strengthens it. If their indiscretion is exposed, it may yet serve as a means to curb their power. Shame can be a powerful weapon.”

Otto nods slowly, his gaze contemplative. “Perhaps. But we must tread carefully, Alicent. Any misstep could turn the King’s favor against us.” He pauses, glancing at her with a note of caution. “And remember, our duty is to the realm. Personal grievances cannot outweigh the greater good.”

Alicent’s expression remains resolute, though a flicker of frustration lingers in her eyes. “Of course, Father. But sometimes, the realm’s interests and our personal concerns are one and the same.” She glances back toward the dancing couple, her gaze hardening. “Let them enjoy their moment of triumph. Soon enough, the truth will cast its shadow over their celebration.”

The Great Hall thrums with energy, the laughter and clinking of goblets growing louder as the night stretches on. With the wine flowing freely and spirits high, a rowdy chant starts to rise from the guests: “Bedding! The bedding ceremony!”

The lords and ladies cheer and laugh, some already standing, eager to accompany the bride and groom to their separate chambers for the traditional send-off. Tyland glances at you with a mixture of amusement and subtle discomfort, his hand gripping yours as he prepares to stand his ground. The crowd begins to surge forward, a few bold knights moving to escort him, while a group of young noblewomen eagerly eye you, hands extended to guide you away.

Before they can reach you, however, Rhaenyra rises from her seat, raising her goblet and her voice, the sound of her laughter cutting through the crowd’s rowdy calls.

“Lords, ladies!” Rhaenyra calls, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she glances your way, offering you a sly wink. “While I know the customs of Westeros hold great appeal, Targaryen traditions are… quite different.” Her gaze sweeps over the hall, her presence commanding as she continues. “Rather than a bedding, we shall escort the princess and Lord Tyland to the Dragonpit!”

There’s a brief pause, the hall falling into silence as the guests exchange curious glances. Rhaenyra smiles, her voice lifting confidently. “Tonight, my sister will settle her husband on dragonback, as is fitting for a princess of House Targaryen.”

The guests break into murmurs of surprise and excitement, some looking on with admiration, others with thinly veiled unease. At the head of the table, King Viserys beams with pride, his eyes warm as he watches his daughters. “Yes!” he exclaims, his voice carrying over the crowd. “Let her ride with her lord on dragonback! It is an honor most fitting for my daughter, a Targaryen princess.” His gaze shifts to you, and there is a proud, almost protective glint in his eyes. “No need for crude traditions tonight. She deserves far more.”

Nearby, Daemon lounges with his usual irreverent smirk, his eyes glittering with a mixture of amusement and mischief. “A bold choice, indeed,” he says, raising his goblet lazily. He catches Tyland’s eye, the faintest flicker of challenge there as he chuckles, “I do hope you’ve a strong enough grip, Lord Tyland. It’s quite a drop from dragonback.”

Tyland, unflinching, meets Daemon’s gaze, offering a polite but firm smile. “I have every confidence in my new bride’s guidance, Prince Daemon. She has assured me I’ll be safe in her hands.”

Daemon’s smirk widens, though he merely inclines his head, an air of barely concealed amusement lingering in his expression. “We shall see, then,” he says, his voice carrying a hint of sardonic pleasure.

Across the hall, Queen Alicent rises slowly, her expression restrained yet clearly disapproving as she glances from Viserys to the lords around them. “Your Grace,” she begins, her tone calm but laced with concern. “The bedding ceremony is a respected tradition, rooted in the customs of the Faith. Perhaps we might honor it, as is expected in the eyes of the gods.”

Viserys’s smile fades slightly as he turns to Alicent, his gaze sharpening. “The Faith has no hold over House Targaryen, Alicent,” he replies, a note of finality in his tone. “My daughter is a dragon. She deserves a wedding night worthy of her heritage, not a spectacle for others’ amusement.”

Alicent’s mouth tightens, though she inclines her head respectfully. “Of course, Your Grace,” she murmurs, though a flicker of frustration crosses her face as she glances around the hall. Some of the lords nod in reluctant agreement, but others, particularly those aligned with the Hightowers, exchange murmurs of dissent.

Rhaenyra, ever attuned to the mood of the room, raises her goblet once more, her voice bright and commanding as she smiles toward you and Tyland. “Let us celebrate in true Targaryen fashion, then!” She casts a quick, conspiratorial glance your way, her pride evident as she speaks. “Tonight, we honor the strength of House Targaryen—and the courage of Lord Tyland.”

The guests raise their goblets in response, the hall erupting in cheers as they toast your union. Tyland turns to you, his hand finding yours as he leans close, a small smile tugging at his lips. “So,” he murmurs, his voice warm with affection, “it seems I’ll have to conquer my fear of heights sooner than I thought.”

You laugh softly, squeezing his hand as you gaze up at him, the thrill of the night coursing through you. “I’ll be right beside you,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, a promise meant only for him. “Together, Tyland. This is only the beginning.”

With the hall’s attention on you both, you rise, hand in hand, and the crowd begins to shift, forming a grand procession as they prepare to accompany you to the Dragonpit. The music swells, and as you and Tyland step forward, you cast a final glance at your family, at Viserys’s proud gaze, Rhaenyra’s supportive smile, and Daemon’s lingering smirk.

You catch Alicent’s expression, her face set in a forced smile, her eyes conveying a quiet discontent. Her gaze flicks to Ser Criston Cole, standing nearby with an unreadable expression, though you can sense the tension in his posture as he watches you pass.

The crowd moves with you, their voices lifting in songs and cheers as the night air fills with the energy of celebration, each step bringing you closer to the Dragonpit.

The night air is filled with excitement as you and Tyland, surrounded by a throng of nobles and courtiers, make your way toward the Dragonpit. The crowd is following eagerly to witness this unprecedented sight: a Lannister taking to the skies on dragonback. Tyland’s hand remains firmly in yours, his steps steady but his grip tightening slightly as you near Belerix’s lair.

Standing at the entrance to the Dragonpit, Belerix emerges from the shadows, his scales catching the moonlight, gleaming like a sapphire with hints of silver that ripple like waves as he shifts. He lets out a low, rumbling breath, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath your feet. His gaze lands on you first, then shifts to Tyland with a curious, almost appraising glint.

You squeeze Tyland’s hand, casting him a reassuring smile before approaching Belerix, stroking his neck as you murmur softly, “Tonight, Belerix, we’re not only bound in blood but in marriage. You’ll carry us both, as husband and wife.”

Tyland watches the dragon, his expression resolute as he steps forward. You can sense the quiet stiffens in his posture, the weight of the moment not lost on him, but he meets Belerix’s gaze with all the pride, dignity, and courage of a lion, standing tall. With a calm, steady breath, he reaches for your outstretched hand and begins the climb onto Belerix’s back, his movements sure despite the unfamiliarity of it all.

As he settles behind you on the saddle, his arms wrapping securely around your waist, you catch the faintest flicker of tension in his grip, the slight hesitation in his breath. Leaning back, you whisper teasingly, your voice laced with laughter, “Come now, Tyland. Surely you aren’t afraid of mounting a dragon. You’ve done it many times before.” Your meaning is unmistakable, and your smile is full of mischief as you feel his breath hitch, then warm against your neck as he catches your jest.

He chuckles, a hint of challenge in his voice as he replies, “And after this flight, I’m looking forward to… revisiting that experience in our chambers, uninterrupted.” His hand tightens at your waist, his tone low and intimate. “Think of this as… a warm-up for our honeymoon.”

The anticipation between you both is almost tangible, but Belerix shifts beneath you, his massive wings spreading wide, ready for flight. You give Tyland a final reassuring smile, feeling his arms secure around you, his presence grounding you as you signal to Belerix.

With a powerful beat of his wings, Belerix rises from the ground, the wind rushing past as you ascend into the night sky. The cheers of the crowd rise with you, their voices fading into the distance as the Dragonpit grows smaller below. From the ground, a chorus of admiration erupts, Jason’s voice carrying loudest over the others as he boasts, “My twin, the first Lannister to ride a dragon! I knew he’d conquer anything in his path!”

A murmur of laughter ripples through the guests, while Daemon, his eyes fixed on your ascent, leans in close to Rhaenyra, murmuring something that earns him a playful nudge and an amused roll of her eyes. “Oh, Daemon,” she chides, though her voice is filled with affection. “You can’t begrudge her happiness. Besides, the dragon seems quite content with him.”

Rhaenyra watches you with pride, her face softened in the torchlight as she observes her sister in the sky, a glimmer of sisterly joy in her gaze.

Meanwhile, up above, the ground fades into a quilt of lights as Belerix’s wings carry you higher. The stars stretch above you, vast and eternal, and the thrill of the flight fills you with exhilaration. You turn slightly, just enough to catch Tyland’s expression—his face a mixture of awe and reverence as he takes in the view, the vastness of the world below, the untamed freedom of the sky. Despite the slight nervousness in his hold, his gaze meets yours with a glint of admiration and pure wonder.

“It’s… beyond anything I imagined,” he breathes, his voice laced with awe. “It’s as if the world below doesn’t exist, only you and I up here, between stars and sky.”

You smile, pressing his hand at your waist as Belerix soars above King’s Landing. “Welcome to my world, Tyland. Tonight, we’re more than just husband and wife. We are bound by fire and sky, by all that lives beyond the earth.”

He leans forward, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “And I would follow you here a thousand times over.”

With the city lights stretching below and the stars above, you know that this is only the beginning of a journey you’ll share. As Belerix glides over the rooftops, his powerful wings carrying you both, the feeling of unity and strength fills you—a bond unlike any other, bound by dragonfire and the shared courage of two souls joined in love.

[pursuitseternal]

“To Slice the Tension:” Astarion x Shadowheart knife play smut🌙⚔️

Act 1 Astarion x Shadowheart | E | 2.7K

Summary: irritation comes to threats at dagger point. Tension grows with sharp words and blades, and finally resolves in the night with hot tempers and even hotter smut

CW: knife play, hate smut, keep quiet, semi-public, dry humping, quickie, poor Gale

Ao3 Link | Masterlist

“You! Cleric!” Astarion snarled, blood smattering his chilled face and clotting in his perfect silver curls. “You have one job! Cast your powerful light spell… thing… and don’t miss!”

Shadowheart lifted her head, glowering where she knelt over Gale, the poor wizard having taken a beating from the ghouls and Death Shepherds that ambushed the lot in the Mountain Path. “Shut it,” she snapped back, her glowing blue hands landing on the wizard’s soft belly with more force than necessary. He sputtered even as she healed his wounds.

“You almost got me killed!” Astarion growled, hovering over her, fingers twitching and fangs snapping with rage. “Again!”

“Not my fault you can’t take the heat of a little radiant damage, undead cretton,” she smirked. “Now do you mind? We have companions that can’t heal just by biting the nearest vermin.”

Astarion growled, feral and deep in his chest. “I should bite you, Cleric…. See if you taste as bitter as your demeanor.” He hissed his words between clenching teeth. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, little pain-craving Sharran…” he swiftly moved, crouching just beside her. “You tell me to bite vermin, and here you are…” he dragged his fangs over her neck, a threat born of hunger and rage.

But before he could sink a fang, something sharp pushed across the base of his own throat. Holding his breath, Astarion recoiled slowly, Shadowheart’s blade remaining pressed against his own scarred jugular.

Closing his fangs on nothing, Astarion’s lips peeled back in a snarl. “Careful… I don’t just bite,” he purred, colder in tone as his hand moved swiftly, jabbing the soft of her belly through the one opening of her armor.

“Hmmm,” she hummed happily, gripping his blade-holding wrist and pulling him closer. “Seems we’ve come to an impass, Vampire. Unless you want to admit you put yourself in the thick of the carnage just so I’d have to heal you first.” That black braid shook as she wriggled her head to mock him. Like a child. Like a brat. “Does somebody need attention?”

The wizard on the ground beneath them cleared his throat. “Would you mind terribly if you didn’t bicker … or flirt… or whatever this is… over my injured person? Thank you so much.”

Astarion huffed and rolled his eyes. “Oh Gale, you always ruin anything that’s actually fun… I can’t believe anyone as much of a wet blanket as you ever bedded a goddess,” he taunted, voice edged with playful venom.

“Perhaps you could learn from my divine experience and sleep off your tempers, both of you,” Gale smiled, annoyed and yet polite, “your impulses will be tamer come dawn.”

Shadowheart snorted through her nose, rolling her shoulders back as she resheathed her blade. “Fine by me, but I’ll be sleeping with this under my pillow…” her bright green eyes narrowed at Astarion’s smug, dastardly smirk, “and I’ll keep a stake in my fist, just for extra measure.”

“Sounds like you’re so very sure I’ll come for you in your bed, Cleric…” his silver brow arched. “I do like a midnight snack, but I prefer my treats a little sweeter than you.”

“I prefer my lovers a little more alive than you,” Shadowheart fired back before turning on her heel fast enough to whip that black braid around her shoulders.

And it only made Astarion’s smirk twist more deviously.

The rest of the evening passed in tranquility until the pop and hiss of the campfire was the final spark of movement and vitality.

But given the way his body pulsed from blood in his belly after his hunt today, Astarion noticed the soft hush of sandals in the dirt as he laid, meditating in his trance. The moment that blade pressed against his throat once more, he spread his lips in a fang-baring grin. “Come to kill me again, darling?” he whispered, eyes still shut even as Shadowheart straddled his waist.

One crimson eye opened just a sliver to see the Sharran Cleric smirking down, dagger’s edge caressing his throat gently.

“You’re reusing the same stunt you pulled on the Gith?” Astarion tutted his tongue, closing his eyes and settling back into his bedroll, wriggling his shoulders against his pillow just for show. “Run out of new ways to threaten the campmates that arouse you?”

“You annoy me,” she hissed down at him. “Different a-word, bloodsucker.”

“Oh, but I think you’re too a-a-addled to realize just how a-a-aroused you are,” he flashed those red eyes open at last, the intensity nearly disarming the Cleric on his body. That shit-eating grin rubbed her wrong, pissed her off. And it made her shift on his hips.

That thick upper lip pulled taut as she moved, baring even more of his teeth. And only then, did she realize where she sat…. That unmistakable outline of a hardened cock jutted against her thighs. “Oh, Astarion… I think I’m not the only one who can be accused of a-a-arousal?” Those green eyes glinted, bright with mischief.

Lighting quick, he pulled his hand from under his head, another small dagger pushed against her pulsepoint, the one he knew would taste extra delicious if only because he was having to work for it. And, gods, did he love a challenge, especially by his own terms. “Hmmm, this seems familiar,” he crooned up at her, letting his knife blade skate its sharp edge up and down her neck. “Fortunately for you, I’m quite skilled at how to let blood from these delicious veins just enough to leave you weak and begging for more…”

Shadowheart eased the blade off the base of his neck, using one hand to brace herself on his chest as she brazenly rolled her hips. The growl that reverberated in his ribs beneath her splayed hand confirmed her suspicions. “Familiar, yet not identical. Earlier, you didn’t have a prominent erection, I don’t think…”

The slip of her hand provided just the right opportunity, and Astarion seized it. Well-fed as he was, it was less than an eye’s blink before he caught her wrist and wrenched it behind her back, staying her blade. Disarming her. Pinning her on top of his waist. “You were saying, Cleric?”

She tried to put up a good fight, wrenching her wrist, even as his fingers locked it firmly behind her middle. One exasperated grunt, followed by a “Fuck you, Astarion,” only made that feral and wicked smirk deepen as he smiled up at her. Her pulse was accelerating, her sweat gathered on her brow, and, with every desperate movement she attempted to free herself, another scent permeated the night air.

“Hmmmm,” he purred up at her, all innocent tone long gone as he rolled his hips into that gathering heat between her thighs, “you let your guard down, all because now I’m… dual-wielding?” He gave that insufferable, inane giggle, even more annoying as he kept it quiet. She bit her quivering lower lip as he thrust upwards again. “Ah yes, that’s right, keep it hushed and quiet. I wonder if you’d be more embarrassed to be caught with your legs spread for me or to be caught disarmed by a man you tried to threaten in his sleep… tsk.”

“Dual-wielding?” she scoffed, leaning forward so she could hiss her spite closer to his smirking, arrogant face. “You’re going to compare your cock to a weapon, conceited arsehole that you are?”

“Afraid? It could destroy you, if you’re not careful,” he sniggered. And this time, the way she rubbed her clothed sex over his length caught him just in the right place… right in that spot on his cock head. He swallowed the curse, still audible enough to make Shadowheart grin, “Hells below.”

“What's the matter?” She taunted, that sheen of sweat gathering on his brow encouraging her to move faster. The hand on his chest pushed harder, firm enough to feel the slow dirge-like thump of his undead heart race with arousal. “Don’t tell me your blade is dull…” she taunted, a childish pout on her impertinent lips, “or are you known to work too quickly with your blade to leave your victims unsatisfied.”

A breathless laugh from his slack jaw, and Astarion twisted her wrist captured behind her until it let go of her blade altogether. “You have no idea what I can do, do you little Cleric?” He growled, pulling her lower by the small of her back until their faces were inches apart, his own dagger blade still kissing her neck.

“I have little interest in learning,” she snapped in reply.

That only made him grin and pull her closer, “But you have… some… interest…”

She gasped, feeling those plush lips brush their cool fullness against her mouth, the slightest jerk of her head causing his blade to bite flesh. Just a little, just enough to run down the line of her jaw to her lips… to share a few drops from her mouth to his….

“Gods,” he groaned the second her blood was on his lips and over his tongue.

That one nick in her skin sliced the tension, and it left them both aching and starving. “I need more…” he practically whined, blade skating a little deeper to let just a touch more blood flow. Blood he eagerly lapped by kissing her roughly. He devoured her, exploring those parts of her warm wet mouth that tasted of copper and whatever it was that was her… her essence.

A flick of his wrist, and he tossed his own blade away, that hand now pressing into the back of her head. Turning, twisting, he needed to drink, to lick and suck up every bit of her blood that dared to well from the wound. Rapid, open-mouthed kisses on her jawline, he cleaned her. “More,” he rasped nearly silently against her skin, his tongue laving the path from her jaw to those panting lips of hers.

Fingers in her hair, he yanked her, rolling her over and into the dirt beside his bedroll. Her gasp of surprise made him smile, his mouth locked to hers, their tongues tangling, dueling with their own thrusts and parries. And she was his to pin and cage beneath him.

Shadowheart’s pulse raged, in her ears, her chest, even her cunt as he kept grinding against her sex with more and more need. Rutting, that’s what this was, his strong frame, a crush of pure muscle, pinning her to the dirt. Every snap of his hips grew increasingly desperate. Hungry. Harder. His hand gripped into her trousers, yanking them roughly lower over the curve of her hips. Her flushed skin prickled at the cool night air touched where she dripped and burned for more. And every little buck of her hips she made helped wriggled them to her knees and then ankles, letting the cool leather of his trousers press into her sex. Gods, he throbbed, still clothed and contained as he grinded against her.

Little growls tickled her ear with every frantic snap of his hips, that cool, wet tongue still sucking and cleaning the nick he drew in her flesh.

A single, cool digit slipped inside her cunt, and she moaned, loudly and wantonly, earning a heavy palm over her mouth to silence her. But its gag only allowed her to open that impertinent mouth again to whine louder even as his finger found that sweet spot of nerves in her channel and crooked his crooked touch right over them.

Walls clenched, wet arousal soaked his hand, and his palm vibrated with the muffled, half-swallowed whines he coaxed from her throat as she came. He could taste the change in her blood as it still seeped from neck, that heady tingle of arousal in her system as it coursed in her veins.

“More, I need more,” she mouthed beneath his grip.

Astarion chuckled, slowly as she tried her best to shimmy his own pants down. It was just enough to let his cockhead free, a little more and his erection pushed, flushed and rock hard, against her belly.

Another needy whine ripped from her throat, filled with eager hunger, a different kind than the ache in his belly. He needed to be inside… and the whimpers from her lips and the scent on his fingers all screamed her agreement. Astarion had to bite his own tongue to keep quiet as he slotted himself into her. But it wasn’t enough to keep her own desperate keening quiet.

A sound slipped from under his hand as it shook, grasp slipping as he was seated fully inside her cunt. Shadowheart whimpered, high pitched, loud enough to make Gale in the next bedroll rustle his sheets and puff in his slumber. Nearly waking. One heart raced as they both froze… both sets of lungs holding their breaths as they stilled and waited.

“Mmhmmphmm magic touch,” Gale muttered, sticky-mouthed in his sleep…. Then he snored in that rhythmic way of his.

Astarion wasted no time, determined not to let the wizard spoil his fun a second time. He gripped her waist, thrusting into her, sheathing to the hilt as those green eyes widened and rolled back in silent ecstacy. “Good girl,” Astarion dared to whisper, right into the creases of her short-pointed ear. Then, he swallowed the groan that nearly escaped as he started to fuck her in earnest. Elbows in the dirt, mouths pressed together, tongues fighting for taste and dominance… they battled to be the first to finish, to quench the teasing need that had simmered to boiling. “You like this, don’t you… speared on my cock?” he rasped, nearly breathless from the rapid pace he set as he fucked. “Feels good to lose every now and then, doesn’t it?”

Her blunted teeth sank into his lip, drawing a genuine hiss of cool breath from him, making his hips stutter in their timing. “You, vampire,” she growled against his devouring lips. “Bite me.”

His deep-chested laugh rumbled into her own frame. “Now with you, vicious minx, I need to know… ‘bite me’ as in piss off, or…” Trailing off, he let his silent, smirking lips press against her racing pulsepoint. “You just want to feel the attack on two fronts, don’t you? Fangs in your neck… split on my cock…”

She pulled his mouth up to hers and nipped him again, drawing a taste of his blood from the slit she made in that fleshy corner of his mouth.

He snarled into her near-silent laugh, a hand wrapped around her blue-black braid, and he pulled her neck back into reach, his cock hard and throbbing the moment his teeth bit flesh and blood gushed down his gullet. Tasting her climax first, he groaned against her skin as he sucked more and more from her, pushing her through that creating bliss. Fluttering walls, a belly filled with fresh blood, and Astarion’s fucking hitched and slowed and deepened as he flooded her. A few final thrusts, and all that tension released, leaving them bloodied, breathless. He rested his head in the curve of her shoulder, feeling the remnants of her warm blood pooling yet down her neck.

The night quieted back down until it was only the soft snuffle of snores and steadying out of her heartbeat beneath him.

Then she opened that insolent mouth again. “You’re cleaning this up,” she taunted. “Blades too.” Astarion lifted his head; eyes half-mast and chin sloppy with her blood. “And before you begin, no,” Shadowheart smirked, “you can’t just lick them clean…”

The next morning, gathering round the campfire, Gale couldn’t help but notice the way the Cleric and the Vampire sat near one another. “You two look the very picture of camaraderie, if I must say!” He handed Shadowheart a buttered bun and a hunk of cheese. “I am so very gratified you took my advice to sleep off your tempers. Now look at you! Thick as thieves!” Gale gloated, hands on his hips in a pose of triumph.

Astarion just snorted, pulling out his dagger to sharpen as everyone ate. And much to Gale’s mortified chagrin, he replied, “Yes, very clever. But a good midnight fucking works too…”

[kiwanopie]

“What does it look like to see crime lord!kiyoomi blow up at someone threatening the reader?”

cw: mention of bathroom (reader has to number one lmao), character death, death by suffocation

wc: 2.4k

His head immediately turns when he hears your voice calling out for him.

You’re breathtaking in your ball attire. Glowing under the balmy haze of ballroom crystal lights as you duck into his gaze. You’re radiant, and It’s a chore to look anywhere else as Kiyoomi scans the large hall, leaning in to get a better listen at your voice. “What’s up, angel?”

“Can you come with me to the bathroom?” You whisper. “I’m too nervous to go by myself.”

Kiyoomi pauses to delegate a pensive moment. He was supposed to mingle with OneSource’s people to check in on his annual contract bonding. ‘Course there’s no reason to think that anything has changed - they’d have a death wish to pull out from something like Sakusa Enterprises - but it’s etiquette, and it’s still important to maintain general communication. At the very least uphold his reputation as a studious businessman.

He traces the fullness of your eyelashes from where you look up at him. “Mhm.”

Kiyoomi reaches for your hand and leads you to the laboratory.

He’s not the least bit embarrassed to be leading his wife into the otherwise empty women’s bathroom. And even if it weren’t, he doubts he’d be any less unfazed. - Impassive still as he watches you glide your way into the cleanest stall and close the door behind you. Kiyoomi leans against the sink as he waits for you to finish your business.

“Can you turn the sink on? I don’t want you to hear me tinkle.”

“Tinkle?” Kiyoomi snorts as he fishes his phone out of his pocket. “Baby, I hear you tinkle every day in our bathroom. Just let it out.”

“Yeah, but this is a public place,” He can hear you pout. “And I’m already nervous. I don’t want you to make fun of me for spotting.”

Spotting. He quietly titters again. I mean, he’s brushed his teeth with you planted on the bowl before, a little piss staggering wouldn’t even faze him. But still he grabs a paper towel, and uses it to turn the nodule on one of the sinks.

“Thank you!” The better portion of your dress lifts over your heels.

It’s only a few moments that it takes till he’s hearing the telltale sound of an automatic toilet whir into the room. Even with his eyes planted on his phone, he sees you neaten your dress back down in his peripheral. Dark blues turn velvety in the bathroom lights, and pretty spaghetti straps fall loosely on your shoulders; and with the way your hair so lively shines as you walk, he’s nearly convinced that you’re an angel.

His eyes light up with familiar adoration as you approach him at the sink, the smile you pass him is enough to turn his cheeks flowery. “How long is this party gonna last for?”

“Till two, but we can leave earlier than that if you want.”

“Are you having fun?” The soap in your palms audibly squishes as you lather your hands.

Kiyoomi sighs through his nose. “I’m making good connections, but you know me. Huge crowds like these start to break me out in hives. The sooner we can get out of here, the better.”

You ring your hands in the sink. “That makes you and I both then. There’s so many important people here that I can’t help but worry. I don’t want you or anyone else to get hurt just cause some bastard has a vendetta.”

You move for the air dryer on the side of him. “I saw Onslaught and Shinobu wandering the halls together. Those two dudes make it desperately apparent that they despise us.”

“They’re attention seekers, angel. They - No, don’t use that.”

You look at him curiously as he moves you by the arm to the paper towel dispenser. “Those things are disgusting, they’re riddled with germs.”

He snatches a few out for you. “I doubt anyone here has ever bothered to disinfect these.”

You simper as you finally wipe your hands down. “Oh. Well, thank you for looking out for me, baby.”

“Always.”

Kiyoomi slides his phone in his pocket as you move for the mirror again. “They’re attention seekers,” He starts again. “They know what my status is, they know that you and I are the most prevalent family running the underground business nowadays. Anybody who’s anybody should know that the Sakusa’s have owned the better half of Asia for decades. - It’s easy for them to stay relevant when they’re feuding with the most powerful empire in the game; regardless of what risk they’re putting on their lives by doing that.”

You eye yourself in the mirror. “They’re cockroaches. They’re just feeding off us for a little bit of business talk. What will it take for them to understand that business doesn’t even exist if it doesn’t come from you in some way.”

The little boost to his ego already turns him pink, but the way you spin in the mirror has his lips curling over his teeth. “Yeah? You’re absolutely right.”

His reflection mirrors the way he reaches out for you, pulling you closer in his direction, and softly pinching your cheeks with his calloused fingers. “But it’s nothing you’ve gotta worry your pretty head about, huh? - You’re really cute..”

You pout up at him. “What if they pick a fight with us?”

Kiyoomi kisses his teeth. Uncoupling the little grip he has on your cheek to smooth it over with his thumb, and let his blithe gaze settle on the dip in your lips. “As if they’d be so stupid. Self preservation reigns, angel. They all know better.”

You give him somewhat of an unimpressed look. “Death isn’t the price you pay for slighting us, Omi.”

“You’re right,” He hums. “It’s the price they pay for slighting you.”

You lean into the kiss Kiyoomi presses gingerly onto your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Omi.”

“So much.”

“Show me.”

He leans in for another one. A little firmer, somewhat tailed by a quiet hum but the way you move forward to deepen it has him openly sighing into your mouth. Long, savory, tender lip smacking. - Smoothing his grip under your jaw till you’re all but making out like a couple of teenagers. That’s how you make him feel - like a teenager. Jittery and palm sweaty. Meekend as you moan into the kiss and he’s rapt by butterflies. Breathless when you part from him and still overdosing on that contact high.

God, “I love you so fucking much.” He sighs.

“I love you so much more.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t think something like that could be remotely possible.

_____

Kiyoomi pushes your seat in for you as you both take your spots at the grand table.

There are many very important faces here. From the face of your renowned husband, to well known yakuza leaders, - High ranking members of The Sinaloa Cartel, Solntsevskaya Bratva, Sun Yee On, and so forth. With this many dangerous people at one table, most controlling near global power, it isn’t unheard of to feel a little out of your wits. You can’t show your fear as much as you want to, sitting at this table with your husband means sharing the collective power he has - and representing it as well. Much like the other wives and spouses sitting with their respective criminal lovers, you keep your cool with a natural grace. Still pretty even as your palms start to sweat.

Ken Shōhei, leader of the sixth generation yellow fangs, raises his glass to propose a toast. He glitters with shined jewels and gaudy rings as they reflect in the chandelier light. You glance at his wife before glancing at him. Catching a less than friendly evil eye that chills you straight to the blue bone. If you had to guess, they’re friends of Onslaught. If you had to guess again, you’d say it’s probably upsetting to realize you’re not the hottest foreign wife in the room anymore.

“Beautiful people of this nation - of your respective nations,” He begins. “Let us take this moment to reflect on the novelty of such business making and our untaintable honor. To the choices we’ve made thus far that has led us here. The chances we take that - understandably shouldn’t work out in our favor - but has. Our fortune, our hard work, the allies we’ve made today and the friends we’ll make tomorrow. I propose a toast to us. To our virtues, and to our decency. Let us all come together and celebrate ourselves.”

His wife smiles as she picks up her glass. “To ourselves!”

The rest of the table brandish their cups and follow suit. “To ourselves!”

The chatter continues as most of them take a quick sip to their glasses.

Or well, all except for you and Kiyoomi, who’s got the flute halfway to his lips before you stop him in his tracks. “Wait, baby.”

“Hm?”

You lean in to whisper softly. “These glasses don’t smell clean.”

“Hm?” Kiyoomi furrows as he dips his nose in his champagne flute. “They don’t-? Oh. Ew.”

He reaches for your glass. “Don’t even touch that. We’ll sanitize our hands after they-“

Someone’s choking.

Someone’s hacking and gasping for air right in front of you. Loud enough to startle as your head whips in the direction of whoever it is coughing up a lung across the table, and Kiyoomi instinctively reaches for you - pulling you by the bicep as he prepares to step out of his seat.

It’s an appropriate knee jerk reaction for what actually unfolds in front of you. Kiyoomi forces you to your feet as Shōhei’s body crashes into the fine cloth of the grand table and sends the majority of their plates crashing down with him. His shrill wheezing cuts into the silence that befalls the group of leaders as they stare down at him. Twitching and flailing before finally seizing up and you all watch in horror as he eventually goes limp.

You all watch in dread as his wife follows. Nithya, Maciej, Jalmari, Takashi, and Yuina, dropping to the floor in similar fashion. Some fall back in their seats in an effort to save themselves, some face plant into their plates before unceremoniously hitting the ground, but they all meet the same fate. Foaming at the mouth and blue from asphyxiation, all poisoned by something lethal likely slipped into their drinks.

Kiyoomi is the first to break the long stunned silence, calling over one of his underlings to meet him at the table.

He shoves his drink in his face. “Drink this.”

The man does so without hesitation.

After a few long moments the faceless scout looks generally unharmed which immediately raises red flags, but it isn’t over yet.

He hands him his wife’s drink. “And this?”

Another sip, another few long moments.

And then he’s falling to the ground.

You both stare in sickened shock as he flails on the ground just as the other victims did. Gasping for air as his spit foams over and the vessels in his eyes burst from suffocation. He’s dead within a few tortuous minutes, and Kiyoomi all but turns blue.

He nearly breaks his back with how quickly he turns for you, already frantically cupping your face in his hands. “Did you eat anything on the table? Have you eaten anything?”

There are tears in your eyes, rightfully. “N-No.”

He’s shaking. It’s a rare moment of weakness for the revered kingpin. One of the most frightening, if not the most frightening man in all of Asia - glassy eyed at the realization of his lover coming so close to death. He’s pink under eyes, pupils twitching back and forth as he frantically scans your face for any sign of change. The men and women surrounding the two of you take pause. It’s clear this is a shock to you both. That the man in question would rather kill over than put his wife in harm’s way, especially one so gruesome. ~ But there’s layers to this collective suspension shared among the room. Shock, confusion, apprehensity.

Fear.

As expected Kiyoomi’s reaction is less than pleased.

“Miya!”

At the sound of Kiyoomi’s booming voice, Atsumu races into the ballroom and up to the table. “Boss- Whoa, holy shit.”

“Bring me the heads of everyone in the kitchen,” His voice is vitriolic. It sends shivers up the spines of every living body in here. “All except for the chef. Pack him up in the shuttle.”

The boldness of the demand knocks Shinobu out of his daze, he’s kissing his teeth not even a moment later. “Don’t just start giving orders like you-“

“Shut the fuck up, Shinobu. Be thankful I don’t start picking from the table!”

One of the other businessmen at the table speaks meekly. “W-Wait. Let’s just... Everyone just-“

“Enough!” Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. And even to the most lethal of men in the room do they quaver at the venom in his voice. Sakusa Kiyoomi is not known for being an angry man. A spiteful man, sure. Cold and callous and cruel, on his worst days a little psychotic. There’s a scowl on his face more often than not, a sneer almost in the way he speaks to his adversaries and enemies alike. He’s known for being a mean son of a bitch - the meanest, really. But not angry. Not down right irate. Not so wrathful in the way he addresses the crowd around him.

“Someone here,” He breathes. “Has made an enormous lapse in judgment. If not to the leaders we just lost at this table; than to threaten me - to threaten my wife, my family,”

He’s firm yet earnest in his efforts to keep you behind him, nearly yanking you back by your arm but you bump into his firm back with one of his hands fastened over your waist. “You must’ve all forgotten that there is no one on this earth who I can’t get my hands on - especially for something so despicable. Whether they're in that kitchen or in this room, every second of their worthless life is borrowed from me. - Goro!”

The host of the ball swallows as he answers quickly. “Yes, Sakusa-san, sir?”

“Get me the names of everyone who’s been in or out of this place within the last forty eight hours, not a minute short.”

“Yes, of course.”

Kiyoomi nods his head for his men to follow as he drags his wife out by the hand.

[poisonlove]

JEALOUSLY p.2 | m.a

jealously

Wednesday Addams watched Y/N from afar as if she had been ensnared by a spell. The fairy sat under a majestic tree, its foliage filtering the golden sunlight, enveloping her in an angelic and hypnotic aura. Sunbeams danced through the leaves, creating patterns of light that caressed her soft brown curls, making them shine like dark wood strands bathed in the morning dew.

With almost obsessive attention, Wednesday noticed every little detail: the delicate curve of her neck, the long, dark lashes that gracefully opened and closed as she read, her tongue that, at regular intervals, lightly grazed her lower lip in concentration. When something in the book intrigued her, her eyes would light up, a vibrant gleam that turned her beauty into enchantment. Y/N had her unique way of reading, a fascinating ritual. With nimble fingers, she turned the pages gracefully, sometimes delicately underlining the words that struck her the most. Her usually serene face came alive with a radiant expression of joy when she found a particularly touching sentence. Wednesday couldn't help but notice Y/N's small absentminded gestures, her fingers playing with strands of hair, gently touching the book cover, or toying with a blade of grass. It was as if the world around her had melted away, her focus solely on the magic of written words.

Wednesday remained there, admiring the scene with fascinated eyes, as if she had been transported to an enchanted world. It was a vision of beauty and grace that she would never forget.

Wednesday was consumed by an uncontrollable jealousy towards that book. Her jealousy was extreme, fueled by the way Y/N caressed it with her fingers. She ardently wished that those fingers would explore her body, entwine in her hair after every passionate kiss. Unconsciously, she bit her lower lip as she imagined Y/N on top of her, kissing her passionately and penetrating her with her fingers.

From being as cold as a stone statue, Wednesday had suddenly become a burning flame of passion.

"Obsession Addams is the only solution"she thought to herself.

Her eyes continued to enjoy the sight of Y/N, admiring her as if she were looking at the most beautiful painting exhibited in an art gallery. A deep sigh escaped from her lips, a lament of uncontainable desire.

Suddenly, Wednesday felt her blood freeze in her veins when she saw Xavier approaching her. The misunderstood artist from "Nevermore" sat down next to the fairy, causing Y/N to close her book.

A flash of anger flickered in Wednesday 's eyes when she saw Xavier push a strand of hair away from T/N's face during their brief interaction.

How dare he touch what she considered hers? How dare he touch her?

Wednesday clenched her teeth violently, and a growl erupted from the depths of her throat. Her blood boiled, and a fiery blaze burned in her stomach. Her fingers clenched into a fist as she struggled to control her immense anger.

That useless boy was about to experience her wrath.

Finally, she rose from her hiding place and hurriedly made her way towards her Beloved, who still didn't know she was hers. Y/N turned to her, wearing a confused smile at the unexpected visit from the ravenette. Xavier stopped laughing when he met Wednesday 's gaze, which radiated a chilling darkness.

"Oh, hello, Wed," the fairy exclaimed as she got up from the grass and quickly brushed off her uniform.

Every word Y/N spoke made Wednesday Addams feel like her heart was about to explode. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to regain the composure that her trembling knees had taken from her. She sighed deeply, maintaining an impassive expression as she looked at her fairy.

"Do you need anything?" Y/N asked, confused but also slightly excited. It seemed that she was finally having some kind of conversation with her crush, someone she had secretly admired for weeks.

Wednesday decided to get straight to the point, without mincing words. "See you tonight. Here. At 9 o'clock," she said with a determined tone, before turning around and walking towards the academy's entrance. The fairy looked at the silhouette of Wednesday walking away with confusion; their conversation had been brief and enigmatic.

However, Y/N had no intention of letting this opportunity slip away. Excitement and anticipation mixed in her chest as she mentally prepared herself for the upcoming date.

At exactly 8:30, Wednesday was already on her way to the rendezvous point, but she had an important matter to resolve first. Cautiously, she looked around for signs of life, ensuring that no one was watching her as she headed to Xavier's not-so-secret hiding place. The raven-haired girl sighed and silently entered the shed, where she knew she would find him.

Inside the shed, Xavier had his back turned, completely absorbed in his painting. His face lit up with a smile when he felt the door close behind him.

"Hello, Y/N, you know..." he began to say before he turned around, but his voice trailed off when he met Wednesday Addams' piercing gaze.

Something was clearly wrong, and Xavier felt uncomfortable under the ravenette's intense scrutiny. Instinctively, he took a step back.

Did he just say "Y/N"?

With a mocking smile on her lips, Wednesday slowly approached Xavier.

"So... you were expecting Y/N?" She asked with an innocent tone as she traced her fingers over the hanging paintings on the wall. A fire burned in her guts as she remembered the bastard touching her fairy. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Xavier noticed that the girl was wearing gloves, which increased his unease. He audibly swallowed.

Wednesday advanced towards Xavier, picked up a forgotten brush from the table, and drove it into the boy's thigh. A cry of pain escaped from Xavier's lips as he doubled over from the sudden and sharp pain.

Wednesday clenched her jaw tightly, applying more pressure to the open wound. Xavier, with pleading eyes, looked at the ravenette. Wednesday could feel the fear in his eyes, and she found it highly amusing.

"Why did you do it?" Xavier whimpered, struggling to hold back tears as he stuttered from the pain.

"She is mine. The next time you touch her, I'll stab it in your neck, not your thigh" Wednesday said in a low and threatening tone. Xavier nodded in desperation, making gestures to show he understood.

Wednesday got up and walked away from the boy, who was at that moment trying to remove the brush from his leg. With a victorious smile on her lips, Wednesday left the shed, removed her gloves, and put them in her backpack.

The night was taking an unexpected turn, and Wednesday was determined to ensure that Y/N was safe from any threat.

(...)

"Sorry for the delay" Wednesday said with a slight discomfort in her voice. The fairy turned to her and returned a nervous smile.

"Don't worry... you're right on time" Y/N replied simply, her eyes meeting Wednesday's. Addams looked away, feeling nervous about the intensity of her Beloved's gaze.

"Are you ready?" Wednesday asked with a smile as she took Y/N's hand, interlocking their fingers.

The heart of the raven-haired girl was beating strongly against her chest as she enjoyed the pleasurable contact of their entwined hands. She fervently wished that this touch would never fade away.

However, Y/N furrowed her brow when she noticed a red stain on Wednesday's right cheek. Without thinking twice, she raised her thumb and wiped the stain from her cheek. Wednesday sighed, feeling the warmth of her touch.

"Thanks. It's paint" Addams affirmed, offering a small smile, relieved that she could come up with an excuse quickly. She couldn't admit that it was Xavier's blood.

Unable to resist her impulses, the raven-haired girl leaned in to kiss her Beloved gently. Y/N's eyes widened in surprise as she felt Wednesday 's cold lips against hers, but she quickly surrendered to the kiss, smiling at the long-awaited magical moment.

Wednesday caressed Y/N's cheek, enjoying the softness of her skin and the deliciousness of her lips, which immediately became her addiction. She made a small smile when she noticed that the fairy's eyelids remained closed and her lips slightly parted.

"Let's go... I'll take you to a special place, Cara Mia" wednesday whispered, pronouncing the Italian nickname while smiling as she noticed the blush on the girl's cheeks.

Y/N didn't hesitate to take Wednesday's hand. She had complete trust in her, not only because she felt safe and protected but also because she knew that Addams would do everything possible to make her feel comfortable.

Wednesday tightened her grip, fearing that her Beloved might pull away. She hadn't stabbed Xavier in vain; Y/N was supposed to be hers, and the whole school had to know it if they didn't want to face her wrath.

[drauphemir]

[ artist @ TWT ] [ artist @ K-f ] [ artist @ VG ]

Art: NaegiTare Class: Commission @ VGen Characters: Kōhei Senjō © @yugenides, Rurika Sasaki © Oceannist

// 08.2024

[noona-clock]

Fourever 🍀 Welcome to the Show

Genre: Bookstore!AU, Fluff

Pairing: Dowoon x You

Words: 1,659

Welcome to the Show 🍀 Happy 🍀 The Power of Love 🍀 Get the Hell Out 🍀 Sad Ending 🍀 Let Me Love You 🍀 Didn't Know

I'm so moved by the stage That I won't be alone any longer Among all of the possibilities Thank you for choosing me The future that you're welcoming with me might be risky But there might also be tear-filled impassion

Dowoon let out a shaky exhale as he anxiously tapped one drumstick against his thigh. His gaze flitted around, and seeing all of the familiar bookshelves and cozy chairs actually did a lot to calm his nerves. The only other thing that could help would be seeing you, but if he so much as peeked around the curtain next to the small stage in the back of the bookstore, he would see everyone else in the audience, too. And that would most decidedly not help.

It had taken him years to get to this point, and chickening out now would disappoint not only himself but you, too. You wouldn't tell him you were disappointed, but he knew you would be deep down.

Suddenly (or maybe not so suddenly), the urge to see you was almost overwhelming. He knew you were out in the audience, probably not even ten feet away from him at this very moment -- the bookstore wasn't a huge place, after all. All he really wanted was to say 'thank you.' Up until tonight, Dowoon had been too scared to even think about drumming in front of other people, but you had gently pushed him to share his talent. He didn't have to ever go on stage again, not even at the bookstore's Open Mic night; just once would be enough.

And, eventually, Dowoon had fallen so deeply for you that he agreed. The smile on your lips and the squeal his acquiescence had elicited from you had warmed his heart and quelled his nerves.

So, if he could only see you for just a minute right now, just to say 'thank you for believing in me' and wrap you in a quick but tight embrace, he knew he would be able to get up on that stage without a care in the world.

Even so, if you won't let go of my hand If so (If so) Then let's go (Let's go) Welcome to the show I promise you this much I'm going to give my all So, the look in your eyes won't be shaken I'll be standing and looking towards you

Alas, just as Dowoon was reaching into his pocket to send you a text, the emcee for the Open Mic night (the manager of the bookstore) announced the next act -- Dowoon's band.

Technically, it wasn't his band. It was a local band he'd joined a couple of months ago after their drummer moved away. But still.

"And some of you may recognize the drummer," the manager said, her grin apparent in her voice. "He's been working here at The Pagemaster for almost four years -- our very own Dowoon!"

Dowoon's stomach dropped down to his feet. His cheeks almost instantly flamed. He should've known this was coming since his manager, Hanna, had been delighted when she'd heard the news.

But, still? Had it been necessary to point him out like that?!

Somehow, Dowoon followed his bandmates out onto the small stage, though he kept his eyes glued to his shoes rather than look out in the audience. When he sat down behind his drum set, though, he kind of had no choice but to face the audience, so he swiftly found you -- the only person in this bookstore right now (and maybe in the world?) around whom he didn't feel nervous. His anchor, his rock, his home.

A wide, radiant grin appeared on your lips the second your gazes met, and Dowoon imagined the feeling of your hand in his. He imagined you standing right in front of him, blocking out every other person so it seemed as if he were only playing to you.

As the band's frontman was introducing their first song, you discreetly formed a heart with your fingers and mouthed 'I believe in you.'

Honestly, that was all he needed. As soon as the guitarist turned around to give Dowoon the signal, he lifted his drumsticks into the air and counted them off to begin.

Let's go.

I know your decision was not easy It's my part to make you not regret it If you're willing to go to the end together Still holding onto your hand Even on the day that the curtains come down So that we can say to each other That I was happy because it was you

You were so proud of Dowoon that you almost started crying tears of joy. But you could still see the anxiety on his face, and if he saw you crying, it certainly wouldn't help things.

So, to distract your mind, you began thinking of how you and Dowoon met all those months ago...

You had just moved to town not even a week before you walked through the doors of The Pagemaster, a locally-owned bookstore about a five-minute walk from your new place. The stress of moving and unpacking had gotten to you, and you'd decided to notch out some time to unwind with a new book -- escapism and retail therapy. What better ways to cope, am I right?

It hadn't been one of those meet-cutes where you'd seen Dowoon across the room and were pulled by the Universe to go speak with him. You had interacted with him on that first visit, yes, but things had happened gradually. In fact, it had taken you about two months to realize you were visiting The Pagemaster at least once a week not fully to buy or browse new books, but more to see a certain dark-haired, soft-spoken employee.

And then, on your first date a few weeks later, Dowoon had mentioned that he played the drums.

"Wait, how did I not know this already?" you'd gasped, your brow furrowed. "Are you playing at Open Mic Night next weekend?"

Dowoon had immediately shaken his head and murmured, "No, it's just a hobby."

"So? Open Mic Night isn't just for professionals. Actually, that's the whole point! You should sign up and play something!" you'd assured him, reaching out to rest a gentle hand on his arm.

"Nah... I don't think so."

It had taken a bit of delicate prodding to find out Dowoon had just been scared to play in front of people. A classic case of Stage Fright!

So, you'd made it your mission to find a local band in need of a drummer so he wouldn't have to be on the stage by himself.

And now here you were! Many, many dates later, and you were finally watching your boyfriend play drums at Open Mic Night. You were doing your best to catch his eye as often as possible so you could smile encouragingly and quietly clap for him -- he had been nervous for at least a week, and you didn't want him to regret doing this. Even if he never did it again, you wanted him to be glad he'd done it at least once.

Honestly, though, you would absolutely be disappointed if he decided to never drum again after tonight because boy did he look cute doing it!

I promise you this much I'm going to give my all So, the look in your eyes won't be shaken I'll be standing and looking towards you

At first, when Dowoon had seen you stand from your chair and politely squeeze by the people sitting in your row, he'd panicked. The final song was almost over, but he had a drum solo near the end, and he didn't think he'd be able to get through it if you weren't in the audience!

But then he realized you were simply making your way to the side of the stage so you could be there to greet him when the band's set was done.

Thank goodness.

Your closeness gave Dowoon that extra boost of courage, and when his drum solo came around, he really gave it all he had. He clamped his eyes shut so he could just feel the music.

And when the bookstore filled with applause before he was even finished, his eyes flew open and landed on you. He could see from here that there were tears in your eyes, but you were smiling so widely and clapping so enthusiastically that he knew they were tears of joy. Or maybe... pride?

He was certainly proud of himself for overcoming his stage fright, and if he was being honest, if the roles were reversed, he would probably be overflowing with emotion, too.

The applause was still going strong as the band's frontman thanked everyone and then turned to leave the stage. Dowoon swiftly stood, slid his drumsticks into his back pocket, and practically leaped over his cymbal stand to get to you.

"You were amazing!" you whisper-shouted the second he reached you, flinging your arms around his neck.

A shy smile tugged at Dowoon's lips as he hugged you back. He could hear you sniffling above the noise of the crowd and his manager introducing the next act, so he discreetly reached up to take your arm and began to lead you back to the corner of the store where the cozy mystery section was.

"You were so so amazing," you repeated softly once Dowoon had turned to face you again.

He lifted his hands to delicate cradle your face, using one of his thumbs to wipe away a stray tear.

"I'm so proud of you," you whispered as you moved to press your forehead to his.

"I wouldn't have done it if it weren't for you," he reminded you. "So... thank you."

You let out a soft chuckle before kissing him chastely. "You're welcome."

Dowoon searched your face -- your absolutely beautiful, beaming, slightly tear-stained face -- and maybe it was the adrenaline rush from performing on stage or maybe it was your overwhelming emotions transferring to him or maybe... it was just his true, honest feelings coming to the surface, but he felt the words bubbling up and couldn't do anything to stop them.

"I love you."

Your eyebrows raised slightly, but that was the only indication you gave that he'd surprised you. You didn't hesitate even for a second before saying "I love you, too."

He pulled you into his arms then, wrapping them firmly around you as he buried his face in your sweetly scented hair.

No matter what happened from here on out -- if he never performed in front of people ever again or if he joined the band in earnest and became a full-blow musician. If he quit working at The Pagemaster tomorrow or if he worked here for the rest of his life. Dowoon wasn't worried or anxious or afraid about any of it because he knew you would be by his side, and he would be by yours.

Welcome to the show.

[pin-k-ink]

wolf’s den // sakusa kiyoomi & miya atsumu (pt. 1)

tw ⇢ incest(reader is sakusa’s little sister), dark content, possessive/obsessive behavior, male masturbation, voyeurism, implied age gap, ‘brother’s best friend’ but darker, sakuatsu if you squint

wc ⇢ 5.2k

Atsumu let out a low whistle as he stepped into Sakusa's pristine apartment. Every surface gleamed spotlessly - as if belonging in an interior design catalog rather than a living space.

"Nice place ya got here, Omi-kun," he drawled while shrugging off his coat. "Though I guess I shoulda expected nothing less from Mr. Neat Freak himself."

A muffled grunt echoed from what he assumed was the kitchen area. "Just don't track dirt everywhere. Wipe your feet properly."

Rolling his eyes, Atsumu made an exaggerated show of stomping his sneakers against the entry mat with excessive force. "There, happy? Should I roll out the sanitizing mat too while I'm at it?"

The familiar sound of Sakusa's irritated sigh reached his ears, prompting Atsumu's signature shiteating grin to spread across his lips. He opened his mouth to volley another playfully needling jab, already anticipating Sakusa's prickly clap back.

But the snarky retort never came.

Instead, a sweet, melodious voice - utterly at odds with the pristine environment's severity - pierced through the air like a windchime's gentle chorus.

"Kiyoomi! You didn't tell me we'd have a guest!"

Atsumu turned towards the hallway just in time to witness you practically flounce into the living area on a pocket of bubbly, effortless energy. You moved with the unbridled exuberance and grace of a rambunctious puppy, arms carving unselfconscious arcs as you ambled inside.

Despite your modest, unassuming stature, that snug school uniform skirt shamelessly rode up with each unhurried stride - teasing at the prospect of those long, tempting legs disappearing beneath the fabric. Atsumu felt his throat go statically dry as you gravitated straight towards Sakusa with a radiant, adoring beam.

Without preamble, you looped those deceptively slender arms around one of his in an unmistakably childish, clinging manner. Sakusa's spine stiffened ever so subtly at your overtly tactile invasion of his personal space. But rather than recoiling or deterring your brazenly cuddly behavior, his posture seemed to...settle in resignation as you peered up at him through your lashes with naked affection.

"You should've told me we'd have company!" you mock-pouted in that same lilting, sweet tone. "I would've put on something cute just for your friend!"

Friend. The innocuous word detonated in Atsumu's hindbrain with all the force of a thermal detonation, setting off a searing chain reaction of dark hunger he couldn't quite put a name to. His focus remained utterly honed on the way your pursed lips quivered with each whimsically petulant syllable.

Before he could even begin processing the sordid spiral of his thoughts, you surged up on your tiptoes to plant a sweet, lingering peck against Sakusa's cheek. Atsumu watched with morbid fascination as his notoriously touch-averse teammate remained utterly impassive. No visible discomfort or revulsion danced across those typically severe features - despite your cloying, touchy display of pure sisterly adoration.

"There, all better!" you giggled in that tinkling melodic timbre. As if openly doting upon the prickliest germaphobe Atsumu had ever known was the most natural thing in the world.

For the briefest of instants, the world around them may as well have evaporated into irrelevance. All that existed was the image of you beaming up at Sakusa with all the radiant innocence and unaffected openness of a sunflower following the day's warmth. Atsumu felt his pulse throb thickly as you drank in that beatific sight hungrily - as if witnessing something sacred and pure in a way he could never recreate or taint.

Then, the moment fractured.

It was as if an unseen switch had been flipped, igniting the relentless inferno of territoriality that governed Sakusa's every action where you were involved. The muscles in his bicep tensed like braided steel cables as his arm remained unnaturally rigid within the circle of your embrace.

But it was the infinitesimal slide and flex of Sakusa's other hand snaking around the supple curve of your lower back that sent aotectic surge of unease ricocheting through Atsumu's core. His splayed fingers spasmed possessively, inexorably drawing you flush against his side as those obsidian eyes drilled into Atsumu.

The silent warning blazed with searing clarity, a wordless edict burned straight from Sakusa's very marrow: this creature currently basking in your affection belongs to me...and me alone.

In that moment, Atsumu felt incredibly small - as if he were an intruder bearing witness to something intensely personal, sacred...unhinged. As if an unfurling new reality sat perched at his core, waiting to sink in its bloody talons at the slightest provocation.

You, meanwhile, remained entirely blissfully ignorant of the undercurrents surging between the two men as you beamed up at Sakusa. With another windchime peal of girlish laughter, you disentangled yourself just enough to bestow that radiant, effervescent smile onto Atsumu.

"Well hi there!" you chirped, that brilliant beam of innocent curiosity fixing onto Atsumu. "I don't think we've had the pleasure of being introduced yet."

With a sway of your hips, you sidled closer until you were openly invading his personal space. Atsumu felt like a deer stumbling into the scope of a hunter's crosshairs as your sugary floral scent and radiant warmth washed over him. Up close, he could make out the dusting of faint freckles spanning your features and the way your tongue instinctively wet your lower lip.

"I'm Kiyoomi's little sister!" you trilled with windchime sweetness.

A dainty hand extended towards Atsumu in polite greeting, bracelets jingling softly with the motion. He blinked dazedly for a heartbeat, utterly disarmed by your proximity assaulting his senses. But the instant your palm met his in a fleeting clasp, it was like a match lancing through the thickening miasma of distracted arousal clouding his thoughts.

The first lascivious flare of heat blazed low in Atsumu's gut as his gaze instinctively dropped to trail down the plunging vee of your uniform blouse. In his haze, the buttons seemed to strain teasingly over the subtle swells of your breasts rising and falling with each guileless inhale. He swallowed a torrid pulse at the glimpse of silky cleavage peeking out from that dangerous neckline.

Focus, dammit, he growled internally even as his hungry stare continued roving lower. He tried and failed to tear his eyes away from the way your skirt clung to those generous hips, the inviting flare before tapering down into a pair of thighs he suddenly longed to—

A sharp exhalation - more animal than human - punched from between Sakusa's gritted teeth like a battlefield canon. Atsumu jolted bodily back to reality, head swiveling to find his closest friend's expression had mutated into something thunderously unhinged. All traces of sardonic neutrality had evaporated from those flinty eyes, replaced by a roiling, nearly feral darkness Atsumu had never witnessed directed at him before.

Sakusa looked positively unraveled in that moment, posture coiled tighter than a cornered viper ready to strike. The slackness of his jaw and the chilling, predatory gleam slicing through the shadows beneath those hooded lids spoke to an unraveling far more visceral than mere irritation.

It was...possession. Carnal, all-consuming ownership seared through every synapse behind that smoldering glower.

A shiver of unease raked Atsumu's spine as that wordless message finally pierced his lustful daze. You were so much more to Sakusa than just a "baby sister" in the platonic sense. He looked at you - guarded you - like a feral beast sheltering its most precious cache, willing to eradicate any perceived threat with extreme prejudice.

The severity of Sakusa's lethally possessive energy managed to momentarily derail Atsumu's spiraling descent into distracted lascivity. That hazy inferno of forbidden desire calcifying behind his bellybutton banked down to a steady, smoldering ember of begrudging acknowledgment.

Message received, whether he liked it or not: this was Sakusa's territory. His dominion to control and shelter as he saw fit. Atsumu had simply been granted a fleeting glimpse behind the curtain into that darkly covetous world - one he very clearly wasn't welcome in, despite how tempting the glimpses proved.

You, meanwhile, seemed to remain utterly oblivious to the perilous exchange billowing out around you. With a tinkling giggle, you squeezed Atsumu's hand once more.

"I'll let you boys get reacquainted!" you beamed with sun-drenched warmth. "But we'll have to swap embarrassing stories about Kiyoomi soon!"

With a conspiratorial wink, you finally disentangled yourself to sashay deeper into the apartment - leaving a deafening silence and the lingering vapors of your floral aura in your wake.

For several electric moments, a weighted tension thick enough to choke on cloaked the room. Sakusa's brooding presence loomed with all the untamed peril of a powder keg awaiting an errant spark. Atsumu swallowed hard, struggling to find the normally glib words to ease his friend's visible unraveling.

"Omi-Omi..." he began slowly.

But the instant that nickname fell from his lips, Sakusa's granite facade shattered in a hailstorm of livid snarls.

"Don't you dare, Miya," he bit out with terrifying lucidity. "Don't even think about slithering an inch further into her orbit."

Dark eyes blazing with that same primal fire bored into Atsumu from across the room. Each enunciated syllable felt like its own scalding rebuke.

"She's off limits. Completely. No exceptions, no matter how...tempting you may find her."

Sakusa's jaw twitched as that last phrase grated forth - a muscle clenching behind his cheek with each guttural delivery. Atsumu understood the implication with frightening clarity. His friend might as well have declared a scorched earth policy on anyone who dared make a play for the most exquisite, corruptible treasure jealously guarded in his possession.

Because whether Sakusa explicitly stated it or not...that was precisely the nature of whatever unhinged obsession smoldered between him and the dazzling little force of nature roaming these halls. You were his undisputed territory - a coveted keep to be carefully curated and insulated against any encroachment whatsoever.

Even from Atsumu himself, it seemed.

Atsumu barely had a chance to decompress from Sakusa's scorching gauntlet before his solitude was again disrupted by the melodic lilt of your voice.

"Oh good, you found the guest room okay!"

He turned towards the open doorway to find you leaning against the frame with hip cocked at an angle that somehow elevated your air of casual, girlish insouciance into something utterly transfixing. The tight little cotton tank top you wore skated along the gentle curves of your figure like a second skin. Those delectable legs seemed to stretch for miles below the frayed hems of your tiny lounge shorts.

"I was just about to come find you to see if you needed any...assistance getting settled," you continued, tone dripping with an exaggerated sweetness that paradoxically raised the fine hairs along Atsumu's nape.

His mouth worked fruitlessly as he drank in the vision you presented - all tousled bedhead radiance and gloriously minimal clothing. The thin cotton did absolutely nothing to conceal the outline of your nipples. Something about the nonchalant, almost childlike manner in which you carried yourself in that immodest getup made the visuals that much more dizzying.

"Actually, I could use a little help getting unpacked," he heard himself murmur before his brain could catch up.

One sleek eyebrow arched in muted surprise, but you didn't seem remotely taken aback by the fraught undercurrents bleeding from Atsumu's stare and tone. If anything, your full lips only curved higher at the corners in silent welcome.

"Well then, lead the way," you purred in that same saccharine-laced timbre.

As you brushed past to sidle into the room, the delicate citrus bouquet of your natural scent washed over Atsumu in another searing wallop to his senses. His focus lasered onto the inviting dip of your waistline above those criminally tight shorts. The inseam fabric strained indecently, leaving very little to the salacious imagination about the feminine musculature cradled within.

"You'll have to let me know if you need anything else to make this room feel...homier," you murmured without preamble, settling onto the foot of his bed with a whisper of cotton against skin.

Atsumu suppressed a violent shudder at the implication dripping from your every languid syllable and hooded glance. The sheer wattage of your playful, inviting aura crackled through the air in an electric current sparking directly against his receptive nerve-endings. You looked every inch the sultry pinup - all effortless sexiness and sticky, girlish temptation wrapped into one intoxicating package.

More importantly, you seemed acutely aware of the flustered effect you radiated. Each coquettish bat of your lashes and glimpse of glossed lips carried the giddy vibration of a naughty secret dangling in the air. Atsumu was utterly transfixed and out of his depth in the best way possible. How could Sakusa's own flesh and blood emit such brazen, corrupting effervescence without even a hint of self-awareness or shame?

Then again, maybe this was just your way. Maybe you thrilled in weaving these delicious snares of temptation and watching men like Atsumu helplessly flounder within their silken, unassuming grasp.

He coughed roughly into his fist, determined not to wilt so easily beneath your charming assault no matter how feverish his thoughts spiraled. "I'll let ya know if I need anything...extracurricular," Atsumu rasped in what he hoped passed for an assuredly casual deadpan. "After all, it'd be rude not to sample the full hospitality while I'm a guest here."

Your easy laughter feathered across his exposed forearms in an electric trail of goosebumps. "You're too much, Atsumu-kun. But how generous of you to allow me to spoil you."

With that and a final inscrutable look smoldering through the fans of your lashes, you rose fluidly from the mattress before slinking out the same way you entered - like a vaporous siren fading back into the safety of obscured corners. Atsumu remained rooted in place, heart thundering against his ribs as the memory of your gaze dissipated like smoke through his fingers.

"Don't forget - dinner's in a few hours!" your windchime cadence trilled faintly from the hallway. "I hope you like the menu I have...whipped up for tonight!"

Atsumu groaned from deep in his chest, scrubbing one palm over his flushed features. If tonight's activities were anything akin to this "preview" appetizer, he feared whatever twisted fixation first sparked inside him earlier would only continue roaring out of control.

All because you seemed determined to gleefully pour accelerant on those smoldering coals of obsession every chance you could.

By the time Atsumu emerged for the evening meal, you and Sakusa were already seated at the small kitchen table amid a modest spread of grilled fish, steamed veggies, and fresh rice. Despite the humble fare, you'd somehow managed to elevate the presentation into something straight out of a rustic wilderness home and living photoshoot.

Tea lights flickered in tinted glass votives scattered artfully across the gingham tablecloth. An uncorked bottle of crisp white wine stood at the ready, already having bestowed a delicate rosy flush to your cheeks and a giggling effervescence to your mannerisms. Not that your mood needed any extra buoyancy tonight.

"Atsumu-kun, you finally decided to join us!" you sang out in that windchime timbre as he approached.

Sakusa's spine visibly stiffened like a plank in his seat at your cheerful greeting. But you seemed oblivious to the simmering thundercloud radiating off your sibling, too busy patting the empty chair between the two of you pointedly.

Atsumu felt rooted in place, torn between the instinctive longing to drink in your radiant proximity and the nagging chill of Sakusa's silent disapproval trying to dissuade him. For one wild moment, he fleetingly envisioned flipping the wooden table between you in a childish tantrum of frustration - shattering those artistic place settings and flickering flames while disrupting whatever sordid tension hummed around you in this space.

But just as quickly as the unbecoming thought manifested, you broke the spell with an easy laugh and shooing wave of your hand.

"Oh come now, no one's going to bite!" The words dripped from your plush lips like warmed honey, thick with the promise of being anything but innocuous.

That lilting beckon was all the encouragement Atsumu's id required. In three strides he'd covered the distance to drop heavily into the seat directly between you and Sakusa's brooding silence, close enough to make out every flirtatious flutter of your lashes and sip of wine flushing the exposed swells of your bosom a deeper rose hue.

Proximity, it seemed, only amplified each sinewy contour and fragrant enticement wafting from you in dizzying waves. Atsumu momentarily forgot how to breathe, much less speak or look anywhere beyond the brazen strip of cleavage winking at him through the deep plunge of your top's neckline. Even from his peripherals, he could make out the sloping feminine curves of your rib cage tapering into those tantalizing dips and valleys of warm skin.

Thoroughly entranced, Atsumu watched in a trance-like stupor as you leaned forward to reach across his lap for the bottle of wine - completely oblivious to the lewd vista you were broadcasting. His mouth flooded with saliva at the up-close tease of lace brushing against his thigh, the unobscured view plunging straight into tempting shadowed depths he desperately yearned to plunder like a conquering sailor sighting land for the first time.

"Let me top you off, Atsumu-kun," you purred in a mellifluous tone thick with suggestion.

Atsumu felt his pulse skyrocket as a few rogue droplets of condensation from the dripping bottle spilled over the curves of your exposed chest in slow trickles. Your breath caught in a soft gasp at the cool rivulet skating between your breasts while Atsumu sat utterly transfixed, paralyzed by the urge to lean in and chase that beaded path with his ravenous mouth.

This sinful torment dragged on for an infinite heartbeat, the three of you frozen in this torrid tableau like a renaissance-era fresco. Then Sakusa deliberately cleared his throat with the gravelly force of a tectonic grind.

"My sister's careless manners aside," he seethed in a tone of molten, barely-contained rage, "perhaps you should exercise a modicum of self-control at the dinner table. Miya."

The rebuke sliced through Atsumu's lustful trance with scathing clarity. Stomach churning, he quickly tore his gaze away to settle on the flickering candle flames between them - trying and failing to purge the debauched hunger clawing through his sinews.

You remained blithely unaware of the silent exchange crackling with tension, too busy delicately dabbing an embroidered napkin to the moisture stain darkening your sternum.

"Always a little spill here and there," you sighed airily without a hint of reproach. "But that's half the fun, isn't it?"

As if to punctuate the rhetorical, you pointedly dragged the napkin along the curves of your breasts in an exaggerated swipe - the picture of saccharine girlishness coupled with the most lurid self-indulgence. Atsumu wasn't certain if you truly grasped the weight behind your actions, or if you merely basked in deliberately stoking the smoldering torment clearly gripping him.

Regardless, he already knew with sinking resignation that this meal would prove nothing short of an agonizing marathon in temptation and wanton torture.

All while Sakusa looked on, hawk-eyed and seething, ready to swat away any perceived line-steppers with vicious territorial backlash.

Long after the dry husks of their dinner plates had been cleared, Atsumu remained haunted by the sights and scents of that tantalizing evening. He tossed fitfully atop the guest bedroom sheets, body thrumming with a familiar restless ache born from deprivation and obsession.

A soft rap at the door made him jolt upright, sheets pooling around his bare torso. Atsumu opened his mouth to call out, but the teasing lilt of your voice purred through the cracked entryway first.

"I'm not disturbing you, am I Atsumu-kun?"

You sidled into the dim glow with all the breezy elegance of a lingerie model - barely ensconced within a negligee of filmy lavender lace that skated along every lush curve. Strands of silken hair framed your face in a tousled, inviting halo as you regarded him through hooded lashes thick with bedroom promise.

Atsumu swallowed hard against the sandpaper roiling of his tongue, hyper aware of the way his athletic shorts tented obscenely. You didn't seem to register the offense, too busy trailing your fingers along the door frame with calculated idleness.

"I wanted to bid you a proper goodnight..." you husked, gaze roving overtly along the taut musculature of his abdomen. "And perhaps get your thoughts on tonight's dinner?"

Teeth sank into your plump lower lip - whether subconsciously or not, the act radiated the most decadent allure. Atsumu felt the first insistent prickles of perspiration bead along his hairline as you dipped your chin with a conspiratorial giggle.

"I'll admit, I may have been quite the...sloppy hostess with certain...spillages."

The husky timbre dripping from your lips conjured phantoms of the sinful vista you'd broadcasted earlier that evening - all smooth swells of exposed breasts and dabbing towelettes edging ever lower in indecent tease. Atsumu rasped out a withering groan before he could swallow it back.

That seemed to be the unspoken cue you were awaiting. With footfalls light as shadowdancing whispers, you crossed the room's threshold to perch yourself on the foot of his mattress. Slippered feet swung idly as you leaned in with the subtlest teasing sway of lavender lace.

"Did I...overstep any boundaries tonight, Atsumu-kun?" you asked in a honeyed murmur that bespoke far more than mere propriety. "I do hope I didn't make you too...uncomfortable at dinner."

The sweet scent of your perfume and shampoo enveloped Atsumu in a stiflingly floral gauze. His pulse thrummed a dissonant rhythm at your shameless proximity, roaring like a riptide against his heightened senses. What he wouldn't give to seize you by those tiny wrists and simply haul you beneath him until the last remnants of that guileless, flirty mask evaporated beneath his ravenous assault.

But he realized with a dawning sense of strangled defeat...the choice would never be his to make.

The heated brand of Sakusa's possession weighed too heavily in every languorous glance and coy mannerism. A brand seared so deeply into your marrow, it was written into your DNA's very architecture to seek permission and validation at his altar. Intentional or not, you were his avatar of temptation and desecration.

It was Atsumu's sworn duty to simply endure each new provocation and descent into lascivious obsession without intervention.

So when those full lips pursed into an anticipatory 'o' - clearly awaiting an answer about being too untoward - he released a shredded sigh of equal parts starvation and resignation.

"No...ya were just bein' yerself," Atsumu rumbled, voice graveled from the strain of restraint. "Nothin' for me to get uncomfortable about with that sorta sweet...hospitality."

Whether he imagined it or not, a flickered glinted behind those molten eyes at his capitulation. You eased back with a throaty chuckle before uncoiling from the sheets in one lithe, sinuous motion.

"Sweet dreams, Atsumu-kun," you bid with a breezing air that brought your perfumed aura wafting across his over-sensitized senses once more.

Long after your teasing presence retreated down the hallway, he remained upright and rooted in place - haunted by the sordid fantasies playing out like firelight dances across his psyche. Atsumu clutched the sheets in knotted fists as his jaw ground with escalating torment.

Until finally, the fraying restraint he still desperately clutched at snapped under the weight of his all-consuming fever pitch. With a shredded growl tearing from low in his chest, Atsumu surrendered to his roiling arousal, one fist flying to the throbbing erection tenting his shorts.

The friction of callused skin against the sensitive organ was a delicious form of self-flagellation. He stroked himself roughly, gritting his teeth against the pleasure-pain. In his fevered imagination, that hand belonged to another - one who watched his depravity from beneath hooded, knowing lashes.

You.

The forbidden vision of you - naked and panting and eager to please, all doe-eyed innocence and lascivious curiosity - flashed like a lightning bolt behind his eyes. The fantasy morphed, twisting into something far more perverse as he imagined you sprawled in an obscene splay of feminine limbs, lips swollen and cheeks flushed - but not from any pleasure he'd bestowed.

In his mind's eye, you remained impaled upon the unmistakable contours of a cock. Your thighs quivered as you struggled to accommodate the length splitting your pussy apart. But the angle of his imaginary thrusts wasn't one of pleasurable indulgence, or even of animalistic rutting. No, it was the brutal, selfish gouging of a feral beast claiming his territory.

The possessiveness radiating from those shadows behind you was unmistakable - an ineffable, unhinged energy radiating pure ownership.

Sakusa's.

The realization of whom you truly craved above all others sent Atsumu careening into the abyss, hips pumping and teeth bared in a snarl. The orgasm was a scouring, cleansing agony as thick ropes of cum spurted forth to spatter across the sheets in sticky stripes.

With a ragged grunt, he collapsed onto his back amidst the mess of cooling sweat and jizz. The aftershocks of pleasure pulsed through his veins, eclipsing his surroundings in a haze of endorphin-fueled oblivion.

When he finally came to, he was suddenly aware of the disturbing fantasy that had gripped him in its clutches. Atsumu groaned, scrubbing his palms over his face with a mixture of disgust and shame.

"What the fuck was that?"

The question echoed into the darkened room, a chilling portent he refused to acknowledge.

Long afterwards, the hazy vestiges of his indulgence refused to bring any sense of true sated release. If anything, Atsumu's thoughts only spiraled deeper into darker, grimmer obsession as the sweat and shame cooled from his brow in the guest room's dim shadows.

Restless paces resumed as his desperation escalated to an almost maddening degree. Perhaps some water would—

Wait. What was that sound?

Atsumu instinctively stilled, ear tuning to an indistinct rhythm bleeding from the far side of the apartment. As if being guided by a wraith's bony fingers, he found himself slipping into the hallway and trailing that siren summons. Deeper and deeper through Sakusa's apartment until he drew up outside a door slightly ajar - flickering shadows and indistinct

The muffled cadences echoing down the shadowed hallway felt like tendrils of insistent smoke curling beneath Atsumu's skin - intangible yet insidiously inescapable. Each indistinct murmur and rhythmic whisper carried the unmistakable undercurrent of something intimate, something meant to be experienced only by those within the sanctum's threshold.

He knew beyond all doubt that he should retreat. Put as much distance between himself and whatever blasphemous activities awaited discovery behind that slightly ajar door. Atsumu's baser survival instincts screamed for him to flee before his curiosity dragged him across the point of no return.

But that same poisonous undertow of obsession you had awakened within him during your siren song of innocence and corruption sang a far more compelling chorus. With each featherlight step forward, the suggestive refrains woven through the hushed gasps and creaking mattress springs sharpened into haunting clarity.

"...so good for me, sweet girl. Taking it so beautifully..."

Sakusa's low rasp punched through the heavy air with spine-shocking potency. The sheer, unapologetic undercurrent of unholy reverence scorching beneath each guttural intonation made the hairs along Atsumu's nape prickle to rigidity.

Scattered flashes of movement filtered through the cracked veil - just enough to paint a vivid mental portrait of what he was overhearing. Sakusa's massive, powerful frame loomed like a demon king. The bedding beneath him rippled with the force of his movements, the violent undulations punctuated by the telltale slap of flesh against flesh. Iron corded forearms flexed and bulged as hips pistoned in an unhinged, animalistic pace. His focus zeroed in on the obscured yet hauntingly familiar slender limbs twining amidst the obscured sheets and eddies of tangled fabric.

You. That was unmistakably you - spread wide and moaning beneath his punishing rhythm, utterly pliant and receptive to his every demand. Breasts bouncing with the force of each ruthless thrust and a litany of filthy endearments falling from kiss-bruised lips.

"My precious girl..." The entreaty dripped from Sakusa's lust-thickened vocals like hot wax burning along Atsumu's feverish nerve endings. "Made for my cock, weren’t you..."

The barest lilting of a giggle - your giggle - trickled through the veil in response to his sacrilegious edict. But there was a husky, strangled underpinning to the sound that hollowed Atsumu's core with reflexive disquiet. It was the wounded whimper of an innocent, wild thing enduring its domestication against its basest instincts.

Yet the muffled sighs and keens emanating from your prone figure spoke to a far more twisted, deviant truth: that you enjoyed being pinned and conquered. That you longed for someone to tame your wanton desires and bend you into submission, no matter how perverse the demands. A transfixed, horrified voyeur, Atsumu catalogued every sharp intake of breath and arched silhouette as you careened towards your orgasm.

Until finally, your cries crested in a single, visceral peaked that echoed like a gunshot down the empty corridor. Atsumu flinched as your lithe frame bowed bowstring-taut off the bed in convulsing release - translucent liquid dripping from the apex of your quivering thighs in an obscene torrent.

"Yes, just like that..." Sakusa murmured in a sibilant purr dripping with gratified menace. "Cum for me, sweet girl."

For several suspended heartbeats, only your residual whimpers and the steady drip of Atsumu's perspiration disturbed the weighted stillness. Then, the other man finally roused beside your pliant form with the predatory grace of a beast savoring its fresh kill.

Sakusa's imposing silhouette filled the doorway's thin sliver of illumination. Moonlight glazed his heavy-lidded gaze in lurid onyx, rendering those eyes as glinting obsidian pits exuding a feverish, singularly covetous hunger.

Some primitive instinct screamed at Atsumu to retreat before that searing, predatory stare pierced the concealing veil and transfixed him like a butterfly pinned to velvet. But he found himself inexorably magnetized, unable to tear away from the primal force radiating off Sakusa in insistent waves.

One suspended moment seemed to stretch into a sweating eternity, the air thickening with unspoken danger and forbidden temptation. Then the spell shattered - Atsumu gasped as if surfacing from deep waters, staggering backwards in a blind panicked escape.

Sakusa's unvoiced promise of merciless retaliation lapped at his heels like a starving beast while the hallway seemed to constrict around him with every frantic stride. That rapacious, all-consuming pull remained an oppressive miasma nipping at Atsumu's senses until he collapsed against the guest room door, shaking hands sealing him inside.

Only in the safety of smothering blackness did Atsumu allow his rigid composure to fracture. He had been offered an inseverable glimpse behind the veil into your and Sakusa's shadowed world - one of devout obsession and unrestrained carnal possession.

The illusion of your teasing innocence was forever shattered, replaced by that lurid, feverishly blooming allure no sane man could resist gravitating towards in abject fascination and disgust. Atsumu's fixation had been irrevocably seeded, taking root like a devouring parasite festering in the darkest recesses of his psyche.

As his hammering pulse gradually steadied in the gloom, Atsumu could have sworn the shadows themselves seemed to slither with silent, unnerving promise. Prickling awareness ghosted across his nape - carnal tendrils of Sakusa's possessive madness creeping through the ether to beckon Atsumu back towards the ravenous, unknowable depths of his unholy obsession once again.

[hitlikehammers]

You Have Bewitched Me, Body and Soul

or: The Secret Life of Daydreans 🦋

A Pride and Prejudice AU based on this scene for @pearynice on her birthday 💙🎉

He walks the heath to clear his mind, or so he tells himself. He knows in the heart of him that he walks, here, so as to muddy his trousers, to feel close to this man, this man who is so fond of walking, this man who holds him, who keeps him—who wants nothing of him and for fair reasons.

And yet.

This evening and the morning hours before dawn saw fit to peak above the tall grass: it’s proven mortifying, Wayne’s brazen notions, to attend the Hopper-Byers home, to call upon Steven in the night—Eddie may forget himself, but to call unannounced, to impose upon Mister Hopper, to impress upon him even the notion of disrespect when—

And yet then further still: such actions have served now to lead him to this, to this—

Such brashness and its consequences, from Wayne’s mouth upon waking, it has done nothing save to usher Eddie to heights of foolishness he’s never touched before; did not dream existed.

These precious hours have taught Eddie to hope, a dangerous thing to the mortal heart in his chest, weak to fluttering whims of impossible notions.

And yet.

There is light now, caressing the heather, limning the blossoms copper, so much like his eyes but so lesser, such paltry imitations. Nature, despite her majesty, could never hope to compare; Eddie prefers to imagine it does not try.

It must know what has been born of it, more radiant than anything it knows for itself. More resplendent than the sun itself.

And it is the sun itself, that reveals true radiance; Eddie is unsure of its truth but only for an instant. He blinks against the trick of light, in case it plays upon the weakness, the fluttering in his blood, the hope in him, but—

Nature cannot compare to the specimen himself; Eddie’s own mind cannot conjure the wholeness of him.

And this, this:

And to behold him across the moors in the slow-breaking rays of day: subtle, coy, glimmering but ever-gentle, as if in deference to his nature cast in this moment so delicate, lips parted as if his lungs conduct the breeze that calls the grasses to dance—to behold him: it is not songs but hymns, then: greater held here in the golden tendril-strands of being itself, more dear and true in these moments than Solomon’s Song in its every measure and metre—more sacred to a sweeter god.

He is a vision, and come daybreak proper not even the dew underfoot could hope to glisten in such measure as to rival his radiance, and if Eddie’s feet move him unconsidered yet conscious in the soul of him, beckoned in his blood and bones—if Eddie takes the strides between them and crosses the expanse to where Steven stands, to where Steven watches, those parted lips nearer now, more plush and sweet like fruit on the vine; those copper eyes more amber at proximity, molten in motion, dancing even as the beloved lines of that face, that face appraise him with just a tilt of consideration, perhaps curiosity. It is not impassive but it is inscrutable, and Eddie’s heart takes pains to fill with all his blood, to pound hard until he’s dizzy with it—though less so than he is with the dancing starshine in that gaze.

His cause for hope.

“I couldn’t sleep,” and oh, oh, but such seraphic tones bathed in sunlight just so, like banked fires behind Eddie’s bounding heart, like the pulses can ride the flames as much as be driven by them: immaculate.

Then the words themselves, the notion: it could ring as a justification, an excuse for being out in these early hours as if Steven Harrington in his glory could ever require justification, something so gauche and pedestrian as an excuse for being when his being is a gift, and then so far beyond such—it could sound defensive, or as an explanation, but no: no, Steven sets it into the space between them like an offering, simple yet simultaneously reminiscent of the beauteous layers of the man himself, his glorious enigma stood before Eddie like dream made flesh: he couldn’t sleep.

“Nor I,” Eddie grasps for that offering, pulls it tight to his chest; “my uncle,” and by all that is good and merciful in the world: if there is hope, if there is an inkling even, to be had only to be dashed but to at least have been known as potential alone, then let his uncle not have offended the patriarch of Steven’s family. Wayne is a kind soul, and a good man, but his humor is acquired to a fault and if he may have—

“Peculiar affinity for porcelain in that dear man,” and Steven, bless him, exalt him, canonize him and damn him straight to hell so long as Eddie may follow and they may be warm and outrageously contented there so as to keep forever the perfect quirk of his lips, like as laughter from the chest but quiet and still, the giddy dance of it all inside the waltzing wonder of his eyes—any and all things, whatever is necessary Eddie will do with effervescent joy, only to keep it on that heavensent face:

“He may have brought me a vase, and promised a tea service in due course.”

And Eddie had toyed with the notion that he couldn’t possibly flush deeper, perhaps in those stray moments he’d spent blissfully distracted by Steven’s amusement, Steven’s sweet lips, and not the likelihood of Wayne’s quirky ways of making a point and this, this, he—

Porcelain.

Only a long-held tradition in his family so entrenched none recall the origin, merely the absolute intent: a token of wedded blessing, or a gift of betrothal. Nothing dramatic or profound in the slightest, of course.

And Wayne chides him for being over-bold.

“Wholly inappropriate,” Eddie coughs into his hand, tries to mask the red in his cheeks with the gesture; “certainly without your, without,” and Eddie casts his eyes to the now-soft lit meadows, seeks counsel and finds none, to say nothing of the pull of Steven before him, nerves pushing his eyes to at least attempt to shy, to defer from Steven’s haze but as so as their eyes meet, it is wholly for nought.

Eddie breathes in deep, tries to steady himself, tries to focus less on the galloping of his heart between his lungs as they expand and more on the faint scent of honeysuckle when none grows here, when the perfume must be of Steven, must be the sweet lure of him for himself alone.

“However can I begin to make amends for such forwardness, uncalled and,” he falters, because the question is heartfelt, the sentiment honest in him but the formality is comfortable familiarity; the root of his worry, the fear that tethers this hope to the ground beneath him, clips its wings: “and undesired?”

For how could it ever be; it wasn’t, and quite rightly so, conveyed definitively in spring last when Steven had met Mister Carver, and Eddie had soured at the reminder of that rake’s transgressions, had let it propel pure jealousy into something fiercer, that made him forget his tongue and speak of himself as some high prize with no thought to the fact that the Hopper-Byers household lived on inferior means in part by choice, their family a taboo of the region but mostly, to a glance, a happy one: the patriarch a veteran of foreign battles and the Missus a force and a household managed by both with all heads covered safe came nightfall and all bellies filled without pain of wanting and no care for which of the children shared their blood if all shared their love.

And Eddie was, he was…

To call him a fool is too lenient, far too forgiving.

He’d spoken low of them even if only in passing, but he believes it was worse for it, for being impudent, thoughtless, and about inferiority of all arrogant nonsense, as if his money outstripped the goodness of those people, of Stev—

Oh, and he couldn’t have stopped there in his imbecility. Even if Eddie hadn’t known quite how Steven’s beloved sister held his heart; even if Eddie had acted for honest reasons to protect his oldest and dearest friend, despite the concern in it no greater than blind hypocrisy, how could he, how could he in defense of his friend not witness the same awkward tendency to babble in the face of feeling—regardless of any and all of it, what he’d done was done callously, and to have seen it crush Steven, the chasm that had opened in the moments Eddie had owned to his deeds—it had only been rivaled for how hateful it settled in him inside the wrath that had emerged to fill that chasm, the disdain, the loathing aimed at Eddie alone when Eddie had thought, when he’d asked, because he wanted so ardently—

He is grateful only that he told no lie in it. Did not try to save himself in falsehoods. The pain, he knows, was never something he could have been spared.

Same as he knows, now, that his feelings in April were sentiments he thought insurmountable. And yet the stirrings in his breast then were but a faint breeze compared to the whirlwind that consumes him now, his heart riotous and rejoicing without even being granted permission, without reciprocation, even before he knew the first lilt of hope.

And now, now that there is hope—

“Considering the lack of pure ruin well deserved yet unsuffered by my fool of a brother,” Steven eyes him knowingly; Eddie had asked Michael not to disclose his hand in shoring up the transgressions made in connection to Mister Carver in the city, but Steven quirks a brow with pointed intent and a warmth, a softness that is offered in something like companionship, like camaraderie, like a confidence shared; “to say nothing of the fortuitous appearance of one Lady Cunningham in our humble sitting room just last morning,” and Steven’s smile, then—and Eddie knows, because he drilled Chrissy through fumbling attempts so very many times, he knows she’d been and he knows it had borne sweet fruit for her affections—but to see Steven smile at him for it, if only in some part, is further still a gift in its own self: “I suspect we both have more than mended our share of transgressions.”

It is more than Eddie could ask for, an even footing steadier in this moment than he could have wished to reach.

And yet.

“You must know,” and Eddie can hear his own heart in his words, in his voice undeniable, inescapable��only rational, for the words passing the thumping in his throat on their way past his lips by necessity: “surely, you must know, it was all for you.”

Steven’s gaze on him is unyielding for a few silent moments, long with only birdsong in the periphery and Eddie’s frenzied heartbeat at the fore: a panopticon than feels all-knowing as it takes him in. Eddie feels wretchedly exposed for it, giddy for the attention in it, and flustered for its sheer intensity all at once.

“I did not wish to make assumptions,” Steven finally speaks, and the words are more exhalation than voice but it lands as poetry woven through a song of him, all of him, as clear as he breathes the music sewn in sonnets; “though to hear it now, from your lips,” Steven’s mouth quirks, and oh, but the apples of those regal cheekbones, their sharpness a threat to man’s sanity—he blushes so sweet.

“But in the measure of mending transgressions, then,” then Steven bites the swell of his bottom lip every so slightly, rewrites the staves of Eddie’s pulse for the indentations as he shakes his head, then lifts his lashes, gilded in remorse; “I fear I’ve—“

“Hush, sweetness, please,” and oh, Eddie has learned well from his uncle to presume, indeed; to be brazen, to speak without a rein on his heart just in this moment, to call him dear sugared things and he almost regrets, almost retreats or seeks apologies but oh, oh but those amber-pooling eyes: they start to drown so dark, the middle-black flooding for more than a pulsebeat but less a moment and—that pesky foolish hope, and Eddie takes not one step, but two steps closer for its pull.

“Anything you have said and done has been more than merited,” and Eddie feels certain in this moment that he must own it in not uncertain terms, even if it risks the heart in his chest; “I was a,” he licks his lips, casts his eyes down in shame, for it because he cannot do otherwise but then he looks up again, pleading in his gaze he knows because once more:

He cannot do otherwise.

“A proper fiend,” and it is true, it is true and he remembers confessing one of his own cardinal sins, his unforgiving tendencies when his opinion of others is sullied and he should not hold so much optimism for the man before him being so deeply entrenched as something different, something better but Eddie has changed himself, for this singular person’s presence in his world; he cannot help but lift his transgressions and pray better than he’s ever managed in a pew for mercies greater than any scripture could serve to the fate of his soul:

“I presumed blindly, and let pride blind my eyes to what stood before me so clear,” he breathes, and it is that, it is a prayerful thing he speaks, and no less.

“And what might have proven such a spectacle?” Steven asks and there’s levity in it, brightness but then underneath: a truth believed, a certainty in doubt. That such a spectacle would be unfathomable, rather than commonplace and a foundational truth among all things.

“The heart of you,” Eddie murmurs without hesitation, reaches toward Steven’s chest on instinct but hesitates before he touches, before he feels more than the suggestion of his heat in the morning chill—Eddie does not have the privilege.

Yet. And he…he still…

“The man you are, truly good beyond all reason or compare,” Eddie murmurs, marvels—he doesn’t touch, but he doesn’t yet withdraw his hand, pull any further away because—

He hopes.

“Beautiful for the flesh of you only as a paltry reflection of the soul in you,” Eddie speaks it so low, pitched close to the earth and deep in his chest because it demands no less, no less, and he wants to touch, he wants to cup Steven’s cheek, he’s wants so deeply to trace those lips in revere and feel him, show his love the best he can, with the remit of action he is allowed for now as a bare echo of what he could, if he’s allowed, if he is granted the joy, the honor of holding this man and reverencing him and adoring not like some idol, no, but as the part of his own heart that conducts all the beating, that makes any living truly worthwhile at all.

Because the value and weight of measuring living has shifted in this new world, with Steven in his view.

“And you, my,” no, no, Steven is not his, not yet, but he can respect what has not come to pass while still lavishing Steven with the ardor full to his heart:

“You, Steven Harrington, are breathtaking,” and now he does presume, the over-boldness his uncle has tried to tame in him but he reaches, and tucks Steven’s soft swoop of hair behind the delicate shell of an ear, and his hand never so much as brushes skin, and Eddie is quick, of ever so gentle in it, so that his fingers have retreated by the time he notices, but: Steven leans for the touch.

Steven leans for his touch.

”And if you are breathtaking,” Eddie lets his eyes roam across Steven’s figure, and he is a marvel, truly, but Eddie’s gaze lingers on the mud-splatters at his hem, stretched over strong calves and it would be impossible not to soften, not to melt within for the bright glow that spreads through Eddie’s chest as he smiles gentle, trusting in the promise of that emanating light as he breathes:

“Imagine what such truths must speak greater truth still, of your soul.”

Steven blinks, and those lashes fan so full: Eddie swears he feels the world around him shift for it, some a divine kind of a blessing.

“You spin such poetry as to treat toward nonsense, good sir,” Steven sighs the words a little over-soft, so gentle, a demure sort of lilt, to poke at him with a familiarity, a casual comfort Eddie aches for; aches for what else it could accompany, could mean.

“You speak with kindness,” Eddie cannot help but to voice the yearning, and his tone does nothing to belie the earnestness of his heart for it; “with lightness to your tone,” he reaches, dares to smooth Steven’s hair once more, slower with the touch to test if he leans again and oh—oh.

Steven cants his chin ever so slightly, and lets his jawline press to Eddie’s hand: more touch of his skin than Eddie has ever known before. He gasps for it, not only slightly undone.

“It tempts me so,” Eddie thinks he breathes; knows it is a shaking thing, much like the thunder of his pulse.

“Tempts you?” Steven leans back, lips pursed to confusion, and Eddie mourns the loss with his blood and bones entire.

“To hope,” because what more can Eddie do now but name it, this feeling beating wings through his veins, propelling his blood as much as his shivering his breath, narrowing his vision but making the whole of being brighter, more flooded full with color?

“To hope as I’d scarcely allowed myself,” his oversaturated wanting bubble forth from him, tongue loose and lungs oddly tight; “as I’d feared never again to know.”

And how he’d feared, he’d feared so deeply that all chance was gone, all hope was lost, that his presumption in the rain that Sunday morning had lost him all possible chance at the happiness his heart understood sooner than his mind, that when he’d leapt without that understanding through and through he’d put fire to the bridge he ever wished to cross.

But: he is here. Now, he is here.

They are here. And Eddie thinks he knows where to leap, his mind seeing the path as his heart trembles for how big the hop has been coaxed into swelling.

“You are too generous to trifle with me,” Eddie swallows hard, tries to even his breath but to no avail; and no matter, not truly: “so I must ask it of you, pure honesty, with no thought to spare my heart for it,” his voice doesn’t crack so much as fade a little, and he prays it does not undercut his sincerity but then Steven moves, reaches.

Tucks Eddie’s curls behind his ear soft, quick as Eddie’d done in reverse but it soothes something in him, doesn’t quieten his pulse but draws enough anxiousness from the drumming for there to be room for wishing, for hoping.

“I swear it,” Steven tells him solemn if soft, and the way he draws his hand away so slow: it feels like a statement of its own.

Eddie sees the path all the more clearly for it, and leaps with the whole of him, now:

“If your feelings have not changed, if your wishes stand firm as they did,” Eddie preludes, needs Steven to know, and to feel no obligation to him, nor guilt in speaking true: “tell me so and I will bother you no longer, this last of my presumptions my final transgression against your kind nature.”

“I swore it, Edward,” Steven speaks with a steel determination, not in kindly but wholly unwavering; “and not lightly done,” and his eyes shine ever-so, as steel in a forge burnt fire-bright.

“I will not lie to spare the heart of you,” Steven promises, then breathes deep with clear resolve; “but neither will I see it handled without due care, no matter your question, no matter its answer.”

And indeed, heart of Eddie is not spared. Because Steven, Steven is being honorable and speaking in vows in ways that tap furious and wantonly around Eddie’s chest but then: he speaks of caring for Eddie’s heart without precedent save for his generous inclinations as a rule—this rings different, though.

And Eddie’s unspared heart—a quandary to be sure, as the point to hand is to hold the very same with care—but his heart is not spared a frenetic pounding that Eddie feels high in his throat, a feathered thing beating to be free.

When his lips part, perhaps he grant’s its wish:

“If,” Eddie starts, breathless at first and understandably so; “if by some kindness I have neither earned nor deserved, your feelings havechanged,” Eddie feels himself on an unexpected precipice, for Steven gazed upon him with…with tenderness. With so much more he has not earned or deserved and yet:

“Then I would have to tell you,” and it’s Eddie’s racing heart giving itself away as not merely frantic but full, so full, and if it takes flight now it can’t help but spill its splendored hopes at the feet of its desire, its best excuse to beat:

“You have bewitched me, body and soul and I love, I love, I,” his breath catches, the revelation of letting the words spill again from his lips now terrifying, for how last they were received but his heart and mind understand it fully, now, and he can speak it with a fullness he didn’t comprehend then, a wholeness he hadn’t tapped to know, then.

And thus so much more than anything: it is exhilarating, to open his heart and hope to be seen truly for all he is, for all that he feels and seeks to give without reservation or reliant: unending.

“I love you.”

And when he breathes, after the world holds those words, when he breathes the air tastes golden, rich and born anew. He makes to speak, to confess further but then—

Steven reaches for his hand, takes it fully in a way Eddie’s never felt before, laces their fingers and stares at them before lifting his eyes to Eddie’s, glistening and stretched so wide. Eddie barely blinks to drink in the whole of him, and when he catches glimpse of the blood-beat at the stretch of Steven’s star-charted throat, the swift rhythm a perfect swell between beauty marks, it swathes something in Eddie that had retained rough edges somehow, smoothes him into whole submission to the way his heart hums for this man’s mere touch.

When Steven pulls Eddie’s hand joined in his own, to press against the source of that perfect beat, and Eddie knows by touch now the way it pounds with the same gusto, the same fluttering testing Eddie’s own ribs: it is magical. It is divinity itself writ in flesh and held between mortal hands.

“I never wish to be parted from you from this day on,” Steven whispers, fierce with it, and Eddie wishes he could move, just now, to bring Steven’s hand close to his chest in turn, to let him feel the tripping slip of beats as it acclimated to a world where, just perhaps, Eddie may have just gotten everything he’s ever wanted.

In point of fact, though: he cannot quite move, because it so happens that cupping a hand against the heart you’ve yearned for so long is momentous to the point of stilling time itself.

But Steven, of course: he proves Eddie’s trust in him, Eddie’s faith and hope, as he does the moving for the both, and draws Eddie’s hand upward, reaches for his other wrist and gathers them together between both his own and lifts them to his lips, kisses fingertips, the peaks of his knuckles, the curve of his wrists.

“Your hands are cold,” Steven breathes, glances up at Eddie and Eddie cannot know what he sees but hopes—since it has not failed him yet—that what he finds is the heart and soul of him for the taking, the sharing, the giving for any and all that’s wanted and received.

Steven’s mouth is only parted the slightest bit but it sends Eddie’s pulse to tripping all the more, but Steven’s eyes are dancing, his inhalations deep but quick, affected as Eddie when he cradles both Eddie’s hands now back to his chest, flattens them to the palm against to feel every beat and breath like a confession or a promise or both of them and more and then—

Then he leans, slow, and Eddie understands this impossible thing: an invitation as much as a query for permission. Steven’s lips are still parted when he pauses a hair's-breadth from meeting and Eddie falls, somehow, although he thought he’d fallen already farther than a man could manage.

But Steven’s pulse under his hand skips, stumbles hard but feels as jubilant as Eddie’s own, so he finds a way to fall further, just the slightest tip forward into that parted pout and Steven; Steven.

Against Eddie’s lips, his kiss is like sunlight.

Against Eddie’s hands, his heart is so warm.

🦋

also on ao3

🤍permanent tag list (lmk if you’d like to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 (again: thank you so much for the beta/wrangling my bad brain™ into its cage) @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme

[jainiss]

hello!

bringing the reactions of male characters from genshin impact meeting Aether's incredible and gorgeous girl(boy)friend (you).

Hope you guys like it ~~

Ps: forgive me if there are english mistakes. English is not my native language.

Ps2: these are guesses at what I think it would be. all fictional.

Diluc's usually stoic expression softened imperceptibly as his eyes met you. The flames dancing in his vision seemed to mirror the warmth he felt, a rare smile gracing his lips as he nodded in your direction.

Kaeya's charismatic grin widened, his roguish charm fully on display. He sauntered over with a flourish, extending his hand, "Well, it's a pleasure to meet such a dazzling lady/gentleman." His playfulness held a hint of admiration, his eyes gleaming as he held your gaze.

Venti's carefree demeanor momentarily faltered as he looked upon your ethereal beauty. He let out a low whistle, his eyes dancing with mischief. "My, my, Mondstadt truly is blessed with breathtaking sights," he quipped, raising his wine glass in salute.

Childe's eyes widened, his competitive spirit momentarily forgotten as he took in your allure. He chuckled, appreciating the visual feast before him. "Seems I'm not the only one with impeccable taste," he remarked, a hint of respect lacing his tone.

Xiao's quiet intensity remained unbroken, yet his gaze held an additional depth as he observed you. His eyes lingered longer than he intended, acknowledging your beauty with a nod of his head, a silent understanding passing between them.

Bennett, in his usual earnestness, beamed at you with unadulterated delight. "Wow, Aether, you really found someone amazing!" His genuine enthusiasm was infectious, and his admiration for you radiated from every word he spoke.

Zhongli's composed demeanor didn't waver, but a softness graced his eyes as they met yours. His words held an air of contemplation as he remarked, "Beauty, much like the mountains, is a sight to behold." His calm observation carried a layer of admiration, showcasing his appreciation for your presence.

Albedo, ever absorbed in his work, found his attention momentarily diverted. His eyes, usually focused on scientific marvels, briefly lingered on your radiant form. "Nature itself would envy the artistry of such beauty," he murmured, a rare compliment from the alchemist.

Xingqiu's poetic soul shone through his expression, a mixture of wonder and genuine admiration. He gestured toward you with a flourish, his words crafted like verses, "Aether, you've introduced us to a living embodiment of celestial aesthetics." His playful charm couldn't hide the genuine sincerity in his praise.

Chongyun's usual shyness was replaced with unabashed awe as he gazed upon you. His cheeks turned a faint shade of pink as he managed a timid smile, offering a quiet "Hello." His gentle nature resonated with the delicate beauty you exuded.

Razor's observant gaze softened, his connection with nature allowing him to appreciate your presence on a different level. He simply nodded, acknowledging you with a quiet reverence, his loyalty to Aether reflected in his actions.

Kazuha's serene aura remained steady, but his eyes held a hint of intrigue. He inclined his head respectfully, "Mondstadt's winds carry tales of beauty, but they couldn't have done justice to the reality." His calm nature mirrored the tranquil appreciation he felt.

Cyno's stoic demeanor faltered, his usually impassive expression shifting slightly as he observed you. His eyes flickered with a hint of surprise, his voice softening as he acknowledged your presence, "Greetings."

-----

Byebye ~

© jainiss ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

[yourneighborhoodporg]

The Guardian

Chapter 7: Master

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of pain, banter, humor, fluff, the appearance of a sneaky b (see gif), some developing thoughts about obi 👀

Summary: With your short spar with Anakin nearing completion, the moment is suddenly interrupted by a passing caucus of politicians, one of whom you'd been long hoping to meet. Just as quickly, however, you're dragged away, instead needed at a long-awaited appointment that may reveal new aspects of your being and the immediate path ahead.

Song Inspo: Little Willow — Paul McCartney

Words: 7.5k (just put me in jail)

A/n: He has finally arrived. The one we all hate 😂😭 Let me know what y'all think about his character in this :)

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Series Masterlist

For now we see through a glass, darkly — 1 Corinthians 13:12

“Well done.”

You glanced over at the affected voice with radiant auburn hair, still cognizant enough of your lower back’s recent meeting with the dojo’s pearl-tinted floor to gently press two knuckles against it, hoping to alleviate a sliver of its steadying ache. At the far end of that same three-rowed, dark wood viewing bench, Obi-Wan rose meaningfully, soon strolling toward you both. The Master Jedi leisurely folded each arm while making a point to center his gaze with yours as expressive words fell from his mouth.

“To the both of you.”

Smiling appreciatively at the bearded Jedi, you relaxed your senses, encouraging them to cool like a morning stretch while your stare shifted toward Anakin’s focused gaze and knowing grin. Evidently, he took this shift in your posture as a cue to officially end the duel, directing his saber away from your neck and flicking off its blue, incandescent heat before clipping the weapon to his belt with a clink. You welcomed the invitation to purloin this new space, crunching upwards and gently fluffing your robe of the ground’s remnants. It didn’t take long to recover from the unexpected fall enough to rise to your feet, reattaching your own saber as Obi-Wan continued his approach out of your peripheral.

You faced Anakin with an impassive stance. Tightening your spine, you encouraged the young Jedi to emulate a parallel bearing, prompting his eyes to relax in recognition as both rather slacked expressions linked, signaling each other to dip into a hand-clasped bow in respect of the spar’s end.

“Eh, I think I did most of the work,” Anakin shrugged nonchalantly mid-bob, a poking grin wrestling at ungiving lips as he raised from his inclination.

Your eyes rolled while similarly straightening, an amused smile fighting to the surface. “You keep telling yourself that.”

“Either way,” Obi-Wan spoke up, motioning toward you with an earnest stare as he drew into a restive stance beside the younger Jedi. “You really should rest now.”

You raised your hands in surrender in your stroll up toward the duo. “Okay, okay,” you theatricalized, tickled expression never faltering. “I yield to the Master.”

Obi-Wan’s features lifted warmly at your words. It only lasted mere seconds, however, before the wiser Jedi angled toward his left, gesticulating toward the outwardly gratified companion beside him while speaking ironically.

“At least someone has a respect for rank.”

Anakin scoffed, crossing his arms as he addressed the elder Jedi who’d long ago mastered the art of concealed entertainment. “I respect rank!”

It was clear from his expression alone that Obi-Wan had his most sensible retort fueled and aimed, akin to an incredibly quick-witted pirate with a blaster. His mouth opened to speak while raising a finger in dissent. But before any vocalizations could escape his parted lips, a sudden commotion in the form of resonant, overlapping conversationalists and a clamor of heavy, discordant footsteps rippled through the Force, cutting the brief cessation between the three of you like Bantha butter as you all honed into the interference to the Force’s eternal flow.

Despite the muffled nature of the disturbance, dampened by the training room’s separation from the outer walkway, the atmosphere’s sudden uptick in unregulated activity certainly gave you, Obi-Wan, and Anakin brief pause. For you especially, the unexpected shift from the pacified movements you were becoming accustomed to at the Temple to a progressively incongruous bustle beyond the dojo’s walls drenched you in wonderment.

Who could be walking down that hall? No Jedi, you were certain of that. Yet to the best of your knowledge, only Jedi were welcome within the Temple’s walls.

But before you could consider these sensations further, your inner reflection was cut short, namely by the distraction of a pivoting Anakin as he speedily traipsed toward the training room’s gray double doors. You nearly giggled when taking in his movements as you couldn’t help but notice how they resembled the unassertive dash of a youngling having already been told by an exasperated Master to slow down.

“Where are you going?” You asked as Obi-Wan too, followed the retreating Jedi’s movements with discerning eyes.

You spied his head tilt back, that steady, transitional pace never relenting as the young Jedi spoke pointedly at you.

“You can’t say you’re not just as curious as me.”

Inwardly, you sighed.

He certainly wasn’t wrong.

Maybe that’s why without giving it a second thought, you quickly jogged after him in your own indefinite skip.

“I’m sure it’s nothing to be excited about,” Obi-Wan remarked from behind as he started to amble after you both.

But even Master Kenobi’s uniform words did nothing to assuage your interest. There was something new and exciting beyond those walls, and you were intending to discover it.

You continued behind the young Jedi as he attempted to temper his outward eagerness as well, enough to hear a quiet admittance escape from under his breath.

“At this point, anything will be exciting.”

You caught up to Anakin once he reached for the entryway's left control panel, tapping it in stimulated quick succession before the double doors’ thin seam whooshed into an aperture, pulling you both by the power of inquisitiveness alone into the lofty hall’s cooler chill.

Tracing the vibrant, overlay of several life forces’ buzzing ambulation like latent breadcrumbs, your head swiveled to the left. You caught sight of the clatter’s spirited source before swiftly moving with Anakin toward the walkway’s immediate inner wall, hoping to make room for the approaching turbulence just fifteen meters ahead. It was a rather large entourage, composed of eight individuals engaged in a stifled tread down the lilac path toward you.

You analyzed the diverse group, noting that of the beings you could place, two were definitely human. One was a middle-aged gentleman with dark features and olive-shaped eyes, his expression emulating stoic patience and preoccupation. The other, a senior, pale-haired man with sunken eyes and aged creases radiating from the bridge of his nose as he spoke faintly to the olive-orbed fellow beside him. Another was a Rodian, with his attentive eyes, green-tinted form, and impatient expression. And behind him, a being with a tanned eye-stalk trio, protruding snout, and relaxed antennas— a Gran, and a peaceful one at that. To their rear strolled a reserved Ishi Tib, whose x-shaped, emerald countenance, and rounded beak gazed around in awe at the Temple’s steep architecture. The most notable, however, was the towering four-horned Chagrian whose framed sky-blue face stared on with barely restrained severity on the opposite flank of the elderly human. In hand, a long bronzed staff with a sculpted hooded figure as its head.

Soon, you sensed Obi-Wan slow to join you and Anakin from behind, enabling you all to uniformly observe the scene before you.

As the three of you stood in silent regard, you happened to realize that these strangers moved with greater elegance than the masses you’d encountered in the Uscru and Entertainment Districts, remembering how their lumbered gates and sudden skitters added to the atmosphere’s dynamic yet whimsical glow. But despite their upraised grace, each footfall still landed like desensitized raps while their darkened robes of velvety black and currant whipped about legs now leniently treading eight meters away.

Their modulated sophistication and elaborate attire seemed to contribute to that overall air of importance, you considered. These qualities could potentially explain their presence, and suggest their current permissions to be on Temple grounds, you mused. Though it was soon clear that your companions had the answers you were eagerly searching for.

“That, is the Senate Security Council,” Obi-Wan divulged lowly from just above your shoulder, feeling the subtle fluctuation of temperature as his warmed breath passed by your neck.

“And that,” you glanced at Anakin as he continued for him, nodding at the leader of the pack. “Is Chancellor Palpatine.”

You turned back toward the promptly approaching political leader and his cortège, surveying him with resolute focus. If your studies on Hoth and short time in the Jedi Archives revealed anything, it was that the Chancellor was essential to the Republic’s hope of enduring peace. In fact, it was one of the first things you realized in your preparatory studies for the Guardian role— that it would be important to understand this vital figure, appreciating it as another task that aligned with your duty.

But almost immediately, you concluded that he wasn’t exactly what you thought the grand political leader of a Galactic Republic would look like. Now that you were focusing on his comparably slower pace, it seemed that the Chancellor was directing the constant pull and push of their pacified yet hurried tread that would stagger as often as their footsteps echoed against the expansive hall’s soaring ceilings. He was weakened, his climbing age apparent with each labored breath and strained glance at the next political aid. This wasn’t the leader that your imagination conjured during those many daydreaming years on Hoth.

But then again, you were sure the stresses of advising an inter-world union through a war threatening the very harmony of the galaxy would be as exhausting and fermenting as he seemed to be. It was quite possible, that this recent conflict had merely quickened time’s aging disease.

Nevertheless, despite these reasonable explanations, there was still some discrepancy with his title and appearance that you were trying to place. Yes, you had a certain biased image of political leaders from your exposure to Republic lore. Powerful, commanding, unrelenting, which this matured individual could very well be. Yet, still, some incongruity invaded your senses as a modest helping of puzzlement etched its way across the forefront of your mind.

And apparently, across your brows, as Obi-Wan seemed to notice your confusion in his effort to skirt around the two bodies in front of him to stand securely by your vacant side.

“What it is?” He asked, sending you a subtle but curious glance as he continued to maintain a formal pose for the approaching posse’s field of vision.

This comment seemed to garner Anakin’s attention as well as, he too, peeked at your searching expression out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s just…” you paused, trying to find the words.

You dissected the Chancellor once more for a few seconds longer, taking in his entire figure as a tenuous realization washed over your thoughts before retreating back into the depths of your mind.

“He’s shorter than I expected.”

You caught Obi-Wan raising an amused brow as he glanced across you. Following his line of sight, you were met with Anakin’s pursed lips and cheeks that had reddened ever so slightly. The waver was brief as he swiftly hushed you with great enthusiasm, adding a moderate, yet covert, elbow to the arm

“He’s going to hear you,” the Chosen One whispered through gritted teeth while leaning behind your ear.

You lightly swatted away his protruding arm, but it was virtually redundant. Instead, by his own volition, Anakin quickly adopted an almost ritualistic posture for the Council’s slowing stride when he noticed the Chancellor’s features lift in recognition, a gentle smile creasing the older gentleman’s dried lips as he gazed at the young Jedi.

“Master Skywalker!” He exclaimed happily with a weary voice as he halted, stalling the pace of each being who loyally heeded his movements.

The three of you stepped forward toward the welcoming politician.

“It’s good to see you, Your Excellency,” Anakin announced in ceremonious continuity as he bowed respectfully toward the fatigued Chancellor.

“And you as well,” he spoke warmly, cheeks crinkled.

“Chancellor,” Obi-Wan politely nodded toward him. “I trust your trip to the Temple was as fruitful as you hoped?”

Palpatine breathily chuckled. “Yes, Master Kenobi. Thank you for your diligence in asking.”

The other human, with jet black, combed-over hair, striking brows, and a goatee, humbly stepped in, seemingly hoping to save the Chancellor’s energy as he spoke on his behalf.

“Master Yoda and Master Windu have informed us about the temporary communications blackout.”

“Yes,” Palpatine agreed, nodding toward the man stood beside him. “Senator Organa, the rest of the Security Council, and I are all very comforted to know that the system wasn’t damaged in some way. I was concerned when my colleagues and I were not able to get through to The Council using our holocomms. Thankfully, the Jedi have been as proactive as always in addressing these kinds of threats.”

Just as he finished, you noticed an air of curiosity lining the Chancellor’s faded brows once his peripheral caught your figure between the two Jedi. His tender expression turned toward you as he offered a kind greeting. Only in that second, had you noticed that his good-natured countenance began to loosen spinal muscles you didn’t realize were tense.

Politics, and all those who commanded that world, were foreign to you. Having lived on an ungoverned, albeit forsaken, planet, it was not something you came in much contact with. Well, besides your holobooks. So it wasn’t surprising that your senses were confused by their presence, you excused inwardly. You were always trained to be cautious in the face of the unknown, and that included the complicated world of diplomacy. You had known a Jedi all your life, but never a politician.

Yet Palpatine didn’t seem much like a politician to you. He was more akin to a kind old man. And that presence was probably what finally eased worries you didn’t even recognize you had.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he acknowledged.

Your cheeks brightened. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Chancellor,” you affably offered, presenting him with a bow gradual enough to quench any pockets of arid formalities. “My name is Silvey.”

“It is a joy to meet you, Silvey,” he exclaimed gently as you rose. “Are you a Jedi? Forgive me, but I’m not sure if I’ve seen your face before.”

Your smile remained genial, having become more comfortable with your assigned name and story in the face of questioning.

“I am, Chancellor. I have been on a years-long mission away from the Temple until recently.”

“Ah,” he vocalized. “Well, it’s marvelous to know that we have another Jedi here to support our Great Republic through this tragic conflict,” he sighed wearily, allowing his eyes to linger in melancholy.

You sympathized with the tender-hearted politician, offering him a sympathetic expression as his dutiful eyes raised to meet yours suddenly.

“Well,” he began with a greater punch. “I’m glad you’re using this time to socialize with Master Skywalker and Master Kenobi. Two of the best the Galaxy has to offer. Did you know each other before your mission?”

“In passing,” Obi-Wan piped up. “Though I’m sure we will all have the opportunity to learn more of each other as the war continues. Efforts to support the Republic often overlap.”

The Chancellor hummed sensibly. “Right as always, Master Kenobi,” Palpatine nodded toward him just before taking a brief yet lingering instant to rake his charming eyes over your complexion.

But soon, his gaze opened back up to the three of you.

“Well, I always wish to talk more with our galaxy’s greatest peacekeepers, but I must be going now. The Senate must be told to refrain from using the Temple’s communications system as soon as possible.”

The Chancellor angled back toward you more fully this time.

“I hope we will be able to speak more sometime soon. Any friend of Master Skywalker’s is a friend of mine, and I would enjoy hearing more about that mission of yours.”

You lightened further at his thoughtful words. “I would be honored, Chancellor.”

The elder gentlemen blinked at you kindly.

“And that goes for you too,” he extended toward the young Jedi beside you. “I’m looking forward to hearing about your adventures these past few months. Please, come by my office, anytime.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Anakin stated in a reverent monotone. “I will be sure to visit soon.”

“Good, good,” he proclaimed. “I will see you then.”

As he released those final mutterings, the Chancellor carefully began his shuffle forward, encouraging the three of you to step aside so that his band of politicians could once again reinstate their gradual progression back down the walkway. You watched them for a moment, their darkened robes catching the wind of each mercurial movement in a fashion similar to earlier as overlapping conversations and knocking footsteps prodded the hall’s previously calmed atmosphere.

“Silvey?” Obi-Wan prodded from behind.

You tilted toward the bearded Jedi, noticing his stitched brows aimed at the Council’s ancient wrist comm while you gazed at him expectantly.

“What time were you supposed to meet with Master Yoda?”

Your nose scrunched in thought as he rolled his arm toward you, revealing the barely perceptible, flickering green glow of the chronometer installed on the device. And as soon as you registered the numbers before you, your face dropped in realization.

“Oh, kriff,” you mumbled.

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened incredulously. “Where did you learn that language?” He questioned, disbelief raining from his voice.

The gears turned behind his stare for only a moment before his expression dropped into a sharp gape toward his former Padawan.

“It wasn’t me!” Anakin whined, waiving his hand in rebuttal.

“We had the same Master, Obi-Wan,” you reminded as your focus shifted to the task at hand. Quickly, you began your short expedition away from the duo, down the same path from which Palpatine emerged, before deliberately pivoting on your heel and continuing your trek backward so to address the flummoxed Jedi.

“Who do you think I learned it from?”

Obi-Wan’s mouth lay agape as Anakin barely hid a chuckle from your sight.

Barely.

“And you’re not off the hook, Smarty,” you called back at him while picking up the pace of your inverse jog. “Being the reason I’m late and all.” A smirk scurried across your mouth. “Better train hard to prepare for the consequences.”

You narrowly caught the giddy lilt sparkling behind his eyes before spinning on your heel to now hasten into a run, assuaged and nimble enough to be accepted within your tranquil surroundings.

That was, until Anakin yelled his response toward your departing figure with a levity so tangible, that you could feel it through his voice nearly twenty meters away.

“I’ll be waiting, patiently!”

You grinned.

—

Your dimmed umber cloak thrashed like a land-fairing scalefish as you swiveled down another one of The Temple’s many outstretched and interconnected walkways. Only after a few more seconds and additional turns on that emerald green mezzanine did you finally allow your long-hurried pace to stifle when you discerned a memorable sight.

Just a dozen meters away, at the end of the hall’s extensively columned aerial vaults, reigned a gap in the upper back wall through which the afternoon’s blazing sun of Coruscant Prime flared with greeting. The sparkling golden light encircled two large gray pillars that supported the downward ceiling’s pitch, weaved past the hanging sage-tinted signs strung from gutters to announce your location, and poured over the gray stone edging fence that guided travelers toward the bifurcated staircase entryways leading to the training ground’s lower level.

You had learned quickly from your first mistake, when in search of the Sparring Arena to meet with Master Windu, you became quite immediately, and hopelessly, lost. Plunged into the labyrinth that was the Temple among a sea of occupied Jedi who further muddled the path.

But this time, you didn’t need Obi-Wan’s help. You appreciated his assistance, but knew that if you had any hope of being the best Guardian you could be, you needed to become self-sufficient. So this time, you chose to use the Jedi Archive’s resources and your own free time to search out the training grounds as soon as you learned of your impending appointment with the Grand Master on this very acreage.

Luckily, your short detour from the day before wasn’t in vain, having shaved off a few extra minutes from your reliably inflating tardiness.

Once the end of the outstretched walkway was reached, you were free to follow the creational illumination’s natural path, swiftly swerving about the garden wall and jogging down the L-shaped stairway to the foundation’s vast cream surface in hopes of making this important meeting somewhat on time.

Instantly, were plunged into Coruscant’s afternoon heat the moment your nimble toes met the smooth masonry, temporarily overcharging your senses as you acclimated to the strange sensation that penetrated each burnished boot. With eyes squinted and cheeks burning, you gazed up at the Coruscant sky, a cupped hand elevated for shade as you took in the baby blue and blanketed snow-like clouds that did little to shelter you from the giant star’s omnipresent intensity.

Having spent most of your life on a desolate, ice planet, you hadn’t had the opportunity to feel the blazing passion of such a powerfully dense sun directly on your prickling skin. It was a rather refreshing surprise, but still something that was quite foreign to you. You were sure that prolonged exposure would drain your physical energy far more fervently than your former asylum, yet you found the sight to be particularly bewitching, and undeniably beautiful.

Dragging your captivated eyes from the fresh encounter, you strolled toward the training ground’s center, observing the outdoor setting as you simultaneously searched for Master Yoda somewhere on the grounds.

Having not seen the nine hundred-year-old Jedi in your immediate scan of the alabaster-tinted array, you instead chose to use this brief opportunity to absorb your surroundings with greater care. Praying that you had not missed the gathering entirely as you did so.

Sauntering forward, you noticed that the arena was rather spacious, split into three graphed sectors with either end acting as a reflection to the other. Glancing to your left, you noticed a segmented instructional zone of sorts, comprised of three rectangular cedar murals of varying size. One was in use by a small batch of Initiates, engaged in a synchronized drill of dexterity. An assemblage of blue and green training sabers pigmented each of their whirling hands as they moved seamlessly before their instructor— an older Cosian, if you had to guess, recognizable by his tufted tail and leafy protruding beak. Beneath them, each depiction was etched with smearings of white powdered chalk, delineating circular footing guides, you assumed, as the younglings followed each curve with precise gradation.

You glimpsed ahead, wandering further as you perceived two protrusions on either side of the training ground’s back wall. They were elevated by at least four meters and adorned with switchback staircases, enabling the structures to prevail as alternative methods for exiting the faded grounds. You imagined they led to additional gated walkways that snaked into the Temple’s belly.

Altogether, the expanse’s high-walled design manufactured a basin of sorts, accented by the flushed blocky jade lamps that dotted every hallow crevice and drew attention to the surrounding orotund panels.

As you tugged your line of sight away from the surrounding architecture to the patch before you, you couldn’t help but become enthralled by the figure ahead. At the arena's nucleus stood a markedly enchanting presence. One which pulled at the very core of your inner current.

A twisting tree, its thick trunk dancing into each curved branch, loomed expansively from a patio that unfurled below. It stretched outwards, each branch seizing the sun’s parting energies far beyond your reach. Gold veins with ringed motifs winded up its quiet body, seemingly powering the amber, oblong leaves that adorned each ligneous finger in calm bundles.

Nearly instantaneously, it felt as if the rooted being was beckoning you forward from its home just beyond the set paltry stairs beneath you. Even the steps themselves appeared designed to usher in all who desired to know its secrets, with the apical sill acting as a lure mere inches from your feet. Soon, the faint aroma of Cardamom swirled past your nostrils from his intoxicating figure, further drawing your attention.

In those brief instances you took to descry the blossomed flora, you couldn’t help but feel the need to approach the botanical feat, feeling a strange yet embracing wrest toward its sparkling striped markings in particular. It was before your mind could fully register the action, when a sudden yet gradually vitalizing string, tied from your collarbone to the trunk's base, finally commanded your legs to assuredly promenade forward.

As you neared the colossal energy, treading beyond the staircase’s final step, your tie to each neighboring aura swelled exponentially. You could feel the fluxing vivacity of the younglings far behind you, and the compelling yet subdued strength of their instructor. Another step nourished the stream, empowering you to pinpoint wandering bodies in the nearest Temple halls, including the assembly of politicians still making their way through its winding pathways.

Promptly, your ceaseless strides brought your face within inches of the powerful beacon, its surging vigor drawing your eyelids to flutter closed while you extended a gentle hand to rest on its glossy bark. As your fingertips met its silky texture, you sensed an instant surge of breath in the form of thousands of tiny little life forms, binding into the nexus. Even ones as small as the avian creatures resting on distant rooftops, or the fleck-sized insects that trotted along a portion of the far wall in perfect harmony.

You delved deeper, exploring these fervently fluid impressions with greater absorption when a new, striking and formidable spirit gradually entered the fold, their pace sedated though consequential as they approached from behind. But despite sensing this new presence, you encountered pronounced difficulty in separating from the strength before you.

That was, until you heard their familiar voice. One that you had not heard since the Temple-wide meeting yesterday morning.

“Discovered The Great Tree, you have.”

Opening your eyes abruptly, you severed your interlaced connection with the tree’s amplifying flow before spinning toward the raspy voice. Your eyes instantly met the shorter, long-eared Jedi, elevated by his relaxed stance against a curved cane on the ground’s main platform above. The moment you steadied, you were quick to offer him a reflexive bow while inwardly chiding yourself for delaying him further.

“Yes,” you rapidly acknowledged before just as soon faltering, like a misstep in your footing.

You internally cycled through how to respond to the 900-year-old being for a moment too long as you fought the steadily rising panic. This was not the first impression you wanted to make. But you still needed to say something.

Relenting, you finally settled on a phrase you used way too often with Qui-Gon in your younger years. And something you had not planned to say ever again once your journey began.

“I apologize for my belatedness, Master Yoda,” you offered evenly. “I assure you, it will not happen again.”

The pepper-green Jedi hummed in thought, offering the environment a brief silence before leisurely idling down the stairway toward your figure. “Believe you, I do. Works in mysterious ways, the Force does. Led you to this tree, it has.”

Master Yoda ambled to a slow halt beside you, giving himself scope to gaze up at the natural wonder. He must have relished in the presence of the Great Tree many thousands of times in his long years at the Temple. Yet his reverent appearance gleamed with the radiance of discovering its pure artistry for the very first time. You admired that insight, so, hoping to see what his sagacious eyes discerned, you reproduced his venture into the tree’s depths.

“I feel a strong link to the Force when I’m near it,” you acknowledged aloud.

“An Uneti tree, you see before you. Imbued with the living Force, it is.”

Yes, of course. How could you have forgotten? Qui-Gon had told you that story many times. Of how all his life, he had never seen a real tree before, having spent his entire existence in the industrial world of Coruscant up to that point. That was, until his Master Dooku brought him to see one right here on these training grounds for the very first time. The famed golden tree that shone from the sheer will of the Force alone.

That was this Great Tree. The Uneti tree.

And much like Qui-Gon, this was your very first time seeing one too.

“Yet your connection feel, scarcely I did.”

A nervous pang brushed against your ribs as you absorbed his meaning. You continued to trace the monument’s golden veins with a penetrating stare, hoping to hide the resurgence of this particular doubt that had been clouding your mind since your session with Master Windu.

Why could no one truly sense your mental grapplings of the Force? It was possible that the Grand Master had answers to this persistent query.

“I don’t understand,” you stated earnestly.

The Master acknowledged your confession with an esophageal grunt. “Powerful, your mind is. Protected, it is, against searching powers. Taught you well, Qui-Gon has.”

Though, despite Master Yoda’s gentle praise, you couldn’t help the new flurry of numerous questions that knocked at the back of your mind like nosy neighbors.

This marked the second time a Master could only limitedly sense your signature, even when you weren’t attempting to bury your presence. In fact, after many years engaging in Force Stealth in an abundance of caution, you had finally taken a moment, an opportunity, to reach deeply into the Force when you felt its swirling openness around this tree. It was just as you did a few days prior, when you attempted to open your mind to the stern Master Windu. Yet again, despite the Force’s overwhelming circulation throughout these grounds, a Grand Master only a few meters away could barely sense your interaction with its rushing stream?

It didn’t make sense.

What stowed further disquiet, was his phrasing. Did he sense only the minimum zeal that all beings had within them? Would he not have believed you a Jedi without already knowing your mission?

What you did know, was that whichever readings were emanating off your life force, they were completely unintentional. How such a muted perception could be possible without purpose, you didn’t understand. But you were sure that, like always, you could rely on your meditation at a point later on to guide you through this mystery.

“Thank you, Master.”

Too entrenched in his own viewing of the Great Tree to respond, the wise Jedi steered purposefully toward its unwavering trunk, cane pecking a few times at the stone below as he maneuvered to flatten his palm and brawny three fingers against its satiny skin. His eyes drifted shut, brows creasing while he connected to the flow around him as you had just done moments ago.

As seconds elapsed, a slight breeze wheezed past the region, exciting the Great Tree’s leaves and tickling its twigs as a few golden flakes loosened and snapped from the cooling gust, sending them vacillating down to the feet of each idler.

“Powerful, as well, your sensitivity is,” he continued while his bridge with the atmosphere persisted. “22,300 Midichlorians, you have.”

You spun toward the Master, jaw slackened. Somewhat attempting to temper your stupefaction, you spoke quickly to the powerful Jedi entranced with the golden tree before you.

“Are you sure, Master? That seems way too high. From what I’ve read, most Jedi have around 10,000. That would be just over double the average.”

The senior Jedi gradually nurtured a thin smile, choosing this moment to disengage with the powerful being as he retracted his arm and feebly circled around, extending his now-opened eyes toward you.

“Checked three times, we did. Positive that you’re The Guardian, we are.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, not just due to the skewed essence of your skills and your sensitivity, but by his locution.

“Is my role as The Guardian tied to my Midichlorian count?”

The Master vocalized his consideration through a guttural sigh as he shook his head at his own being.

“Measured your connection, I did, many years ago. The same it is now, as it was then.”

You nodded, remembering Obi-Wan mentioning the Master’s awareness of your existence prior to your parents’ deaths. Counting your Midichlorian count would certainly explain how you were discovered by both Yoda and your former Master, however separate their independent discoveries may have been.

But even after decades, after hearing again of his encounter with you as a very small youngling and when your parents were still alive, you couldn’t help the long-suppressed questions that still lingered infinitely. They were starting to bubble to the surface.

Who were your parents? What were they like? Did they look like you?

And what really happened to them? Were they from your native planet? And where was that? Was it nearby?

But deep down, you knew that these were questions ill-suited for a Grand Master who held non-attachment in such high esteem. Qui-Gon had warned you of that.

Though despite being devoid of the occasion for which to ask these questions, there was still one, relevant and nagging inquiry that ached behind your eyes.

“I hope to inquire, Master, but how did you know? That I was The Guardian and not The Chosen One, I mean.”

The Grand Master rested both hands atop his cane as he addressed you. “First the Defender and then the Chosen, the hidden prophecy says. Found you first, I had. As had Qui-Gon, we must assume. And born of a father, you were. Has not one, Anakin and The Chosen One.”

You tracked as the slope-eared Jedi angled to his left while finishing the last sentence, determinedly deciding to saunter back up the cursory steps behind you both. Interpreting this as an invitation to follow, you briskly moved, veering to stroll beside him and the hallow pricks of his intervallically pattering cane.

“I understand,” you confirmed while maintaining a measured gate. “I want to assure you, Master, that I will do my best to fulfill the needs of that role.”

An approving murmur escaped his gruff throat. “And as a member of The Order, you will.”

You casually glanced down at the Master, hope tingling at the tips of your fingers as you tried to maintain an impartial complexion.

“Gone through your Trials, you have already,” he recognized while his ambling progressed. “The nine steps, you have faced in those ten years on Hoth. Well-versed in control and sense, Master Windu says you are.”

Master Yoda nodded deliberately, a whirl of justifications seemed to flutter behind his rational eyes as he appraised some grand notion internally. It must have been something he was already considering, you decided, as those thoughts rapidly settled across his countenance, soon converging into one, adamant verdict,

“Grant you the rank of Knight, I will. Though no ceremony, may you have. Secret, your past must remain.”

You nodded, allowing that shred of disappointment to whither back into the trail of Force shimmering behind your walking figure. In turn, you endeavored to focus on the honor of your new title.

Sacrificing was part of the job description. You knew that. But it didn’t mean that missing out on the same milestones that every other Jedi experienced couldn’t still affect you.

But, as always, you projected objectivity.

“I understand, Master. Thank you.”

His head bobbed faintly. “A Master, you must still have. Extended his services, Master Windu has.”

You chewed over his words in the pregnant lull that followed, filled only with the light taps of his cane, your gentle footfalls, and the distant, echoing maneuvers of the younglings following their muttering instructor’s guidance.

It was impossible to ignore the surprise that bounced around your skull. From what you recalled of your short time together, Master Windu didn’t seem to be that fond of your presence. Sure, it was clear that he appreciated your professionalism and attentiveness, and you likewise admired his dedication. But you believed from his austerity and Obi-Wan’s warnings, that you weren’t exactly the one person he wanted to spend more time with.

This was, of course, in addition to the downright fact that no one, not even a Jedi as powerful as Mace Windu, could replace your late Master. He would always be your guide. Your own protector. And you were certainly not ready to give away that title.

Not yet.

Especially when you were no longer the Padawan that needed to be assigned a Master.

Especially, when his death still felt so fresh.

“I’m honored by the offer,” you began. “But I am already a Knight, and Qui-Gon was already my Master. I’m not certain if it would be…”

You gave your next uttering careful thought.

“Appropriate.”

An appreciative, gravelly hum escaped the wise man’s throat. “Understand this, I do. Loyal to your past Master, you are,” he remarked thoughtfully. “But maintain appearances, we must.”

The wise Jedi peered at you, injecting a sense of submerged understanding into the drifting Force that encircled you both.

“Always your Master, Qui-Gon will be. Act only as an advisor, Master Windu will, while you adapt to The Order and the war. But be your Master to others, he shall be. Your connection to Qui-Gon a secret, it must remain. Tied to The Chosen One in death, he was.”

Again, the Grand Master repeated that private affirmation of his head to his innermost musings.

“And distance from Anakin, you should temporarily keep.”

Your brows furrowed marginally as you inquisitively studied the peppered green Jedi.

“Master?”

How were you supposed to protect The Chosen One if you weren’t allowed to be near him?

“Interact in the Temple, you may. But important, a short separation on the battlefield, is.”

The Jedi faltered mid-step, prompting you to halt as he tottered to face your taller form with a pensive dip in the brows.

“Hidden, your true nature, must remain, from Separatist and darker forces alike. A weakness in war, the Republic cannot have.”

“But they must know of Anakin’s identity,” You pointed out.

The elder Jedi ostensibly agreed. “Right, you are. But clear to both sides, The Chosen One prophecy is. Dark the looking glass, The Guardian’s role makes.”

You observed Master Yoda’s eyes gently wander beyond your figure as he sketched some ambiance of lively motion to your rear. Tracing his line of sight, you rotated toward the youngling drill that had continued through your conversation.

A moment of calm entered the space, briefly interrupted by another crisp puff of breeze against your tingling arms as the two of you looked on. A distant bird of some delineation poured out an eddy of melodies, painting the heavens with peppy pleadings known only to its innermost heart.

As minutes slipped by, and the two of you stood in subsisted temporary reticence, Master Yoda’s trained vision endured on the premeditative, processional aerobatics before him. However, no matter his concentration, one fleeting glance to your lower right was quick to reveal that the Grand Master was still transfixed by his innermost ruminations, ingrained deep within his ceaseless exploration of the Force.

“Still, learn about Anakin you must,” he breathed heavily while both of you monitored the younglings lunge through an underhand swipe, followed by a summersault parry as they twirled around invisible, sprightly opponents.

“Assign you to Master Kenobi’s missions once the Jedi are deployed again, we will. Learn about The Chosen One through his former Master’s teachings, you may. Understand his past, you must. Know him well, he does.”

Your longstanding grasp of The Guardian’s journey was dictated by the obligation to always be by his side. To always be there to protect him from the dark forces he is meant to destroy. It was something you felt cavernously in each one of your bones.

But in this moment, you were beginning to agree with the Master; finding it just as necessary to dedicate yourself to comprehending his history. The past that molded him into the Jedi he is today.

It was quite possible, that you would have failed to reach this conclusion had it not been for this morning’s experience in conjunction with the past few days’ interactions. Compared to all the other Jedi you’d read about, Anakin would certainly be classified as an enigma. His past was far more sullied than the greats of recent history. And while you were beginning to understand him more than you originally expected, you knew that there was still much to learn of that realm.

Hopefully, Obi-Wan would have the insight you lacked. You could already think of a few questions that you wanted to ask him, namely why occurrences like this morning’s were not quite properly addressed by his former Master.

But with all that aside, you couldn’t deny the more personal reason for finding hope in this arrangement. A few weeks or months working side-by-side with one of Qui-Gon’s past Padawans was sure to aid you in your own loitering convalescence from his death.

Besides, you were beginning to enjoy Master Kenobi’s company.

You recalled the past week. How you felt heartened by the gentleness of his guidance in the club the night before. And how you were beginning to value that again and again, Obi-Wan never failed to lend you a helping hand when you needed it most.

You wanted to explore these sensibilities further, first noting how open you’d become to appreciating his humor, and how he maintained it in even the most dire or upbeat of circumstances together. Despite the frequency with which it was at Anakin’s expense. But you could easily tell, in those snapshot moments, that it was all the more evidence of Obi-Wan’s fondness for his former Padawan. And you were certainly amused, at times, by how he showed it.

Most importantly, you were utterly convinced that you could count on him in a pinch. He’d saved your life once, and you knew you could trust him to be by your side again. Enough to put his own life on the line to defend yours.

Just as he did on Hoth, when Obi-Wan precariously dangled from the shuttle’s jagged doorway to grab your desperate, nearly lost hand.

And that warmed you.

“I appreciate the opportunity, Master Yoda. I will learn as much as I can.”

The two of you swayed tranquilly as another gust of cooling wind tickled a loose hair strand against your ear. You embraced this moment to study the younglings who maintained a neutral stance, training sabers in various arrays of readiness while they listened carefully to the Cosian Master as he explained their next activity in a faint voice. He was quick in finishing his elucidation, however, as the younglings readied to lean into their dominant foot, setting up for the impending motion.

Suddenly, a moderately sharp throb cautiously nudged at your forehead, mildly tapping like a pesky, repetitive din.

You brushed it off, deciding to instead anchor yourself on the drill ahead. It fascinated you, the absolute coexistence of their movements, which flowered between them through their complete connectivity to the environment. The troop rolled into their dominant side, following through as the back of their shoulder blade met the floor and propelled them once again into a standing, lunged position, all while maneuvering their sabers around each wheeling youngling. It was quite impressive, for Initiates so young. It was a move whose complication…

Another piercing spear at your forehead’s center, this time radiated out toward your sinuses like lightning desperately squeezed to ground itself. Your skull brimmed with pressure at each subsequent twinge. Somehow, the once insignificant throbs were quite rapidly transforming into an unpleasant nuisance. So much so, that you couldn’t help but massage your temples in stiff circles as you strived to lessen the distinct sting in your observance of the drill.

“Well, are you not?” Master Yoda inquired as he seemed to sense your discomfort.

You lowered your hands. “I’m alright, Master. I think I overexerted myself earlier, and I’m probably not yet quite used to this heat,” you gesticulated toward the beaming sun that still, surprisingly, felt like a comforting brush to your exposed skin.

“Rest, young Silvey,” he advised while pivoting toward your figure, motivating you to turn on your heel and face his center-held staff. “Strong in the coming weeks, you must be. Sense a shift in the Force, I do.”

You acknowledged the Jedi’s wise words before tilting into a gentle bow, permitting your body to salvage any extra energy in its small battle against your pervasive migraine.

“Thank you, Master,” you rose evenly. “Your guidance is much appreciated.”

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[uroboros-if]

Heyo. Gonna go smack myself on the head because I just realised I forgot to on 'ask anonymously' on the last ask. (At least I think I forgot? I can't remember what I had for dinner just now so there's that.) Now I've possibly(?) exposed to people that I'm that one account who pulls no bitches and spends Valentines with otome men. Sobs into my hands.

Anywayssss, I was just wondering on a scale of 1-10, how jealous are the ROs? Romantically and platonically? How do they feel about feeling jealous? (Bonus: Do the parents get jealous if the MC spends more time/favors one parent over the other?)

DON'T take my word for it, but I'm thinking...

Salvatore - 6

Luciel - 2

Ciocana - 7

Alessi - 1

SALVATORE's smile would be just as radiant, yet instead of gracing those around with the gentle warmth of morning, it's a touch too hot. Just enough to be uncomfortable, yet still be difficult to tell when that heat had crossed the delicate line of gentle and prickling. It would have one perspiring, a sheen of sweat on your forehead, too minor to bother with, and yet oh so bothersome.

That's the feeling lingering within Salvatore. A minor discomfort, too trivial to give thought to, though it captivates your thoughts enough to have you shifting in your robes and grumbling under your breath. The kind of small irritations that'll have you snapping at people and wondering what led you to that outburst.

LUCIEL is not prone to jealousy, but they are wistful. They've come to cherish your expressions, your gestures, your looks and your smiles, and though they want to see it for themselves, they wonder if you'd be just the same if Luciel had been someone else. It's not that they're jealous, as if they want to keep those expressions of yours for themselves; it's more that they contemplate if it's something they can truly have, you. If it's okay for them to see it, with the knowledge that it's for them.

Luciel is not an easy person to come close to, let alone approach; it would have been much easier to pursue others for companionship. They can't help but wonder if it's okay they have yours when they've shied away for so long.

CIOCANA is much the same as Salvatore's. A dark feeling bubbles in their chest -- unpleasant, bitter. They should be intimate with the emotion, having witnessed the full repertoire of spite, embodied it even, but never once has it been... personal. Never has it cut so close, whittled down to the marrow of their bones.

At the unwelcome sensation, they do what they do best: hide. They recede back into their charming smile, dismiss it smoothly with a playful laugh. They let the moment pass, though the remnants of bitterness cling to them. The weight of it threatens their senses, but they are nothing but enduring to the gravest misfortunes.

ALESSI is not one to be in the throes of impassioned jealousy. For the two of you to have come together, you must have survived an eternity of hell. They'd trust you utterly, unthinkingly, falling on your every word.

That is not to say they are of blind faith; their whole being is founded on resisting that. They are ruled, instead, by fervent trust. Trust, that made you two possible. Without it, perhaps neither of you would be animate now. They know you well enough to see when your gaze strays, when your heart falters. When that comes--if it comes--they will know. They know they cannot have you forever.

NERO and RAFAELE don't particularly get jealous if the MC chooses to spend time one over the other, unless it's very obvious or biased. Then Rafaele will openly sulk and complain, where Nero would pout privately. 🥹😭 (They want attention too!)

༺═──────────────

Sorry for an extremely late reply!! I just discovered that I have a swathe of unfinished replies to asks in my inbox, and I figured it's been such a long time since I was able to answer a question with the ROs!! 🥺🥺 Thanks so much for the ask 💖💖

[stationary-cycle-in-motion]

@augusnippets day 4: amputation

tw: frostbite, anesthetic-less amputation, gore

Even from the other side of the cave, Rex can tell General Kenobi's fingers are turning black. And he hates to disturb the general and senator– they look so peaceful curled up together– but he can't help but think a corpse would look deceptively peaceful, too.

“You know, you could join us over here.”

Senator Amidala's invitation twists his stomach into knots because he can't; it's too intimate, too insubordinate, and, oh Force, he's about to shatter the tranquility with his horrifying suggestion–

“His fingers are getting worse.” The words taste like bile in Rex's mouth.

The senator frowns, studies the blackened tips. “What do we do?”

If only Rex wasn't a soldier, wasn't used to the morbid gore of still-breathing brothers with gaping holes where their faces should be and exposed rib cages cracked open like display cases and the acrid smell of coagulated blood and rotting flesh; maybe then he'd be able to react with horror and disgust like a normal person, instead of resigned apathy.

“Rex?”

He'd been complaining about his concussion. A damn concussion, while a part of his body is literally dying. It’s so frustratingly Kenobi of him to brush off a life-threatening injury, to pretend like everything’s fine.

“If we don't act, the infected tissue could turn septic.” And kill him, he can't bring himself to say.

There’s a moment of heavy silence as the insinuation sinks in. And then–

“No,” Senator Amidala breathes. Quiet. Horrified. “You can't.”

Rex squeezes his hands into fists in an attempt to stop them from shaking. He’s a soldier, damn it; he’s handled far worse situations with more composure than this. But, somehow, the fact that this is General Kenobi he’s going to have to operate on hits him with an inexplicable wave of nausea.

He doesn’t know why General Kenobi’s suffering sitting squarely on his shoulders fills him with more dread than any of his brothers’ ever has.

A desperate kind of hope consumes the senator’s face. “A rescue should be coming soon, right?”

It’s been hours since Rex activated the locator beacon. Somehow, he doesn’t have much faith in their assumed rescue party.

“General Kenobi could be dead by then. We can't take that chance.”

Yet, Rex doesn’t move, just continues to stare at the general’s serene face. In the soft light of the fire, his amber hair almost glows, radiant, like a halo. It’s hard to believe someone like him is still unfortunately mortal.

Then, the general shifts, shattering the illusion, and his stiff hands fumble with the hilt at his belt. With a groan, he unclips it, tosses it across the cave. It clatters to a stop at Rex’s feet.

“Just do it,” General Kenobi bites out.

Squaring his shoulders, willing his hands not to tremble, Rex picks up the saber, ignites it. It’s lighter than he imagined it would be. He’s fantasized before about using one, but now that he’s holding it, he wants desperately to take back all the times he’s wished for that level of responsibility.

Senator Amidala retreats to the back of the cave, hands over her ears and eyes scrunched tightly shut. The general, impassive face awash in blue light, braces his hands against the ground.

The taste of copper floods Rex’s mouth as he grits his teeth, raises the blade.

General Kenobi, ever the Jedi, doesn't scream. Rex almost wishes he would.