#and even WITH all that its still. barely tangible.

[vodid]

see i'm not calling it terrible by any means, but i am seriously going to need a palette cleanser in the form of cartoon atla after watching netflix atla. visuals are pretty and casting is excellent tho

[depresseddepot]

I'm trying to find ways to slowly ease my way into taking walks (debilitating social anxiety) so I was going to download pokemon go again but my phone is too old :(

[sp4ceboo]

As Selfish as Love: Merman!Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

genre: merfolk au, fantasy au, merman!bakugou x witch!reader, strangers to lovers, bakugou x f!reader, smut and angst and fluff

summary: in a world infested with purgers of magic, neither a clandestine witch nor a lone merman can remain safe for long.

tw: 18+, smut (afab reader, p in v, bkg has a merman cock, marking + biting, oral f receiving, fingering, crying during sex but not like you think, unprotected sex, creampie), violence, blood, death, vivid gore, grief, reader treated as a tool by evil ppl, random worldbuilding, questionable medical knowledge, kinda plot heavy, other stuff i don't remember

wc: 19.8k

For years, all you’ve known is darkness.

Chained by the wrist to a ring in the wall, swaddled and asphyxiating in the blackness of the brig - it is there where your closest companion has become the dark. It is the absence of light: not only because they do not deem you human enough to spare lamp oil on you, but because the kiss of the sun has been reduced to a foreign concept, a distant, syrupy memory.

Every morning when that door opens, letting light leak in and crawl painfully between the cracks of the roughly hewn floorboards like an intruder, you repeat your name back to yourself, remind yourself who you are - a witch, a survivor, a person at the end of their tether but that all the same does what they can to keep the shadows at bay.

For the darkness is not just the absence of light: it is the absence of hope, and if you let it take you, your very substance will dissolve and you will sink beneath obsidian waves and melt away without a sound. They will have won.

This is something you will not allow.

White knuckled, you hold onto memories of the past the way a drowning man clings to driftwood. They swirl in the currents of your mind, fickle things. Sometimes they are so tangible you can feel the grass beneath your feet and the bracing wind of the highlands on your face even in the still, humid air of the brig, sometimes they eddy away before you can catch a glimpse.

You were barely a woman when they caught you, when they tore you out from where you’d been rooted to the earth, ripping through the stitches that held your life together. You were young, and you were naive and ignorant. This would not have happened if I had been as I am now, you think, but as you are now is shackled in the belly of a ship built for the single purpose of hunting merfolk.

They hunt to purge. Their so-called divine has commanded the eradication of magic, and so that is what each and every child is trained for from birth. The land has been rife with their conquest for centuries, making witches such as your kind unheard of, yet the sea for all its worth has lain mostly untouched until recently.

You are jealous of the merfolk. The magic must come easily to them, because they have not had to suppress it out of fear - it seethes in their blood, potent as an ocean storm, imbued within their essences as salt is in seawater. For this, they are feared, and for this, the hunters are more so hellbent on their extermination.

Over your years spent in the hull’s constant night you’ve learnt that your captors are the most celebrated hunters of their time, held above everything but their leader and their divine. They are revered among their people, and that is why they are allowed to chain a witch in their brig and force her to heal wounds sustained from hunting the undeserving - because they are strong enough and honourable enough to not be corrupted by your magic.

There is nothing honourable about the way they treat you.

Though you are human as they are, you are lower than an animal to them. They have no care for your limits - oftentimes, you are pushed to heal and heal and heal until you are exhausted, and yet you refuse to succumb when the darkness calls, because each time you meet their eyes, without fail, you see, buried deep within, is fear.

They fear what is unknown, what is not under their control, and every time you refuse to break when they beat you just for entertainment, every time they push you almost to death yet you survive, you wrest back an inch of control. You are needed, and that is something you will use one day, when the time is right. For now, you collect those sparks of fear in their eyes and let it feed the fire nestled within your soul that fends off the growing dark.

It is a day like any of the other days. Stirring in your fraying blankets, you wake up to the sound of the crew’s strident voices, and as it is sometimes, you almost forget that they are cruel and stained by their own wrong doings because for now, there is no talk of blood shed, just breakfast. You hate that they can seem so normal with so many innocent lives on their hands.

The day very quickly progresses into the type you have come to dread.

They neglect to bring you your daily portion of bread and water, nor the echinacea you had asked for more of, and it can only mean one thing - a hunt is on. Already, you can feel the unruly lurch of the ship as it skims over the waves, picking up speed. The crew’s voices become louder, crowing and eager, and you despise them so deeply your heart twists and becomes an ugly thing in your chest.

Almost imperceptible, you can hear the rattle and hiss of ropes as they ready their harpoons. This part is the worst, where the darkness closes in so near that you can feel its cold touch brush up your arms and its breath ghosting over your face. Sometimes you hear the anguished cries of the merfolk, sometimes the whoops and victory cries of the crew are loud enough to drown it out. You don’t know which is worse.

After will come the wounded, grinning still and soaked in blood of two kinds - theirs and their victims. You are always numb to it by then, turning a blind eye to the crimson dipped trophies they grip in dirty hands: lopped off fins and strips of scales, sometimes small enough to be a child’s.

How they can butcher beings as beautiful as the merfolk and think it the right thing to do, you do not know.

It makes you sick to your stomach, that somehow you have become their accomplice, stitching their wounds with your magic, saving their lives so they can kill again. You vow that one day, you will strike back, but what good can you do now, trapped in the bowels of a boat that was designed as a vessel for murder?

You have to try. You have to survive, if just to try. You are yet to come up with a method for escaping past what you have already attempted, but if you do not, more lives will be lost, more bloodshed that you had inadvertently aided. Right now, on deck, the patterns for it to happen all over again are falling into place.

You’re sure that this time will be no different.

And so you wait for the injured to come, almost defeated if not for the hard, bright little ball of hate settled in your throat. You wait, and you wait, listening to the strange thumping above that you can’t decipher, and still they don’t bring you their wounded. Neither comes their usual sickening shouts of triumph - you wonder if the merfolk managed to escape. You hope desperately that they did.

Listless, you turn your head as footsteps approach. There are more than normal. You can’t count exactly - five, maybe six, and they all walk with a strange irregular gait as they approach the brig.

I hope the merfolk put up a magnificent fight, you think as the key scrapes in the lock. I hope that taught them; you know it never does. The more damage the merfolk do while they fight for the lives of their mates and children, the more they are damned as unnatural and beastly and deserving of the fates that are doled out to them by men.

With a rusty squeal, the door swings wide, and with it comes the same influx of light that always spills greedily through, stinging your eyes and making them ache - the doing of a tiny, wayward star moulded from precious lamp oil. You blink away the tears that well up at your lash line, testament to your accustomation to the dark, and then blink again.

Back when you took the warmth of the sun on your face for granted, you lived too far inland to ever see one in the flesh. You were still a witch under the disguise of a healer, though. You’d heard tales, seen artists’ renderings and gorey body parts wrenched off as sick memorabilia.

None of those could have ever come close to preparing you for the sight before your eyes.

A merman.

Deep in enemy territory - so deep, in fact, that all those surrounding him, bar you, have murdered more than dozens of his kind each. He is on a galleon rammed bow to stern with killers. And yet, despite it, he has not fallen victim to the purge. Yes, there is a splintered harpoon sunken into his side, yes, he is limp and broken, but even so, shallowly, his chest rises and falls.

He breathes. He breathes, and even that is beautiful. The lamp’s light reflects off his scales; he is mainly jet black, but broad swathes of orange run across the length of his powerful tail like they were drawn with the loving stroke of a painter’s brush. In parts, they darken into a ruby red that glitters and winks as the lamp light dances.

Or maybe that’s just blood.

There’s a lot of it. It soaks into the sheet they strain to carry between them, pools in the dip his weight makes, streaks in smears down his chest and face, coats his hands and is embedded under his sharp nails. You hope that all of it is not his, that he made them regret whatever they must have done to get a merman vulnerable enough and far enough from his pod to capture him.

Deep lacerations cut all along his chest and tail, and one of the spines that extend from his sail-like dorsal fin is bent in a way that must mean it is broken. A smattering of scales reach wide across his shoulders and back and down his arms, some of them twisted and bent out of shape. Your eyes fall to the harpoon buried just below his hip, and you feel the bite of your nails digging into your palms.

“Heal it,” commands the man holding the corner of the sheet closest to you. “We’ve been ordered to bring back a merfolk to be studied. It must be in peak condition.”

You frown as they begin to manoeuvre all three metres of merman into the brig. Studied? They must be looking for a weakness to exploit. After all, merfolk succumb less easily to flesh wounds than humans - the magic of the sea resides in their very bones.

A hand fists the front of your shirt and you’re jerked forward. You can feel the hunter’s foul breath on your cheek, feel the violence roiling just below the surface of his skin, and yet you cannot tear your eyes from the merman until you’re struck across the face. Reeling back, you raise your head to look at him, a hand flying up to cradle your jaw where it has begun to swell.

“Are you deaf? What are you waiting for?” he spits.

Your brain is still stuck on the fact that there is a merman before you, alive on a ship full of specialised mermen killers, but your body has gone through these motions many times before and brings you to kneel by your patient so fast your chain jingles crassly in the relative quiet, your hands already working to gather herbs for a poultice that will slow the bleeding.

Glancing over your shoulder, you see your captors filing out of the door, the last of them grumbling and wiping his hands on his trousers as if being near enough to hit you had sullied him. Realisation dawns abruptly on you.

They’re leaving you alone with the merman.

“Wait,” you call.

Disquiet grows in your stomach. As much as you hate the life forced upon you, serving as a tool for men who would not hesitate to kill you if you ran out of worth, you have gotten used to it, and this merman at your feet has disrupted your delicate equilibrium, tripping you as you balance on a knife’s blade.

You have never had problems with thinking fast in a pinch. You are a healer, you are accustomed to endless wells of blood and snapped bones sticking through skin. Conversely, you are not accustomed to the sight of a half conscious merman taking up the majority of your floor space, a single fingernail on his hand no doubt potent with more magic than is contained in your whole body.

Your tongue is slow, your mind slower, but you force the words out, emboldened because whether he likes it or not, this merman is leverage for you. There is no one else on board that could save him.

“I will need a lamp indefinitely, while I’m in the process of healing.”

You realise how important the health of this merman is to their study because the hunter holding the lamp brings it over with no words of criticism, just the curl of his lip when you draw near enough to take it from him.

Its metal is warm in your hands, and you cup it in your palms - a little sun that clears the clinging shadows from the brig like they’re cobwebs. Carefully, you set it on the floor next to you, just outside the border of the canvas the merman lies upon, sitting back on your heels as the door slams shut.

You stare at the merman for a weighty moment. If it did, there’s no telling what organ the harpoon may have punctured - do his intestines extend all the way down his tail? Or are they in the same place as a human’s, and his tail is just muscles, like legs would be?

Never in your life did you think merfolk anatomy would have any significance to you. Even if you’d thought it did, there wouldn’t be any books for you to study on it. A hysterical, jittery laugh builds in your throat, wringing itself from you when you spot the strange slit - for lack of better words - that sits just below where his skin turns to obsidian scales.

The nervous sound breaks the silence, jolting you into action. Never mind his anatomy, he’s still bleeding out. Somehow, you need to get that harpoon out of him: the hunters don’t clean them off once they’ve used them, and if you’re not vigilant, infection will get him before whatever they’ve got in store will.

Determinedly, you scoot closer to his lower half, stretching out a hand to test the area around the wound. In preparation, you will your healing magic to rise to the surface, and it fizzles at the surface of your palms, warming them.

Your fingertips have barely brushed over his scales when pain slashes across your cheek.

The merman jerks away from you so hard that he cries out, and you wince as you see the wound pull wide, blood oozing out from where it gapes. Gingerly, you touch a hand to your cheek - one of his spines had glanced off your face as he’d moved away, its tip sharp enough to shed blood.

Any human patient would have lost consciousness moments after being hit by the harpoon that’s buried in his tail, and if by a miracle they hadn’t yet, the pain caused by what he just did surely would have knocked them out. Inexplicably, he’s still conscious, blood red eyes glaring at you with blatant distrust.

You hadn’t gotten a chance to look closely at his face before - you’d been too busy ogling his tail. Spikey, sandy hair casts a shadow over his eyes. They glow, carmine and half crazed, no doubt with the same agony that pinches at his face and curls his lip, revealing sharp canines that he bares at you, twin ivory warnings.

A rattling, hissing sound emanates from deep in his chest when you attempt to move closer again, his dorsal fin undulating in an obvious threat display. You can tell it hurts him; the spine you’d noticed before is definitely broken, the parts of the fin around it drooping and limp. He growls when he catches you looking.

You really, really don't know what to do.

Your skin prickles, the hairs on the back of your neck rising. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you were left alone with him. Aside from the obvious hostility, his face is effectively blank; there’s nothing in his gaze except the primal instinct to survive, and the unspeakable, offensive terror of a wounded animal backed into a corner and trapped there.

There’s no getting through to him with words. You remember the night you were ripped from your cottage by the hunters, the way you clawed and screamed until your voice was gone and your nails were torn and bleeding. You know what it’s like to have the adrenaline coursing through your veins so fast it burns, you know what it’s like to feel the anger and fear blend together in your chest until it strips away your humanity and you’re reduced to nothing more than a feral, wild eyed animal.

Slowly, you get to your feet, your chains rattling. He growls, making that hissing sound again, and despite his size, despite the muscles straining in his chest and the magic you can sense in his form, he looks small. You grit your teeth. The shock is beginning to wear off, burnt to ashes by a roaring fury that licks up your throat and fills your lungs.

You wonder if he had a pod. You wonder if they got massacred before his eyes.

Ignoring the trembling of your hands, you scoop up the piece of dried fish that remains from yesterday’s meal. It’s the only food you have, so you turn and offer it to him - when he doesn’t hiss immediately, you slide it over to him on the dented tin plate it had been on.

Tentatively, the merman picks up the fish, his nose very obviously wrinkling. As he examines your peace offering, you notice his hands are webbed up to the lowest knuckle and are a little larger than a human man’s, the fingers longer and the nails considerably sharper.

Relief fills you as he begins to chew at the fish, and you retreat to your pile of blankets, sitting down and half facing away to give him as much privacy as is possible in as small a space as the brig. You begin to make a poultice for him, crushing the herbs between your fingers because you’re not allowed a mortar and pestle and depositing them on one of the dishes you have lying around.

Once you’re done, you turn back to him. The edge in his eyes has softened a touch, and when you scoot over to settle closer to him, he doesn’t make a sound, instead just leaning away a little, watching you warily. Warningly, he hisses when you lift your hand, his red eyes flashing.

“I’m going to have to touch you to put this poultice on,” you tell him. “It will reduce the bleeding and might alleviate the pain.”

He twitches but remains silent. You wonder briefly if he even understands - people don’t talk to merfolk these days. They either run or they kill. For all you know, he might speak some ancient language of the sea that you have no hope in understanding.

You scoop the poultice up in your fingers and lean forward, aiming to ease him in by angling first for a smaller wound situated just over a hip bone on a human would be (you’re not even sure if his equivalent qualifies as a hip seeing as he lacks legs).

“Don’t,” he snarls, his voice guttural and rasping, like he hasn’t uttered a word in years.

Fumbling, you almost drop the dish. You guess that answers one of your many questions - he can speak your language, although you presume one word doesn’t really express fluency. For a moment, you consider telling him that they’ll no doubt beat you for not healing him, but it seems rather insignificant since it’s nothing they haven’t inflicted on you before.

Sighing, you sit back on your heels and look at him, defeated. He regards you with those same crimson eyes as before, but they’ve cooled considerably and hold traces of scathing criticism you find you aren’t the fondest of.

You begin to realise that he’s not going to give you any explanation as to why he doesn’t want you to treat him. He doesn’t trust you, most likely - you haven’t given him any reason to think otherwise of you, rather, you’d gawped openly at him. You’re not surprised he hasn’t taken a liking to you. You wouldn’t either.

So you retreat back to what has now become your corner of the brig, since the other three are taken up by the length of his tail and the doorway. On a whim, you prepare yourself a turmeric tea; it’s anti-inflammatory and you know you’ll be needing it sooner or later.

It takes a day, but one of the hunters barges in, light sneaking in past the outline of his silhouette. You don’t know any of them by name, nor would you want to, but you do know that this particular one is the first mate.

The merman hasn’t let you near him still, and although at points his eyes are closed, you’re worried that if you try to sneak up on him, he’ll move away again and tear open the parts of the wound around the harpoon that have partially closed up. The perimeter of blood soaked canvas beneath him has slowed its expansion but still grows.

It’s amazing that he’s survived this long while still losing blood. You presume merfolk must be rather resilient, unsurprisingly - the sea is no easy place to live in, nor is it made any easier by its recent infestation of merfolk hunters.

“Did you not hear your orders yesterday, you useless bitch?”

Passively, you look up at him as he looms closer. “I did.”

“So you don’t want to cooperate, then,” he snaps. “Do I have to encourage you?”

You don’t get to answer. A fist full of scarred knuckles collides with your nose, and your head snaps back, white exploding across your vision as the hunter shoves you backwards. Your back hits the ground and before you can even think of scrambling away, you’re kicked hard in the ribs.

You don’t try to resist it. You’ve learnt it’s better to take it than to fight and make him hit harder.

Red hot pain shoots through you when the tip of his boot catches your chin, clacking your teeth together. You cry out as your blood fills your mouth, streams from your nose, stains his knuckle bones. Hands up in a pitiful attempt at protecting your face, you curl up on the floor, as small as you can. Your ribs throb, your chain trapped awkwardly beneath your body.

You’re still balled up with your arms over your head long after he slams the door behind him. You ache all over, and your lower lip is trembling treacherously. Tears press at the backs of your eyes so you squeeze them shut: you’re not going to cry.

You need to get up.

You need to down that damned turmeric tea you made, just to feel the ginger burn as it slips down your throat.

When you open your eyes, the merman is staring. You grimace as you heave yourself to sit upright, the metallic taste of blood still coating your tongue and curdling until it’s sour. His face is unreadable, shuttered and devoid of any emotion. He doesn’t speak, although that isn’t exactly atypical.

“Well, now you’re not the only one bleeding all over the floor,” you mutter, unable to keep the resentment from your tone.

You turn your back to him as you set your nose with a grunt, letting your magic flow through your fingers and knit your flesh back together. Running a hand over your ribs, you check if any are broken, but when none are, you don’t heal them up; you’ll need to save your energy. The hunter didn’t bring food for you, and you doubt he’ll be bringing you any more until you treat the merman. That could take anything from an hour to a week.

Falteringly, you glance over your shoulder. He stares off to a place far away, a place you cannot see. A scowl furrows his brow, and you sigh, wondering if he thinks of the sea and the freedom that was torn away from him the way it was for you.

Curling up on your blankets, you pull one over yourself, rolling to face the wall and shutting your eyes. Loud in the darkness, your stomach growls, and you twitch but ignore the urge to look over your shoulder and stare accusingly at the merman - you too would not trust a human if all their kind had brought him was pain.

Your ribs hurt. It is alright, though. You’ve fallen asleep through worse.

When you wake, the first thing you do is crouch down beside the merman to check his wounds. The rattle of your chains makes him open his eyes, and you see that his face has paled, the alertness in his gaze dimmer now the adrenaline has worn off. As is becoming clear, he’s more resistant to injury than humans are, but there’s a worrying amount of blood saturating the canvas sheet beneath him, and you doubt he’ll make it much longer without help.

If he lets you near, what you’re going to have to do is far from ideal. The hunters’ harpoons are barbed and vicious, but you can’t exactly keep it in, and you can’t exactly cut it out without risking more blood loss. You’re just going to have to yank on it and hope it doesn’t destroy anything too vital on its way out.

“I’m going to have to take the harpoon out,” you tell him measuredly, gauging his facial expression.

He simply stares at you, his face blank but for the slight pinch of his brow. Shadows bathe half of his face; there is barely any lamp oil left to burn. The little flame flickers and sputters, letting darkness dance up the close walls of the brig, and if you do not hurry, you may have to treat him in the dark.

Slowly, you lift your hand, letting it hover over the splintered end of the harpoon. Tension bleeds into his body, the set of his jaw tight and his hands fisting as if he’s bracing himself, but he doesn’t growl or flinch away. Expectancy and resignation lurk in his gaze.

You don’t like that he won’t say anything in response even though he’s proven he can talk. You can feel his eyes boring into the back of your head as you gather your materials: the poultice from yesterday, a roll of bandages, a thick strip of worn leather. The latter you give to him, sighing when he turns it over in his hands, quizzical,

“Bite down on it,” you instruct him as you roll up your sleeves. “Either that or it’ll be your tongue.”

He frowns, but does as you say. You glance up at him to check if he’s ready. The hard lines of his body stand out, taut as a bowstring. He looks brittle, as if he might break and crumble into dust the moment you touch him.

Years ago, when you healed children’s scraped knees and the broken bones of men who had fallen from their ladders while fixing leaks in roofs, you had the words to comfort your patients. These you lost to the eternal darkness of the merfolk hunters’ ship, and these you wish to find again but cannot.

Instead, you murmur a quiet warning as you kneel by his tail, wiping your sweaty palms off on your trousers before getting a strong two handed grip on the end of the harpoon. Under your breath, you count down: three, two, one. Pull.

It makes a squelching, sucking noise as it comes out. You cringe but keep on tugging - if you stop now, it’ll be worse for both of you. He cries out, voice ragged and spilling over with agony, his tail arcing off the floor, and you feel the movement in the way the harpoon jerks in your hands with the bunching of his muscles.

All of a sudden, the resistance disappears. His tail fin slaps against the floor as he goes limp, both his and your heavy panting filling the room. You’re left with the splintered harpoon in your hands, a chunk of flesh and a twisted scale still clinging to one of the bloodied, rusted spokes. He spits the strip of leather out and it lands near your knee.

Carefully, you set down the harpoon and begin applying the poultice straight onto the weeping gash in his side, spreading the rest over the bandages which you bind tightly around his tail. Leaking from your fingertips, your magic suffuses across his skin as you work; you can’t heal him accurately without knowing much about his inner workings, but it should help to stave off any infection.

He shelters his face in the crook of his elbow, and though he tucks his other hand tightly to his chest, you can see the way he trembles.

You give him his space by swiftly moving on, busying yourself with his other injuries. You splint the spine in his dorsal fin, ignoring the way his hands shake and gently placing the arm crossed over his torso by his side so you can use your magic to clean and close up the various cuts and slashes littering his scar flecked body.

His scales seem to be damp, even though it’s almost been a full twenty four hours since he was brought in. It must be seawater somehow, you decide, or a sweat-like substance that keeps his tail wet enough when he hasn’t been in water for a while. He doesn’t look the most comfortable: he’s probably not used to having to support his own weight without the buoyancy of the waves.

There are little scars all over him, his skin a map of cicatrices, but the one that catches your attention is raised and jagged, spanning from the middle of his sternum to his navel. You touch your index finger to the centre of it, and he inhales sharply, flinching away.

“Sorry,” you mutter, pulling back, half expecting him not to hear you.

He’s silent for a while, ignoring your apology, but then comes a begrudging: “Thank you.”

Though he won’t see it - he’s still hiding his face from you - you shrug. “You should never have been hurt in the first place.”

He’s quiet again, lying still enough for you to imagine him dead if not for the rise and fall of his broad chest. You slouch, the energy having leaked from your body in order to mend his. The lamp finally gutters and winks out, leaving in its absence a tiny pinprick of light, a vanishing ember at the wick’s tip, buried in ashes.

When you tear your gaze away from your expired little sun, you’re confronted with a pair of blazing eyes. Pinned on you, they glow in the darkness like two pools of blood, but you find their luminosity strangely comforting, like Arcturus and Betelgeuse to a sailor: stars to lead you on your course.

“You are a witch, are you not?”

You jump at the sound of his voice, rough around the syllables but measured, as if he rolled them around on his tongue before he spoke. The scarlet light from his eyes dims a little as they narrow (you’re not sure if that’s meant to convey amusement or distaste) and you become aware that maybe he can see a lot more in the dark than you can.

“I am,” you confirm, still squinting at him - to no avail.

“Why do you not fight them, then?” He demands, his tone darkening. “Surely you cannot like it here.”

You scoff. “Of course I don’t like it here. You think I like the way they beat me?”

He’s silent, and though you still cannot see his face, you sense his scowl.

Sighing, you reign yourself in. This merman comes the closest to being an ally than all the others that have entered the brig, and you cannot squander this. He may not trust you, and you may be ignorant and ill informed of his kind, but you both have a common enemy, and though he may not like the thought, you are similar enough: the raw energy that flows through him is the same that you harness to perform your magic.

“I could fight, but there is nowhere for me to go if I escape the ship - there is just the sea,” you explain. “In the end, they are scared of all those associated with magic, even the witch they keep chained in the dark. The moment they deem that the risk I pose outweighs the use I have to them, they’ll kill me.”

He’s quiet again while he processes what you’ve said. “And what of me, witch? Why have they not killed me yet?”

“They want to study you,” you reply, wincing at how harsh your voice comes out. “I think we’re quite far from their lands - a few months’ travel, maybe - but it’s hard to tell.”

“What - ”

“Enough questions,” you cut him off. “My turn.”

A plethora of questions crowd your mind, but as you think of the merman in front of you, you find that they can wait, because although he must have stories of the sea that you’d only dreamed of hearing, and although magic you could learn endlessly from is threaded through his being, he is primarily, before anything, a soul. He is a soul: a soul with eyes that make the permanent night you are lost within just a little more manageable.

You will have to find out whether the kraken is real or not later; you will ask him about selkie skins afterwards.

Instead, you ask him his name, and tell him your own.

Bakugou, he grunts in response before turning his head to face the wall, clearly ending the conversation. Frowning, you stare at his back - or where you presume his back is, in the darkness - and mull over the name he provided you with; you are certain he has given you the one he gives to strangers. You suppose that is what you are.

Pulling absently at your chain, you sit with your back to the wall, your knees to your chest, and think about the merman, about Bakugou. For a moment, you are seized by the absurd belief that his most grave injury is a bleeding heart, but that cannot be true, for he has not said anything that indicates it. Questions find their way to your tongue, but you let them stick there, stifling them before they deign to interrupt the silence.

Neither of you move from your positions until the door opens, revealing the first mate. Squinting, you rise to your feet, a muscle feathering in your jaw as he purposefully kicks Bakugou in the shoulder, lifting his lamp high so he can see the bandages you’d applied.

“I’ll need a top up on lamp oil if I’m to continue the healing process,” you announce. “And we’ll need food and water. He’ll have - ”

You hesitate, glancing over at Bakugou, but he just lifts a shoulder and makes a face of disgust that you know isn’t conscious. Deliberating for a moment, you wrack your brain for any clues about merfolk diets.

“Fresh fish,” you decide. “And crabs. The bigger the better. Also, he’ll need a tub big enough for him, filled with seawater.”

“Watch the way you address me,” the first mate snaps, taking a step forward.

You shrug. “You wanted him healed, didn’t you?”

Your first two requests come within the next few hours, appeasing the increasing hollowness that had resided in your stomach and sending the shadows inhabiting the brig retreating up the walls and into the corners of the room, but the tub doesn’t come until two days after. It is barely watertight, plugged with tar and made from rough sawn wood.

You haven’t exchanged words with Bakugou since you asked his name and he gave you one, though you find yourself on the receiving end of his red eyes more often than not. He’s silent as the hunters bring the tub in, as they fill it with pails of seawater, as they leave and slam the brig’s door behind them. He’s silent, even as he slips into the tub and into a thin slice of his home.

And then, after a moment, he turns to you, and there’s something painful and cutting and cynical in his eyes.

“You know, the water doesn’t speed up the healing.”

You nod. “I know it doesn’t. You were uncomfortable.”

His eyes blaze. “What do you want?”

You regard him, regard the intensity of the fire in his gaze and the way his chest heaves. His tail fin hangs out of the tub, but even so, water swills over the side and splashes onto the floor like it can sense his agitation. Loudly, the links of your chain clank against each other as you cross your arms. 

“I do not want anything, Bakugou.”

He narrows his eyes. “All humans I have known but one are cruel, witch. You wish for me to owe you something.”

“I don’t,” you reply, noticing the strange look that creeps onto his face. “Who is this human you hold in such high esteem?”

A distant look erases the furrow in his brow, and you get the sense he is no longer talking to you when he speaks again: he is lost in some place far away, a place coated in the golden sheen that tints all good memories. His voice turns soft as he brushes his fingers over the scar on his chest.

“His name was Izuku,” he murmurs. “But I called him Deku.”

“Deku?” You echo, your voice crudely loud all of a sudden.

A flash of grief slashes across his features like lightning on the high seas, there and gone so fast you almost don’t catch it. It’s like a switch flips, and suddenly shutters slam down behind his eyes and his expression melts away until his face is blank and cold. Regret sinks heavy in your stomach.

You wince. “I’m sorr - ”

“He’s dead,” Bakugou growls.

He doesn’t speak to you for three days. There is a certain rawness in his blood red eyes that makes you gentler as you change his dressings and reapply your poultices. He looks at you as if he hates that you are healing him instead of leaving him to die, so you avoid his gaze, staring instead at the scars that cover him like warpaint.

You get the sense that he is mourning this human he told you of all over again, and you cannot help but see the weight of it in the tension of his body and wonder if you could alleviate the pain.

On the fourth day, he shuts the vulnerability away somewhere deep inside of him, buried far enough beneath other things that he can pretend it never even existed. Yet you remember it, still vivid and fresh in your mind as you lie curled up on your side, watching the lamp’s flame until your eyes burn. He breaks the silence by clearing his throat, his gaze fixed on you.

“Witch,” Bakugou says softly. “How did they catch you?”

You glance over at him. “I was young and foolish and alone. It’s easy to snatch a girl from her home under those circumstances.”

“You have been here for years, then.”

“I have,” you sigh. “I tried to escape once. That’s why I’m chained down.”

“A weaker soul would not have survived this darkness,” he remarks solemnly. “You are strong, witch.”

You look down at your hands, watching your fingers fidget to and fro in your lap. Your tongue is frozen in your mouth - you had not spoken properly to someone in years before he was captured, and his behaviour confuses you. No words come to mind that express how grateful you are for his acknowledgement.

“Thank you,” you settle with in the end.

He hums but other than that remains silent.

Later you discuss with him the possible logistics of an escape. He explains to you that he cannot channel the magic the way you can, but that he is soaked in the magic of the sea; he is unable to use it for spells because it is innately part of him, enhancing him beyond human capabilities. Together, you come to the conclusion that you must get off the ship before you arrive at the hunters’ lands, or your chances of freedom will have narrowed to almost nothing.

An actual method of subduing or injuring the hunters enough to allow an exit route evades you, though. After all, you are chained to the wall, and there’s no easy way of moving Bakugou - he is, evidently, far too heavy for you to drag around all by yourself.

Uneasy silence falls over the brig. You stare at the lamp again: with it, your ability to see has been restored, along with a piece of your humanity, but now its light seems to illuminate how small a space you are contained in, how strong the chain binding you to the wall is.

As you drift off to sleep that night, you find yourself gripped by the fear that Bakugou will never return to the sea, and instead, they will inflict unspeakable torments upon him.

You will be the one who kept him alive for them. You will be the one who he grows to hate, because you had the chance to let future pain pass him by, but you saved him, and by doing so, you failed to spare him from their torture. And while they cut him open and study his insides, you will be somewhere far away, still risking yourself to heal their most elite, almost as if they are beloved to you.

The thought gnaws at you as the weeks pass. Blood no longer soaks the bandages wrapped around his tail; his dorsal fin is almost healed. He is gaining strength, more rapidly through your magic, and it is clear he has shaken off death many times before if his scars are testament to anything. In particular, the one on his chest draws you: though it is long healed, you can tell it was deep.

He almost died back then, too - the scar tissue around its edges is strange, lumpy and malformed as if he was kneaded back together by a child who saw his flesh as nothing more than clay harvested gleefully from a river bank. Even so, the shape of it is familiar. You know you shouldn’t pry. You remember the way he flinched away when you first touched it, but you ask, anyway.

“Bakugou,” you ask him once you’ve finished changing his bandages. “What did you do to get a merfolk’s blade stuck in your chest?”

He snarls. “All you do is fucking dig, you shitty witch.”

“I - ”

Hissing, he swipes at you half heartedly, and you stumble backwards, dodging his fist and almost tripping on your chain, caught off guard by the agitation in his eyes. Stunned, you gape at him. The fury is vehement on his face, evident in the grit of his teeth and the tremor in his hands as he grips the side of the tub; you can tell he despises how he is trapped in here with you, fending you off with the sting of his words.

You open your mouth. You’re not certain what you’re supposed to say, other than an apology that he will shake off easily, but you hope that words will form on your tongue. He levels his gaze on you, and this time, within it dwells an overwhelming sorrow that stops you short.

“Don’t try,” he whispers. “You cannot change the past.”

Brow furrowed, you stare at him. You take in the pain carved all over him, and this, you realise, not his scars, is his warpaint - he holds it close to him, like a cloak of inwardly turned, savage blades, reminding him to keep his distance. It is present in the bow of his head, the slump of his shoulders, a weight so heavy it threatens to rend his flesh from his bones.

You get to your feet, and in the lamp light, the single tear that rolls down his face is turned to solid gold.

Balefully, he looks at you, yet he holds still as you reach out and smooth it away with your thumb. A rawness resides in his eyes that you wish you could soothe as you catch the next tear that spills over, gently as if he is made of porcelain.

“You need not bear the weight of your world on your shoulders, Bakugou.”

Your words wrench a sob from him. His fingers curl tight around your wrist, tearing your hand away from his face, silently weeping as he grips you so hard you begin to lose feeling in your palm. You watch as the anguish in his eyes evolves into anger, harsh and brittle and bleak.

“Get away from me,” he spits, voice strangled, and yet he does not release you, so you perch on the side of the tub and make a show of not looking at him so he is not alone in his privacy.

It’s then that you realise that whether or not he likes it, you have gotten through to him. In the month that goes by, sometimes he is cold and aloof, keeping to himself, and sometimes he allows you close enough that you can feel his warmth. You find you savour his company when it’s there.

His wound is fully healed, a pink scar bordered by healing scales, and his dorsal fin spine is back in working order. You check up on him still, every other day or so, careful to monitor them in case you have somehow healed him wrong, careful to keep your regular intersections with him, because although you would never admit it to him, he is amusing, and he keeps the darkness at bay.

You are unsure what he thinks of you. Sometimes, he smacks you upside the head with no real force, and you dare to label it as affectionate. He gives you the name which he gives to those that mean more to him than strangers, too - well, you wring it out of him.

(“Bakugou, what’s your name?”

A scoff. “Witch, have you hit your head?”

“We both know you’re not obliged to answer, so if you’re not going to tell me, spare me the insults.”

Pause. “Katsuki. It’s Katsuki.”)

There are times when he has nightmares, too. You surmise that most of them are about Deku, and that the scar branding his chest, the one made by a merfolk forged weapon, is linked somehow to this dead human. Incomprehensibly, he mutters in his sleep, snarling about krakens and storms and sometimes even witches, but it always leads back to Deku.

Sometimes he protests against him, speaking a language you do not fully understand, cursing and thrashing so hard you fear the tub will splinter, while sometimes he proclaims his love, his voice slurred as he slumbers, but each time, without fail, he begs: forgive me, Izuku, forgive me, Deku, I’m sorry.

Katsuki is unaware of what he gives away in his sleep. Often, he settles down quickly after raising his voice, but sometimes you look over to see him stiff and terrified and shake him awake; he then jolts upright, the water sloshing out of the tub as he reaches for you, his stricken eyes searching yours for something you do not know the identity of, but he always finds.

He does not let you go, not ever. At these times, you lean or sit by the tub and let him crush your fingers in his grip.

He never speaks of it in the morning.

You would not hide from him what you have learnt, nor the feelings that grow treacherously in your heart, but you are too cowardly to tell him of either. It is certain that he loved Deku, and that maybe Deku loved him too. What was it like, you often wonder, to have loved Katsuki?

When he holds onto you, still half lost in the dark lands of his nightmares, you think about it. He would have been less guarded, a young merman not yet covered in scars; he would have given Deku his name immediately, for he would not have learnt that he needed to be wary of humans. Still, he would have fought for him until the end with the same ferocity he would fight for his own heart - because Deku was his own heart.

And Deku, you imagine Deku saw people as they really were. You imagine Deku with bright eyes and a brighter smile, with a face that all his emotions could be read off as easily as a book. He must have been good, persistent, if Katsuki had fallen for him. Soft, even, but tough when he needed to be.

They fit each other, no doubt.

You feel guilty, as if your speculations are invasive, rummaging around within Bakugou’s heart where he has not let you set foot. Mercifully, he can pin his red eyes on you as much as he likes, which he often does, but he will not hear your mind.

Now that he is healed, that is how you pass your days, exchanging words with him when either of you wish to, while you wrestle with the unspoken in your head and while god knows what happens behind his eyes. It is normal for silence to fall after a conversation - it is not awkward, but not comfortable either. It is pensive, it is familiar.

And today, it is shattered by screams up on deck.

Katsuki perks up, his keen ears picking up things your dull ones cannot, and he tilts his head, listening intently. You do not have to hear what he does to know what is happening: there is the sound of clashing steel above you, the all too familiar war cries of the hunters. It is not often that the merfolk are prepared for the hunters as they pass by, but neither is it impossible.

The ship lurches, harshly enough that some of the water in Katsuki’s tub overflows. You wager it must be a whole pod, then, maybe two, and you glance over at him, wondering if he knows who they are, wondering if -

“Are they yours?” You blurt.

“Huh?”

“Your pod,” you clarify.

Bitterly, he scoffs. “If the merfolk wanted to rescue me, they wouldn’t have waited months.”

You freeze. The detachment in his voice does nothing to hide the betrayal beneath, and ice begins to crawl up your spine, for he addresses them as the merfolk, not as his kind, his people. Harshly, you swallow as you start to understand that the hunters would never have been able to capture a merman if he wasn’t alone.

“You don’t have a…” You trail off, feeling far too inadequate and stupid to continue.

“My pod renounced me the moment they learnt about Deku and I.”

A picture forms in your mind, of a Katsuki who lost his family because he gave away his heart to a human - of a Katsuki to which the sea was no longer home, but a huge expanse of alone. Horror closes over your head like cold water as your eyes slide down to the scar on his chest.

His pod didn’t stop at just renouncing him.

You had always hoped that beings whose very essence was rooted in magic would be fair and just as the tales said. Your hope had always been that the merfolk would see that humanity was not united in the purging of them, that they would spare you if your path ever crossed theirs. Never did you think they would be so blind as to turn on one of their own for something as reliant on fate as love. You are a fool.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and it comes out almost like a sob.

“We are no better than you are,” he replies.

His voice is so devoid of hope that it cuts you to the quick. You open your mouth so say more, to try and fill that emptiness inside him if you can, but your words are stuck in your throat and before you can force them out the door flies open, banging loudly against the wall and almost extinguishing the lamp’s flame.

Three gravely wounded are deposited in front of you and then the door slams. Silently, you get to work, sealing the deep slashes to their flesh more carelessly than you should be - but with Katsuki watching, you feel sullied, a betrayer who works for the purgers of magic. Their blood coats your tingling palms, and yet not in the way you wish it could be.

You have just finished the last when four more are dragged in, and you’re hit hard across the face and ordered to work faster, which signifies only one thing: more are coming. As blood wells up in your mouth, you hope that the merfolk are victorious, even if it means sinking the ship and letting you drown within.

Hate rises within you again, searing and acrid like smoke clogging your lungs, but this time it is different. You hate them for what they have made you; a tool, a means to an end. The determination you nurse in your heart is unimportant as long as you do what they say, and yet you cannot defy them, and this is what you hate yourself for.

Prickling sensations begin to claw up your arms as you heal. You are lost in it, the blood and the battle and the patients, and you swear you see the same faces twice: hunters who you healed once coming back more injured than last time. Your energy dwindles like a dying flame and you dip into your reserves when you recognise the violent light in the hunters’ eyes.

You cannot ask for a break. They already bay for blood and death; what more is yours but just another magic using bitch’s?

You are being bled dry. You are no longer aware of your surroundings, just the halting of the flow of blood beneath your hands and the wheezing gasp of your breath and the rattle of the chain locked around your wrist.

They have not been attacked like this in a long time. You almost forgot how fast the darkness closes in when you send out your energy through your palms to knit flesh and skin back together again. Spots cloud your vision, and futilely, you swat them away. Muffled, Katsuki’s voice hums in your right ear, but you do not understand the words he utters.

Your hands tremble. You pitch forward, slumping over your newest patient.

A hand fists in your hair. Knuckles press into your jaw, far harder than a lover’s touch and yet it feels like it in the way your head lolls slowly to the side. It takes time, but pain radiates through your skull, vibrating your teeth and sharpening your focus, and then you can hear yelling, yelling for you to wake up, yelling for you to carry on or they’ll kill you -

There are so many of them. So many hunters with frenzied eyes and blades that shine where they are not coated in innocent blood, and they are hurt and they want to return back to the battle and you must abide by their demands. The air is too thin as it whistles in and out of your lungs. You cannot think.

You press your palms to the blood slick abdomen of the next man placed down before you and do as they say. Your mouth is dry, your head pounds, your eyes won’t focus, and yet, you do as they say, you always do what they say.

What a fucking coward you are.

Letting them push you farther than you ever would let yourself go. You’re right on the edge, right over the edge, clinging onto the side of the perilously vertical cliff face even as the mossy stone crumbles beneath your fingers and threatens to make you fall down down down. But still, you heal. Your body performs numbly what your mind cannot take any more.

All of a sudden, there is not an open wound for you to heal or guts to force back inside a torso, there are just crimson soaked planks and a raised voice. Loud. An incensed, raised voice, cursing and roaring. Can’t you see she’s almost gone? They shout, earsplitting enough to make your head pound. She can’t heal you fucking bastards if she’s dead!

Bakugou. No, not that name. It’s… Katsuki. Katsuki making all that racket. You don’t know when it happened, but now your cheek is pressed to the rough planks that make up the floor. There’s blood everywhere. Some more splatters to the ground and you notice that the din isn’t being made by Katsuki any more. Your eyes are hazy as you lift them upwards and see a hunter raise his fist again.

“Kats,” you slur. “Watch… watch out…”

The lamp goes out, which is strange, since the oil got topped up this morning. You pay it no mind, though.

You’re too tired.

You wake surrounded by water. For a moment, you wonder if the merfolk won, and if somehow you managed to get tossed off the boat and into the sea, but then you move your leg and it hits something hard and vertical which must be wood. Peeling your eyes open, you find you’re in… the tub? Katsuki’s tub?

Lifting your head, you’re met with a pair of concerned red eyes. One is almost swollen shut, and blood has crusted down the side of his face from a wound in his temple, yet he smooths his hand soothingly over your upper back, watching attentively as you come to.

“You’ve been out for just under two days,” Katsuki says. “You need to eat, get your strength back up.”

Your memory begins to trickle back, and with it floods a torrent of shame: you always told yourself that you survived out of spite, out of the belief and conviction that one day you would hurt them enough to negate all the healing they made you to do, but it was all a pretence. You were scared and so you took the easier road of complacency, and it has caused the deaths of hundreds of merfolk.

It is without a doubt that if you had healed even just a papercut more, that if Katsuki had not stopped them, the life force within you would have winked out, and you would have died. Death had loomed right over you, brushing boney fingers over your face, and even now, it lingers.

You are burnt out, exhaustion weighing on you as if a whole mountain rests on your back. Worse is the fear, revealed in the blinding light, shackling you, for you are its slave, and you cannot shake its hold off you.

Your face crumples. “I am spineless, for letting them use me so. I am a coward, a - ”

“They give you no choice, witch,” Katsuki remarks. “Do not put it on yourself.”

You shake your head. “You cannot ask that of me. How many lives have been lost because I obeyed when the hunters told me to save them?”

Bowing your head, you sob. Fatigue envelops you, the chain around your wrist unspeakably heavy, and you lean heavily against Katsuki; he holds you like you are precious, handling you with care so that the pieces you have shattered into do not fall apart and scatter onto the floor. He tips up your chin, forcing you to look him in those eyes of his as he wipes away your tears.

“What was that you told me, as I wept like you do now?” He asks. “You need not bear the weight of your world on your shoulders. That was what you said to me.”

Nodding, you feel more tears leak out when you squeeze your eyes closed. He strokes your hair, and you hide your face in his chest and wish you could do forever, for he is warm and he is far gentler than you ever imagined he could be. You are tempted, but he nudges you and chides you, reminding you that you will feel much better once you have eaten.

Wobbly as a newborn fawn, you climb out of the tub, Katsuki steadying you with a hand on your arm. Wrapping one of your blankets around you like a shawl, you retrieve a hunk of bread to gnaw on before planting yourself on the tub’s rim, loath to be any farther away from him than you have to be.

Though hunger worries insistently at your insides, sending tremors through your hands and weakness in your legs, you force yourself to eat slowly; you cannot risk wasting any of the food by throwing up. Katsuki rests his forearms on the sides of the tub, watching you with a keen gaze that you cannot read. You become more aware of the purpling bruising across his face and reach out without thinking.

He catches your hand before you can tap into the slowly replenishing well of magic inside of you, his fingers circling your wrist before he lets them slip down and lace with yours. Something ignites behind his eyes, and you find you are mesmerised - you lean closer to see how the spark dances.

“Katsuki,” you breathe, and then your lips are on his.

He tips his chin up to lean into you, his fingers threading into your hair as he pulls you closer to him, so tender that it makes your chest ache. You could stay like this for eternity, simply doing nothing but tasting the salt of him on your tongue and savouring the sweet, sweet scrape of his canines over your lower lip; he is all that matters, all that is.

Slowly, his hands come round to cup your shoulders, pressing you closer to him, and so you feel the moment his grip falters and he stiffens, feel the way he recoils from you as if you have burnt him, and you can do nothing to prevent it. You’re propelled backwards with the force he jolts away. Though it is only a few steps, you feel the gap between you yawn wide, stretching into an uncrossable chasm.

“No,” he chokes out, shaking his head. “No, not - not like - ”

Abruptly, he falls terribly, terribly silent. Stunned, you touch a hand to your mouth; your legs buckle, and you throw out a hand to steady yourself against the wall before sinking to the floor. It feels as if you are drowning.

Katsuki does not love you - how can he, when he fits with Deku like they were made for each other? You were wrong to hope for anything else, wrong to give in to what you wanted, because you have torn open old wounds that never properly healed. It is no longer significant that he does not love you, for you should have seen that already; what matters is that in your blindness, you have ripped him open.

You’re beginning to realise that it was not the lamp that kept the shadows back, but him. It is only natural that you are drawn to him like a moth to a flame, only natural that you were too weak to resist flying straight into the fire. This time, it is not only the moth who gets hurt.

You are left alone with your thoughts. Time passes, as it always does, but you pay it no mind. However hard you try, you cannot bring yourself to meet his eyes. You are numb, numb to the slow rock of the ship as it cuts through the waves, numb to the sounds of the crew at their battle stations again, numb to it all now that it is undeniable: you love him.

He cannot love you.

Wearily, warily, you raise your head when the door opens, revealing the first mate, soaked in blood. Crossing the room in a few strides, he stands before you, chest heaving, a frantic sort of desperation contorting his face as he tightens his hand around the hilt of his sword and glares at you.

“The captain is near death. We drop anchor home in a fortnight. I will be put in command if he does not survive, and if this happens, I will make certain that you come upon a death slower and far more painful than his.”

You do not answer, nor do you pay any mind to his threats. You can sense Katsuki staring in your direction, the feeling of his red eyes on your skin unmistakable: no doubt, he has heard what you have. We drop anchor home in a fortnight - a fortnight until Katsuki is delivered into hands who seek to study him, to slit him open while he still lives and examine his insides and the way his heart beats, ensnared in the cage of his ribs.

Just like that, you know what to do.

You wait silently until they bring the captain to you. The first mate did not lie when he said the captain is near death. Sweat creates a sheen on his brow, and though his eyes are open, he is barely conscious, for he has been sliced open from gullet to navel by a merfolk blade. Briefly, you touch a fingertip to the lip of the gash, ignoring the pained moan it causes and the disquieted mutters of the other hunters.

If you were superstitious, you would deem the wound too similar to Katsuki’s to be anything but fate, but you do not believe in such things. Instead, you put your trust in the strength of good steel and the sharpness of a tongue. Yes, you know what to do, and you will do it.

The chain fixed around your wrist is not broken, but it does not have to be. You are free to do what you wish, because before you is the captain, and he is leverage. There is no fear left in you, no shame to hold you back as you look up at the first mate; he opens his mouth, about to ask why you do not jump to heal his captain, but he pauses when he takes in your cold smile.

“Free the merman, and then I will heal him.”

A silence falls. They are left with no other choice but to do as you say, and they know it. The first mate’s hands ball into fists, a reminder to you of what will come once Katsuki is let go and you heal their captain, but it does not concern you any more. None of it is of concern to you, only his freedom.

“What the fuck did you just say, witch?” Katsuki spits.

His voice jolts the first mate into action. He heaves you to your feet by the front of your shirt, seething, and punches you squarely in the nose. Something cracks. Your head snaps back, the air knocked from your lungs when he drives his knee into your stomach and lets you crumple to the floor by his feet. Gritting your teeth, you glower up at him.

“Come at me all you like,” you hiss as blood pours down your face. “It will not save your captain.”

He crouches down before you. You do not listen as he shouts at you, because you see it in his eyes. He knows you have them all backed into a corner, he knows you’re aware he will not risk the captain’s life. Over his shoulder, Katsuki urgently mouths something to you: do you know what they will do to you because of this? They will do worse than just kill you!

“Let them,” you reply, and as you gaze at him, you smile again. To the first mate, you say: “Bring me up on deck. I want to see.”

The first mate hurls you away from him, barking orders at the other hunters, but all you hear is the crash of the waves outside and all you taste is the nectar of victory on your tongue. You watch, still smiling, as they grab Katsuki and drag him from the tub. He fights, of course he does, screaming your name and slashing at the hunters, but there is but one of him, and he is unarmed.

Cursing, the first mate unfastens your chain from the ring in the wall, wrapping the length of it around his hand and jerking you forward with it, pulling you to follow him through the ship. There is murder written on his face and in the curl of his lip, and you let it slide it off you like water from a sea bird's feathers.

He throws open the hatch, and for the first time in years, you see the sun. Slowly, you step into the light, and the salty breeze tugs playfully at your clothes and hair, fresh and briney and strong, pulling tears from your eyes. All around you is empty space, just blue sea and blue sky and the wind that dances gloriously between them as far as you can see.

The air is invigorating and crisp in your lungs. Hesitantly, you take a step forward, then another and another, seeing the way the sun plays on the water’s surface, scintillating as it warms your cold skin. It is as resplendent as you remember it.

“Witch!” Katsuki cries, shaking the hunters’ hands off him. “Why? Why would you do this to yourself?”

There are countless ways you could answer him. Instead, you take him in one last time, his spiky ash blonde hair and his crimson eyes and the way his scales glitter under the sunlight. You do this for love: if you can’t give him your heart, you will give him his freedom.

“Go,” is all you say, and though tears stream down your face, you smile.

“I will not forget you, witch,” he replies, voice thick. “I swear it.”

Running to the side of the ship, you cling to the taffrail and lean forwards to watch as he dives overboard. He slices through the water, the amber of his tail bright as he goes, further from you with each passing second, and your breath catches in your throat - he is more beautiful than you imagined he would be in the light.

As he crests a wave, he looks back at you, and you see the shimmer of his scales and the graceful arc of his dorsal fin one last time before he twirls in the surf and dives. With that, he is gone, and you are alone again, yet you do not fear what is to come.

A hand grips your shoulder, nails digging sharply into your skin. “Enjoy your peace, you thankless bitch, because once you heal the captain, all you’re going to know is pain.”

You turn to the first mate and laugh in his face.

He loves you.

Bakugou Katsuki fucking loves you.

He loves your deft hands, careful despite their calluses and nimble despite the chain around your wrist. He loves the smell of you, herby and laced with petrichor. He loves the brightness dancing in your eyes when you laugh. Most of all, he loves your sweet soul: the fierceness woven into it like second nature, the blaze of your heart when you stand up for what you believe in.

He was stupid for pulling away from that kiss. You had fit your lips to his, and suddenly panic rose in his chest, and he jerked backwards as if ignoring his heart would silence it; he was scared to love another human, scared because last time it led to pain. His fear had hurt you, and this is his regret - that he was the one to cause the slow dimming of the light in your eyes.

There are countless other things he regrets. He should have trusted more easily, he should have fought harder as they yanked him out of that silly tub and away from you, and he should never have left you by yourself on that ship with those despicable hunters.

He didn’t tell you he loved you, and now he is scared he will never get the chance.

He has left you in a den of beasts. Deku would never have let this happen if it was Katsuki in danger. Deku would have found a way to get him out. In fact, Deku did, he saved him instead of himself, and now Deku is gone, and he fears his heart is not strong enough to lose another. He does not want to lose another.

That serene little smile on your face as you watched him go - it haunts him, fucking burns itself into his retinas, because you knew. You knew precisely what you were doing, when you bargained with that hunter’s life, and you knew exactly what they were going to do to you for making them let him go.

You must be hurting right now. You must have been beaten within an inch of your life. You, who broke down the walls he rebuilt, brick by brick, after Deku was gone - the same walls that Deku himself tore down too. Katsuki is beginning to think that their foundation has always been flawed, or maybe they crumbled like Jericho simply because you shine brighter than the sun on the waves, and he could not look away if he wanted to.

He has been tailing the ship for little over a day. Keeping out of sight and in the shadows is easy; he has felt the sting of their harpoons enough and he will not risk an injury when getting you away from them is the priority, yet he can’t help but resent the way he must hide. There is no other way, though. Currently, he has no plan, and he must bide his time.

Katsuki was never the most patient, but he has no choice but to be patient since he has no sword and no allies. It is plausible that he could scuttle the ship by himself, but he can’t risk it with you chained inside and possibly unconscious.

But then he sees it - a shape in the distance.

It is an isle, small enough that it could sustain maybe one hamlet of people, and rather plain, with rocks that make up a small cliff on one side and a sandy beach dotted with rock pools on the other, a thicket of trees spanning the distance between. One could call it nondescript, but there is nothing nondescript about it to Katsuki.

He has bled out on that golden beach. He has fought to protect his own life and the life of another in the waters near that isle, and he has failed. He has wept on that shore, wept enough to cleanse the blood soaked sand beneath his newly fixed body that held his newly broken heart.

That isle is where Deku washed up, half dead, a decade ago. It is where he watched from afar as this green eyed, freckled human nursed himself back to health, and where he watched from a little closer as he learnt that humans were more than what they are portrayed as in the tales of his pod.

He understood many things on that isle: what love was - the touch of his lips to a man with unruly green curls and an infectious smile, and what betrayal was - when his pod found out and the waters were tinted red because of it.

Just like that, he knows what to do.

Hidden in the underwater caves below the isle is a monster that slumbers until a soul dares to wake it. The humans call it a kraken, but the merfolk leave it unnamed, for it is too great to be reduced to a simple moniker. He has seen it once before, through the haze that descends over one close to death, and felt as its power stymied the lifeblood that poured hot from a wound spanning from the middle of his sternum to his navel.

Both he and Deku had lain on the beach after his pod ambushed, both bleeding from fatal wounds. He had been too fucking weak to get to the kraken first, and so Deku had been the one to sacrifice himself and give himself to the monster so Katsuki could live, when it should have been the other way round.

This time, though, he is strong enough.

He remembers slipping back into the ocean with his freshly healed wound so the saltwater of his tears mixed with the sea, unable to understand why Deku would leave him. Now, he understands all too well, and he will not fail to protect the one he loves again.

Summoning the kraken means no going back. After waking it, the summoner is transported into the kraken’s form, and they have a limited time within it before the kraken reaps its payment - the summoner’s soul. It will shatter their spirit and ensure they cannot return to their body.

Katsuki dives down deep, breaking away from the ship and swimming ahead of it to find the gaping mouth of the cave that the kraken slumbers within. He is far down enough that the water is murky, frigid as it weighs heavily on him, the sun a weak pinprick of light suspended somewhere above him that does nothing to pierce the gloom.

The entrance is curtained with seaweed, the cold fronds  caressing his skin as he slips past them. Nestled in the darkness, it lies there, slumbering: a behemoth shadow, looming as high as the cavern’s ceiling and filling its width like the berth of a warship docked in a seaside hamlet’s harbour.

As he swims towards it, he realises he has already had his last glimpse of you through his own eyes. The last time he will see you, he will be fighting to keep hold of himself before he loses his soul to the kraken, and then it will just be bottomless darkness until it is summoned again. You might not even know it is him inside the monster.

It doesn’t matter - a lot has ceased to matter to Katsuki. He can no longer deny that he loves you, and with that epiphany comes another: you knew what the hunters would do to you when you bargained for his freedom, and yet you did it anyway, with no fear of the consequences. Now, it is his turn to put his life on the line for you, and though he may lose it, you will be free.

He will never feel the sweet touch of lips again, but that’s alright. He hopes that you will find another to make you happy, another who will make your heart soar and help you forget him. They will be to you what you were to him: a light to scare away the shadows, a star in the night sky to guide you, even if at times, just like him, you believe you do not wish to be guided.

Katsuki pictures your face as he draws near to the kraken.

Its flesh is odd beneath his palm - slippery and uncomfortably cold. Pressing his palm to its skin, he wills it awake, and it obeys him alarmingly fast, an eye as big as his head snapping open and rolling around until it fixates on him. An abyss of a pupil sucks him in, beckoning him forward to a place that will be the last he ever visits.

Though he knows his body remains still, he feels himself fall forward, sucked towards the magnetic emptiness within the kraken as if it aches to be occupied. For a moment, he resists, pure instincts making him struggle against it, but he forces himself to let go. Sensation briefly forsakes him.

When his vision is restored, he finds that he is looking at his body, limp and vacant. Already he can feel a difference in the water, the sharp tang of fear drifting toward him on currents that hadn’t been there before as creatures begin to flee, aware that something ancient has been roused from its sleep.

A tempest is brewing.

Katsuki - or a version of him that no longer is really Katsuki, but instead a wrathful monster caller - cannot see the dark clouds amassing above, but he knows they are scudding across the blue skies to taint the high midday sun, and it is his doing. Cruel winds accumulate in the shadows cast by his thunderhead, and he can hear the sharp snap of canvas and the raised voices of a crew readying their ship for a storm.

Unfurling a tentacle, he curls it around his old body, careful not to crush it, and reaches up high enough to deposit it on the beach. He begins to move the kraken out of the cave, dislodging pebbles that would have been boulders as the bulk of its body manoeuvres through the exit.

In a way, he is disconnected from the body that is his now; there is empty space that he is not large enough to occupy, like he has donned a garment made for a merman the size of a mountain. It is strangely silent inside this huge vessel, although he is not alone. Shadow wreathed souls lurk in the corners of his mind, and he knows they are disgusted by him.

He is not surprised. Historically, the kraken have been summoned only in the utmost peril. To the merfolk, the kraken are as sacred and as old as the sea, called upon in the wars of old, when the magic beings of the sky were eradicated. Despite being only scattered shards of themselves, the past summoners look down on him, because he does not summon to seek the solution to mighty matters.

For the second time in a lifetime, the kraken is being summoned for a cause as selfish as love.

There’s an awful symmetry to it, really. He imagines the way they must have abhorred Deku, a dying human who did not use the kraken’s power to destroy, but to knit together the wound of a simple, unnoteworthy merman.

Faces contorted beyond recognition flash before his eyes and hands claw at his sides with nails as vicious as knives. They want blood, they want a whole fleet to rip through and ruin. He tells them that they will have to settle with one ship, and they cry their discontent in his ears, their voices rough and rasping, like rusting metal on stone.

He has not broken the surface of the water yet. His body prowls many leagues down, but still, he spots the shadow cast by the ship, and the moment he does, his vision narrows, blurs, and he sees winking lights on board: the lives of the crew, twinkling and tantalising and begging to be snuffed out.

The kraken jets upwards and breaches, spraying up a wall of water, and though he does not command it, he bellows a war cry, the sound so bloodthirsty and wild it almost sweeps him up and incapacitates him. The shadow souls close in, fragments of vengeful souls garbed in shadow, greedy and eager to see him torn apart, and he shakes them off, wrenching himself from their grasp with all his strength.

A twinge pinches at his side, and he glances down to see a volley of harpoons glance off his hide, leaving shallow gashes in their wake. The crew swarm on the deck, their terror sour as he breathes it in and savours it. They are but ants, small and irritating with their measly weapons and made to be crushed and devoured -

He seizes the mast and uses it to rock the ship from side to side, fighting to keep the visions of blood staining the water red away from him. Too fast, his control is slipping, and he feels the souls swarm around him, filling his field of view with darkness until all he can see is those tiny flames that he must put out. There is something he wanted to do, something he needs to do -

Selfish, the souls hiss in his ears, trying to sink their hateful claws into him again, and he agrees with them.

He loves, and therefore he is selfish.

It is no bad thing.

The storm clouds gather over the ship, roiling and rumbling with thunder. Lightning strikes, a bolt of white fury that splinters the deck and extinguishes one of the little lives on board, producing a delighted cackle from the souls at his back, but he ignores them. He knows what he must do.

“Bring me the witch,” he roars.

His voice comes out warped and foreign, the words of men coming out strange and misshapen on his tongue, but the crew understand enough, scuttling to obey, desperate to believe he may spare them if they give you to him. The grip of the souls tightens, squeezing at his throat - he has spent too long in their presence already, and they nip at the edges of his mind, stealing away parts of him when he isn’t looking.

He realises with a jolt that he does not remember his name any more.

It is fine, though. He will join the souls in their namelessness soon. They are a cacophony in his head, and he can no longer hear anything but them, the burn of their claws threatening to tear him apart and shred him the way they are already torn apart, but he barely cares.

The little gnats bring another up and present it to him. This one shines brighter, suffused with a magic the souls cannot wait to devour, and they encourage him forward - surely he too will enjoy the honeyed taste of this offering? Plucking it off the ship’s deck, he brings it to his eye level, and his shadow companions clamour for him to crush it, but he hesitates.

It looks at him like it knows him. In its weak, tiny voice, it yells something that gets lost in the howl of the winds, but even so, it makes the souls shrink back, receding enough for him to remember that this little thing he holds is important. Important for what, he can’t recall, but it is important all the same.

Kicking its legs, the small being beats its fist on his tentacle, still shouting. He leans closer, wincing as the shadows scratch and tear at his back, trying to draw him away again.

“Katsuki!” You scream.

He jolts. It is you, his little, beloved witch - you are why he is being so selfish, summoning the kraken just to save one life. Peering closer, he notices that you are bruised all over, and suddenly the storm worsens overhead, crackling as bolts of lightning stab down like vindictive knives and the wind tears at the ship full of aghast hunters, tossing it violently among the waves.

Carefully, he places you on the beach, next to a body that used to be his. You scramble towards it, limping, and he turns away, looking back towards the ship and the lights it is infested with that still need to be destroyed. Anger comes easily to him, because these are the ones that have marred you with bruises.

The shadows close in again.

Roaring, he tears at the ship, rending it in two and crushing those that leap overboard, yet the souls are never appeased, never satiated. It feels as if power leaks out the seams of his spirit and if he does not let it go it will destroy him from the inside, but he knows he cannot let go. He needs to hold on, to hold himself together, for something that drifts further and further out of reach -

It is as if he has been tied to the bottom of a sea trench for so long, drowning in darkness, that the surface is just a fanciful thought. He does not remember the sun’s sweet face, nor the sound of your voice as you called out the name he has lost again. They sink their teeth into him, ready to tear him apart.

He struggles. He will not go without a fucking fight, he will not let them have him before he has tried valiantly to swim upwards to the sun, where the shadows will not survive.

But the light is so far from him. It floats away every time he strives to be closer, or maybe there are hands holding him back, ripping him open and tethering him to the blackness. They cling to him, shrieking in his ears, sinking curved claws into him and refusing to let go, ready to reap the kraken’s payment.

He is losing himself.

And then - a hand, gentle, touching his face. Emerald eyes fill his vision, wide and lovely, and suddenly he is able to ignore the souls and their blaring dissonance, the pain in his side fading away into nothing. There is a soul that still remains named here, mixed in with those who have been rent apart by hate.

“Kacchan,” the soul says earnestly. “You must fight it, Kacchan.”

“Deku,” he sobs, leaning into the soul’s warm palms as he wipes his tears away. “I’m sorry.”

Deku smiles, and Katsuki weeps, because he looks so proud of him, as if he is worth an eternity spent trapped within a kraken alongside shattered souls that only wish for chaos and destruction. He weeps, because here are Deku and Kacchan, back together again, but they cannot stay this way forever.

“I understand,” Deku whispers, and his touch heals Kacchan once more. “I understand you love her. You need to fight, you need to return to her and love her like you want to. I died so you could live, Kacchan. Let go.”

He looks down and sees the way he clutches onto Deku so hard he is white knuckled, while Deku cradles his hands in his scarred ones, softly as if Kacchan is fragile. Trembling, he loosens his grip, and he feels the light draw closer, the sun’s rays warming his face. Something tightens in his chest when he finally allows himself to release Deku, but it hurts in the manner of stitches pulling taut inside him and binding him together again.

One last time, he looks over his shoulder, to where Deku watches as he goes, smiling brightly, shining like he is a star plucked from the night sky. His brilliance holds the shadows back, rendering them powerless. He pays them no mind, though - his viridescent eyes are lit up and fixed only on his Kacchan.

Deku says something, but the sound of his voice is drowned out by the crashing of the waves and the winds of a dying down of a storm. Still, Katsuki knows what he said by the shape of his lips: I love you. Smiling, he takes a final look at him, at those unruly green curls and those sweet eyes and bright smile, and then he turns and is bathed in light.

The kraken sinks again beneath the waves, but Katsuki does not sink with it.

You know it’s impossible, but you sense the moment Katsuki is back in his body. You’ve heard the tales of the kraken, and you know he should have been taken from you, but there he is, present in the weak pulse of his heart beneath your palm and the steady rise and fall of his chest. Shallow cuts have appeared all over his body, remnants of the damage of the hunter’s harpoons.

His eyes are open, but barely, and he blinks slowly, fighting to keep them fixed on you, giving you only glimpses of familiar crimson. There is a strange looseness to his awareness that must come with the recency of doing the impossible, but still he grips your hand desperately, struggling to stay awake long enough to force words out.

“I - I lo - ”

Before he can finish, his voice cracks and he coughs. His eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to start again, but you smile, tears blurring your vision as you press a finger to his lips and hush him, and thankfully he relaxes under your touch, curling closer to you and seeking shelter in your embrace. Once he is rested, he will have all the time in the world to tell you whatever he likes.

What matters is that he is here. That in itself is beyond even a miracle. 

Almost disbelieving, you cradle him to you, pressing your forehead to his as tears you cannot stop spill down your face and mingle with his blood. You are bone tired after repeatedly healing your own cracked ribs and fractured wrists, but you are whole enough for now - you won’t waste your energy on your own bruises while he still hurts.

So you hold him against your chest, sweeping your fingers delicately over the deeper of his cuts to seal them. The sky has cleared, the storm clouds departing as fast as they arrived, and the sea is dipped in ruby by the bleeding sunset. It lacquers the wet sand with the glow of dying embers as the incoming tide smooths over where the storm had churned it up, erasing the mark left on the island as if this afternoon had never happened.

If it were not for Katsuki in your arms, it would be like the kraken never came.

You glance down at him. He seems at peace, though worn and battered, as if he has reconciled something deep within his heart; he has closed his eyes, simply leaning against you with his face pressed into your side, his warm hands tucked just beneath the hem of your shirt.

You cannot help but smile. Because of him, you are free. No chains bind your wrists, no threats limit you in what you decide to do next. You are not sure where you will end up later, but for now you intend to fall asleep beneath the open sky, beside the one you love infinitely more than any life you might have had and even this new life he has fought and bled to give you.

When you drift out of your dreams - just simple, golden things full of a contentment that lingers past waking - the tide is high, the ocean lapping at the sand at your feet. The moon is almost at its highest point in the sky, depositing a residue of silver on everything around you.

Katsuki stirs in your arms, and when you glance down, you are met with the twin beacons of his eyes, luminous in the dark and full, brimming and spilling over with unspoken things that leave a deep ache in your heart. Trembling, he grips your hands, and you lace your fingers with his, brushing your lips over his knuckles and stroking his face as the tears begin to flow.

He cries like he is mourning. You wonder what he saw while his soul donned the kraken’s skin, how poignant it must have been to wrench these fitful sobs from him. Cupping his face in your palms, you wipe his tears away, and he clings to you to keep you close while he bares his newly healing heart to you; it is wrapped in the past’s scars. He shows you the rawest parts of him, and you soothe them as best you can with your healing hands.

There is no magic to this cure, though. It is just the love that burns within you, consuming you so entirely it makes you shake. You did not know it was possible to love like this, but the proof weeps in your arms, a merman who summoned the kraken and somehow conquered it so he could make it back to you.

“Tell me,” you whisper, tracing the strong lines of his face with your fingertips.

Curling his arms around you, he hides his face in your neck. “Deku stood with me against the dark inside the kraken,” he replies softly. “He held them back so I could come back to you. I - I thought I had lost him forever, when he summoned the kraken to save me.”

Carefully, he brings your hand to touch the scar stretching down his chest, and you outline its edges, comforted by the warmth of his body and the steadiness of his breathing beneath your fingers. You would be happy to stay like that forever, linked to him by your skin on his and the synchronised beat of your hearts.

“He told me to fight so I could return to you,” Katsuki murmurs. “So I could love you.”

Your breath catches, your voice sticking before any words come out. He is blunt and honest as always, but this time, he is without his walls, without his guard up, open and vulnerable for you to lash out at him if you wished to, but he trusts you will not. Still, you hesitate, your throat constricting.

“I… I didn’t know him, or what he was like, but I know I can’t be him to you,” you falter. “I cannot be Deku, Katsuki.”

You do not expect your voice to come out so small, so timid. Neither do you expect the overwhelming tenderness that fills his eyes - no one has ever looked at you like that, as if they really see the whole of you, the blemishes and shadows on your soul and they love those too.

“I don’t ask you to be like him,” he replies. “No one will ever be like him. No one will ever be like you, either. I love you because you are you, not because you are him.”

“Katsuki,” you breathe, unable to swallow down the tears welling in your eyes.

“You know I can’t give you the life you deserve, either,” he continues, voice thick. “If you tie yourself to me, you tie yourself to the sea too, regardless of if you like it or not.”

Searchingly, you look at him, and it feels for a second that as you meet his eyes, you know the whole ocean, down to its unexplorable depths, down to every grain of sand and every critter it shelters and sustains. In that moment, there is a total, utter understanding within you - you would love him whatever the condition.

“I would tie myself to the most pitiful of the things on this earth if it meant I could love you, Katsuki.”

“I too, witch,” he replies, and a fond little smile pulls at his lips. “I would summon that kraken a thousand times if it meant I could win your heart.”

You laugh, out of pure joy more than anything else, and he laughs too, rolling in the sand so he can prop himself up on his elbows. Flopping over, you adjust yourself so you can rest your head against his stomach, lifting your eyes to watch as he tips his face up to the sky, letting the stars reflect in his gaze, as if he holds the galaxies of the universe in each pupil.

Your fingers find his as you stare up at the moon where it hangs highest in the sky now, full and silver as the stars. A new moon: symbolising fresh starts and new beginnings, or maybe even the waxing of a love that was planted in the darkness of the brig of a ship soaked in blood, nourished by nothing but the weak flame of a lamp and swift hands knitting flesh back together.

A familiar prickle trails coyly down the side of your neck, and the sound of sand whispering against itself reaches your ears as Katsuki shifts beneath you, lightly skimming the high tide’s surf with his tail. You are not ready to leave the easy silence you’ve made yet, so you bask in his presence and his warmth a little longer.

The moon has just begun its descent when you turn to face him. He’s just looking at you, looking and looking and looking as if he can’t get enough. You smile, aware of the fresh edge in his gaze that was not there before, the string binding your soul to his pulling delightfully taut.

“You’re as beautiful as the ocean,” he mumbles, fiddling with a lock of your hair. “More beautiful than the ocean. But in a different way, you’re…”

You grin. “Worse?”

“Worse,” he agrees, smirking, but he looks at you as if you breathed life into his seas. “Much worse.”

Time stops for a moment, and you sit up, bringing your face close to his until your breaths mingle - you cannot help but let his crimson eyes consume you, heart and soul. You linger there for a moment, the air crackling between you, both of you waiting as if to see who will give in and pounce first.

Bringing his hand up, Katsuki lets his fingers slide under your jaw, lifting your chin so you are merely a hair’s breadth away. He fills your senses; you can feel the warmth of his body, the roughness of the calluses on his fingers, the feather-like brush of his breath against your cheek, smell his briney sea scent, hear the swish of sand as he shifts infinitesimally closer. A lethal spark gleams in his eyes, tying you in helpless knots.

You lean forward and claim his lips.

It draws a quiet groan from him, and suddenly you are beneath him in the sand and his hands are all over you, grabbing handfuls of you and shucking the damp material of your shirt up and over your head so he can touch your skin. The way he looks at you, with those stirring embers that tug at something low in your stomach, reduces you to a sailor under the influence of a siren’s song - he is irresistible, he is magnificent.

Tangling your fingers in his hair, you pull him ever closer, licking into his mouth as if you might find the god’s nectar hiding beneath his tongue. He nips at your lower lip with those keen canines of his, and you cannot help but buck your hips as the tide swirls around the both of you.

Chuckling, he skims a palm over your thigh, pulling your leg up to hook over his hip. It brings your clothed core right against the length of his hardening cock that has emerged from the slit in his tail; you stifle a moan at the feel of him, grinding agonisingly slowly down on him and sighing as he trails wet kisses and purpling bites down your throat.

Katsuki licks at the spot under your jaw, and this time, at the second graze of his teeth against your skin, your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling at it and squeezing another sweet noise from him. You keep your hands threaded through his ash blonde locks as he licks at the valley between your breasts. Meticulously, he marks your plush flesh with the imprints of his teeth, laying his claim on you.

When he reaches your stomach, he mouths at your skin, nipping playfully just over your hip bone before he raises his eyes to meet yours. They are heavy lidded and sultry, and they stir the fire building in your core as he toys lazily with the waistband of your trousers. His fingers are casual as they curl beneath the fabric.

“Let me taste you, witch,” he implores.

“I cannot argue when you look at me like that,” you reply, breathless. “Nor would I, anyways.”

That is all the consent he needs before he is helping you out of your remaining clothes, almost ripping them in his hurry to have you on his tongue. His hands slip beneath you, gripping your ass and guiding your legs over his shoulders, and there he pauses. Yearning blazes in his crimson eyes, and then he dips his head and puts his mouth on you.

You gasp his name. Your hands scramble for purchase before you bury them in his hair again, yanking to encourage him further, and he responds by sucking harshly on your clit, making your hips jump and buck into his face. He groans into your heat, and the vibrations of it make you see stars.

Slowly, he pulls back, glancing up at you, and the sight of him is enough to make you moan: his eyes are glazed, fervent, worshipful, and your slick drips down his chin, the moonlight making it seem like liquid diamond. Bewitched by him, you choke out his name, and he smirks and slips two fingers inside you. Your legs begin to shake when he pumps them slowly in and out of you, bending them at the knuckle so he can hit that spot inside you.

The friction enraptures you, mounting in the pit of your stomach and winding up tight, and your thighs close around his head, clenching as Katsuki pushes you closer and closer to the edge. Turning his head, he sucks at your skin, marking you there, too.

You balance on a knife blade’s edge.

Abruptly, he slides his fingers out and your pussy clamps down a second too late; already, you open your mouth to lament it when he bends his head and replaces them with his tongue. Your words dissolve into wretched moans; you grind your hips against his face and lightning spears through you when his nose nudges at your clit.

Pleasure rises within you, a gradual, swelling thing that sneaks up on you in the unhurried nature of his movements. You can feel his smile against your cunt. You can feel the light burn as he grips your flesh, anchoring you to him so you could not pull away and part him from the taste of you even if you wished to.

You cry out his name as you come.

Katsuki nestles you close to his chest as you come down from your high, kissing your face as the aftershocks send shivers down your spine. Tenderness resides in his eyes, right beside a longing that makes you melt into him, weak with ardour as you slip your hand between your sea damp bodies to curl your fingers slyly around his cock.

His lips part as you jerk him, and you cross the small distance between you to bite at his lower lip, sucking it into your mouth and swiping your tongue over it as you feel him grow impossibly harder in your palm. Ridges swell down his length, flushed a coruscant orange that blurs down into obsidian at his base.

Tipping your head back, you look him in the eye. “I - I need you inside me, Katsuki.”

The words are clumsy on your tongue. You do not know how to articulate the pressing need to feel him, to not know where you end and he begins, to collide with him right there on the beach of this island that houses a kraken, to get lost in the salt on his skin and the eddy of the sea at your joined hips.

Lowly, he curses, treating you as if you are holy as he spreads your legs and settles between them, gripping the curve of your hip with one hand as he lines himself up. You press your lips against the warm bronze skin of his shoulder, sighing against him, urging him forward, urging him closer, a blissed out sound slipping from you as the ridges of his cock push past your entrance, the stretch nothing short of divine.

At last, he is sheathed fully within you. His hips kiss yours, and he remains there, pulsing hotly within you, the pleasure on his face bordering on pain as your cunt bears down on him, yet still, he will not move. Jaw clenching, he squeezes his eyes shut, and a hoarse groan tears itself from deep in his chest.

Panting, he bows his head, and when he looks up, tears rim his lash line, glittering like individual crystals dipped in the light of the stars. One rolls down his cheek and plops down onto yours, and you raise a hand to caress his face, raking your fingers through his hair to push it back from his forehead; he leans into your touch, turning his head to kiss your palm.

Slipping your hand round to cup the nape of his neck, you bring your mouth to his. Delicately, Katsuki kisses you before pulling back to press his lips feather-light to your eyelids - he lingers there, his breath fluttering warmly against your skin, his thumb drawing circles on your cheekbone.

Again, he kisses you, and it is only then that you taste the salt of your own tears on his tongue.

Your soft, raw sob echoes across the beach, and you dig your nails into his wide shoulders, urging him to move. With a gasp, he begins to rock his hips into you, and it breaks you apart. You keen, pushing back into his fluid, achingly unhurried strokes, scrabbling at his back in an attempt to bring him closer, to let him consume your very being.

Right there on the sand, under the moonlight with the seafoam lapping at your sides, he fucks into you, slow and deep, trembling and crying above you, and tenderly, you kiss him again. The roll of his thumb over your clit sends thrills chasing down your spine. He dips his head, burying his face in your neck, and fiercely, you hold him to you.

“Mine,” Katsuki whispers, and his teeth sink into your skin.

Something snaps inside you, and the fire in your gut blazes. Your cunt clenches hard around him, vice like around his cock, and you feel him twitch when your velvety walls clamp down on him, feel his soft exhale and know that he too knows the burn of the inferno in your core.

“Please, Katsuki,” you whine. “Harder.”

“Fuck,” he growls, his voice rasping in your ear, and suddenly you are empty.

Before you can protest, he flips you over, pressing your back into his chest and you reel, momentarily blinded by the night sky stretching high and wide above you. He is solid beneath you, and he knocks the breath from your lungs when he surges up into you.

You can feel all of him. Ruthlessly, Katsuki pounds up into you, as if he is desperate to taste the sea salt on your skin and inhale your scent and never let you go. Your body jerks with each thrust, your voice cracking as you cry out his name, the new heady angle of his cock inside you leaving you writhing, lost in the bliss he wrings from you.

His tail thrashes in the surf as he fucks up into you. You are limp in his arms, trembling all over as your back arches - he squeezes your breasts in one hand while the other settles between your legs, his skilled fingers working over your clit to kindle a mind shattering type of euphoria within you that renders you boneless and speechless, your jaw slack.

Your head falls back on his shoulder, your eyes falling shut as you moan, your pussy constricting tight around him. A hand circles your throat, squeezing lightly, and you mewl, your cunt unashamedly spasming at the feel of his calloused fingers about your neck.

“Let the moon and stars witness how I pleasure you, my love,” he snarls.

Your eyes roll, your toes curl. Somehow, he fucks up into you faster, harder, and his cock hits places that cause your vision to white out, the relentless friction of his ridges on your walls enough to make you sob and claw at the arm he uses to keep you in place. Distantly, you can hear yourself begging him, pleading for him to go harder, deeper, to not stop, to ruin you.

You scream Katsuki’s name as you come for the second time tonight. Uncontrollably, your thighs shake, and your cunt convulses around his cock; you can feel him slowing his thrusts, letting you ride out your high, but despite the overstimulation building in the tautness inside your stomach, you grind against him.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp. “Want - want you to come inside me.”

Your words elicit a groan from him. “Fucking filthy, aren’t you?”

Helplessly, you whimper in response, your pussy fluttering as he hammers up into you. He swears as he comes, spilling hot inside you, the sweet sound he makes muffled when he bites down on your shoulder. Both of you lie there for a moment, catching your breath, before gently, he manoeuvres the two of you so you lie on your sides, careful to keep himself deep in your heat; he is warm against your back.

Katsuki splays a palm over your stomach, holding you close, and you lace your fingers with his, sighing happily as he begins to pepper kisses over your back. You can feel the upwards curve of his lips as he smiles against your skin.

“Are you alright?” He asks, nuzzling the nape of your neck.

“Better than alright,” you confirm.

You remain silent for a while longer, happy just to lie there cocooned in his arms and the quiet wash of the ocean; you can feel the pulse of his heart against your back, steady and comforting. A hushed, steady noise comes from him, a satisfied noise, almost a purr. His cock is beginning to soften inside you, its ridges coming down - you both groan as he slips out, moving so his length is tucked against the curve of your ass.

“How did you know it was me?” He asks suddenly. “When I summoned the kraken.”

You squeeze his hand. “I saw you in its eyes. You know, I couldn’t have missed it if I tried, especially not when you yelled for the hunters to bring me to you. I heard it all the way from below deck.”

He laughs, and you shuffle closer to him, feeling his arms tighten around you.

“I didn’t even know the kraken was a real thing,” you tell him. “I wasn’t scared, though. I knew I’d be safe when I saw it was you.”

Katsuki scoffs. “You’re horrendously sappy, witch.”

You laugh, pushing your ass back against him. “I think you like it, merman.”

Laughing, you roll to and fro in the sand, with you grinding on him as he grips your hips and tries to wrestle you into submission. Eventually, he manages to incapacitate you by holding you tightly against his chest, dipping his head so he can whisper hotly in your ear.

“Keep that up and I’ll have to fuck you again,” he grits out.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” you challenge.

Giggling, you wriggle out of his grip and plunge further into the shallows, just catching him muttering something about insatiable and damn witch before he dives in and streaks after you, his dorsal fin cutting through the water. A hand closes around your ankle, and you squeal, flailing as you shake him off.

Clumsily, you take off towards the rock pools, wading through the sea water as fast as you can. You know Katsuki will catch you (you’re not exactly opposed to it - you’re running into the sea rather than out of it, after all). Again, he makes another grab at you, and you romp with him in the waves, grinning as you fend him off by splashing water at him, squirming out of his arms again.

In the end, he grabs you around the waist and traps you against one of the tide pools, the rock rough against your back as he smirks down at you. The sight of him above you is enthralling: droplets run down his chest in rivulets, rolling down the grooves his muscles make, and the moon hangs the sky behind him, crowning him with a halo made of silver. Your mouth waters.

Taking your chin in between his thumb and forefinger, he brings his face close to yours. A shiver runs down your spine. His red eyes fill your vision, glowing in the night, hypnotic and burning with craving so devout it borders on veneration.

He smiles. “Caught you.”

Katsuki takes you again, against the rock at your back. Afterwards, you lie there, spent and tangled together in the waning moonlight until you grow hungry again and you straddle him, mesmerised by the sight of him staring up at you, pleasure twisting his features as you ride him. You fuck and make love until the sun begins to rise, and it is only then that the two of you are finally sated.

So there you lie, held in his arms and the sea’s embrace - and inexplicably, you find that you do not regret all the pain you suffered at the hands of the hunters, because if it was not for them, you would never have been in that brig to heal him. Inside you, something blossoms within your soul, young and fresh and beautiful as the new moon, and it spills forth from your lips, a whispered confession pressed to his skin like a kiss.

“I love you, Bakugou Katsuki.”

Cupping your jaw, he brings his forehead to yours and murmurs your name. “I love you too.”

Katsuki glances down at you, where you are curled into the curve of his side like you were made to fit him, and he feels his failing, tired heart bloom once again. You have healed him in ways that run deeper than just his flesh.

He looks in your eyes, and when he does, the sea looks back.

You are his home.

A/N: by the way guys, afterwards they travel somewhere cool and the reader sets up a lil witchy abode by the sea and the villagers come to her for cures and half of them are lowkey a bit terrified of her mermaid husband but it doesn’t matter because she still gives really good remedies and he hasn’t eaten anyone yet and sometimes she and bakugou go out in their boat and attack hunter ships for funsies

also here's a picture i found off pinterest which i kind of imagine his tail being like except it's a bit more rigid and the dorsal fins are more spiney and longer, also there's more black and less red

taglist: @freakingsparkydreamer @d1orhaz3 @msjaeger @mellasimp14 @eyesforbkg @cottagedumpling @silkdolli @teeesthings @raksstuff

[illyrianbitch]

One Summer — Part Two

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: One beach house. One festival. One summer to fall in love.

Warnings: brief mentions of alcohol, cass & mor being bickering siblings, cass with facial hair, modern adaptions of bat wings aka tattoos, sexual n romantic tension, reader has a big fat crush

Word Count: 5.5k

Part One — Series Masterlist — Part Three

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

“I hate it.”

Though Mor was seated beside you, her voice seemed to reverberate from a great distance, oscillating from one ear to the other. Your attention was not on your two best friends; their conversation filtering through your senses like white noise. Instead, your mind was entirely captivated by the view of the beach you sat on. The sun was setting and a golden hue painted the skies, its final light skittering across the soft waves of the ocean.

This was always one of your favorite times of day.

There was a specific sense of peace that seemed to settle among everyone as the sun gave over to the power of the moon, a peace that almost felt tangible on your skin, like the grains of the warm sand beneath you. You dug your toes further into its warmth as Mor scowled next to you, her gaze stuck on the horizon where Azriel, Cassian, and Rhys currently ran around, attempting to pin one another and throw each other into the waves.

The topic of conversation was what it had been every time Mor complained over the past week: Cassian’s new mustache.

It had grown exponentially over the last week, now fully formed above his top lip. Even from this distance, you could make out its shadow. But, in all honesty, it wasn’t his mustache that you were focusing on. It was his chiseled, bare torso.

The boys were always very fit, sporting defined bodies with even more defined muscles. But you hadn’t seen them like this in a while: shirtless, sun-kissed, tanned skin, and swimming shorts that created sleek, stark tan lines along their hips. Not since way back in the first summer you all shared. Last year’s break was filled with an internship to beef up your resume, moving into your new place with Mor and Feyre, and spending whatever free time you had with Eris and his family— far, far away from Mor.

The boys had grown even bigger since that first summer. Cassian, in particular, had developed noticeable definition, which you attributed to ROTC and his various sports activities. After all, ROTC combined military training with college coursework and demanded a significant amount of time and discipline. Balancing academics, those military duties, and being a student athlete seemed like an overwhelming feat, but Cassian managed it all. His physique was a clear indication of it.

Yet, despite his impressive build, it was Cassian’s face that truly drew attention. His large, beaming grin had a way of captivating anyone who saw it. It seemed to say more about his character than his muscular frame ever could, making it clear that beneath all that strength was someone incredibly approachable and genuinely good-hearted.

Your attention traveled to Rhysand next. Rhysand always held a certain grace to him, a regal essence of someone born to be a leader, to stand out among a crowd. You’d watched him come into his own in the past few years, watched as he fell in love with Feyre and began planning a life for himself outside of the pressures his father had implemented throughout his childhood.

Rhysand’s usually meticulously styled hair now hung in front of his eyes as he dodged Cassian and went under his arm. He was always a bit leaner than Cass, but still very built, with large, defined muscles that Feyre giggled about every girls' night. Rhys knew how to put those muscles to use, Feyre seemed to remind you every time she was three margaritas in. You didn’t doubt it, even if you and Mor groaned and pushed her further off the couch—and watched as she fell to the floor since Feyre’s balance tended to disappear when alcohol was introduced to her nightly diet.

Despite every fiber in your being begging for your gaze to fall to him first, your eyes went to Azriel last. You’d been fighting the urge, telling yourself that if you looked at him last, your eyes could linger just a few seconds longer.

You were currently mesmerized by the tattoo sprawling across his back.

The design was captivating—an elaborate pair of wings stretching gracefully across his shoulder blades, with their apex extending along the sides of his neck. The wings seemed almost alive, their fine details appearing three-dimensional against his golden skin. The spaces around the wings were filled with swirling patterns that looked like shadows, moving fluidly as though they were dancing across his skin.

The wings didn’t stop at his back; they extended over his biceps and down to his elbows. When he moved his arms, it almost seemed as if he was preparing for flight, the tattoo coming to life with every gesture. Cassian’s wings mirrored this design, stretching over his own biceps and elbows in a similar fashion. However, the empty spaces on his arms were adorned with sharp, angular patterns. Where the patterns on Az’s skin were fluid, like smoke and shadow, Cassians were rigid, sharp lines like that of a fierce fight.

Rhysand’s tattoo was distinctively more reserved. His bat-style wings were intricately etched into his back, spanning from his shoulder blades to his lower back, but they remained tightly confined to his torso. Unlike Azriel and Cassian, the design didn’t extend onto his arms. Instead, it was tattooed in a tucked, retracted position. Besides the wings, Rhysand’s collarbone was adorned with an elaborate tattoo of stars and swirling patterns that mimicked the night sky, with galaxies appearing to shimmer and shift across his skin.

Your eyes stuck to Azriel’s moving form— glued to his every gesture, really.

Azriel was always very cute. Handsome and pretty in a way that made chests tighten. But you hadn’t seen it much recently, hadn’t paid attention to anyone besides Eris, really. Now that you were broken up, it was as if you were seeing things in a completely new light, with new glasses that magnified every detail of the males around you. The reality was undeniable: Azriel had gotten more attractive over the past two years.

It was unfair. Completely and utterly unfair.

And you were completely and utterly overwhelmed by it— more so than you’d ever expected. God, you needed to check yourself, to reel in this strange crush that had begun to bloom like a flower in a new spring. You felt feral. It was embarrassing, to say the least, and you were grateful that your friends were often too absorbed in their own lives to notice your lingering glances.

Your fingers itched to trace the intricate ink on Azriel’s skin. You settled for running the pads of your fingers along the bare skin of your knee, mimicking the graceful movements of his tattoos. The act was a poor substitute for the real thing, but it helped channel the sudden urge to connect with the beautiful art that adorned him.

Feyre let out a hum besides Mor. From the corner of your eye you caught sight of her tilting her head in quiet focus. “I don’t know,” she said after a moment, “It’s not that bad.”

Mor whipped her head to the side, her blonde locks cascading across her shoulder like a golden waterfall. She let out a shocked gasp.

“Feyre,” she scolded, “You can’t be serious.”

Feyre raised an eyebrow in response. “I’m serious. I’ve seen worse. It works for him, I think.”

Mor’s attention shifted to you. It took a minute before you were able to tear your gaze away from the view in front of you— the three boys illuminated by the soft glow of sunset; the delicate waves behind them that collected the remaining colors of the sky.

You turned to look at her, taking in her widened eyes and pursed lips. It was an expectant face, one she wore when she was waiting for important news— or in this case, for someone to agree with her. You offered a sheepish smile and shrugged, pulling your knees closer to your chest.

“Sorry girl, it’s kinda growing on me, too.”

Her mouth fell open and another dramatic, shocked gasp left her mouth. She returned her gaze to the view before her.

“It’s like I’m the only one with taste in this entire house.”

You snorted, turning to look as Mor shook her head in disbelief. Your gaze connected with Feyre’s as you leaned over slightly and you watched as her mouth curved into an amused smile, a small laugh leaving her delicate lips.

“You have a completely different taste than both of us, Mor. Maybe that's why you feel so passionate about this topic.”

Mor shook her head again, waving the comment off with an elegant hand— long red painted nails on every finger except for two: her ring and middle finger. The same style was mirrored on her other hand, currently at her side and playing with the sand.

“Actually,” Mor started, and you rolled your eyes at the tone of her voice, a smile tugging stronger at your lips. “It’s because I’m into girls that my opinion here matters the most.”

Your attention drifted back to the boys who had finally ceased their game. They were catching their breath, hunched over and panting, before gradually making their way back.

Cassian reached you guys first, his steps falling from a jog into a soft walk before he came to a complete stop. He brought his hands to his head, smoothing down the top of his pulled back hair and readjusting his bun. Then, he placed his hands on his hips as a grin broke out on his face, eyes trailing between you, Mor, and Feyre.

“Whatcha ladies gossiping about?”

His voice was still ragged from the running, coming out in a long breath and followed by a deep one. Mor frowned at him, crinkling her nose as she scanned his appearance.

“We’re talking about that disgusting caterpillar of facial hair you’ve forced us to endure the sight of.”

Cassian’s grin faltered. “Excuse me?”

Mor only raised a brow in response— a challenge. Cassian accepted wordlessly, crossing his arms across his bare chest and jutting his chin out defiantly.

“Don’t be a hater, Mor.”

She scoffed. “Hater is my middle name. Consider this a reality check: Shave.”

Cassian considered her response for a moment, lips pursing in feign contemplation. Nope,” he said, a hand caressing his mustache. “You’re just too stubborn to admit you might actually like it.”

Another scoff. Offended and insulted all at once, the presence of those emotions fully present in the sound as it left her lips. “There are many words to describe the way I feel about that monstrosity you’re touching. ‘Like’ is certainly not one of them.”

You tossed a glance over at Feyre. She caught your gaze, eyes glistening with a quiet amusement as she tugged her legs to her chest, her sitting stance mirroring yours. She placed her chin on her knee, eyes drifting back towards the two bickering adults.

“You’re so dramatic. This ‘stache isn’t for you, anyways. You’re not the population I’m aiming for.”

“And who, pray tell, is the target audience? Divorcees in soon-to-be foreclosed homes?” A raised brow. “Republicans?”

This conversation was one you’d heard almost every day since Cass had decided to grow his ‘stache out, opting to only shave his beard. The argument held the same structure everytime. Mor would complain that it was gross and an eyesore, offer a new metaphor to describe it, and insist that Cassian shave it off. Cass would wave it off, act offended, and explain his reasonings once more to her deaf ears. It’s for the indie girls at the festival, Mor, Cassian had whined two days prior, They’ll go crazy for a pornstache. It’s a trend now. Mor only complained more in response, groaning in disgust and telling him she was going to shave it in his sleep.

As the argument continued, Azriel and Rhysand finally approached. Rhys raised an eyebrow at the bickering duo, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. He flashed you a grin before flopping down next to Feyre. With a playful shake of his head, reminiscent of a wet dog, he sent droplets of water flying. Feyre let out a startled shriek and pushed him away, her eyes sparkling with annoyance as Rhysand’s laughter filled the air.

Meanwhile, Azriel approached slowly, the last rays of the setting sun casting a faint glow on his figure. As he neared, Cassian turned his attention to him, desperation evident in his eyes.

“Hey, man, help me out here,” he called, a hand extended in Az’s direction. “Tell her it works. Back me up.”

Azriel gave him a steady look before shaking his head. “I’m not going to do that.”

Mor let out a triumphant laugh. “Aha!” Her eyes glimmered in satisfaction. “Even Azriel agrees with me!”

Cass kicked a spray of sand towards her in response. It scattered in all directions and you sputtered, grimacing as the gritty texture found its way into your mouth and eyes. With a groan, you brushed it off, watching as Cassian’s face dropped and concern flashed across his widened eyes.

Both him and Azriel muttered curses under their breath, the two starting to move towards you. But Cassian was faster. With a swift motion, he plopped down beside you, arm reaching out to pull you into his side.

“My bad, my bad,” He said, his voice laced with sincerity as he tucked you against him, his damp arm warm around you. He gave you a reassuring squeeze, though you still felt the remnants of sand clinging to your skin.

You squirmed a bit, trying to escape his sweaty embrace, but Cassian held you close. Over your hunched back, he shot a glare at Mor. “See what you made me do?”

She squeaked. “What I made you do?”

“Yes you.”

Your cheek pressed against his chest, squished near the area where his arms met his torso.

“I didn’t force you to kick sand at me with your big ass feet,” she huffed.

A new argument arose, Cassian leaning further over your back to bicker with Mor face to face. The more enthusiastic he became, the farther he seemed to shove you into his form. You looked up and managed to meet Azriel’s gaze, widening your eyes in a plea for help.

He understood the look immediately. The corners of his lips twitched upwards in amusement as he stepped forward, knocking Cassian’s muscled calf with his foot.

“Cass,” Azriel said, “You’re suffocating her.”

It took him a moment to register the words. But when they finally hit, Cass sprung back, holding you out with his arms in a movement so swift you blinked to reorient yourself. He examined you with the same observant eye as a parent, looking over your exposed skin as if he was searching for any open wounds or deformities.

“My bad,” he repeated. He gave you a guilty grin as brought his hands to smooth down your hair. His large hazel eyes met yours, widened and soft like that of a puppy. “All better.”

You gave him a look— brows raised and scrunched, a deep crease forming in the middle of them.

“Get outta here,” you muttered, pushing his warm body away from you. But despite yourself, a small grin hung on the corners of your lips.

You still felt Azriel’s eyes on you— that faint warm sensation that filtered through your skin. You met his gaze momentarily, watching as his eyes bounced between all of you. He settled back on the large teddy bear next to you.

“Help me start the fire,” Az said, calling Cassian’s attention back to him. Azriel looked at Mor next, gesturing towards her with his chin. “You too, judgy.”

“What?” Mor paused, hands freezing mid motion of wiping sand off her thighs. “Why me?”

“Because you’re mean,” Cassian said, bringing a hand to stroke his mustache. “And mean people do labor.”

Rhysand snorted. You had almost forgotten Rhys and Feyre were sitting there, quietly in their own world until Rhys leaned back on his hands with a grin, obviously enjoying the argument.

Azriel rolled his eyes. “Get up, c’mon.” He gestured with his hands, herding them both like sheep. Mor let out a grumble but began to push herself up nonetheless.

“I’m getting up because I want to. Not because you told me.”

Cassian was in front of her before she managed, offering a large hand out. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Let's go.”

She threw him a scowl, but the act had no malice behind it. Taking his hand, she muttered, “This would be much sweeter if you didn’t look like my creepy uncle Chris.”

Cassian just groaned.

Thank you, you mouthed when Azriel met your eyes once more. The corner of his eyes crinkled as he gave you a soft smile. Something deep within your chest flickered, like a candle being lit aflame. He dipped his head in acknowledgement before trailing after the two.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Forty five minutes later, you found yourself seated around a crackling fire, the sound of Rhysand's offhand joke eliciting laughter from everyone.The night had fully descended and the sky above was dotted with dim, flickering stars. You’d all discussed the summer, the festival, and your plans for the month. It was a summer of living, you’d told them. A summer to sit back and let life do with you what it may—and hope that meant all good things.

The stretch of beach was empty except for your group. Whether Rhysand and Mor’s family owned this area or the rest of the world had simply decided to stay in, you weren’t sure. Either way, you were appreciative.

Cassian was beside you, but your attention was solely on Azriel, who sat next to him. The firelight played upon his skin, casting a warm glow that accentuated the sharp lines of his face. The embers illuminated his hazel eyes with a brilliance that made your breath catch every time he laughed.

Azriel met your gaze, his features softened by the dancing flames, and your heart skipped a beat. His mouth moved, forming words, and it took a moment for you to realize he was speaking to you. You blinked, the spell breaking, and slowly forced yourself to focus, bringing yourself down from the reverie you had drifted into.

“Are you cold?”

Azriel’s voice rolled over you like a small wave and you shivered at the sensation. You looked down at yourself and realized, for the first time, how the night’s chill had settled in. Goosebumps had risen on your skin, more pronounced than you had initially thought.

“Just a little,” you admitted, running your hands along your arms in a vain attempt to generate warmth. The friction offered little relief and you exhaled softly. “I can just move closer to the fire.”

You repositioned yourself, moving to scooch closer to the fire that illuminated your faces.

“Nah, don’t do that.” Cassian said. You turned to find him watching you, his gaze steady, shadows of flames flickering on his features. He gestured back towards the house with his chin. "I have a hoodie in the living room if you want to grab it."

You considered his idea for a moment, then nodded in agreement. It was a sensible suggestion. Placing a gentle hand on Mor’s shoulder, you let her know you’d be right back. She smiled in response, her eyes warm in the flickering firelight.

You brushed off your pants and walked towards the house, your feet sinking slightly into the still-warm sand with each step. The contrast of the cool night air and the lingering warmth of the sand created a soothing, almost nostalgic sensation as you made your way to the living room.

The dimly lit interior welcomed you with a cozy, muted glow and your gaze fell on the kitchen counter. There, amid Azriel’s keys and a variety of Rhysand’s rings, rested a camera.

You took a moment to examine it—a digital model. While you weren’t particularly knowledgeable about cameras, this one was nice; reminiscent of a simpler time. You weren’t exactly sure if it was the design that made you feel that way or the person that owned it: Azriel.

You knew without a doubt that it was his. You could also assume, with a fair degree of confidence, that the camera could beautifully simulate the look of film.

Azriel had mentioned his burgeoning passion for photography two years ago, expressing a particular fondness for the aesthetic of film. He’d said that a true film camera was beyond his budget at the time, but a digital model with film simulation would be an ideal compromise. Rhysand and Cassian had gifted him this very camera the following Christmas. From what Mor had told you, Az never felt comfortable enough to pick up the passion— kept telling her that he hadn’t found his muse yet.

"Hey."

Despite how soft the voice was, you still jumped, placing the camera back down on the counter as you turned to face Azriel. He always had an uncanny ability to move silently, almost as if he emerged from the shadows themselves. It was unnerving at first, but there was a certain comfort found in his stealth now. His presence wasn't loud. You appreciated it.

"Hi, Az." You smiled sheepishly. "You're so quiet. It's crazy."

The corners of his lips twitched upwards. Azriel’s gaze softened slightly, his hazel eyes now glowing with a gentle amusement.

“Sorry,” he said, accompanied by a small laugh. He moved around you and made his way to the fridge. It opened with a small clatter, the glass bottles stacked on the door moving with the movement. He pulled out a few bottles of beers.

“You agreed to be the errand boy?” you asked, a hint of playful reproach in your voice.

Usually, the boys argued over every action; who would grab the next drink, who would drive while the others drank— the options were endless. It was often settled with a game of rock, paper, scissors, or a classic nose-goes. Azriel always seemed to come out on top.

He glanced back over his shoulder, a casual shrug punctuating his response. “If I didn’t, no one would.”

His voice was quiet– steady. You studied his movements, taking in the details of his tattooed back that were too small to appreciate from a distance. He turned around, walking forward to place the bottles on the kitchen counter across from you.

"You could be a spy, y'know."

Azriel raised an eyebrow skeptically, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that suggested he was both amused and intrigued. You returned the gesture, leaning forward on your forearms. The kitchen counter was cold against your skin and you felt a slight chill run through your body.

“You don’t agree?” you asked.

He met your gaze through his lashes and shook his head, a lopsided smile playing on his lips. The curls otop of his head bounced with the subtle movement and the warmth in his eyes reflected the gentle glow of the dim kitchen light.

“Nah,” he responded. He popped the caps off the bottles. “Don’t know if that fits me.”

“I think it does. You’re an observer.”

“Careful,” Azriel warned with a playful edge. His voice was smooth in a way that made you clench, tone low and unintendedly seductive. “Don’t make me sound like a creep.”

”Okay, what would you like me to say instead?”

He contemplated. “I just like to people-watch.”

You had to stifle a chuckle, finding his self-description almost endearing in its simplicity. You didn’t have the heart to tell him that actually sounded worse— at least to you. Instead, you reached to the side, grabbing the camera that had been in your hands a few moments prior. "This kind of people watching?"

For a moment, you both stood in silence as you stared at the camera in your hands. When you looked up, you focused on Azriel’s face. His eyes traveled from the camera to your eyes, and in that moment, there was something alive in his gaze—an intensity that seemed to make the room itself disappear. Something warm and comforting.

“I remember you talking about wanting to get into photography,” you said, your voice softening with genuine warmth. With a smile, you extended the camera toward him. “I’m glad to see you’re pursuing it. At least for the summer.”

Azriel’s smile widened slightly as he reached out and took it from your hands, the brush of his fingers against your skin sending a pleasant shiver through you. Your smile grew deeper into your cheeks, pulled at the edges by his very touch.

But when the camera was finally in his hold, something seemed to change in his gaze, as if the weight of the it in his palm was transferred to a weight on his chest. He let out a small sigh.

"Don't get your hopes up,” he murmured, “I haven't taken any pictures yet."

He placed the camera back onto the counter with a slight thud, the sound echoing softly in the quiet kitchen. You gave him a face.

“It’s barely been a week,” you said, trying to keep your tone light. “Six days to be exact.”

“That’s already a week behind.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, a small laugh leaving your lips. Azriel seemed to lock onto the sound, eyes glittering as his hand found the beer bottle again.

“Seriously?” You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms in a playful gesture of mock indignation. “It’s been six days and you’re already considering yourself behind schedule?”

He gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s not just about having the camera. It’s about actually using it. I had high hopes for this week.”

“Sometimes its okay to just enjoy the moment, Az.”

He leaned in slightly, his eyes twinkling with playful intensity. You felt a catch in your breath at the way his expression shifted. It was enough to remind you that Az wasn’t just kind and attractive; he was a suave college boy when needed.

“Ah, but the burden of my artistic aspirations are too great,” he said, his voice low and playful, “How will I ever manage without my schedule?”

A comedian, truly. You raised an amused eyebrow. “And I’m the Type A one?”

"You are." He grinned. "Who counts the days they've been on vacation for, anyways?"

"Okay that's not fair."

Azriel chuckled and walked over to a vase on the counter. The vase, a clear, simple one that had come with a bouquet of flowers for Rhys’s mother, was part of a collection Azriel started—a small yet meaningful tradition of saving bottle caps from vacation. You took the opportunity to glance at his back again, taking in the intricate tattoos that adorned his shoulder blades. The designs seemed to pulse with life against his skin when they caught the light.

“It’s cool seeing all of the details in your tattoos. I never really noticed them before.”

Azriel turned slightly, his gaze meeting yours as he considered your observation. “Is this you admitting that you’re staring at my naked back?”

“Do you want me to be staring at your naked back?”

Azriel dropped the caps into the vase and walked back towards you. He gave you a nonchalant shrug, his mischievous smile lingering slightly on his lips, casual and knowing.

“It’s hard not to stare,” you added, tracing idle patterns onto the counter, unaware of how the motions mimicked the swirls on Az’s skin. “You, Cass, and Rhys have the most ink out of everyone I know. My eyes naturally gravitate.”

“And here I thought my back was special.”

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks and you quickly looked down at the counter, hoping it would hide the color spreading across your face. Your smile was so wide it almost hurt. You met his eyes once more. They were already on you.

“I will tell you that your wings seem a bit bigger than Cass or Rhys’s.”

Azriel’s grin widened at your response. He leaned forward, resting on the counter and lowering his gaze to meet yours. “Don’t tell them that.”

He took a swig of his drink. You watched the path of the liquid down his throat, tracing it to his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. You cleared your throat, laughing softly. “Never.”

He looked at you for a moment, gaze soft and contemplative. A thoughtful glaze found his eyes, as if he were lost in deep reflection.

“What?”

Your voice came out meeker than intended.

“I’m just really glad you’re here.” Azriel said. His voice was sincere, carrying with it a weight that made you pause.

You sucked in a breath. “Me too. It’s nice to be around you guys. All of you.”

“Would I be a dick if I said that I’m glad you and Eris broke up?” Azriel paused. “Because now you can be here with us.”

You bit back a smile, your cheeks warming slightly. “Maybe just a tiny bit.”

But the corners of your lips still twitched upwards, forming a lopsided smile.

He shrugged, a casual grin returning to his lips. “In that case, consider it thought, not said.”

You smiled at him, feeling a nervous flutter in your chest. The dim light of the kitchen seemed to cast a warm glow around him, making his features appear even more inviting than usual. He looked soft now, and you found yourself struggling to understood why, at one point, you were unbelievably intimidated by him.

Freshman year you would be having a heart attack now, truly. You could still feel her deep down in your mind, beginning to hyperventilate with excitement.

You looked down shyly, trying to steady your racing heart, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear before pointing at the beers.

“Do you need help with those?”

“Sure,” he replied with a grin, pushing one towards you. “I can never say no to you.” His words sent a rush of warmth through you, and you bit your lip to prevent your smile from growing even more. Forget alcohol— subtlety is what you needed more of. He rounded the kitchen counter.

As he neared you, he paused, his eyes flicking to your forehead. Placing the beers back down, he reached out, his fingers hovering inches from your skin. You scrunched your brows in confusion, blinking rapidly as his face came closer to yours. His touch was feather-light, so soft it was almost imperceptible, yet it sent a shiver down your spine all the same.

“What—” you began, but the words caught in your throat.

“There,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. He brushed something from your temple, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. You felt your cheeks heat up, a growing blush spreading like wildfire.

You couldn’t help but imagine how Azriel must be with those he loved beyond friendship—how his gentle gestures must perfectly soothe the hearts of those he held dear. The soft touches, the attentiveness, the small actions that made Azriel so uniquely himself. The thought lingered as he pulled away, rubbing his fingers with a small, smile.

“Some sand,” he said, his voice casual, but the warmth in his eyes gave it a softer edge.

You managed to breathe out a thank you, the breath escaping you in a soft rush. Another shiver ran through you, not just from the chill, but from the unexpected intimacy of his touch. You stared at the counter, hoping it would hide the flush on your cheeks and the way your smile made your cheeks ache.

Azriel seemed to have a sudden realization. “Aaand,” he said, turning on his heel and walking briskly into the living room. Moments later, he returned with a small jog, tossing you a hoodie. “It’s mine, not Cass’s, but hopefully it’ll work.”

The hoodie smelled faintly of him—an understated blend of his personal scent that made you feel a little warmer. You took it from him, the fabric soft and reassuring against your fingers.

“Thanks,” you said, smiling as you pulled the hoodie on.

“Ready?” he asked, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before he grabbed the remaining beers.

You nodded, following him back outside. As you stepped into the night, you couldn’t shake the lingering warmth on your temple. It felt as if the very spot on your head held an imprint of his touch, a marker of his fingerprints.

You smiled for the rest of the night.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Part Three

authors note: this series is the only thing keeping me going rn, just two sweethearts with crushes on each other and a lovely beach….and cass with a pornstache 😏

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @panther-girl-124 @bubybubsters 

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

@justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound

@melissat1254 @m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers

[spurbleu]

lassitude ✩︎‧︎⁎︎

[ken sato x afab reader]

S. the first time you are vulnerable with Ken Sato, you are half asleep. and for the first time, he is willing.

warnings: none, split pov

a/n: sorry for my lengthy absence, it got extremely busy for me lmao. i dont really like this- but i feel like i cant do much to make it better so here it is

word count: 1.7k

࿓༚︎︎‧⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎༚︎࿓︎

The mumble of the morning stirred you from the pockets of your mattress. It was barely noticeable- the shift of the comforter- cool early air pooling between the hairs on your arm. The faint creak of the floorboards, (never good at keeping secrets) the spruce mumbling an Irish goodbye.

It would be a lie to say you didn’t see it coming. The sight of him.

Skin relearning to stretch over shoulder blades, peeking through your lashes in familiar foresight. The way his hands searched for his clothes through the birth of daylight- its first breaths placid against the bedsheets.

It all felt too beautiful- the apathy. Buried in lithe, lifeless blankets rather than the rhythm of his pulse, the plush of his embrace. The sudden emptiness of morning’s coffin, quilt seams ripped by the assumption that a goodbye wasn’t necessary.

Ironic- for how lonely the man seemed to be, he looked lethargic in the act of leaving. Near comfortable as he dressed, relief from the reclusive slump of his posture breaching a harsh breath that left the gaps of his teeth.

You were more awake now- enough to question why you cared.

He made it easy- cleaned up half the mess, took the other half out the door. And when it was time to ruin it again, he did it with kindness- gentleness in his absence. There was nothing you should’ve resented- he was doing you a favor. But you found yourself hating it more.

You knew it wasn’t a superiority complex- you were near equals as you slept next to each other. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you, because you knew within the next 12 hours, he’d be back again, pale in the face of his own affair.

Confounding. The principle that if he knew he was going to come back, why leave at all?

It struck you then- the putrid smell of your own confusion. The anger you held in the bed of your heart, fueled by the weak and needy creature of your own vulnerability. Its chubby hands wringing the veins that curled around your ribs. It spoke for you.

“Ken.”

It was weaker than you thought it would be- no louder than a whisper. At first, I didn’t even sound like his name- only a pathetic mumble that spelled out his silhouette. It became a bit more tangible, louder, when he turned to face you.

“Good morning.”

He slung his bag over the dip of his shoulder, dressed in the clothes from last night. They were wrinkled now, creased in the same shape as your bed, your floor, your home. It was hauntingly poetic- how he seemed to carry you with him in the quietest of ways.

A crease formed under the base of his lips- a smile. Still dry in early hours- complimenting the tanned sections of his jaw- spring kisses breaking the occasional sallow of his face. It was small, but under the shadow of his tousled hair, it looked near blinding.

(But that was Ken for you, wasn’t it? Blinding. Bright in the ways that make the air in your nose cold- fresh. Humane.)

“…Do you…need something?”

Fuck.

You should’ve followed the script. Typewriter font, black indifference, pretending to be asleep when he crept out the door. Feigning casual when reading the ‘text later’ note he’d leave on the counter of your kitchen, next to a day old, crushed protein bar (although, it would always be your favorite flavor).

But instead, you sat curled into the headboard of your bed, sheets protecting your fluttering gut as sleep fogged the more cohesive thoughts. It peeled back, though, the sensitive ones.

You wanted him to stay.

Although it felt like the first time you had admitted it to yourself, you found the blemish of your confession everywhere.

The pucker of your carpet beneath his socks. The indent on the left of your mattress- matching the round of his shoulder. The cool breath that escaped your lungs- collapsing against the rim of your heart.

And in the brevity of nerve, the one that spoke his name with so little foundation before, you answered him.

“Stay.”

࿓༚︎︎‧⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎༚︎࿓︎

It’s the tilt in your voice that curves under his adam’s apple in a slow gulp- dry. The softer tones blooming under your tongue, coloring your bottom lip in a nude pink- stainless and genuine. Your lash line drooping into a word that looked foreign to the valley of your cheekbones.

Please.

He mirrored you. The slow breath that hollowed ribs, the sharper edges of his shoulders bending to the will of your own. Even his smile began to falter into the same wary, desperate line that creased the corners of your cheeks.

The effortless effect you had on him.

He knew it was happening, somewhere in the canyon of his bone. Mind disconnected from the marrow, as the better parts of him seemed to reflect every vice of yours. Although it was maddening, conscious clawing at the cushion of his skull, he had learned to embrace it.

Held it as he cradled you- bow of your spine splitting his chest in two- revealing the plusher parts of him, affection safely shadowed by the midnight and your snore. (He’d never admit it to you, but he sleeps better in your bed than he does his own. Although Mina suggests it’s about the company rather than the mattress).

Similar to your aftertaste, he was familiar with your vulnerability- a lot worse at hiding it than you might think.

The haphazard stack of protein bar wrappers in the trash (ashamed to say he counted, once. You’ve eaten every single one he’s given you). The grip on his sweatshirt when you pull him through your door- flushed fingertips eager on the cool metal of its zipper. Even while you sleep your body betrays, burrowing yourself into him as if somehow, you’ll leave a mark (equally ashamed, but just a bit more hopeful, he wants you to).

Selfishly, he loved it. How much you made him feel wanted- needed, even. How the cage of your chest opened for him, his nails the shape of a key as he dug into the softer parts of you. Grime dyeing cuticles red, and he’s convinced that if he asked to crawl within you, you’d let him.

Reluctantly, if so. Looking away, pink on your cheeks, spurred by the flash of his teeth. Unwilling to admit he had asked you before you could have offered.

A begrudging devotion.

He swallowed it, syrup sweet against the cast of his teeth.

“You want me to…stay?”

He let his bag drop to the floor, relishing that as he took a step closer, knees to the bed, the center of your throat bobbed. Contrast to your bold request, a shyness in the creases under your eyes and mouth. It reeked of yearning, and made an illness bloom on Ken’s tonsils.

You nodded slowly as he came to lay next to you. If he listened more closely and focused less on the cross of your arms, he would have heard your heart pulsing a morse that sounded dangerously, sweetly, like his name.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Classical, predictable, the way his smirk warmed the edges of his lips.

“Because you never do…” anxious- eyes searching excuses for the lack of a real answer- “…and the protein bars are getting old.”

A genuine laugh furrowed the flesh beneath his collar bone, morning voice still breaking from the aridity of unuse. “What if I left an apple this time?”

You leaned into his chest, pulling the covers to your shoulder. God, did you look good like this. Tucked into him, a little wanting, a little kind. “You’re so boring. If you’re going to leave, at least give me something good.”

Ken placed a hand to his wounded heart. “Boring? Since when is your favorite flavor of healthy boring?”

You sank back onto the mattress, and he followed you, now facing you with his hands folded under his cheek, squishing his dopey smile. Although he didn’t know it- he looked beyond childish- silly in all respects. But that’s what you liked about him, wasn’t it?

“Since the last 200 times.” You exaggerated, imitating him as you leaned on your own hands.

He searched you- not dissimilar to the way he accesses another player. The gate of their shoulder, the click of their jaw- or that slight competitive crinkle that tugged the corners of their lashes- angered by his run before he even hit the ball.

Being in the sport for so long, he had become accustomed to observing others- even from afar. Off the field, he’d find himself looking between the normalcy of strangers under the dark tint of his sunglasses. Envious- to live in blissful ignorance at their own open, bleeding hand.

He supposed that’s why he liked you. Equally as guilty of your own susceptibility- heart on your wrist. But goodness- even this close to you, he couldn’t read the glass over your eyes. As if you were those paintings behind velvet ropes- details clear from a distance, but fogged when you stand too close. Imperfections visible- but never telling.

(did Michelangelo find the Sistine Chapel just as beautiful from the floor as he did from his ladder?)

He hummed, a hand coming to trace the spring freckles that appeared on the plain of your cheek. His heart purred as he watched it bloom, every circle he drew spurring ripples of pink. He was so charmed- to see exactly what he did to you- so closely.

“Alright,” his hand drifted to the strands of hair that covered your ears, tucking it to see just a little more of your blush, “no more protein bars.”

You sighed against his face- and for a moment he was reminded how he had been there- on your lips. The stench of his own fervor- honey sweet between the cracks of its clay.

“Thank god- I was really getting sick of them.”

In his arms, you both dipped into a lullaby of silence, the sunrise cradling the fragile parts of your embrace. Those pockets of insecurity- the questions of why you asked for him to stay, and why he did. The looming assumption that this made you more than what you had been before- made you something, made it different.

You could have spent hours there, steeping in the change- elementary kids too scared to admit they ‘like-liked’ each other. Instead, you both fell asleep again.

࿓༚︎︎‧⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎༚︎࿓︎

When you awoke- you were alone.

Once you slipped out of bed, it was well past 11. Your light feet and sweltering head brought you to the kitchen counter- where you found a plate of eggs, toast, coffee, and a note.

----

Home Soon.

-Ken

ps. hope this is better than the protein bars.

[suguann]

He’s attending one of your father’s summer company parties when he sees you in person for the first time.

The glossy photo perched on the edge of your father’s desk in his office doesn’t do you justice.

You walk onto the deck, sundress swaying around your knees, smiling with your whole mouth when a guy covered in tattoos wraps an arm around your shoulders. Gojo watches him squeeze your cheeks together and kiss you in a way that shouldn’t be allowed, with your parents mingling close by—how you look up at him with clear adoration on your face.

He finds himself thinking about it later when he’s in his big empty house with nothing but the soft humming of his air conditioner and a list of work emails for company. 

Standing in the middle of his entryway, he wonders what it’d be like to have your bright smile and pastel dresses welcome him home.

So when your dad calls a few weeks later to ask if you can crash at his place until you’re steady on your feet, he cleans out one of his spare bedrooms that night. 

He tells himself he’s doing the right thing, and it’s not about fulfilling some fantasy of his. But when he comes home after a long day of work and finds you making dinner in the kitchen in one of your many tiny dresses, something stirs in his chest. 

It’s imprinted on the back of his eyelids. Clear as day when he’s in the shower later and strokes his cock to the image of your breasts straining against thin floral fabrics and the curve of your ass barely peeking out from under the hem of the skirt.

There’s still the issue about your boyfriend.

"I don't like how the old fuck stares at you," Gojo hears him—Sukuna—tell you one night over speakerphone.

“He’s not old,” you argue. “He’s nice, and I like him.”

It’s an ugly thing that rears its head in him and has him thinking, plotting, of tangible ways he can have you all to himself.

It happens in a way that he doesn’t expect, but he thinks it makes it all the better; how your boyfriend gets so easily worked up about a few things Gojo said:

“She’s never going to cum like that.”

Sukuna scoffs, his fingers still trapped against your clit. “You think you can do better, old man?”

Gojo ignores him and pats his thigh. "C'mere, sweetheart."

You bite your lip and look at Sukuna hesitantly, who pulls you into a sloppy kiss before letting you slide off him, and you crawl across the couch to perch yourself in Gojo’s lap. He’s still wearing his tie from work, and you stare at it for a second until he cups your cheek to tilt your chin up, thumb pressing into the middle of your lips until it slips in and strokes along your tongue, giving you something to focus on.

“Listen, if I make you cum, I get to fuck you however I want,” he says, holding your chin to keep you from glancing at your boyfriend again. He can treat you better, make you cry on his fingers, his mouth, his cock—however you want it. He’s sure of it.

You try to speak around his thumb. “But I want—I want—,” vowels and consonants trailing into nothing.

He laughs. “How can you want something that you can’t even ask for, hm?” And he thinks—ah, you’ll learn how to take anything he gives you—just as your boyfriend starts stroking himself to the sound of your moans by another man’s doing.

[soulofapatrick]

Kiss Me Tired - Percy Jackson x Female Reader

Summary: you can't sleep so go to find your best friend - Percy

Words: 1.9k

warnings: none

Y/N’s POV

I find myself tossing and turning, the sheets tangling around my restless limbs, as elusive sleep evades me once again. The Apollo cabin is quiet, the soft hum of night almost suffocating in its stillness. Moonbeams trickle through the window, casting gentle patterns of the wooden floors. 

Grateful for being on the bottom bunk tonight, I slide from under the covers with practiced ease. The gentle thud as my feet meet the floor barely makes a sound, but each step feels amplified in the silence of the sleeping cabin. Slipping on a pair of shoes without lacing them up, I make my way to the door, my heart pounding louder than the muted thuds of my footsteps. The door creaks slightly as I ease it open, wincing at the noise before exhaling a relieved breath as it swings shut behind me. 

Staying close to the comforting cover of shadows, I weave my way through the lingering clusters of campers, their hushed conversations mixing with the rustling of leaves in the night breeze. The children of Nemesis and Nyx, silhouetted against the faint glow of the campfire, seem engrossed in their own whispered discussions, oblivious to my presence as I navigate the edges of their gathering.

I skirt the edges of the Poseidon Cabin, a refuge I’ve often visited, and slip inside, grateful for the cover of darkness. The familiar scent of saltwater and adventure lingers in the air. The cabin is eerily quiet, echoing with the absence of Percy—the solitary presence that usually defines it. 

My steps echo softly against the wooden floor as I venture further in. The moonlight filters through the windows, causing elongated shadows that dance across the cabin’s interior. Percy’s empty bed confirms his absence, leaving the cabin strangely deserted. 

Curiosity propels me deeper into the cabin, my gaze landing on the backdoor open, leading to the pontoons. The moon’s silvery trail illuminates the pathway to the water’s edge, inviting and ethereal. The realisation settles in—Percy, the sole child of Poseidon, often seeks solace by the lake, where the water sings the tales of his father’s realm. 

The sight before me steal a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. Percy sits there, silhouetted against the shimmering reflection of the moon on the water, a portrait of quiet strength and contemplation. His unruly hair catches glimmers of moonlight, creating an otherworldly halo around him. 

As I draw nearer, the tranquility that envelopes him seems almost tangible. The lake mirrors the night sky, stars dancing on its surface, and Percy, the living embodiment of that serene beauty, captures my attention entirely. 

He turns at the faint rustle of my approach, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his pretty lips. His sea-green eyes, illuminated by the moon’s gentle glow, hold a depth that echoes the mysteries of the ocean. It’s mesmerising, the way he seems both a part of the night and a beacon within it. 

Percy’s messy black hair catches the moonlight in a way that makes it seem like constellations have woven themselves into the strands, each unruly wave a testament to the untamed spirit he embodies. His lightly tanned skin, kissed by the sun’s rays and caressed by the gentle breeze, holds a warmth that feels inviting even in the cool night air. 

As I settle next to him, a comfortable ease settles between us. Percy shifts slightly, adjusting his position, and I follow suit, instinctively resting my head on his shoulder. It feels oddly natural, as if this silent language of unspoken understanding has been written int he stars all along. The coolness of the night dissipates against the warmth of his presence. His shoulder, solid and reassuring beneath my head, carries the weigh of both the wards burdens and its beauty. 

His sea-green eyes, s deep and enigmatic, gaze out into the horizon, the mysteries of the universe reflecting in their depths. The seven expression on his face speaks volumes, as if he’s a silent guardian, watching over the secrets of the night.  The gentle breeze whispers secrets to the night, and I feels Percy’s arm, strong and comforting, wrap around my waist, pulling me a fraction closer to him. It’s a gesture of silent understanding, an unspoken invitation to share the weight of ur silent night-time musings. 

“Why can’t you sleep, Mouse?” Percy’s voice, soft and inquisitive, breaks the tranquil silence with my stupid nickname he made for me. His concern is palpable, yet I hesitate to divulge the true reason behind my sexlessness, my heart pounding against the confession I’m afraid to voice. 

I shift slightly, trying to evade the truth, the words catching in my throat as I struggle to articulate the turmoil within, “Just… thoughts, I guess. You know how it is.” 

But it’s a hollow response, a mere veil covering the truth that simmers beneath the surface. The mere thought of Percy and Annabeth together as a couple, a union so celebrated and cherished among demigods, twists a knot in my stomach, a painful reminder of my unspoken feelings for him. 

The fear of vulnerability and the ache of unrequited affection hold me captive in a silence that feels suffocating. I can’t bring myself to admit the ache his closeness evokes, the ache that surges every time I see them together, facing the world as a pair that everyone wants to see. The perfect couple. 

A grumble of protest escapes my lips, as I know he sees through my lie as he stays silent, a frustrated sound that I can’t seem to contain. I turn my face, burying it in the comforting crook of his neck, hoping to hide the turmoil that threatens to spill over. His chest rumbles with a soft laughter, a sound that’s both comforting and teasing, pulling me out of my momentary retreat. 

Before I realise it, his finger hooks gently under my chin, lifting my face to meet to gaze. The concern etched into his expression melts away any remaining resistance, coaxing me to open up even as my heart clenches with the vulnerability of it all. 

“Hey,” He murmurs softly, his sea-green eyes searching mine, an unspoken invitation tp share whatever weighs on my mind. 

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat refusing to dissipate. The urge to confess tugs at my heartstrings, a silent plea to unburden the ache that gnaws at me. But the words romain elusive, trapped behind a barrier of fear and insecurity. 

My heart hammers against my chest as his thumb traces a gentle path across my cheek, leaving a trail of warmth that seeps into the cracks of my guarded emotions. I meet his gaze, sea-green eyes holding mine in a silent conversation that speaks volumes. 

I feel myself drawn to him, my eyes inadvertently tracing the curve of his lips. The soft moonlight casts an ethereal glow on his features, highlighting the contours of his face in a way that feels almost surreal. 

As my gaze lingers on his lips, a surge of emotions—longing, fear, and a yearning for something more—swirl within me. Self-control wavers as my heart takes over, propelled by an undeniable urge to bridge the gap between us. 

Without warning, without calculation, I lean forward, closing the space between us. My lips meet his in a moment that feels both suspended in time and yet over too soon. It’s a soft, tentative touch, a leap of faith and vulnerability woven into the tender connection.

 For a heartbeat, the world stills around us, the air crackling with the unspoken truth of our shared emotions. The warmth of his lips against mine like a revelation, a stolen moment that lingers as a testament to the unspoken desires I’ve kept hidden. But, just as quickly as it happens, the weight of the moment hits me, the reality crashing down like a tidal wave. I pull away, breathless and wide-eyed, my heart thundering in my chest, uncertainty clouding my thoughts. 

“Perce… Fuck, I’m sorry, I-“ 

Before I can finish my stammered apology, the words tumbling out in a jumble of regret and confusion, Percy’s gentle touch silences my anxious ramblings. He leans in, cutting off my faltering speech with a soft yet determined press of his lips against mine. It’s a kiss that carries a subtle urgency, a reassurance woven into the tender connection that leaves me breathless and wide-eyed. 

His lips, warm and inviting, mould against mine in a way that feels both familiar and utterly new. There’s a tenderness to his touch, a silent promise of understanding and acceptance that sends a shiver down my spine. His kiss tastes like the promise of untold stories, of shared secrets whispered in the stillness of the night. 

My heart leaps in my chest, responding to his gentle yet confident touch. I reciprocate, tentatively at first, before letting myself be swept away by the overwhelming rush of emotions. My hands, initially hovering uncertainly in the space between us, find their place, one resting against his chest and the other timidly finds its way to his cheek, relishing the warmth and softness of his skin. 

His hands, strong yet tender, find their place at the small of my back, pulling me closer in an embrace that feels both reassuring and exhilarating. The closeness of our bodies, the shared warmth between us, creates a cocoon of intimacy that blurs the boundaries of friendship and something more. 

The moment lingers, suspended in a haze of shared emotions, before Percy breaks the kiss, his breath mingling with mine as he gently pulls me onto his lap. My knees rest on either side of his hips, a sudden rush of adrenaline mingling with the warmth of our closeness. Then, he guides me down, our bodies molding together in a dance of longing and unspoken desires. His hands, firm yet gentle, cup my face, his thumbs brushing against my cheeks as he leans in for another kiss.

This time, there's a hunger in his touch, a raw passion that ignites between us. Our lips meet again in a union fuelled by the unspoken confessions of our hearts. It's a kiss that speaks volumes, a dance of lips and tongues that express the emotions we've kept buried for so long. His fervour is matched by mine as I respond eagerly, the longing I've harboured finally finding an outlet in this shared intimacy. The taste of his kiss is electrifying, a rush of emotions that consumes every inch of my being.

My hands find their place on his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, drawing him closer in a silent plea for more. Our bodies meld together, the heat of our closeness building an unspoken intensity that blurs the lines between friendship and an uncharted territory of passion.

In the soft moonlight, our embrace becomes a symphony of desire and longing, each movement a testament to the unspoken connection we've discovered. And as we lose ourselves in this intoxicating moment, the boundaries of what we were and what we might become blur in the heat of our shared passion.

“Come on sweetheart,” Percy finally pulls away, “You can sleep here tonight.” 

Riordanverse Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

[sanakimohara]

I'm hoping it's not just me that gets honey by taking nudes (semi even). Literally with each piece of clothing gone, I become horny(er). So I was thinking about hyunjin seeing reader taking nudes 🤭

[ NXDE ] H. H.

pairing/s: hyunjin x fem! reader

summary: having a new, rich, and entitled step brother has its ups and downs…

playlist:

warnings: smut + mdni + nsfw + blackmail / degradation…? + mastrubatuon + degradation + pervhyunjin + cumeating / oral

type: headcannnon \ semi specific plot

authors note: eons later I finally get to this…please forgive me…

[ not proofread ]

Hyunjin walks in on you by accident. Swallowing a loud groan, he watches you from your bedroom doorway. Your back is towards him, laptop open, webcam running, and your phone propped up in your hands as you lay on your side and snap an overhead picture of yourself with the sluttiest smile he’s ever seen.

Hyunjin dares to shift his gaze away from your face, eyes falling half-closed, seeing your pink sundress tossed at the end of your bed, sheer tights lying on top of the discarded clothing, and your bralette soon joining the pile. He digs his teeth into his tongue, seeing the light fabric leave your skin, the curve of your breasts visible from the back as you sit up on your knees and pose for another photo.

Hyunjin isn’t above watching you in silence, awed and too painfully aware of his growing erection. He stays for the show you put on -performing for the cameras to please no one else but yourself. That’s what he’s convinced himself, hoping you don’t notice him observing, praying you don’t hear the whisper of a groan he lets out as you slowly widen the space between your knees while circling your hips to settle down.

Hyunjin can’t take his eyes off you, gaze flickering between the cameras you provocatively pose for and your body. You take all the time in the world to snap and film yourself, mirroring positions he’d only dreamt of putting you in himself, able to mimic doe and siren eyes on a subconscious cue, and the point of it all driving him insane as he stands in your bedroom doorway.

Who could you be taking these photos for?

Why couldn’t he convince himself to leave, to slam the door shut and forget he ever saw you doing something so private and depraved?

What could he possibly do to stifle the near painful heat in his abdomen, the constant pulsing of his cock through his black sweat, or the twitch of his fingers as he forced his body to remain stone still and out of your sight?

There are too many questions and not enough answers.

Hyunjin can’t help the chill crawling up his spine when you finally notice him watching you strip and photograph every inch of skin he dreamt of touching with his own hands. Your eyes cut through him via your laptop lens, a sweet smile slowly spreading across your face and a mocking rise of your hips as you shift to look at him directly over your shoulder. His chest is weighted with tangible shame.

He shouldn’t be doing this, watching his new little step-sister taking vulgar pictures of herself for god knows what reason and fantasizing that her motives for doing so had something to do with him and no one else.

He shouldn’t have enjoyed the evident smirk tugging at your peach-plump lips, the haze in your eyes as you beckoned him towards you with a single finger, or the tilt of your head when he shook his head to refuse.

He stares at your bare breasts, full and looking soft to the touch, among other details he took in about you at the moment. His voice skated on the edge of a whisper, trembling with illicit desire, “I…I should go..”

You sat up straight, a pout on your lips as you shifted to sit, your knees pulled up just slightly from the bed, and your arms helping to balance your weight in the new, relaxed position. “Why? I liked having a little audience…even if it was my pervert of a stepbrother..”

It’s no insult; your light tone and quiet giggle clarify the possible misconception, but they still manage to irritate him.

“I’m not a pervert…” he mutters back immediately, glaring straight at you but failing to uphold his protest as that very same glare lowered to the space between your partially opened legs.

Hyunjin exhales heavily through his nose, entranced by your barely covered cunt peeking back at him. Your slit is made evident by the dewy patch of arousal seeping through your lace underwear, soft folds nearly swallowing the thin fabric. He can’t see it, but your walls throb the longer he stares where he shouldn’t, a boldness snaking its way into your train of thought, seeing his body visibly waver against the doorframe he stood in.

Hyunjin is in a dazed trance as you begin to touch yourself, lazily sliding a hand to caress your inner thighs and gliding that very same hand over the slick expanse of your folds while a shiver racks your body. His tongue darts past his lips, strands of dark hair falling over his sultry stare, the heat pulsating in his chest pouring into his cock as your middle finger gently rubs past the puffy and wet slit holding his interest.

A smirk travels onto your face; your voice is sweet and low as breathy moans float between your words. “Mhmm…but look at you…Hyunie...”

“…watching me touch myself…”

Your finger dips past the fabric of your panties, immediately covered in your sticky arousal and the sound of the single digit echoing softly through his ears. He swallows hard, eyes sliding shut to snap open a moment later as you whimper from the loss of eye contact. “Look at me…please..” you feign desperation, aware of your stepbrother's struggle to sustain morality or indulge in what he can’t have.

You, his oh-so-spoiled little stepsister, got away with everything.

Who haunted his fantasies like a slippery ghost for the hell of doing so.

Hyunjin holds his resolve for a moment longer, weighing all his motives, stare flickering between the slow and steady pump of your fingers diving in and out of your creamy walls. Leaving now would be so easy; his absence could wipe the little triumphant smirk off your pretty face and give him something to hold onto your head.

But what’s the fun in that?

Hyunjin takes his chances, pushing off the doorframe with a huff and reaching a hand behind to slam your bedroom door shut and lock it for good measure. You don’t stop what you’re doing; your body is racked with delicious tingles of anticipation as your index and ring fingers join the assault of your cunt. Your lips slowly fall open from the mountain in your lower stomach, the tight feeling accelerated by his steady gaze and nearing body heat. He’s given up denying your backhanded compliments, cursing under his breath in awe as your doe-eyed gaze falters into an utterly desperate haze and your fingers dive into your walls at a faster pace.

“N-need your help…” you whisper, thighs trembling slightly as your fingers barely graze against the spot you need the most friction. It’s not enough; you could never make it enough, especially knowing he could do much better at the task.

Hyunjin let his body move independently, sinking to the floor on his knees without a second thought. His large hands smoothed up your bare and warm legs to grip the back of your knees. You fidgeted under his touch, having thought about several occasions, but you were startled to feel the slight roughness in his skin.

Your timid reaction induced no pause from him, his hold tightening just enough to drag your body close to him with one tug, and you obediently complied with a soft whine flying past your lips. “You’re … so…disgusting…”

Hyunjin rolls his eyes, not sparing your face a glance as he slaps your hand away from your soaking cunt, irritated by how slowly you’re touching yourself. “Shut up…take my help or not…I don’t care…” He forces an edge to the response, not meaning a word of it but hyper-focused on the mess you’ve already made.

One piece of fabric left on your body, drenched by cum, and obnoxiously useless in his eyes.

You open your mouth to mock him again, face flushed by his last retort, but your pride is too enthralled for you to accept defeat and his intense stare on your cunt not helping your wavering confidence in the situation. “Mak-“

Hyunjin is quicker than you, head diving straight between your thighs before a completely notable phrase leaps off your tongue while he licks a thick stripe from sipping entrance up to your relatively neglected clit. “Fuck!..” you help in shock and delight as he laps at your cunt with little regard for anything else, hands trailing down to scratch at your inner thighs and holding them open as his head rested on the right one. Your eyes lower, watering with pleasant tears watching him eagerly delve his tongue along your slit and past your drizzling entrance.

A question of his integrity floats in the back of your head, fizzling out on your tongue as a trembling gasp fills your chest. “H-Hyunjin..?”

“Hmm…?” He groans, immersed in the taste of you, lips placing tender to your clit when his tongue isn’t swirling on or around it. You bite your lip, swallowing a moan as your parents unlock the front door, which carries you up two flights of stairs and into your oddly quiet room.

Hyunjin hears them too but refuses to acknowledge their hovering presence as he presses his head further between your trembling thighs, the fluff of his hair tickling your heated and sensitive skin, and the force of his shift in position knocking you onto your back. There’s no longer a point in showing hesitation; he’s come to terms with that and entirely abandoned the facade of maintaining dignity, hearing your shy moans feel the air with every slip of his tongue into your fluttering hole.

You can’t stand looking at him directly anymore, blushing rose red as he purposely spits into your entrance, lapping up the mixture of your arousal and his drool with an excited and guttural groan as your hands fly to weave through his dark tresses.

“F…mhmm f-feels so…” The praise twists in your chest, verging on coming out, but you are strangled by the constant pressure of orgasm as he shoves your legs further up and out.

Hyunjin smirks as you choke on a silent scream from the new position he’s put you in, nearly folded in half, and left no choice but to let him have his fill of your creamy pussy with your discarded clothes slipping off the bed's edge. One glance up at you makes his cock throb almost painfully, sweats constricting the tense twitching seeing your pleasured expressions and writhing body reflected in the laptop's webcams and your up-standing phone camera.

He could get used to catching you in the act.

Maybe, just maybe, you’d be a sweet little stepsister for once and take more than a few pictures and videos for him and only him.

It wouldn’t hurt to ask, right?…

authors note: yall aren’t going to believe this… but I went fucking camping and I hated it tbh…

other links: n/a

[ bonus content + ]

Credits to Creator 🖤 Also, what do you guys think of the members' solo stages so far? Which ones are your favorites?

[beejunos]

UNKNOWN TO ME AND YOU | Alastor x reader | PART 2

Summary: After your altercation with Alastor in the hotel lobby, will you be able to mend your relationship?

This is PART 2. Part 1 can be found here.

This is the continuation of @lustylita's wonderful idea, which can be found here. I just had the pleasure of writing it. I hope you enjoy the end of our little story!

Tags: Alastor x gn.reader, some angst

The relationship between you and Alastor had taken a sharp turn for the worse. What used to be a strained but neutral relationship was now strained, uncomfortable, and awkward at best. You found yourself doing everything in your power to avoid him whenever possible.

Each time you and Alastor coincided in a room, a surge of panic would engulf you. The urgency to escape the impending unbearable awkwardness was so tangible it left a metallic taste in your mouth. You would hastily concoct an excuse, no matter how feeble, to flee the scene. The same sense of panic would grip you if he happened to enter a room you were already in.

As you made your hasty retreat, you made a point to never meet his gaze. You were acutely aware that if you did, you would be confronted with the pained expression on his face behind the mask he liked to present to the world, a sight that would be unbearable. Despite Alastor's adeptness at concealing his emotions, you could now sense his anguish from the shadow he cast.

It was something you never anticipated. You never thought you'd harbour any kind of affection towards the man. Yet, after the end of your relationship with Alastor's Shadow, it felt like going through a tumultuous breakup with him. The pain of it all left you feeling raw, vulnerable, and insecure as if a part of you had been stripped bare of dignity and reason. You were left feeling smaller than you really were, with a heavy weight on your shoulders that dragged you down. As if everything was your fault. 

But you had never known about Alastor's feelings for you. You didn't even know when his affection for you had begun and why he had buried them so deep within his heart that his shadow had to break free to soothe its ache. Only when his shadow broke free did you realise the extent of his emotions and how deep they ran.

The days felt like they had grown longer and lost all their colour without the presence of Alastor's shadow. Hollow and lifeless. Whilst you could argue all you wanted with yourself that it was the shadow that you wanted and not the man, the reality was that the shadow was the man. 

They were not separate. They were one.

To love one was to love the other. 

What ... love?!

Pain can be subjective, just like any emotion, but that does not diminish its impact on one's life. The heart will make itself known to the mind whether the mind wants to know or not, but sooner or later, the heart will make the mind yield to the pain, the longing, and the wanting just to get a moment of peace. 

And that's where you were right now, at the door where your heart had broken down, letting the reality of your emotions spill at your feet. A door it begged you to walk through, but you were scared. You were a coward. For Alastor saw you through his darkness, his shadow, and you saw him through his. 

To knock or not to knock. That is the question.  

It had been 23 days since your altercation with Alastor in the hotel lobby. When he had branded you with a kiss that still burned. Marking you with a curse that tore your heart out and poisoned your mind. Longing for the time when it had been just you and Alastor's shadow, but now all your memories of the shadows had been replaced with the man himself. Giving you a genuine smile that only your eyes were allowed to see. To be given the privilege, the trust, to see him. To see the man and not the sinner. To see the soul and not the demon.

Everyone longs for love, no matter what form love comes in, longing for companionship. Trust. Strong arms to fall into with hands that could hold us up when our legs can't bear the burden anymore. And you knew that Alastor could be the arms you wished to fall into, but did he still want to fall into yours?  

To knock or not to knock. That is the question.

The door to Alastors room felt like the doors to an impenetrable fortress. A domain that used to reek of him but now lured you with promises you longed for but feared as well. 

With your crossword puzzle in hand, you counted down from five to zero before lifting your shaking fist and knocking on the door softly. A part of you hoped that he wasn't there so you could run back down to the lobby and forget that you had ever had this stupid idea. The idea of mending your relationship. 

However, you were not so lucky, for Alastor soon opened the door. His smile twitched as his eyes fixed on you, and if you weren't imagining things, you thought you heard a soft chirping sound behind him.

"Yes?" Those were the first words he had uttered to you in 23 days. The only words you had allowed him to say to you in 23 days. 

Swalloing the stone in your throat, you let out in a rushed ramble:

"Canyouhelpmewithmycrossword?"

"I'm sorry?"  

"My crossword," you said, trying not to have a shaky voice, "can you help me with a clue? I can't figure it out."

You held out your newspaper with the crossword to him, pointing at the specific clue you had in mind. In reality, you had already figured it out 30 minutes ago, but Alastor didn't need to know that. He looked from you down to the newspaper, then back up at you again. His eyebrow raised. 

"Very well," was all he said as he looked down at the newspaper and the clue again, but by bending down, you now had his head right beside yours. You wondered if his big ears meant he could hear better and if he could hear your heart trying to beat out of your chest. Could he hear how it called out to him? How it had howled at your mind to let him back into your life again.

"The answer is Erato, the muse," answered Alastor and straightened up again.

"Oh, right. That makes sense," and that was when you remembered that Erato wasn't just any muse, but a muse whose name meant desire, and never had you desired for the smallest of touch from another before. Looking down at his lips, so red and soft, knowing what they had felt like on your cheek but maybe never getting the chance to touch them again was torture. 

"Was there anything else?"

Like a record scratch, you were hurled back into reality, looking back up at Alastor, who was studying you intensely. This is where your mind won over your heart, and you became a coward again. 

"No! Thank you for the help!" you practically screamed as you stiffly stormed down the hallway, away from the sinner who closed the door to his domain, and you wondered if it was painful to die. 

Work was slowly killing you, and it was not a pleasurable experience. Buried in paperwork, you had been staring at a document for the past half hour without really taking in the information. No matter how many times you would re-read the document, the words made less sense as you kept reading. Blurring together in one big mess that drained you of all your energy, the clock had not even struck 09:00 yet. 

Overwhelmed, you buried your face in your hands, your body leaning on the desk for support. You wondered how you were going to make it through the day if it continued at this excruciatingly slow pace. 

After a slight knocking, the door swung open, and someone entered your office. 

"Not now, Charlie," you said softly so as not to offend without looking up, "I told you I'm fine. I don't need you to check on me." 

However, no answer came, and when you looked up, you realised that it wasn't Charlie who had come knocking at your door again but Alastor, who was holding your favourite cup in his hand and a bag in the other.  

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know it was you," you said and began to stand up, but you slowly dropped down when Alastor walked over to your desk and sat down your cup. The smell of coffee filled your office and the mere thought of having that sweet beverage filled you with delight. Beside the cup, Alastor put down the brown bag he had held, and you instantly recognised the logo of the bakery from across town that you loved so much. 

As you looked at the bag, you felt a sudden jolt of surprise that made your body shake. You raised your gaze to Alastor, who was standing in front of you, and then back to the bag. You couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth spreading through you as you thought about the blueberry muffin that was waiting inside. It was such a simple thing, but it made you feel wanted. What a wonder that such a small thing could make you feel so special and warm on the inside. 

That warmth was something you hadn't felt in a long time. Ever since Alastor's shadow stopped visiting your office, you had felt incredibly lonely. You missed the little conversations you used to have with him and the way he always seemed to know just what to do to make you feel better. You even found it hard to go to the bakery and get your muffin in the morning because it made you feel too alone for your liking.

But now, as you had the bag in front of you, you felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe things were finally starting to look up again. Maybe Alastor was back in your life for good, and you could once again look forward to those little moments of happiness that made your day a little brighter. 

"I... thank you, Alastor. I greatly appreciate it." Your heart skipped a beat when Alastor looked down at you and gave you a small, genuine smile. 

"You're welcome, my dear," he said softly as he turned to leave your office. His demeanour was calm and collected, yet you could sense a certain warmth and friendliness in his voice.

"Have you seen the roses yet?" the words rushed out of you before you could hold yourself back, too desperate for his company now that you had gotten it back. 

"Pardon?" asked Alastor without turning around to look at you fully. His hands were resting on his microphone cane. 

"The roses, in the garden. They've bloomed, almost all of them. They're... they're breathtaking. You should see them." Your knee started to nervously bounce under your desk as sweat began to gather in your palms. The man had managed to render you a nervous wreck so fast, his presence alone stirring up a whirlwind of emotions within you. 

"No, I haven't seen them yet. I'll make sure to walk around the garden on my break today. I can imagine that they are lovely." 

Thinking this was the end of the conversation, you turned back to your dreadfully dull documents.

"Would you care to join me?" asked Alastor, his soft yet hesitant voice making your heart skip a beat. It was as if the air around you had suddenly become charged with an unspoken tension, making you wonder if he was nervous as well.  

"In the garden?"

"Yes." 

"I... I would love to." 

"Wonderful. I'll come to get you around twelve if that works for you."

"Great! I look forward to it."

As he walked out, you couldn't help but sit back in your chair and take a deep breath. You felt a sense of relief and contentment, knowing that Alastor still seemed to want to try a new connection—something new and unexplored. You picked up your coffee and took a sip, letting the warmth of the liquid spread through your body. Alastor had managed to wake the butterflies within you again with a single act of kindness.  

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­Your and Alastor's relationship had improved immensely over the week. However, there was just this little problem that kept bugging you. Alastor had not touched you in any way, not even laid his hand on your shoulder or offered his arm when the both of you had walked through the rose garden. While this wasn't uncommon, you rarely saw him really touch anyone in the hotel except for the odd pat on the head, but his shadow had been so physically affectionate that you yearned for the intimacy of it all. 

While not overly affectionate, the shadow had not hesitated to hold your hand or rest on your shoulders. It wasn't that you wanted to carry Alastor on your back, but the simple act of holding hands seemed like a distant dream. 

You sank deeper into the sofa in the hotel lobby as you glanced at the deer demon sitting by the fireplace above your newspaper—your crossword puzzle long forgotten. Alastor was sitting cross-legged with a book in one hand and a glass of rye whisky in the other, silently humming to the song he played from the antique radio he had summoned, and for some reason, you thought that he had never looked more attractive.

Satan's sweaty balls, you used to party every weekend and only come home after you had tried every type of alcohol the club had to offer, and now you were in love with a sinner whose favourite pastime was listening to jazz while drinking whisky. Your younger self would have hated what you had become, but in the present, you felt a deep sense of contentment, wanting nothing more than to have a quiet evening with Alastor, where he would read out loud to you from his book in front of the fire with your head in his lap, listening to jazz.

Angel Dust shouted a loud good night and started to walk up the stairs to his room after another hour had passed. Charlie and Vaggie, who had been sitting by the dining table and doing a jigsaw puzzle, were the next ones who left the lobby. Charlie's good night was barely audible because of how much she was yawning. The last one to leave the lobby was Husk, who you knew stayed longer than he usually did just so he could keep an eye on you. You quickly shot him a meaningful glaze, trying to tell him that everything was fine, which he seemed to understand. 

"Night," grunted Husk as he started to walk up the stairs. 

"Good night, Husk!" you shouted back, grateful that you and Alastor had some more time alone. That is if you actually dared to do anything. 

The chance to change the mood was almost too good, too romantic for you to think clearly. There were so many possibilities as to what you could do. You could ask him about his day, but that felt too predictable. You could ask him about his book, but what if the book is boring and you can't make the conversation sexy? Would he even like that? He was flirty in a very subtle and charming way, but would he like it if you took a more direct approach? 

Without knowing it, you had spent all your time thinking of all the things you could do with Alastor now that you were alone with him that you completely lost track of time. It wasn't until he closed his book and stood up that you were pulled away from your thoughts back into the present. 

"Well, it is getting quite late. Sweet dreams, my dear." 

Panicking again like he so often made you do, you blurted out the first thing you could think of to make him stay. 

"Do you know the dance foxtrot?" You fucking idiot, of all the things you could have asked, why did you ask that?!

Alastor turned to you while raising a brow, and even if he looked at you with a curious gaze, you could not help but feel like the biggest fool in all of Hell. You used to be smooth when flirting and look at yourself now.

"I do. Why do you ask, my dear?" 

There was no backing down anymore, so you took a deep breath, cheeks and ears burning, and confessed;

"I've always wanted to try it! I've seen others dancing it, I even know the moves, but I've never had anyone to dance with." 

In the blink of an eye, the music on the radio changed from a soft and slow jazz song to one with a more precise and faster beat. Alastor bent down and left his book on his chair before he walked over to you. 

"May I have this dance?" he asked with a mischievous smile. 

Not caring anymore about dialling down your excitement, you gave him the biggest smile as you took his hand. Letting him pull you off the sofa. His hand was warm and soft, sending tingles up your arm as he gently stroked his thumb over your knuckles. 

As Alastor pulled you towards him, he quickly established that he would lead the dance. With your hand on his shoulder and his between your shoulder blades, he pushed you into the first step of the foxtrot. The rhythm of the music began to take over, and he started to spin you around the empty hotel lobby. You couldn't help but laugh, feeling the wind rushing against your skin as you twirled around and around. 

As he spun you, his red eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. You felt like the only person in the world as you looked deep into each other's eyes, lost in the moment. It was a look you didn't see often, but sometimes, when it was only you and him, you could catch a glimpse of a softer look from Alastor. A look that made the butterflies in your stomach make loops in excitement. It was a look that made you feel cherished and admired, and it was a feeling unlike any other. 

The dance seemed to last forever, and you didn't want it to end. You felt free and alive, and you knew that this was a moment that you would never forget. 

When the song came to an end, a new song began directly after it. This one is slower than its predecessor, one that you couldn't necessarily dance the foxtrot to, for it was a song that called for a type of slow dancing. 

Without hesitation, Alastor pulled you closer towards him as his hand moved from between your shoulder blades down your back. Leaving a trail of fire under your skin as his hand pulled you closer to him after it stopped in the middle of your back. 

None of you said anything but continued slowly dancing to the music on the radio. His red eyes, heavy-lidded, looked deep into yours as he slowly dipped down and kissed your lips.

Happy 'burn a big ass bonfire so the witches who are flying to the devil's party fly into the bonfire instead' day, everyone! (If you can guess which country I'm from, from that, I'll be really impressed)

Taglist for the part 2: @littledolly2345 @slytherin4ever @wendds @beelz3bub @adamwarlockislife-blog

@ilikemyteawithmilk @cherry-cola-100 @xia21 @rae-pottah @xsoftdead18

@arrozyfrijoles23 @maulsgf

[scribs-dibs]

Japanese Denim

spoilers for 2.1 (aventurine's real name), gn reader, soft aventurine hours <33

wc; 944

You don't miss the breath that blows over your face, relief lifting the weight off of his chest. It's you. He's safe. He can slumber for just a moment longer.

Sunlight is unfamiliar with the planes of his face. It dances across it; gold tracing the curves of his jaw, running playfully in and out of the dip and curve of his nose, contrasting the shadows of his bottom lip. It highlights his lashes, blonde and long and casting dainty streaks on top of his cheek bones. Aventurine —no, Kakavasha— is beautiful even in sleep. He feels ethereal beside you, blurred along the edges, you are just barely able to believe him to be tangible, with the way the morning clouds part to shine down upon him. But he's real, and the both of you no longer reside in the opalescent bubbles of Penacony. You're home. He’s home.

There's a strand of hair that coils over the dip of his cheek. Slowly, like approaching a stray, your hand moves to tuck it behind his ear.

His eyes flicker open before you're halfway there.

Kakavasha is a light sleeper. There isn't time for long rests, what with danger shadowing his every step, coiling around his lungs in the form of fear, deadly memories taking the form of nightmares every time he dares to drift off. You mourn the loss of his comfortable sleep, an apology hot on the tip of your tongue, searing it the longer it stays tucked behind your lips, but his eyes flutter shut again before you get the chance. The embers disperse.

You don't miss the breath that blows over your face, relief lifting the weight off of his chest. It's you. He's safe. He can slumber for just a moment longer.

You cross the remainder of the distance between you, fingers brushing over the fullness of his cheek. There is magic in his returned affections, his bare palms holding you there against him, honeyed skin nuzzling into you. He kisses the heel of your palm, sweet and simple, like it's the easiest thing in the world.

“...Good morning,” his voice is weighed down by his drowsiness, nearly gravely from disuse. You realize that this is the latest he's slept in months, without the buzz of his phone interrupting what little time he lends himself to the vulnerability of rest. His words slur together, a change to the steady, calculated speech he uses normally— at the poker table, at the IPC Headquarters, at all times. Like this, though, exposed and sleepy, he's a bit more upfront. A bit less guarded.

“...‘S so earlyyyy…”

And a lot more whiny.

You've become acquainted with Kakavasha’s greed by now. It is his twin, his shadow, mimicking his every movement and curling around him like smoke ; all-consuming and burning through his flesh. So you aren't surprised when the beast bares its fangs, arms entangling around your middle and holding. It's fair— the pair of you are accustomed to loss, to the feeling of holding someone for the last time before the feeling of them fades away like a faraway memory, your own hands move down to hold him, too. For a sweet, blissful moment it is just the two of you. Your breathing rises and falls in tandem with his, blonde locks tickling the crook of your neck and greedy, greedy hands shifting at your back to tug you even closer. There is a void in Kakavasha’s chest, one that yearned for so long —an open wound— for someone to hold onto, completely and freely, only to have its wants go unanswered. But you are here now, wrapped up tight in his arms, peacefully. He'll be damned if he lets go now.

You sigh, and it blows past his ear, “Clingy today, huh?”

How could he not be? When the gods spited him, when everyone in sight turned his back on him, you still stood firmly at his side, unrelenting. You are more than he will ever deserve, but selfishly he still holds you.

Kakavasha stretches, cat-like, and you can see an expanse of pale skin when the silk of his nightshirt shifts with the movement. He settles right back against you, your legs entangled thoroughly.

“You're comfortable. It's nowhere near my fault.”

To make a point, Kakavasha pulls you impossibly closer. He even makes a point to huff, as if offended you even asked.

“Right, right,” your hand is absentmindedly twirling the ends of his hair with your pointer finger— you don't remember when it got there, but doing it feels so natural you don't question it for another second.

“Unfortunately, I’ll have to cut this time short. I need to get up—”

“Why?”

He says it so quickly you can see he even surprises himself —eyes wide and mouth agape— but he recovers, clearing his throat:

“What's the rush? We have a day off for once, remember?”

He’s pouting. He tries to hide it under the weight of his glare, but his bottom lip, chapped from a deep slumber, betrays him. Kakavasha does not beg, and you are the last person to ever get him to try, after all he’s been through, but his bright eyes seem to plead with you.

“Right,” you agree, nodding simply, “But one of us needs to make breakfast,” you see it, the way his brows furrow further and he opens his mouth to protest immediately, “No, it cannot wait. I’m hungry.”

At that, he scoffs.

“Fine.”

Kakavasha swings his legs over the plush of your mattress, getting up in one smooth motion. You don’t have time to ponder what he’s doing– his hand latches onto your arm and pulls you up with him. Your face breaks into a smile– he cannot bear to part with you for even a moment.

“If you insist, we’ll do it together.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

rbs w/ comments appreciated !!! ty for reading <33

[faebled-stories]

Yours Forever

Kinkvember Day 13: Werewolf

LOONA/Loossemble Son Hyeju x Werewolf Male Reader

The week leading up to the full moon had been unbearable. You’d begun to pull away, slipping from Hyeju’s touch, retreating further with each passing day. Though your transformations were a rhythm she had come to understand, something was unmistakably different this time—something raw and electrifying that charged the air between you.

She sensed it immediately, an undercurrent of tension replacing the warmth she was used to. Your once-welcoming presence had become guarded, your eyes avoiding hers, and a strange energy bristled beneath your skin. You’d warned her of this side of yourself, the primal force that awakened with the waxing moon. She’d always honored the boundary, letting you slip into the woods each month for the transformation, a small price to pay for the security it brought to you both.

But this was different. This wasn’t just about the full moon or keeping her safe. You weren’t merely preparing for the change; you were holding something back, and the strain of it was unmistakable. Each touch was brief, your hand pulling away as if her warmth stung, your breaths turning sharp when she was near. She tried to reach for you, but each time felt like touching a live wire. A chill settled into her bones, and a deeper realization struck: this wasn’t just you preparing to leave. You were resisting something powerful, something only she seemed to provoke.

On the first night, she watched you by the window, staring into the dense shadows of the forest. You stood there, rigid, your shoulders pulled taut as though braced for release. Even from across the room, she could feel the tension rolling off you, saw the way your hands clenched, fingers twitching as if resisting the instinct to reach for her. When you finally slipped into bed, you lay at the edge, as though afraid even a brush of her skin might unravel whatever control you had left. Sleep was distant for her that night as she lay beside you, feeling each measured breath, each silent struggle that kept you tethered.

By the second day, the strain had seeped into every gesture, every look. At breakfast, you barely touched your food, gaze distant, lost somewhere she couldn’t reach. Hyeju attempted to bridge the growing gap with gentle conversation, offering smiles she knew would normally soften you. But all she received were nods, one-word responses, your fists clenched each time she leaned in, as if proximity to her had become an unbearable temptation. The quiet intimacy that usually marked your mornings was gone, replaced by a silence that felt like an ever-widening chasm.

On the third day, pretense vanished altogether. You weren’t just keeping your distance; you were withdrawing from her entirely, avoiding her gaze, jaw set so tight that the veins in your neck stood out. The scent she associated with you was sharper now, tinged with something wild and unrestrained. Whenever she entered the room, she felt your intense gaze upon her—a look that lingered, dark and unblinking, before you quickly turned away. Your eyes held a ferocity that unsettled her even as it stirred something deep within, a mixture of unease and instinctive thrill. The restraint you fought against became tangible, pressing in like a thunderstorm about to break.

The fourth night brought restlessness. Once again, you stood by the window, but this time you began to pace, muscles shifting under your skin with each jerky movement, as though barely contained by the human form you wore. The moon was still waxing, yet its influence radiated through every line of your body, in the rise and fall of your labored breaths. Hyeju watched from the bed, heart pounding, feeling a mix of concern and something nameless, like an ache that mirrored the primal energy in you. Each step you took held a rawness that threatened to unleash, your form barely holding back a force that loomed just beneath the surface.

Finally, in a voice rough and edged with strain, you muttered, “I need to leave soon.”

The words were clipped, barely a whisper, but they landed heavily.

“You usually wait until the day of,” she replied, her voice laced with concern.

“It’s… different this time,” you answered, eyes fixed on the floor, unable or unwilling to meet her gaze. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

The fifth day arrived like a storm, thick with tension that clung to the air. Every movement she made felt monitored, her presence tracked by your wary gaze. When you did speak, your voice was hoarse, each word scraping through clenched teeth. Your movements lost all their usual grace; you paced with a sharp, restless energy, each step more animalistic than human. When she came close, she felt you flinch. For the first time, there was no warmth in your gaze—only a restrained, urgent focus, as though holding yourself back from a force that could consume you both. The lines of your body, the clench of your fists, every taut muscle told of a fierce restraint that went against every primal instinct you harbored.

By the sixth day, it was undeniable: you weren’t just avoiding her, you were fighting the pull between you with every fiber of your being. The desire in you was palpable, like an electric charge, a force barely controlled, simmering under the surface. Your gaze had taken on a new intensity, a dark hunger that sent a shiver down her spine. When she neared, your breaths quickened, nostrils flaring as though scenting her, tracking her presence with instincts heightened by the looming transformation. Yet even as the tension between you grew unbearable, you held yourself back, jaw clenched, fingers digging into your palms as though this restraint was the only thing tethering you to reason.

Then came the seventh day, the full moon hovering on the horizon. Your skin was feverish, your eyes blazing with a golden light that felt more beast than human. Every muscle in your body seemed wound tight, thrumming with restless energy, and staying near her had become an ordeal. You took to the woods, vanishing into the night for long runs, returning each time drenched in sweat, breath labored, muscles quaking as though you had wrestled an invisible enemy. Yet each return left your gaze fiercer, that golden light burning brighter with each passing hour.

Hyeju watched, heart aching, understanding the battle raging within you yet feeling helpless. She could only hope that as the full moon rose and the transformation overtook you, the distance you’d forced between you would be enough to keep her safe from the powerful, forbidden pull that simmered just beneath your skin.

-----

That evening, you stood before the fireplace, fists clenched so tightly that your knuckles blanched, nails biting into your palms. The firelight flickered, casting shadows that danced across your face, illuminating the sharp lines of your jaw and the fierce tension in your eyes—a storm of unspoken fears and desires boiling just beneath the surface. The warmth of the flames did little to ease the chill coursing through you; if anything, it seemed to amplify the turmoil that had been building inside, the mounting pressure of days spent in silence. Every crackle of the fire felt like a countdown, pushing you closer to the inevitable moment when you would have to speak. The truth lay on your tongue, heavy and bitter, an admission that you could scarcely bear to voice.

At last, the silence fractured, your words tearing through the stillness. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” The sentence was low but thunderous, slicing through the quiet with a brutal finality. It hung in the air, irreversible, a single statement that felt like it would drive Hyeju further away than ever.

Her shock was instant. Hyeju’s eyes widened, her soft expression hardening into one of quiet horror as she took a step toward you, her gaze unwavering yet clouded with worry and confusion. “You don’t have to,” she whispered, her voice barely audible yet carrying an unmistakable plea. She edged closer, her look gentle but resolute. “You always come back to me—”

“No.” The word escaped you in a snarl, cutting through her words with a fierce finality. The harshness of your tone froze her mid-step, a flash of restrained power in your gaze halting her as her lips parted in unspoken confusion. “You don’t understand,” you continued, your voice tight, each word strained under the weight of what you’d been hiding. “This time, I won’t be able to control myself.”

A long, tense silence settled between you. Hyeju’s resolve faltered only slightly before her voice returned, low and unwavering, layered with quiet confidence. “But I trust you.” She moved closer, her gaze searching your face, reading every fracture in the guarded mask you’d constructed. Her scent, the soft, familiar fragrance that usually grounded you, now fueled the fire within, making each breath an exquisite torment. Every inhalation felt like stoking a flame that was already blazing out of control, testing the limits of restraint you’d desperately tried to uphold.

For a moment, your hardened resolve wavered, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through before you forced yourself back into control. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” you said, voice rough and barely steady under the strain. Admitting even that much felt like surrender, a risk too great to take. But here you were, standing at the edge, teetering between revelation and restraint.

Hyeju reached out then, her fingers grazing your forearm with a touch so light it was almost unbearable, a grounding presence that sent a wave of conflicting sensations through you—longing and fear, lust and caution. Her hand was gentle, a soft anchor amid the chaos roaring inside you, yet exactly what you knew you couldn’t bear. “I’m not afraid of you,” she murmured, her voice steady, cutting through the wild, tangled thoughts spiraling in your mind.

Her words were a balm and a curse, a calm certainty that felt like fire in your veins, heating the tension already simmering inside. Every nerve in your body screamed for release, and her unwavering belief in you only made it harder to resist. Piece by piece, you could feel yourself unraveling in her presence. “Hyeju…” you rasped, voice raw and pleading, barely holding yourself together. The confession clawed its way out of you, forced from the depths of your restraint. “I’m in heat,” you admitted, the words nearly breaking under their own weight. “Your scent… it’s driving me mad.”

At this, Hyeju’s gaze softened, her expression turning calm and understanding, as though every fleeting look, every tense gesture had clicked into place. She held your gaze, a mix of compassion and strength, her voice dropping to a soft, steady murmur. “Then let me come with you.” Her words were gentle yet unyielding, carrying a determination that left no room for argument. “You don’t have to face this alone. Don’t push me away.”

A surge of panic flashed through you, and you shook your head, sharp and decisive, knowing the risk was too great. “No,” you replied, voice rough and laden with unspoken fear. “I could hurt you. It’s not safe.”

But Hyeju’s response was quiet and certain, her trust in you unshakeable. “You won’t,” she insisted, her conviction a solid, unbreakable force. “I know you. I trust you.”

Her words shattered something within you, dissolving the last of the restraint you’d clung to, leaving you exposed, every breath dragging against the strain in your chest. She was close—too close—and every instinct in you waged a war to keep control. You opened your mouth, prepared to argue, to plead with her to understand the danger she tempted. But before you could, she placed her hand firmly against your chest, her touch a grounding warmth that silenced you. “I’m coming with you,” she declared, her gaze resolute. “I’m not letting you face this alone.”

For a long, breathless moment, you stared down at her, caught between the fierce need to protect her and the unbearable, searing desire that had been clawing at you all week. Her hand on your chest was steady, her eyes filled with an unbreakable belief in you that seemed to defy every fear and instinct within. The silence between you was thick, weighted with her conviction and your desperate restraint.

“No… Hyeju,” you managed, voice thick with desperation, as you struggled to maintain control. “You don’t get it… I can’t…” Each word was dragged from you, heavy with fear and frustration. Meeting her gaze one last time, you saw the strength in her eyes, a silent insistence that you stay. It was almost too much. “Don’t. Follow. Me.” Each word was deliberate, a plea and a command wrapped in a last-ditch attempt to shield her from the force that loomed just beneath the surface. With a final, tortured look, you turned and walked out, each step a battle against your own instincts, leaving her standing alone, the silence in your absence cutting deep, stretching like an open wound.

-----

But as the moon rose higher that night, its light spilling through her window, Hyeju found herself lying awake, your words reverberating through her mind, gnawing at her heart. She could feel the pull to follow you, a force she couldn’t quite resist, and as the night deepened, the thought solidified within her. Ignoring the warning that still echoed in her mind, she packed a small bag, slipping quietly into the forest, following the familiar path to your secluded cabin deep within the trees.

The forest was shrouded in darkness, yet the silver light of the moon cast an eerie glow over her path, illuminating the twisting roots and gnarled branches, their shadows stretching long and foreboding. Her heart raced as she neared the cabin, each step echoing with the unspoken fear and resolve that pushed her forward. When she arrived, the air around the cabin was thick, heavy with a tension she could feel humming in her very bones, a force that pulsed and throbbed like a heartbeat. She could feel you on the other side of the door, a presence more powerful than she had ever sensed.

The door was barricaded, as she had expected, but she raised her hand and knocked gently, the sound seeming almost insignificant against the thick silence of the night. She waited, heart pounding, straining to hear any response, but was met only with the quiet rustle of leaves and the occasional distant howl. Summoning her courage, she knocked again, louder this time, and after a long, charged silence, she heard it—the soft, hesitant sound of the lock being turned, of the door slowly opening.

You stood in the doorway, your golden eyes already glowing with an intensity that nearly took her breath away. Every inch of you was taut with tension, muscles flexed beneath the skin, your chest heaving with deep, ragged breaths as though you were barely containing the power thrumming inside. The air was thick, almost stifling with the electric charge of restrained ferocity. She could see the struggle etched into every line of your face, the battle raging beneath the surface as you fought to hold back the wildness that the full moon had awakened.

Hyeju took a slow step forward, eyes fixed on you, feeling the pull of something deeper than words—a call to stand by your side, come what may. She knew the danger, yet her resolve was unbreakable. In that charged silence, you both stood on the edge, caught between fear and desire, each heartbeat echoing like thunder, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.

“Hyeju,” you rasped, your voice raw and tangled with confusion. “What are you doing here? It’s not safe. You shouldn’t be—”

“I came to be with you,” she interrupted, stepping into the cabin, her gaze meeting yours with unwavering determination. “I know what’s happening. I’m not scared.”

You took a step back, running a hand through your hair in frustration, muscles twitching as though each movement was a battle to stay in control. “You really don’t understand,” you growled, voice thick with barely restrained fury. “I won’t be able to stop myself. The full moon, the heat... your scent is driving me insane. I can’t—”

But she cut you off with a steady look, her fingers reaching up to caress your bare chest. The gentle circles she traced sent shivers through you, her soft touch both comforting and excruciating. Her hands were confident, each touch pushing you further toward the edge. “Hyeju,” you growled, voice now heavy with desperation, “I can’t... You don’t know what you’re doing.”

But she did. She knew exactly what she was doing. She was choosing to trust you, to be with you in this wild, vulnerable moment, and she wouldn’t let fear keep her away.

You stared at her, chest rising and falling with each labored breath, muscles trembling with the strain of resisting the instincts clawing at you. “I don't want to hurt you” you whispered, voice hoarse, filled with the weight of the battle raging inside.

“It’s okay, baby” she whispered, stepping closer until her bare skin brushed against yours. “I want this. I want you to be yourself—no more holding back. Let your desires come through.”

The words hit you like a spark to dry wood, and your body trembled, the force of her gaze enough to break your last shreds of restraint. The transformation you had been fighting surged to the surface, muscles tensing and shifting, claws extending, your skin stretched tight as you struggled to hold back even a fraction of the wildness she was calling forth. Your eyes, now fully golden, locked onto hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Hyeju… please,” you pleaded one last time, voice low, desperate. “You don’t want to see what happens.”

“I do,” she insisted, her voice steady despite the fierce energy radiating off you. “I trust you.”

Without breaking eye contact, Hyeju moved toward the bed, her movements slow, deliberate, each step filled with certainty. She began to undress, her eyes never leaving yours, her gaze filled with a quiet strength, inviting you to follow her, to trust her as she trusted you. You could see her body fully bared in front of you, vulnerable yet fearless, and the sight ignited something within you, a force you could no longer hold back.

Her clothes pooled on the floor, and in that moment, you surrendered completely to the instincts you had fought to keep buried.

On all fours, she slowly made her way onto the bed, crawling toward the headboard with a teasing, playful sway, each movement inviting and deliberate. Her bare cheeks moved with each shift, her skin glistening softly under the dim light. You watched, transfixed, your glowing yellow eyes taking in every detail, every inch of her body revealed to you, a sight that was almost too much to bear. Her arousal, prominent, was an irresistible draw, an open invitation that held you captive, stirring the wildness inside you as your last vestiges of control wavered.

Finally, reaching her destination at the headboard, she flipped onto her back, baring herself entirely to your gaze. Her eyes met yours, a steady, powerful look that contradicted her petite frame, and for a moment, despite the beast inside you, it was she who held the power. Her gaze, dark and full of lust, seemed to pierce through you, striking at the very core of your deepest, most carnal desires. Slowly, she spread her legs, releasing a sweet, intoxicating scent that fogged your mind, each breath pulling you deeper into a haze where human restraint faded and only the primal urges remained.

With slow, deliberate movements, she brought a hand down between her legs, her fingers brushing over her skin, and then, as if to taunt you further, she spread her folds open, her wetness shining under your gaze. Her eyes met yours again, confident and unwavering, drawing you in until it was as if nothing else existed in the world. You felt your humanity slipping, her scent clouding your mind, drowning every rational thought as your focus narrowed down to her alone. She was yours, yet every second of her teasing was pushing you closer to the edge, closer to the part of you you had tried so hard to keep at bay.

And then, something inside you snapped.

The transformation surged through you with a force that could no longer be resisted. You felt your body begin to change, your muscles tensing and expanding, bones shifting with an audible crack. A primal energy flooded your veins, erasing the last shreds of restraint. Hyeju’s confident gaze flickered as she watched, her breath catching as the reality of your transformation became undeniable. Your form grew, stretching until you towered over her, limbs thickening with muscle, hands morphing into powerful claws that extended toward the bed, grazing the sheets.

Her confidence wavered, her eyes widening as you loomed over her, now fully transformed. The human features she had come to love and trust were now overlaid with the raw, undeniable presence of the beast. Your face was wild, feral, golden eyes glowing with an intensity that pierced the dim room. Hyeju’s back pressed against the headboard as she took in the full expanse of your towering frame, a flicker of nervousness crossed her expression. Her heart pounded as she realized just how massive every part of you had become, how easily your form could overpower her.

As the last tendrils of the transformation wisped away from your body, the atmosphere in the small, dimly lit cabin thickened with an intense energy. Hyeju, who had stood witness to this spectacle, found her initial awe morphing into a gripping fear as she took in the full extent of your metamorphosis. Her eyes, previously alight with curiosity and anticipation, now widened with shock, tracing the daunting new size and form you had assumed.

Her reaction was palpable; her once firm stance of confidence, bolstered by the warmth of her affection and a dash of adventurous spirit, crumbled under the weight of your overwhelming presence. "W-wait... wait..." she stammered, her voice barely a whisper, trembling like a leaf in a storm. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, a frantic drumbeat that seemed to echo through the room, as she felt an icy chill spread through her, urging her to retreat.

Pressed against the ornate headboard of the bed, Hyeju made herself as small as possible, the plushness of the bed offering little comfort against the backdrop of her spiraling fear. Her breaths came in short, shallow gulps, each one a struggle as her mind grappled with the surreal reality before her. The sheets beneath her fingers turned into a lifeline, gripped so tightly that her knuckles drained of color, reflecting the starkness of her terror.

“I-I’m not sure… maybe… maybe I was wrong…” she murmured, her voice a tapestry of hesitation and self-doubt. The courage that had felt like a shield now seemed like a child's armor against a giant. Her body trembled, muscles tensing with the primal urge to flee, to escape this unforeseen turn of events.

The air was thick with tension until a low, guttural growl erupted from you, slicing through the silence like a blade. It was a sound that belonged to the beastly, the wild, and it jolted Hyeju from her paralyzing fear into a sharp, sudden alertness. Before she could process her next move, you moved with a fluid, predatory grace, your large hands seizing her thighs with a grip that was nearly crushing. The suddenness of your action elicited a gasp from her, her eyes stretching even wider, now not just with fear but with an intense mix of vulnerability and surprise.

Looming over her, your presence was an undeniable force, a raw power that left no room for resistance or escape. The heat from your body seemed to envelop her, the intensity of your gaze pinning her in place as effectively as your hands did her legs. Without another moment's delay, you thrust forward, the movement powerful and unyielding. A cry tore from Hyeju’s lips, sharp and echoing, a sound that was both a release and a plea, reverberating off the wooden walls of the cabin.

Hyeju's fingers clung to the fur of your shoulders, her nails digging in as she tried to steady herself against the overwhelming onslaught of sensations.

"No... no, wait!" she cried out, her voice wavering and thick with the strain of accommodating the sheer intensity of their lovemaking. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, each one a desperate attempt to manage the overwhelming sensations that coursed through her.

Her body trembled, stretched beyond her limits as she struggled to accept the fullness that threatened to push her past her breaking point. Her muscles tensed, quivering with a mixture of anticipation and fear of the ecstasy that might consume her entirely. She felt every inch of him inside her, an overwhelming presence that seemed to redefine the boundaries of her own body.

Every thrust was a powerful, rhythmic surge that filled her so completely, so deeply, that she could barely process the onslaught of pleasure that threatened to shatter her mind. Each movement sent waves of sensation radiating from her core, making her toes curl and her back arch involuntarily. The room echoed with the sounds of their union — skin against fur, the muffled cries escaping her lips, and the low, guttural sounds from her partner, lost in their shared intensity.

Her fingers gripped your fur tightly, as if to anchor herself against the storm of feelings that threatened to sweep her away. Her mind, awash with endorphins, could only focus on the here and now, the relentless, intoxicating sensation of being filled and overwhelmed, pushing her closer to an edge where ecstasy and madness blurred into one.

Tears of intense pleasure and pain mingled at the corners of her eyes, her emotions as stretched as her physical form. In this moment, she was not just participating in an act of love, but was being redefined by it, her very essence quivering under the weight of such profound connection.

With each movement, Hyeju felt herself being pushed past her boundaries, past what she had thought herself capable of enduring. Yet, even as she felt herself nearing the edge, she could not deny the raw, visceral pleasure that coursed through her veins. It was as if every nerve ending in her body had been set alight.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest heaving as you continued to drive deeper into her, pushing her beyond what she had thought possible. Her muscles clenched around you, her body's natural response to the overwhelming fullness, yet her resistance only seemed to fuel your intensity.

"I... I don't think I can..." she cried out, her voice a mixture of desperation and ecstasy, her words broken by another sharp gasp as you increased your pace. Each thrust was forceful, driving into her with an intensity that stole her breath away. Her fingers clutched at the sheets, knuckles whitening with the effort to maintain some semblance of control.

Your rhythm was relentless, pushing her towards an edge she wasn't sure she was ready to leap from. Her body quaked, not just from the physical exertion but from the overwhelming sensory overload. The room felt too small, the air too thick with the mixture of her perfume, your musk, and the heat of your bodies. Each movement sent a shockwave through her, her legs quivering, barely able to support the weight of your mutual desire.

Her mind teetered on the brink of sanity, the world narrowing down to the points where you were connected, where pleasure met pain in a dance as old as time. She felt every ridge, every pulse of you inside her, each sensation magnified by her heightened state. Her breath came in ragged sobs, tears of both release and overwhelming emotion flooding from her eyes.

But there was no stopping now. The primal force within you had taken complete control, each powerful motion fed by a desire so deep it felt inescapable. The beast within was in command, every muscle tense with the sheer force driving each thrust, each movement a testament to the ancient instinct that surged through your veins. Growls rumbled low and unrestrained from your throat, mingling with Hyeju’s gasps and whimpers, creating a discordant symphony of need and desperation. Your claws pressed against her skin, grazing lightly but enough to leave a faint mark, holding her steady as she writhed beneath you.

Her breath came in shallow, rapid bursts, each exhalation laced with soft pleas, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Please… I-I was wrong… it’s too much…” Her voice broke again, the words trailing off as the line between pleasure and pain blurred, each new wave of sensation pushing her further to the edge. 

Her scent, mingling with the fear and vulnerability, drove you further, igniting every primal instinct within as you gave in completely, the beast’s hunger fully unleashed. Hyeju’s whimpers filled the air, her body yielding even as her mind fought against the intensity, the boundary between her own resistance and surrender melting away as the night stretched on, her cries a helpless melody that fed the fire raging within you both.

Desperately, she tried to steady herself, palms pressing against your waist—not to stop you, but to brace herself, to somehow absorb the force of each powerful thrust that surged through her body. She knew, even as her body trembled beneath yours, that resisting you fully was impossible; you were in a state beyond reason, each motion primal, instinctual, and unstoppable.

Her hands found no purchase against your hips, her touch only seeming to stoke the fire in you, compelling you to drive even harder. Her voice, pleading and broken, filled the room, her cries reaching your ears but slipping past, your mind consumed by her presence, by the intoxicating scent of her that fueled the storm of instincts raging within you.

And then, just as the rhythm peaked, your head tipped back, and a howl tore from your throat, resonating through the cabin with a raw, wild force that sent a shiver down her spine. The sound was pure and primal, yet familiar, carrying within it an echo of something deeper—moments from before, the memories of who you were, of the tenderness that lived beneath your wild exterior.

In a flash, Hyeju saw you as you had been, in the quiet of so many nights spent wrapped in each other’s warmth. She remembered your laughter, the softness of your touch, the whispered secrets shared in the night. Even as she felt her body stretched and trembling beneath you, she realized that the man she loved was still there, deep within the beast, bound by love even in this fierce, unrestrained form.

As her body adjusted to the rhythm, her eyes rose to meet yours, locking onto the wild hunger there, golden and unbridled, yet somehow… familiar. In that gaze, she saw more than the beast—she saw the intensity of your need for her, a need so fierce it overwhelmed everything else. She could feel it, the love that transcended the primal instinct driving you; it was a force just as powerful, just as consuming. Her breath steadied as she held your gaze, feeling her own heartbeat slow and sync with yours as an undeniable truth dawned within her. She’d promised to love all of you, and now, in this moment, you were offering her every part of yourself, even the parts you had fought so hard to shield from her. This was you—all of you—and as she looked into the depths of your gaze, she felt her resolve deepen.

“This is him… this is all of him,” she whispered to herself, the words anchoring her in this reality, a reality where she wanted, needed, all of you. Her fear softened, melting away as her body began to accept you, her breath growing steady as she adapted to the fullness pressing into her.

The sharp discomfort ebbed into a new sensation, an electric pulse that coursed through her veins, intertwining pain with pleasure in a way that ignited something deep within her. Her hips lifted to meet yours, a tentative acceptance transforming into a fierce desire, her body yielding as she began to move with you, each thrust building a rhythm that brought her closer to you, closer to the unbridled passion she saw in your eyes.

“I’m yours, my love,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion and resolve, the words carrying a weight she knew you could feel. “I’m your mate.”

The words, quiet and simple, struck something within you. Her voice seemed to echo through the wild storm of your mind, her words bypassing the primal urge and reaching a place deeper, more vulnerable. Your body trembled, the hunger in your eyes intensifying, your movements becoming frantic, almost desperate. Growls tore from your throat, rough and uncontrolled, as the beast within you struggled against the sheer force of need pulling you toward her. Yet in that need was a softness, a desire to give her everything, to leave no part of yourself hidden.

And Hyeju, finally, was ready. She wanted all of it, wanted to be taken without reservation, her own need flaring up to meet yours. The initial pain dulled, replaced by a throbbing pleasure that grew with each powerful thrust, filling her completely in a way that left her gasping. She clung to you, her nails raking through your fur, holding you close as if to anchor herself in this wild storm. You were rough, your hands wrapping around her waist like a belt, lifting her small frame with each deep drive. Every thrust was strong, unrestrained, but she understood that this was your way of showing her how much you needed her, how much you had held back until now.

“I can take it… I can take you,” she moaned, her voice breathless and full of need, her body surrendering entirely as your rhythm took her to the edge, each thrust carrying her deeper into the whirlwind of ecstasy. And as her voice filled the space between you, you could feel her acceptance, her desire, her trust—trust in all of you, the man and the beast entwined. Her words fueled your movements, drawing out a depth of passion that you hadn’t known you were capable of, and together, in the rhythm that bound you, you found a unity, a shared surrender that transcended the boundaries of what you had been before.

Your growls deepened, your grip on her tightening as you pulled her closer, deeper. Your pace quickened, your breathing ragged as you neared the edge. Hyeju could feel it too—the tension in your body, the desperation in your movements. You were close.

As your thrusts became more frantic, Hyeju’s own pleasure surged. She arched her back, gasping your name as her body tightened around you, the overwhelming sensation pushing her closer and closer to the brink. She wasn’t just taking you anymore—she was lost in you.

“FUCK YES BABY, claim me, mark me, do everything to make me yours forever”

The air between you crackles with the intensity of the moment, charged with an almost visible energy that binds you both in its electrifying grip. Every breath, every inch of space, is alive with a current that flows from you to her and back again, an endless loop of energy and desire that leaves no room for doubt or hesitation. As your movements grow more intense, more purposeful, a primal need overtakes you—a raw, consuming force that drives you forward, until that last, powerful thrust carries both of you across an invisible threshold. It’s more than a joining; it’s an act that resonates on a level deeper than flesh, a physical and spiritual fusion that feels as though your very souls are entwined.

Hyeju’s body responds instinctively, her breath catching in her throat as she feels herself filled completely, claimed in a way that goes beyond the physical. She can feel you within her not only in her body but in her very core, touching a place so deep it feels like you’re etching yourself into her spirit. The sensation is overwhelming, washing over her like wave after wave, resonating in the hidden spaces of her heart and mind, reaching into the depths of who she is. The intensity of it leaves her breathless, suspended in a realm of sensation and connection where nothing else exists.

And then, in a moment of fierce, possessive tenderness, you lower your mouth to her neck, a primal growl rumbling from deep within your chest. As your teeth pierce the delicate skin, a sharp gasp escaped her lips, the sudden bite a bold, possessive claim that sends a fresh surge of feeling through her. The bite is both a brand and a promise, an ancient ritual of dominion and devotion. The sting of it is sharp, grounding her even as it electrifies her senses, drawing a fine line between pain and pleasure, agony and ecstasy. She arches into you, her body a willing canvas as you mark her, the bite an indelible declaration that says without words: she is yours.

The pain of your teeth sinking into her skin serves as a fierce counterpoint to the pleasure that swells within her, a raw edge that makes every sensation more vivid. It anchors her even as it pushes her toward the brink, a grounding force in the swirling maelstrom of ecstasy that consumes her. The juxtaposition of agony and rapture only heightens her response, a perfect balance that holds her suspended on the razor’s edge of surrender.

As the bite reaches its peak, her cry breaks free, piercing through the night—a sound raw and unrestrained, the pure, unfiltered release of everything she has held back. “AAGH, FUCK YES!” The words spill from her, half a scream, half a prayer, as her body shakes with the force of her climax, her form bending under the weight of pleasure that borders on transcendence. She feels as though every nerve, every fiber of her being, is caught in a storm, shuddering with the aftershocks of an earthquake that has left nothing in its wake but pure, blissful devastation.

Your own release follows, a deep, animalistic rumble vibrating from your chest as the tension within you finally snaps. You let go completely, your body shaking as you fill her with warmth, the final, powerful surge of your passion consuming you both. And then, as the climax reaches its height, instinct takes over—a last, intense push as your knot swells, anchoring her to you with a bond as primal as it is undeniable. The sensation is overwhelming, binding her to you in a way that feels like destiny, like an unbreakable tether. Her body instinctively tightens around you, holding you close as her own pulse echoes yours, each beat surrendering to the feeling of being utterly claimed.

The growls fade to a low, satisfied hum as the last waves of release leave you both trembling, bodies still locked together, bound by the knot that signifies not just satisfaction but a profound connection. You pull her closer, breath ragged in her ear as you hold her, feeling the beast’s hunger finally satiated, fulfilled in a way that only she could offer.

Hyeju lies beneath you, her body still quivering from the aftermath, limbs slack with the kind of deep contentment that transcends words. She feels completely and utterly yours, marked not only by the bite on her neck but by the knot still connecting you both—a reminder of the bond you share, a connection that feels eternal and unbreakable. There’s a sense of peace that settles over both of you, a quiet understanding that whatever trials may come, this moment is yours, shared and sacred.

As the tremors begin to fade, you relax against her, the heat of your body melting into hers, your claws retracting as the last remnants of your hunger dissolve into a gentle calm. The weight of you grounds her, and she feels rooted, steady, even as her heart slows and her breathing deepens. For a few long moments, there’s no sound but the soft rhythm of your shared breaths, the quiet thrum of your heartbeats in sync. The warmth that wraps around both of you is more than physical; it’s a cocoon of shared passion, of trust and fulfillment, a sanctuary that nothing else can touch.

In that moment, Hyeju knows she belongs here, held by you, her world safe and still in your arms. The bite on her neck still stings, intensifying the sense of connection between you. She has been marked—claimed in the most primal, intimate way possible. And even though the night has been rough, more intense than she ever imagined, she can’t deny the rush of emotions flooding her: love, fulfillment, an almost surreal sense of completeness.

As you calm, the wild edge within you begins to fade, the beast giving way to something softer, gentler. Leaning close, you nuzzle her neck, pressing your warm nose against the tender bite mark and letting out a low, contented rumble. With each careful lick over the small wound, you soothe the sting, the earlier aggression melting away into affectionate tenderness. Your breaths slow as you relax against her, your knot still holding you both together, anchoring her in a way that feels as intimate as it does comforting. Hyeju can feel the lingering fullness, a reminder of the bond that ties you to her as you both come down from the intense high of the night.

Hyeju, still catching her breath and feeling the sweet ache left in her body, smiles softly, her gaze filled with warmth. Every part of her feels claimed, loved, and deeply cherished. The fullness you’ve left within her is more than just a physical sensation; it’s an unspoken promise, a silent reminder of your commitment and desire for her. Her arms wrap around your broad shoulders, fingers tracing lightly down your back, lingering over the places where her nails had scratched you in the heat of the moment. She can see faint marks in your fur where her touch had dug in, and the sight makes her heart skip. Each scratch, each mark is a reminder of the intense, passionate exchange you’ve shared, of how neither of you held anything back.

Now that control has returned to you, you let out a long, contented sigh and press your forehead gently to hers, a quiet moment of reconnection. A soft whimper escapes you, thick with regret, a noise so unlike the powerful growls from before. But Hyeju simply shakes her head, pressing a gentle hand to the back of your neck, her thumb tracing soothing circles. “It’s okay, baby,” she murmurs, her voice a gentle reassurance. Her fingers thread through your hair, grounding you. “It was intense, yes, but… I wanted all of you. This—us—it’s everything to me.”

Your golden eyes soften at her words, your heart filled with gratitude and love. For a moment, it’s just you—the person she’d always loved, her protector, her partner. You lean in, your tongue flicking softly over her cheek in a loving lick, a tender gesture that makes her laugh softly as she pulls you closer. You inhale her scent, now mingled with a hint of your own, a quiet acknowledgment of the bond you have solidified together. “I’m yours,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper as her fingers curl around your fur. “Always.”

Wrapped together beneath the soft glow of the full moon, the storm of primal intensity fades into a peaceful silence. For a long while, you remain tangled in each other’s warmth, still joined, breathing in sync, hearts beating close. Her fingers gently run through the thick fur of your back, scratching you lightly as she strokes the soft patches on your neck and chest, making your eyelids droop as you melt into her touch. You nuzzle her affectionately, licking her cheek again, her chin, her hand—anywhere you can reach as she coos softly, her voice lulling you further into contentment.

With a final, contented sigh, Hyeju snuggles into your chest, her arms wrapped around you as her fingers stroke your fur, calming you both with each gentle pass. And there, in the quiet embrace of morning, you both drift into a peaceful sleep, still bound by the knot that holds you together, entwined in each other’s warmth and presence, bound by love stronger than any force or instinct.

[nottswitch]

Just recently came across your blog and omgg you’re so good at writing 😭🙏 and you write for Lorenzo 🤭🤭 also congrats on 1k!

But looking through the prompts, prompt 32) and 30) with Lorenzo seems cute, fluff or smut ^^

thank you so much, love, i’m so very glad you enjoy my stuff 💘 yes, i just started writing for him and i find myself enjoying it a lot!! so does everyone, apparently, because i immediately got several requests. not complaining tho :) decided to make this fluffy with a bit of soft smut.

prompt list

30. "oh, fuck me."

32. "it’s pouring out!"

۶ৎ navigation ; masterlist ; enzo m-list ; how to request

18+ soft smut

the dim light of the early morning barely shone through the deep dark waters of the black lake behind the windows of the slytherin dorms. your eyes fluttered open, blinking away the sleep, but your vision was still blurry. you stirred in bed, letting out a pleased hum when you felt a warm body behind you.

lorenzo was waking up as well, albeit even more lazily than you. it was a weekend, after all, and you had no classes to attend. you felt his lips on the back of your neck and smiled, pressing yourself a bit more against his chest.

"morning, sweets," he mumbled against your skin, his hand slowly moving up and down your waist. you felt your skin prickle with goosebumps at his soft but insistent touch, your lower abdomen already starting to heat up. you felt something, which was undoubtedly enzo’s morning wood, pressing into your ass, and teasingly wiggled your hips against it, biting away a smirk when you felt him twitch.

a firm squeeze of your asscheek elicited a gasp out of you, and now it was lorenzo’s turn to smirk as he went back to your neck, leaving a small but tangible bite mark right above the top of your shoulder. you snuggled closer into him, tilting your head a bit to give him more access to your neck.

"already so needy for me, this early in the morning?" enzo murmured, smugness dripping out of his teasing words. you rolled your eyes and reached behind your back to feel him up, your palm flattening out against his hardness over the sheets.

"i’m the needy one?" you asked, feeling his cock eagerly throb underneath your touch.

"mhm," he hummed, his lips sucking on a patch of your skin to leave a pleasant tingling sensation there. "can’t say i’m not, sweets. but it’s a two-way street," he added as his hand moved to your lower stomach, his fingers dipping under your sleeping short just up to the first knuckle. he was the master of the teasing game, for sure.

just as you were about to retort, you saw the waters of the lake ripple outside the window and noticed its surface getting sprinkled with raindrops, harder and harder by the second.

"oh, fuck me," you groaned, immediately feeling dejected when you realized that the usual autumn shower was now going to completely ruin the date you had been planning with your boyfriend for a week now.

"gladly, baby," enzo answered, seemingly still occupied with leaving kisses down your neck, oblivious to the worsening of the weather and simultaneously, your mood.

you huffed at his words, but a small smile appeared on your lips nevertheless. "i don’t mean that," you replied, still leaning into his touch, but growing a bit stiffer at the realization that the day was basically ruined. "it’s pouring out!"

lorenzo lifted up his head slightly, peeking out from behind you to glance at the window. he raised his eyebrow, noticing the state of the weather, and sighed, understanding the reason behind your irritation. he didn’t seem that bothered himself, though, as he quickly went back to kissing your skin. "well, babe, you know what that means."

"what?" you asked with another annoyed huff, somewhat miffed by his nonchalant reaction.

"means we’re gonna have to spend the whole day inside." his fingers were now ghosting over your body, even lower down your shorts. "us, inside my dorm, and me, inside of you."

[novaursa]

Fire and Gold (no soul to hear)

- Summary: Rhaegar chooses you over her. And Ceresi never forgives you for it.

- Paring: sister!reader/Rhaegar Targaryen

- Note: This is the final chapter.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: coat of gold and three heads

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

The banners of the Great Houses fluttered in the wind over Harrenhal, the sigils of lions, stags, and dragons rippling in the evening breeze as the crowd gathered for the feast following the grand tourney. The air was still alive with the energy of the jousting, and although the excitement had begun to wane, there was a certain anticipation in the hall. All eyes were on Rhaegar as he made his way through the throng, his violet eyes bright with the joy of victory. He had won, of course. He always won, but this time it was different. This time, he had crowned you as Queen of Love and Beauty.

Your heart had raced when he placed the crown of blue roses upon your head, the sweet fragrance mingling with the heady scent of victory. The world had held its breath as Rhaegar declared you, his sister-wife, the fairest in the realm. You could still feel the weight of the roses on your brow, the petals soft against your skin, though their meaning was sharper, darker, than anyone else knew.

The feast was in full swing now, the hall alive with laughter, the clink of goblets, and the melodies of minstrels. Yet amid the merriment, your eyes flickered over to where Cersei sat, brooding in silence beside Robert Baratheon, her golden-haired children at her side. The sight of her soured the sweetness of your triumph, her jealousy almost tangible. She had wanted this life, wanted Rhaegar, wanted everything you had. But she had been given to Robert instead, and though the two of them had "produced" golden-haired heirs, the bitterness in her eyes was undeniable.

Cersei’s fingers curled tightly around her goblet, and she forced a smile as one of her children, a boy with bright, golden locks, tugged at her sleeve. You saw the flicker of resentment there, the edge of anger she could not hide. Robert was drunk, as usual, leaning back in his chair and boasting loudly to those around him. He paid no attention to Cersei or the children, too absorbed in his own revelry. Tywin Lannister sat nearby, his eyes scanning the room, calculating, always calculating. He was trying, as he had for years now, to regain the favor of King Aerys, but with little success. Aerys barely looked at him, his disinterest in Tywin as obvious as the growing anomasity between them. The king’s gaze flitted to his daughter—you—and then to Rhaegar, approval gleaming faintly in his eyes, as if Aerys himself was pleased by the choice of queen for this evening.

You smiled to yourself as you let your eyes drift over the crowd, searching for a figure you had been keeping watch for. And there he was, standing by the shadows near the far end of the hall—Wisdom Rossart. His pale face gleamed in the torchlight, and his thin lips curled into a grin as he caught your eye. The firelight danced in his eyes, and he inclined his head, awaiting your signal.

You gave it with the faintest tilt of your head, and Rossart bowed slightly before slipping silently from the hall, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost. He knew his task. The plans were already in motion.

Beside you, Rhaegar’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, his touch warm, grounding. He had been smiling all evening, more at ease than you had seen him in months. Perhaps it was the joy of the tourney, of winning the crown and crowning you, his beloved, in front of all the realm. Or perhaps it was something deeper, the belief that after all the grief and anger that had filled your lives, you were finally finding peace again. You could see it in his eyes—the relief that, after the loss of your son, you were calm. Too calm.

He watched you now, his gaze soft but searching, as if he were trying to understand the change in you. Since the murder of your child, a fire had been lit inside you, one that had burned so brightly it had frightened him at times. But now, he believed, that fire had dulled. You were content, or so it seemed.

“Y/N,” Rhaegar murmured, leaning closer to you, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’ve been calm these past months, my love. Are you... happy?”

You turned your head to meet his gaze, your smile serene. “I am,” you whispered back. “I have made my peace with what has happened.”

Rhaegar studied your face for a moment longer, searching for something, anything, that might betray the depth of what truly lay within you. But there was nothing. Your calmness was a mask you had worn so well that even he, your dearest Rhaegar, could not see past it. At last, he smiled, his own shoulders relaxing, the tension melting away from him. “Then I am happy, too,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Your eyes flickered to your children, Aelor and Visenya, sitting just a few feet away, laughing with their attendants and watching the minstrels with wide, curious eyes. Aelor, now one and three years old, was the image of his father, regal and composed even at his young age, while Visenya, still so small, clung to her brother’s side, her laughter bright and full of innocence.

You leaned over to their attendants, your voice gentle but firm. “It is time for the children to be taken to their chambers. Escort them to bed.”

The servants nodded, quickly gathering the children and ushering them from the hall. You watched them go, your heart tightening just slightly, but the calmness never left you. They were safe. Tonight, at least, they were safe.

Rhaegar’s arm slipped around your waist as he pulled you closer, his attention returning to the revelry before them. “It is good to see you content, Y/N,” he said, his voice soft with affection. “For so long, I feared I had lost you to grief.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, smiling as you brought the goblet of wine to your lips, but as you drank, the taste was empty, as if it were nothing but air passing over your tongue. You couldn’t taste the wine anymore—hadn’t been able to for months now. It didn’t matter.

As the feast continued, you felt Rhaegar relax further, confident that the woman he loved, his sister-wife, was finally at peace. He didn’t see the storm that still brewed beneath your calm exterior, didn’t see the fire that burned quietly, waiting for its moment. You had found your peace, yes—but it was the peace that came before the blaze. You glanced once more at the empty space where Rossart had stood, the faintest smile tugging at your lips.

Let them enjoy the night, you thought. For soon, fire and blood will come for those who deserve it.

And when that time came, you would watch them burn, just as the dragon within you had always longed for.

The grand doors of the hall groaned as Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Lewyn Martell pushed them closed, sealing the gathered lords, ladies, and knights inside the vast chamber. The sound of music halted abruptly, the melodies fading into an eerie silence that settled over the hall like a shroud. The air felt heavy, almost oppressive, as if the very walls of Harrenhal had begun to press inward.

King Aerys stood from his seat at the high table, his thin frame silhouetted by the flickering torchlight, his mad eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. His lips curled into a twisted smile as he raised his goblet, the movement drawing every gaze in the room. His voice rang out, sharp and high, cutting through the stillness.

“A toast!” Aerys cried, his voice laced with both malice and glee. “A toast to family, to blood, to fire!”

The gathered courtiers lifted their goblets with hesitant smiles, though an undercurrent of unease rippled through the crowd. Aerys’s words, his tone, carried a weight that none could ignore, and for a moment, the feeling of dread set in, as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for something to happen.

But before Aerys could continue, you stood, your movement slow and deliberate. All eyes shifted to you, and a murmur passed through the hall as they watched, waiting. Rhaegar, seated beside you, glanced up in surprise, his brow furrowing as he watched you rise.

You raised your goblet with a serene smile, your voice carrying through the hall with a calmness that belied the storm within you. “To family,” you began, your tone measured, almost hypnotic. “To the bonds that tie us, the blood that runs through our veins, and the fires we tend... and those we ignite.”

The hall fell deathly quiet. The courtiers exchanged uncertain glances, and you could feel their unease spreading like a ripple through the room. Rhaegar’s hand brushed against your arm, a silent question, but you didn’t acknowledge him. Your gaze drifted across the faces in the hall—Cersei’s sharp eyes, Tywin’s calculating expression, Robert’s oblivious drunken grin. All of them, guilty in your eyes. All of them about to pay.

Cersei, seated beside her golden-haired children, felt a prickle of dread. Something was wrong. The lighting in the hall had been off the entire evening, the flicker of the torches casting strange shadows across the room. She had noticed it earlier, the way the flames had seemed to shift unnaturally, but now... now it felt as if the very air had darkened. She glanced toward the walls, her breath catching in her throat.

And then she saw it. Hidden behind the stone pillars, tucked away in the alcoves—wildfire. Casks of it, stacked and waiting, glinting faintly in the low light. The green shimmer of death.

Her eyes widened in horror, and she opened her mouth to scream a warning, but it was too late.

The arrow came first—a single flaming arrow that cut through the air with a hiss, loosed by one of Wisdom Rossart’s men from the far end of the hall. It struck the nearest cask of wildfire, and for a split second, time seemed to freeze.

Then the world exploded.

The wildfire erupted in a brilliant blaze of green flame, the cask detonating with a force that sent a wave of heat and fire cascading across the hall. The explosion set off a chain reaction, and one by one, the other caches hidden throughout the room ignited. The once-grand hall was transformed into a living inferno, the flames licking up the walls and across the tables, consuming everything in their path.

Screams filled the air as nobles and knights scrambled to flee, their silks and finery catching fire as the green flames spread with terrifying speed. Tables overturned, goblets shattered, and chaos reigned as the court dissolved into panic. The smell of burning flesh and smoke filled the air, thick and suffocating.

Aerys stood at the high table, his wild laughter echoing through the hall as he watched the devastation unfold. “Burn them all!” he cried, his voice rising above the cacophony of screams and flames. “Burn them all!”

You remained seated, a strange calm settling over you as the chaos swirled around you. The heat of the wildfire licked at your skin, but you did not flinch. You lifted your goblet of wine to your lips once more, but the liquid was still tasteless as ever.

Rhaegar, his face pale with horror, grabbed your arm, trying to pull you from your seat. “Y/N, we need to go!” he shouted over the roar of the flames, his eyes wide with panic. “The hall is burning—everyone is burning!”

But you refused to move, your gaze fixed on the flames as they consumed the hall, as they devoured the faces of the guilty and the innocent alike. “No,” you whispered, your voice eerily calm. “I want to watch.”

Rhaegar’s grip tightened, his voice frantic. “You have to move! This is madness!”

You turned to him, your eyes filled with a cold, unyielding determination. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Rhaegar. Don’t you see? It was never about who was guilty or innocent. They’re all guilty now. They all deserve this.”

Rhaegar stared at you, his heart breaking as he realized how far you had fallen into the depths of your grief and rage. “This isn’t justice,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “This is destruction.”

You smiled, a soft, bitter smile. “Sometimes, destruction is the only answer.”

Rhaegar’s hand fell away from your arm, and he took a step back, his expression stricken. The flames continued to rise around you, consuming the hall, but you remained seated, watching as the traitors, the schemers, the guilty all burned before you. It no longer mattered who had killed your son or who had sought to kill you.

They were all guilty now. And they would all burn for it.

Cersei’s world had become a nightmare. The roar of the flames filled her ears, deafening and relentless, as green wildfire consumed everything around her. Her once-beautiful gown now hung in tatters, singed and blackened from the heat. Smoke stung her eyes, her lungs burned with every breath, and all she could hear were the screams—the screams of those dying around her, the wails of terror as they tried in vain to escape the inferno.

She staggered through the hall, her heart pounding in her chest as she searched for her children, her golden-haired babes, but the flames had already devoured everything. Her son had been next to her, pulling at her sleeve only moments ago, but now... now he was gone. Panic gripped her, cold and fierce, as she called out their names, her voice hoarse and ragged. “Joffrey! Myrcella! Tommen!”

There was no answer. Only fire. Only death.

The flames leaped higher, hungry and unstoppable, swallowing the tables and tapestries, the banners of the great houses, as though the gods themselves had unleashed their fury upon the court. In the center of it all, at the high table, King Aerys stood with his arms raised, laughing maniacally, his voice rising above the chaos. “Burn them all! Burn them all!” His eyes gleamed with madness, the light of the wildfire reflected in their violet depths, and he reveled in the carnage, his joy as twisted as the flames themselves.

Cersei’s gaze swept to the high table, and there, amidst the wreckage and ruin, she saw her. The Targaryen princess, seated calmly as though nothing was amiss, a goblet of wine in her hand, her expression serene. She looked untouched by the flames, as if the destruction around her was nothing more than an afterthought. The faintest of smiles played on her lips as she watched the hall burn, the madness in her eyes mirroring her father’s.

But it was Rhaegar’s face that sent a chill through Cersei’s blood. He stood beside his sister-wife, his expression one of sheer horror, his eyes wide and disbelieving. He did not move, did not try to flee, even though the flames raged all around him. His hand hovered near her, as though he was still tethered to her, bound by a devotion that transcended even the madness unfolding before them. He had always been devoted to her, to his dragon. Even now, as everything they had built turned to ash, he could not leave her side.

Cersei’s heart twisted in fury, in despair. Everything she had wanted—everything she had dreamed of—had been stolen from her. Rhaegar, the crown, the power. And now, the children she had borne for Robert—Jamie—those golden-haired innocents who had nothing to do with this madness, were gone too, swallowed by the flames this woman had unleashed.

Her hatred surged, white-hot and blinding, as she staggered forward, her voice cracking with rage. “You!” she screamed, her eyes wild, her hands trembling as she pointed toward the Targaryen princess. “This is your doing! You... you bitch!”

Cersei’s curses echoed through the hall, but Y/N did not flinch. She merely turned her head slightly, her gaze locking with Cersei’s, as if the flames and the screams meant nothing to her. That faint, bitter smile remained on her lips, and she took another slow sip of her wine, unbothered.

“Burn in hell!” Cersei shrieked, her voice raw with grief and fury. “Burn with the rest of them! You—”

Her words were cut off by a deafening roar as another explosion ripped through the hall, the ground beneath her feet trembling with the force of it. The fire surged forward, a wall of green flame that tore through the remaining survivors, devouring everything in its path. Cersei’s world became a blur of heat and smoke, the taste of ash thick on her tongue.

She barely had time to scream before the wildfire found her. The flames engulfed her in an instant, searing her skin, melting the world around her into an endless sea of agony. Her last thought, before the darkness swallowed her, was of Rhaegar’s face—his horror, his devotion—and the serene, untouchable calm of the woman who had destroyed them all.

And then Cersei was gone, swallowed whole by the fire she had cursed.

Jaime raced through the courtyard, his breath ragged, heart pounding in his chest. The smoke billowed into the night sky, a plume of green flame flickering at its heart, the glow so unnatural it seemed to come from the very depths of hell. Screams echoed from within the great hall, carried on the wind like the wails of the damned. He could hear them, high-pitched, desperate, the sound of agony that could not be silenced by stone walls or iron gates.

Ser Gerold Hightower stood like a sentinel before the grand doors, his face set in a grim mask. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard held his ground, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other outstretched as if to bar Jaime’s path. Jaime skidded to a halt before him, panic flashing in his eyes.

"Let me in," Jaime gasped, trying to shove past him, his eyes wide with fear. "Ser Gerold, let me through! My sister—"

Gerold shook his head, his voice low and steady, but there was no comfort in it. "No one can enter, Ser Jaime. It’s too late."

Jaime’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white. "You can’t keep me out! The king—my sister—she’s in there!"

Ser Gerold’s expression remained impassive, but the deep lines etched into his face seemed to deepen. "The king gave his orders. No one is to enter until the screams stop."

The screams. Jaime’s blood ran cold at the words. He glanced toward the doors, his heart hammering against his ribs. The screams were everywhere, filling the air, filling his ears, echoing through his skull. And then, just as Gerold had said, they began to fade. One by one, they were snuffed out, like the last gasps of life. And then, finally—silence.

The only sound that remained was the faint crackle of flames and a soft, chilling laughter drifting on the wind. King Aerys’s laughter.

Gerold stepped aside, and without another word, Jaime pushed past him, his hand trembling as it gripped the hilt of his sword. He shoved open the doors, the heavy wood groaning on its hinges, and stepped into a nightmare.

The hall was a blackened ruin. The once-grand tapestries were ash, the banners of noble houses curled into smoldering remnants, their sigils erased from existence. The long tables were overturned, charred and broken, and the bodies—gods, the bodies—were scattered like kindling, some burned beyond recognition, others twisted and frozen in grotesque shapes, caught in their last moments of agony.

The smell of burning flesh hit Jaime like a physical blow, turning his stomach. He forced himself to keep walking, stepping over the charred remains of courtiers and knights alike. He couldn’t find her—couldn’t see Cersei. His heart seized with terror, his eyes scanning the destruction for any sign of golden hair, but all he saw was ruin. The fire had devoured everything, leaving nothing but blackened bones and scorched memories.

At the center of it all, seated as though she were holding court, was the Targaryen princess. She sat still, her face serene, a goblet of wine in her hand, though it had long since emptied. The crown of blue roses Rhaegar had placed on her head earlier that evening still sat delicately upon her brow, untouched by the carnage around her. She didn’t look at the destruction, didn’t flinch from the horrors she had unleashed. Her expression was calm, almost peaceful.

Beside her stood Rhaegar, his face ashen, every line etched with shock and sorrow. His wide, disbelieving eyes flickered between the ruin and the woman at his side, as though he could not fathom how she, the woman he loved, could remain so untouched by the destruction that engulfed them just moments ago. And yet, he did not move away; his hand still hovered near her, torn between reaching out and retreating, his devotion unwavering even in the face of this incomprehensible madness.

And there, sitting on his twisted throne, was King Aerys, his laughter now reduced to a soft, satisfied chuckle, his mad eyes gleaming with the joy of destruction. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest of his chair, as if he were composing some cruel melody to accompany the charred remains of his court.

Jaime stood frozen, unable to move, his mind struggling to comprehend the scale of the devastation. He couldn’t see Cersei. He couldn’t see her, but he knew—deep down, he knew—she was gone. She, and everyone else who had been in this hall, were now nothing more than ashes. Burned whole or reduced to the point of no recognition. The golden-haired children, the proud lords, the scheming ladies—all were gone, consumed by the fire that had claimed the night.

The hall was silent now, save for the faint hiss of dying flames. So different from the water that devoured the House Reyne in its time of reckoning by his House. Jaime’s mind flashed back to the stories he had heard of Castamere, how the rains had washed away the blood and bone, how nothing had remained but silence and ruin. Now, here at Harrenhal, it was the same. But this time the fire had taken everything.

And in the center of it, the Targaryens sat, untouched, unscathed by the inferno they had unleashed.

Jaime took a step forward, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. “Cersei… Father…”

No one answered. Only the flicker of flames greeted him.

His gaze flicked to Y/N, still seated in her chair, her eyes distant, as if she had found peace amidst the destruction. Rhaegar turned his head, his eyes meeting Jaime’s, but the prince said nothing. There was nothing to say. Jaime’s hand clenched into a fist, the weight of his failure crashing down on him. He hadn’t been able to save his sister. He hadn’t even been able to reach her.

The silence pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. The reign of the lions had ended, just as the rains had ended the Reynes. And now, the dragons had written their own song, with fire and blood.

[persicipen]

claws ノ feixiao

₊ ˙ ⊹ . you bring a special scroll from lingsha to your general, who commissioned a secret spell. as her favourite concubine, such visits in a tent during the resting hours could only mean one thing. and you would gladly oblige.

ৎ୭ — · · 2.9k ノ fem reader — sponsored through @ficsforgaza project ノ wolf and bunny dynamic . bunny-aligned petnames ノ reader is feixiao’s concubine . lesbian sex waaah! ノ fingering . oral — reader receiving ノ biting . rough handling . overstimulation ノ magical strap . big cock feixiao <3

Your task was simple. Important, but simple.

To have the special scroll from Lingsha, the new Cauldron Master of the Xianzhou Luofu’s Alchemy Commission, be delivered into the hands of your beloved general, the Merlin’s Claw herself, Feixiao of Xianzhou Yaoqing. Both women treated this as a form of alliance, sharing secrets ebbed into the silken paper and smug glances back when they were discussing the mysterious context of said spell.

It took a while — not a short one — but once it was ready, you were the one to bring it back.

Encouraged by the phantom of the lingering touch of the general, a sweep of her fingers on your chin to keep your head up right before your leave, you rode through the skies with curiosity and naive excitement in your heart to feel it anew at your return.

In every sense of the word, to enemies she was the storm, but to you — your sun. So dazzling and full of pride, capable of bearing everything as though it weighed nothing, even the blows of evil barely scratching her muscles.

And she treated her concubines with care, not to be so bold to say — with love. And you were her favourite, for some reason, given the large amounts of luxury gifted to you on occasion. Before your departure, she gave you her most precious white borisin fur, hiding underneath layers and layers of gilded and elegant silks that emitted a sweet perfume scent with every movement. You loved the fur, similar to the mane on her forehead, like she gave you a part of herself to keep you warm.

Now, not even the moon fully settled on the night sky, you come back and — long story short — end up in the general’s bed.

The bond between you feels tangible, woven into the very fabric of the evening. She will be the fury, and you will be a steady river, welcoming, caring, never turning away from her.

Swept from your feet and put under her body, you’re smiling at her grinning features that demand obedience. To give yourself to her, at last, after she waited and waited for you to bring the scroll — its contents safely tucked away by the nightstand for later use.

“Come on, sweetling, I didn’t send you to Lingsha for you to slack off.” Feixiao’s voice is electrifying, sharp against your body. “Didn’t she teach you the ways of pleasuring demanding lovers, eh?”

“Like you, general?”

“Heh, like me.”

Her long fingers knead you, with the goal of having you warm and soft for her. The contrast between her pointy features — silver ears flicking above her head, icy eyes darting from your face to between your legs, sculpted arms from bearing the weapons swift as a lightning— and yours gets her going. How could it not? You’re a real treat, and all she can think of is to bite into you with joy.

Sharp as a knife, the general feels like you are so close yet still too far away, even when her hand slams into your mouth, probing at your tongue so you may drool all over her wrist, a pliant creature you are.

Why should she waste precious time when you can salivate this much and all it takes is just to bring her own palm down and smear the moisture all over your puffy folds?

“Hah, hot already. And here I am thinking you need to be more wet… Look at my pants, fuck, all stained from your juices, ha!” She grins, her laugh thunderous in the room as you sigh and whimper, trying to touch her wherever you can, while Feixiao bucks up against your thigh and hisses at the friction.

You hump into her hands, but she takes you off, rising and kissing you with savage delight.

The smell of steel is not so prominent on her, mostly soot and blood; she’s not fresh from the battlefield like this morning, but she still carries the war with herself, the traces of fire and ashes never really leaving her even if there’re no weapons on her person. She holds you with eyes almost feral, as if she hasn’t eaten in days and only a mere strip of flesh will satiate her hunger.

A turbulence of messy undressing and pulling at each other’s robes lasts a flicker of time and she keeps that silk veil on you like a ribbon on a gift.

She lets go of you, laying you down and taking off her clothes quickly. You rest there like a delicate sacrifice, all too willing to offer yourself to the god of war, yet not without complaining about how she takes too long for it’s unnecessary for her to be naked, and this was your job anyway — just to lay and smell deliciously with your legs open.

“And what do we have here? A bunny who knows how to bite?”

“Only if you want me to, general.”

She shuts you up with another rough kiss, smashing her lips into yours and forcing her tongue into your mouth. Her firm tits glide up and down against your own, pebbled and scarred nipples digging into your skin.

When she parts, she takes hold of your chin, pinching and turning your head left and right, admiring her handiwork — how hazy your glossy eyes are, how you pant desperately.

You whine a little, your lashes fluttering against your flushed cheeks, and Feixiao gives you a gentle slap in the face. She then grips your face hard, whispering to you how cute you are and what a pretty little thing ro be devoured.

The power and strength in her hands make you shudder in pleasure. Her praise makes you beam.

“Bunny, I cannot ever decide if I want to get to you immediately or savour the time together. Mm, but now I see you and I cannot tease you any longer, so— legs wide.”

Her free hand squeezes into your knee, while she roughly spreads you open, letting go of your face and sliding down, sitting between your legs. She eyes you up and down before her claws, beautifully manicured nails, drag across your soft thighs, leaving angry red marks on the surface. Her luminescent gaze is almost poisonous, turning your blood into lead, hot and burning within you.

It takes all your might not to fall apart right there and then, but she decides to spare you some humiliation for once, drawing closer to your mound.

Your insides are warm and slick, reddened by all the rubbing you received earlier, and the general doesn’t hesitate to take advantage of this. She licks a long stripe between your folds, the tip of her not entirely foxian tongue leaving a trail of saliva to coat and slick up your skin. You stifle a moan and bite your lips, hands balled into fists on your sides as you fight the urge to make a noise, letting her hear only the echoes of her own harsh breaths.

She goes in deeper, flattening her tongue against your most sensitive part and slurping obscenely, because she knows it gets you worked up. She wants you to say her name. How your body convulses is delicious to see, especially when she, as your lover, feels you getting close. The buildup elicits a whimper out of you, chest rising and falling rapidly as she laps at your cunt.

You have been edged for too long, and you feel tears starting to form in the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed with all these sensations — the slight tickle from her nose rubbing against your clit, the strange coldness of her silver piercings, the moist heat of her mouth eating you out.

“Ah—! General, general, please…!” Your words sound like an enchantment to her ears, like music, so she only groans louder and slaps your thigh a few times, relishing in how your muscles tremble. Your toes curl into the sheets as the general holds your legs up and over her shoulders, grabbing your ass up from the splayed sheets and rocking you back and forth against her face.

When you finally reach your peak, your cries are wanton and high-pitched, lost to the wind that roams through the tent. The storm rising outside together with desire stirring within the Merlin’s Claw heart.

With her relentless mouth still on you, licking all of your juices, you slump down into the pillows, sighing heavily.

Feixiao comes up for air after a while, laughing at how limp you look, arms above your head, thighs still spread open with your swollen folds in full view. She scoffs, calls you a whore for this with a proud smile, and dips her hand there for the last time, giving you a few circular rubs, causing you to buckle and wail into the mattress.

“Hah, the more you have, the more you want. Good thing I asked Lingsha for that spell… You know which one. One of the few good uses of the curse within my body.” She exclaims, purring, one arm already reaching for the parchment with the handwritten enchantment.

Before your eyes, as she tears down her military pants, a shroud of mist and storm gathers in her loins, tamed and shaped by her claws until it takes a phallic form. Its glistening dark blue is marbled with streaks of molten silver, solidifying into cloudy ridges and bumps as you stare at it with interest.

“Naughty woman, she didn’t lie…” Feixiao hums to herself, weighing the newly acquired body part as it tingles against her clit when the spell links her senses to bore it with confidence.

“I didn’t know it’s possible.”

“Haha, now there’s only left to try if it’s as good as the real thing.”

“Like the jade one?” You ask curiously, tilting your head at the memory of some previous experiences shared with your general.

“Mhm, good old times, bun. I will leave it up to you to decide which one is better. A wind or a stone? A storm or a jade?”

She sighs when the magical cock twitches under your watchful gaze, and she continues stepping towards the bed. Your tongue pokes out a little as you are mesmerised by the erection, a hypnotising gleam sparkling off of the sharp head. Feixiao strokes herself slowly, adjusting the tempest to her liking, holding your chin up with her other hand.

“I assume that your more than ready. I don’t want to waste this magic, so hold on to something until I’m fulfilled. Hah, it does look beautiful, but we don’t have much time, and I cannot make it less formidable, you know. Anyway, how about you spread those pretty pussy lips for me?”

Feixiao barks out orders with her usual steadiness, yet her eyes are filled with feral hunger as she descends upon you as you’re turning around with your ass arched up and your trembling fingers parting your cunt for her sharp gaze. Her firm hands take a hold of your waist, not too gently, as simultaneously she aims for the nook between your legs, pressing at your entrance.

She growls in pleasure when the wet heat welcomes her. It’s not entirely possible to feel it like men do, but seeing your creamy cunt open up and a sizzling tingle run to her own loins are more than enough.

The thrust is powerful and sudden, yet precise — pushes into you without hesitation. Her cock is a bit wider than usual toys, with bumps all over that remind you of rocks in a river. You scream in unexpected satisfaction, tearing into the sheets as she immediately pulls out and bucks in again, snarling.

Feixiao looms over you like an omen, letting you feel her heat on your back as her strong arms rest by your head, girth gliding in and out of your hole. Her taut nipples brush against your skin on your shoulder blades with each roll of her hips. She nibbles on your neck, lapping at the bruises with a devilish smirk on her face, silver streaks of sweat decorating her cheeks, making the motions of her jaw more visible and pleasant to watch.

You try to match her rhythm, but you fail, getting lost in the rough fucking. You get on all fours to steady yourself, putting a pillow between your arms.

The general chuckles at this, wondering if this is the moment you realise how fragile you are under her and give up.

It doesn’t bother her much though — there is something wonderfully obscene about being underneath her, your round ass presented to her like this. It gets her blood pumping even harder, especially when you whine into the fabric, muffling your voice.

Eyes flaring red, which she must control; a bloodthirsty urge to claim you in entirety and claw at your constitution like a festering fever, a raging pulse on a wound.

You’re warm and wet, just how she likes it. Allowing herself to slow down, she hums, not stopping altogether as she begins to thrust more precisely. Your walls clench around her at random intervals, and she grits her teeth, taking one of her hands to squeeze your hips, feeling how they move along with her, just slightly, but it makes her ecstatic nonetheless.

Your hands slip downwards, while you try to keep yourself upright, accidentally pushing the pillow away. It falls to the ground, and Feixiao glances down, an evil grin creeping on her lips.

She reaches down to take hold of your hand and brings it between your legs.

“Touch yourself. Make yourself come on my cock,” she hisses into your ear, gritting her teeth, forcing you to flatten your palm against your mound, with your middle finger already near your swollen clit. You moan and lean back against her chest, clenching hard, which is making your walls feel more stretched than ever.

Her hips pound against you faster, allowing the tip of her length to smack into you with ease. It hits a spot inside you, sending tingles all over your body as she snickers, only amused at your wild flailing, almost knocking the vase from Xianzhou Zhuming — a lucky charm gifted to her during one of the recent campaigns — from the nightstand. She grabs you by the neck, pushing you down into the bed with her looming figure pressed up against you.

In a chaos of emotions, you reach the peak of pleasure just like that, your mouth agape and tongue hanging out as your thighs tremble, insides twitching as if they want to keep Feixiao there forever.

The storm within you hardens even more, making you let out a painful moan as your orgasm dies down.

In the midst of the delirious haze, she takes her time, thrusting in abandon into you as she continues to play with your pussy, ordering you to sit up on your knees. When you are firmly perched on her magical cock, she grips ‘round your love handles roughly, like intended, mounting for the final round what is rightfully hers. Her hand sneaks to your mound again, swirling around the sensitive nub, collecting the slick and pushing it back between your folds.

Her other hand leaves your chest, moving downwards to fist her shaft, squeezing at the base. It pulses and grows inside you, throbbing even more than before; it makes you whine like in heat, wanting to sink into the mattress, yet she is still there, holding you, chasing her own release.

You slide against the headboard of the bed, curling your back and sobbing at how oversensitive you become. She says something to you, but you cannot hear, all your senses clouded by the blood rushing through your veins, your chest waving with each gasp.

Once she pulls out, it makes a wet sound that rings in your ears and sends shivers down your spine. You shake with relief as she slaps her cock against your thigh, thick beads of clear liquid dripping down your skin. Her eyes glint at this, before she lunges forward to lick it off you, hissing when she presses her mouth against your burning skin.

“G-general!” You moan, raising your palm to push her off, not gifted with her stamina to keep going. “Please, cease at last… I cannot!”

Feixiao gazes up at you from between your legs, digging her sharp teeth into your flesh as she sits up, pouting with your juices smeared all over her chin.

“A pity,” she grunts, fingers splayed on your thighs, kneading them roughly and sinking her fingertips in. She admires the lines left behind by her nails, eyes shining wickedly as she glances at your sweaty form. A strand of hair has fallen onto your face, sticking to your cheek, your ribcage heaving up and down with each shaky exhale. “Yet you did exceptionally well, bunny!”

“A-anything for you, my general.”

There and then you hear her huff whilst she licks her lips and nuzzles into your stomach, like a wolf after a successful hunt — a mass of muscles and heat slumping down to relax.

You let her rest for a while, with her breathing turning steady. She leaves a trail of drool and love bites on your stomach, humming as you thread your fingers through her hair. You massage her scalp with your fingers and brush the coarse tips of her fluffy ears that flick with contentment. There’s no strength left in you, but the duty to care for your lover is too strong. A thin film of sweat glistens on her skin, dotted with goosebumps from the night chill.

The beast has been satiated. For how long, no one knows. For tonight, for sure, and you’re glad she has wore herself down enough to fall asleep with her neck heavy on your lap.

₊ ˙ ⊹ . AUTHOR’S NOTE — jokes aside, i really hope i did somewhat well and didn’t get lost in describing weird thing that is a cock made of stormy clouds lmao </3 it’s not really my first time writing adult content with fem characters and fem reader, but definitely my first time posting such fics. thank you very much for reading!

[seungminsbaldspot]

Six Years, Five months and Two days | FIVE X READER

pairing: five hargreaves x reader

Part one: Six Years, Five Months, and Two Days | Five X Reader

Word Count: 5329

Genre: angst / smut

General Notes: Lila x Five did happen here folks :/, sexual themes, crude language, this does not correlate with whatever happens during seasons 4 other than Lila and Five jumping into a different timeline together for seven years, Reader is referred to as female and wife

Trigger Warnings: Sexual Content: Explicit descriptions of sexual activity and references to sexual encounters, Cheating and Betrayal: Emotional fallout from a partner's infidelity, Emotional Manipulation and Gaslighting: Attempts to manipulate emotions and control within a relationship, Non-Consensual Physical Restraint: Instances of physical restraint, such as pinning against a wall or holding wrists down, Physical Aggression and Violence: Descriptions of forceful movements and aggressive behavior, Themes of Anger and Hate in a Relationship Context: Emphasis on anger, resentment, and hate within a romantic relationship, Rough or Aggressive Sexual Behavior: Elements of rough and aggressive sexual encounters, bordering on non-consensual behavior, References to Self-Worth and Insecurity: Reflections on feelings of inadequacy and questions about self-worth due to a partner's actions, Emotional Pain and Trauma: Heavy themes of emotional pain, grief, and unresolved trauma, and Language and Tone: Use of harsh and aggressive language, including profanity and confrontational statements.

Notes: f! oral receiving, low-key toxic reader ( to be fair five cheated and I support women’s wrongs ) Handjob, Edging, dirty talk, vaginal sex

Author’s note: I have not watched season 4 and I still do not plan too, mwah

Spoiler: All you get is, There will be a part 3

Click here for next part three!

Click here for the previous part one!

The anger hasn’t waned; it has only solidified into a constant, heavy presence in your life. You’ve withdrawn from everyone around you, the thought of facing anyone else too overwhelming to bear. The pain and frustration have driven you to isolate yourself, seeking solace in solitude rather than the company of others.

The only person you’ve managed to speak with at all is Allison. She’s the lone exception to your self-imposed isolation, offering a semblance of normalcy and a listening ear. Her patience and understanding are a rare comfort in this tumultuous time, though even your interactions with her are tinged with the shadows of your unresolved feelings.

Five, on the other hand, feels like a constant, painful reminder of everything you’ve lost. Each time you catch sight of him approaching, a wave of instinctual panic drives you to flee. You avoid him as if he’s a physical manifestation of your anguish. When you see him heading your way, you almost immediately retreat to the room you once shared. There, you lock the door behind you, creating a tangible barrier between yourself and the world outside, a small fortress of solitude where you can escape the reminders of your broken trust.

Your new daily routine has become a predictable cycle. You stay confined to your room for most of the day, emerging only for the latter part of dinner when everyone gathers to eat. You join them just long enough to pick at your food, barely participating in the conversation. The silence and the strained glances from others only deepen your sense of isolation. Once you’ve finished, you retreat back to your room, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that echoes the loneliness you feel.

You’re maintaining this ritual, this enforced distance, until one evening when you’re heading back to your room. As you walk through the hallways, the familiar routine feels almost comforting in its predictability. But tonight, something shifts in the air. The hallway seems quieter, more oppressive, and the weight of your emotions feels heavier than usual. Each step toward the door of your sanctuary feels more burdensome, as if the act of retreating is becoming more than just a physical escape but a symbol of your own entrapment.

You reach for the door handle, your mind a tumultuous mix of pain and anger. Just as you’re about to close the door behind you, a sudden sound from the hallway makes you freeze.

It’s Five.

Before you can react, he’s right behind you, closing the distance with an urgency that catches you off guard. His hand wraps around your wrist with a firm grip, and before you know it, he’s pinning you against the wall. The pressure of his hold is both commanding and desperate, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that cuts through the fog of your emotions.

The hallway around you seems to dissolve into the background, leaving only the two of you in this charged, claustrophobic space. His breath is uneven, mingling with the tension that hangs heavily in the air. His face is a complex tapestry of frustration and something deeper—something you can’t quite put your finger on.

The familiar surge of anger rises within you, a fiery response to the violation of your space and emotions. “Get the fuck off of me,” you snap, trying to wrench your wrist free from his grasp. Your voice is sharp, laced with a mixture of hurt and defiance. The intensity of the moment amplifies your feelings, making the struggle against his hold feel even more urgent.

Five’s grip tightens momentarily, as if he’s trying to ground himself, but his eyes soften just enough to reveal a glimmer of vulnerability. “I know you’re angry,” he says, his voice rough yet edged with desperation. “I know I messed up. But I need you to listen to me. We can’t keep doing this.”

You shake your head, the anger in your voice unmistakable. “No fucking shit, you fucked up. Now leave me the fuck alone, Five,” you grit out, struggling against his hold. His eyebrows furrow, his frustration evident. “Diego and Lila made up. Why can’t we?”

You grit your teeth, your voice steady but sharp. “I’m not dumb enough to fall for some shitty make-up sex,” you reply, your words cutting through the air.

He shakes his head, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation. “Of course not,” he says, his voice softening. “I’m not saying you are.”

He switches his grip, each hand now holding one of your wrists firmly but gently, as if trying to convey earnestness through his touch. The change in his hold is subtle, his fingers wrapping around your wrists with a delicate urgency. He looks into your eyes, his gaze pleading yet determined. “What I’m trying to say is that we need to talk about this, really talk. We can’t just keep avoiding each other.”

You try to pull away, your frustration boiling over. “Leave me the fuck alone, Five,” you snap, yanking your wrists free from his grip. You rush for the door, desperate to escape, but Five moves quickly, catching the door before you can open it. He pulls you back into the room, forcing both of you into the space you once shared.

“What the fuck? Get the hell out,” you grit out, trying to push him away.

Five shakes his head, his expression set with determination. He grabs your wrist once more, his grip firm as he overpowers you. In a swift, almost frantic motion, he pulls you both onto the bed. You land flat on your back, and before you can react, Five sits across your waist, his position intended to pin you down. His weight is a physical reminder of his resolve, and he tries to stabilize you, his face inches from yours.

“I’m not leaving until we can make up,” he says, his voice a mix of desperation and determination.

You groan in frustration, your anger bubbling over. “Then fuck, we’re gonna be here till we fucking die,” you retort, struggling against him.

He smiles, a touch of defiance and resolve in his expression. “I’ve got till the end of the world, babe.” His tone is both challenging and tender, a reminder of the stubbornness that has defined so much of your relationship.

“Fuck you, Five Hargreaves,” you grit out, bucking your hips in an attempt to unbalance him. Five’s eyes narrow slightly, his grip tightening as he struggles to maintain his position. Despite the shift, he doesn’t move, his resolve unwavering.

“Fuck, why can’t you just forgive me?” he says desperately, his voice tinged with frustration.

You roll your eyes, exasperated. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You fucked Lila, for fuck’s sake. Five, we’re married and you’ve never even seen me naked. How am I supposed to just forgive that?”

He sighs, the weight of your words visibly affecting him. With a defeated gesture, he loosens one of his hands, pushing back his hair, though he keeps his other hand firmly on your wrist. His expression is a mix of weariness and regret, struggling to find the right words amidst the turmoil.

“I know. I fucking know.” He says, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m so fucking sorry, alright? I don’t know what else to do.” His eyes search yours, a raw vulnerability in his gaze.

You sigh, your gaze drifting away from his. In a swift, determined motion, you buck your hips, shifting your position to straddle him. You look down at him, your expression a mix of frustration and intensity. “You’re so fucking infuriating all of the fucking time,” you say, your voice tinged with both anger and a deeper, unresolved hurt.

“I don’t fucking understand you,” you say, your voice trembling, “All of these years, and I feel like I just met you.” Your words cut through the air, laden with the weight of all the emotions you’ve been grappling with. He groans, his frustration evident. “Do you think I love being confused all the time, huh? It’s not exactly easy for me either.” His eyes, still locked on yours, as if he’s pleading for you to see things from his perspective, to understand that he’s struggling just as much as you are.

“I don’t give a single flying fuck about what happened in that timeline,” you spit out, your voice sharp and unyielding. “You fucking cheated on me. Someone you’ve known for 50 years.” You lean in closer, your breath mingling with his, every word laced with venom.

Five closes his eyes, his eyebrows furrowed in anguish. “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice strained, almost pleading.

Your heart clenches at his words, but the fury quickly surges back, hot and consuming. “I fucking hate you,” you whisper, leaning in to crash your lips against his, rough and unforgiving. You taste the salt of his regret, and it fuels the fire in your veins.

You release his wrists, not out of mercy but because you need them to support yourself as you shift your weight. As you begin to pull away, his hands find your hips with a desperate urgency. His grip is firm, almost bruising, and it ignites something primal inside you—a dark thrill at his neediness. He sits up, pressing his body against yours, trying to close the distance you’ve purposely created.

You try to jerk away, but he doesn’t relent. His mouth finds yours again, his kiss insistent, bordering on frantic, as if he could somehow erase the betrayal with the intensity of his touch. His nails dig into your sides, a biting reminder of his desperation to hold on to you, to keep you tethered to him.

“F-Five…” you hiss through clenched teeth, your voice trembling not with desire, but with the fury that he can still make you feel this way.

He hums in response, a low, needy sound, as his lips trail across your face and neck. Each kiss is too tender, too earnest. It grates against your skin like sandpaper, a mockery of the intimacy he once shattered. You grit your teeth, hating how his touch sends a heat pooling in your core, hating him for still knowing exactly how to get under your skin.

“I hate you so much…” you whisper again, but the words feel thin, brittle. They don't carry the weight of your rage the way you want them to.

He doesn’t stop. His kisses become more erratic, as if he’s trying to drown out your words with the only language he thinks he knows. His hands slide under your shirt, fingertips brushing your skin in a way that makes your breath hitch. You curse under your breath, torn between the urge to push him away and the overwhelming pull to lose yourself in him, if only to forget for a moment how much it all hurts.

He tugs at your shirt, and for a split second, you consider pushing him away again, making him suffer. But then you think, Fuck it. Maybe if he sees you like this, sees what he could lose, he’ll finally understand. You nod, a slight, reluctant movement, and his eyes light up with a mix of relief and urgency.

He rips your shirt over your head, his lips immediately trailing hot, fervent kisses along your neck. Your breathing quickens, your body betraying your anger as it responds to his touch. He fumbles with the hooks of your bra, and you don’t help him. Let him struggle. Let him know that this isn’t forgiveness—it’s a punishment. When he finally unhooks it, your bra falls away, and you watch his face for any sign of hesitation or doubt. But his gaze is intense, almost reverent, and you hate him even more for it.

The room is thick with tension, the silence broken only by your ragged breaths. His eyes roam over your chest, and you feel a flicker of insecurity. Did he like hers better? Are mine not good enough? The questions stab at your already bleeding heart, but you shake them off, forcing your anger back to the surface.

Without warning, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a bruising kiss. You’re not gentle; you’re taking from him, using him. He doesn’t get to have this, you think bitterly. He doesn’t deserve this.

He gasps against your mouth, surprised by your aggression, but quickly falls into rhythm, kissing you back with a hunger that makes your head spin. His hands grip your bare waist, pulling you closer, his touch igniting your skin in a way that makes your heart race with a confusing blend of hate and desire.

You reach down, grabbing the hem of his shirt, yanking it up with frustration. You want him exposed, vulnerable, just like he made you feel. You want to see him stripped of everything—his clothes, his defenses, his excuses. You pull his shirt off roughly, and he lets out a soft grunt, his eyes wide with surprise at your forcefulness.

Your hands move to his waistband, tugging with more force than necessary. Five understands the message immediately, quickly shedding his pants, leaving him in just his underwear. His hands are on you again, this time more urgent, more desperate, as he pulls your shorts down your legs. His movements are hurried, almost frantic, as if he’s afraid you’ll change your mind and leave him half-naked and abandoned.

His hands roam down your body, grasping and squeezing your ass with a possessiveness that makes you bristle. He hooks his finger in the band of your underwear, pulling it away from your skin and letting it snap back. The sting makes you gasp, not in pleasure, but in shock. You bite your lip, glaring at him, hating how even now, in the middle of your rage, he can still get a reaction out of you.

He doesn't deserve this, you think again, but you’re already too far gone. You’re in too deep, both with him and with your own conflicting feelings. You hate him, but you want him, and that contradiction tears at you, making you reckless, making you want to hurt him the way he hurt you.

He smiles and lays you down flat on the bed. He slowly pulls your underwear down to your ankles.

You glare at Five, anger coursing through you like a live wire. His eyes lock onto yours, hesitant, as if he's unsure of his place with you now. You hate the way he looks at you—the way his gaze drifts over your body, as if trying to remember every inch, every curve. He has no right. Not after what he did. Not after the betrayal. But damn it, you still want him, and that infuriates you even more.

He cheated. The thought burns in your mind, a searing reminder of why you're here now, in this moment, letting him touch you, letting him come this close. You want to use him, to make him feel some fraction of the anger and hurt that's been simmering inside you since the moment you found out. You're not here to forgive; you're here to take what you want.

Five leans down, his lips pressing a tentative kiss to your inner thigh. You feel his breath, hot against your skin, and it sends a shiver through you despite yourself. Anger and desire mix in a confusing swirl, and you have to bite back a frustrated moan. You shouldn't be feeling this way—not after everything—but your body has other ideas. You're furious with him, with yourself, with how easily he still affects you. His hands slide up your legs, parting them with a gentleness that almost makes you want to scream. It's too soft, too careful, and you can't stand it.

"Don't," you snap, your voice sharp. "Don't pretend this is something it's not. You fucking cheated, I’m gonna use you."

Five's fingers hesitate, his eyes flicking up to yours, searching. But you're not giving him anything—no reassurance, no forgiveness. Not now. Maybe not ever. His touch resumes, more deliberate now, his fingers tracing a path up your thighs. You feel his uncertainty, his regret, and it only stokes the fire inside you. He’s trying to be careful, to tread lightly, but you don't want careful. You want raw. You want him to understand just how much he's hurt you, just how deep the wound goes.

When his lips brush against your core, you don't hold back the sound that escapes you—a moan that's filled with anger as much as it is with desire. It's a sound that tells him everything he needs to know: you're not doing this for him. You're doing this for you. His tongue moves against you, hesitant at first, but you grab his hair roughly, pulling him closer, forcing him to go deeper. If he thinks he can just make it all better with a few soft touches, he's dead wrong.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you arch against him, not in surrender, but in command. You're directing this, controlling it, making sure he knows exactly what he's lost, exactly what he threw away when he chose someone else. You grind against his mouth, not giving him a chance to catch his breath. You’re angry, and you want him to feel every bit of it.

He groans against you, his hands gripping your thighs harder, and you can't tell if it's out of pleasure or frustration. Maybe both. Good. Let him feel it. Let him understand that this isn’t about making amends. This is about you taking what you need from him, nothing more.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you climb higher, teetering on the edge of a release that feels like it could shatter you—or maybe put you back together. You’re not sure. You only know that you want it, need it, if only to drown out the anger that’s been suffocating you. His tongue moves faster, more desperate, and you can feel him trying to please you, trying to make up for what he’s done. But you don’t want his remorse. You want his surrender.

When you finally let go, it's with a cry that's part pleasure, part anguish—a sound that echoes around the room, raw and unfiltered. Your body shudders against him, every nerve ending sparking with the intensity of your release. You pull his hair harder, dragging him with you as you ride out every wave, every pulse, every ripple of sensation that he’s drawn from you.

As the pleasure fades, you push him away, catching your breath, your heart pounding with a mixture of satisfaction and lingering rage. Five looks up at you, his eyes filled with a mix of confusion, regret, and something else—maybe longing, maybe loss. You don't care. You're not ready to decipher his feelings. This wasn't about him. This was about you, reclaiming some sense of control.

You reach down his torso, into his underwear, that was still on. Your fingers wrap around his length, feeling him hard and throbbing beneath your touch. Five's breath hitches, a soft groan escaping his lips as you begin to stroke him slowly, deliberately. You can feel his body tensing, responding to your touch despite the anger that still simmers between you.

Your movements are slow, calculated, as you watch Five's reactions closely. His eyes are half-lidded, his breathing shallow, and you can see the conflict in his expression—the desire warring with the guilt. You increase your pace slightly, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction as he struggles to maintain his composure. This is your power now, your control, and you intend to wield it mercilessly.

You tighten your grip, watching as Five's hips involuntarily buck into your hand. His eyes squeeze shut, a low moan escaping his throat. You can feel him trembling beneath your touch, fighting against the pleasure you're giving him. It's intoxicating, this power you hold over him, and for a moment, you consider pushing him further, seeing just how much he can take before he breaks completely.

When his breathing becomes more erratic, you suddenly stop, earning a desperate moan from Five. His eyebrows furrow as he looks into your eyes, confusion and need evident. You smile at him, shaking your head. His gaze holds a mix of frustration and longing, but you relish the moment of dominance.

You lay flat against the bed, peering up at Five. Despite your anger, you can't ignore the fact that this is your first time, while he's had experience. The realization sends a mix of emotions coursing through you - vulnerability, defiance, and a touch of insecurity. "It's my first time, you know," you say, your voice wavering slightly between accusation and confession. "And clearly, you have had experience." The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken implications and the weight of recent betrayals.

Five's expression shifts, a grimace crossing his features as the full impact of your words sinks in. He nods slowly, acknowledging the truth in your statement. For a moment, he seems lost in thought, perhaps grappling with the consequences of his actions. Then, with a deliberate movement, he crawls over you, his arms braced on either side of your head. His gaze is intense, searching, filled with a complex mix of desire, regret, and something that might be longing. He opens his mouth, clearly on the verge of saying something, but you're not ready to hear it. Not now, not when you're balanced on this razor's edge of anger and desire.

You place a firm hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. "Just save it, alright?" you say, your voice low and tinged with a hint of challenge. "Fuck me." The words are both a command and a surrender, a way of taking control even as you give yourself over to the moment.

Five hesitates, his eyes roaming your face as if trying to read your thoughts. You can see the conflict in his expression, the desire warring with concern. But you meet his gaze steadily, unflinching, silently daring him to back down. Finally, finding no uncertainty in your eyes, he positions himself at your entrance. You feel the heat of him, the promise of what's to come, and your breath catches in anticipation.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Five pushes into you. The sensation is overwhelming - a complex blend of pleasure, discomfort, and an intense feeling of fullness that makes you gasp. It's more than just physical; it's emotional too, a connection that feels both right and wrong given the circumstances. Five stills, allowing you time to adjust, his gaze never leaving yours. In his eyes, you see a swirl of emotions - desire, concern, and something deeper that you're not ready to name.

You clench your jaw, trying to suppress a moan as the initial discomfort gives way to a building pleasure. It's intense, almost too much, but you refuse to show any sign of weakness. Five begins to move, his thrusts slow and measured, each one sending waves of sensation through your body. Despite your anger, despite everything that's happened, you can't deny the intensity of the moment, the way your bodies seem to fit together perfectly. It's as if your bodies remember a connection that your minds are trying to forge

A moan escapes your lips, betraying the tumultuous mix of emotions surging within you. You bite down on your lip, determined to keep the upper hand, but it's becoming harder to ignore the mounting pleasure that spreads through you with each of Five's movements.

He maintains his slow, deliberate pace, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of pain or discomfort. You can see the concern etched across his features, but it only serves to stoke the fire of your anger. You don't want his pity, his guilt, or his regret. You want to take control of this moment, to reclaim your power in the face of the betrayal that still lingers between you.

“Harder,” you grit out, your voice low and demanding. You dig your nails into his back, urging him on. You want to erase everything—his betrayal, your pain, the confusion that lingers in every shared glance.

Five’s breath hitches at your command, his grip on your hips tightening as he adjusts his pace, thrusting deeper, harder. The intensity spikes, a mix of pleasure and pain that sends electric currents through your veins. You arch against him, every nerve alight, every sense heightened. The friction, the heat, the sound of your bodies moving together—it's overwhelming, consuming. The anger that has been a constant presence within you begins to shift, transforming into something raw and primal, a need that you're only now beginning to understand. It's not forgiveness - not by a long shot - but in this moment, the hurt and betrayal fade into the background.

You arch your back, pushing your hips up to meet his movements, matching his rhythm with a newfound intensity. Every sensation is amplified, every touch, every thrust sending you spiraling further into a haze of conflicting emotions. You hate him for what he did, for the pain he caused, but in this moment, all of that fades into the background, leaving only the raw, electric connection between you.

Five's breathing becomes more labored, his grip on your hips tightening as he increases his pace. You feel the pressure building within you, a tight coil that threatens to snap at any moment. Your hands claw at his back, leaving marks in your wake, a physical manifestation of your anger and frustration. You want him to remember this, to carry the evidence of this moment with him, just as you've been forced to carry the weight of his betrayal.

"Is this what you wanted?" you taunt, your voice breathless but defiant. "To fuck me like you did her?"

Five's eyes flash with something you can't quite place—a mix of anger, regret, and a desperation that matches your own. His movements become more erratic, his grip on you almost bruising in its intensity. He leans down, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath hot against your skin. "No," he growls, his voice rough with emotion. "I want you. I've always wanted you."

The words strike a chord deep within you, igniting a fresh wave of conflicting emotions. Part of you wants to believe him, to let yourself be swept away by the intensity of the moment. But the other part, the part that still clings to the pain and betrayal, refuses to let go. You push against his chest, creating a small space between you, just enough to remind him—and yourself—of the distance that still exists between you.

Despite the brief reprieve, the pleasure continues to build, a relentless tide that threatens to pull you under. You feel yourself teetering on the edge, your body tightening with anticipation, and you know that you're close, so close to the release you've been chasing. You dig your nails into his back, urging him on, needing him to push you over that final precipice.

You cling to him, your hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer. “Don’t you fucking dare stop,” you warn, your voice breaking with the force of your emotions. You need this, this moment where everything else fades away and there’s only the sensation of his body against yours, inside yours.

Five responds with a deep, guttural moan, his face inches from yours. His rhythm becomes more erratic, driven by a mix of desperation and need. His breaths are hot against your skin, his forehead pressed against yours as he moves faster, his thrusts becoming more frantic. The bed creaks beneath you, the sound a rhythm of its own, matching the pulse of your racing heart.

You feel your body tensing, the coil of pleasure tightening, and you know you’re close. You grip Five’s shoulders, holding on as the wave builds, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. His name escapes your lips in a broken moan, a sound filled with all the anger, all the need, all the conflicted emotions that have been burning inside you.

His hands roam your body, one slipping between you to find that sensitive spot, his touch sending a shock of pleasure through you. It’s too much, too intense, and you throw your head back, a cry tearing from your throat as you come undone around him, your body convulsing with the force of your climax.

Five’s thrusts grow more uneven, more desperate, as he chases his own release. You feel him tremble, his grip on you tightening as he reaches his peak, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he spills into you, his body collapsing against yours in a tangle of limbs and sweat.

For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the weight of what just happened settling between you like a heavy fog. Five doesn’t move, his head buried in the crook of your neck, his breaths warm against your skin. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, your mind a whirlwind of emotions.

Eventually, Five pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours for something—understanding, forgiveness, maybe even love. But you’re not ready to give him any of that. Not yet. You turn your head away, your jaw clenched, trying to steady your breathing, trying to ignore the way your heart still races from the intensity of it all.

He tries to move closer, but you place a firm hand on his chest, stopping him cold. The heat of his body against your palm contrasts sharply with the coldness in your voice. “Don’t,” you warn, your tone low and laced with menace. “This doesn’t change anything. You’re still a fucking cheater.”

His eyes widen slightly, a mix of shock and regret flashing across his face. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles to keep his composure. His gaze drops to the floor, unable to meet yours. The intensity of the moment hangs heavy in the air, the silence between you almost palpable.

You feel a flicker of satisfaction at his obedience, his silent acknowledgment of your terms. His body tenses under your hand, a clear sign that he’s accepted the boundaries you’ve set. Your anger and sense of control are temporarily sated, a bitter victory in the aftermath of your cathartic release.

The room is filled with the soft, ragged breaths of both of you, the aftermath of your shared moment lingering in the charged atmosphere. You've gotten what you wanted—at least for now.

“Get out,” you command, your voice firm and unyielding.

He opens his mouth to protest, a “But—” escaping his lips, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head. “Leave me alone, Five.”

He hesitates, his eyes darting between you and the door. “We just fucked. Are you sure about this?” he asks, a mix of confusion and vulnerability in his voice. You stare at him coldly, the remnants of your anger still simmering beneath the surface. “I’m sure. Just go.”

He swallows hard, clearly torn, but he nods slowly, turning to gather his clothes. The silence that follows is heavy, each breath a reminder of the intensity of what just transpired. As he exits, the door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving you alone in the stillness.

Tears slip down your cheeks, unbidden. Why do you love him so much?

[nothingbutsweetwords]

ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ɴɪᴇᴄᴇ

"…ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇꜱ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴄᴀʀꜱ."

Word count: 5,000.

Fandom: House of the Dragon.

Pairing: Aemond x Reader!Velaryon!Niece.

Warnings: Angst, mention of SA!

RELEASE — 14. Him.

“Is all well, my son?” His mother’s voice pierced through the stillness that had ensnared him. He looked up abruptly, struggling to conceal the emotions threatening to break free.

His concentration had vanished like wisps of smoke caught in a draft. He found himself trapped in a labyrinth of anxieties and questions, all revolving around her and the recent unsettling events. The past night had been an interminable whirlwind of unease.

The day had begun with a purpose as clear as the open sky: to persuade her to heed his words. Yet despite his ceaseless efforts, his quest had borne no fruit. She had vanished like a ghost. He had rapped upon her door in vain and then scoured the castle. Each shadowed corner yielded only the hollow echo of his own distress.

“What?” 

“You have been rather distracted these past days” she observed softly, yet her frown was imbued with concern and seriousness. He inhaled deeply, trying to clear the fog that clouded his mind, striving to offer her the attentiveness she so rightfully deserved.

“Ser Criston Cole has remarked upon your absence from the training sessions” she continued, her tone carrying a subtle undertone of reproach. “We cannot afford to neglect our obligations.”

It was true that since her arrival, he had forsaken the training yard, abandoning the regimen he had diligently maintained. In the past, he had attended every session, morning and afternoon, as though his existence depended on it. He understood his mother’s concern, yet his recent absences seemed to him a minor transgression in the face of his current preoccupations.

“My apologies” he finally said, resuming his breakfast.

“Shall you return to your training once we have concluded here?” she inquired, a slight tension hanging over the table.

His heart ached to continue searching until he found his way back to her, prepared to spend the entire day in earnest supplication if necessary but the expectation in his mother’s face kept him grounded.

Resigned, he nodded, unwilling to add further burden to her shoulders.

“Yes, mother” he affirmed with a note of acquiescence.

At last, disheartened, feeling as though he had exhausted all avenues, he chose to don his training attire—a gesture both of surrender and a final attempt to refocus on something tangible, seeking to reconcile with his duties.

Hours later, the throne room was a display of opulence, its lavish décor setting the stage for the evening’s festivities. As she entered, her demeanor was one of practiced detachment. Her gaze barely flickered in his direction, as if he were but an extra upon the grand stage. He could not blame her for it, given the delicate state they were in.

They took their places, each occupying their designated end. He was seated at one extremity, while she was positioned at the opposite, separated by the length of the table.

Servants moved with efficiency, finalizing the details of the meal. They ensured that each jug brimmed with wine, every plate was aligned with precision, and trays heaped with an array of sumptuous dishes were delivered.

The side of the table where he sat remained steeped in almost sepulchral silence, broken only by the faint clinking of glasses. In contrast, her side buzzed with vibrant laughter and animated conversation, though she didn’t join in. Her displeasure was palpable, even from a distance. 

Remorse devoured him; he knew she had longed for this grand celebration, and he had marred it with his own missteps.

Amidst the chatter, a voice rose with levity. “I believe,” he began, drawing all eyes toward him, “that this presents an excellent opportunity for our young ones to seek out their future spouses.” The king smiled benevolently, he casted a fleeting glance at him and Daeron before refocusing on the other side of the table.

The proclamation struck him like a frigid wave. It was not the notion of marriage itself that unsettled him; he had long accepted that it was expected of him, given his station and age. And he had already resolved it. if it could not be with her, then he would remain unwed.

What tormented him was the vision of her, lost in the pursuit of another’s heart. It was an inescapable truth: she was a princess, the cherished offspring of the heir to the throne, and the most enchanting woman across the seven kingdoms. 

His recent declaration had created an insurmountable chasm between them—a cruel expanse that not only severed their bond but also pushed her directly towards the waiting arms of the legion of eager admirers. These suitors, swarming like moths to a flame, would drape her in a garland of hollow praise and feigned affections with their glib tongues. 

And he could not bear the thought of her near someone who could only offer nothing but mediocrity, knowing that their fleeting admiration paled in comparison to the boundless true reverence he felt for her.

Across the table, Jacaerys’ broke through his spiraling despair. “They will be around her like vultures” he muttered, the disdain in his tone unmistakable.

He caught sight of a faint, enigmatic smile gracing her lips. This time, rather than offering solace, it seemed to seal the truth of his monumental failure—his efforts to win her back had been spectacularly thwarted.

“Perchance that is exactly what we need” Baela interjected, raising her volume above the others.

He wondered whether Baela had already collected the necessary knowledge to and plotted the course to ensure a husband was found for his beloved princess, considering her animosity toward him. Their eyes briefly met, a short encounter filled with such hostility that he could almost feel her desire to strike him down on the spot.

Regrettably, the grand doors swung open, admitting families and courts from every corner. An anticipatory murmur surged through the assembly, filling the space. She, detached, regarded the spectacle with a resignation he found painfully familiar.

His mind meticulously cataloged the array of stares that had already fixed on her, even before crossing the threshold. It was no small number, indeed, it was far easier to count those who had not yet turned their attention her way. Men, women, elders, and youths alike all seemed to regard themselves as entitled to feast their gazes upon her.

The grim realization settled over him like a shroud: the coming week would be an unrelenting vigil, a ceaseless parade of watchful eyes. Aegon, with a look of pity, patted him on the shoulder.

Once the room was filled to capacity, the king set aside his staff, commanding the attention of all present. “Welcome,” he announced, “it is an honor for me to see so many of you here, united in this celebration. On this very day, thirty years past, I took on the great responsibility of ruling the realm. And, together, we have faced challenges, reaped victories, and preserved the peace we hold so dear.”

“Now, as we embark upon these seven days of festivity, I invite you to enjoy the tournaments, the dances, the hunts, and this modest feast” he added with an ironic tone that elicited mirthful laughter. The extravagance of the feast was anything but modest; excess was the order of the day. “May this time together be an opportunity to strengthen our bonds, remember our history, and look to the future with hope” he concluded, raising his goblet and triggering a wave of applause and jubilant cheers. Music soon began marking the official start.

He barely touched the food, unable to take his focus off the incessant attempts of the men around who kept trying to catch her eye.

Families of high renown approached their table, offering gifts and seeking to exchange words with the king. As each new party arrived, he watched her, trying to gauge her responses. Thankfully, she maintained a polite but aloof demeanor. She offered brief pleasantries that were merely acts of protocol before returning to her conversations with Jacaerys or Baela at her sides.

Yet one individual commanded a singular focus, drawing both her interest and that of the king. His arrival was marked by a northern accent so thick and pronounced that it evoked an involuntary roll of the eye from him. The man introduced himself, as though his identity was not already clear.

Beside him, his brother was eagerly recounting the most recent events with an enthusiasm he couldn’t muster. Daeron seemed to be trying to distract him, but his efforts were in vain; he was too caught up in his thoughts, his mind drifting like a vessel lost on a stormy sea.

The younger narrated the defeats and victories of the participants who had marked the preliminary contests the previous day—contests from which he had deliberately absented himself.

Instead of mingling with the throngs, he had paid a visit to the jeweler, retrieving what he had requested, before turning to the deserted training yard for a grueling session. However, the respite he had sought was elusive; the sword strikes proved no match for the frustration.

In truth, the solace he craved lay solely with her.

She, who perpetually eluded his reach, her avoidance growing more resolute with each passing hour. Despite the desperate pleas of his mind, body, and soul, he had restrained himself from seeking her out, dreading that such actions might only drive her further away.

From the elevated dais, the king’s encouraged the remaining competitors.

That afternoon, the very air seemed to hum with tension. From his vantage on the main balcony, he watched the jousting tourney approaching its climax. Since the first light of dawn, the field had been abuzz with frenetic activity—a ceaseless ballet of combatants and horses that had methodically whittled down the competitors. Now, four of the eight finalists would be selected.

His mother had insisted he attend, suggesting that, if only for a single day, he set aside his reservations about such spectacles. Despite the fact that the idea of facing the neighing of horses, the incessant clamor of the crowd, and the scorching heat of the sun did not appeal to him at all, let alone endure the sight of numerous men vying for the princess’s attention, he had promised to be present.

After a breakfast he could barely taste, he found himself there, weighed down by a favor that laid on her lap, its presence a bitter jest that seemed to mock him.

The first finalist to emerge was his uncle, Gwayne, carrying Helaena’s favor. As the representative of House Hightower, he faced a lord of House Tarly. The lengthy battle was one he scarcely managed to follow to its conclusion.

Following this, the white cloak faced a man of House Massey, and yet another victory was claimed by Cole.

Then came a lord of House Corbray, preparing for his bout against the champion of House Redford. Before taking his position, Corwyn Corbray approached, and to his relief, it was Baela who he called. His hands, which had been tightly clenched around the arms of his chair, could finally relax—though the calm was but momentary.

When the northern made his entrance, a tightening knot settled in his stomach. 

He rode forward with an unsettling air of assurance, each step of his steed echoing his unwarranted confidence. As he drew near, his imperious demeanor commanded the arena’s attention, and the balcony fell into a breathless, expectant hush.

“I was hoping, if it pleases you, to be honored with your favor, princess” Lord Stark intoned, his voice dripping with presumption that set his teeth on edge. The sheer audacity of his request struck a chord so deep that he felt a primal urge to unleash Vhagar’s wrath upon the starving wolf, reducing him to ash and rid the world of his unwelcome presence. 

The idea was intoxicating, yet, he remained tethered by the frail strands of his dwindling restraint.

He stood rooted, paralyzed by helplessness, as she gracefully got up from her seat and glided to the edge of the balcony. The sight of her giving that token to another man was a visceral blow, a dagger aimed directly at his heart with cruel precision. 

The sting of defeat was further compounded by the sound of her light, cheerful laughter. “I wish you success, Lord Stark” she said in a melody of condemnation. 

Though he had no right to complain, the agony of witnessing her favoring another while he languished in obscurity was a torment beyond bearing that made him yearn to sink into the shadows or vanish from existence entirely.

She turned back with a smile and settled once more into her seat, now perched at the edge as if seeking a better view, while clasping Jacaerys’s hand. 

And, as if the day could not grow more excruciating, Lord Stark proceeded to engage in a match against a representative of House Bolton. Despite his fervent hopes and to his deepest dismay, Stark emerged triumphant in the first round, thereby securing his place in the final stage of the tournament. 

In the shroud of nocturnal gloom, after a bath that had done little to soothe his frayed nerves, he sat there, the faint moonlight barely piercing through the darkness.

Despite the patience he believed he possessed, the inactivity became intolerable. The vision of her radiant smile directed at another—one he had helped to foster—replayed ceaselessly in his mind. It was as though he were trapped in a waking nightmare.

With a deep sigh, he closed the small wooden case he had been clutching.

He ventured out into the hallway once it was deserted, each step measured and deliberate, barely audible on the floor. He paused before her chamber, his heart pounding with the ferocity of a drum. He rapped softly upon the door, three times, each knock a quiet plea.

The world seemed to hold its breath in that suspended moment of silence. Then, he heard the distant sound of footsteps approaching, the noise quickening his pulse with a heady blend of hope and dread.

The door creaked open abruptly, and the small smile that had graced her lips vanished upon finding him. Her form, once inviting, was hardened with irritation. “Why is it that you are here?” 

“Because If I had knocked on the back door, you would have ignored me” he replied, awkwardly attempting to infuse a note of levity into the tense atmosphere.

“Perhaps that is because I would rather not see you at all” she retorted, sharply.

“But I must speak with you” he said, urgency reflected in his eyes. She made a determined attempt to close the door, but he swiftly interjected, placing his foot against it. The look of fury she gave him was intense, yet he continued to plead. “Please, do not shut me out. It is important.”

She looked at him for a minute that felt like an eternity, in conflict. Then, with a resigned sigh, she allowed him entry.

Once inside, she closed the door behind him and turned, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. The relief he had felt at managing to get in swiftly dissipated, replaced by a mounting anxiety with each passing second. 

He found himself immobilized by indecision, the right words eluding him.

“I have brought something for you” he murmured, as if the object might serve as a key to unlocking a more amicable dialogue.

“Do you truly believe a gift can make me forget?” She scoffed, glancing briefly at the case before turning her attention to the other side of the room, as if he was a trespasser in her sanctuary.

“Is he courting you?” The question burst forth, raw, more urgently than he had intended, driven by a need to know that bordered on desperation. Her response was a look of exasperation that deepened his sense of inadequacy.

Before he could gather his thoughts to frame a coherent response, she interrupted him with an impatient edge. “Speak quickly” she commanded, her tone brisk as she moved to the table to pour herself a drink. “It is ill-befitting a man to be found in a lady’s chamber at this late hour.” The coldness she exuded was as piercing and unyielding as the frost of the harshest winter.

The woman who had been the epitome of warmth now showed him an opposing face, a testament of how effectively pain could alter someone.

“I am at a loss for how to begin.” Each blink was a battle against the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

She tilted her head slightly, her face inscrutable, but a spark of resolve soon crossed her features. “Perhaps,” she said softly, with a hint of purpose, “I may assist you. I shall ask you some questions.”

Before he could voice his hesitation, she had already begun. Her interrogations, delivered with a steely determination, sliced through the stillness of the room, leaving no space for evasion, deceit or half-truths. Her chambers now felt like a field in a war he hadn't prepared for. 

“Is she here now, in the castle?” she inquired. He silently pleaded for mercy, but she didn’t relent. “Answer me” she ordered, her tone growing more imperative. 

He struggled for a moment, the ache in his chest swelling as grim recollections emerged from the depths of his memory, rendering him smaller than he had felt in a long time.

“No” he uttered, and he observed a fleeting flicker of both relief and disappointment, as though a part of her had hoped for a different answer.

“Was it only once?” 

“Yes.”

“Was it… casual?” she asked, her vulnerability laid bare. “Or do your affections for her run deeper?”

“Of course not.” The assurance fell woefully short even to him. “I cannot even recall her name.”

“What?” Her voice rose with indignation, her brows arching in disbelief and he looked at her, powerless, his shoulders drooping. “How is it possible for you to have forgotten her name?”

“I was not in my right mind that night.” Each word he spoke seemed to dig him further into a pit of dishonor, his penance growing ever more profound.

“But you recall her, do you not?” she demanded. He inclined his head in the slightest of nods. “You remember her face, you remember her body” she pressed further, an unyielding assault on his fragile composure. If he could, he would willingly subject himself to the searing flames of dragonfire to erase those haunting memories. “Is she more beautiful than I?”

He met her gaze, his self-loathing deepened as he beheld the seeds of doubt he had sown in her. “No one could ever be” he asserted with conviction, hoping that his earnest words might mend the cracks in her heart.

Yet, his truthful response didn’t help. Her expression remained unmoved, dismissing his effort to soothe her. 

“Did you enjoy it?” Her eyes were bored into him, a search for any telltale sign. “Was it worth it, at least?”

“No” he breathed out.

“Have I ever seen her?” she asked, almost shaking with curiosity and desperation, needing to know every detail. “Is she a lady, a servant?”

A flush of mortification crept up his neck, scorching his cheeks as he grappled with the words. With a heavy sigh, fully aware that it would fortify the wall between them, he began. “No… she is…” he faltered, a relentless hammer pounding at his conscience. “She is a… whore.”

The silence that followed was deafening, and he averted his stare, unable to meet her judgment, as humiliation swallowed him whole.

A veneer of profound skepticism clouded her semblant, as though his assurances were mere fragments of an absurd fable rather than the truth. Her brows knitted together, and a sneer of disdain twisted her lips.

With revulsion, she decided that his words were not worthy of belief. Turning away, she faced the window, her posture as stiff as the cold night air. “My Aemond would never engage in such depravity” she proclaimed.

Her words spilled from her lips like an incantation cast to shield her cherished image of him from the harshness of reality—a vision she had clung to with all the fervor of her heart, and for which he would have sacrificed everything to achieve.

For him, witnessing her deny his sin was a cruel bittersweetness. On one hand, it was agonizing to realize the extent of his betrayal had wrought an irreparable wound in her perception of him.

On the other hand, there lay a strange solace. It spoke to a profound understanding of his true self—she could discern that his errors were entirely at odds with the essence of who he was. Her refusal to accept it was, in its own way, a declaration of faith, a hopeful cry.

“It was a moment of weakness” he insisted, unsteady with earnest desperation as he sought to appeal to her compassion.

“A moment of weakness?” she countered with a sharp edge of disillusionment. “Is this what you truly are—a weak man who cannot resist temptation?”

“It was a grievous mistake.”

“A mistake?” she echoed with rising ire, each word a stinging reprimand to his wounded pride. “Did you leave the castle by mistake? Did you venture to Street of Silk by mistake? Did you lavish her with coins by mistake? Do you take me for a fool?”

“I did not know…” he faltered, each utterance deepening his descent into the abyss of his guilt. “It was a… a gift.”

“A gift?” Her incredulous tone resonated with frustration. “What manner of excuse is that?”

“My brother” he explained. “Aegon wanted to help me, with you. As a gift.”

She scrutinized him, her mind attempting to unravel what his words hadn’t fully explained. The flickering light caught the pained shift in her expression before she asked, her voice tinged with trepidation. “When did this… happen?”

He was aware that the answer he was about to give would only worsen the wound and drive the final nail on his coffin. The thought that she would come to learn that the man who had basked in her devoted care had made such disastrous decisions while she stood by him was a suffering of his own crafting.

Especially on that night, when she had bestowed upon him the most beautiful gifts of her affection, when destiny itself seemed to be sealed with a kiss that marked a new journey for them. He recalled with vivid clarity how he left her waiting, how she had knocked on his door, how she had needed him, and he had just laid there, consumed by regrets.

“The last nameday you spent by my side” he finally confessed.

She fell silent, her face a canvas of disbelief as she struggled to process the information. Gradually, her expression contorted into one of pure horror and sorrow, a devastating amalgam that stole his breath away.

The look they shared was a taut cord, stretching painfully between their hearts. He knew with certainty that he shouldn’t draw closer, that she desired neither his closeness nor his touch.

“I am sorry” he murmured in a plea for redemption. “I am deeply sorry.”

Her tears fell in an unrestrained deluge, cascading as if released from a dam. Without warning, she moved hastily toward him. “Oh, Aemond.”

He stood paralyzed, caught at a crossroads, unsure whether to reach out for her or retreating, fearful of causing further harm. Before he could resolve it, she flung herself at him. But rather than seeking refuge on his chest, she enveloped him with a force that defied logic, as though she wished to meld into him entirely. His arms lay ensnared, trapped between their entwined forms.

She grasped his neck, forcing him to bend down so that his cheek rested upon her shoulder.

He remained in that position as she succumbed to her pain, the urgency of her embrace seeming more a desperate attempt to soothe him than a quest for comfort herself. For a moment, he allowed himself to savor this ephemeral return to the closeness he had so missed, even though the circumstances were heart-wrenching.

In a twist of the unexpected, she wept into his ear, her words barely audible through her cries. “Forgive me.”

When he drew away, her face was swollen, her cheeks streaked with the relentless streams that had left her weary. With shaking hands, she cradled his face. “I am sorry” she repeated, her breath erratic. 

“Why?” he asked, overwhelmed with confusion.

“For everything I asked, for all the words I spoke. I am so deeply sorry” she replied, breaking into a choked sob. Her lips quivered as she bit them, her eyes shining with heartache. “You do not understand, do you?”

“It was not your fault” she said, sadness wrapped around her every word. “You were just a child.”

Far from clarity, he looked at her, feeling how the lines of bewilderment etched deeper into his features. Words escaped him as a cry of desperation echoed within him.

A shiver of discomfort washed over him. “I was three and ten” he clarified. 

“I know” she answered, soft and broken, steeped in compassion. “My darling boy.”

“Old enough to know better” he countered, heavy with a devastating self-criticism and an unrelenting sense of shame.

She shook her head vehemently, filled with sadness, as if she could see further than he could and had reached the core. “And yet, so innocent to not expect the worst.” Her voice was a whisper, a lament.

Suddenly, an avalanche of thoughts began to assail him, a tumultuous storm of clarity crashing over him with an implacable force. The darkness he had long endured, the misery he had inflicted upon himself, was now shattered by a brutal illumination.

Yes, he was a child.

It wasn’t his fault for not being able to foresee it, stop it, overcome it. They were the ones who took from him what was his to have, to give.

The world began to spin with violence. The dizziness descended upon him brutally, turning the air thick and ungraspable, as if the walls were collapsing inward to crush him. Each breath became a monumental effort, a contest against the suffocation. His legs, once firm, could no longer bear the weight of his own existence, almost collapsing beneath him.

His palms and forehead began to pearl with cold sweat, his vision was blurred and a piercing pain began to carve his chest. 

With an instinctive sharpness that only the deepest bond can forge, she immediately perceived the gravity of his plight. Her eyes, before veiled in sadness, now blazed with resolute determination, focused to see him through that ordeal.

Gently, she sat him down, her movements imbued with a stable calm grace that seemed to defy the tumult around them, though the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her worry. Without hesitation, she procured a glass of water, holding it to his lips. “Drink” she urged, with authority and tenderness. 

As he drank, she stayed by his side, her hand softly stroking his back, an attempt to dispel the fog that clouded his senses.

“May I sleep with you tonight?” he ventured, emerging in a manifestation of vulnerability. 

“Would you prefer us to stay here, or go to your chambers?”

“The truth is” he murmured, admitting a deeper truth that made him feel even more exposed, “I do not like the view from my window.” She nodded softly, her understanding silent.

After a few minutes, she rose, her movements a dance of sadness and empathy, and went to the door, securing it with the latch. The sound was a promise of safety, a barrier against the outside. She then turned to the basin of water, dipping a linen cloth into its coolness. 

Unbeknownst to him, his own soul had overflowed, finding its escape through his eye. As she wiped his face with a tenderness that seemed to absorb not just his tears but the very pain that caused them. She dried her own as well, though her stare promised more.

“May I?” she asked gently, as if seeking permission to navigate his fragile state. He nodded, setting the small wooden case aside. 

With meticulous care, she removed his jackets and boots, her hands moving with a reverence of a healer tending to a sacred wound.

As he lay down, he was enveloped by the sweet fragrance of roses that lingered in the sheets. When she joined him, the bed became an oasis, where the burden of that long-festering night began to dissolve in the warmth of her proximity.

He had never confided that to another, for no one else could ever hold a candle to her. She, his sweet princess, who had defended to the hilt the child he once was, now gazed upon him with a love so profound it seemed to radiate from the very depths of her soul and cleared the darkest corners of his.

He cautiously lifted his hand to his face. She watched him in silence as he proceeded, slowly liberating him from the barrier that had shielded him from the world and himself, laying bare more than his wound.

Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld.

“You said I could think of it as a piece of sky, or sea, to remind me that I was destined for something greater” he whispered, referring to the sapphire that replaced his lost eye, “I chose to think of it as a part of you, for you are who I am destined to.”

In her, he discovered acceptance—an unwavering flame that had been there for him all along, waiting patiently to be stoked, to be his salvation.

@callsignwidow @purplegardenwhispers @helaenaluvr @scarletbedlam @fics-i-love-and-recommend @squidscottjeans @fossface @truly-abysmal @congenialcat @that-girl-named-alex @oh-you-mean-me @barnes70stark