#and regales the story at dinner

[lexosaurus]

THE MOON'S HAUNTED

Damn that sucks for the moon someone should call Jack Fenton about it

[whateveriwant]

18+ mdni

I know I’m far from the first person to say this, but I love the idea of Simon and Ghost being like two separate people.

Like on the one hand you have Simon, the caring, devoted family man who holds his duty to his loved ones above all else, and on the other hand you have Ghost, the cold, detached soldier whose only driving forces in life are his need for blood, order, and karmic justice. Or one moment he’s Simon, the wisecracking goofball trading jokes with his comrades over the radio, and the next moment he’s Ghost, the sadistic interrogator hooking up enemy combatants to live car batteries.

And those are just a few in-universe examples we’ve seen of this divide in Simon Riley’s identity. Imagine what it’s like in his day-to-day life; what it must be like as his significant other trying to navigate such a personality schism.

Is it Simon who you’re about to pick up from the airport, the one who’ll eagerly take you into his arms the second you step into the terminal? Or is it him, Ghost, the one who’ll not hug you or kiss you or so much as hold your hand over the center console during the drive home?

Is it Simon who sits across the dinner table from you tonight, the one who, given the right amount of liquor, will regale you with (heavily redacted) stories of his time away? Or is it Ghost, the one who, no matter how well fed, fueled, and fucked he is, remains as tight-lipped as a corpse?

Is it Simon you’ll wake up beside tomorrow, finding him gazing at you like you’re a gift from God? Or is it Ghost who’ll leave behind cold, carefully tucked sheets for you to discover in the morning, wondering if he ever came to bed at all last night?

Is it Simon you feel beginning to stir behind you, who warms you up with soft kisses and sweeter touches before he makes gentle love to you? Or is it Ghost you feel pressing hard and hot against your lower back, who holds you down by the throat as he fucks you through the mattress?

Is it Simon who stumbles into the kitchen when you accidentally nick yourself with a knife, who helps wash and bandage your finger until it’s as good as new? Or is it Ghost who spots the crimson spilling from your hand, who sticks your bloodied finger in his mouth so he can suck it clean?

Is it Simon who’s dying to spend hours with his head between your thighs, much preferring to give over to receive? Or is it Ghost who’s pushing you down to your knees, clutching your head between both hands, and skull-fucking you until you’re dripping with spit and almost passing out from lack of oxygen?

Just the thought of these two distinct, almost opposing personalities coexisting in the same body is super intriguing to me. And how at the drop of a hat, he could switch from one to the other, leaving you guessing who it is you’re really dealing with at any given moment.

[orangeocelotmartyn]

Martyn and Ren are sick of each other's yapping

Ren:--more in this direction, okay-- Martyn: Oh god, this place just goes on and on and on, kinda like somebody else I know-- Ren: This is a wonderfully regal looking place, just up my alleyway! You know, Lieutenant, when I was a part of Her Royal Rat-esty's Navy-- Martyn, to himself: Oh, here we go... Ren: I was invited, many times, for dinner! Martyn: And every time she would say, "isn't this delightful, Commander?" And you'd say, "it sure is, but not delightful as you," ha ha ha ha ha. I've heard it before! Ren: I've told you that story before?-- Martyn: Yes! Ren: --I've told you that one before? Martyn: Not-not for like the thirteenth time, no. Ren: Okay, well, you know--when you're on a ship with another man for three weeks, days meld into one another, and so do the stories. Martyn: You chose to tell me the same story eighteen times, but you wouldn't play "what shape is that cloud." I said it looked like a shark, and you said, "don't be silly, keep an eye on the waters, is that land?" Ren: Lieutenant, I-I was the Admiral of the Dread Naught known as Daisy the Third, and do you think an Admiral plays child games with clouds? Martyn: I think an Admiral would take in the beauties of the world, rather than being stuck to just his duties. That's my take on things. Ren: That is actually quite a good point. Martyn: Yeah, I appreciate what's around me. Ren: You hit me in the feels with that one, Lieutenant.

[changbunnies]

Devourance (18+)

♡ Pairing: Dracula / Nosferatu!Hyunjin x Fem!Reader

♡ Genre: vampire au, dracula / nosferatu au, 1800s au, human / vampire relationship, horror themes, reincarnation, soulmates, smut

♡ Word Count: 3.9k

♡ Summary: Hyunjin has crossed oceans of time to find you– the one who's blood calls to him, who beckons for him in the dead of night, who yearns for his touch against all conceptions of what one must and must not desire. The ancient Vampyr has an appetite for you; an appetite that won't ever be sated.

♡ General Warnings: reader has depression (referred to as melancholy), reader is a lucid dreamer, usage of vampire abilities (invading dreams, shapeshifting, heightened senses), hyun's true form is very Creature Vampire so. still sexy if ur a monster fucker like me but some of y'all may not like that lmao

♡ Smut Warnings: does having sex with someone inside their dream count as somnophilia? idk !!, outdoor sex (kind of; it's a dream so they're not really outside lol), wet dreams, pet names (my love, my heart), referenced biting and blood drinking, unprotected piv, creampie

♡ Notes: originally, when i was planning my late kinktober fics, this was strictly a dracula au (as i love the 1992 movie and have a beautiful copy of the book sitting in my horror novel collection <3) but i saw the nosferatu remake in theaters and it rotted my fucking brain lmao so this became a blend of both ! i hope you enjoy it, cause i had a blast writing it <3

♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.

It starts as a dream; a waking one, so vivid and lucid that the line between conscious reality and imagination blurs, all perception of time and space bending and warping to what your subconscious mind feels most safe and familiar.

Your hands clasped together, a deep breath before you close your teary eyes, your souls desires laid out in a whispered prayer– "Come to me."

Who are you asking for? Who will heed your call? A friend you wish to have, but have yet to obtain? An imaginary prince charming who will right all the wrongs of your life with his presence alone? God himself? Death?

You do not know– all you know is that you are desperate for an escape from the melancholy that permeates your life, seeping its way into every crack of your porcelain heart, as thick and murky black as tar. It sticks to you, wraps itself around every cell, clinging to you in a loveless embrace.

Even in your dreams you cannot escape it; so often you hear tale of joyous dreams. Dreams in which you stand upon the altar, waiting to be wed to the love of your life, dreams in which you share a dinner with one you admire, or dreams in which you have coveted all that you desire.

You are regaled with recollections of dreams full of simple pleasures; warm and nostalgic, dreams of playing in the front yard as a child, with your mother's freshly baked bread wafting to you from the open window. Dreams of early school days, where one's only worry in the world was what they'd play when they got back home.

For some, dreams are entirely nonsensical; there is often no clear purpose, nor story, nor concrete feeling– but it is pleasant in its own right, and entertaining to recall the absurdities in which you found yourself in the middle of.

You do not experience such simple pleasures.

While for others, dreams are a pleasant escape from everyday life, a blissful end to an arduous day of work, your dreams are an extension of your reality. They offer no comfort, nor joy, nor escape from your bleak, mundane existence. You are ever as aware of yourself whilst asleep as you are while conscious, feeling every emotion just as strongly as you do in the light of day.

You wish you could say you have adapted to life with your melancholy, or learned to be at peace with it, or that you don't mind having no escape. But the truth of the matter is that your dreams being not a safe haven as they should be tolls on you, made worse by the fact that even in the sanctuary that should be your mind, you are utterly alone and miserable.

So there you stand in your waking dream, wishing for a change. A mirror of your reality, your status within your dream reflects the state you were in before falling to sleep. You are in your bedroom, as pitch dark as you left it when blowing out the candles, the only illumination coming from the moon shining through your balcony doors.

You stand in the middle of the room, hands clasped and eyes closed as you whisper your prayers, the same lily-white chemise you wore to bed draping your body. So perfect a recreation of your surroundings, that were it not for the fact that you so vividly remember adhering to your sleep routine and laying your head against the pillows, you might not even be able to say that this was a dream at all.

And though it is just the confines of your mind, and you are certain no one but God can hear you (if he will listen, and hasn't yet turned his back on you), you plead. 

"Come to me. A guardian angel, a spirit of comfort, a spirit of any celestial sphere– anyone, anything. Please, hear my call."

There is naught in the room but silence when you are finished; you are as alone with your thoughts as you ever are. You take a breath, blink away building tears, readying yourself to try again– and then, to your greatest surprise, there is a response.

For the first time in all your many dreams, a voice answers you– soft, an indistinct whisper akin to your own, but you hear it echo in the silence of your bedroom. Your eyes shoot open, a soft gasp leaving your parted lips as you look around the room.

Slowly, you lower your hands, taking an unconscious step forward, closer to where the voice calls to you from your balcony. You cannot yet discern what the voice is saying, nor can you see their figure, but you watch breathlessly as the lock on your balcony doors seems to unlatch itself, a sudden gust of wind pushing it open.

The air is cooler than you'd expect for a late spring's breeze, but you do not shiver or shrink away from the sudden chill; instead, you tentatively take another step, following the unfamiliar, beckoning voice. The voice becomes clearer the closer you step to the balcony, and though you see nothing out of the ordinary before you, you feel them.

No, to say you do not see them is not right– invisible in your mortal gaze, yes, but the moon casts their shadow on your wall, your curtains billowing with the steady breeze capturing their inhuman silhouette. And surely it is merely a trick of shadow that makes the figure appear so inhuman– because how else can you grapple with so foreign a creature standing before you?

You rationalize the impossibly tall silhouette as the moon elongating their shadow, the sharp and pointy length of their nails having simply become exaggerated, the unnatural point of their ears the result of a penumbra trick. Their figure vanishes with each fall of your curtains, reappearing with each rise; but their shadow ever lingers, eerie black against your ivory walls.

Their shadow serves as a reminder, you think– that even when you cannot see them, they will be there. Watching, beckoning, waiting; the voice, once so indistinct and otherworldly, is now crystal clear in your ears. Soft but luminous, it calls you as you take another cautious step closer.

"You," the voice starts, and though soft, it is an aching rasp– reminiscent, you think, of when one has fallen ill, or of times when one's throat has grown stiff from disuse. You have no further time to ponder if this is the man's– creature's?– natural inflection; for in just a few more careful utterances, their tone smooths, the soft voice becoming silken.

"You," the male voice repeats, smooth as satin and utterly mesmerizing, "I have heard you. And I answer in turn– come to me."

The shadow moves along your wall then, creeping closer to you; it feels as if it envelops you, embracing you with a blissful warmth you've never before felt. It clings to you with each step, but it does not feel like the melancholic tar you are accustomed to; it is a gentle ribbon, guiding you further with promises of sweetness you have so long craved.

Holding now to the railing of your balcony, you look to the gardens below. There you see him, standing amongst the tall, twisting trees and blooming lilacs. He gazes up at you, eyes black as a void, and yet they still shine in the light of the moon.

And just as a void promises to, his look swallows you whole. You lose yourself in the dark, hypnotic pool of his eyes, stumbling forward almost blindly, with one simple thought– you must go to him.

You are before him in an instant, though you have no recollection or understanding as to how. Did you walk off the balcony and fall below? Did you turn back and trek through the house to make it to the gardens? Is this the absurdity of dreams that normally eludes you, or is a greater power at work?

The answer seems of little importance; bewitched by the man standing before you, you find that logic and rationality hold no value. He is here, perfection and beauty embodied wholly– the answer to your prayers; that is all you care to know.

Your hand trembles, your utmost desire now to reach out and feel him beneath your fingertips, to confirm that he is not just a figment of your dream– that there really was someone in this world who could hear you from beyond, and cared enough to respond to your call.

Hair as black as his eyes, a few long strands falling over his perfect cheekbones, while the rest is tucked behind his normal, and not at all pointed, ears. He has full, plush lips shaded in an enchanting, muted red, with a little mole under his left eye and utterly flawless, pristine skin.

He is ethereal, and radiant, and he is here for you– and while his eyes hold a darkness you have never before seen, his smile is impossibly tender. He takes your trembling hand in his own, and you can feel his nails poke your skin as he closes it around you.

They are long, yes, but not as long and pointed as his shadow would've led you to believe them to be. There is a part of you that decides you were correct to think his features were simply exaggerated and warped by shadow, though the deep recesses of your heart and mind know this isn't true.

Whatever he is, whoever he may be– he is not of this world, you know that for certain. For who else in the world could hear you? Who would have the power to meet you in your mind? A trickster, an angel, a devil? It matters not, you decide; for perhaps, in some ways, you are not of this world either.

Perhaps you have always felt melancholic, twisted, and odd, because your destiny did not reside with your fellow man– perhaps it lied here, with this creature who wears the mask of the beautiful sort of prince charming you've yearned for.

His shadow was the truth of his being, you innately know, and yet it gives you no fear. He squeezes your hand, a reassurance, while the other rises to cup your cheek in his palm, a tender rub of his thumb along the skin where he holds you. His gentle touch is ice cold, but it spreads warmth through your body regardless– because oh, how you've longed for the companionship of another.

"You are for me," he whispers as he inches closer, your noses on the precipice of touching, "and I, you. Do you believe in destiny?" He stares at you, observing you closely as he awaits your answer. You swallow, heart quickening as you hold his gaze.

"Yes," you utter softly; for in the depths of your soul, you feel it– the immutable pull that tells you this is where you must be. Beside him, in his arms, at his side for all eternity– and he will love you, this you know true; because even down to the very marrow of your bones, your body says it is so.

He has searched for you for an age; not someone like you, no. You. Only you. And his delight to finally have heard his beloved's call, and to answer– it is an unparalleled joy, one that he expects you to share. For even in your mortal life, your blood sings for him just the same as it did those many, long centuries ago.

You were promised to him then, as you are now– and he will have you, just as he did then. First in sleep, as you are now, but someday soon he will find you in the physical world once more. He will hold you in his arms, your reunion as joyous as it is profane. Rejoice, as you join him back to your true home; the castle, your castle, where every moment was spent in unholy exuberance.

"Do you remember?" he asks, voice honey-sweet, "remember how we once were?"

You do not, not really– your mind has no recollection of the man before you. But your soul remembers, has carried the weight of centuries of love and longing with it all this time, waiting for the moment all the feelings harbored within could finally be unearthed.

"I know you," you answer, truthfully; because while this is your first meeting in this life, you recognize him all the same. In the deepest recesses of your memory, he is there, gazing upon you with the same reverence he does now. He holds you close, kisses you tender, his touch along your skin slow and gentle, his name a whispered prayer on your lips.

Hyunjin.

His eyes light up when you call his name, a smile growing on his perfect lips. Hyunjin would know you anywhere, and there was never any doubt you were his love– but all the same, it is a great relief to hear his name fall from your lips again after so many years spent longing for it.

He kisses you then, doing his utmost to relay the depths of his passion, while also holding the carnality he feels for you at bay– the last thing he wishes to do is overwhelm you with his appetite too soon. You are his affliction, his every desire, he must have you; and he can only pray that you will not deny him, or yourself, the pleasure– but only when the time is right.

"You will be mine once more," he says; a statement, not a question, between kisses to your lips, "as I am eternally yours." Your nerves tingle, blood alight as you return his affections, meeting his lips with urgency.

"I will have you," he continues, almost breathless as his lips begin to trail down your neck, "Will you swear it? That again, we are for no one but each other?" His breath tickles your skin, the points of two sharp teeth touching the sensitive pulse point. You shiver as his fangs linger there, closing your eyes as your heart thunders in your chest.

Hyunjin can not truly drink from you here, not in the confines of your dream, but his teeth against your neck serve as a reminder– that your blood is his greatest temptation. Should you promise yourself to him once more, he won't be able to resist you– as there is no taste sweeter than the blood of his beloved.

"I swear," you whisper your promise; for you will never fear him, nor can you deny the ecstasy that comes when he drinks from you. “ever-eternally, I am yours.” 

He is a beast of nightmares, a plague set upon the world, a ruinous omen of death, your immortal Vampyr; and you are safe in his hold. For he loves you and needs you too greatly to cause you any harm– an affection that contradicts his nature, but what a welcome contradiction it is. 

When you meet his gaze once more, his eyes burn with desire; it has been an agony, truly, to have such carnal desire for you all these centuries. And he could do naught with his desires but wait– wait for the day you would return to this world, and pray that your body and soul would still sing for him the way it once had. 

Hyunjin could have taken concubines, could’ve shared his castle with any great number of men or women– but they would not have been you. None can sate him the way you can, none can spread such flames of passion through his icy veins, none can make his eternally still heart feel as if it beats. It is not a vain promise when he says you are the only one for him– he means it with every fiber of his immortal being.

Your heart and soul, now free from their sepulchre, burn with need. He can hear the erratic thump of your heart, the blood rushing through your veins, can smell the arousal pooling between your legs. You desire him, just as he desires you– and he decides then that the time is right; there is no need to be cautious and careful with his affections.

You want him, and he wants you– and you will have each other, now and forever.

Hyunjin kisses you once more, hungry and urgent. He pulls your body flush to his own, holds you tightly as the wind rolls quickly past you. You realize, when you pull away to catch a breath, that your surroundings have shifted. Now in the center of the estate’s hedge maze, he lies you down on the stone bench beneath the grand statue of Mnemosyne.

You shiver against the cold stone, but he warms you with another kiss. His tongue meets your lips as his hand dances around the bottom of your chemise, lifting it up just enough to expose your lower half. His hands find your thighs, the points of his nails digging at the soft flesh as he squeezes you in his palms. 

It elicits a needy sound from deep within, one that you almost don’t recognize as your own. You feel the sharp points of his teeth with your tongue, while he spreads your legs apart to make more room for himself between them. He tugs your panties away with haste, and there is no shyness to be had when he separates to look at the way you glisten under the moonlight for him. 

He takes a moment to stare, licks his lips before looking back up to meet your eyes. You hold his gaze as he frees his cock from his trousers, swallowing as you look down for just a moment, and then back up to him. You are both eager, it is clear– and he will have neither of you wait any longer; you have both waited long enough. 

“I will have you,” Hyunjin repeats as he grabs your hips, lifting your bottom up from the stone bench and aligning you with himself. His thighs support you, while his feet stay firmly planted on the grass and stone below. You wrap your legs around his waist, and he removes one of his hands from your hips, using it to find leverage on the stone as he leans over you. 

You can feel his cock pulsing against you, excitement and anticipation building exponentially in your gut. “Mine again,” he whispers as he captures your lips in another kiss, “You are mine, my love.” 

He presses inside you as slowly as he can manage to, and you gasp, hands reaching out to cling to his arms. Thick and full, you let out a shuddering moan when his cock is sheathed fully inside your wet heat. He moans with you, the centuries of building need finally melting into the pure bliss he’d been longing for. 

But he refuses to rush– his thrusts are slow and fluid, precise and calculated, searching for the spot he knows will bring you utmost euphoria. You let out a high-pitched moan, followed by a curse, when he succeeds; and he smiles before he grits his teeth, determined to bring you to the heights of pleasure.

“Hyunjin, oh, please–” you whimper, nails digging into the fabric of his sleeves as he picks up his pace. He wanted to drag it out longer, truly, he did; but the mind is a powerful thing, and even whilst in a dream, the pleasure that you both feel is entirely real. 

And how much longer can one who has held centuries of lust and yearning hold back? Especially when the object of his every desire is moaning and begging for him so sweetly?

He could never resist you– not then, and especially not now. And long has he craved to hear his name spill from your lips like this again; so much so that the sound of it sends him into a frenzy. 

“Again,” he utters, equal parts desperate plea and urgent demand, “call to me, say my name.” You oblige easily, his name falling from your lips in a tantalizing mantra; and you feel his cock throb violently with each salacious whimper, his every thrust laced with desire and urgency.

He releases his grip on your hip, moving his hand to your center and pressing his thumb on your clit. Your breath catches, eyes rolling back as he rubs your clit in steady, practiced circles.

“Cum for me, my love,” Hyunjin urges; he is on the precipice of release himself, and he needs you to fall apart with him– it is the only way he can truly be satisfied. Your thighs tremble, whimpers broken by harsh breaths; and you let go of his arms, reach up to his face and pull him down into a desperate, needy kiss. 

He moans, and if his flesh were mortal, he is sure that goosebumps would’ve risen over every inch of his body. His thrusts lose their fluidity, becoming quick and choppy as he chases the high your body promises him. You clench tighter, toes curling and body quivering as you finally cum, your every moan of pleasure captured by his lips. 

His hips still as his own high takes him, his cock fully pressed inside, his cum spurting in long, sticky spurts. Your kisses are breathless, impassioned, but no longer urgent– they are soft promises of love, of eternity together in bliss.

You smile at him when he pulls away, and he looks at you just as tenderly as he had before, stroking your cheek and indulging in the heat it offers his thumb. You’ve never felt so relaxed, happy and at peace– but just then, you feel a sudden jolt.

It is a sign that your consciousness is returning to reality, and you will soon find yourself back in your bed, with the morning light shining on you from your balcony. Hyunjin, an invader in your mind, feels himself being pushed out– for he can not stay by your side beyond the bounds of your dream just yet. 

There is fear and uncertainty that peaks within you as you fight to stay asleep just a moment longer– but he is quick to calm you, kissing you one last time before you the sun’s rays shine down on you.

“I will find you again in the waking world, my heart,” he says, squeezing your hand in his before he starts to fade once more into shadow, “this, I promise.”

You rise with a start, blinking rapidly and lingering, unshed tears falling from your eyes as you raise your hand to your heart. Just as expected, it is morning now– the late spring sun is bright and warm, and birds chirp in delight as they welcome the dawn of a new day.

You frown, feeling the erratic thumb of your heart beneath your fingertips as the melancholy claws its way back around you, reminding you that it has not left. Your inner thighs are sticky and wet, you realize a short moment later, and for the first time, you blush.

And then you giggle– and the melancholy, though ever present, now has a weaker grasp. You wonder, as you rise from the bed and prepare for your day, how long it will take for Hyunjin to find you. Days, weeks, months? 

You hope it is soon– but if it is not, you know what you will do. Every night, when you blow out the candles and fall asleep, you will call to him. You’ll invite him back into your mind, greet him with a soft kiss, and revel in his tender touch.

You will make love, you will smile, and you will talk of the future with greater enthusiasm than you have ever known– for he is your destiny, your truest love, your one and only immortal Vampyr. Ever-eternally.

[kdyq]

Hi, I got to know your blog recently and I loved your writing, your story of Ambessa x pregnant reader gave me an idea. What do you think of a modern au (or in the series setting if you prefer) Ambessa solo mom. Where she meets the reader and sees that the relationship between the two is getting more serious and decides to introduce formally to her children, I imagine them younger but if you want with them older it would be great too!! ❤️

A piece of her world.

AU! Milf!Ambessa x Fem!reader

context: You and Ambessa meet at a art gallery and a month later Ambessa wants the relationship to deepen by introducing you to her two kids Kino and Mel at dinner.

The first time you met Ambessa she gave off an effortlessly commanding presence drew attention the moment she entered the room. It was at a small art gallery downtown where you’d been helping a friend organize an opening. She was hard to miss her tall regal figure dressed in a tailored dark cherry red suit her sharp gaze sweeping the room as though sizing up a battlefield. What started as a simple conversation over drinks turned into dinner dates late night talks and an undeniably connection.

Months later you found yourself deeply in love with the woman who somehow balanced happiness and tenderness with ease. Still there was a part of her life she’d carefully kept at arm’s length her children.

She had spoken of them occasionally Kino her thoughtful and bookish eldest, and Mel her sarcastic and optimistic youngest. But she kept that part of her life separate not out of secrecy. But out of a deep sense of protection it doesn’t mean she didn’t trust you it’s just a motherly instinct of hers.

But it all changed one crisp Saturday morning when she invited you over for dinner.

“I think it’s time you met my children ”she said over the phone with a steady tone.

Your heart skipped a beat. “Really?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure” she replied. “You’ve become important to me and I think they need to see that.”

You smiled touched by her words. “I’d love to meet them.”

When you arrived at Ambessa’s house it was every bit as grand as you’d imagined modern and elegant with high ceilings grand decor and wide windows that let sunlight flood the space.

Ambessa greeted you at the door dressed casually for once in a fitted sweater and dark jeans. She looked calm but the slight tension in her posture betrayed her nerves.

“You’re nervous” you teased gently stepping inside.

She huffed crossing her arms. “I’m not nervous.”

“Liar” you said with a smile leaning up to kiss her cheek. “It’ll be fine.”

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the hallway and two figures stepped into the room. Kino appeared first tall and composed at eighteen with a quiet confidence that made him seem older than his years.

His dark locks in a back ponytail his brown eyes landed on you. He paused for a moment studying you in a way that felt both cautious and intrigued.

“You must be [Your Name] Kino said his tone even but polite as if he were testing the waters.

“I am” you replied matching his calm energy with a warm smile.

“And you must be Kino.”

He nodded a flicker of amusement crossing his face as his lips went into a faint smirk. “Mama talks about you. A lot.”

“Does she?” You glanced at Ambessa who stood just behind him arms crossed and exuding her usual composed demeanor.

But there was a hint of softness in her expression a subtle pride as she observed the interaction. “Good things I hope?”

“She said you’re smart and funny” Kino replied his tone teasing just enough to make you smile.

Before you could respond a smaller figure darted into the room behind him. Mel at fifteen moved with a youthful energy that contrasted sharply with her brother’s calm demeanor. Though she was only a few inches shorter than Kino her presence was just as commanding her green eyes flicking between you and her mother before finally settling on you.

“So” Mel said leaning casually against the doorway with a playful smirk “you’re the one who’s been stealing all of Mom’s attention.”

“That’s me” you said with a light laugh your gaze meeting hers. “I hope that’s not a problem.”

Mel tilted her head studying you with an intensity that reminded you of Ambessa though hers had a mischievous edge. “We’ll see.”

Kino groaned rolling his eyes as he turned to his sister. “Mel seriously can you not?”

“What?” Mel shrugged her smirk growing. “I’m just saying—”

“You’re gonna scaring them off” Kino cut her off with a sigh giving you a look that said this was a regular occurrence.

Mel opened her mouth to make a comeback but Ambessa’s voice cut through the playful tension like a blade. “Enough Mel.”

Mel held up her hands in mock surrender though the mischievous twinkle in her eye remained.

Before the back and forth could escalate even more Kino turned back to you and gestured toward the living room. “Come on” he said his voice quieter now almost shy.

“I want to show you something. Mom told me you like books and I’ve been putting together a library.”

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise genuinely touched by the offer. “I’d love to see it.”

As he led you out of the room Mel lingered behind with Ambessa. She crossed her arms her smirk softening as she glanced at her mother. “She’s better than the last one” she muttered under her breath.

Ambessa raised an eyebrow at her daughter. “Mel.”

“What? I’m just saying.”

From the doorway Ambessa watched it all unfold with a quiet intensity. Her expression softened as she observed how naturally you fit into her world. The way Kino opened up to you the ease with which you handled Mel’s sarcasm it all struck a chord deep within her. For someone so fiercely protective of her family seeing this dynamic felt like a rare moment of peace as if the pieces of her life were finally aligning.

You glanced back at her catching her eye as Kino chatted excitedly about his favorite books. She gave you a small nod In her way of saying she was glad you were here.

Ambessa watched it all unfold with a quiet intensity her expression softening as she saw how naturally you fit into her world.

After dinner you and Ambessa retreated to the back patio the stars glittering above as the cool night air wrapped around you. She poured two glasses of Syrah red wine her usual strong composure giving way to something more vulnerable.

“You were amazing with them” she said her voice low but full of emotion.

“They’re incredible kids” you replied leaning into her side. “You’ve done an amazing job with them.”

She exhaled softly her arm wrapping around your shoulders. “It hasn’t been easy ”she admitted.

“Especially after their father went away. But they’re my world.”

“You don’t have to do it alone anymore ” you said your voice gentle but firm.

Ambessa looked at you her eyes searching yours. For a moment you saw the vulnerability she so rarely let show the weight of years spent carrying the burden of being both mother and protector.

“I know”she said softly her hand brushing against your cheek. “And I’m glad it’s you.”

You stayed like that for a long time wrapped in each other’s warmth as the future stretched out before you and filled with endless possibilities.

“THE END”

AN/ TYSM @baesye for requesting this i hope I brought your vision to life. I never really thought about doing an AU ambessa x fem reader story but in the near future I will definitely make more stories in a AU once again tysm 🙏🏾🙌🏾.

+ I’m running out of photos for Ambessa so ima have to reuse them and I can’t draw for shit so I gotta do what a what girl gotta do 😭🤷🏾‍♀️.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Yandere Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

Warnings: 18+, Depictions of Smut, Implied Non-Con, Breeding, Kidnapping, Restraining, Yandere Miguel, Obsessive Miguel, Possessive Miguel, Implied Female Reader, Implied Gender-Neutral Reader, No Pronouns used for Reader Except ‘You’.

You took him in after you found him collapsed on the rooftop of your apartment, a thick, bleeding gouge along his side. And, initially, he was very suspicious of you, found your generosity – your eagerness to clean and dress his wound, to bring him a fresh change of clothes, to offer him a warm meal – a cause for alarm.

But, you made your intentions with him quite clear; that you only wished to help, to make sure he was fully-healed before he descended upon the world once more.

He did try to leave. Truly, he did. But your proclamations that he needed rest and the nice warm bed you’d offered him forced his body to succumb before his mind did.

As convincing as you may be, Miguel is still highly cautious of you. Tuning into his senses, trying to detect poison in his food or a hidden enemy in your apartment.

But, for the days he’s there, Miguel picks up nothing.

You tell him about yourself – anything and everything he’d like to know – often sitting by his side and answering every question he asks of you: your name, your job; the basics. And, eventually, he opens up to you. Marginally. Tells you a little bit about why he’s here.

He only tells you he - and his associates – are in pursuit of a highly dangerous target. Of course, he omits the part about the fate of the Multiverse hanging squarely on the success of this mission, and he just can’t seem to bring himself to as your eyes fill with wonder and curiosity, your attention solely on him.

And he can’t help but indulge you when you ask him if he has any stories about his time as a superhero.

He relents. Tells you of missions which bear little weight on the universe you reside in – nothing that could endanger you should you tell another soul. And you listen with an eagerness he wished his subordinates would display, even if only for theatrics’ sake.

You tell him how lucky the world is to have a hero like him – how lucky you are to even be talking to him, seeing as you’re just a civilian.

Your earnest nature makes something in him tick. Something he can’t place his finger on.

As the days fly by, he finds himself racking his brain for more stories to tell you, more tales to regale where he comes out on top, ever the hero he is.

It helps bury some of the guilt that lingers in his heart, fractals of a universe he’s shattered. Makes him feel as if he’s not entirely a failure.

Whenever you leave the apartment – for work or for shopping – Miguel wanders around, watches some TV, formulates his game plan for when he has to leave.

That last one brings him a little too much anxiety for his liking, so he often finds himself thinking of you instead to ease his nerves.

Something, initially, he’s somewhat shocked by. But the longer he does it, the more natural it feels. The more vivid his daydreams become.

He tries never to let them stray into lewd territory, but after he accidentally caught sight of you undressing, his mind has been urging him to visit some...unsavoury places.

He only permits brief trips there when you’re out of the house, and never for very long.

The two of you fall into a routine while he’s healing; you come home and prepare him dinner, he comes and helps you – even when you tell him he should be resting. Then, you eat together and watch a film.

One evening, close to his departure – Miguel knows he hasn’t long with you left – you fell asleep on him, your face resting on his shoulder.

He dared not move for fear of disturbing you, losing you.

Then, his heart…fluttered.

And, as you slept soundly on him, with all the trust in the world, he realised that nobody had been this close to him – physically – since…

Since he lost his universe.

The idea that someone could take this for granted, the simple act of trust, that they could take advantage of yours, shot through him, a bullet of realisation. And the pain only sears as he looks upon your face, oblivious to the thoughts racing through his mind, through the minds of others – criminals and low-lifes who would kill you for no reason.

He couldn’t leave you.

Not here, and not on your own.

He knows it’s selfish, but, in another vein, he believes he’s saving you. Being the hero you see him as.

The next day, he’s fully-healed. And he has a proposition for you.

“Go…with you ?” you say, eyebrow raised. “Miguel, I don’t underst-”

“You don’t need to,” he says. “But what you do need to know is that you’re not safe here.”

“What makes you think that ?” You cross your arms over your chest, as if to contain – hide – the suspicion growing there. Miguel brings a hand to the back of his neck, rubs it, tilts his head back.

“Listen, I just know things– things that make me qualified to tell you that you, on your own, in this universe, are not safe.”

Miguel knows he’s getting nowhere with you. Especially since he made no effort to explain his multiversal goings-ons to you when he first arrived. So, he shows you.

He takes you by the hand and, willingly, you go with him. To him, that’s confirmation – submission. Your compliance with his whims.

He brings you to a universe where everything is oddly…liminal. Like an early 2010’s Microsoft desktop wallpaper. Just green hills, a distant forest encircling the land, and a house. Big enough to fit a family of considerable size.

Made to fit you and Miguel.

By the time you realise anything’s wrong, out of the ordinary (aside from being shown inter-dimensional travel), Miguel’s dropping a bombshell on you.

“This is your new home,” he says, standing behind you. He’s so close you can feel his warmth against your back. He places a hand on your shoulder. Squeezes it. “Our new home.”

Any shock that overcomes you is overpowered with the sense of dread that you’ve walked right into Miguel’s trap. That, just as he’d warned you, someone had taken advantage of your kind, trusting nature.

You can fight as much as you want, but Miguel’s got his heart set on you. And your future here.

You see, while you were caring for Miguel, showing him the concern and attentiveness he’s been starved of for years, his mind had begun to wander. Wondered what you’d be like with him if you were always together. Wondered how you’d act if you were to care for a child. 

His child.

He’ll try to convince you of this ideal, that this is right and is what’s best for you, but if you keep resisting, you’ll see his possessive side emerge. His anger.

Red eyes, pinning you to the wall, nostrils flared; he is not losing you. And if he needs to frighten you into this new life, then so be it. Though, he wants you to adjust naturally, to want what he wants, to, dare he say, love him as he loves you.

And if you’re not going to submit to him willingly, he’ll take it by force.

If you’re capable of bearing children, he creates a strict regiment wherein he takes you, filling you with his load. At first, this was once a day – every two days if he was busy.

Initially, he’d string you up to the ceiling by your legs after finishing, “To make sure it takes,” he told you. And it doesn’t matter how hard you struggle; his webs are steadfast. Stubborn.

But, as he became more ravenous, more enemaoured by the prospect of keeping you, of breeding you, he became sloppy. Desperate. The thought of you swollen with his offspring hits him while he’s at work, during the downtime between missions.

At which point he just takes care of himself, panting your name in the bathroom stall before finishing and returning to work as normal.

Then it became more frequent, occurring while he’s on missions, during integral moments. At this point, he tries to suppress it, save it for later. After all, it’s not like he has a choice.

And that’s when he’d come and pay you a midnight visit, girthy and stiff and eyes red with the carnal need to fill you again and again until your stomach bulged.

That regime he’d set up unravelled, and now he takes you at every convenience, every chance he gets, pinning you to a web and making sure you can’t struggle if you’re particularly resistant.

At first, he did feel guilty about this; guilty that he was the one hurting you, causing you to cry, to beg for him not to finish inside you as you told him you weren’t ready to have a child.

And, during this period, he would wear his mask. He thought it would offer him some protection against your tear-streaked, anguished stare, your pleas for him to let you go, to return you home.

It didn’t.

He tries to comfort you, to tell you that you’ll “Love being a parent – just give it a chance,” as he pumps his hot load into you, holding you close to him.

Depending on his mood, he can be very gentle or very rough.

When he’s gentle, he whispers in your ear, tells you how much you mean to him, how he loves you more than you’ll ever know.

When he’s rough, he’s merciless. And gone is the tender love he’d subject you to, replaced with growls and claims that he needs you, that he won’t stop fucking you until you’re filled with his offspring.

He has a web created specifically for when he breeds you – where he attaches you to it upside down, making sure your chances of pregnancy are maximised. He fucks you here too, sometimes. And while blood is rushing to your head from being upside down, Miguel’s pounding the life out of you, panting, sweating, moaning your name.

He can go for many, many rounds. His superhuman stamina and strength make him unstoppable when it comes to you.

He’ll keep going long after you’ve finished or while you’re unconscious and exhausted from his barrage, never ceasing until he stuffs his cum into you, holding you to him, pressing kisses to your face as he tells you what a good job you’ve done, how well you’ve taken him.

If you do end up pregnant, Miguel is never letting you go.

You can say goodbye to any chances of getting back to your universe when he finds out you’re bearing his child.

And you can’t hide it from him, either. His hearing and perception tell him you’re expecting even before you’re aware of it.

By that point, the only thing you can do is just accept that this is your life now. Doing so early on will make your existence with Miguel little more than bearable. Because if you aren’t excited or tolerant of this child, Miguel will string you up in your bedroom.

“For your own good,” he tells you, his eyes flickering down to your stomach. His eyes soften, fill with warmth. “And the baby’s.”

If he suspects you’ll try to hurt yourself or the baby, he’ll take drastic measures to ensure neither of those things happen; restraining you, placing you into an induced sleep, cocooning you.

If you can’t have children, he’ll simply take one from another universe and tell you that the two of you will raise them together.

If he suspects anyone or anything else is going to try to hurt you or the baby, he’ll destroy it. No questions asked.

He’s indiscriminate, too.

Even if it were one of his associates – someone he’s worked alongside for years – they’re all superficial to him.

His only concern is you.

And he’ll make sure you’re loved and cared for forever.

Masterlist Masterpost

Yandere Masterlist Juicy Original Content <3

[dekariosclan]

A Tav who, from the first moment they meet Gale, knows they could never be his equal. A Tav who is painfully aware that they are lacking in intelligence, but not wise enough to know how to improve it. A Tav who isn’t handsome, beautiful, or attractive. A Tav who doesn’t love their own body, the sound of their own voice, or the face that looks back at them from the mirror. A Tav who is kind and gentle with others, but not with themselves.

A Tav who cannot understand why Gale fell in love with them, much less why he was so eager to wed them. A Tav who now constantly asks themselves: How did they get so lucky as to be loved by this man?

They watch Gale with affection as he pours over tomes in their home in Waterdeep, night after night, breezing through ancient writings that they themselves know they would never be able to comprehend or follow. They love to listen to him talk, and nod with genuine interest as he tells them everything he’s discovered; not completely understanding, but only asking questions on the rare occasions when they truly cannot grasp what he’s trying to convey. They wonder if their stretches of silence secretly annoy Gale, or if their occasional questions do, but he never seems to be anything other than elated as they listen to him. How did they get so lucky as to be loved by this man?

At his request, they often join him at Blackstaff Academy for lunch. They watch as his colleagues engage him in scholarly discussions that they cannot participate in. They see the glances he gets from his more attractive colleagues, interest that goes beyond professional courtesy; yet he still breaks away as quickly as he can to whisk Tav off to the solitude of his office, sit down next to them, kiss them, ask them about their day. How did they get so lucky as to be loved by this man?

They greet him warmly when he arrives back home every evening. On the nights that Gale cooks, they love to watch him prepare meals, his hands as graceful and deft as when he’s casting spells. On the nights that they cook, they always feel a slight pang of anxiety, wondering if the simple meal they’ve prepared is good enough, but Gale showers them with compliments and cleans his plate every time. The stories Gale shares from the Academy over dinner are as interesting as they are amusing, making Tav laugh almost as much as the bad puns he sprinkles into the conversation like seasoning. They try their best to match his wit when they tell him about the events from their day, but they always feel that the stories they share are much less amusing or interesting than his, even though Gale listens with rapt attention to every word. How did they get so lucky as to be loved by this man?

One evening, as the sun dips slowly into the sea from their view on the balcony, Gale suddenly stops speaking. Tav looks up in surprise, as he’d been regaling them with discoveries from an ancient text he’d finished reading.

“Is everything alright, love?” They ask, their heart suddenly pounding as they see Gale staring at them intensely. He responds with a soft apology, and says that it just occurred to him that he has a question he needs to ask them. Most urgently.

The pounding of their heart now fades to a hollow echo, as they’re sure they know what he will ask: Why would a man of his talent and understanding continue to stay with someone as mediocre, unimpressive, and plain as they are?

…but instead, he takes both their hands in his, holding them gently but firmly, and gazes lovingly into their eyes. “I spend my days caught up in academic discussions, decisions and debates. I do enjoy it of course, for the most part, but…to come home to you, to be able to talk without being judged or spoken over, to have your calm attention, the balm of your quiet intellect and understanding…you are an oasis for my soul.” He smiles and lifts their hands to his lips, kissing them reverently. “I’ve read so many books, learned from the brightest scholars, and yet, I still cannot understand…how did I get so lucky as to be loved by you?”

[mostlymihawk]

First Date!

Straw Hat Crew (+ Mihawk + Koby) x GN reader

CW: None

Mihawk:

You had no idea swordfighting could be romantic until Mihawk invited you on a raid with him.

Mihawk really just wants to impress you with his swordfighting skills.

His eyes are on you constantly, making sure you're watching his every move.

He's both testing himself and proving his skill to you.

If his distraction gets him injured, he's not skilled enough to be worth your time.

"Keep your eyes on the fight, or do you want to get yourself killed?"

He's lying; he loves having your eyes transfixed on him.

He makes sure your distraction doesn't get you injured, of course.

Luffy:

Luffy says he's taking you to the best restaurant in the city.

You've never been to this town before, so Luffy follows his nose and takes you to a big, fancy restaurant.

The food is terrible, but maybe you've become a bit of a snob after eating Sanji's cooking every day.

"What's wrong? Are you not hungry?"

You end up visiting about six restaurants before you find a little hole in the wall with incredible food.

Luffy eats a full meal at every restaurant no matter how awful the food is.

He doesn't pay, instead leaving an I-owe-you at each table.

Your date ends in a fistfight with the staff at the last restaurant for this exact reason.

Sanji:

You expect your first date with Sanji will be a romantic candle-lit dinner made by the man himself.

Wrong. It's cooking lessons.

Sanji's touching you almost constantly throughout the whole date.

His hand covers yours as he guides you through chopping onions, his arms come around yours to carefully flip the steak so you don't burn yourself.

He's also praising you constantly.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were holding out on me."

In the end, the date is a romantic candle-lit dinner, but you cook for Sanji and not the other way around.

And if you happened to burn the meat by accident...Well, Sanji will insist your cooking was divine either way.

Nami:

Sanji is only too happy to whip up tangerine tarts for the evening.

Nami picks a tangerine from the tree and you play a few of her childhood games with it.

You play catch, you toss it between each other without touching it...

The tangerine is bruised by the end, but you're both smiling, and you just peel the tangerine and share it anyways.

Nami shows you how to make a windmill from tangerine peels, and then you round the night off on deck with some stargazing.

"...We should do this again sometime. I had a lot of fun."

Zoro:

You have been dropping hints for weeks that you want to go on a date. And he's been entirely unreceptive.

"I'm gonna take a nap."

You want to strangle him.

One day you start to wonder why he always gives you a look when he goes for his naps.

And then it hits you.

He's been asking you out on a date this whole time, the only way he knows how.

His face lights up when you suggest the both of you take a nap.

"I thought you'd never ask."

You spend your date napping together in the hammoc.

Oddly, you realize you learn an awful lot about someone by sleeping with them.

Usopp:

Your first date with Usopp involves sitting with him while he regales you with the Totally Realistic Adventures of Captain Usopp.

He gets so animated, climbing and jumping and making sound effects and everything.

You adore watching him.

When you quietly ask him to tell you the story of that fishman he defeated, he gasps and launches right into the most enthusiastic story yet.

"Yeah. It was pretty cool, if I do say so myself."

Bonus!!

Koby:

Fancy, high-end restaurant.

You barely speak a word the entire time.

Koby's terrible with keeping up a conversation, but you share each other's food and make a lot of awkward small talk.

When Koby tells a joke that gets a laugh out of you, he looks genuinely surprised.

He smiles then, and the conversation starts to flow more easily.

It's fairly boring, as dates go, but you want to go on another date and so does he.

"I...I had fun. This was great, really."

[whatifijustgaveuplmao]

idk the title yet

pairing: ryomen sukuna x f!reader

cw: smut in the next part (👹), implied sexual acts, thoughts of noncon (it doesn't actually happen tho), angst, violence, cannibalism, probs spelling errors, more spelling errors, bad writing, misogyny, wikipedia's view on ancient japanese culture (pls help), sukuna (he's mean), vulgar language, clan leader au but sukuna is true form, arranged marriage, sorta predator/prey dynamic

summary: the gojo clan offers their female heir, the sister of the next clan leader, satoru gojo, to marry ryomen sukuna, the head of the sukuna clan. the sukuna clan is low on members, 2 to be exact with only one by blood, and accepts the daughter of the gojo clan leader.

wc: 3.6k

a/n: mdni, im 18 now sorry.

Ryomen Sukuna was a feared man if he could even be considered one. He brought armies to their knees with a cursed technique that was practically unknown and matched by few. Many times, fields full of vengeful warriors were left stained with bloodied chunks of late men. The King of Curses, whose title was earned for a good reason, sent young children to hunker in their beds by his presence in stories and left a bitter taste in villagers' mouths, a metallic tang, like the corpses his warfare had collected, with a rotten aftertaste.

The King of Curses was a monster among men, ranging from his unnatural confirmation to his horrid personality. The man possessed the combative aid of four arms and eyes, allowing the peripheral vision of a meek, prey animal and an attack similar to a rabid predator.

He was Mother Nature's anomaly and was punished by the cruel fate of eating his twin in their mother's warm womb, who he, ultimately, killed brutally during childbirth. The hunger for flesh was still prominent into his later years, the smell of organs wafting from rust-stained teeth in multiple sly mouths.

The birth of the twins should have been a day of blessing, but instead turned into a heinous one drenched in spilt blood. A regal family should not bear a freak child, not when the child is expected to lead a clan once they grow. A hideous heir would only taint the strong bloodline, like a drop of poison in a cup.

For Ryomen, a drop of poison in a raging river.

In his early years, the King of Curses was closer to a measly fool. A young boy, disowned by his father, the head of the Sukuna Clan, and thrown to the shit-covered ground of the closest livestock village. The young boy, whose ribs contorted and groaned with each breath, was below the filthy swine, crouching next to their troughs and grabbing small fists of slop. He was not met with kindness by any animal, being bitten by the monogastric creatures and kicked by his human counterpart. As he grew, Ryomen struggled to find a difference between the two.

That might have explained why they both tasted so similar to the hungry boy.

Ryomen Sukuna's teenage years marked the upbringing of his torment and the downfall of the Sukuna Clan's prestigious reign. The concave and convex of his ribs were now filled with ropey muscles, pulled taunt with rage. His once frail arms were adjourned with inked markings, carried like trophies of his crimes.

The head of the Sukuna Clan never saw much potential in his only heir. Only when his head was at foot level with the King of Curses, his body falling to the ground behind him with a wet thump, did the man see the monster his seed had created.

His father's skull spilled crimson blood onto the cobblestone, seeping around the stones like his son's irises consumed his pupils. The kimono his stiff body was clad in held together his skeletal pieces, tethered by partially severed tendons and strained ligaments. The fabric was now a stark red, compared to the once light cream.

Later in the night, the new head of the Sukuna Clan sat in the dining hall, his large frame crouched over the table. He grumbled as he unwrapped his catch for dinner and plucked at the animal with sharp, carnivorous nails, tearing fascia and snapping bones.

As he picked at the meat with his teeth, he contemplated changing the clan colors to a darker palette, cream was too pure for his clan. He rolled the meat over, fully unwrapping it. He folded the fabric and set it on the ground beside him, humming in approval.

The blood on the kimono was the perfect hue of red.

Ryomen liked it and thanked his father.

Unlike the Sukuna clan, the Gojo clan bore two heirs, both alive and healthy.

It was a clear day when the twins were born, the mountain pass in the clan's territory illuminated by the morning rays. The sky was a hue of bright blue, with no clouds hanging to obstruct the light. The color contrasted magically with the ice-covered peaks of the stone ridge. Small, soft shards of frozen water caught in the light of the rising sun and glinted like fragile glass.

The twins' mother's labor was short with little complications.

Satoru was born first. He entered the world well-announced, screaming moments after exiting his mother's body. He was quick to open his eyes, as well, a bright and vivid cerulean that stood out amongst his paler features.

The boy had a light complexion, dusted red from his shrill screams. His chubby face was framed by white hair and would have been deemed unnatural, but the Gojo genes were strong and his father's hair reflected his son's without error. Later in his life, the fat of his youth would be replaced with slender limbs and lean muscles.

When the midwife held Satoru, aiding his delivery, she announced that the first heir of the Gojo clan was a male with a wide smile. The celebration must have echoed because the rest of the clan members knew within minutes. Both parents were relieved at the news of a son, glad that the heir would possess the ability to be the next clan leader.

They both silently prayed to the gods for a second.

As the second child was born, their parents waited, gauging the midwife's expression. Once she glanced at the baby with a small warm smile, the pair looked at their son, grateful for one boy, at least. The midwife watched the two turn to their son, cooing at the pre-named favorite, and announced the second gender.

A girl.

This celebration must have been absorbed into the palace walls because the news fell silent. The mother grabbed the girl, holding her in her arms and inspecting her as one would an animal they bred. Both parents were disappointed in the reveal of their daughter's gender; they thought they had visited the territory's shrine frequently and offered an abundance of gifts, enough to be given two boys in return. Twin boys were almost unheard of amongst the clans, and the news of them in the Gojo clan would have brought their presence to tall-standings.

The girl was smaller than her older brother, much smaller. She did not have the healthy cry Satoru possessed either. Along with that, the genes of her heritage were lost amongst her DNA and resulted in characteristics matching none of her immediate family.

Her parents picked up the frail girl, pinching her cheek and watching her squirm. She wailed with her hands reaching outwards to her parents but was met with the disinterested gaze of her dam and sire. Her father probed at the child, still cradled in her mother's warm arms.

If only her affection wrapped around the infant as tight as her grasp.

Her father happily picked up her brother, grinning down at Satoru and whispering words of pride to the boy. As Satoru grew, he would be trained as a warrior, and if he possessed the innate curse techniques of the clan; a god. The man looked at his offspring, bringing him away from his body and raising the boy. Both males' hair reflected the natural light that shone into the room, glistening like rare jewels. In their father's eyes, Satoru was as valuable as one, like a diamond amongst dirt. Dirt was dull, whereas diamonds shined, like Satoru. The man glanced at his daughter. Dirt.

However, with time and pressure, dirt can turn into stone, and the stone into a jewel—a less impressive one but still a jewel.

Her father would eventually give her to a worthy man, one that is deserving of the potential in her genes. A strong male specimen that would shape his daughter into a suitable wife and mother. His daughter would bear the man's heirs and raise them to become strong futures for the survival of her husband's clan. If she birthed multiples, like her mother, she would be sought after greatly.

As the sibling pair began to mature, their parents nurtured the respective aspects of their expected roles.

Once Satoru reached his adolescent years, his cursed energy increased drastically. Soon after, the inherited techniques of the Gojo clan were evident in the boy, and they continued to arise.

The news spread across the clans quickly, the heir of the Gojo clan possessing multiple powerful curse techniques. They were fearfully fascinated by the abilities the boy had, the potential that would develop.

The daughter remained almost unheard of, apart from the conspiring wedding arrangements. While her brother attended political meetings with their father, hoping to prepare the young boy and connect him to members of other clans, she was taught the art of feminity. Her older ladies-in-waiting aided the girl in proper etiquette in different settings, ranging from meetings to her future husband's sleeping chamber.

If the girl's posture dipped, a hand would be jabbed between the crevices of her ribs, straitening her with a sequel. When she spoke out of line, her cheek would sting as a palm splayed across her face.

As her brother drank in the nation's approval, she thirsted for the acceptance of her kin, sipping off the slightest of attention.

When the girl was of age, or close enough in her father's eyes, the Gojo clan started to seek out worthy suitors for their female heir.

The marriage proposal was announced across Japan to its powerful, prestigious clans. At the receival of the news, clan leaders began sending prestigious gifts, ranging from ornate jewelry to exotic animals. The fight for the Gojo clan's only female heir was akin to farming peasants bidding on livestock to bring back to their filthy farms. The girl's father wanted only the luxurious to own his daughter, his prized possession and diplomatic advantage.

A broodmare, with a strong bloodline, shouldn't be wasted on a scrawny stallion.

Ryomen Sukuna was no scrawny stallion.

He was aware of the sparse population of the Sukuna Clan and he was content with the fact. A clan with few, but competent members, is one he sought after.

More members meant more mouths, which meant more resources such as shelter, food, and medicine. The King of Curses wanted no expense to be wasted on unnecessary foolishness.

The members of his clan were limited to a few: himself, Uraume—a young child who'd been kept alive solely due to their expertise in numerous subjects and curse technique, and the occasional concubine.

When the leader of the Sukuna Clan heard of the marriage proposal announced across Japan, he was furious, because it had somehow evaded his ears. The monster had received no news of the Gojo clan offering their only daughter.

He had sent small, young Uraume to contact the neighboring clan, demanding more details about their heir. If she was anything like her twin, the potential her womb held would be valuable. Her brother was a fierce warrior, one who became a challenge to those who were as powerful as Ryomen.

An heir with the same genetics, paired with his seed, would be a force of nature, Mother Nature's blessing. The King of Curses was enraged when an opportunity such as that was not relayed to him.

He had impregnated his concubines before, only ever by accident, and he terminated them as quickly as he discovered the women's fragile state. The children they carried beneath their hearts would have been no help in aiding the growth of the Sukuna Clan. All of the King of Curse's concubines possessed little to no cursed energy, having been offerings and sacrifices by villages in attempts to be spared by Sukuna's lust for gorey violence. None of these females were worthy to birth his heirs. They served purely to his pleasure by squeezing around him ever so deliciously.

When the head of the Sukuna clan gave them his seed, he never wanted anything to sprout. In response, he would pluck them from the fertile ground of their mother's wombs before they could blossom.

Sinful screams would echo as he dug into multiple layers of the dermis, separating the connective tissue to reach his weak heirs. His claws had raked between capillaries, vessels surging with maternal instincts but overpowered by a tyrant father. The articulate pairs of arms attached to the monster pinned down the woman, the plane of her abdomen exposed fully. He dove towards the protective curtains of the fetus' room, pulling them from their comfortable beds and holding them in his grasp.

The mother would grow silent, losing both her offspring and pulse. Meanwhile, Sukuna would hold the small lump of tissue with a hint of human characteristics and feel both lives die beneath him. He held the human and pierced the small life's thoracic cavity with his sharp hand, skewering it as one would a rabbit that they plan to roast over a roaring flame.

An idea that didn't seem too unappealing to Ryomen Sukuna.

If he were to fill the Gojo Clan's daughter with his sperm, the child would remain unharmed by the King of Curses. Her stomach would swell with the powerful heir of the Sukuna Clan, her womb stretching to accommodate his strong seed.

He had squeezed his cup of tea as he brought it to his lips, shattering the ceramic chawan into small clay shards. He growled at the tea as it seeped into his kimono, turning to deep red fabric into a darker hue, one that could have resembled the spillage of blood. The empty space of his shrine fell upon him, the silence deafening his heightened senses.

The space next to him was cold.

The lack of a prospect of potential was evident, the absence seeping into his pores and entering his roaring red circulation. His muscles contracted at the thought of pinning down the small woman, inhaling her fear as primal instincts clouded his frontal lobe. She would squeak as his clawed fingers groped at her flesh, leaving purple-and-red-hued markings in their wake. His pelvis would rock against her pubic joint at a brutal pace, his dicks dragging against her velvet walls and kissing the puffy entrance of her womb.

He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as he exhaled a shaky breath. The arousal flowed through his blood vessels and settled below his stomach in a rigid form. His entire being yearned for a girl, whose existence was unbeknown to him less than an hour prior.

A starved man, deprived of meat, heard about the salty-sweet, marbled wagyu beef.

He would kill a farmer if it meant he could indulge in its taste.

Ryomen Sukuna trudged around his territory as the week progressed, rage marinating in his cranium. The clan leader had heard no words regarding the Gojo Clan's daughter. He bared his teeth and crossed his arms, grunting in annoyance as he slumped down on his throne.

The young king's throne had been built where it stood, carved carefully by multiple artists across Japan and inlaid with rare stones, that glinted menacingly in the dark lighting of the cold room. He had personally added the more gruesome details. Skulls of both homo-sapiens and animals were attached to the chair with thoughtful precision, accentuating the shape of the massive stone structure.

Sukuna's brow raised as the heavy doors opened and revealed Uraume. He grinned at them and announced their arrival with a happy tone, awaiting a positive update regarding the female Gojo Clan heir.

Uraume spoke with a smooth and cold tone, their head bowed down.

"They will give her to the Sukuna Clan, My Lord."

The King of Curses threw his head back with a triumphal laugh, teetered more towards manic. He wasn't surprised that the Gojo Clan had accepted his response so easily. Ryomen was a man who got what he desired with little struggle. The rampage he left as he traveled across Japan, visiting villages and kingdoms alike, had been either heard or experienced by the clans.

The violent assault by the King of Curses left people wondering if he was more than a man who had barely surpassed his teenage years. The young Ryomen Sukuna was closer to a god when he stalked across battlefields, his movements like a deadly dance with a taunting tempo. His temper was a sensitive scale, waiting to be thrown askew, and driven by a craving for carnage.

The young monster knew he was feared and used it as leverage. That reason is undoubtedly the variable that convinced the Gojo Clan to give their daughter to him.

The Gojo Clan wasn't low on intelligence, by any means. They knew that declining to entertain the Sukuna Clan's leader's request would be a foolish decision, followed by a painful downfall. The King of Curses was strong and a suitable taker for their daughter, regardless of his horrific morals. An alliance with such a terrible creature would cause fearful respect to seep into the image of the Gojo Clan. A groom with such strength would create an environment for the Gojo Clan's heir to grow to her full potential of power.

An alliance that the Head of the Gojo Clan would happily oblige by.

The ceremony was at night, lanterns lighting the stone path to the shrine with a faint glow. Sandals slapped against the ground of the shrine, a frantic heartbeat echoing inside ribs. The joining of man and woman was quick. The members in attendance were present due to fear.

Women wept as they watched the small lady advance towards her young groom, their tears viscous with heavy feelings of sympathy. Her steps were slow with the daunting weight upon her shoulders, a venomous gaze squeezing around her frame with malice and sinking fangs into her warm neck.

The bride was dressed in lavish fabric and a sheer veil, hiding any unwanted pull of her mouth or watering in her eyes. The blue hues of her clan dyed the intricate layers she wore, painted fiery orange by the light of numerous lanterns that lined the path to her groom. She carried her head down, lower than the man before her, her feet avoiding the imperfections of the cold stone with childish superstition.

The branch, a symbol of purification and fertility, she gripped in her palm was rough against her skin. The cut Sakaki limb wilted from its presence in the sweltering Japanese summer heat, its leaves past flourishing prime.

Wide eyes flicked to the groom, who had stopped at the alter and turned around. His presence held the guests by their fragile throats with strong, clawed fists. The man's primary set of eyes was focused on the girl in blue approaching him, the other pair scanning the serene shrine that was tainted with the presence of a horrific monster.

He failed to be fully consumed by his bride's presence.

The bride walked up the stairs of the shrine, meeting the curse with a sorrowful expression, the final blow to the last nail on a coffin, and turned to face him. The intricately sewn jewels and patterns on her robe glinted beautifully in the light as her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. She maintained focus on the priest standing in front of the pair as he began to officiate the wedding, a woodworker raising a hammer-clad hand.

She empathized with every nervous hitch and pause of the priest, crimson pairs of eyes following the sweat cascading down the frail man's brow.

Once the priest finished and backed away from the pair, the groom turned and examined his new wife, pinching her cheeks with his large hand and tilting her gaze upwards. A sharp gaze locked onto his bride's with narrowed eyes, a predator inspecting a carcass.

A yield that was fit for consumption.

The groom hummed in satisfaction with a crooked grin and advanced down the stone walkway, gesturing to his woman to follow. He stopped before the bride's father, looking down and nodding at the white-haired man. The older man, a warrior hardened with age, avertated the young king's gaze and nodded in response. He stuck out his hands, offering a dish set with the joining clan's crests.

The groom took them, inspecting them with faux interest, and forced the dishes into the hands of the woman behind him.

The bride looked down at the bowls, cold in her shaky hands, and inspected the symbols. The glaze of the ceramic alluded to her new lover's clan, a visceral red with veiny artwork.

She wanted to throw the clay and shatter it into small shards.

Her gaze lifted to meet her father's cold expression, a final silent plea for a joyous future, but was met with the back of his head, the final farewell to his only daughter.

The groom turned to her and planted his hand on the back of her neck, guiding her movements further toward the exit of the shrine and the end of the ceremony. Her muscles tensed and twitched as her body subconsciously weighed her options to follow or flee, to walk away willingly or scrape at the ground with bloody fingers. Self-preservation stood victorious as she walked calmly beside her husband, her smooth gait contrasting with the rush of blood in her ears.

The pair entered an imperial cart, the small wagon engulfed by the groom's large frame. Man and woman sat across from each other with a tangible tension.

"Look at your husband," the groom growled.

The bride jerked her gaze towards him, her throat contracting as her mouth ran dry.

"You're mine. I expect your heritage to bring fortune to my clan. If you do not meet my expectations, I'll return you to your father on a plate," the man explained with a neutral tone that did not match his taunting expression.

The woman nodded and crossed her hands in her lap, her body trembling, as the man in front of her studied her form.

A starving man licked his chops as he stared at his steak, fork and knife raised.

a/n: first fic really kinda scary. pls tell me if it sucks so i can fix it lmao. i will be sooo slow with updating bc my writing comes in long, spread out waves yk?

[inexplicifics]

That is an enormous WIP folder! Could I trouble you for some Cedric and Axel CAW?

Sure! And yes, it is terrifying large. Writing out the whole list was...ah...intimidating.

Axel is briefly distracted from his frantic pacing when Kiyan arrives, bouncing along cheerfully beside a Griffin witcher - Axel genuinely didn’t know there were any left alive - who bows like a courtier and talks like a storybook hero, and has apparently wintered here before, by the warm welcome he receives. Kiyan, too, is embraced eagerly, and Vesemir fusses over him like a mother hen reunited with her chick. Kiyan, bewilderingly, lets himself be fussed over, appearing delighted by the attention, and regales them all over supper with a story about a particularly clever katakan that he and the Griffin caught and killed together. Axel almost doesn’t hear any of the tale, too distracted by the horrible scars everywhere on Kiyan’s visible skin. In the baths after dinner that night, Axel discovers that Kiyan’s scars cover all of him, far worse than even the Path usually provides. And Kiyan explains, quietly, that a Wolf witcher rescued him, too, and brought him back to Kaer Morhen, and gave him the future Kiyan had given up on ever having.

[alavestineneas]

Heaven

pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x fem!reader summary: Gluttony, lust, sloth, envy, greed—the sins were placed on his head instead of a crown worth his status, a crown that would've, undoubtedly, made some meaning of his life. Without it, the matted, silver hair atop his head served more as a laughing matter. Even the father, taken with the idea of a male babe, has cast him aside. The apple of the rotten tree fell far from the branches, left to rot and decay in the shadows of his own undoing. warning: canon-typical violence, blood&cheese, hurt little comfort, loss of limbs, implied/referenced cheating, drinking, court, RELIGIOUS GUILT, sex lol word count: 8.2k

author's notes: hi lovely people! today, i present you my new creation - an Aegon fic! yay! PLEASE note that: a)YN has children in this imagine and they are important to the story. If you don't feel comfortable reading all that - do not engage with this fic. b) The Blood&Cheese does happen in this univese, so be mindful!

If all is good, am I so excited to have you here - please don't shy away from sharing your opinion, either good or bad, in the comments. Love you!

He was not used to hearing no.

It is a simple truth: of all of the words in the world, one of the most common ones escaped his mind completely, going over his head and never leaving an impact strong enough to attach meaning to it. Since he was a babe in the golden cradle, lavishing in the rich purples of the crown, the Realm opened in front of him, smiling and cooing in his regal plump face. The best teachers, toys, and golden coins were thrown his way—the firstborn son, the long-awaited boy of House Targaryen. Soon, the endless teachers changed into endless rivers of the best wines, and wooden horses grew pairs of tits big enough to bury the temper he had grown to hold. Only gold in his pockets as he turned to yet another brothel door never changed its shape—money travelled from his hands into cups, dresses, and undergarments silently, the countless replicas of his father’s profile sparkling with the judgement of yet another of his poor choices.

Sometimes Aegon wondered what would be the breaking point for his righteous Lady Mother—when would her head finally turn to look him in the eye and mutter a swift ‘’no’’ instead of lowering her gaze and pursing her lips together at his new whim? He foolishly thought it would be the wine. Nevertheless, each time Alicent found him covered in his own dinner, dragged to the castle by some unfortunate knight, she raged and cried, but never forbade him from drinking again. Yet, the more he ate, the more he wanted.

He thought his heart a hole—the darkest, most blackest place of his soul, rotten from the day his violet eyes opened and took in the world around them. Like a tooth, white as snow upon its birth, growing spoiled from the sweet nectars the Realm had to offer. The small spot, not bigger than a needle's ear, appears first, going unnoticed. Then, it fattens and spreads its disease through the mouth until there are no teeth to chew with, leaving only a gaping void where once there was a smile. Gluttony, lust, sloth, envy, greed—the sins were placed on his head instead of a crown worth his status, a crown that would've, undoubtedly, made some meaning of his life. Without it, the matted, silver hair atop his head served more as a laughing matter. Even the father, taken with the idea of a male babe, has cast him aside. The apple of the rotten tree fell far from the branches, left to rot and decay in the shadows of his own undoing.

In the name of traditions he had no reason to engage in, the only place where he had hoped to be something or become something—his chambers—were occupied by the stark reminder of his worthlessness. Heleana, his sister, his wife—the almost always silent figure, a shadow of their childhood. It pained him to watch her close her eyes every time he entered the chambers to install the needed heir into his sister's womb. Aegon remembers her as a girl, often strange but never unkind—the image he forced himself to forget every time she undressed in front of him . The violet eyes they both shared, the silver braids covering her girlish figure—everything about House Targaryen made him ache with guilt and shame. He could not stand to look at the similar braids on his own shoulders, so he cut them off in a drunken rage, burning them in the flames of the fire. Oh, how he wished he could burn himself there instead.

None of his whores had any trace of Old Valyria. None of his whores had a trace of her, either. The one his famished, bloodied heart set the pinnacle of his desire. He could have any woman in the world, from the slaves to the highborn maidens, begging for him to spare one glance, one night, one favour from the night-made king. But it was her, the secret so shameful that even his spoiled mind could not admit it. Aegon studies the patterns in the ceiling, his body almost in pain from the aching feeling in his abdomen. The water around him moves, caressing his skin like a lover's touch. It's burning, he notes, despite being nearly wintry.

''Does your brother know you are here?''

He almost does not recognise his voice as he speaks, the words barely a whisper in the echoing chamber. It's low and darkened, leaving his mouth with a tingle of bitterness. The question comes out twisted, ridicule thrown into another naked body in his bath—it earns only a low chuckle from the woman in front of him.

''Yes, my king, I believe he does.'' Lady YN looked more entertained than embarrassed; all of the pleasantries the etiquette demanded they follow were out of the question anyway. The water hid most of her body, leaving only the head and neck for display. She was bare, the ends of her hair steaming down the ends of a bath as she lounged comfortably, completely at ease. ''The twins often share a piece of soul, my king. You must have known from your own children."

Aegon hms, his eyes leaving their place and setting on the woman instead. Coloured with wetness, her hair stuck to her forehead in the heat of the bath , starting small streams of water down her face. Striking, almost glistening eyes stared back at him. Something unreadable lay there, something not meant for him to see. Her body is one of the woman, not a girl; the marks of not one but two babes nurtured by her womb and breasts are simple in their beauty; this, Aegon thinks, ought to be the image of Mother on the walls of Sept. Lady YN, a widow to some highborn Lord he wished not to know the name of, and mother to his two children. Lady YN, a twin sister to Ser Leon Estermont. Lady YN, the mistress of the king.

''Are you just going to stare?'' The woman chuckled softly, bringing Aegon out of his reverie. "Or are you going to fuck me?''

Aegon barked a short laugh, adjusting himself to hold the weight of the woman climbing on top of him, his arms catching her hips with ease. ''Holy Seven! Where have you learned such profanities, woman? Not fuck,'' he playfully scolded, trapping her lips in a teasing kiss. ''making love, that is,'' he mumbled against her jaw.

Aegon moved slower than usual, taking his time to savour each moment. Something was enchanting in the way droplets of sparkling water clung to her skin, glistening like diamonds in the sunlight—it was as if the water itself had moulded her, leaving an indelible mark on her very being. Even now, with his headlight from wine and limbs burning for a rest, the hunger pools in his stomach, demanding more of her. YN's voice is sickening; it wraps around Aegon's dried throat and lands on his chest like a weighty stone. The hushed moans, mixed with whispers, send shivers down his spine as he rocks into her body, caught in the intoxicating web she weaves with her words. It almost pained him to pull away from her, knowing that he would never be able to resist her siren call for long.

''What are you doing?'' YN asks, her voice laced with a hint of amusement, as she places her hands on his chest, the pace of her hips never faltering.

Aegon struggles to find the words to respond, lost in the dizzying whirlwind of sensations she evokes within him. He can only manage a breathless, ''There is something I want to give you,'' before succumbing once again to her spellbinding presence. It's not an inquiry; the words leave Aegon's mouth without much thought behind them . His hand blindly travels to the small table somewhere behind his back, knocking down two goblets and a burned candle in his haste. ''Here,'' he says, pushing the cascade of hair aside to place a small golden pendant on her neck. "Oh, Gods,'' he murmurs, his eyes fixed on the pendant as it rests against her skin. "Had it made for you.''

He tried to focus on the pendant, but the sight of breasts moving before him was too much to bear. The pace she set, undeniably to torment him further, was excruciating. A few more moments, and he might finish right then and there. But he couldn't bring himself to stop her or put an end to this torturous game. Aegon closed his eyes, surrendering to the overwhelming sensations that consumed him.

''Please, don't stop," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own racing heartbeat. Aegon wanted to cease existing, to turn around, and to never be seen here again. Instead, he just sat in the small bath, a little too small for two people, feeling redness creep up his neck onto his cheeks. To his surprise, the heat pooling inside of him only grew as his courage slipped away with each moment. A completely pleasurable sensation took over him, spreading heat between his legs and causing his breath to quicken. Aegon's hips instinctively arched forward, craving more of her touch. The waves around him mixed with the ones of pleasure as he came, the hands roaming his body, leaving him feeling more alive than ever before.

Numb, he watched the water swirl around the YN's breasts and knees as she reached her high a few moments later, a smile playing on her lips as she looked down at him. She rinsed her body, washing away the sweat and salt, before stepping out of the water with a satisfied sigh. Aegon followed her body with hungry eyes as she stepped out of the bath and reached out for the cloth to dry herself. First, her hair, then her neck and arms; she meticulously dried every inch of her body before slipping into a blue gown, one of her hands catching and bringing to light his gift. A sun-shaped gold pendant dangled from her fingers, glinting in the fire. She traced the intricate design with her thumb, a fond smile on her face as she remembered the moment he had given it to her.

Aegon's eyes softened as he watched her. ''I intend to have you join me for the early meal on the morrow. ''

''I would be pleased to, my king.'' She pauses, a sly smile playing on her lips. ''May the night be kind to you.''

He chuckled, his own smile mirroring hers. ''And may your dreams be filled with nothing but joy.''

With a gentle nod, she excused herself from his presence, the gold pendant still clasped in her hand. Aegon sighed, not bothering to sit straight, leaning on the bath walls instead. He prayed to Seven for even a chance to close his lids this sombre night; his usual sleep was turned into a nightmare and a fever dream at once—the one that left him covered in sweat and desperate for sweet oblivion. No matter how much he pleaded, the laughing eyes of Lady YN wouldn't leave her alone. He would lay in bed until sunrise, staring into the faintly pink sky, until dawn came and the cycle of never-ending torment began again.

There were a lot of sinners in all the corners of the world; they kept on with their small affairs, akin to flies, wasting each of their numbered days on the things that carried no meaning in the great map of history. Slaves of foreign lands, smallfolk of fields and seas, servants scurrying in the shadows of their masters or draped with precious cloth figures of noblemen—life and later death—showed no interest in their whereabouts. Their existence was fleeting; their legacy was forgotten with the passing of the seasons.

YN grew tired of never-changing identities quickly; the same faces of mediocrity surrounded her, stealing the much-needed fresh air with the talk of trivial matters. Noon and night mixed in one globe in her throat, tasting of nothing but bitterness—the same flute, feast, and court affairs sun after sun. The small girl near her screeches and laughs, her little hands occupied with the dolls, as she attempts to flee from the grasp of her older brother. They seemed to be in their own world, running down one of the stone halls of the Red Keep with a speed the best stallions of the kingdoms could only dream of.

''You are cheating! I saw it; you did!''

Peter was her firstborn, a boy who is now nearing the age of a man—two and ten summers have passed since she first heard his cry echo in the cold halls of the family castle. Slender, even sickly skinny—as her late lord husband declared upon his birth, he fell sick often—she has spent countless nights near his cradle, wishing to see the day he becomes a healthy, strong young lad. To the delight of everybody, and YN as well , her prayers did not go unanswered. Peter was now skilled with a blade, his fragile figure resulting in swifter, much softer moves that left his teacher's prowess a remarkable honour of knighthood.

''I am not! I'm just faster than you!''

A smile spreads across YN's face as she looks at the little girl in her yellow dress, who now hides behind a collum. Meg was a keen, healthy babe of four summers, with a mischievous glint in her eyes that mirrored YN's own. Other than that, she looked nothing like her—all her father, the Lord husband, lost to illness. What a blessing it was to look at her daughter's face and see him. What a curse.

''Please, be civil. Remember, no hitting, no biting, and absolutely no spitting are worthy of a knight or a lady."

No talking, either, if she could convince them to listen for longer than two minutes. Having her children play with the royal heirs was Aegon’s idea; like that, she had more time on her hands, and twins could enjoy the company of someone closer to ''normal'' folk, as he had worded it. It was not something she could refuse, although she wished nothing more than to do so. The royals were a serious matter; one wrong word and your head ornates the castle walls instead of the golden banners. She did not doubt her children; they were kind-hearted, lovely people, but the notable ‘incidents’ of house Targaryen kept her awake at night, wishing her children would be brought to her with all their eyes and limbs. Leon, her brother, assured her nothing would happen— it was he who took her children to and from the Queen's chambers. He told her of great opportunities for his niece and nephew that came with being closer to the court, but it did not ease YN’s mind fully. All of her family, in one way or another, entertained the royal and noble house of the dragons—the fate most minor houses considered a blessing. Most, but not all.

Before the death of her husband and long before either of her children came into this globe, it was just two of them in their small little world—the twins of House Estermont, the heirs to the misfortunes of the Greenstone's lush greenery and endless tides of sea. She would've stayed there, on a small island enveloped by mountains and castle walls. It was Leon who wanted to make something of himself, with dreams as high as the seagulls up in the sapphire sky above their childhood bedchambers. There was not thought more ridiculous than her dear brother in the walls of the capital , and yet he left the Estermont as soon as the banners were called for young swords in the court of then-prince Aegon. Then she married, and the rest was drowned in the endless nights of tears. Sometimes, only when no one was around, YN wondered if she could've stayed forever there, in her home, without having to see the world that was often so cruel—had her brother not left her so early; had he been the lord instead of their father when she came of age?

''Mother, are you going?''

The loud voice has startled YN out of her thoughts. She smiled at her son, adjusting the skirts of her gown before nodding. ''Yes, my sweet. Let us come in; we do not want to keep the Queen waiting, do we now?''

The Queen. YN has heard many rumours in court concerning the sanity of young Queen Helaena, her preference for silence, and modest foods, but she has never seen her closer than a few yards. Standing before the large wooden door to her chambers seemed foolish—had she been any other woman, perhaps she had nothing to fear—to present her children to the royal maids and escape to the comfort of the halls once more. But she was no ordinary woman—she was a mistress to the King the Queen called brother, the one whose bed he warmed instead of hers. YN cursed her brother in her head for having ''a business'' to attend to today, of all days; even though he assured her of Queen's kind heart, she couldn't shake the feeling of unease as she pushed the door.

The chambers were quiet, with only the slow crackling of wood in the chimney disturbing the peace. ''My Queen, I have brought the children as you requested,'' YN announced, her voice echoing in the vast rooms. She waited for a response, but none came—only the flickering shadows dancing on the walls.

On the small cushion before the fireplace, a figure dressed in regal robes sat with her eyes on the embroidery hoop in her hands. YN takes her time studying the woman as her own children join the pair of royal heirs on the woven carpet. She sits straight, her face somewhere else. The queen has beautiful hair, YN notes to herself ; her silver locks escaped the carefully laid braids, landing right onto her cool, fair face. The woman is younger than her, perhaps by a few summers. The maids around her worked almost in silence—only sometimes it dared to be broken with a small polite exchange concerning the seams or the ornaments on their wooden hoops. There was a distance between her and them—a distance that YN could sense even from where she stood. Despite the quiet camaraderie of the ladies, the queen remained in her own world, a world that YN couldn't quite grasp.

''Lady YN,'' the Queen finally said, never moving her eyes from the dark fabric. ''Would you like to see what I have done so far?''

Something familiar sparkled inside YN's mind like an old tune long forgotten. There was a certain childish quality to her words, reminding her of the way her daughter spoke—something about the innocence and vulnerability that still lingered beneath the regal facade. The Queen spoke to her like they had been great friends like she had seen her before—perhaps in a dream or in another lifetime.

''Of course, Your Majesty.''

She moved closer, careful not to step on the countless toys and pillows scattered around on the floor. Someone, Jaehaerys or Jaehaera, whom she could not tell, squeaked and ran past her, chased by her own daughter, almost knocking YN over in their game. The Queen smiled warmly at the chaos, her eyes sparkling with amusement at them as YN sat before her on the padded chair, intended for legs. She turned the hoop of her embroidery , her delicate fingers working quickly and skillfully.

''I did it for him. A golden dragon, you see? I do not like green; it does not suit him,'' she half-whispered, her almost translucent violet eyes studying each expression on YN's face but never lingering too long.

Him. YN nods, her heart aching with understanding. She knows. Suddenly, the world feels like it is burning—or, perhaps, it is just the growing fire—and an acquainted feeling of guilt and shame travels to her throat. She swallows hard, trying to drown the discomfort in her saliva—a whore, a liar, a thief. Here, in the presence of something so fleeting, so beautiful, and so delicate, she feels the weight of her sins pressing down on her chest, threatening to consume her whole.

The colourful eyes of the Queen seemed to understand her thoughts; she smiled. ''You have a beautiful necklace.''

YN's involuntary hand reaches for the necklace hanging around her neck, feeling the weight of it in her palm. The gold sun sits there proudly, having escaped the comfort of her dress in a moment she has missed. It feels like a cruel joke and, if she will, a reminder of the audacity she possessed to steal from a queen. She felt bare for the first time in years, like a child caught by his mother in some small affair. ''Thank you, your Grace," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the flames.

''He likes you, my brother. He has a very strange way of showing it; you are the first person he's allowed to get this close to. The first to keep for so long, too.'' Queen Helaena pauses, her eyes softening slightly as she looks at the children before her. "They love having someone to play, you know? Always waiting for a new friend to join them in their games.'' As the firelight dances across her face, Queen Helaena's smile is bittersweet. "I am afraid I do not know what to do with them. ''

YN nods in understanding, her head turning to watch the flock of laughing children too. ''I was thirteen when I had my first. From the moment he left my womb, he screamed and cried, never finding solace in my arms. I was his mother, the person who was supposed to provide comfort, yet I could just cry with him. I did not feel the mystical tenderness the ladies told me about—I felt lost. Hollow. I thought I was missing some piece of myself that would make me love him the way I was supposed to. But he grew, and I did with him—then I realised that I had a lot of people to care for me, but he only had me. There is no ''right'' love—only the love we are capable of giving , and that was enough for him.''

The woman kept quiet, her eyes moving on the stone floor. YN wondered if her silence was a hint of disapproval or if she was simply lost in her thoughts once again. After a moment, Queen Heleana finally spoke, her voice lingering through the chambers. "Would you like to join us in the garden on the morrow? It would be a great change of scenery."

YN smiled. The relief washed over her—it didn't feel real. The same eyes, hair, and face she saw hundreds of times are once again in front of her, only changing slightly to more feminine features. The Queen does look like her brother-husband, and now YN can't help but feel a sense of comfort in her appearance. ''I would be honoured to, Your Majesty."

The days changed each other quickly; her children grew, and the court lived, growing and changing before her eyes. There was something in the air; she could feel it—an alter after Prince Aemond brought news of the passing of a Valaryon bastard. YN remembers the night—the king has drunk himself half-dead, pacing and muttering about war—the weight of the crown seemed heavier on his head that night. She knows he wishes she did not hear it, laughing at all of her worried questions on the next eve. Still, the war worried her; it brought the worst upon its coming—famine, illness, and terror. She did not fear death—the Stranger was a familiar presence in her life—but the thought of her children suffering haunted her dreams.

YN looks at the girl in her wooden bed, sleeping as peacefully as a child should. Peter sits near, on the stool beside her, his eyes shining with excitement more than fear as he listens to the reading—no matter how smart her son is, he is still too young to fully grasp the doom that warfare will bring to their doorstep; for him, the tales of glorious battles are still alive and true. As YN finishes yet another story about the conquest of three dragon warriors, the comforting silence settles in their bedchamber. Soon, the sun will fully hide behind the darkened clouds of the horizon, and the night will cast its shadows over the land.

''Are you the king's mistress?'' Peter asks, his voice barely above a whisper. The words that leave his lips are not his own. YN's heart shrinks at the sound of them—the whispering faces of the court's gossip swirling in her mind.

There it was—the question she hoped would resolve itself on its own but knew would come anyhow. It's hard, YN realises, to admit such a simple truth to the pair of wide-open eyes looking up at her as she closes the book. Did she not tell it herself after each time she spent the night in the king's chambers? '' I and King Aegon are,'' she takes a breath in. What were they? Lovers? Such a foolish, shameful thought. ''dear friends. We converse and dine together, and he takes great pleasure in hearing me play.''

She does not want to lie to her sweet boy; she knows he is perceptive and will see through any falsehood. But the weight is heavy; she will not let it crush his still boyish shoulders. Deep down, YN fears the day her son will realise the truth. Will he still wish to know her name then? He looks like a small sparrow bird, YN thinks to herself, in his brown vest and ruffled collar of the shirt —so small yet so curious. He tilts his head just like the finch would as if trying to grasp her words and find something between them. ''Do you love him?''

A sigh escapes her lips before she can think of a better answer. ''Well, let's see,'' she pauses. ''I love you, and I love little Meg, and I love your uncle Leon. I also love our beautiful rooms, my dresses, and the nice pies we get to have for supper. And all of that we have because King Aegon is good and just and values our house as one of his loyal subjects. So, in a way, yes, I do love him for that.''

Lies. Disgraceful, unworthy of a lady, a mother she is. Does she truly feel nothing when his lips caress every inch of her very being, his hands touching her soul akin to a ghost? Does she not wish the warmth of his body never had to part from her heart, staying on her neck instead, trapped in the warm, gold sun on her skin? Did she not offer him what was left of her time and time again ? Did she not think of him all the time? Was she not terrified of loving him, and did she not love him?

''I do not want you to marry him.'' Peter is determined. His hands grow fists, the slight childish jealousy painting his face. He could not know, and yet he felt it; he was her son, her blood, after all.

''Then I shall not. I will be here, helping you as you grow into a strong, handsome Lord, and then I will eat only cake and wear pretty dresses for the rest of my days. You will protect me and your sister, just like your father did before he passed, and I will be your scorny lady-mother for the time being . ''

She would. YN wished he would see it, but he was still too young, too naive, to understand the sacrifices she dedicates for him and his sister only, the chains she traps in her heart every day just for them to have a happier life. The sacrifices he did not ask for, YN reminds herself . Sacrifices she chose willingly.

Peter nods, his eyes changing back into childish, sparkling innocence, leaving the stone-cold stare and anger hanging only in his mother's memory. "That sounds perfect, my lady-mother," he says with a grin. "I will protect you and my sister with all my might, just like my father did."

''Good,'' YN smiles, planting a kiss on her son's forehead. "Your father would be proud of the man you are becoming.''

He would not, but Peter does not need to know it. Maybe he will grow up to be nothing like him, and maybe the gods will be kind enough to let her see it.

The Queen's chambers are loud as the night approaches; children, royal or not, never seemed to tyre and instead wished to play all into the night. Even the tireless maid, exhausted of their incessant energy, now quietly sat in the corner, undoubtedly anxious not to be discovered for at least a handful of moments. Tragically for her, YN did not possess this kind of power; her head seemed to soon crack into a few pieces from the noise and shuffles, her limbs burning for rest and quiet. She was tired of reading; the book, long forgotten, was shyly lying at the edge of the wooden table, covered in rich gold ornaments.

''Do you feel unwell?'' The soft voice of Queen Helaena is heard nearby. The fair face turns into a concerned expression—the Targaryen queen had always been perceptive .

YN shakes her head in a weak attempt to wave any worries away. ''Just a little tired from the long day,'' she murmurs, forcing a small smile.

''Perhaps you should rest. I will send a maid to draw you a bath and prepare your chambers for the night.'' The woman's graceful hand reaches out to gently touch YN's shoulder. ''The children can stay; they will be in good hands with the nursemaid, and then they shall return to your chambers in the morning.''

YN feels something creep in her stomach but shakes it off. Perhaps she should not have eaten that pie after all. ''Thank you, your grace,'' she says, mustering a grateful smile. She stands up to leave, feeling the weight of the day's events finally catch up to her before the Queen's voice is heard again.

''The cooter, a mother to three kings,'' she mumbles, her words causing YN to pause and turn back.

''Your grace?" It was not the first time The Queen lost herself in her thoughts; sometimes, she would whisper nonsense as they conversed—it was worrying, sure, but YN had learned to ignore it. Queen Helaena was a sweet, kind woman, but her mind was often clouded by the burdens of her crown. YN wished that one day the Queen would find peace and clarity in her own thoughts; she prayed for it, too.

''The cooter,'' the Queen gazed in her direction, directing attention to the embroidery on YN's dress.

''Yes, it is a cooter; it is a sigil of my house, your Grace, house Estermont.'' YN smiled gently, hoping to distract the Queen from her confusion. The woman's eyes lit up with recognition as she nodded in understanding, and YN breathed a sigh of relief. She can now rest.

It was not long before the screams in her dreams startled her awake—the dark, obsidian night in the window chilling her feet as she quickly sat up, her heart pounding in her chest. Although the screams never seethed; they became louder, more concerned voices of people in the halls outside her room, calling out curses and cries. YN quickly climbed out of the warm bed and rushed to the door, the cobble floors cooling beneath her bare feet as she opened it to see what was happening.

People running in and out of the long halls—maids and knights, even some noblemen in their sleepwear—seemed not to notice the strange figure of a woman in her nightgown standing in the doorway. ''What has happened?'' she asked the maid nearby before recoiling - the dirty sheets in her hands were coloured crimson.

The boy is dead, a voice told her . The boy in the royal chambers.

''Let me through,'' she demanded, pushing past the maid and rushing towards the rooms of Queen Helaena. The rooms she left her children in. She did not care; if the murderer was still in those walls, she would strangle him herself; her children, young, innocent children she left in the care of their nurse, were still there. Were still alive in her head.

The walk from her chambers to the royal ones wasn't too long; she would've walked a thousand more stairs if it was needed. The door to the chambers is wide open; splashes of blood lead inside, pooling before the opening, resembling a twisted, sick lake of horror. ''Meg? Peter?'' No response came, only eerie silence. Panic began to rise in her chest as she stepped over the threshold, her heart pounding in her ears. The screaming rings in her ears suddenly; she does not recognise her own voice as it echoes off the stone walls.

Small, lifeless limbs stare at her almost in accusation, the redness of his open neck wound stark against the pale skin —the body of young Prince Jaehaerys lays in his cradle like it often would, lacking only the silver crown of his head. The room was a scene of unfathomable horror, with blood splattered across the walls and the once innocent nursery now a monstrous sight. The scent of death surrounded her like a bloodied blanket, choking the breath in her throat and sending her head spinning.

She did not feel the male hands clutching her shoulders, pulling her away. The blue and green cloth under her feet quickly moved, the voice of her brother whispering something in her deaf shocked ears.

''Leon, children, my children,'' she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper as tears streamed down her face. The realisation of what had happened in that room hit her right in the stomach, leaving a wretched kno of guts and despair. She tries to fight back, to shout over the chaos, or to push him away; she always does. It makes him just angrier, and harsher, and he tightens the grip, pushing her right into the open door of what appears to be his chambers.

''Everyone stays in their rooms until stated otherwise by the king's orders,'' he hisses, finally letting go of her.

The action is so sudden that she falls forward, hitting her nose as she slides down the stone wall. There's blood everywhere; it's mixed with tears, soaking into her hair and dripping down from her dress. Her brothers's plan worked; YN had no energy to shout anymore. Her anger is now swallowing down her dried throat. She opens and closes it like a fish out of the sea, trying to get air into her lungs—all that is left for her to watch as the wooden door snaps against its frame and the lock clicks, chaining her to the cold, dark room.

YN does not know how much time has passed or if it has passed at all ; the dark, obsidian night sky is now coloured in pinks, oranges, and purples, resembling her usual gowns more than the bright blue of the day. The silence is deafening, broken only by the distant chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze; she does not care for it. The only sound in her mind is a constant prayer, although, in her previous life, not many could accuse her of being devout. Now, YN finds herself clinging to any semblance of hope, no matter how faint, no matter where it comes from.

It's all her fault, she thinks. It is as clear as a day—the sins on her shoulders were so heavy that even Gods could not bear them anymore. She should've stayed there, in the northern castle of her lord husband, weeping over his grave like any proper widow would. Instead, she has indulged in a life of sin with violet eyes and silver locks, finding solace in the arms of another man. She let her body decide, choosing a life of bodily pleasure over honour and duty. The husband, no matter how hard it was for her to love him, was the only man who had a right to touch her soul. Touch her at all.

The door opened with a loud bang, revealing her lord husband in all his might. He was wearing those weird clothes again—something torn and dirty. It looked like he robbed some beggars near the castle before coming in, and he smelled the same.

''Come on!'' he exclaims, opening his arms as if for a hug. ''Don't be shy; we are married, remember?''

There is not much she can say; the easiest way out is to let him do what he wants. So, YN bites her cheek when his sloppy kisses travel down her neck and keeps her mouth shut when he takes off her nightgown. It's awful, almost humiliating, to hear his breath quicken. To feel him inside. She smiles when it's finally over, and he plants the last, tired kiss on her head before getting under the covers. She knows better than to disturb her husband's sleep; instead, she cries silently, mindful of staining his pillow with tears.

YN's knees are aching even through the fabric of her gown, but it does not matter. Through pain, she could feel her remorse. Feel like she was being punished for her own desires. Feel like she was clean again.

A soft knocking is heard, and YN has to snap out of her trance, gathering the tears building in her eyes with a cloth. It's a servant, one of the many she sees running down the halls this morning. ''You are awaited before the Council, milady.''

''Thank you,'' YN replies, her voice barely above a whisper. She will see to the punishment the gods have chosen for her, no matter how harsh it is. Her only wish is for her children, who are innocent in all of this, to be spared from any consequences of her actions. She straightens her posture and nods. ''Let us go then.''

The loud arguing in the rooms of Small Council seemed to fade as she appeared in the doorway, all eyes turning to her as she entered. The sun was already up, she noticed, as the soft streaks of warmth hit the room through the open windows, casting a golden hue over the polished table where the council members sat. She caught strange looks from a few, and frankly, she thought they were right. YN looked like a mad woman, her hair quickly plated and her dress hurriedly laced, rushing around a castle that seemed to freeze at the news of a child's passing.

''Mother,'' the loud cry of her son's voice echoed, snapping YN back to reality. He came running to her, his face streaked with tears and his eyes red from crying, his hands clutching her waist as he buried his face in her stomach. YN stood there, wrapping her arms around him tightly, feeling the empty space where his right hand should have been. ''I am so sorry; I tried to save him, but the knife, they did; they cut it off, Mother, '' he sobbed.

YN's heart shattered into a million pieces as she held her son close. Her darling, brave boy lost a part of himself, but he was alive. Better a sparrow, living or dead, than no birdsong at all. Here, in her arms. ''It is okay; all is well; you did so well. Where is your sister?''

''She is safe; I hid her in the closet. She was so scared,'' he whispered, his voice trembling.

''Your daughter is with maids now, Lady YN.'' The voice of Sir Criston Cole echoed through the room.

YN's eyes quickly found the green dress she put on her daughter herself; she sat on the hip of some scared maid, silent. She thanked the gods; she thanked anyone and everyone, in the sky or beneath the ground, who had decided to let her children live. Occupied with her thoughts, YN does not hear the questions flying at her right away; yet, the male voice of the swordsman still cuts through the cloudiness of her mind, reaching her ears.

''We would like to ask you a few questions about what happened that night. Can you tell us why you were not in the Queen's chambers with your children?''

There is something seething inside her as her son wails and clutches her waist with his now one hand and her daughter's frozen eyes as she stares through her mother. YN stood there, before the able knights of the castle, in nothing but her nightgown, covered in her son's blood and her own tears, feeling the weight of their accusatory gazes upon her. The gods forgave her and proved her innocent, but the whispers of suspicion still lingered in the air, staining her with their accusations. Anger—that was what boiled inside her—a fiery rage that threatened to consume her from within. ''What are you implying?''

''It is suspicious, don't you think, Lady YN, for you to be the only one absent when the tragedy occurred?''

YN laughed. It did not sound like a laugh of joy but rather a bitter, cynical sound that echoed through the great hall. Perhaps that was the mark of nerves she has wasted today, perhaps the showing of her despair—the maddening, heavy feeling of despair clawing at her insides. The child was dead; others were harmed—the cold, the almost translucent figure of the young prince covered in unfathomable amounts of his own blood lingered in her mind. "How dare you, the Head of the King's Guard, be the one telling me of doubts when it was my son, my blood, that protected Prince Jaehaerys? Tell me, Ser Criston, where were you when my boy lost his hand defending the royal family?''

Ser Criston's expression darkened at the accusation; his jaw clenched tightly. "I was carrying out my duty elsewhere, as I always have," he replied evenly, his gaze wavering in the face of her anger. ''And for those who question my loyalty, there is a place in the dungeons reserved for traitors and cowards. Guards, seize Lady YN and bring her to the cells for questioning immediately."

As his words echoed through the hall, the even louder cries of her son were drowned out by the commotion as the guards moved to apprehend her. Although she feels nothing now, the contrast of cold poisoning her body where the boiling anger was just a moment before terrifying and overwhelming. YN felt numb and drained of any emotion as her son hugged her closer, despite the best efforts of the man around them. There will be bruises, she thought in a haze. When did he get so strong?

''Leave her be.'' A voice boomed from the back of the room.

King Aegon sat there on the designated stool, adorned with heads of dragons. Now, he did not look regal; he seemed sick, his violet eyes bloodshot and silver locks hanging limply around his face. The sea-sick green coloured his face as he struggled to maintain his composure. Just for a second, their eyes met, a silent understanding slipping between them. There was something wrong with him. There was something wrong with him that was also wrong with her.

''Thank you, my king,'' she whispered, her voice barely audible. The man's expression softened slightly, with a flicker of recognition in his eyes, before he turned away, dismissing the guards. They were free to go; she was free to go, with her alive and well children, who still could scream and cry. He will stay; he had to stay with his now-forever boy.

The water hit the pier with gentle splashes, and the droplets of salt jumped on the stone legs of the dock before rejoining the vast sea. The warm shadows of the setting sun coloured the liquids in pricey gemstones: sapphire and rubies, quarts, and turquoise glistened before her eyes. There was something magical in the way the light danced, ethereal and airy, as it circled the pier—no one disturbed the peace of the tranquil sea; nobody knew the secrets it had stored since its birth.

The water was warm enough—just a little more, and the beach would embrace many swimmers in its warm hug. But, for now, she only watched as the waves gently lapped against her feet, the soothing rhythm of the sea reminding her she was still here, in her body. YN closes her eyes. It would be an easy fix— to just jump , to let the water envelop her completely, to become one with the sea. No one would know how she went, not until the same waves returned her body to the shore somewhere far from this castle. Or would the water leave her for itself, storing the secrets of her death deep beneath the sand as her soul left this world behind? YN had no chance of knowing, but the thought of disappearing into the ocean's embrace was strangely comforting. Just her and the place she called home.

The sound of crashing waves enveloped her head; the wind was getting stronger, ruffling the hem of her ivory gown as she sat at the edge of the cliff, the last rays of sun hitting her face like a gentle caress. The salty air inside her lungs reminded her of Estermont . The small island, isolated and insignificant on the grand map. Perhaps, if she were lucky, her remains would be buried there, under some nameless mountain range, with only a small stone marker to indicate her existence.

There are slow, almost silent steps approaching her from behind; she does not turn around. If it was death, whoever the Stranger took the form of, it was welcome here. With her children asleep in her brother's chambers, a dozen guards watching over them, she was at peace. The gush of wind through her hair felt like a final embrace, reeking of salt and blood. What an unusual scent—almost like the sea at low tide mixed with the metallic tang of iron. Almost too real to be just in her head.

''I killed him,'' the hoarse voice announced behind her, the black cloak brushing against her arm. The cloak she knew belonged elsewhere. She turned slowly, her hand plating itself on the warm deck, feeling the small stones beneath her fingers.

The light illuminated his face; the usually calm violet eyes now clouded with a darkness she had never seen before. The golden dragon head sitting at his chest glinted beneath the rays just as the waves did a moment before, the still-hot blood dripping from his hands onto the wooden planks. Strangely, the black fabric now was almost green from the crimson stains—Helaena was right. It did not suit him.

''I smashed his skull open with a single blow,'' he said, his voice chillingly calm. ''I felt nothing as he lay there, dying at my feet. I thought it would feel good to finally have revenge . It didn't.''

The sunset painted over the walls of Red Keep, the oranges and reds of dying stars reflecting in the short hair of the man in front of her. He looked like he was burning, set on fire right where the crown should have been, burning down his neck and slumping shoulders. His castle, his kingdom, was all slowly on fire, despite the cool evening breeze that swept from the sea behind her. She can't get him to leave, she realises. The flames fluttered around him, everywhere except his eyes—it was his home, and it combusted. YN still had time to jump into the safety of the water, drown her sorrows, and escape the unavoidable ruin that awaited them both. The saltiness from the waves travelled onto her cheeks, the shallow streams hitting her lips. She can't leave without him.

''Sit with me,'' she muttered, reaching out her hand towards him. It was empty of any rings or jewellery; it was bare, like a virgin sheet on a freshly made bed. She was free—free from the weight of ties and obligations that had bound her for so long. Just her, without anything that would remind her of the past.

''I will stain your hand with blood,'' Aegon mused, his eyes dark with the weight of his own burdens. I will stain you with my sins, he wanted to say, but the words caught in his throat.

''Stain them. I do not care.''

So the veined hand reached out, the warmth of his touch sending shivers down her spine. She did not realise how cold she was until he enveloped her in his embrace, his warmth seeping into her bones. She felt clean for the first time in years, despite the stains on her dress, as the man collapsed in her embrace, his tears mixing with her own. ''Do you think we can ever truly be free from our sins?'' she whispered, feeling a sense of peace wash over her.

The man's embrace tightened, his voice steady despite the tremble in his breath as he replied. ''This love was never a sin; it could not be. Not when I love you with all that I am."

Aegon looks back at her, and it is not a tragedy.

This is the closest to heaven they will ever be.

[irisintheafterglow]

every love I've known in comparison is a failure

summary: the stars appear over baratie, creating the perfect atmosphere to embarrass your husband. (opla!zoro x you)

wc: 2k

cw/tags: established relationship, swearing, allusions to canon-typical blood and violence, drinking and alcohol, flashback to a very silly meet ugly lol

note: (part one is linked here!) HELLO ZORO NATION, here is the highly requested part 2 to "if he's a ghost then i can be a phantom." hope you like it, i definitely had fun writing it because he's just,,,, such a himbo man. @alphaash99 thank you for the inbox ask, sorry it took so long to answer!!

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated!

“I don’t know what else to tell you; that’s really all there is to it,” you laugh, taking another sip from your glass. “He brings me heads and I give him money.” 

“Brought you heads,” your husband corrects from your side, his arm draped securely over your shoulders. “Right now, I’m the one with a fire under my ass.” 

“Mhmm, but apparently I’m still giving you money,” you remind him, nodding toward the overflowing coin pouch of Berry at the center of the table. He shrugs a broad shoulder in defeat, unsuccessfully trying to hide his smile. 

“Okay, but you’re leaving out the part where you somehow fell in love with this…oaf.” Nami gestures vaguely at the crew’s swordsman and his jaw drops in indignation. Luffy and Usopp break into another fit of delirious giggling while Sanji leaves to fetch yet another bottle. Everyone present knew his ego was bruised from his failed attempts to charm you. “I think he has less romantic appeal than an overripe banana.”

“At this point, just say that I’m ugly,” he chuckles lightheartedly and she shakes her head in exasperation. “I’m obviously not that bad since this is who I married.” The two remaining boys at the table give polite applause, to which Zoro murmurs his melodramatic appreciation like he was accepting an award. You couldn’t remember the last time he was this relaxed while he was drinking. Most of the time, you had to steer him to whatever ship he was calling home for the night while simultaneously preventing him from stabbing anything that moved. 

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” Nami snorts and Zoro makes a mocking face that you raise your hand up to cover. “But, seriously. How’d he get you?” You pause, searching for words in your foggy mind and getting distracted by the speckling of midnight stars up above. Following the disastrous first meeting with the crew’s chef, their swordsman reluctantly introduced you to the rest of his new friends. You spent the remainder of the evening sipping a fruity drink with your legs crossed over your husband’s lap and regaling the table with embarrassing stories about their favorite stoic crewmate. 

“In all honesty, our first meeting was a fluke,” you admit after some time. Sanji returns with a new bottle and pours himself a hefty glass before sliding it to the center of the group, settling in to listen to your story. “I was there by mistake; he was there by mistake. I guess the two canceled out.” 

Years ago, when you were still confined to the walls of the Marine base, a series of unexpected changes in your itinerary allowed you an afternoon of freedom. You were visiting from your father’s countryside estate to once again ask if you could sail on one of his ships, only to receive the same dismissive answer as every request before. As if to rub more salt in the wound, he also notified you that Mihawk would be docking in two days time to continue your training. After jumping the gun a little too early and skipping the flattery dinner to get him drunk enough to grant your request, you were left with an extra day to wander the dry, lifeless walls of the installation. With a leg propped up on your father’s expensive leather chair and the other resting on the windowsill facing the ocean, you don’t bother turning when the door opens and the sound of boots echoes through the office. 

“Get out and I won’t tell the captain you came in here,” you say boredly, staring at the vast blue water that seemed to spell out freedom in the seafoam. The voice that replies is too disrespectful to ever come from the mouth of one of your father’s underlings. 

“I wasn’t aware the captain wore such promiscuous clothing.” You startle, swiveling abruptly to face the stranger that entered the room. He wasn’t a Marine at all, you quickly realized, not with that bright green hair and enough wrinkles in his clothes to look like your great grandfather’s forehead. But, what gave him away the most was his eyes. They weren’t like the eyes of other men you looked at, the ones who would cower or rake over you like you were some entree at a feast. No, this stranger looked at you curiously and with amusement that irked you. 

He looked at you like you were a new challenge. 

“Who are you?”

“Roronoa Zoro, the Pirate Hunter,” he replies and your eyes flick to his sharp jawline. If he weren’t in the room, you would have slapped yourself to regain your composure. “I have a bounty I’d like to turn in.” He tosses a burlap sack dripping with dark liquid onto your father’s equally expensive desk and you don’t even flinch. Your lack of a reaction seems to spur him further and he tilts his head to the side, studying you. 

“What’d my old man promise you?” 

“The captain is your father?” His eyes narrow on you and you glare, not backing down. 

“Answer my question first,” you fire back without hesitation. 

“Five hundred thousand Berry,” he answers and you nod, reaching over to one of the intricately carved drawers and pulling out a stack of bills and a dense pouch of coins. Rolling the bills into a wad and stuffing it into the coin purse, he catches it with ease when you toss it to him. “You’re not gonna verify if I’m giving you the right number?”

“That would imply that I care about how much you’re taking from my father,” you point out, “Which, I really don’t. I couldn’t care less, frankly, if you ransacked this entire office. Just don’t get caught or both our asses will have a fire under them.” He hums in assent and turns to leave, but as his hand hovers over the door handle, he hesitates and looks at you over his shoulder. 

“What are you doing here by yourself?”

“Trying to figure out how to sneak out of this fucking hellhole,” you mutter with obvious distaste. A thoughtful look crosses his features and he chucks you a crumpled cloak from a nearby dressing table. “What are you–”

“Put it on. Let’s get out of here,” he states and you hastily throw it over your clothes, slipping behind the swordsman while he guides you out of the base. He knows his way around the tunnels and, with the cloak obscuring your identity, successfully sneaks you out of the dusty beige walls of the base. The smell of garlic and fried food wafts into your nostrils and you drift toward it, feeling in your pocket for your own small coin pouch. Zoro falls into step next to you effortlessly and follows you to the enticing grill. “Someone’s hungry.”

“I’ve been eating nothing but government slop for the past twenty four hours. If I have to see another spoonful hit my plate, I’ll actually die,” you deadpan and the corner of his mouth turns up in amusement. Without bothering to count the amount, you drop a handful of coins into the vendor’s roughened palms and ask for enough food to feed you and the man next to you. She gladly obliges, stacking various grilled sticks of food onto a plate and thanking you profusely for your generosity. “We’re gonna eat and you’re going to explain to me why you snuck me out,” you command and you’re glad to sense him continue to stay by your side. 

During the few hours you spend with Zoro, you find yourself utterly enthralled by him and he is fascinated by you. You listen to his stories about hunts and his bounties and find yourself in awe of how non-arrogantly he speaks of his job. You’d sat down for numerous fancy dinners with egotistical Marines that wanted to sleep their way into good graces with your father, but eating with Zoro was nothing like that. He was an amazing listener and, when you thought he was just ignoring something you said, he ended up saying something just as thoughtful a few moments later. His visits became more frequent and you continued to find excuses to linger around the base in hopes that he would sneak you out again. Your father’s rage would end both of you if he ever found out, but the thrill of secrecy was your newest addiction. 

“He asked to marry me a few years after I helped him empty my dad’s wallet,” you recall, fondly remembering the disaster that was his proposal. “He had this whole shabang planned out with a sunset and fancy cheeses–”

“And then it fucking rained,” he grumbles before taking another sip. “Fucking storm rolled in and blew away the entire setup.” 

“That’s still romantic, though,” Luffy offers reassuringly. “Getting down on one knee in the rain.”

“It is,” you smirk, “if he didn’t drop the ring off the cliffside.” The crew erupts into shocked cackling, tears pricking the edges of their eyes. 

“You dropped the fucking ring?” 

“The wind was strong!” 

“Wait, so then how’d you get that one?” Usopp points at the green gem embedded in the simple gold band. It was strikingly similar to the one hanging from a chain around your husband’s neck, a decision made so he didn’t lose it while he was fighting. 

“He went out and bought one from the market the next day. It was, what, fifty Berry?”

“You bought them a cheap ass ring after you dropped the expensive one,” Nami echoes in disbelief. Zoro opens his mouth to argue but is cut off with even louder shrieks from the table. “How the hell did you pull them?”

“It’s something I ask myself every time I see this ring,” he concedes. “But one thing I do know is that they deserve more than I can ever give them.” The soft look on his face when he turns to you never fails to make your body feel like it’s floating. It’s only when Luffy slams his palms on the table decisively that you snap out of your lovesick trance.

“Alright, that settles it,” he states with finality. 

“Settles what?”

“You’re going to join our crew.” Usopp raises his glass like he’d seen the order coming from miles away. Sanji turns a slightly darker shade of pink but doesn’t protest. 

“I could use someone that isn’t oozing with testosterone on the ship,” Nami adds when you’re unable to respond immediately. You can feel Zoro’s body tense next to you and, when you place a comforting hand on his shoulder, it feels like pure stone. He knew firsthand that asking you to leave was a touchy subject, especially when it was hard for the child of a captain to disappear into the blue. If you were out there with him, he told you, he wouldn’t be able to assure your safety when he was on hunts. Though you both knew you could handle yourself just fine, it always seemed to be a matter of poor timing when it came to running away together. Poor timing, that is, until now. 

Zoro wasn’t alone now, and you don’t even hesitate. 

“Do I get to choose a cool signature weapon like everyone else?” The captain’s face breaks into a blinding grin and begins a long ramble of different weapons you could choose from. Your husband’s body hasn’t lost its stiffness and he lowers his voice to a tone that only you could hear. 

“Are you sure about this?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His eyebrows furrow, unconvinced. “I said I’d do anything to be with you, didn’t I?”

“But piracy, love? You’re willing to go that far for me?”

“You know I’d go even farther if I needed to,” you murmur and that settles it. You catch an excited glint in Zoro’s eye and lean in closer to him, resting your head on his shoulder. “You’re not the only swordsman on the ship anymore, husband.”

“And I’ve finally gotten you out of that damned base, so I think it’s a good time to renew those vows.”

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[mydadleft471]

A Jester Indeed: Part 2

Children, I have returned! Glorious day!

I FINALLY wrote Messmer shit again! Yippee! Thank you all for waiting so patiently. I also have over 500 reblogs which is crazy! I'm so happy.

Anywho, here you go. Enjoy your dinner.

Link to part one here!

Link to my Masterlist here!

You’ve been having a fantastic time in the Shadow Keep.

Putting aside the demigod who you may or may not have been annoying for the past few weeks, there’s so much history to delve through. His Storeroom, which you had begged him to let you go into, held a great many mysteries about the Shamans and the Hornsent. The books you’ve been pouring over alongside shambling shades were fascinating; so much so that you often brought them back to your quarters to read until you fell asleep in your very comfy bed.

Messmer, as promised, had your quarters cleaned. The dust was gone practically overnight and you had fresh clothes, sheets, and as much food as you could ever want. Perhaps this was Messmer’s way of thanking you for sparing him?

Speaking of that, he hardly had time for you. When he wasn’t shut away in his quarters, he was out training with his men. You had often watched him work, muscles rippling and his soldiers watching with as rapt attention as you did. He truly was a fearsome warrior.

You got really lucky.

There was one occasion when he came and visited you not long after you were settled in your new home. He had knocked on your door long after the moon had risen into the starry sky, and you welcomed him in. He looked around the room, inspecting it with a scrutinizing gaze. But his anger quickly dissipated once you let him know just how much you loved your time here. You spared no detail, exclaiming about the lovely clothes you were given and how comfortable your bed was.

He looked so pleased.

As you run through your memories of the last few weeks, a discarded book about Hornsent religious practices on your lap, a loud knock sounds at your door. You get up, carefully placing the book on your side table, and make your way over to the door and open it. It was Salza, a longtime friend and confidant of Messmer’s. He was the most agreeable of his high-ranking men in your eyes, as he had no problem walking you through the Storeroom and loading your arms full of books as he regaled stories of old battles. 

“My Lady,” he bows respectfully.

You sigh. “Salza, how many times have I reminded you to just call me by my name?”

“And how many times have I ignored you?”

“You make a fair point.” You gesture into your room, inviting him in. 

He shakes his head. “As much as I would like to continue my stories of my long-lost days of grandeur, Lord Messmer requires you today.”

“Requires me? What am I, a concubine?” You scoff.

Salza opens his mouth to say something, then quickly shuts it, shaking his head. “Would you accompany me? Lord Messmer does not like to be kept waiting.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”

As you begin to take a step forward, Salza’s arm shoots out and stops you. You shoot him a puzzled look.

“Not like that. Wear something nicer.”

You look down at your clothes, a simple tunic, pants, and boots. Not very fitting for a lady, you say to yourself mockingly.

“Fine, fine. Give me a few minutes.”

“I’ve brought servants with me to help you, my Lady.” A few shades linger behind him in the dim light of a chandelier.

You quickly wave them in and shut the door. They all wander over to your wardrobe and pull out a few dresses that are, of course, all differing shades of red. You pick the one closest to the fiery red of Messmer’s hair, and the servants nod at your choice approvingly. They quickly get to work ridding you of your garments and lacing up your dress. A nice pair of sandals is placed at your feet and you quickly slip them on.

You move to sit at your vanity, which had to be replaced with one that was more your size. It’s made of a beautiful dark red wood, carefully carved with intricate linings of ivory and ebony. The servants flutter about you, two combing your long hair and taming it, and another picking out earrings and a lovely choker with two silver serpents. A light dusting of blush on your cheeks and some crimson is laid carefully on your lips. Looking into the mirror, you appreciate how beautiful you look. Sometimes, you hardly recognize the battle-hardened warrior you were before coming here.

The servants do one final pass over you and decide you look perfect enough after a few sprays of floral perfume that makes you cough and sneeze.

Finally returning to your door and opening it, Salza looks you up and down.

You hold up a hand. “Don’t say it. Just lead.”

He begins to walk and you follow him closely, your dress gently swishing as you move.

“I was merely going to ask you if you think My Lady fits you now.” He chuckles.

“Yeah, I guess it does.” You say wistfully.

Soon, you arrive at the large door to Messmer’s chambers. The last time you stood in front of these heavy doors, you were trying to kill him. The irony is not lost on you.

The guards stationed in front of the door open them wordlessly for you, the metal screeching against the rough stone floors in protest. Salza stands at your side, and as the doors open, you see the chamber is fully lit up. And very occupied.

All of Messmer’s top men are gathered around his large throne, with the man himself perched impatiently on his seat. He flexes and relaxes his fingers as if he’s summoning his spear.

Salza leads the way inside and you follow, hot on his heels as your sandals scrape against the floor. He takes his place at Messmer’s side and positions you next to him, only a man away from his Lord. You don’t notice so much as feel Messmer’s eyes watch your every movement. As you take your place, Messmer gives you a look of approval, a soft gaze that sends your mind reeling.

“My Lord, I believe everyone is here. Shall we begin?” Queelign says.

Fucking simp.

Messmer nods and raises his hand. The doors open again, and a man with dark robes and a hood over his head is escorted inside. He’s moved to the middle of the room when the hood is taken off his face.

You almost pass out on the spot.

It’s Sir Ansbach, a fellow Tarnished serving Miquella the Kind, like Lady Leda. His mask has been taken off and is dropped at his side. He can’t move with two guards at his back and his hands bound.

“Speak thy name, trespasser.” Fire Knight Kood rumbles out.

“I am Sir Ansbach, loyal follower of Lord Mohg, and the last of the Pureblood Knights.” His voice does not waver despite the circumstances.

“A follower of Mohg? Here?” Messmer speaks, and you notice his men straighten even more at the sound of his voice.

“Yes, Lord Messmer. I have nothing to hide, nor have I any reason to disguise my allegiances.”

When Messmer doesn’t speak again, Queelign does so for him.

“Have thee any relation to Miquella the Kind?” God, his voice is annoying.

“Once, perhaps, when my heart was stolen by him as I tried to save my dear Lord. No longer, however, as his charm has broken.”

“How many of Miquella’s followers are in the Realm of Shadow?” Kood inches closer to Ansbach.

“Five that I know of, my Lord. I do not know their whereabouts or if they have been freed from the charm as well. I came here for knowledge, nothing more.”

“Speak their names.” Messmer summons his spear.

“Lady Leda, Moore, Freya, Hornsent, and Dryleaf Dane.”

You knew all of these names, except one. Dane remained a mystery to you.

“Is it the truth that spills from thy lips, or venom, Sir Ansbach? I do not know you.” Messmer’s voice sends a chill down your spine.

“Perhaps not, my Lord, but she does.” He gestures to you.

The room goes silent except for the rapid beating of your own heart. If Messmer considers you a traitor, you don’t have your weapon. You don’t even have your flask. You are sure to lose horribly.

“Speak.” Messmer narrows his eye at you.

You take a deep breath before beginning. “It’s true, Lord Messmer. I know Sir Ansbach, and every word he says is true. I know of these followers of Miquella, except for Dryleaf Dane. He remains unknown to me. But I trust Sir Ansbach. I would ask that you do the same.”

Queelign, unfortunately, butts in before anyone else can speak. “My Lord, how can we be so sure that she is not a follower of Miquella herself? How can we be sure this is not some elaborate plot to infiltrate the Shadow Keep?”

Messmer tenses at his words. You narrow your eyes at Queelign.

“Forgive my harsh words, my Lord, but I don’t give a shit about Miquella. I killed his sister and harbor her Great Rune, for Marika’s sake. I never came here to enact whatever master plan he has; I came here for the adventure. Might I remind you of our first meeting, my Lord?”

“My Lord, she how do we know–”

“Enough. She has spoken.” 

You could kiss Messmer right now.

Queelign, fuming, but not wanting to do anything to disobey his Lord, sulks back to his spot. With a raise of Messmer’s hand, the guards behind Sir Ansbach cut his bindings.

“Thank you, Lord Messmer.” Sir Ansbach bows deeply, as he was more than likely not expecting to get out of this situation alive.

“Do not thank me. If not for my advisor, thy fate would have been decided in this room.” Messmer looks over at you, something you can’t quite place in his eyes.

You mouth a silent thank you to him, and his lip twitches into an almost smile. Cute.

“A pleasure to see you again, Lady Tarnished. Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

“Oh, it was nothing. I do this every day.” You joke with a dismissive wave of your hand.

“What does thee know of Miquella’s plan?” Messmer sets the conversation back on track.

“Very little as of now. I came here with the intent on pursuing knowledge so I may know what to do next.” Sir Ansbach replies.

“My Storeroom is open to thee. Pursue to thy heart’s content, but thou wilt harbor no ill will towards my men. Should thee disobey my warning, there will be no mercy.”

“Of course, Lord Messmer. Should I find anything, I will tell you immediately.”

“Salza,” Messmer begins. “Show him to the Storehouse.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

With an audible creak of his bones, he leads Sir Ansbach out of the great chamber. The rest of Messmer’s men stand still awaiting his orders.

“Return to thy posts and sharpen thy blades. A war may be approaching.” His words echo through the room, sending a chill down your spine.

Everyone begins to leave and you go to join them, but Messmer gently grabs your wrist.

“I would have thee stay.”

“Okay. I mean, yes, my Lord.” You curtsy to him.

Once the rest of the guards leave and the large metal doors are shut, Messmer releases your wrist and begins to walk behind his throne. You follow, trying to catch up with him with your much smaller legs, and you notice another large door at the very back of the room. It’s adjacent to the large statue of Marika and partially hidden by deep crimson curtains.

“Come.” He holds the door open for you and you tentatively make your way inside.

With reddening cheeks, you realize that this is his personal chamber. A large bed with red blankets and various furs sits imposingly in the corner, and a few desks and tables litter the room. It is luxurious, but not extravagantly so. You wonder if perhaps he does want you as a concubine.

He clears his throat and you realize he’s waiting for you at a large table covered by a map. As you hurry over, you realize it shows the layout of the Land of Shadow.

“Why have you brought me here, my Lord?”

Something about your flustered face must be funny because he lets out a small chuckle. “I seek your advice.”

“Oh, okay! Because when Salza came to my door and told me I needed to look nice I thought you’d be taking me as a concubine or something like that.” Words rush out of you faster than reason can reign them in, and you find yourself the bringer of an uncomfortable silence.

Messmer’s cheeks flush and his one eye looks around rapidly as long as it doesn’t linger on your form. He places his hands on the table in front of him, and, after some time, he looks down at you with a look.

“Not that I wouldn’t be honored!” You interject quickly. “I just, uh, would like to get to know you better before we did anything like that. But you’re very handsome and… I think I’m going to stop talking.”

It was probably a good thing you did. Messmer looks ready to keel over where he stands from your words. His face is a deeper red than his hair and he opens and closes his mouth rapidly in search of words that never seem to come to him.

Eventually, he gets his mind straight enough to quietly utter a few words. “Thou wouldst consider me handsome?”

“Of course.” You say smiling.

“I am naught but a horrid war-beast.”

“Would you please just take a compliment?!” You all but screech.

“Wouldst thou stop rambling like a child?” He counters.

“You’re impossible. I can’t believe I picked this dress for you!”

Once again, silence encompasses the room. You nervously pick at your cuticles to give yourself something to do.

“Thou lookest radiant. Red becomes you.” He mutters.

“Oh. Thank you.” 

He reaches to take off his helmet, sighing as the weight of it rests on the table beside him. His fair, though a bit messy, frames his face beautifully. You just wish you could tell him that without sending him into a spiral.

“I brought thee here for militaristic purposes, nothing more, I assure thee.”

“Oh. That’s boring.”

“And thou wouldst have me take thee as a concubine instead?” 

Your face flushes for the millionth time today. “No! I mean… maybe? Can we– can we just get back on track? Please?”

“Wouldst thou take a compliment?” He mocks you.

“I should’ve let you tear your eye out.”

He laughs and it makes you shrink even further into yourself. You do have to admit that he is so handsome when he smiles.

“Can I ask you something?”

Your sudden serious tone has his smile falling off his face faster than it arrived. He nods.

“Why did you trust me so much back there? Your men might not like the fact that you’re listening to a Tarnished.”

His gaze hardens. “Thou hast seen many battles rather recently. My men and I have lingered, burning away hastily-formed groups of remaining Hornsent, but we have lingered nonetheless.”

“Is that all?” You push.

He pauses before replying. “I owe thee mine own life. Engaging thy whims is a small price to pay.”

Your heart swells at his words and you place your hand gently over his. His gaze lingers on your small hand and curiosity gets the better of him. He holds your hand and inspects it, noticing a few callouses from battles fought, but overall, your skin is smooth. He feels unworthy of your touch and quickly drops your hand.

Perhaps privy to his internal battle, you move forward and gently wrap your arms around him, his serpents nuzzling into you. He stands so still, almost as if he can’t believe this is real. How long it’s been since he was given a loving touch.

“You’re sweet.” You mutter those words into his armor that’s been splattered with blood more often than it’s been polished.

He takes comfort in the knowledge that you, his strange Tarnished, does not care.

[its-avalon-08]

Hey lovely, can i make a request for Daniel Ricciardo fic based on But daddy i love him by Taylor? You can have free reign on it, but just that line "me and my wild boy and all of his wild joy" is so Daniel and has been stuck in my head for ages. Something fluffy and funny, so whatever you want (maybe even a pregnancy reveal 👀👀) if you see fit i just love that song and it's so big ric coded.

Love your work!!! Thank you so much 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

but daddy i love him (dr3)

(please bear with me this one is extra long, ily all)

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

the start of the most beautiful things in y/n's life were often masked by difficulties and plagued with the anxieties of life. but when danny was around, things just fell into place. time seemed to stop and the fast paced world began to still.

clutching their pearls, sighing "what a mess"

the air in your childhood home crackled with a tension thicker than the gravy simmering on the stove. you sat across from danny, his smile a little too wide, your dad's gaze narrowed like a hawk eyeing a squirrel.

"so, danny," your dad began, his voice gruff, "you're a… racing driver, is that right?"

"yes sir," danny chimed, a touch too enthusiastically. "formula one, actually! just signed with mclaren for next season."

your dad grunted, poking his mashed potatoes with a fork. "formula one, huh? sounds… dangerous."

"it can be," danny admitted, "but safety's paramount these days, you know?" he flashed a winning grin. "plus, the adrenaline rush? unbelievable."

your dad snorted. "adrenaline rush. sounds like you live life on the edge, son."

you shot your dad a warning glare. "dad, be nice."

he sighed, leaning back in his chair. "honey, I just want to make sure he's responsible. you deserve someone stable, someone who won't make you worry constantly."

"dad!" you exclaimed, cheeks burning. "he's not a reckless teenager, he's a professional athlete! and he takes care of himself."

screaming "but daddy i love him!"

danny, bless his heart, interjected, "exactly! I train like a champion, eat healthy, the whole nine yards. your daughter's in good hands, sir."

the tension remained, a thick fog in the air. dinner progressed in tense silence, punctuated only by the clinking of cutlery. you stole glances at danny, his usual sunny disposition dampened. it broke your heart.

suddenly, your dad cleared his throat. "so, danny," he began, a hint of curiosity in his voice. "you said you race for mclaren? ever met lewis hamilton?"

you watched in surprise as danny's face lit up. "met him? I race alongside him! absolute legend, that man. we have some epic battles on the track."

for the next hour, the conversation flowed. your dad, a former racing enthusiast himself, peppered danny with questions about the sport, its history, the intricacies of car setup. danny, more than happy to oblige, regaled him with stories, technical details, even pulling out his phone to show pictures of him with lewis.

by the end of the night, your dad was chuckling at a particularly funny anecdote about a rogue pigeon causing a pit stop delay. he clapped danny on the back with a newfound warmth. "alright, alright, danny. you alright in my book. just take care of my daughter, you hear?"

danny, his grin back in full force, squeezed your hand. "wouldn't dream of it, sir. consider yourself one of my biggest fans from now on."

as you walked danny to his car later, a comfortable silence settled between you. "thanks for being patient with him," you whispered, leaning into his side.

i know he's crazy but he's the one i want

he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close. "your dad just wants the best for you, that's all. and seeing you happy… that's all I want too." he planted a soft kiss on your forehead. "besides, I think I scored some serious brownie points tonight, wouldn't you say?"

you laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet night. "maybe just enough to convince him that a formula one driver can be perfectly responsible... especially when he makes my daughter this happy."

time skip

the sun beat down on the golden sands of miami beach, the gentle waves lapping at the shore lulling you into a state of pure bliss. sprawled out on your beach towel, sunglasses perched on your nose, you were lost in a trashy romance novel, the sound of danny's playful laughter occasionally breaking through your concentration.

suddenly, a shadow fell over you. you peeked over your sunglasses to see danny, a mischievous glint in his eyes, standing over you. before you could even register what was happening, he swooped down, scooping you up in his arms like a prize.

now i'm dancing in my dress in the sun and

"hey!" you shrieked, a surprised laugh escaping your lips. the book tumbled into the sand, forgotten.

with a triumphant yell, danny sprinted towards the ocean. the cool water rushed at you as he plunged in, carrying you with him. you shrieked again, this time with delight, water splashing everywhere.

when danny finally set you down, the waves lapping at your waists, you couldn't help but grin at him. his hair was plastered to his forehead, and a carefree smile stretched across his face.

i'm his lady, and oh my god

"you're a menace, ricciardo!" you exclaimed, shaking your head playfully.

he just laughed, the sound echoing across the beach. then, in a flash, he was pulling you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist. you giggled as he dipped you backwards, the cool water washing over you both.

when he pulled you back up, his eyes held a playful fire. before you could say anything, he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was warm, sweet, and tasted faintly of salt. you melted into him, the world around you fading away.

me and my wild boy and all of this wild joy

the kiss ended with a sigh, foreheads resting against each other. you looked into his eyes, their blue depths sparkling with love and adoration.

"you're crazy," you whispered, a smile blooming on your face.

"only for you," he replied, his voice husky. he brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek, his thumb gently tracing the curve of your jaw.

you sighed contentedly, leaning into his touch. in that moment, with the sun warming your skin, the sound of the waves crashing in your ears, and danny by your side, everything felt perfect. you wouldn't trade this feeling for the world.

time skip

you fidgeted with the hotel room balcony railing, the bustling city of monaco blurring below. danny, oblivious, was humming along to the pre-race hype blaring from the tv. today was his big day, the monaco grand prix, and the nervous energy crackling in the air was almost tangible. you, however, were grappling with a different kind of jitters.

taking a deep breath, you approached him, the small velvet box clutched tightly in your hand. "danny," you began, voice barely above a whisper. he glanced up, a dazzling smile splitting his face.

"hey there, sunshine," he said, reaching out to pull you into a quick hug. "ready for the race?"

"actually," you mumbled, biting your lip, "there's something I need to tell you before you go."

he frowned playfully, his brow crinkling in mock seriousness. "is it that you secretly placed a giant shoey on toto wolff's yacht?"

you laughed, a little relieved at the lighter mood. "no, nothing like that. it's… well, it's important."

he set the tv remote down, his smile softening. "alright, come here," he patted the space next to him on the plush couch. you sat down, fiddling with the box in your lap. the words seemed to get stuck in your throat, a tangled mess of nerves.

"danny," you tried again, voice shaking slightly, "we might need to… postpone those post-race victory celebrations."

now I'm running with my dress unbuttoned

he chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "losing faith in your honey badger already? don't worry, I've got this."

frustration bubbled up. "no, it's not that! it's… it's…" you squeezed the box so hard your knuckles turned white. "i'm pregnant, danny!"

the playful smile vanished, replaced by a look of utter confusion. "pre… what now?" he asked, brow furrowed.

panic clawed at you. was this the wrong approach? "pregnant! as in, a baby, danny! we're having a baby!" you blurted out, your voice bordering on a squeak.

i'm having his baby

the confusion on his face morphed into a look of dawning realization. his eyes widened, then welled up with tears. a choked sob escaped his lips. he whipped his head towards the balcony door and threw it open, a joyous yell erupting from his throat.

"we're having a baby!" he bellowed across the bustling streets of monte carlo, his voice thick with emotion.

i know he's crazy but he's the one i want

he turned back to you, a goofy grin splitting his face, tears streaming down his cheeks. before you could even react, he swept you into a tight embrace, the box tumbling onto the floor with a soft thud. he squeezed you like a lifeline, muttering incoherent words of joy into your hair.

his emotions were infectious. you clung to him, tears welling up in your own eyes. he pulled back, his hands cupping your face. he peppered your cheeks, forehead, your nose, with kisses, every kiss filled with a love so profound it took your breath away.

"this is… this is incredible, y/n," he finally managed to say, his voice hoarse. he pulled you close again, resting his forehead against yours. "we're having a baby. we're going to be parents."

he was chaos, he was revelry

the celebratory noises from outside were a distant hum, drowned out by the frantic thumping of your heart and the overwhelming sense of happiness washing over you. in that moment, in danny's arms, with the promise of a new life growing inside you, the world seemed to shimmer with possibility. you couldn't wait to start this incredible adventure together.

but oh my god you should see your faces

[hazbinshusk]

day nine of salem's unofficial attempt at kinktober: handjobs/public (husk x gn!reader)

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

Husk slumps into the chair beside you, scowling into the bottle in his fist. You hold back a sympathetic frown, reaching under the table to touch a comforting hand to his knee. His ears flick forward at the touch, his grimace softening incrementally, but otherwise doesn’t show any reaction to your touch.

It isn’t personal – Alastor is on a roll today with the belittlement, and his latest insult as you were all sitting down to dinner had clearly stung. They weren’t overt enough to register on Charlie’s radar as anything more than vague jokes, but you knew just how badly they were getting to Husk. If it wasn’t for the fact that they’d recently declared ‘family dinners’ as a mandatory form of team bonding, the bartender would rather go hungry.

Sliding your hand back and forth over his thigh in a slow, soothing rhythm, you let your nails graze over his inner thigh in the way you know he likes. He’s nursing the bottle rather than eating, but you feel him shift in his seat, his thigh twitching under your touch as he spreads his legs slightly wider. Smiling to yourself, you take the movement as an invitation to bring your hand idly higher.

Alastor’s holding court at the far end of the table, regaling all of you with some story you’re barely listening to. But each time you notice Husk react your hand moves higher, massaging into the lithe muscle of his upper thigh. He groans lightly in the back of his throat, covering the sound by taking down a mouthful of whiskey. It’s a sound you love, usually reserved for the intimacy of low lights and soft sheets. And despite your better judgement, you swallow and cast a surreptitious glance around the table before bringing your hand up to cup him through his trousers.

Husk stiffens, ears shooting up in surprise as he chokes on his latest gulp of whiskey. Still, you find him half-hard and the front of his pants damp with pre-cum. You see his adam’s apple bob in his throat.

“Doll…” he says it warningly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You feign innocence, poking at your food with your fork. A soft, almost playful growl sounds in the back of Husk’s throat, barely audible over the chatter of the others. Still, he doesn’t stop you as you unfasten the button on his pants, the sound of his zipper lowering sticking in your brain.

Husk inhales sharply as you dip your hand into his pants and wrap your fingers around the length of him. Leaning into the side of him, you bump your shoulder briefly against his. “Relax, minou.”

“You’re insane,” he mutters, eyelids fluttering closed briefly as you begin to pump his cock, spreading pre-cum along the length of it.

“Mm-hmm.”

He exhales, shakes his head in amusement, brings the bottle back to his lips. You stroke Husk slowly, careful not to let the movement of your arm show above the table. Alastor is still talking, but Husk doesn’t seem to care anymore, too focused on maintaining his composure.

You feel his erection swell further under your touch, feel the barbs along the length of it rise to tickle against the slick skin of your palm.

Husk’s paw comes down to clutch at your thigh, claws digging into your flesh slightly as you pump his cock in a slow, steady rhythm. You squeeze the base of him each time you reach it, swipe your thumb over the tip the way you know drives him mad.

His pupils are dilated, his breathing heavy. Vaggie glares at the two of you suspiciously for a moment when she notices, but looks away again when you ask Charlie a clarifying question and scoop a forkful of pasta into your mouth.

Husk is thrusting his hips ever so slightly into your hand, his hand so tight on the bottle in front of him you’re surprised the glass doesn’t crack. His tail thrashes behind him, the feathers tickling at your ankles each time it passes.

“Christ…” he murmurs through gritted teeth, his body tense. Your fingers graze soft, downy fur with each stroke, and the way he shudders tells you all he wants to do is turn to press himself into your side and bury his face in your neck. The barbs on his dick grow firmer and less forgiving under your palm as he nears release, and he hisses quietly as you flick your thumb against one of them.

You quicken your pace, leaning your other elbow on the table and resting your chin on it to better shield the movement with your body. The casualness in your posture seems to infuriate Husk, and his hand leaves your thigh to touch the small of your back instead. It’s a daring touch for him in public – he so often avoids public displays in front of his boss to discourage him from seeing just how much he cares for you. But then, he’s never let you jerk him off in public, either.

Husk slips his touch up under the back of your shirt, his claws grazing against your warm skin. “Doll…”

You smirk softly to yourself, biting your lip as you swipe your thumb over the sensitive underside of the head of his cock. Husk groans, low in the back of his throat, and his claws grasp at your shirt hard enough to tear the fabric as he spills himself into your hand.

[dk-thrive]

Mary, intend to live it.

“TELL ME, WHAT IS IT YOU PLAN TO DO WITH YOUR ONE WILD AND PRECIOUS LIFE?”

~ Mary Oliver

I plan on washing my sheets, cooking pasta, and cleaning broken glass off the kitchen floor quickly lest it cut up any little feet. I plan on eating peaches in the summer and oysters only in months that end in -er because that’s what my mother taught me. | plan on making lovers out of poetry and poetry out of lovers. I plan to eat tomato salad with salt, oil, and hot French bread while my cousin regales me with her stories. I will swallow the bitterness of missing entire years together. I plan to say bless you when someone sneezes. Excuse me when I pass them by. I plan to forgive —even the people who don’t deserve it. I plan on giving loneliness a warm place in my bed when I need her. I plan on hosting dinner parties and listening to my friend’s laughter in the half-light of evening. I plan on sending the letter. I plan on falling in love often. Often, with the wrong people, which will make the right one’s love go down like milk and honey. I plan on making mistakes, making love, getting sunburnt, and still basking in the sunlight. What is it I plan to do with my one wild and precious life?

Mary, intend to live it.

— Margaux I. Paul, "Unsent Letters" (Brenna Beeson-Breithaupt, October 17, 2019) (via Last Tambourine)