#assassin Mark had me on my knees

[sluttyvroomballs]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45971839/chapters/115713961?view_adult=true

Probably, the best Martian/SebMark fanfic I have read 🤩.

Chef's kiss to the author 😘

[mintyys-blog]

I'm eating your invincible fanfics up like˓˓⍥⃝⃝ ˒˒

I rlly wanna ask if you can do headcanons of the invincible variants and main mark, and where the reader is just fucking unhinged, but in a good way! Like there's this lady on tiktok that said something across the lines of "If she had an army she's make sure they're all 5'5 or under 5 foot", and I can't stop imagining reader saying some shit like that as well and they're just like :"When I start building my army, ima make sure they're all under 5 foot, because you'll be looking you for them like" Where they at? AH SHIT THEY'RE ON MY FEET" and then boom your dead, because short people look like they always got a bone to pick."

Pretty please, I need headcanons of their reactions with shit like this it'd be so funny😭

HEADCANON | they react to you being unhinged

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: dark themes

Mainstream Mark

• He never knows what you’re gonna say next, and it terrifies him.

You’ll be sipping juice like, “I think I should start an underground cult. But cute. Pink robes. Glitter blood oaths.”

And he’s like, “…Wait. What?”

• He’s supportive, but confused. He also tries to convince himself you’re just joking— even when you’re not.

“Why do you want your entire army to be under 5 feet tall?”

“So the enemy can’t see them coming. I want the element of surprise, Mark.”

“…Oh. Okay. That actually makes sense—wait, NO IT DOESN’T.”

• He genuinely thinks you’re hilarious, but there are moments he has to sit you down like, “Hey, babe… just checking… you’re not actually building an army in the garage, right?”

You blink. “Of course not. They’re already in the basement.”

“WHAT.”

Sinister Mark

• He is in love. Like, deeply and dangerously in love.

The moment you said, “I want an army of unhinged feral 4’11 women with rage disorders,” he dropped to one knee.

• “You know what I like about you?” he growls, dragging a bloody hand down your cheek.

“What, baby?”

“You’re crazy, but you make it look sexy.”

Then he helps you write your evil speech. In blood.

• You two gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss together and the world suffers for it.

If you say, “Let’s build a catapult that launches grenades filled with bees,” he’s already halfway through blueprint sketches.

Mohawk Mark

• “YESSS, BABY! BUILD THAT ARMY! I WANNA SEE CARNAGE FROM THE GROUND UP!”

You could tell him you want to weaponize squirrels and he’d hand you acorns like, “Make it rain.”

• He’s the kind of guy to scream, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT WE’RE DOING BUT I’M IN!” while charging into battle behind your 4’9 war generals.

• He once saw you put hot sauce in your eye “for battle readiness” and asked if he could do the other one.

You’re both certifiably unhinged, and he lives for it.

Omni Mark

• You: “I want a platoon of murder-happy shorties who can hide in vents and emotionally destroy a man.”

Him: “That’s… incredibly inefficient.”

Also him, 2 days later: builds them custom weapons and agility suits in secret.

• He’s not gonna encourage your chaos, but he’s definitely invested.

“If you’re going to start a revolution, at least let me vet the recruits.”

• You are the only one who can say, “I wanna drown a city in glitter and rage” and get a slow, reluctant smirk from him.

Shiesty Mark

• “You wanna burn down a government building? Say less.”

You didn’t even finish the sentence before he was sliding you a Molotov cocktail.

• He thinks your unhinged ideas are sexy as hell. You once yelled, “I WANNA RECRUIT CHILD ASSASSINS” and he leaned over and whispered, “You’re turning me on, baby.”

• 100% the kind of guy who would smoke a blunt with you while drawing up insane plans on a napkin. “We should stage a fake alien invasion. Real aliens optional.”

No Goggles Mark

• You: “Short people are angrier. I want that rage on my side.”

Him: “If one of them bites me, I’m gonna say thank you.”

• He’s obsessed with your chaos. He doesn’t even care what your plan is, he’s just excited to see you snap.

“Make them hurt, babe. I’ll carry the body bags.”

• You two relish mayhem together.

You: “Should I train them to kill with sharpened lollipops?”

Him: “I’ll test one on my arm. Let’s see how deep it goes.”

⸻

Full Mask Mark

• You say you want to start an army of under-5-foot murder gremlins and he just nods and starts sharpening knives.

• He doesn’t question you. He just makes it happen. Builds an entire underground complex. Outfits your soldiers in tactical pink and red.

• He never speaks on your chaotic behavior, but you know he’s weirdly turned on every time you monologue about kneecap warfare.

⸻

No Mask Mark

• “You want to weaponize short people? That’s beautiful.”

You: “I was gonna teach them to hide in the floorboards.”

Him: “Let me build the floorboards.”

• He’s the one who makes your ideas reality while you’re joking and then deadass looks at you like,

“We’re committed now. You can’t back out.”

• You say something offhand like, “We should unleash thousands of raccoons during a peace summit,” and he already has a team gathering feral wildlife.

Prisoner Mark

• You told him you want a small but deadly army.

He whispered, “I’ll kill for you.”

You: “No babe, it’s a metaphor.”

Him: “It’s not anymore.”

• He helps you recruit. He sits in on the psych tests. He makes sure every one of your tiny soldiers can snap a femur.

“They must be small. But deadly. Just like my girl.”

• You told him you wanted a throne of skulls. He brought you five. From where?

“Don’t ask. Just sit.”

Target/Striped Mark

• You say you’re starting an army and he just starts yelling:

“LET’S F***ING GOOOOOOO!”

Throws a table. Kisses you. Says he’s never loved you more.

• He becomes your loudest general. Screaming orders in the chaos like,

“REMEMBER WHAT SHE SAID! BITE THE ANKLES! BITE ‘EM!”

• Once you said, “I want the battlefield to look like a cursed anime convention.”

He got matching outfits for the whole squad and a flag with your face on it.

Viltrumite Mark

• You: “I’m gonna build an army. But only short people. Like 5 feet and under. You ever try to punch a tiny person? They’re hard to hit. They’re slippery. And vengeful.”

• Him: Stares for a full 30 seconds in silence.

“…That’s absurd.”

You: “Absurdly genius?”

“…No.” Pause. “…But I can see the tactical advantage.”

• He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t react.

But then the next week? He gives you a battlefield layout that includes subterranean tunnels perfect for “your little chaos agents.”

• You once said, “Short people have rage like it’s a birthright. If I train them to punch above their weight class, they’ll be invincible.”

He muttered, “You don’t need an army. You alone are dangerous enough.”

…Was that a compliment? A threat? Romance? Yes.

• He’s secretly fascinated by how deranged you are. You’ll be monologuing like a cartoon villain about “fireproof hamster armor” and “booby-trapped jungle gyms,” and he’ll just cross his arms and say,

“You’re insane.”

Then offer you funding. “Laugh at her again. I dare you.”

• Sometimes you ask him to help train the army and he actually does it. He’s just so serious about it, yelling at 4’10 soldiers like they’re full-grown warriors. “Strike harder. You hesitate, you die.”

One of them cries. You, proudly: “He’s yelling because he cares.”

[sonotpattismith]

my last dying breath (part I)

pairing: knight!choso x princess!reader word count: 8.1k content: YEARNING, mentions of murder, grief, loss, forbidden love, choso being down horrendous, angst, 18+ a/n: marking 18+ as part two will have smut

“With honor as my shield and loyalty as my sword do I, Choso Kamo, pledge my life unto thee, my princess. Should danger darken your path, I shall carve through its shadow, and should treachery whisper in the halls, I shall silence it before it should dare reach your ears. Should death dare extend its hand unto thee, I shall offer my own in its place. This I swear unto thee until my last dying breath, your highness.”

You didn’t expect the man who pledged himself so ardently to you, bent on one knee and neck bowed solemnly in the midst of the Ceremony of Oath, to ignore you with such unparalleled will. Well, perhaps he didn’t completely ignore you.

“Good morning, your highness.” His level voice would catch you by surprise that very first morning following his being sworn in, already standing guard outside the door of your chambers. The knight didn’t look at your way as he greeted you, his posture stiff as a board with his gaze pointed toward the wall across from him. 

“Sir Kamo,” you gasped in surprise, placing a hand over your racing chest. “You’re… very early.”

Being surrounded by surveillance certainly was not something you were unfamiliar with. They always lined the dining rooms, each ball and afternoon tea. Still, you had never experienced this— this… shadow of a knight falling into step behind you at all times. 

“Your highness wakes early.” He explained simply, making you scoff out a soft, incredulous laugh.

“Well… yes, however surely there is no need for such attentiveness at this hour.” You rationed, looping around to stand before him in hopes he’d finally look you in the eyes. They merely glanced down at you for what seemed like a fractioned second before returning to the wall behind you.

“I shall be here each morning before you wake, and we shall part here each night before you rest, Princess. As is my duty.” 

Blinking away the shock that was surely present in your eyes, you hoped he couldn’t sense the dread wafting from you at the notion that you’d never be allowed a moment of solace again. 

Of course, since the Queen was assassinated, even in the midst of your grieving the loss of your mother did you acknowledge that things would quickly change within this castle. With your being the next and only rightful heir to the crown that weighed so heavily on her head, it was to be expected that the King would demand constant surveillance of your safety. Why Sir Kamo was the knight he was so insistent upon appointing you, you had yet to uncover.

Attempting to break through his stiffly formal facade in hopes of making all this time you two would evidently be spending together less suffocating, you forced an amused smile onto your lips. 

“And if an enemy dares sneak in through my window at night, Sir?” You teased. 

“If I may remind your highness, that her chambers reside on the sixth story of the castle.” Choso’s tone remained as neutral as ever, even if the subtext of his words were coated in more sass than he had intended, and surely more than he’d ever dare to mock his princess with. “There are knights appointed to stand guard of these halls in the night, nonetheless.”

“Yes, of course.” You sighed out, feeling the blood rushing to your cheeks at his dismissal of your attempt at a jest. 

As though sensing your rapidly deflating mood, his chocolate eyes glanced toward you momentarily for only the second time that morning. Now staring at him head on, you took note of the angry scar that sliced across his face. It appeared fresh— hauntingly so.

“And if your highness should ever feel trapped in any particular danger at such an hour… if you call for me, I shall come personally, princess.” There was the faintest hint of emotion behind his otherwise stoic front, one that had you peering up at him hopefully.

Humming thoughtfully, a faintly amused smile ghosted over your lips as you turned to begin making your way to the dining room for breakfast. You barely had the chance to turn your back to him before he was pivoting on his heels and falling into step behind you. 

“And how should you propose I do that, Sir Kamo? Shall I ring a bell for you?” 

The man didn’t need to see your expression to note the teasing in your tone. Behind you, his deep baritone hummed briefly. 

“If this is what your highness wishes of me, then I shall retrieve a bell.” 

You prayed to any god that would hear you that your newly appointed knight would lighten up even if just a little. It seemed your prayers were in vain though, for each gruelling day over the coming weeks was nearly identical. 

“Good morning, your highness.” Each time your chamber doors cracked open to begin your day.

“Good morning, Sir Kamo.” Each time you’d steal a sidelong glance at his stoic expression and rigid posture. 

You thought Choso a perfectly acceptable knight; unwaveringly loyal and painfully aware of his— your surroundings, evident in the way his arm would cooly swipe in front of you each time there was so much as a pebble that threatened to tip your balance. He was also large enough to ward off any… unpleasant company that dared look your way. 

“Advise me when you are finished, your highness.” He’d remind you each time he’d carefully tuck your chair in closer to the dining table during your meals before resuming his post a mere few feet away at the door. 

“Thank you, Sir Kamo.” You’d always reply, having all but given up on your attempt to break that stone cold wall in front of him— slowly having come to terms with the notion that perhaps this was but a duty to him, and there was no reason to reciprocate such banter with his employer.

It wasn’t that Choso didn’t favor you per say, he simply couldn’t understand you. You, the princess who’s mother had been assassinated in cold blood a mere few months prior. The princess who was now forced to grieve such a loss with the added weight on your shoulders that the culprit had yet to be caught. The princess who he wasn’t quite sure was grieving at all, throwing jests at him and shedding nary a tear for her fate. 

The knight sometimes wondered if he had taken the queen’s death more impactfully than you had. 

It was not to say that your mother’s death had not impacted you. On the contrary, you felt constantly suffocated by the reminder of her. It was hung on each wall, in the glint of her portrait's eyes. It was in your smile each time you caught a glimpse of your reflection, and in your quick wit. It was in the footsteps that now trailed behind you each second of the day, a reminder of the gruesome fate she had been subjected to. 

Still, there was business to be tended to. You had a mere day to allow the shock to settle into your bones, for you were immediately being pulled into the hearings, meetings, and planning. Your mother’s death had become a methodical scheme to assure the crown had the upper hand the next time the enemy should strike, and it was no longer your mother that had died. 

It was simply the Queen.

So, it couldn’t sink deeper than the thinnest layer of your skin— not with the constant royal duties that had been hurdling the crown’s way in horribly rapid succession since the very second she passed. Certainly not with the constant reminder that your marrying and providing the kingdom an heir had now been pushed up to the forefront of your needed contributions to help secure the continued allegiance of the monarchy .

Choso hadn’t been privy to whatever meeting it was that had you bursting out the door he had been guarding for well over an hour, your face blazing with indignation and a fire within your step that he had yet to see from you in the few weeks that he had been appointed to you. He blinked slowly, ridding the barely veiled shock from his face before purposefully falling into place behind you with two long strides. 

“Your highness—” The knight called out, watching cautiously as you made your way to the east side exit that would lead to the gardens, but your pace didn’t falter. 

“I should like a moment to think.” Your words jumbled together almost nonsensically. He cast a sidelong glance at the stained-glass window to his right that had been on the receiving end of the dreadful torrential downpour occurring just outside the very door you were preparing to exit from. 

“It is storming, Princess. You will catch your death out there—”

“A moment to think alone, Sir Kamo.” With your bitten response, you were bursting out the side doors, the ends of your dress gathered in your hands as you made your way to the marbled bench hidden in the midst of the wisteria trees. 

The stream of furied rain was bearing down on your scalp, weighing down your hair to stick unceremoniously to your enraged face. Despite the way your dress now clung uncomfortably to your skin, the cool onslaught was a welcomed contrast to your current flush. 

It took only a moment before you could hear the distinct sound of weighted steps following closely behind you as you sunk down onto the cool bench. Squeezing your eyes shut in frustration, you bit down on the inside of your cheek in an attempt to take a step back and remind yourself that he was only doing his job. 

“It is raining, Sir Kamo.” You gritted through your teeth. 

“It is, your highness.” He said simply, his voice raised ever so slightly so as to find your ears even through the storm. 

Shifting around to look at him, you pursed your lips at the sight of his now drenched hair clinging to his sculpted cheekbones. His stance was diligent as usual though, showing no hint of discomfort in the midst of your stubbornness. 

“Surely you should prefer to wait inside.” You ground out in hopes that he’d catch the hint. His face remained ever neutral though, showing no signs of moving any time soon. You scoffed indignantly at his stone-front. “May I not have even a minute of solitude?”

Choso was silent for a moment before shifting around to face the castle instead. 

“Do what you must, princess. I shall be here.” 

The forceful sinking of your teeth into your cheek began to draw blood, the weight of his presence— of everyone’s presence, becoming too much for you to bear. You had shouldered it all, the loss, the grief, the stripping of your privacy, the politicizing of your future and body, and you had mastered the art of indifference. Now though, with his stubbornness permeating the damp air around you like a twisted reminder of how your life would appear the rest of your life, your resolve was disintegrating under the heavy pellets of rain and Choso’s watchful eye. 

A strangled sob broke past the barrier of your tight set lips. Raising a shaky hand in an attempt to shield your traitorous mouth, your efforts were proven futile as the grief continued washing over you in trembling waves of tears and choked cries. The frigid tips of your fingers curled into your dress as though to ground you from flying somewhere far, far away from all the meetings, the expectations, the protection. 

The knight’s shoulders stiffened at the sound of your uncharacteristic cries, eyes widening ever so slightly. His head shifted with a careful subtly to the side to peer at you from his peripheral. At the sight of your heaving form, shaking shoulders, and distraught expression, he quickly faced forward once again, as though personally stung by the cruel edge of your grief. 

You were unsure of how long you allowed your cries to take you hostage, but you knew you feared what you might find should you look up from the safety of your hands. 

There was a soft shuffling that drew closer to you carefully, akin to a child attempting to gracefully catch a hare without alarming it of his presence. After a few stifling moments, you heard the distinct sound of armour clinking before you. Glancing up timidly from behind your hands, you found your knight knelt on the puddled ground. 

His head was bowed down, drops of rain racing down the soaked strands of his bangs that had fallen from his tie. In his hand, being nearly equally pummeled by the storm, was a bushel of hydrangeas, the softest shade of periwinkle blues. 

You stared wide-eyed at him for a moment. 

His lashes shifted up after a beat too long of your silence, and he gazed apprehensively back at your unreadable expression. Licking his already soaked lips, his eyes fluttered between you and the flowers in his grasp. 

“Excuse me if I have overstepped, your highness.” Choso’s hesitant voice trailed. “My… my mother used to tell me I should gift a grieving lady flowers, as she may at the very least pick at their petals as she ruminates.” 

His gaze had cast back down to the ground in a boyish display of awkwardness, so he missed the way your gaze softened at his explanation. Taking a moment to study the flowers that he had picked from the bush just a mere couple feet away, you couldn’t hold back your tickled smile. 

“Do you wish to kill me, Sir Kamo?” 

At once, his head shot up to gaze incredulously at you. 

“I-I beg your pardon, your highness?” 

You couldn’t help but release a breathy laugh at the bewilderment resting on his handsome features. Sniffling softly, you nodded toward the flowers still clutched in his gloved palm. 

“The hydrangeas— they disagree terribly with me.” You explained as you reached up to wipe at your swollen eyes. “Simply holding them swells my skin dreadfully.”

“I’m terribly sorry, princess.” Choso stammered out through rapidly flushing cheeks as he quickly tossed the bushel to the side. “I did not—”

“I suppose I will simply have to pick at your brain while I ruminate instead then, won’t I?” You halted his frantic mortification with a gentle smile, a barely disguised vulnerability shining behind your eyes with the hope that he wouldn’t turn you away when you desperately wanted someone to receive your words— someone without a political agenda to push onto you.

The knight’s mouth opened and closed in uncertainty as he processed your request. With a gentle nod, the corners of his lips creeped up into the whisper of a smile. 

“If this is what your highness wishes of me.”

Through your tears, an appreciative smile graced your lips, one he thought looked radiant on your dewy skin. A long sigh slipped past your lips as your eyes drifted upward as though to hold back anymore tears from revealing themselves to him. He remained patiently kneeled before you, his gaze carefully observing your expression. 

“My father wishes me to be wed, Sir Kamo.”

It was silent for a few beats as he processed your explanation, his dark brows twitching down in the most subtle of confusion. Pursing his lips for a moment as he contemplated his answer, he shook his head, droplets of rain falling from his nose with the movement. 

“I apologize, Princess, however I was under the impression that your wedding was… an inevitable progression for your highness. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“To eventually find a husband that I may grow to care for, yes.” You began, finally dropping your head back down to meet his gaze. There was a quiet attentiveness in them that you weren’t sure you had seen in a long time, always having been spoken to rather than listened to. “However to find a husband within the fortnight with the intention of bearing an heir within the month… that was not in my plans.” 

“I… I see.” Choso released a slow breath, feeling his heart constrict at the predicament you were being forced into in the midst of your grieving nonetheless. The knight’s mind span with possible solutions, anything that might prove useful to you— anything that might save you from the dangers of uncertainty you were facing. He was quickly coming to the realization that this may be the one peril he couldn’t save you from. Choso couldn’t save you from your duty— not your father, not the crown. The only thing he could hope to offer was his saving you from facing it all in solitude, and that would simply have to do for now. So, he clenched and unclenched his jaw before placing an apprehensive hand atop of yours. “I’m sorry, Princess. I truly am.”

His subtle consolation had a fresh wave of tears brewing within your waterline, as though your soul felt safe enough now blanketed in his solace to release them. Your face scrunched up in a manner you thought surely must be unseenly, and you took him by surprise when you fell forward onto his shoulder. A hesitant rigidness overtook his frame, not quite sure what to do with his hands— not sure what was appropriate, even if your falling into his embrace could already be considered far from proper. 

“What am I to do, Sir Kamo?” You cried desolately into his shoulder. “There is to be a ball within the fortnight, and I am to be paraded around as though a-a cattle prime for breeding.”

“I am certain your father must have a… perfectly acceptable list of suitors, your highness.” His attempt to ease you only caused your shoulders to tremble more. He squeezed his eyes shut at his own stupidity. 

“And if I am forced to dance with an oaf of a man?”

“Then… then you shall ring your bell, and I shall come rescue you.”

This made your shoulders shake once again, but this time it was your harmonious laughter filling his ears rather than your cries, and it made him smile appreciatively, an odd sense of pride swelling in his chest at having been the cause of such a sweet song. 

You pulled away from him to peer into his kind eyes, your hands steadied on his broad shoulders.

“Do you promise?” You questioned with a wobbly smile, one that was proving impossible not to return. Forgoing titles and properness, his gloved hand reached up to tenderly swipe at your undereyes. 

“Until my last dying breath, your highness.”

In the midst of such an abrupt turn over of your life, there was at the very least some solace in the fact that Choso seemed to be becoming someone you could lean on for support. 

The two of you didn’t speak much following your breakdown, as he insisted you move your episode indoors lest you grow ill from the rain. Despite your conversation being cut short, it was evident in the sopping walk back to your chambers that the air between you two had shifted. It felt lighter— less imposing. 

So, when you woke the next morning, you were, for the first time since his appointment, actually eager to see him standing guard outside your door. Smoothing down your hair that your ladies insisted on oiling to the heavens the night prior with the sworn oath that rain water would ruin its shine, you pushed open the doors to your room.

“Good morning, your highness.” 

“Good morning—” Your response halted as you took note of the drastically different voice greeting you. Looking up at the knight standing guard, you noted that it wasn’t your knight, but the one who typically stood guard in Choso’s place during the night. Blinking a few times at the blond man before you, your brows furrowed. “Pardon me, Sir, I was expecting Sir Kamo.”

The man nodded solemnly, and it was clear that he was desperate to be relieved, evident in the redness that shrouded the waterline of his hazel eyes. 

“Sir Kamo has yet to report for duty, your highness.” He explained simply. 

“He—” Your lips shut into a perplexed frown as you tried to recall a day when the man had ever been tardy. You were coming up short though, because while you never knew exactly when it was that Choso reported each morning, you knew he was always there before you woke. “That is most strange.”

“Perhaps he is simply running a bit late this morning, your highness.” The stand in before you offered, but you quickly shook your head.

“I’m afraid this is highly unlike him. Are you certain he is well?”

“I have yet to leave my post, your highness.”

You huffed in frustration, though the more rational side of you knew he was merely following orders. That gnawing feeling of unease wouldn’t allow you to accept such a nonchalant explanation though. Raising your chin in a display of feigned assertiveness, you nodded toward the blond.

“Take me to him.” You ordered simply.

“I… beg your pardon, your highness?”

“Take me to his chambers. I shall see if he is well.” 

The knight’s eyes fluttered with apprehension, and he clenched uneasily at his fists.

“Pardon me, princess, however I’m afraid it is improper for a lady to enter the knights’ chambers. The king would surely have my head for allowing such a scene.”

“Well, Sir…” Your voice trailed as you raised your brow at him in question. He immediately bowed his head at you, whisps of his neatly kept hair falling upon his face.

“Nanami, your highness.”

“Sir Nanami,” You nodded curtly. “It is lucky that I have no intention of speaking a word of this to my father, just as I am certain you have no intention of standing guard for longer than you must this morning.”

The knight stood in contemplative silence for so long that you truly thought your efforts were going to be in vain, but after nearly two minutes, his lips pulled into a taut line. 

“You have a promising future in politics, your highness.” Sir Nanami grumbled before nodding toward the west side of the hall. 

Biting back a triumphant smile, you nodded in thanks before eagerly following after him. It was not long before you were stepping into a completely unfamiliar area of the castle. It floored you suddenly, how there were still areas untouched by your presence in the place you had lived in since birth. Your bottom lip caught between your teeth, and you were grateful that everyone had already departed their chambers for their duties that morning. 

“I will keep watch here, your highness.” The blond informed firmly, but there was a hesitancy in his tone at the implications of the current scene before him. Nonetheless, he tore his weary gaze from the wooden door you two had stopped in front of. “Be sure not to linger long.”

Nodding ardently, you tried to calm your racing heart as anxiety pooled in the pits of your stomach. What if he had simply overslept? What would he think of your sudden intrusion into his space? Still, despite only having known him for a short while, the thought of such a slip simply did not pair with the image he’d formed in your mind. 

With a final, calming breath out, the heavy door creaked open under your delicate hand. The air in the dim room was stifling even despite the way the curtains were doing their best to block out the sun’s rays. A small sliver still shone through, illuminating a modest path onto the wooden floors, revealing the boots that lay haphazardly tucked under the bed, to the small desk against the wall adorned with messily strewn about parchment, all the way to the disheveled sheets on the bed.

Your breath hitched as you followed that fated trail of light up to where your knight remained sprawled out, sheets tangled carelessly through his legs as though he had been tossing and turning restlessly for hours. It was unmooring, seeing the typically well kept and fierce man in such a state, with his usually neatly tied hair loose and clinging to his clammy forehead as a fevered flush overtook cheeks. 

The door fell shut behind you, not imposing enough to wake him, but enough to make his brows furrow as he shifted uncomfortably on his mattress. Your breath hitched at the sudden movement, leaving you frozen in your spot by the door. It wasn’t until your heartbeat had subtly steadied from its distracting rushing through your ears, and you were able to hear the ragged labor of his breaths that you snapped from your stupor. 

“Sir Kamo?” You called out hesitantly, a slight tremble in your voice as you carefully stepped forward. 

The man only groaned softly, a strained cough sputtering from his lips. As you drew closer to the bed, and your eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, you took in the sight of his chest, typically shielded by layers of armour, now bared to you in all its scarred and chiseled glory. Your lips parted at the sight, never before having seen a man so exposed to you before, let alone one you were alone with. 

Forcing yourself to concentrate on the task at hand, you pulled your gaze from his broad chest back to his glistening face. Taking the last couple of steps until your hip grazed the edge of his bed, you reached out to press a hesitant hand against his forehead. His face scrunched at the sensation, a sharp breath being sucked in through his teeth.

“You fool.” You cursed under your breath upon feeling the unseemly heat radiating off his skin. A gnawing guilt began eating away at the pits of your stomach, knowing that your little outburst the day prior had put him in this predicament. 

Leaning a trembling hand onto the mattress by his hip in an attempt to brush the hairs from his forehead and get a better feel, the bed creaked under the shifted weight. An incoherent mumble fell from his lips, and his dark lashes fluttered against his cheek bones before his eyes slowly cracked open. They were beary and bloodshot as they peered back at you in a daze. 

“Your… your highness?” His strained voice croaked out quietly, brows knitted together as though he was still trying to process whether you were truly here or simply a mirage conjured up from his fevor-induced stupor. 

“Sir Kamo, you are burning up.” Your panicked voice seemed to bring reality crashing back down onto his sore muscles, and his dewy eyes widened at once. 

“Y-Your highness!” Choso stammered out as he sat up with a start despite the way his aching bones were screaming in protest. The sheet that had been at the very least partially covering his chest slipped down his torso to pool in his lap, though he seemed far too frenzied to notice. “I overslept! Y-You’re— You mustn't be here, Princess. This is—”

“You must lay back, Sir.” You ordered, your comparably cold hands finding their way to his athletic shoulders to push him back down onto his pillow to no avail as he fought against your grip. The sensation of your skin on his seemed to remind him of his state of undress, the flush on his cheeks growing a few shades darker.

“This is terribly inappropriate, your highness.” Your knight stated with a fervent shake of his head, and he blamed it on his feverish state that he could swear he saw your eyes drifting down the newly exposed expanse of his rippling abdomen. “You must leave, and I must relieve Sir Nanami. Your father will have my—”

“My father will not hear a word of this.” You emphasized with a final shove to his chest, and he was falling back against the mattress with a vicious cough. 

Leaving a warning hand on his firm pectoral lest he try to get back up, you reached down with your free hand to grasp at the washcloth hanging off the side of the water basin beside his bed. The sight of the already half-filled basin made you wonder how long he had been suffering his symptoms alone that night. Dunking it in before wringing it out as best as you could with one hand, you carefully brought the cool cloth up to rest on his scorching forehead.

He flinched back subtly from the sudden frigid touch, but it only took mere seconds before his shoulders were slumping back against his pillow, the worried line between his brows slowly relaxing in relief. Licking at his parched lips, he stared back at you hazily. 

“I must resume my duties, Princess.” Choso fought weakly, though he made no move to stray away from the caress of the cool cloth you were running tenderly down his cheek and jawline. “You mustn't be without protection.”

“You will serve no use to me in such a state.” You assured softly, smiling apologetically when he jolted ever so slightly as the cloth dragged down his neck. His chest fell with a defeated breath, and his eyes seemed to drift shut lazily against his will. The hand that had since been lingering on his chest traversed up to carefully brush the damp hairs from his face, and you selfishly took the opportunity to ghost the tips of your fingers over the jagged scar across his nose curiously. “I should have stayed inside as you instructed.”

“Nonsense, my princess,” He mumbled out through his daze, eyes cracking open to gaze gingerly at you. “I would follow you anywhere.”

Your lips parted at the tenderness of his words, whether they were conjured from his fever-riddled mind or not. If he took note of the sudden flush in your cheeks, he made no mention of it as he fought to keep his eyes open. 

“Yes, I suppose so.” You breathed out with a soft shake of your head. “Rest now.”

“Who will watch over you, your highness?” 

“You have watched over me, and now I shall watch over you. Sleep now, Sir Kamo.” You assured gently, watching with a melting heart as the corners of his lips twitched up into the ghost of a smile at the sound of his title rolling from your tongue. His eyes finally drifted shut. 

“If this… is what your highness wishes of me.”

Choso was back to his post the very next morning. Albeit, he still had a certain mist over his eyes that evidenced his waning illness, however he was there nonetheless. The both of you made no mention of the way you stayed with him that day prior, watching over him just as you had promised. Still, there was a humble appreciation glimmering in his eyes as he bid you a good morning, one that complimented the subtle flush in his cheeks charmingly as he recalled the state you had found him in. 

Thanks to the unspoken bond of trust that had forged between you two, the days leading up to your father’s proposed ball failed to drag on as dreadfully as you had anticipated. At the very least, your knight seemed to understand when the planning and the fittings were becoming too much for you, never questioning it when you made your way out to that familiar bench in the garden. 

He was often tempted to ask about your mother— if you had the proper chance to grieve her, how you seemed to be holding up so well, if anyone had told you what had truly happened—

“It seems your head is in the clouds, Sir Kamo.” Your gentle muse pulled him from his thoughts. “Is something on your mind?”

Blinking a few times to rid the hazed mist that had fallen over his eyes, Choso peered down at you in a fluster. Gulping down the apprehension at the very thought of the topic, he tried to gather his thoughts before his lips parted. 

“My apologies, your highness. I simply wonder…” His voice trailed once you shifted your attention to him fully. 

The subtle movement had the sun’s beams reflecting off your observant eyes, emphasized etherally by the tranquil smile stretching across your plump lips. You tilted your head at him in question, as it was rare that he ever picked at your disarrayed brain. A loose curl of your hair drifted across your face, making your nose scrunch up as the strand tickled the skin there. 

One corner of his lip twitched up instinctively at the sight. His hand flexed apprehensively beside him once, then twice, before he was carefully reaching out to tuck the strand back behind your ear. It was well within his duty— was it not? To protect you of whatever might ail you, even if it was a mere lock of your traitorous hair. Why then, did this feel less like his duty, and more like his burning desire for your face to remain unrestricted to his covetous eyes? 

“You wonder… what my ladies put in my hair to make it shine so gracefully, perhaps?” You teased with a dramatic flip of your hair and waggle of your brows. 

He huffed out a breathless laugh, reveling in the way your eyes creased at the corners with the force of your glee. It suddenly felt wrong of him to remind you that you were meant to be grieving— not when you had found even a singular moment of solace from the whirlwind of events that had been hurled your way as of late. So, he offered a resigned smile and nodded solemnly. 

“Yes, your highness. You must forgive me, as it must have slipped my mind that a lady mustn’t share her secrets to those who behold their rewards.” 

“Oh, what a shame!” You groaned mockingly, though there was a hint of truth behind your exasperated tone. Standing from your designated spot on the bench, you began walking back toward the castle before leaning your head back to peer at your knight. “I should only wish that my father’s chosen suitors will have half the consideration you do, Sir Kamo.”

Your words sunk into his chest, adding phantom kilos to his already hefty armor. Gulping down the tension that had begun to constrict his throat, he pulled himself from his haze in order to follow after you diligently with a resigned murmur. 

“As do I, Princess.” 

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure when or why you had stopped vehemently opposing this arrangement, but Choso was quickly coming to terms with the fact that he would perhaps never understand your peculiar method of coping. It was only mere days ago when you had been wailing into his shoulder in utter disarray over the very ball you were eagerly filling him in on the details of now. 

He tried desperately to keep up with the sudden shifts in your mood, but he was coming up short. At the very least, the knight was relieved to see you in presumably better spirits than that dreaded day, as he wasn’t sure he could handle the thought of having to drag you out to that ball kicking and screaming. 

It had been hours now that your ladies had been filtering in and out of your room that long awaited day, each looking a bit more frazzled than the last. He had lost count of the amount of times he’d had to excuse himself from their thunderous paths, or the amount of times he’d simply been shoved out of the way. 

There had been a select few instances when the door would be left open for a breath too long, and he’d find himself tilted his head back ever so slightly in hopes he’d catch a glimpse of whatever witchcraft they seemed to be performing on you. The closest he’d gotten was seeing just a whisper of your hair before the door would be shut once again. 

Sure, he’d be branded a heretic if he said he wasn’t dying to see the princess all adorned and fixed up like a true heiress. Truthfully though, he had been dying to get one genuine answer out of you before the night began. Your sudden nonchalance and feigned indifference in contrast to how terribly you had initially taken the news simply wasn’t sitting right in his chest, and it was killing him to know you felt the need to hide it, wallowing in your suffering alone in that labrynth you called a mind. 

Choso hadn’t even noticed when the ladies stopped bustling in and out of your room, simply noting that it had been quiet now for some time. 

Your door cracked open after some time though, your timid voice following. 

“Sir Kamo?” 

“Your highness,” The knight greeted as he quickly pivoted to face the door you were peeking your head out from. “Do you wish for me to call upon your ladies?” 

“Actually,” You murmured out apprehensively, and he was finally taking note of the subtle ways your features seemed to pop dramatically in contrast to when he had last committed them to memory. “I should like your counsel. Come— make haste.” 

He took a step back as your door swung ajar, shaking his head firmly.

“This is hardly appropriate, your highness.”

“Hardly implies a certain semblance of properness at the very least, and that shall do for now. Come now, Sir Kamo.”

“Just as I hardly believe your father will accept such rationality when he makes a eunuch of me.” He mumbled doubtfully under his breath as you hooked your delicate fingers into his chest plate to all but yank him into your quarters.

“What was that?” 

“Nothing, your highness.”

The heavy door fell shut with a soft thud behind him as he readjusted his chest plate in lieu of your manhandling. Finally looking up from his begrudged fumbling, his words caught in his throat. Whatever unspirited vision he had conjured in his mind of what you might look like presenting yourself tonight could have been considered blasphemous gossip compared to the sight standing before him.

The ornate lace details of your dress held a faint glimmer that shone in the moonlight peeking in through your window. It cast a celestial glow upon your carefully crafted face, the one with cheeks rosier than their baseline, with lips rouged in a manner that drew the attention of any sensible man that might behold you tonight. 

Your hair, which he had grown so accustomed to seeing loose and free after your ladies had given up their hopes on you not picking at your styles throughout the day, was gracefully gathered at your nape and woven through with ornate gems that almost rivaled the shimmer in your eyes. There were a few strands purposefully left out to frame your delicate face, the tips of the curls brushing against your cheekbones as you peered up at him expectantly. 

Something— surely the man who spent years in rigorous training to sharpen that poise and regality he prided himself on should have anything graceful to say to the princess he had sworn an oath to, but words appeared utterly lost on him as his dark eyes dragged over your form. 

“Well?” You questioned in a fluster, grasping anxiously at your elbows as you chewed on the already mangled flesh inside your cheek. “Do I look foolish?”

“You look…” Choso pursed his lips as though to hold back what his mind so desperately wanted to say, because if he allowed himself the truth of his convictions, he wasn’t sure he’d let you leave for that ball. “Like a dream, your highness.”

A gentle scoff fell from your lips, and you quickly turned to face the mirror and busy yourself with mindlessly smoothing down your gown in an attempt to disguise your flustered state. 

“Well versed in flattery, I see.” Your bashful dismissal made him frown, stepping forward as though prepared to reach out to you, but he instead clenched his fists at his sides. 

“I do not—” The knight stopped himself with a dismissive shake of his head. It mattered not for him to prove himself to you now. All he truly desired from you before escorting you down to that ball was a modicum of sincerity. “Are you feeling well, Princess?”

You peered up at him from his reflection in the mirror, where he stood tall behind you, eyes ablaze with a concern you couldn’t quite place. Quickly tearing your gaze away from his weighted stare, you fiddled with your earring. 

“Do I look unwell? I thought I looked a dream, Sir.” You teased, but he could see the tremble hidden beneath your forced smile. 

Your breath hitched when you felt his hand wrap gently around your elbow, turning you to face him. His brows kissed together as he searched your expression for any semblance of something genuine. 

“I don’t understand, your highness.” Choso shook his head softly, and you found yourself instinctively lowering your gaze to escape his. As though remembering his place, he abruptly lowered the hand that had found residence on your arm. “If you are frightened, then be frightened. I cannot help you if you do not tell me what troubles you.”

The plush of your bottom lip trembled ever-so-slightly at his words, as though they acted as a stark reminder of the feelings you had grown to repress over the past few days. Picking at the bodice of your dress, you shrugged your shoulders. 

“Will it matter?” You questioned with a desolate raise of your head. Your eyes darted over his face in barely concealed frustration. “When I grieved my mother, I was still to attend meetings, and I was to see to building back up the hope that her death had eradicated from our people. Just the same, Sir Kamo, I am still to attend this ball, and I am still to find a husband. So, I must ask again— should it matter if I am positively trembling with fear at the very thought of it?”

The knight’s taut expression gradually relaxed in understanding, but your carefully guarded confession didn’t have the same effect on his heartstrings that yearned to wrap themselves around you and shield you from whatever may be placing that worried frown on your lips. 

“It matters to me, your highness.” Choso responded firmly, though his voice was low enough to provide that comforting baritone you were quickly growing so fond of. Stepping just a hair closer to you, he hesitated once before continuing. “I know it may never be enough to shoulder the burden that’s been unjustly placed on you, but you must know— it matters very much to me.”

At once, you felt the weeks worth of repressed feelings bubbling up at the surface, and, much like all the times before, now simply wasn’t the right time nor place to release them, even if your knight’s loyal solitude was transforming into the only place you wished to place your bags down at. 

Still, you nodded softly, and he understood it despite your silence, one of his arms raising hesitantly in invitation. You took it at once, grasping at his forearm to press yourself into his shoulder with a shuddering breath. A sob threatened to slip past your lips, but you cut it short with a purposeful grunt. 

“You will ruin my ladies’ diligent work.” Your strained voice still attempted to jest with him, making him huff out a soft laugh. 

Pulling you away just enough to be at arm’s length, Choso made quick work to remove his gloves before placing his pointer fingers to lay just under your eyes to capture any traitorous tears that dared to escape. 

“Look up, princess.” He ordered gently, and you did so without question, only a fleeting wonder of when you had placed so much of your trust into him. 

“I am scared, Sir Kamo.” You whispered desolately with your eyes pointed toward the ceiling. “I-I wanted to meet someone as though in… I don’t know— in a fairytale, as juvenile as it may sound.” 

Your warm, trembling breath fanned out against his neck as you brought your hands up to rest on his forearms as though to ground yourself. For a moment, your eyes drifted back down to meet him once again. They were illuminated by your unshed tears, wide and uncertain as they gazed into his. 

“It was meant to be the one thing I could choose for myself.” 

“It still is, your highness.” Choso insisted, but you quickly shook your head with a bitter smile.

“It is not, for if that were true than I—” You stopped yourself, your lips paused around the unspoken words that hung thickly in the air around you. 

You were well aware of what was prepared to leave your mouth, and he was well aware of what he hoped it was. Both of you allowed this juxtaposition to linger freely in the small space between you, free of the burden of explanation or analysis. The knight smiled wistfully. Dragging his fingers carefully under your eyes, he allowed his hands to linger on either side of your face for perhaps a beat too long before he pulled himself away, suddenly moving to fiddle under his sleeve. 

“You needn’t be afraid, Princess.” He offered with a small yet encouraging smile. “I shall be only a call away throughout the night.”

“Yes, as I’m sure my shouting upon my knight to come rescue me from a less than favorable suitor will smooth over very well for my family name.” You laughed with a quiet sniffle as you worked to pull yourself together once again. 

It was then that Choso held up a thin ribbon within your line of sight, the small jingle that followed the movement making your brows furrow. Finally focusing on the delicate charm hanging in the middle of it, you couldn’t hold back the positively unlady-like snort that escaped you. 

“Is that—”

“It is, your highness.” He nodded eagerly, proud to have elicited such a genuine reaction from you. “You needn’t shout. Simply ring your bell, and I shall be by your side at once. The oafs will be none the wiser.”

Despite the giggles of disbelief that were shaking at your shoulders, there was an undeniable warmth spreading through your chest at his consideration, of the notion that he had thought about you even when you two were apart. 

“May I?” His request pulled you from your thoughts, and you nodded ardently as you presented your wrist to him. 

His movements were delicately calculated as he carefully tied the cream colored ribbon around your wrist, securing it with a neat bow. With a triumphant smile, he looked up to gauge your reaction. Your gaze was focused on the small bell though, and how his grip lingered on your arm, his fingers kissing the sensitive skin under it absentmindedly. 

Pulling yourself back down to reality, you shook your head with a tiny, dismissive smile as you wiggled your wrist to test out your new makeshift bracelet. 

“Will you be able to hear such a tiny thing, Sir?” You questioned doubtfully with a teasing quirk of your brow. 

“If it is attached to you, I shall be able to pick it out of even the most boisterous of crowds, your highness.” Choso’s reassurance had an air of nonchalance to it as though he truly didn’t intend for it to weigh on you as much as it did, but perhaps that was what made him so undeniably special. It simply seemed to come so easily to him.

Forgoing shame and formality, you reached up on the tips of your toes to wrap your arms around his neck, a fresh set of tears threatening to form once again. From over his shoulder, you had to blink up pathetically at the ceiling to stop them from coming. The man pressed against you stood stunned in his place, arms hanging stiffly at his sides. 

“Do you promise?” You whispered hopelessly, the gentle puff of your breath on his ear sending shivers down his spine. 

Deciding he had withstood temptation beyond the limit of an ordinary man, he allowed his head to drift to the side, his nose burying softly into the carefully woven locks of your hair. Choso’s lashes fluttered shut as your increasingly familiar scent filled his senses, and he resisted the urge to press a kiss onto your temple simply to know what you would feel like against his lips.

“Until my last dying breath, my princess.”

part two is already halfway done I PROMISE

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[obriengf]

yeah this got 18+ real quick - smut warning!

imagine MITCH RAPP during a time when he is allowed peace; a life away from correcting the world of its crimes, waking up in the same bed every day with the absence of worry, contentment riddled so deep in his bones that he can draw a deep breath and finally feel tranquillity. he can sit in his designated armchair each morning, drinking his stupid imported coffee from the ugly mug you got him last christmas. he can sit at the dining table, across from you, sharing a meal and discussing your days, every day. he can lead a life with a promised future, and not one where he was unsure whether he'd make it out alive. just imagine it.

now, imagine him feeling so settled and fulfilled in his life, that he kneels down on one knee. he knows that there is that promised future, and those lazy sunday mornings, and more christmases with more ugly mugs. he knows that you'll crawl on his lap as he sat in that armchair, snuggled up watching movies into the darkness of the night. he knows that you will make him meals, and he would make you some too, before you share them across the table for the rest of your lives. mitch on his knee, a ring held so carefully between his fingers as they slightly shook. he had hope filling his beautiful brown eyes - a golden tone to match the colour of the band. he had felt loss so strongly in his past that it provoked him to be an empty shell. until he met you, until he learnt to love you unconditionally. and you love him too, despite his demons.

"it would be the greatest honour to have you by my side for the rest of our lives. i love you so fucking much. marry me."

to which you would reply with a teary, "of course."

imagine that months had passed. and that the love only grew stronger. imagine standing at the end of the alter with him, as he insisted that he held your hands throughout the entire ceremony, even through his vowels, which he had been memorising for months. his eyes unable to leave yours for a mere second as he stood mesmerised by your beauty on this special day. mitch would feel so lucky that he could call you his forever. flash forward to your first dance, and you both have two left feet. it was a mess, so you stuck to rocking side-to-side, giggling like school kids, impressed when he managed to twirl and dip you without fail. you both decided to feed each other your first slice of wedding cake, but you got his nose instead. on purpose. he knew that it was coming, call it assassin instincts. but he could only laugh before smashing his lips against yours, frosting decorating your cheeks in utter joviality.

now imagine a few hours later, and mitch had you pressing hands and knees into the mattress of your hotel room. your stature was wobbly, his fault, of course, after he priorly had his head between your thighs for what felt like forever. and he ate you out so fucking good, too. his blunted nails leaving crescent marks embedded in the flesh of your thighs, your hips, your stomach. the tip of his nose was dragging over your clit with such force as he tried to bury his tongue so deep inside your cunt. relishing in how you'd constrict around the muscle. and the moans that'd draw from your lips was a fucking symphony if he'd ever heard one. his lips sucked and swallowed as you writhed and panted. you were so close that you could reach out to the stars and touch them as they dizzied your view. but he stopped abruptly. teasing you. and mitch couldn't hold back the smirk that had tugged at his sopping glistening lips as you protested.

he was aiming for an orgasm that would take you to the edge and over. mitch was grasping your hips, pulling you back to him when you started to buckle and lose your strength. skin on skin slapping, reverberating off the four walls. your ass was red from his large hands as they fondled and slapped, only to be soothed by gentle rubs from calloused fingers. you were painted on different marks as your body filled with sensation, as mitch admired them proudly as his eyes lazily dragged down from your purple splotchy neck. your head dropped to the side as your cheek grazed the bedsheet, his name slipping past your lips like a prayer, begging for him. you were close, again.

mitch had a soft side, as you learnt quickly after meeting him. he was generous and sweet. incredibly kind-hearted when he wanted to be. which is why he treated you with such fragility as he slowed his thrusts, the plummeting now nothing but an idle wait. as much as it hurt his throbbing cock, he pulled out from you and wrapped his arms under your frame, gentle as he turned you over. with your back now pressed to the bed, mitch kissed over your eyes as they remained closed, still floating in your upcoming orgasm. waiting.

"let me see you, baby. open 'em for me." his voice was soothing but you still whined, lost in euphoria. mitch chuckled, his breath heavy before his lips kissed over your own, "i want to see your face when you cum for the first time as mrs rapp..."

tears brimmed your waterline but you had never smiled so wide as when you saw the love that exuded from this man, before he was lining himself up again. the tip of his cock tapped against your clit as you cried, pushing yourself up to indicate that you needed him. as your walls incased him completely, mitch's body lowered, his chest sweaty as it stuck against yours, one hand tangled in your own as the other braced itself, white-knuckled, beside your head. his hips drove deep into your core. tapping your inner walls, and you continued to cry out his name as he attempted to soothe you with sloppy bruising kisses on your collarbone, and up toward your ear. you were so tight. it felt dangerous, daring, the way you were squeezing and milking this man for everything he had. and yet he was so utterly addicted to you.

the moment before the release was always one that he cherished. the adrenaline rush was one unmatched, how you both reeked with desperation, how sighs and pants and moans grew louder and louder. the way you would beg one another for more, the 'pleases' and 'thank yous' mixed among the cussing and chanting of 'fuck fuck fuck' over and over again until the explosion. he loved these moments. but when you came? the second you arched so high off the bed that he used all his force to hold you down? when he came himself the second you pulled at his hair in absolute pleasure?

that was his crowning glory moment.

that's when mitch rapp knew that he finally found peace.

[gojoidyll]

There is No Law that Emperors Must be Fair

Emperor ! Jing Yuan x Princess ! Reader

Chapter 7 | Kisses Erase Pain

Summary | You are set to marry the Emperor, Jing Yuan. In order to break the engagement, you stage an accident and fake having amnesia. But now, your own cruel, cold, and distant fiancé, who seemed to not want anything to do with you, is now acting all lovey dovey!

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Sunday mused to himself as he gently ran his fingers through your hair, then bending down to you, his lips gently brushed against your ear, “it’s time to wake up, dove.”

His soothing voice washed over you, your whole body felt all warm and cozy, it was like being enveloped into a comfortable embrace on a winter morning.

Opening your eyes, you found yourself staring up at what you believed was an angel. And judging by the wings sprouting from his head, you knew you weren’t too far off the mark.

“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered those words as you continued to look up at him. Your confession made him smile at you, his hand still running through your hair.

“Thank you, dove, but don’t you have any questions for me?”

You shook your head, “I know I’m dead… what is there to ask?”

“A second chance, perhaps?”

You froze at that before lifting yourself from his lap and turning to him while sitting on your knees, your eyes a bit hopeful, “like going back in time and starting over?!”

Sunday chuckled to himself for a moment before shaking his head, “I can’t send you back. Time isn’t what I am able to control. However, I am able to erase what all has happened to you. In other words, I can make it to where your death hasn’t even happened.”

You thought over his words for a moment, “so you can’t send me back, but you can erase it? To how far back can you go?”

“As far back as I want,” he said as he lifted his hand to caress your cheek, “I could even erase your very existence.”

He watched your face contort into one of fear being patting your cheek softly before letting his hand fall from your face, “but don’t worry, I would never do that to you.”

You steadied your breathing before asking your next question, “so… since I am seeing you now… does that mean you plan on erasing something?”

“You could say that,” Sunday mused, “I want to erase your death and all the way up to that little amnesia plan of yours.”

“Only that far?!”

He smiled at you, “I am an impatient man, I don’t want to erase too far back and wait to see what unfolds.”

“… Why are you doing this for me?”

“Because I want to see if you can win.”

“Win?”

“The emperor has no laws for himself, no weaknesses. You could change that.”

You could only shrug, “kind of hard to do that when I can’t fool him. Not to mention he has a few favorite maids he likes to entertain.”

Sunday reached for you and patted your head, “but remember dove, it was Blade’s protectiveness that gave you away. Manage to not let Blade or Dan Heng find out about you, then your life would be easier.”

“That reminds me, who was the man who had helped Jing Yuan anyway?”

“That was Moze. An assassin. Be careful around him too. Honestly though, I am surprised he wasn’t your first obstacle…”

You shook your head with a smile before standing up, Sunday joining you, “so I guess this means you will send me back now?”

“Of course,” he said while getting closer to you, his lips gently pressing to your forehead which immediately caused a glowing light to surround you.

“Wait- I never got your name,” you said as you started to disappear.

Sunday merely smiled, “I am sure I am mentioned in a few books here and there, find my name there, and if we meet again, tell me what you think my name is.”

That was the last thing he said, then that warmth was gone, and you found yourself waking up in a cold sweat. Your breathing was hard, erratic. Looking around for a moment, you hastily got out of bed and went to your desk. On it sat a calendar.

“So,” you muttered to yourself, “I really am back to the day I decided to try and get amnesia…, and how did he explain it? He couldn’t control time, so he didn’t send me back. No, instead he said it was more like he was erasing the events that had happened… but what sort of being could possibly do that? No god in any religion I have heard of have ever been able to do that… Maybe I should go to the library today and see if I can figure out anything that way.”

Nodding to yourself, you went to your closet to fish out some decent clothes to wear (a dress that was easy to move around in since you didn’t plan to enact any more plans for the time being). And just as you made it to the door and opened it, you paused.

“Oh… hello, Blade.”

A part of you still couldn’t believe that that mysterious man erased the events that had happened, so there was only one thing to test out that theory. And that was talking to Blade, of course. Ever since you came here Blade has been like your shadow. Not once has he ever spoken to you or tried to speak. And you didn’t bother to talk to him either as a sort of defiance of not talking to anyone. But it was all too clear to you now that even if you don’t talk to anyone, the Emperor wouldn’t care.

Blade looked down at you, his gaze hardening as he glared at you, but he offered no greeting in return.

Well fine, be an ass, you thought begrudgingly as you turned on your heel and headed in the direction of the library. Blade already following you, hot on your heel as a shadow would be.

The library wasn’t hard to find, but it was a pain to get there due to how far it was from your room. But whatever, you were here now.

“Now, if I was a deity that can erase events… what book would I be in?”

You said those words quietly enough so Blade wouldn’t hear. Glancing behind you, you noticed how he stayed near the door, completely uninterested in what you were doing. Perfect.

So, you got to work.

You passed by multiple genres of books but eventually settled on a few pertaining to religion, history, a few fictional since they had titles and descriptions correlating with your situation, and even a few books that described creatures that looked a lot like the man you met.

Rolling a small cart, you brought it over to a couch and plopped down.

“Now, let’s see what I can find!”

Six hours later and you thought you were going to pass away. The fictional books were entertaining and served as good breaks, but they didn’t help you in the slightest of mentioning who could erase events that had happened!

It felt like you were about to rip your hair out! Sighing heavily and closing the current book you had in your lap; you went to get up and return the books all to their rightful place. You originally thought of leaving them out and letting someone else put them back, but you didn’t want a surprise visit from the emperor who would start asking about your sudden interest in historical and religious themes.

Once done putting them back, you settled for grabbing a single book to read. It was a fairy tale where a princess is saved by a prince. Sitting back down on the couch, you lay back and grinned at the title. Despite being a princess… you doubted any prince would dare to come save you.

Though, as soon as you opened the book and started reading once again, your eyes started to grow heavy and before too long, you fell asleep. Your breathing evened out and the book was held tightly against your chest as you curled up on your side. A small smile on your face.

Though, not too long after you fell asleep, the Emperor was walking by the room, “Blade? It’s uncommon to see you guarding the library,” Jing Yuan mused at the guard.

Blade huffed and jutted his head towards the open door, “the princess decided to read today.”

Jing Yuan hummed to the information and walked in, his eyes scanned the room for a moment before landing on your sleeping figure.

“Seems to me like she is sleeping more than she is reading.”

Blade came to stand next to the Emperor, arms crossed over his chest, “she was in here all the day.”

“That so?”

Blade nodded wordlessly as Jing Yuan walked over to your sleeping figure. His body knelt next to you, looking over you, he then noticed the book that was in your arms. Plucking the book from your grasp, he looked over the title.

“Foolish girl,” Jing Yuan mused as noticed how the book entailed a princess being saved by a prince.

“She wouldn’t be foolish if you just treated like an actual fiancé.”

“Its not everyday that I hear you defending my rewards from conquest.”

Blade shrugged, “I am only stating the obvious. Furthermore… I am bored of following her around.”

Jing Yuan let out a laugh as he stood back up, “then introduce her to other things that the castle has to offer. I’m sure even you can handle that task since you are so bored.”

Blade bowed slightly as Jing Yuan decided to take his leave.

“Of course, Emperor.”

And when he was gone, Blade looked back to you, his glare still present on his face.

taglist pt 1

@danae-misfortune @frogsasfrogs @openthenyoor01 @zuhaine @ughlostmyotherac @joyfulnightprincess @thechibifoxcub @ceaether @satanisasofties @thetwinkims @yanrandom @honeybunbunn @superdonkeypatroleggs @ohmyfinggod @baboon-milk333 @zareri @kclremin @rains-mae @yccoffeesimp @bloomiesty @moon-taffy @superdark-soul @pinkismyfavcolor @isa-l0v3r @its-astrotea-love @reapersan @junephantom21 @erisfayred @greyrain23 @justadekusimp @uzxotic @alisstaa @avalordream @unlivingdisaster @pix-stuff @sleepyxion14 @pillows-blankets @anicega @junni-berry @niaainthere @sorachitsuki @dyingsweetmackerel @rosariymchapter @immahuman @fluffy-koalala @momoniq @orphiclueur @insightedly

[darkenedurge]

Edit / Update : Part 2 is now posted here.

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𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐲.

“ 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐲, 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲. 𝐘𝐞𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞, 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐲. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 – 𝐄𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐆𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐡. ”

.

CONTENT : P in V Sex | Implied Age Difference (Enver refers to Durge as “little one”) | Sloppy Make-Outs, Mark Making, all that good stuff | Referenced Switch! Durge | Dom! Enver Gortash | “Forgive me Father for I have sinned” (that’s.. basically the whole fic/plot) | Rough Sex | Spit as lube, fun !!

` Inspired by this post.

And also, this song;

.

˚ ✧.

“But, ma’am, you could have anyone you wanted–”

Your dagger was swiftly swung, landing just a mere fraction before it met the skin of the poor, fragile, meek, little butler. His eyes flit, from each corner of the room, to the door – as it remained open, only by a crack. If he ran, he surely couldn’t make it, and even if he did – that would certainly be the end for him. This was heresy, both you and he knew that equally. Yet, another shared knowledge, was that you would never free your favourite toy. You were bounded in his chains, just as much as he in yours – Enver Gortash.

It wasn’t a faux claim, to say that you could have anyone. Followers, worshippers, dedicants of Bhaal, were far too quick, eager to throw themselves at your feet – be bent at your will, trampled beneath your pretty foot. These were all trivial matters, and ones that you rarely indulged in for such reasons. Perhaps on occasion, for a quick fuck. Though, you were almost always unsatisfied – insatiable.

Always would you delve impatient, frustrated fingers into your begging cunt, bringing yourself to the edge with a flutter of your eyelashes. Pleasure, but not in its truth. No, that’s where Enver came in.

.

You weren’t sure how it had even occurred. He and you, had always had a lingering eye for once another – stealing glances and sparing the flick of your tongue across your lip, wetting the plush skin, as you allowed yourself only a second longer to indulge in his stature. Small, fleeting moments of tension had somehow, pinned you beneath him – his teeth assaulting your collarbones, marks of possession and brutality staining your skin. Even the simple, slight swirl of his tongue as his mouth enveloped your nipple, had you gasping – hand flying to his hair, fingers curling and taking a fistful of his shaggy, inky locks. His knee parts your legs, and you rut needily against him. To which, he chuckles – scoffs, and tuts, “Impatient little thing, aren’t you? Someone hasn’t been taking care of my favourite assassin in my absence.. I should’ve claimed you sooner.” Sweet, citrusy words. Words of praise that, pathetically, could’ve made you come right there and then.

“M’sorry..” You murmur, breath audibly hitching as Enver pinched a nipple between his teeth, “You just feel so good.”

He hums, and the sound reverberates through your chest – forcing a shiver to course throughout your body, riding up your spine. “We’ve barely started, little one,” His eyes greet yours, head raised as he speaks, “It’s not good quite yet.”

That’s when your lips connect, for the first time, and the entirety of your stomach coils into tight, pleading knots. Enver grunts, the noise muffled by your intertwined passion – drool seeping from the side of your mouth, sloppy, wet dances shared between your tongues.

You don’t see Enver naked, then. You wouldn’t for a while. For now, and hereafter, he’d simply shrug himself free of the confines that his clothes so needlessly, annoyingly provided. As lazily as he’d enabled himself, Enver only provided the same impatience for you – ushering your panties aside, in favour of wasting precious seconds tugging them down to rest at your ankles. In a strange acknowledgment of admiration, you favoured his methods. His comprehensive need to feel you swallow his cock, take him the way the Gods had so sinfully intended.

Enver wets his fingers, tongue resting upon his lower lip as he swiped the tips until they were adequately coated – lathering your entrance in his saliva, earning a subtle flinch on your behalf. No warning is offered, he pushes into you with force, heavenly in the way that it hurts – in the way he stretches you, as he bottoms out with a wavering groan.

Your walls flutter around him, your hands finding their place upon his shoulders as he begins to piston his hips at a relentless, pace – you squeak, squeal, your nails press into the supple flesh beneath them. Enver is not shy to make noise, in return, his mouth no prison to the grunts, groans and moans that follow – in tandem with his thrusts. Over and over, you feel him assault a spot you hadn’t even known existed – deep, deep inside of you, making you quiver and tighten rhythmically.

“Say my name, little one,” Enver pants out in demand, fucking you evermore, “Say my name.”

You could hardly deny the request of a man who was literally, fucking you senseless. Making your head spin, your cheeks flush and stomach churn. “Enver..” You whine, like a mewling kitten. No, not good enough.

Again, “Enver.” It’s louder this time, and your nails drag down his upper back.

“Enver!” Oh Gods, are you going to cum?

As your heart pounds mercilessly in your ears, you can distantly hear Enver release a small, huff of a laugh. You voice is almost hoarse, as a cry strangles from your throat, “Enver! Enver, I’m-!”

You came. It’s akin to that of a crashing wave, and a roaring fire, in beautiful unison. There’s a hot, swarming pool that follows – Enver, no doubt, laying his claim; cumming almost simultaneously, filling you to the brim. You’re trembling as he holds you, pulls you flush against his chest and peppers kisses to the nape of your neck.

.

He wouldn’t be staying long. Slinking off back, toward his duties without so much as a whisper. Still, such ignorance didn’t pain you. You knew he’d be back, this was the very birth of a whirlwind. One that was destructive, perhaps. But, destruction is your birthright. Your solemn purpose.

You sit, thighs sticky and skin glazed in sweat. “Father,” Your hand is clutched to your exposed chest, resting over the thrum of your heart, “Forgive me..please.”

[montcumbry-gaytor]

Will you tag me when a Cicero fic comes out please <3

Hysteria

cicero x male reader smut

CONTENT WARNING : GRAPHIC SEXUAL CONTENT, VIEW AT YOUR OWN RISK.

— sooo.. yeah, I had an idea for this, I'm a Cicero lover so I'll take any opportunity to write for him.

tw : main characters are literally assassins. canon appropriate language. whiny insane man. ginger man .. spooky.

The night was young for the Dark Brotherhood, there were killings to be had, sacrifices to be made in the name of the mother.

However, the Listener -you- had taken a night to yourself, dispatching a handful of assassins to do the mother's bidding before retiring to your personal quarters.

The room had a biting chill, the stone cold, but somehow warm in comparison to the outside, which had been pelted in snow for days. The hearth burned, the embers crackling, a white noise that became comforting.

Having already stripped of your steel chest-plate and boots, and the leather armor beneath it, you settled for a dark colored tunic and some trousers, though it felt odd to be dressed so casually in times like these.

You scarcely felt deserving of this time, resting felt like a limited resource. So much to do and so little time to do it.

"You sent for me, dear Listener?" Cicero asked, hanging in the entryway.

A madman, a jester, a fiend. Many names men and women alike had given him, accurate, but they overlooked his potential.

"Yes," You replied, your bones felt heavy, having been carrying out your own duties, the duties of a dragonborn, a tiring lifestyle you'd picked up just when you were seconds away from being beheaded. "Keep me company, will you?"

You had asked, and Cicero hardly hid the joy the request brought him. Spending time with his beloved Listener? who in their right -or terribly wrong- mind would deny such an ask?

"But of course!" Cicero said with a grin, approaching with a gleeful grace before taking his floppy jester hat off and holding it over his heart, bowing to his Listener. "I'm at your service, My dear."

You gave a weary smile, and placed your hand on the back of Cicero's neck to pull him close, the other grasping Cicero's hat, tossing it somewhere to be recovered later.

"Good." You murmured, looking deep into the assassin's amber eyes, like pools of whiskey that stared back in return.

There was a time when you considered killing him for trying to kill Astrid, but a clarity had washed over you as each piece of the Dark Brotherhood's puzzle put itself into place, and in the end, you spared Cicero.

And as a result of keeping Cicero to fight at your side, a little relationship had spawned between the two of you.

You pulled Cicero close, lips meeting, something that was soft at first, something that short-circuited Cicero's brain each time, the tenderness of his Listener set him ablaze.

Cicero's hands tightened on your clothes, chasing the kiss hungrily, he loved the affection, the attention.

So you indulged him, fingers curling into the ginger wisps of hair, making Cicero shudder, pushing his tongue past your teeth, trying to taste you, like a mad, hungry dog.

It was a stumble to the bed, it's wooden beams creaking under your shared weight, but Cicero slumped back.

There were practically hearts in his eyes the way he looked at his lover, enraptured by his sweet.

"What a beauty you are, my dear Listener, what a privilege it is to lay with you.." Cicero praised, a mad grin on his lips, but you had merely smiled at the flattery.

Your knees dug into the mattress as you pulled your tunic over your head, tossing it off somewhere before creeping forward, pressing your lips to Cicero's yet again.

Cicero's greedy hands touched anywhere he could, adoring each scar from his Listener's battles, his triumphs and his killings, every single mark delicious, no more precious than a painter's brushstroke.

You'd settled for petty rutting for the moment, lips dancing as your tongues mingled, Cicero's knee between the your legs, his hands gripping your hips and tugging, hungry for every noise that escaped the your lips.

"Careful.." You said softly, thumb caressing Cicero's lower lip.

Cicero hardly listened though, and rolled the two of you over, a wicked smile on his lips. "I know little about being careful, sweetling." Cicero said, craning down to press a trail of kisses over your neck, down your chest.

His lips caressed every scar in sight, he adored them all, his Listener's skin was a precious thing.

"So pretty..." Cicero sang in a whisper, his breath a warm fan over your skin, which spawned gooseflesh as a shiver ran its way down your spine.

He would do anything to please you, to prove his worth by doing everything he could to satisfy you after such a long day. So Cicero sought out to do just that. His hands pulled the dark trousers down in a slow creep, letting them meet the floor with the rest of the clothes.

What good were clothes anyway? Cicero thought, they hid his beautiful Listener's body away from him, clothing was his enemy.

Your hand crept through Cicero's hair as the jester peppered kisses over your inner thighs, murmuring sweet nothings in deluded rhymes.

His fingers slipped just underneath the hem of your unders, teasing the skin there.

"Oh.. how soft you are, sweetling, like the silk of the night mother's gown." Cicero muttered.

A little odd compliment, but it was sweet in retrospect, it was coming from a deranged assassin dressed like court jester after all.

You had intended to make a comment, but was cut off as the cold air met your groin, Cicero's fingers pulling your unders down and away, leaving his beautiful Listener nude, like a blank canvas waiting to be marked and savored.

His tender hand wrapped gingerly around your length like the hilt of his dagger, and stroked in a terribly slow motion.

"Well then... shit." You had gasped, your breath leaving your lungs in brisk pants, the mere touch sending a pang of heat south, taking your blood to rush down with it.

"My, my, and i thought i was the eager one." Cicero says, his breath running over your thighs, pressing kisses to the innermost skin, nipping when he deemed it fit, all while stroking the Listener's cock.

It felt like a task he was unworthy to take on, to satisfy his Listener was a thought that made Cicero's heart swell, oh, how he loved him.

The sensations were enough to pull a bittersweet moan from your lips, the gentle squeeze of his palm as he neared your tip, the pad of his thumb rubbing the slit, gods above, it felt like it was too much.

But of course, to Cicero, he wasn't doing enough. You needed more, he would provide, he would do anything for you.

His tongue ran over his middle finger, slicking it with spit, making sure to be very thorough. He would not tolerate his Listener in pain if they did not request it.

Then, he pressed the tip of his middle finger to your hole, rubbing gently around the rim, before gently pushing in, grinning at the noise it drew.

"Cicero-" You rasped, but he paid little mind to it, as you did his little rambles and tunes, it meant little.

His slender finger pushed against your walls, opening you up in a beckoning motion. "You sound so cute, Listener." Cicero whispered.

Only a psychopath would call the prophesied Dragonborn cute.

Nonetheless, he pushed a second finger into you, he would make sure you were fit to take him, he did dream of making you bleed, but hurting you without your expressed permission would make him pale.

His mouth fluttered over your thighs, his dominant hand stroking you firmly, and his fingers spread you open. The sensory all combined into that of a raging fire in your loins.

"Cicero.. fuck- slow... slow down." You rasped, getting far to close to your orgasm than you wanted to be, it'd been far too long since you'd done this.

"Your wish is my command..." Cicero said, and he made you regret your words.

He pumped slowly, causing your hips to twitch and desperately try to fuck into his fist, and his fingers spread out in a scissoring motion inside of you, it felt hot, too fucking hot.

Cicero licked warm trails of spit up and down your thighs, bruising them with viscous bites, and whispered praises against your flesh. He loved watching you come undone.

"By Talos..." You cursed, your fist balling into the sheets below you, and you cried out as Cicero dared to push a third finger into you, pushing you open, savoring your voice.

He loved the way you writhed, his sweet Listener becoming undone like a ball of yarn.

Your body burned, you were terribly close, practically shaking as your hips jolted into Cicero's fist.

And then he pulled away, his fingers slipping out, his palm leaving your dick aching, and his lips ghosting your skin.

"Not yet, my dear, not yet." Cicero giggled.

You had laid there, catching your breath, trying to control the way your body raged, and when you looked at Cicero again, he was stripping away his shirt. "Can't have this getting messy.." He muttered under his breath.

He leaned to the side, fetching one of the bottles on the wooden side tables next to your bed, a small vile with a pinkish, syrupy liquid inside.

"I'll have to fetch more of this for you..." He murmured, thinking aloud.

Then, he shoved down his trousers, his erection leaking, the tip red, so ready to take you, to sate your every desire until you could not speak.

He haphazardly uncorked the bottle with his teeth, and spit out the cork. You could still hear it clatter to the ground, but had little care. Your eyes were occupied watching Cicero as he poured the fluid over his length, his free hand stroking it over his flesh.

"Oh, Listener, I cannot wait to make you weep." Cicero giggled, rubbing his tip over your hole, looking deep into your eyes the entire time.

"You can't?" You asked, and Cicero raised a brow, curious. "What if i said.. you had to?"

Cicero frowned oh so quickly. He would never dream of disobeying you, you said jump and he would ask how high. He would never do something you didn't want.

"Please don't sweet Listener... Cicero just wants to have you.." He whined, it was cute, he was desperate.

"I didn't hear that, Cicero, you'll have to speak up." You teased, adoring how Cicero pouted, and crooned over to kiss down your arm and to your palm.

"Pretty, pretty please, Listener. Let Cicero fill you."

Cicero pleaded, his cock twitching between your legs, you knew he couldn't wait, you couldn't either. So you gave him a nod of approval, and Cicero shuddered with excitement.

His left hand pressed your thigh, pushing your leg open, and his right occupied his cock, aiding it as he pushed into you.

Cicero was slow, and through clenched teeth he grunted and huffed. He aches to push in all at once, to revel in your tightness, but he controls himself for your sake. All for you.

It's when your hips finally meet as his length fills your hot walls that he lets out the breath hes been holding.

"Fucks sake.." You whisper. Your eyes are closed as your body adjusts, and when you open them, Cicero is watching desperately, waiting for your command.

You beckon him closer with your hand that isn't balled in the sheets, and he leans forward, and your hand finds his shoulder, pulling him into a kiss where his tongue finds yours again.

That's the permission he needs, and his hips roll into you, slow at first, drawing himself out before pushing all the way back in, pushing deeper each time, but his eyes don't leave you at all.

He's enamored by the mere sight of you beneath him, slicked with a cold sweat and filled by his cock.

He's fucking the night mother's chosen, how beautiful.

His hand that lingered on your thigh unsteadily plants into the mattress next to your head, he towers over you, ginger hair sticking to his forehead as his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his hips aim upward to fuck against the bundle of nerves deep inside you.

He's terribly accurate, precise, he knows where it's at from the countless times he's done before, and yet he treats it like a blessing every time.

Cicero practically whimpers at the feel of you, every inhale has a giggle, hes mad and intoxicated because of you.

"There you go... fuck-" You rasp, your mouth parted as noises escape your lips without thinking. "Good boy."

Oh, he loves that. His cock jolts inside of you, his teeth catch his lower lip. He thrusts into you, begging you to praise him more. He craves your approval.

Your hands find his lean, freckled shoulders, your nails dig in, and he adores it. The marks you leave are things he cherishes, and things he mourns when they fade.

"So good for me, Cicero.. ah-" You grunt, if you were close earlier, you were teetering on the edge now.

Cicero can feel it in you, you squeeze down on him and he moans at the very feeling, his hips snap into you, his heart pounds like a war drum. He's merely a loose cannon you've lit.

"Don't you dare stop.." You command, and Cicero shakes his head. He'd never dream of it, no, he'd do this forever if it were possible.

Your stomach burns, and something deep feels so tight that it pulls every muscle in your body taut. All you can think is how badly you want to let go.

And despite his exhaustion, Cicero's pace doesn't falter.

All breath leaves your lungs, your hips jolt on their own and your brain numbs for a moment, each muscle spasms as your cock spills out white over your belly. And Cicero chases his release as quickly as possible.

He's a whiny mess, and his hips shudder, your walls flooded in thick ropes of his seed, and he breaths out wistfully as his high comes down.

Cicero can hardly help with how infatuated he feels looking at you, your sweaty body, the cum dripping down your sides and out of your hole.

"So.. So, pretty." He whispers, and cuddles into you like a contented pup. And your fried mind decides aftercare can be handled after you've taken a good nap.

— if it wasn't obvious.. I think Cicero has a deep servitude kink.

[dragon-susceptible]

Different Path Taken Ch14: Through The Ice

Me at 11pm in my time zone: I wonder if I can get through a second chapter before @flaming-thing wakes up in their morning. I've got like four hours?

Me three hours later:

Runaan could curse himself for being this foolish.  He should have been keeping a closer eye on their surroundings, a better control over his assassins.  Shame burned in his chest at the thought that a child had been the one to shush them successfully, and even that had come too late to actually save them.  He couldn’t shelter them all as they fled down the slope, the rushing snow forcing him to just trust they would all listen to his instructions.  The closest shelter was nearly down to the frozen lakeside, and he bodily dragged the elf nearest him into the lee side of the rock formation, only able to see once there that it was Ram at his side.

He had no real time to process what he was seeing when he turned towards the path before Prince Callum shouted “Aspero!” and began to blow back at the avalanche coming down on him, his brother, Rayla, and Andromeda.

What the hell had happened to Skor, then?  Ezran had been on his shoulders.

“He’ll never make it,” Ram said tensely. “No one’s got that kind of lung capacity, who knows how long the avalanche will last.”

The snow had blocked their path almost as soon as the spell was cast, and it was still rushing, spilling to the sides so quickly Runaan was already knee-deep in it. “We can’t get to them to stop it,” He said woodenly. “We will just have to hope he runs out slowly and they have time to move.”

Under the roar of the snow and how quickly their vision was obscured, he had no idea if it were true.  The minutes stretched on like hours until the sound receded, and he and Ram were able to dig themselves out and back to the surface of the snow.  Skor was clawing his way out of a drift on the other side of the path, past another rock.  He shook his head with his teeth bared when Runaan looked at him. 

“What happened to the prince?” Runaan demanded.

“Tripped.” Skor replied shortly. “Both went slidin’, Rayla had him.”

Rayla.  Where was she?  Where was the egg?  Skor was tugging Callisto out of the drift behind him, but there was no way the children had reached that shelter without leaving some sort of mark in the snow.  Runaan scanned frantically down the slope and spotted Rayla wrestling herself out of another drift and onto her feet.

Thank the Moon she was all right.  

“Is everyone okay?” Prince Callum wheezed from a little lower down. 

“Where’s that hiccupin’ juice thief frog?” Rayla snarled.

The toad appeared from the snow just before Runaan took a step down on the spot, and he just managed to pull his boot back and pick the little creature up.  

“He’s right there, and he’s okay!” Ezran said from even further out - on the ice. “We made it!”

Runaan let Bait down as they got to the edge of the ice, and he, Ram, and Ezran all seemed to notice the egg further out on the lake at the same time.

“I’ll go get the egg!” Ezran volunteered, and as he scurried to get it, Callisto grabbed Runaan’s bruised arm firmly enough to make him flinch.

Before he could ask what that was about, Callisto hissed, “Where’s Andromeda?”

Fuck.  Runaan glanced up the slope and saw no sign of her.  She’d been closest to the children when they began to run.  Had she been with them when the prince tried that spell to hold back the avalanche?  He had hardly been able to see.

“Runaan, over there.” Ram pointed out a hole in the ice, large enough for a grown woman to have fallen through. “The ice is thinning with spring.  Do you think -?”

An ominous crack brought all their attention back over to Prince Ezran, who was frozen with the egg in his arms as the ice began to crack under his feet.

Rarely had Runaan felt quite this helpless.  He glanced down at the ice near the bank, judging quickly that there was no way it would hold his weight, nor Skor’s.  Even Callisto would be terribly risky, and they couldn’t spread their weight out as much with one arm bound to their chest like it was. 

“Hold on Ez, we’re comin’ to get you.” Callum said firmly, and then glanced back at Runaan.

Something in him wanted to protest when the two teenagers - Callum and his daughter - began to scoot their way onto the ice, but it was the right choice.  They were the only ones light enough to maybe make it work, alongside Ram. “Help them.” He ordered the younger man. “All of you, stay low, spread your weight across the ice as much as you can!” He called out to them. “Callisto, Skor and I can’t cross at all, it won’t hold us, so be careful, because we cannot come get you.”

“We’ve got this.” Rayla promised over her shoulder. 

He really hoped they did.  A loud splash made him flinch and brought his attention back to the hole in the ice, where Andromeda had just burst from the water.  She gasped for breath and tried to grasp the edge of the ice, only for it to crumble in her hands.  Even her sickle, when she pulled it out, simply cut through the ice and continued to dunk her back in.

“If we don’t get her out of there fast she’ll freeze,” Callisto snapped at his elbow.

Runaan glanced over at the children, who were carefully getting into position to pass the egg hand to hand back to Ram and get it closer to shore.  Ram had them.  He dug in his packs for a rope and tied it to one of his arrows.  He would have to shoot near enough to Andromeda for her to see it and grab the rope, and then even if the ice continued to break, they could reel her in without continuously fighting the surface as she was doing now. 

When he raised his bow, his folly became clear, as his arm twinged and he nearly dropped it.  The moment he tried to draw the bowblade it became clear his purpose was impossible.  Runaan grit his teeth and switched hands - he wasn’t as precise a shot aiming with his right, but it didn’t matter as long as he could draw it.

He couldn’t.  His left arm simply did not have the strength. “Ram!” He barked, alarm rising in his core as he watched Andromeda continue to struggle to stay afloat. “Slide your bow back across the ice!  The binding is too tight, I can’t draw mine.”

Ram obediently rolled onto his side on the ice, carefully unfolding his bow from its place across his lower back, and slid it back towards shore.  Skor was standing closer and reached out to catch it with his sword, bringing it in closer range, and picked it up to hand it over.

Rayla cried out in the next moment and another terrifying crack split the air.  Runaan’s heart leaped to his throat for a moment.

Relief, for a second, that his daughter was okay.

Terror when he realized the egg wasn’t.

Guilt that he had noticed his own child before the one that might save the world.

Rising horror that it was underwater.

“How could you drop it!” Callum was shouting.

“You know my hand is messed up, I told ye not to throw it!”

“I just tossed it!”

“Runaan, Andromeda.” Callisto shoved him. “Ram has the children, focus on her!” 

How could he ignore this?  Runaan grit his teeth and nocked his arrow to Ram’s bow instead, and even that his arm failed to draw with actual aim. “Andromeda!” He shouted to her, praying she could hear him, though her movements were becoming frantic. “Hold steady, I can’t aim like this.”

Another burst of snow.  A splash of water.  On one side, a human man in a hunter’s clothes ran from the trees to join them on the lakeside.  On the other, Prince Ezran dove into the icy lake.

Focus on what he could handle.

Skor went for the human on the bank, and Callisto barked, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m helping her, since it seems like you guys are all injured somehow,” The hunter said boldly, swinging a unique chained weapon around.

“It could reach her.” Callisto admitted, low and aside to Runaan.

Every second they were underwater was a countdown.  Andromeda had been in it the longest.  She needed help, but he couldn’t save her in favor of the egg; the Dragon Queen would kill them all anyway and the efforts would be in vain if it died.

“Skor, keep him honest.” Runaan ordered, and pointed to the hunter. “Do it.  Callum!” He called across the ice, turning his attention back to the children. “Your wind spell - clear the snow from the surface of the ice!  Maybe then we can see something useful!”

“The wind - oh, the wind spell!” Callum straightened up abruptly. “I can do that!”

He blew the snow off the ice as the hunter threw his chain weapon to the ice near Andromeda.  She couldn’t quite reach it, and no one saw Ezran at first.  As she clumsily twirled one of her sickles out to tangle it in the chain, Rayla and Callum bolted to another spot and Ram reported, “I see them!  Ezran has the egg!”

They weren’t out of danger yet.  Rayla and Callum darted to another unbroken patch of ice and she cut her way through it.  If she missed even a little, she could collapse the ice under herself as well, and Runaan felt sick in his core at the very idea of it.  He didn’t realize he was praying out loud until Callisto rumbled, “She’ll be fine, Runaan.  She’s a grown woman.”

She helped Callum tug Ezran and the egg out of the water and just collapsed there, lying down as he’d warned, her whole body heaving with exertion and anxiety and Runaan’s heart cracked in two as he saw it. “No.” He rasped. “She isn’t.”

Andromeda, across the ice from them, also managed to make it to the surface, and she coughed up water, shaking visibly, as the human stopped pulling on her to let her try and get her breath back.  She collapsed onto the ice once she could breathe again, visibly trembling. 

“Get her to shore.” Runaan snapped at the human and Skor. “Rayla, Callum, Ezran!  You three need to get to safety.  Stick to the ice that’s hardest to see through, that’s where it will be thickest.  How is Ezran?”

“He’s okay,” Callum reported. “A little sleepy, and really cold, but he’s breathing, not coughing up any water.”

“Keep him awake,” Callisto shouted. “Whatever happens he has to stay awake.  We need his body temperature up.” They were already shrugging off their jacket and packs and rummaging through them. “Ram, we’ll need your spare clothes!”

“I thought so.” Ram said as he tried to shuffle his way back to shore.

“Ram, wait!” Rayla called. “I’m gonna roll the egg to you, you need tae roll it to shore.  It’s too heavy to take with us, the ice keeps cracking more.”

At least that handoff went smoothly enough.  Callisto’s jacket was wrapped around the egg in place of the prince’s pack, and they pulled it away from the shore, tucked it into a small alcove of piled snow where it would hopefully remain above freezing.  Runaan shrugged off his own jacket - it was the largest one they had, and the prince would need a covering to change out of his wet clothes into Ram’s spares.

Andromeda made it to shore first.  She didn’t even try to stand upon being dragged onto solid ground, just let her sickle fall from her death grip and lay shivering for a moment.  Skor abandoned the tracker, kneeling beside her to help her sit up and wrap his jacket around her shoulders.

Ezran, Callum, and Rayla made it at the same time, and Runaan wrapped both boys in his coat. “Here, we need to get you two warm again.” He rumbled. “Callum, I need you to strip your brother out of those wet clothes.”

“You want to make him colder?” Callum protested.

“Water holds the freeze more than air,” Callisto explained urgently. “I promise ye, lad, the wet clothes will make him much colder than bein’ bare for a second will be.  Ram’s got a spare change of clothes for him.”

“It’ll be too big,” Ram said even as he handed it under the coat Runaan had wrapped around them. 

Callisto grunted. “Too big is better than wet in these temperatures.”

“Okay.” Callum said, after looking from Callisto to Runaan, and he set to work.  

Runaan left the boys in Callisto’s capable hands - well, hand - and turned to his daughter. “Rayla-”

He didn’t even get through her name before she burst out, “I’m sorry.  This was all ma fault, I knew my hand was messed up.  Callum’s right, I should ha’ just caught it with my other arm, but I didn’t, and now Ezran’s hurt and this all -”

“Rayla!” He cut her off, and felt the despondent look she gave him like a knife in his chest. “This was just the most recent in a string of bad luck,” He said firmly. “You were just the latest victim.  I’m not angry with you.” She was a child.  Her eyes were welling up with tears she so rarely shed.  She was a child. “We will talk more later,” He settled for saying, as there were far more urgent things to worry about than his decision. “For now, I’m just glad you’re safe.” He opened his arms and she leaned forward tentatively, and when he wrapped her in a hug she burrowed into his chest.  He crushed her tight to his body and closed his eyes for a moment.

He should never have brought her here.  The vitriol of the village against her for her parents’ betrayal wouldn’t have been worse than what he had put her through here in Katolis.  This was too much to ask of her - of any of these children.

“What about the egg?” Rayla asked quietly into his shirt.

Runaan glanced over his shoulder, blood running cold at how dim the egg shone. “I don’t know, darling.  I don’t know yet.”

“Andromeda?” She suddenly lurched a little away from him, still clinging but far enough she could look around for her friend. “Andromeda, is she okay?”

“Andromeda?” He prompted, and looked over to where Skor was holding a blanket up for the woman’s privacy, mostly from the children and the human.  They’d all been on the road together long enough that physical privacy was a bit of a pipe dream.

Skor frowned too and looked over the blanket at her. “Andromeda,” He rasped, and then abruptly dropped to one knee, draping the blanket over her. “Andromeda, talk tae me.  Stay awake.”

Fuck. “We need shelter, and a fire,” Runaan said firmly, glancing about at the group. “Ram, scout something out for us.”

“I’ll help him,” The human volunteered, cutting him off before he could even begin to voice anything else.

“You will stay where I can see you,” Runaan snapped back, hackles rising at the stranger moving too quickly near his wounded family. 

The hunter squared his shoulders and stared him down. “I can help.  Right now, we have the same goal in mind, right?  We both want the princes safe, and that means shelter, and a fire.”

“Humans lie,” Runaan spat, eyes narrowing, shifting to put Rayla behind him. “Why should we trust you?”

“I just saved your friend!” The human pointed at Andromeda, frustration making his movements jerky.

“Which is why you aren’t dead yet.” Runaan snapped back. “I don’t know why you saved her, which means it’s far from a reason to trust you.”

“You have my word,” The human argued. 

“Your word means nothing to me.”

“Runaan.” Callisto said sharply, and he looked over at his friend at the tone. “Skor and I are needed here, and so’s Rayla, for her packs at least - any extra clothes we can salvage for these two are somethin’.  Ram will need help.  Either he goes, or there’s no one left here to watch him anyway.  Ram can take care of himself against one man.”

As much as Runaan hated to admit it, with every nerve in his body screaming to eliminate the stranger from the situation to keep his family safe, he had to concede Callisto’s logic. “Fine.” He growled, glowering distrustfully at the hunter. “Go.” To Ram, he added, “Defend yourself by whatever means necessary.”

“I will.” Ram promised, and looked over at the hunter to arch a brow. “Come on then, pretty boy.”

“My name is Corvus.” The human said roughly as he began to follow Ram away, his boots crunching so much further into the snow than Ram’s.  Humans were so heavy-footed.

“It’s cute that you think I care about that.” Ram said blandly. “Come.  We have work to do.”

To the side, Skor was still urging Andromeda to talk.  Young Ezran was almost dressed again.  Callisto bared their teeth anxiously as Rayla dug through her packs, and Runaan kept his blades at the ready in case of anything else that might want to take advantage of their wounded.

Luckily, nothing did, and by the time Ram returned, both Andromeda and Ezran were somewhat back on their feet.  Andromeda leaned heavily on Skor, and Runaan simply carried Ezran to the cave their scouts had found.  The human had lit a fire while Ram reported to them.

As the child and the woman and all their clothes and the contents of her pack were settled around the fire to dry, Runaan finally took a moment to rub the stress from his face, arm aching, and wonder how much worse things were going to get.  If they failed here - if his mistakes led to the egg’s death before it could make it home - the best case scenario was that they all disappeared.  They could never go home.  That was the best solution and it felt like his heart ripping from his chest as he thought of Ethari, left alone in the Silvergrove.

The worst, though, was that they did return, or news of the egg did.  News of his failure did.  The dragon queen would raze Moonshadow Forest to the ground as the price for his crimes.

Even if the egg survived, he still carried the guilt for bringing Rayla along on this mission.  He had been trying to spare her a lifetime of pain and shame brought on by her parents’ abandonment.  It had been misguided.  Ethari had tried to tell him.  She was too young.

They were all too young to have the world riding on their shoulders, and yet, no matter how hard he tried to shelter them, the concept of a peaceful future truly did ride upon them.

He would not let this human fuck it up any more than he himself already had.  He narrowed his eyes at the tracker. 

Somehow, he had to make sure the egg survived, and the princes delivered it to Xadia - and that Rayla returned to the Silvergrove alive.  Andromeda deserved to go home alive, too - she’d been so looking forward to this season’s heat, to trying for a baby this year.  He had to try and get her that chance.

Everything really had gone to shit over and over.  As Callisto sent Rayla out to search for moonberries, sootheberries, and bogey berries, Runaan just watched her go and prayed that just one fucking thing could go right this time.

[chibifox88]

Chapter 3- Work Drags

Summary:

Feeling kinda down, might as well get something done.

The silence enveloped me differently than it had back there—heavier, more final. As I looked down at my hands, the dried blood and the marks on my palms were still visible, a lingering reminder of everything that had happened. I remained still at first, sitting in the chair she’d teleported with me, my hands resting in my lap. The crescent-shaped cuts throbbed softly now that the adrenaline had worn off. The room was still, quiet in that suffocating way that always follows a storm, as if the silence itself was listening, waiting for the aftershocks.

I exhaled shakily, my exterior calm, but inside, I felt like I was falling apart. My eyes drifted to the corner of the room where the shadows curled deepest, my warding sigils flickering faintly on the walls, reacting to the residual magic from the teleport. They were still intact, still providing a sense of safety—for now. But how long would that last? Leaning forward in the chair, I braced my arms against my knees, letting my head fall into my hands. I stayed like that for a while, my breath shallow, my heartbeat louder than I wanted it to be. Then, without warning, my throat clenched, and something tight and unfamiliar twisted in my chest. It wasn’t rage or grief—just exhaustion, the kind that seeps deep into your bones like rot.

They would come for me again someday—the white coats. They always came back, no matter how many years passed or how well I hid. Sooner or later, one of them would figure out where I was and try to drag me back. Back to the tubes and steel restraints, back to being an experiment and not a person. And when that day came, this “family” would be collateral. They didn’t know it—not really, not yet—but I did. No matter how much power I gained, how many contracts I signed, or how many monsters I outwitted, I could never shake the feeling that I was living on borrowed time. And when the collectors came, they wouldn’t care who got in the way. Princess Iron Fan, Red Son, even the kid—maybe even the Monkey King himself would fall into the crossfire. None of them would be spared just because they thought I was theirs.

This family, this thing I never asked for, this strange web I’d become entangled in—it would be destroyed the second the wrong people found out where I was again. So what was the point? What was the point in being angry, sad, or hopeful? There was no future for me. Not a real one. Not like the ones they had. I’d known that since the beginning. I’d told myself I didn’t care.

Maybe that had been true once. But now, sitting alone in this room that smelled like incense and gunpowder and everything I’d tried to build for myself, I didn’t know what I felt anymore. Tired? Yes. Hollow? Maybe. But underneath all of that, buried somewhere deep, was something worse—a kind of grief that hadn’t happened yet, the kind you can see coming from a mile away but can’t stop.

I sat back slowly, pressing the heel of my palm against one eye. It ached. Everything did. I wasn’t going to cry. Not for this. I’d cried enough years ago, behind glass walls and silence spells, and it hadn’t changed a thing. So I stayed quiet, letting the silence have me for a while, letting it wrap around me like smoke. Because for now, I was safe. And I needed to believe that mattered. Even if the next time someone came to take me, there’d be nothing left to protect. Maybe I’d destroy it all before they could. Maybe I’d end up alone again—because of my own actions, my own attitude. Be the reason more people die trying to protect me.

I shook my head sharply. No. I couldn’t think like that. Not now. I needed to stop looking back. The past wasn’t going to help me. It never had. And right now, I had work to do.

I had an assassination job lined up for Breezeblock—a clean kill, quick and quiet, followed by a meet-up to deliver proof. It wouldn't take long, and honestly, I needed the distraction. The thrill of the hunt was oddly calming. There was something about stalking a target from a distance that brought focus and calculation. The power of knowing I could end a life with a flick of magic or a well-placed shot was satisfying, a part of the demon-cat side of me that always relished the hunt.

Perhaps I was becoming unstable again, my two natures pulling in different directions, claws scraping against my soul. The old tension was creeping back, the one I tried not to name: demon, human, half—never fully either, yet never just the two. But I shoved the thought aside. I didn’t have the energy to deal with that tonight. I refused to spiral into the mess that being an unstable half-breed brought: the chakra realignments, the meds, the meditative hell sessions with ancient scripts and silver needles, and that sterile, clinical pressure to be normal. I hated all of it. It reminded me too much of the past I was still running from—the white coats, the restraints, the endless tests.

Finally, I stood up from the chair, ignoring the quiet ache in my legs, and walked over to the desk. My fingers found the right drawer automatically, tugging it open to reveal a worn black folder. I flipped it open and scanned the pages again, although I already knew their contents: a picture of the target, movement patterns, last known location, confirmed vulnerabilities. This was another magical contract, one with Breezeblock—one of the slimiest gang leaders in the city's underground network. Our deal was simple: one job a month, minimum. I could take more if I wanted, and he’d happily dump as many as I could handle. The lazy bastard never liked doing anything himself. If a name hit his desk and it didn’t immediately make him look good, it got passed to me.

Lucky me.

At least he paid well.

I sighed, rolling my shoulders once, then shut the folder and let my magic rise beneath my skin—warm and steady, sharp at the edges. Focusing on the coordinates listed on the last page, the world twisted in the space of a breath, magic grabbing hold of me like a windstorm. Pink petals filled my vision as always, and just like that, I vanished. The city reformed around me in a shimmer of displaced air.

I landed without a sound on the rooftop of a weathered office building overlooking the meet-up point. Petals gently flowing down to the roof. The sky above was streaked with smog and neon haze. The streets below were mostly clear—emptied from the previous fight near the weather station, the kind that scared off civilians and kept even nosy gangs away.

Exactly the way I liked it.

High vantage point. Open sight lines. No one looking up.

I crouched low, moving to the edge of the roof, the wind pushing at the loose ends of my coat. My eyes scanned the far side of the block, narrowing at the alley lit faintly by flickering signage.

That was the spot. Target was due any minute.

I reached up to my necklace and unclasped it, fingers grazing the small coffin charm hanging against my collarbone. As soon as it was free, I let it rest in my palm and channeled a slow pulse of magic into it.

It pulsed back—faintly glowing a soft, cold grey.

The metal trembled in my hand, and I extended my arm outward as it began to grow—folding out of itself like some ancient, shifting relic. Enchantments flared to life along its sides in intricate lines, and it expanded until it stood nearly as tall as me.

Heavy. Dense. I am barely able to carry the case.

I gripped the handle near the side and gave a grunt under my breath as I pulled it down to rest on the ground.. It was a strain—always was—but I’d trained for this. Reinforced strength spells wrapped around my shoulders and arms as I slid it to the ground with a practiced thud.

Inside, it held every type of firearm I’d ever designed or customized. Pistols, shotguns, crossbows, and rifles—each suspended in a magically stabilized stasis, categorized by range, velocity, and elemental type. Tonight, I needed only one.

The long-range sniper rifle: matte black with silver filigree, enhanced with kinetic and wind-channeling runes. Its core was forged from demon bone and alchemical steel—silent, sleek, and built to tear flesh from the inside out.

I pulled it free with reverence. It wasn’t just a weapon. It was an extension of me. As I assembled it piece by piece—barrel, scope, stabilizer—the familiar rhythm brought a low hum of calm into my chest. Not peace. But focus. Focus was better than peace anyway.

I stretched out flat on the rooftop and leveled the rifle against the ledge. My fingers twisted the scope until the targeting rune flared to life, lining up through layers of distance and walls and magic.

There he was.

Target acquired.

A demon lieutenant for one of Breezeblock’s rivals. Muscle-bound and smug, with fire-etched tattoos on red skin and a charm woven around his throat. He stepped out of a black car into the mouth of the alleyway, flanked by two guards. Laughing. Talking. Unaware.

He thought he was safe. But even at this distance—over three miles out—he wasn’t out of my reach. I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth and whispered a few trigger words. The scope adjusted itself to account for wind drag and magical resistance.

I could see through his body.

Could see his heart beating.

I locked onto it.

Steadied my breath.

Let the world fade.

This wasn’t emotion.

This wasn’t personal.

This was work.

I pulled the trigger.

The shot was near silent—just a low crack of air snapping apart. But when the spell-augmented bullet hit him, the impact was vicious.

His chest exploded in a fountain of dark, arterial blood, spraying the alley wall behind him like a butcher’s canvas. The bullet tore through his ribs and heart, fragmenting on impact. Bone, blood, and shreds of meat painted the pavement. One of his guards was splattered with the aftermath—jaw slack as he stared in horror.

The demon collapsed mid-step, his body twitching on the ground, one arm flailing weakly before it stilled. His mouth moved once more, blood gurgling over his lips before his head lolled to the side and hit the concrete with a wet crack.

The guards screamed—one bolting, the other staying behind, trying to summon something protective with a shaking hand. Too late. The job was already done. I stayed still for another few seconds, breathing in slow through my nose. The scent didn’t reach me—but in my mind, I could feel the iron in the air. Could taste the copper.

The distant sound of chaos rose as people started noticing the body. But I was already gone from their story. All I needed was to grab proof of the kill before leaving this place.

I pulled back from the scope and sat up, disassembling the rifle with quiet precision. Each piece clicked into place and was returned to its slot inside the coffin. Once it was fully stored, I pressed both palms against the lid and whispered the compression phrase.

The coffin shrank down with a soft whine of bending space, returning to its small charm form. I clipped it back onto my necklace with a soft click and stood. The air around me was colder now. I didn’t feel better. Not exactly. But I felt less. And sometimes, that was enough.

At least tonight, I’d bled something other than myself. Well for the most part if you don’t count my palms.

The world faded into my soft pink petals again as I went to grab proof then head to the meeting point with Breezeblock. I hated the guy, at least I won’t have to deal with him for much longer. Though the guild will probably demand me to get into another contract before too long when they realize that I don’t have one active again.

The meeting point was a grimy alley behind a boarded-up pawn shop, littered with shattered bottles and spell-charred graffiti. The shadows were long and crooked, the light from the nearest streetlamp flickering like it was on its last breath.

Typical Breezeblock choice—private, forgettable, and just sleazy enough to make a statement.

He was already there—leaning against a stack of broken crates like they were part of the set for an exclusive underground fashion shoot, one foot crossed over the other, completely untouched by the grime and rot of the alley. Breezeblock didn’t just stand—he curated his presence. Every inch of him looked designed, deliberate.

He was tall, with broad shoulders that filled out his suit perfectly. His skin, a deep, polished brown, seemed to absorb and soften the harsh light above, making him stand out like a carved statue in a room full of shadows. Not a wrinkle on him, not a hair out of place. His features were sharp, confident—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, eyes dark and unreadable, with that permanent look of someone who already knew how the next ten minutes were going to go. And who’d already decided how you’d fit into them.

His dreadlocks fell to just past his shoulders, thick and well-kept, each one trimmed to the exact same length. Gold hoops glinted from a few, and fine strands of golden wire—or maybe it was twine, enchanted or otherwise—wrapped around the rest in elegant spirals. They were evenly spaced, symmetrical, meticulously arranged. That kind of grooming didn’t happen by accident. It was the mark of a man who didn’t tolerate disorder—not from his hair, and definitely not from people.

His suit was charcoal pinstripe, tight in all the right places, clearly tailored and expensive in the way that whispers rather than shouts. The lapels were sharp, the sleeves ended precisely at the wrist to reveal a sleek watch—rose gold, thin, probably worth more than a car. His shirt was black, buttoned to the top with no tie, and just above the collar rested a gold chain, delicate but impossible to miss. It caught the alley light with a subtle gleam, a quiet signal that even in the shadows, this man glittered.

His hands were gloved in soft black leather—worn but cared for—fingers steepled casually as he watched the scene unfold, like a king observing a play he already knew the ending to. There was no tension in his body, just the coiled grace of someone always ready to strike—if only to remind everyone that he could.

And then there was the smile.

It didn’t reach his eyes. It curled slow and deliberate at the corner of his mouth, sharp enough to cut glass and twice as dangerous. Not kind, not warm—performative. The kind of smile that made you feel like you were standing on a trapdoor and he was the only one holding the lever.

Breezeblock didn’t just scream money. He defined it. He wore control like a second skin, and carried himself like the world owed him its silence. He held a cigar between two fingers, letting it smolder lazily as he watched me approach like he was expecting a runway strut.

“Neko,” he drawled, eyes raking over me with that too-familiar smirk. “Mmm, early as always. You must be real eager to see me. I’d say I’m flattered, but I know you just can’t stay away.”

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t flinch.

Just reached into my coat and pulled out the blood-stained cloth, still damp, still warm. I tossed it without ceremony at his feet. It landed with a wet slap across his shiny dress shoes.

Proof of the kill.

He made a face, crouched to pick it up between two gloved fingers, and whistled low.

“Well damn,” he chuckled, turning it over. “Got him right in the heart as always. You sure you ain’t got a scope wired into your soul or something?”

He stood up, brushing his pants off like the blood offended him.

“I’ve hired a lot of killers, but none of them put on a show like you. You’re… refined. Clean. Efficient. Deadly. Kinda like a cat in heat with a gun—dangerous, sleek, and always purring for work.”

I tilted my head slightly, face unreadable. He called me Neko again—my alias in the underground. And he always said it like it was a pet name. Like it belonged to him.

“Honestly,” he went on, tossing the bloody cloth into a nearby trash bin, “When the guild told me I was getting a new assassin, I expected some grizzled old war demon. Not some tight-lipped pretty girl with a sniper fetish and no patience for pleasantries.”

He looked me up and down again, slow and deliberate.

“And yet here you are. Still the finest damn killer in my pocket.”

My silence was sharp enough to cut through the alley’s tension. I stepped forward, voice low and cold. “Contract’s almost up. You should start preparing.” The smile on his face twitched.

“…What?” He muttered.

“You’ve got three jobs left,” I said, watching him. “Then I’m done.”

He blinked like he hadn’t heard me right. Then he gave a short, breathless laugh.

“Neko, come on now,” he said, stepping away from the crates, his tone all mock hurt. “You’re not really saying you’re gonna walk out on this arrangement, are you? After everything I’ve done for you?”

“You didn’t do anything,” I said flatly. “You handed me names and money. I handed you corpses. That’s not a bond. That’s a business transaction.”

He let out a longer laugh this time, though it sounded more forced.

“Baby girl, you don’t just end contracts with men like me. You renew. You renegotiate. Hell, I’ll even sweeten the deal. I know you in this for the money, and I can make it real worth your while.”

His voice dipped a little lower, oozing charm that might have worked on someone with less self-respect.

“You could have more. Better jobs. A real place in my circle. No more working in the shadows—you could be my top asset. My personal executioner.” He gave me that sharp smile again.

I looked at him with ice in my eyes. “You think you have a leash around my neck,” I said. “But you don’t. And if you try to tighten your grip, I’ll remind you exactly why I was worth hiring in the first place.”

Something flickered in his expression. He straightened his coat, smoothed a hand down his chest, regaining what little composure he could fake.

“Alright,” he muttered, jaw tight. “Fine. I’ll send it to you next month.”

I nodded once and turned to leave.

“Hey,” he called after me, the mask cracking just a bit, “just remember who made you famous, Neko.”

I didn’t look back. Because I already knew the truth. He didn’t make me anything. But if he kept pushing—

I’d be the one to unmake him.

When I got back to my room in the early hours of the morning, everything felt still—too still. The air in the mansion had that dense, post-battle quiet to it, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. I closed the door behind me with a soft click and dropped my keys on the nearest flat surface. Then I saw it.

A plastic bag, plain and crinkled, was sitting on my dresser.

I didn’t recognize it at first. No logos, no note. It was the kind of bag you’d get from a corner store, something you wouldn’t think twice about. But something about it felt… deliberate. Placed.

I walked over and peered inside—and I didn’t even need to check the contents to know who had left it. None other than Lady Iron.

I think she actually feels bad for blowing up at me.

Inside the bag was a box of hair dye. Not my usual shade, of course. Not even close. It was black. The same shade as her hair. Alongside it sat a can of Dr. Pepper—warm, like it had been sitting there for hours.

I stared at the items for a beat longer than I probably should have. The dye wasn’t a gift. Not really. It was a statement. A quiet, passive-aggressive one. She’d gotten me something I needed, sure, but not the way I needed it. Not my color. Her color.

It felt less like an act of kindness and more like a subtle reminder. A silent message: you’re mine. Not in the sweet, maternal way—Lady Iron didn’t do that. But in the possessive, controlling way that said don’t forget where your loyalties lie.

I scoffed under my breath and opened my desk drawer—the one where I kept my assassination paperwork—and tossed the dye inside without ceremony. The roots might be showing, but I wasn’t about to walk around looking like her. Not tonight. Not out of some half-apology.

Let her see me at breakfast. Let her stare.

I’d show up with my hair exactly how I left it—faded, untamed, mine.

Then I remembered: I didn’t have to show up at all.

She’d given me the week off. Technically to rest, though I was pretty sure it was also to avoid further conflict. I wasn’t going to waste it on forced family breakfasts. Let her sit at that table and stew when I didn’t show.

Still, I should probably stop by Red’s room. Let him know I wasn’t planning to follow him around like usual. Not that he’d get far. He was still recovering—from both the physical beatdown and the embarrassment of how publicly it had happened. Poor guy was probably sleeping off the shame in his weighted blanket cocoon.

I checked the time on my phone.

3:14 a.m.

Too early to be up. Too late to call this “last night.” Too restless to pretend I could sleep.

So I grabbed the lukewarm Dr. Pepper—because apparently, I was the kind of person who drinks soda at 3 a.m. now—and headed out into the corridor. I figured if I was going to be awake, I might as well head toward Red’s room. Maybe he had some gadget tucked away that could chill the drink. The guy had machines that did everything except brush his teeth for him.

The walk to his wing of the mansion was long. The halls were dim, quiet, lit only by the occasional flickering wall lantern. Most of the staff were asleep. The clones were off-duty. And the whole place had that strange, echoing stillness you only got in old buildings after midnight—like the mansion remembered every conversation it had ever heard and was holding them all in its walls.

I was halfway there, turning the corner near the east corridor, when I froze mid-step.

He was standing there.

The Demon Bull King.

Massive, unmoving, dressed in a long velvet night robe embroidered with faded golden thread. He stood like a statue—shoulders squared, arms at his sides, back perfectly straight. His horns caught what little light there was, casting long, curved shadows on the marble floor.

He wasn’t looking at me.

He was staring at a painting on the wall.

I followed his gaze and felt my chest tighten a little.

It was a portrait I’d passed dozens of times without much thought. One of those sentimental ones that blended into the decor.

It showed the family, years ago. Red was just a baby, curled in his mother’s arms. Lady Iron was smiling—gently, like she wasn’t the sharp force she is now. And DBK? He looked… calm. Proud. There was warmth in his face, in his eyes. A quiet, gentle pride I had never seen on the real version of him.

Looking at it now, I felt a pang in my chest.

That family didn’t exist anymore. Not really.

Centuries of war, betrayal, heartbreak, and bloodshed had carved them into what they were now—wounded, furious, powerful… and alone.

Then his head turned.

Slowly.

His gaze leveled on me, and I was immediately hit with the weight of it. Not just his physical size—though that alone was enough to make anyone pause—but the raw presence he carried. Like staring down a mountain that might fall on you if you breathed wrong.

He looked at me for a moment longer, and then, finally, he spoke.

“Feline…” His voice was low, roughened from age and fire. But softer than I’d ever heard it. “You smell of blood.”

The words weren’t accusatory. Not hostile. Just… observant. Heavy.

My grip tightened slightly on the warm soda can in my hand.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

I hadn’t bothered to shower or change my clothes after tonight’s little outing. My earlier “nighttime activity” still clung to me—on my skin, my clothes, and, apparently, in the air around me. Demon Bull King’s eyes swept over me slowly, like he was cataloguing every detail.

Was he… trying to make conversation? Just wanted someone to chat with?

I had no idea. But there was no reason to be a bitch right now, so I kept my tone neutral.

“Yeah,” I said with a shrug, “I had another job outside the family tonight. One of my assassination contracts. They needed proof of the kill, so I guess the smell’s still in my clothes.”

I wasn’t particularly surprised he could pick up on it. Demons had incredible senses of smell—way beyond anything human or animal. They could scent blood, magic, even emotion, sometimes. I, unfortunately, didn’t have that blessing. That sense stayed frustratingly human for me. While he could probably smell the blood… and the alleys I’d walked through… all I got was the faint metallic dryness clinging to my coat.

He gave a small nod, thoughtful. “Do you take on many jobs outside of the family?”

His eyes drifted away from me again, settling back on the painting—still studying it like he might be trying to remember what it felt like to smile like that again.

“At this point? Not many,” I answered honestly, stepping a little closer as I spoke. “The contract I made with Lady Iron only allows outside work if it’s sealed with a magical contract. And those aren’t exactly common these days. Not many demons are keen on the idea of dying if they flake on the terms. Plus the side effects also put most off as well.”

Now I was standing in front of him. A few feet away. Close enough to see the flicker of memory in his expression as he stared at the portrait.

“I see…” The words left him in a slow breath.

Silence settled between us. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

What was I supposed to do? Walk past him? Wait for him to leave? Was this a test? A trap? Or just a weird, awkward middle-of-the-night hallway moment?

I was still trying to decide when his voice broke through again—deeper, quieter this time.

“My love told me what happened between you two today.”

My body tensed instantly. He turned his gaze back to me, steady and neutral. I looked away. Couldn’t meet it. Not right now.

Of all people, he had every reason to be furious with me. For accepting a contract with Wukong. For aligning—however reluctantly—with the very enemy who’d broken his family apart.

But what choice had I really had?

No one else was there. And even if I had tried to summon them, I doubt I would’ve lasted long enough for anyone to reach me. Sun Wukong had made his intentions very clear.

His stare pressed against me like steel. Silent judgment. Weighty.

“Sun Wukong is our sworn enemy,” he said, his voice as heavy as the history behind it. “And yet you’ve made a contract with him.”

My jaw tightened. I nodded once, sharp and silent, not trusting myself to speak.

He studied me for a long moment—then finally spoke again.

“You are a smart girl, Feline. Knowing your limits… knowing which battles are worth fighting and which will leave you dead in the street—that’s something young demons rarely understand.” His voice didn’t rise, didn’t harden. It stayed steady. Almost… reflective.

“At your age or even younger at my sons, instincts make you feel unstoppable. Like you’re invincible. Like no one can touch you. But the truth is, everyone can lose. Everyone can bleed. And the vast majority? They die.”

He paused, letting the words settle.

“You’re a force to be reckoned with,” he continued, “but you wouldn’t have stood a chance against Sun Wukong. If he had truly meant to kill you, you’d have been dead before you even drew those guns of yours.”

I swallowed.

He wasn’t wrong.

“You made the right call,” he said finally. “And I expect you to use that contract to our family’s advantage.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an expectation.

My eyes widened at that. I hadn’t expected… that.

Not support.

Not praise.

I looked at him fully now. Really looked.

And what I saw wasn’t the towering warlord or the furious monster I’d seen in battle.

He looked tired.

Not just physically—bone deep tired. Like someone who hadn’t rested in decades. Maybe because it was 3 a.m. and he was wandering the mansion halls instead of sleeping. Or maybe because the past refused to stop following him.

Either way… it caught me off guard.

For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like I had to fight.

I just stood there, staring back.

Unsure of what to say.

The silence between us lingered, but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It had changed. Something about it felt heavier, sure, but not in a threatening way. It was reflective. Settled. As if the mansion itself was holding still for this moment, waiting.

Demon Bull King still hadn’t looked at me. His attention remained fixed on the painting hanging in front of him—the one from a time when the family had still smiled, when Red was just a baby, and nothing had fractured between them yet. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just watched him from a few steps away, unsure if I should speak or let him finish whatever storm was moving through him.

When he finally broke the silence, his voice was quiet—low and weighted like it was being drawn from somewhere deep and old.

“When I was younger,” he began, “I believed that power would be enough. That if I was strong enough… loud enough… feared enough… nothing could ever be taken from me.”

He didn’t elaborate beyond that. He didn’t have to. The name didn’t leave his lips, but it didn’t need to. The history between him and Wukong was already thick in the room. You could feel it in the way he paused after the sentence, in the shift of his posture—just the barest slump of the shoulders. A memory too tired to be angry anymore. At least for tonight.

“I was wrong,” he said simply, and that was the end of it.

Then, slowly, he turned to face me again. His eyes were steady now, not hard, not glowing with celestial rage. They were… tired. Not weak, but old. Weathered. Like someone who had been fighting too long and seen too much, but still stood anyway.

“You didn’t run,” he said, and there was something strange in the way he said it. Not pride exactly, but something close. “You didn’t let him break you. You didn’t beg, or fold, or throw someone else in front of you to save your own skin. You found a way out—one that kept you alive and gave us something we can actually use.”

He stepped forward, just slightly. Not to intimidate, but to make sure I heard him, felt the weight of it.

“I want you to understand something, Feline. What you did at the weather station… was the right choice. Not just because it kept you breathing, but because it showed you could think bigger than yourself.”

My grip tightened around the warm can of soda, fingertips pressing into the metal. The hallway felt too still all of a sudden. Not threatening—just quiet in that way that made every emotion feel too loud inside your own head.

“You’re not just a weapon,” he continued. “You’re more than that. That’s why my wife brought you in. Why she’s kept you. And why I haven’t sent you away.”

It wasn’t exactly praise. But from him, it was close. Maybe the closest I’d ever get.

I stared at him, unsure what to say. I wasn’t used to hearing things like that. Not from anyone. And definitely not from the towering, fire-blooded patriarch of the Bull Family. My throat felt tight, though I didn’t let it show. I just nodded—once. Small. Measured.

He gave a slight incline of his head in return. Then, without another word, he turned away from me and walked down the hall, his footsteps slow and heavy, but without hesitation.

He didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

The moment didn’t need anything else.

And I didn’t move right away. I stood there, frozen in the soft glow of the hallway light, staring at the painting on the wall—the one where they all still looked like they loved each other. The one where nothing had gone wrong yet.

I looked down at the can in my hand for a second. I hadn’t expected to run into Bull King tonight—especially not for him to side with me on the whole contract situation. Honestly, I thought he’d be even more furious than Lady Iron. So yeah, it was still a bit shocking, trying to wrap my head around how he actually feels about it.

But now, of course, I’ve got another thing to deal with: figuring out how to make this contract useful to the Bull Family. Just one more responsibility tossed onto the growing pile. I guess it’s better he thinks I made the deal to benefit them somehow, but truthfully, I have no clue what I could even get out of that monkey that would serve their interests.

I sighed and shook my head, pushing the thoughts aside. They could wait. Right now, I wanted to drink this soda—but I wanted it cold. Which meant heading to Red’s lab to see what sort of ridiculous tech he had that could chill a drink in seconds. I turned down the hallway and kept walking, forcing all the chaos in my head to the back burner for now. It could bubble there quietly until later.

When I finally reached Red’s lab, I glanced at the door across from it—his room. The door was shut and sealed tight. No light under the frame. He must’ve been asleep.

I turned back to the lab door and placed my hand against it, pushing a small pulse of magic into the enchantment seal. The mechanism clicked, and the door slid open slowly and smoothly—no creaking hinges, no noise at all.

But when the door opened fully, I blinked.

All the lights were on.

Not unusual, but still—usually only half the room glowed like this.

And sitting at the main desk, in front of a glowing screen, was none other than Red Son himself. He looked up as I stepped inside.

He was bandaged—strips wrapped around his arms and torso, with another bandage crossing his right cheek. His red hair was messy, like he hadn’t bothered to style it, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

He leaned back in his chair, locking eyes with me.

I pressed my lips into a thin line as I walked in. “Shouldn’t you be in bed recovering?” I asked flatly, the door clicking shut behind me.

He rolled his eyes dramatically as I passed him and made my way toward the wall cabinet where he usually kept finished gadgets. If I was lucky, one of them could cool a drink in under ten seconds.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said, voice sharp with frustration. “I need to come up with something else to help Father gain more power. I don’t have time to waste.”

I rolled my eyes right back at him while rifling through the cabinet. His self-imposed pressure never let up—even when he was half-crippled and running on fumes.

“What are you looking for, Shiro?” he asked, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.

Without turning to face him, I lifted the can off to the side so he could see it. “You’ve got to have something in here that can cool this down in seconds. So I’m looking for that.”

We fell into silence. I could hear him thinking behind me.

“The instant-cool’s in the cabinet in the back,” he said eventually. “Fourth shelf, second from the right.”

Still facing away from him, I nodded and went to retrieve it. Sure enough, I found a bizarre little contraption that vaguely resembled a coffee maker—except instead of a pot, there was a small compartment with a hinged door built into the front.

I brought it over and set it down on one of the many cluttered worktables near his computer. The thing looked like it had been cannibalized from three different appliances.

I placed the can into the compartment and was about to close the door when Red suddenly appeared at my side and shoved me out of the way.

“Let me do it,” he said, already flipping switches. “You’ll break it like you always do when you touch anything I make.”

I rolled my eyes again. “You know, one of these days you’re going to say something nice to me and your throat’s going to catch fire from the shock.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response, just kept fiddling with the settings like the can of soda was an experiment that needed fine-tuning.

Typical Red.

Red tapped a few more buttons on the gadget like it was the most complex task in the world. The machine hummed quietly, cooling the soda with an overdramatic burst of cold vapor like it was showing off.

I watched him with barely-contained amusement.

“You know,” I started, leaning casually against the table, “for someone who claims to have no time to waste, you sure have the energy to babysit a soda can.”

Red scoffed without looking at me. “It’s called ensuring proper usage. You’d just jam the can in sideways and fry the mechanism.”

I grinned. “What can I say? I live dangerously.”

He rolled his eyes, just as the machine dinged softly, the light on the front turning blue. He opened the compartment and carefully retrieved the now perfectly chilled soda like it was a prize he’d forged himself.

With a dramatic flourish, he handed it to me.

I accepted it with the kind of reverence that was only half-fake. “Wow. Truly, you’re a man of many talents. Inventor. Campfire. Professional soda technician.”

“You’re welcome,” he muttered, crossing his arms over his still-bandaged chest.

I took a long sip from the can, letting the silence stretch just enough to make it uncomfortable.

Then I said, casually, “Still can’t believe you got your ass handed to you by the noodle boy.”

Red’s entire posture stiffened. “I did not—”

“Oh, no, you absolutely did.” I waved a hand at his bandages. “I told you he was stronger than he looked. You all said I was being dramatic. And then—bam! One celestial whooping later and you’re in here nursing your pride and your bruises.”

Red looked like he wanted to combust on the spot. “It was a temporary setback. He caught me off-guard!”

“Sure,” I said, drawing out the word. “Because he was hiding all that flashy golden power under his apron, right?”

He gritted his teeth. “I’m already working on something to counter him next time.”

“Uh-huh. Maybe start by not underestimating people who beat your face into a wall.”

He made a strangled noise and turned back toward his desk in protest, fiddling with a circuit board that definitely didn’t need immediate attention.

“I hate you,” he muttered.

“You don’t,” I said sweetly, sipping again.

A few more seconds passed. Red didn’t look at me when he spoke next, but I caught the shift in his tone—just enough to signal a new topic.

“I heard… you and Mother got into a fight.”

My brows lifted, but I didn’t answer right away.

He kept pretending to tinker, but I could see the side-eye he was trying not to give me.

“She didn’t say much,” he added, voice casual—but not. “Just that it got… heated.”

I leaned my hip against the edge of the table, watching him out of the corner of my eye.

“It did,” I said simply.

Red finally looked at me. “You going to tell me what it was about, or do I have to guess?”

I tilted the soda slightly in my hand, watching the condensation slide down the side.

“You wouldn’t get it,” I said with a smirk. “It’s above your clearance level.”

His eyes narrowed. “Shiro—”

“What?” I interrupted, grinning. “Don’t give me that look. You just got beat up by a delivery boy. Maybe sit this interrogation out, champ.”

He growled something unintelligible under his breath and turned back to his workstation.

I sighed, dragging a hand down my face. I was just messing with him because it was fun, but in reality, there was no reason to keep this from him. He’d find out eventually—probably pester his mother until she cracked and screamed it at him during one of their usual arguments.

And if I’m being honest, he was probably the one who told her to get me the hair dye in the first place. To help her apologize to me. She was still the one who chose that color though—black, her color. That part felt deliberate. Like a silent reminder that I was hers. Or maybe I was just overthinking the whole dye thing. Whatever.

I looked away from Red and grabbed one of the many rolling chairs scattered around the lab. With zero grace, I flopped into it dramatically—of course bringing the soda with me. It sloshed slightly with the motion, splashing against the rim, but I didn’t care. I was already halfway through the can.

Still, I started talking.

“While you were busy getting your ass handed to you by the noodle boy,” I said casually, “I was in a verbal brawl with the Monkey King.”

Behind me, I heard a sharp snap—whatever tool or component Red had been holding was now in pieces. The air around him shifted, heating up fast. His untamed hair flared into open flame.

“What?!” he shouted. I didn’t have to look to know he’d snapped his head around to glare at me.

But I kept my back turned to him, taking a sip of the soda like this was just another Tuesday. “Yeah. For some reason, he wanted me dead.”

Not a complete lie. I just didn’t mention the part where I’d shot at him for fun. That could stay my little secret.

“So,” I continued, “we ended up making a contract. It kept me alive, but the terms are that I can’t kill the noodle boy or his friends. And if I’m nearby, I can’t let anyone else kill him either.”

Silence.

All I could hear was the faint whirring of gears and the subtle crackle of flame radiating from Red’s hair. The room felt like it was waiting to explode.

Then he finally broke the quiet—with exactly the kind of berating rant I’d been expecting.

“How stupid can you be, Shiro?! He is this family’s sworn enemy! No wonder Mother was so angry with you. They hate everything that Sun Wukong stands for! And you—you just went and signed a contract with him! You tied yourself to him and us at the same time! We want nothing to do with him, and here you are bringing his name—his influence—into our home! What were you thinking? Were you even thinking?!”

I spun the chair around sharply to face him. My irritation flared just as hot as his.

“Of course I was thinking!” I snapped, my voice raised but not quite a yell—just hovering right under the edge of it. “I was thinking that I didn’t want to die!”

He stared at me, face twisted in disbelief, but I kept going.

“I was only there because of you, Red! I saw the Monkey King’s movements because I was making sure no one but the noodle boy got into that tower! I warned you that he was watching the kid, but you didn’t even acknowledge it! And I paid the price for that!”

My fists clenched tightly in my lap almost crushing the can.

“So yeah, I’m sorry for dragging his name into this house. I’m sorry for the contract. But I won’t apologize for wanting to live—and finding a way to do it while you were busy getting knocked around in a fight that didn’t even matter.”

We stared at each other.

Neither of us said anything for several minutes.

The tension stretched out long and sharp, but neither of us flinched. I finally looked away, down at the soda in my hand, and took another drink.

I hadn’t meant to blow up at him. Not really. But they were both refusing to understand the situation I had been in. Whether I’d caused it or not, I was still the one who had to survive it. If it had been anyone else threatening me, I would’ve just taken the shot and walked away.

But you can’t kill something immortal.

Both Red and Lady Iron had every right to be upset with me. I knew that. I was, after all, the magically contracted bodyguard for Red Son—the prince of the Bull Family—bound by blood and spell to Princess Iron Fan herself. She’s the one who allowed me to take on jobs outside the family in the first place. But it’s not like I’m working with the Monkey King to undermine them.

Even my contract with him doesn’t give him any real power over me. He didn’t even write in a clause that lets him give me orders. All I have to do is spend an hour with him once a week. That’s it. And I’m already working on how to stretch that out to once a month. I just haven’t figured out how to yet.

They’re blowing this so far out of proportion—at least, it feels that way to me. Maybe it’s because Lord Ox just got unsealed, and now all these old, unresolved feelings are boiling up to the surface. And I just happen to be the closest, easiest target to project all of that onto.

Which is unfair. But again, how am I supposed to complain? I’m just a contracted employee. Even though sometimes they change their minds and try to treat me like I am family. Sometimes they even say it out loud—and sometimes it even feels real. But at the end of the day, I have to remind myself that I’m not. I can’t let them be my family. Not really.

I took another sip of my soda, mostly just to give myself an excuse to look away from Red. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw him drag a hand down his face and let out a deep breath. The flames in his hair were beginning to settle—still glowing at the tips, but not crackling anymore.

“Look,” Red said finally, his voice quieter. “Shiro… I didn’t mean to say that.” He glanced down at his bandaged hands, slowly curling them into fists. “You are smart. And you were right. I probably wouldn’t have ended up in that mess if I’d listened to you at lunch. I wouldn’t have… humiliated myself in front of my father again.”

His tone cracked slightly on that last part, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease—just a little.

I’d always known Red struggled with his emotions. He was bad at handling them, worse at expressing them, and when he didn’t know what to do with the storm inside him, he usually let it spill onto whoever was standing closest. This wasn’t the first time we’d done something reckless together—both of us getting in over our heads, both of us blowing up in the aftermath. He’d yell at me, then himself, then go silent until he could start fixing something with a wrench instead of words.

I glanced around the lab, taking it all in—the cluttered tables, the scattered components, the tools thrown carelessly into trays. I looked at the bags under his eyes, the strain in his voice. How long had he been sitting here, trying to piece together another miracle to win back his father’s pride?

I sighed, then muttered, “Yeah, yeah. You really need to stop and learn how to deal with your own emotions before snapping at someone just because you’re mad at yourself.”

I scratched the back of my neck awkwardly, then looked him up and down. “We’ll find something to help you out, Red. We’ve got time. You don’t need to rush. Besides, the more time you put into something, the better it’ll be—and the less likely it is to blow up in your face.”

He glanced up at me. Our eyes met. I gave him a small, genuine smile.

He immediately looked away, cheeks turning a bit pink. All the fire in his hair fizzled out.

“I don’t need your input, Shiro,” he grumbled, crossing his arms.

My smile shifted into a smirk—sharp and unrepentant.

“Oh, but you do, sweet Red. They say cats have a sixth sense.”

I was definitely wearing a full-on shit-eating grin now. He shot me the driest look I’d seen all night.

“They also say your curiosity’s going to get you killed,” he muttered.

He was definitely trying to get the last word.

“Then it’s a good thing I’ve got nine lives,” I replied, raising my soda in a mock toast.

Red scowled at me, but the flush on his cheeks gave him away. He wasn’t really mad anymore—he just didn’t like losing ground in an argument. Especially not to me.

“I don’t know why everyone thinks you’re clever,” he muttered, looking back at his workstation. “Half your ideas sound like they were formed mid-fall off a building.”

I snorted. “And yet half of those ideas saved your life. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Barely,” he said under his breath, but I saw the faint curve at the corner of his mouth.

I took another sip of soda, resting my feet on the edge of one of his tables. “You’re just jealous my instincts work better than your blueprints.”

“You’re an instinctual disaster,” he shot back.

“And you’re one breakdown away from naming a toaster after your dad.”

He scoffed, spinning a small gear between his fingers. “At least I’m doing something productive.”

“Please. Half the stuff in this lab makes noise and smoke but only does one thing—and usually that thing is explode.”

He rolled his eyes. “Only once.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Red. You launched yourself through a wall.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed. “Okay. Twice.”

I laughed—actually laughed—and for a moment, the tension that had been clinging to the walls since I walked in finally faded. It felt easy again, natural. Like we hadn’t just spent the last twenty minutes shouting at each other about divine politics and near-death experiences.

We sat like that for a little while longer—me sipping my soda, Red tinkering with some gadget he clearly wasn’t focused on anymore. The quiet wasn’t awkward now. It was familiar.

Eventually, I stretched, finishing the last sip of the now-cold drink, and pushed myself up from the rolling chair.

“Well,” I said, brushing invisible crumbs off my pants, “as fun as this emotionally charged moment has been, I think I’ll go crash before someone else decides to lecture me.”

Red didn’t look up from the tool in his hand. “You mean before you break something and I get blamed for it?”

I smirked on my way to the door. “Exactly.”

He glanced at me then, just for a second. His spine was straighter than before, the hunch of pressure and shame he had when I walked in was noticeably lighter. His eyes were clearer too—not weighed down by guilt or frustration, just tired in the normal Red Son way.

“Shiro,” he called just as I reached the doorway.

I paused, glancing back over my shoulder.

“…Thanks,” he said, voice low but sincere. “For everything.”

I gave him a half-smile. “Get some sleep, Red. The world-ending projects will still be here in the morning.”

And with that, I slipped out of the lab and into the quiet hallway, leaving him in the soft, steady glow of his lab lights—still surrounded by wires and half-sketched plans, but now sitting just a little taller in his chair.

When I finally made it back into my room and the door clicked shut behind me, I slapped a hand against my forehead. Great. Red had been right there—literally right in front of me—and I’d completely forgotten to tell him I wasn’t going to be working this week. I let out a heavy sigh, dragging my palm down my face. Whatever. I had a phone. I’d just text him later and explain it… again.

But right now, all I could think about was taking a shower—getting the blood off me, the night off me, the entire day off me. I grabbed what I needed without much thought and headed straight for the bathroom. I paused in front of the mirror and stared at myself. The white roots of my hair were showing again, ghosting through the dye, reminding me of what I was underneath it all. My hair was still wind-mussed from earlier, and caught in it were a few small, pink petals—leftover from the teleports.

I reached up and plucked them out one by one, watching them fall into the bathroom trash with a soft, barely-there sound. My gaze drifted to the shower. I stared at it for a long time, my breath slowing, body suddenly heavier. I still hated getting wet. I hated water—despised it. It was always the starting that was the hardest part. Every single time.

My feet felt rooted to the floor. Taking a shower should be easy, right? A routine task—wash your body, wash your hair, rinse off the day. But it wasn’t. It never was. Not when every drop of water felt like being submerged in something I couldn’t fight. Like I was back there. I grabbed my wrist, trying to steady the tremble that had started to creep into my fingers. I stood there for what must have been hours, mentally wrestling myself down from the ledge of my own hesitation. Eventually, finally, I forced myself in.

Fifteen minutes. That’s all it took. A frantic scrub-down, hair half-washed, a mad dash to get it over with. And even then, by the time I stepped out, my skin felt raw and my teeth were clenched tight enough to ache. I dried off fast, barely glancing in the mirror. The water had done its job—physically—but all I could feel was failure for how hard it had been. Again. Why was it always so hard? It was just a shower. Less than twenty minutes, and I still felt like I’d run a gauntlet through hell.

But it was over now.

And it was already 7 a.m.

I was so fucking glad I didn’t have to work this week. It meant I could crawl under the covers and rot in peace—sleep for fourteen hours straight if I wanted to. Or just lay there and disappear into nothing. Lately, every time I woke up, it felt like my brain had lost another piece of itself. The pull to just stay in bed, to vanish, was stronger than ever.

My phone started ringing, and I forced myself to walk over to the dresser I’d left it on. Just my alarm. I usually would’ve already been awake by now, but today I was done. Whatever mess I’d made of my sleep schedule could be Future Me’s problem.

I tossed the phone onto the nightstand plugging it in, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers over my head. The moment my head hit the pillow, I thought I’d pass out instantly.

I didn’t.

I laid there. For two fucking hours. Eyes shut. Body still. My mind doing everything it could to stay empty—pushing every creeping thought, every whisper of anxiety and regret, right back out into the void. But no matter how quiet I made my head, sleep refused to come. My body was exhausted, but my mind was wide awake. I could feel the weight of every breath, the ache in my spine from the night before, the buzzing, invisible pressure of being alive when I didn’t want to feel anything at all.

Still, I was stubborn. I stayed in bed, determined to wait it out. I told myself I’d sleep if it took all day.

That lasted another half hour.

Eventually, I gave up and grabbed my phone. Doomscrolling was better than nothing. I thumbed through app after app, across social media feeds I didn’t care about, watching videos I couldn’t remember five seconds later. It wasn’t about seeing anything—it was about not thinking. Not feeling. I just needed the noise.

That’s how I spent my time. Laying there in the dark, the soft glow of my phone screen the only proof I existed. I didn’t sleep. Didn’t move except to use the restroom or grab whatever drink the bull clones quietly brought me and left on the table. I didn’t notice how much time had passed—until I did.

When I finally glanced at the date on the digital clock beside my bed, I blinked in disbelief. Four days. Four days had gone by.

I sat up fast, feeling my spine crack from the sudden motion. My phone was dead. I blinked at it, furious—I thought I’d left it charging. But then I checked the plug. Dislodged. Of course. Because of course it was.

Four whole days.

Four fucking days of nothing.

No sleep. No real food. Just scrolling, laying still, and existing in a half-conscious state of dissociation. I stared at the ceiling, plugging the phone back in and rolling onto my back with a groan. My joints ached from lack of movement, muscles stiff from staying curled in the same position for far too long.

I knew I should get up. Move. Stretch. Eat.

Instead, I lay there another two hours.

It wasn’t until my phone chimed—fully charged again—that the sound cut through the haze enough to remind me I was still here.

Still awake.

Still tired.

Still… me.

When I looked at my phone, I didn’t expect anything meaningful—maybe some leftover notifications, a missed text from a clone, or another reminder from Lady Iron about meal schedules I didn’t care to attend. But instead, there it was: a message from an unknown number.

I slid it open without much thought, and the contents instantly told me who it was. None other than the Monkey King had finally decided to reach out. Took him long enough. Maybe he had to get a phone first? I hadn’t even considered that he might not have one, which felt stupid now, given how ancient he is. Still, in this day and age, even immortal simian gods needed a smartphone.

Sun Wukong: Meet me at the harbor tomorrow around dusk.

The harbor. That was… an odd choice, honestly. Weirdly public. But I didn’t get to pick the place, did I? I blinked down at the message. Tomorrow around dusk, huh? I’d need to check it out ahead of time. It had been a while since I’d been near the harbor, and I needed to scope the place—figure out where I could teleport to, what areas were the most open, and most importantly, how easy it’d be to escape if things went sideways.

With a groan, I forced myself to sit up and drag myself out of bed. I got dressed on autopilot, didn’t bother eating—just the thought of going down to the kitchen, cooking, and dealing with clone traffic made me want to crawl back under the blankets and rot. So I skipped all that and walked straight out of the Bull Family mansion with nothing but myself and a vague plan to scout the harbor.

Walking through the city was… strange. No one really paid me any mind, not even a second glance. I guess they’d forgotten I was tied to the Bull Family. Or maybe they just never knew, never really saw me. Either way, it was better for me. If people realized who I worked for, I’d get nothing but glares and whispers, and I was not in the mood. I could already feel the urge to punch someone creeping up the back of my spine just thinking about it.

The sun was just starting to dip when I passed through the nightlife district, and that’s when everything went to hell. A sudden surge of people swept through the street, pushing me along like I was just another piece of driftwood caught in a tide. I tried to resist, but the momentum carried me—right through the open doors of a building pulsing with music and noise. Arcade lights flashed, games beeped and buzzed, and people flew—literally flew—through the air around me. Before I could even process where I was, someone bumped into me hard from behind, sending me stumbling further in, right onto a glowing platform on the floor that launched me straight into the air.

I was weightless. Spinning. Completely and utterly off-balance as I turned over myself midair like some cursed piece of laundry in a dryer. I flailed, trying to stabilize, trying to grab something, someone—anything I could use as an anchor to stop the endless, nausea-inducing spin. And then, to my absolute horror, I saw them.

MK and the dragon girl.

Also airborne. Also flying in lazy, looping spirals through the air like this was just another Tuesday.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face mid-rotation. Of course they were here. It was just my kind of cursed luck.

Before I could even attempt to course correct, the doors to the place slammed shut. A mechanical hiss echoed across the room, followed by heavy thuds as two enormous bouncers took up position beside the exit. Trapped. That’s when MK—or who I thought was MK—suddenly took control of the music. He stood at the DJ booth wearing a ridiculous spotted fur coat draped over his shoulders and a pair of cheap pink plastic glasses—the kind with slatted lenses that made seeing through them impossible. I hated him more with every beat of the bassline. I could see that this MK was a clone the longer I looked at it.

I sighed. Guess I’m going to have to kill a few randos to get out of here.

I reached for my guns instinctively, fingers moving to my holsters beneath my coat. Except… there was nothing there. My heart dropped. I patted around again, frantic now. Still nothing. No holsters. No guns. No ammo.

I forgot to put them on.

I forgot to put on my weapons before I left the mansion.

This is fine. Everything is fucking fine. I’d just teleport back, grab them, and leave this hellhole than go to the harbor. Easy.

Except… as I tried to summon the magic—felt it rush through my veins, pink petals ready to flare—it just… didn’t happen. No light, no shift in space, no sensation of being pulled through a portal. Nothing.

My heart dropped again. I twisted midair to look around the arcade and that’s when I saw it: a glowing digital sign high above the door.

“There is an anti-teleportation seal active in this establishment.”

Well fuck me sideways.

I could’ve summoned my coffin case and built one of my backup weapons, sure—but that would’ve been extreme. Plus also, I’d risk losing anything I pulled out as I was spinning head over heels. I still thought, maybe, I could wait it out. Blend in. Stay out of MK’s line of sight, avoid the dragon girl, and keep my head down until the event is over.

It was not over quickly.

That entire night was hell. I couldn’t control myself in the air no matter how many times I tried. I was constantly spinning. Every time I managed to get close to the floor or to another person, someone else would slam into me and send me pinwheeling across the room again. I swear, I was seconds from throwing up the entire time.

Worse, MK—clone or not—wouldn’t stop the party. The music kept going. The lights stayed on. It had been fifteen hours. It was mid-morning the next day. Fifteen fucking hours of spinning in circles with a killer headache, zero sleep in five days, and absolutely no food. I would have killed that kid if I wasn’t magically bound not to. Red Son be damned.

The anger in my chest had started as a slow burn and was now an inferno threatening to explode. I didn’t know how much longer I could take it.

Another seven hours passed before something finally changed.

The real MK showed up.

Apparently, the pink-glasses MK had convinced all the other clones to join him in taking over the arcade for some bizarre music-fueled rebellion. And now MK was fighting… himself.

It was honestly hard to keep track. I was still spinning. Have you tried following a supernatural identity crisis while flying in midair for twenty-four straight hours? I wouldn’t recommend it.

Eventually, through some golden-glow anime bullshit, MK managed to defeat his clone and shut the whole thing down. The anti-gravity system cut off instantly, and I dropped like a sack of bricks, slamming into the floor in an undignified heap of tangled limbs and rage.

I stayed there longer than I should have, not moving, not blinking, just letting the cold tile floor cool my burning face. Then my phone chimed. I groaned, dragging it out of my pocket.

I sighed, staring at the message on my phone as I slowly dragged myself to my feet. The screen glared back at me with those simple words:

Sun Wukong: Already there.

Of course he was.

I groaned quietly, rubbing my face with both hands. What the hell was I supposed to do now? I couldn’t go home and grab my pistols—the spinning had scrambled my focus so badly I couldn’t even summon anything properly. My mind was foggy, my stomach was queasy, and my magic felt like it was buried beneath six feet of wet cement. Trying to draw my gear out of the coffin case would be a disaster right now.

And I couldn’t just turn around and walk all the way back to the mansion. That would take too long and he was already waiting. So really, the only option left was to suck it up and go. Show up like the world’s saddest gremlin and pray I didn’t collapse on the walk over.

With a deep, shaky breath, I forced myself to shove every negative feeling back down where it belonged. I pocketed my phone, squared my shoulders, and began the slow trek toward the harbor.

On the way, I grabbed a bottle of water from a vendor. It was overpriced, lukewarm, and definitely not filtered, but I didn’t care. I chugged half of it right there on the sidewalk, hoping it would at least dull the pounding in my skull. It didn’t. Still, I kept walking.

It took way longer to get there than I’d expected. About thirty minutes just to reach the harbor gates, and then another fifteen to actually find him. Of course, he wasn’t near the public area or anywhere normal. No, he was off near the back—between two massive freight containers, tucked in the far corner where no one else wandered. Typical. Cryptic bastard.

“Finally found you,” I muttered as I stepped into view, deciding it was better to pretend I’d just gotten lost rather than admit I was so wrecked I could barely function. He turned to look at me—and the wince on his face when he got a good look said everything. He didn’t even try to hide it. His eyes swept over me—my pale face, bloodshot eyes, rumpled clothes, the way I probably looked like I hadn’t slept in years—and he physically cringed.

To his credit, he tried to recover. He leaned his back against the nearest metal crate, attempting a casual pose, but it only made him look more awkward.

“You… uh, look like you’ve had better days,” he said, half-laughing, half-wincing.

I narrowed my eyes at him. My jaw clenched, fighting the urge to snap or throw up—or maybe both. “All thanks to your stupid successor,” I gritted out, each word a blade.

That shut him up. His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. He looked like he had three different things he wanted to say but didn’t know which one would get him killed faster.

“Okay, uh, let’s not talk about that right now,” he said quickly, clapping his hands together and throwing on that too-wide grin of his. “We’re not at our actual meeting place. I just came to pick you up and take you there.”

He gave me what he clearly thought was a charming, cheeky smile. My glare only deepened.

“You only get an hour of my time,” I reminded him flatly.

He nodded quickly, still smiling. “Yup! Totally fair. But that hour starts when we get to the meeting spot. This is just, you know… transportation.”

I hated him so much in that moment.

“Where the hell do you want to meet that we couldn’t have just met there, dude?” I bit out, the word dragging sarcasm behind it like a blade. His eyes widened slightly—apparently no one had ever called him dude before. I wasn’t in the mood to be reverent. Or nice. Or sane.

“Well, Flower Fruit Mountain, of course!” he said, recovering quickly. That stupid grin reappeared. He was trying to be friendly. Polite. Maybe even considerate. Too bad I was in no shape to play nice.

His home. He was taking me to his home. I had expected a neutral location, a safe house, a stupid café even—not the heart of his territory. My brain flicked through the possibilities. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. If he was really taking me to the mountain, I’d get a chance to see it. Study his defenses. Note the wards and protective seals. That kind of info was valuable. When I make it out, I could tell Bull King everything.

I sighed, rolled my eyes, and muttered, “Fine. Whatever. How are we supposed to get there? I can’t teleport right now.”

I wasn’t lying. My magic was still a wreck. The energy in my limbs was sluggish, and every attempt I’d made earlier had failed miserably. I couldn’t even summon a basic construct if I tried.

Wukong just smiled down at me like he’d been waiting for me to ask that question. “Don’t worry about that,” he said, voice way too chipper. “I’ve got you covered. Besides, you wouldn’t be able to get past my wards anyway.” He gestured off to the side. “But if you look this way—ta-da!”

I turned my head—and sure enough, peeking around the corner like some smug, floating sheep was his cloud.

I stared at it.

Then back at him.

Then at the cloud again.

“You can’t be serious,” I said flatly.

He just gave me a closed-eye smile and practically skipped over to it, patting the thing like it was a beloved pet. Then, with practiced ease, he jumped up onto it and turned to face me, still grinning.

“Come on! He’s fluffy and soft and super friendly! Here, I’ll even help you get on!”

He held out a hand to me like this was the most normal thing in the world—completely oblivious to the fact that everything in me was screaming not to get on that cloud, not to trust him, not to go anywhere right now.

And yet, I stood there, staring at his outstretched hand, wondering just how bad this was about to get.

I stared at the hand he offered me like it might bite. Or worse—like he might bite. The idea of getting on a cloud with the Monkey King himself, after everything I’d just been through, was not high on my list of smart decisions. I didn’t trust him. Not entirely. Not even close. But at this point, what choice did I really have?

Still, I didn’t take his hand.

I walked past it, scowling as I climbed onto the cloud myself.

It was… soft. Annoyingly so. Like stepping onto warm, springy moss that somehow supported your weight without sinking too far. My knees wobbled a bit as the thing dipped under me, and I instinctively reached for balance.

Wukong’s hand was suddenly on my arm, steadying me without comment.

“Relax,” he said with a laugh, settling onto the cloud behind me with casual ease. “You act like I’m about to toss you into the ocean.”

“Still undecided on that,” I muttered.

The wind kissed my face as we lifted off the ground, the city below shrinking into a blurry maze of rooftops and fading neon. The shift in altitude sent a wave of nausea through me. I didn’t show it. Barely flinched. I’d survived worse.

“Better hold on,” Wukong said from behind, far too cheerfully.

“I swear, if you say one smug thing while I’m trying not to vomit—”

“No smug. Just concerned,” he said, and before I could snap back, something coiled gently around my waist.

I looked down.

His tail.

My first instinct was to slap it away. But my arms were too tired. My brain already too fogged. It wasn’t tight, just secure—like a belt made of living muscle and warm fur, keeping me anchored. I didn’t like it. I didn’t hate it either.

“I fall off, I haunt you,” I muttered.

“Deal,” he said. “Could use the company.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was… surprisingly peaceful. The cloud drifted through a patch of cool mist, sunlight spilling over the horizon ahead of us in gold and pink streaks. I could hear the wind, the soft pulse of the cloud under us, and—barely—the sound of Wukong’s breathing.

“I thought you’d be more annoying,” I said after a minute.

“I’m pacing myself,” he replied, amusement in his voice. “Didn’t want to startle you.”

“You think I’m that fragile?”

“You look like you’ve been through a meat grinder and a discount rave, so yeah. A little.”

I huffed through my nose, but there was no real bite behind it. “I blame your idiot successor.” He rolled his eyes at my back.

“I didn’t think you’d actually show,” he said casually.

I didn’t reply right away. Truthfully, I hadn’t wanted to come. But this was the first meeting, and I didn’t have anything better to do… so I came.

“I didn’t want to come,” I admitted without thinking. “But we were supposed to stay at the harbor, and I thought that was fine—then you and your dumb cloud ruined that plan.”

He gasped dramatically. “How dare you insult my majestic ride!”

“Majestic, my ass,” I muttered with a shrug. “It feels like sitting on warm cotton candy.”

“Delicious and supportive,” he said smoothly. “That’s the brand.”

I gave a short snort and turned my gaze outward, toward the horizon. The sky was fully golden now, the light hazy and gentle against the water. The rhythm of the cloud’s motion, the warmth at my back, the breeze on my skin—all of it blended together in a strange lull. For the first time in days, my body wasn’t screaming. My brain wasn’t racing. The ache in my chest hadn’t gone away, but it was quieter now. Farther.

Another quiet stretch passed. The cloud rose higher, and the temperature dropped slightly. I shifted again, adjusting to the subtle sway. Without thinking, my hand found the edge of his sleeve and gripped it—not hard. Just enough to keep myself balanced.

I told myself it was practical.

I was too tired to lie to myself any further than that.

His body was warm at my back—solid, steady, not moving more than necessary. He wasn’t teasing anymore. He wasn’t even talking. Just letting the wind and distance carry us. For a brief moment, it felt like we were the only two people in the sky. Technically we were.

And that was when it started happening.

It began with a blink that lasted too long. My head dipped forward before I snapped it back up. I shifted, adjusting my grip, willing my focus to return. I wasn’t going to fall asleep. I wasn’t. Not on his cloud. Not with my back turned to him. Not like this.

Another blink. This one slower.

The wind felt colder on my face. The light dimmed. My body swayed with the rhythm of the cloud. My muscles loosened, my eyes burned.

I tried to straighten again. I really did.

But then my head tilted to the side—barely. It found his shoulder. I didn’t mean to rest there. I didn’t plan to. But I didn’t pull away either. I couldn’t find the strength to lift my head.

My hand slipped lower on his sleeve, fingers going slack. The tension I’d been holding in my jaw, my neck, my chest—it all slowly unraveled.

I told myself I’d just close my eyes for a second. Just one.

But there was no second.

There was only the hum of wind, the warmth of him, the silence he didn’t break—and the way my body, traitorous and aching, finally gave in.

I didn’t fall asleep gracefully. It happened mid-thought. Mid-breath. Like falling off a cliff in slow motion, weightless and inevitable.

And this time… I couldn’t fight it.

Notes:

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please let me know what you think. :D

If you see any mistakes please let me know I don’t have a beta. So I’m trying to make sure this all comes out correctly and flows well by myself lol.

[realtalkswithfinn]

“Are You Wearing Mismatched Socks?”

Shang-Chi x widow!reader

summary: Shaun sees a new game circling the internet and decides he HAS to challenge his girlfriend to a round.

warnings: violent play fighting, very brief mention/ joke about DV (no actual domestic violence!!), very brief mentions of Shang-Chi and Readers times as trained assassins, sex joke at the very end.

authors note: I have never written any sort of fight scene or action before so this is very new to me, but it had to be done. Also, I requested this idea to another creator here on tumblr before deciding I wanted to give it a go myself. If they write their own version, I’ll tag them so you can read that version as well!

“BABE!”

“WHAT?”

“COME IN HERE!”

“WHY?”

“JUST COME HERE!”

You sigh, blowing a strand of hair out of your face. You roll off the edge of your bed, clicking your phone off in the process, and saunter down the hall toward the sound of his voice.

Shuan stood in the center of… what used to be your living room? Both recliners and your big green couch were pushed flush up against the walls. You could see your coffee table stacked on top of your dining table in the next room over. All your blankets and knick knacks were scattered throughout the space. On the bookshelf, counters, window sills - anywhere but where they belonged.

He was looking down at his phone with an amused smile on his face.

“Done some… redecorating, have we?”

He glanced up, excitement clear on his face. “I’ll put it all back later. Give me one of your socks.”

You stared at him. “Give you… one?”

He nodded, jutting his palm out. “Yeah.”

“… why.”

“I found this game, it looks super fun!” He said, walking over to where you stood. He held out his phone, which was playing a video of what looked to be a set of twins. Each girl wore one white sock. “The goal is to rip the other persons sock off and keep yours on!”

You watched the girls tickle, tackle, and wrestle each other until one emerged victorious, sweaty sock in hand.

“I don’t know Shaun, I’m not sure I wanna play a game where I have to free your dawgs.” You teased.

“Hey! My ‘dogs’ aren’t that bad. Yours on the other hand-“

You smacked his arm. “Hey-“

“That’s the spirit!” He said, tossing his phone on the couch. “Now, give me a sock.”

“Get your own so- HEY!”

He yanked your right leg up by the back of the knee, quick but careful to make sure you didn’t fall, and slid your sock off. “See, next time, you’ll try to make sure I don’t do that.”

Oh, it’s on.

“Fine.” You sigh, trying to seem unamused. In reality, you were rather excited to play. The game looked fun enough when the girls played, but a round between two ex- child assassins? Things were going to get interesting fast.

Shaun beams at you and slides the sock onto his own foot. He looks at you, then your remaining sock, and raises an eyebrow. “Are you wearing mismatched socks?”

“Do you want to play or not?”

He backs away, hands raised in a surrender motion. “My bad, my bad, I should know better than to question you.” He moves a good three feet in front of you and reaches out for a handshake. “May the best man win.”

You yank his hand forward and flip him over your shoulder, slamming him down hard onto the cushy carpet. You twist and dive, aiming for his pink striped sock, but he rolls away quickly, jumping to his feet.

“That’s totally not fair! We hadn’t started yet!”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you made all your opponents wait for your mark before fighting.”

He scoffed. “I was trying to be civil with you.”

“Don’t.”

He kicked out with his bare foot, leaving the socked one on the ground. The impact set you back a bit, but you regained yourself before slamming into the TV.

“Watch the furniture!” He teased, diving down toward your feet.

You dove over him, rolling and landing on your feet far on the other side of the living room. You crossed your arms and tapped your socked foot impatiently. “Gee, I thought the great Shang-Chi would find this game tedious. Assumed you would’ve won by now.”

Shaun rolled his eyes before running toward you again. You attempted to jump out of the way, but he snagged you by the waist. He tackled you to the floor as carefully as he could. Sweet, but his mistake. He only held you with one arm, using the other to stop your fall, making it easy for you to wiggle out of his grip.

You rolled slightly to the left and knocked him face first into the carpet. You crawled toward his foot, forgetting to keep your own feet away from his hands. You yelped when you felt him grabbing at your ankles and started kicking violently. He managed to tug your sock a bit, but lost his grip quickly.

You yanked yourself away from his hands, curling your feet under yourself into a crouch position. Shaun wasted no time crawling toward you, laughing as he went. You scuttled backward but came to an abrupt stop when you slammed into the couch.

He was closing in. You didn’t have anywhere else to run, so you took the offensive route and thrust yourself forward, sending the two of you sprawling across the carpet. The force of you landing on him was unexpected and totally knocked the wind out of Shaun. While he laid there catching his breath, you swung around and reached for his sock.

Of course, he regained his breath too fast. He sat up and grabbed you, pinning your arms to your sides. “Not cool y/n.”

“I can be less cool.” you panted. He started to say something, but you thrust your arm back and elbowed him in the ribs. You snaked out of his grip and ran across the room yet again.

Shaun stood up slowly, rubbing his rib. “Come on!”

“Sorry baby.” You laughed. You stuck out your bottom lip in a teasing pout. “I’ll kiss it better after I win.”

“Oh no, I can’t let you win after this.” He chuckled.

But you had a plan.

…Hopefully, the TV wouldn’t pay the price.

You ran at your boyfriend, gathered at much momentum as you could, jumped up, and wrapped your legs around his neck. He stumbled, but managed to regain his balance.

“Aw dude!” His voice was muffled. “Can a guy get a warning before getting a crotch to the face?”

He started smacking his own back, desperately trying to grab at your sock. But ultimately he couldn’t reach your feet at the angle. You laugh and let yourself fall backward. You dangled yourself from his shoulders and looked through your eyebrows to locate which foot had the striped sock.

Honestly, there were a million ways Shaun could have escaped this position. But all of them would’ve been pretty painful for you, and you knew he would never actually hurt you for a game. Or anything, for that matter, but especially not a game. So he continued to reach and grab for your sock.

You reached down and tickled his right leg. He kicked out a little, as that was the last thing he expected from you. He stopped reaching for your sock and grabbed your thighs instead, trying to keep you from falling while he lost his balance.

You took the opportunity to snatch the sock off his foot.

“BOO!” Shaun complained.

“Whats that?? I can’t hear you over the sound of me WINNING!”

You reached your hands down to the floor and unhooked your legs from behind Shaun’s head, gracefully kicking down as if out of a handstand, and waved the sock around in victory.

Shaun stared at you. “I can’t believe you just black widowed me.”

You shrugged. “I can’t believe you talked such big game just to be taken out by a little tickle.”

“And a crotch to the face?”

“Whatever.” You rolled your eyes. “So… what do I win?”

A mischievous grin spread across your boyfriends face. “Who said you won? We gotta do best two out of three.”

“What? No! I won fair and square-“

Shaun ripped the sock out of your hands and took off down the hall. “BEST TWO OUT OF THREE!”

————

You padded into your bedroom with a glass of water and a handful of ibuprofen. Shaun was already under the covers, but you could see bruises sprouting up around his exposed upper body. You weren’t much better — you had a nasty spot right on your cheekbone, as well as littered all over your body.

“Hey,” you greeted gently, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He set his phone down and looked up at you with his beautiful brown eyes. “Hey.”

You took his hand and dumped a few ibuprofen into it. “Maybe we should play a little gentler next time.”

He smiled before popping the tablets into his mouth. “Maybe.”

You passed him the water glass and he took a swig before passing it back to you. You took your own dose and set the glass on the nightstand. Shaun pulled the covers up for you to crawl under, to which you happily did, curling right up against him.

He ran his fingers over the forming bruise on your cheek. “Aw dude. Does it hurt?”

“I’ve had worse.”

“People are gunna think I hit you.”

“You kinda did.” You laugh.

“Not on purpose!” He defended. He moved his hand to cup your face before sending you a pointed stare. “You, on the other hand, had malicious intent.“

“And who won all three rounds?”

Shaun glared at you but couldn’t argue. He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the bruise. “Thanks for playing with me.” He said softly.

You reached up and rested your hand over his. “Anytime. Thanks for putting the couch back.”

He chuckled, closing his eyes. “Anytime.”

————

“Dude, what happened to you?” Katy asked gawking at Shaun, who had stiffly shuffled into work covered head to toe in bruises. “Bad guys?”

“Y/n.”

Katy curled her lip in disgust. “Didn’t need to know that dude.”

“What? Oh my god Katy, no, we were playing the sock-“

“Nope. Too late. Image is already there.”

“KATY.”

[quietwings-fics]

showed me what my heart was worth

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Assassin's Creed Ship: EzioLeo Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Female Ezio Auditore da Firenze, Female Leonardo da Vinci, First Kiss, Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood, Making Out, Sappy Wordcount: 2,210 Summary:

There's nothing in the world that would stop Leona from meeting with Ezio, and nothing that could keep Ezio from making sure no harm comes to her because of it.

Ezio is where Leona expects to find her, waiting on their chosen bench with her head bowed low. They always meet before twilight settles, when Leona feels as though wandering in search of her friend is unlikely to draw as much attention. The setting sun casts a deep shadow from Ezio’s hood and hides all of her face except the concentrated set of her mouth. If Leona had not know her for so long, she’d have assumed Ezio to be a man from the ambiguity of her figure beneath her robes and the way she sits. She knows Ezio prefers the rest of the world see exactly that; she draws enough attention in an Assassin’s bold white.

Leona often thought of taking a similar risk when she was younger, under the hopes that she’d find better prospects as a young man, but she’d never done so. It’s far too late and without purpose now, when her name and work are so widely known. She doesn’t need to live in the shadow of the world like Ezio does, only visit now and again to arm her so that she will keep herself alive.

Paranoid—and justified in it, she has been followed before—she doubles back again upon confirming Ezio’s presence. She dawdles; she admires the amber sun falling across the houses of Roma; she watches the people mill about and listens for any whispers that might betray the two of them. When she’s satisfied that she will have dissuaded any potential tails (which Ezio has taught her to spot, besides, and she hasn’t seen anyone who might report her activity back to the Borgia,) she finally walks back to the bench at a leisurely pace. She keeps her eyes away from it; instead, on an alley as she passes it, on a sparrow as it dusts itself in the street, on the clouds overhead.

Ezio is still waiting. When Leona sits, she can see her from the corner of her vision. She moves to press their legs together in greeting.

Ezio sits up. It takes all of Leona’s will not to look at her.

“You seem troubled,” she says, her voice low so it will carry no farther than Leona’s ears. “Has something happened?” She asks the question lightly, but Leona has known her too long not to hear the promised retribution in it.

“No,” Leona says. Ezio relaxes subtly. Her hand slides out to her own knee, and then, casually, drifts onto Leona’s instead. Leona tries not to react, but she can’t help the way her eyes are pulled towards Ezio’s touch. No one is watching them in this hidden alcove, this bench tucked away from the busier street or prying eyes. Still, every meeting is a risk, and every glance and touch amplify it a hundredfold.

“Not yet,” she clarifies, “but… It has not gone unnoticed—my machines being destroyed and their plans going up in smoke.” Despite herself, a smile pulls on her lips, both out of relief that her work is not in the wrong hands and for the simple fact that, “You have never been very subtle, Ezio.”

“How could I resist a chance to test them myself?” Ezio says. Leona had assumed each weapon had been destroyed before they had ever been used. She turns to Ezio, eyes wide with interest. 

“And did they work?” she asks. “They had me make the plans, but I never got to see-” She realizes suddenly that she’s leaning too close into Ezio’s space. Ezio hasn’t pulled back, either. There are shallow lines that crease around her eyes with her smile, but already, Leona can tell that they will be the deepest on her face one day.

It lightens her heart to know that it’s joy that will mark Ezio more than anger or grief. There was a time those scales may have tipped, but it has passed, and Ezio has chosen what matters to her—to build a better world, for herself, for her Brotherhood, for the people of Roma.

For Leona. Her life wouldn’t be the same without this woman. Safer, perhaps, but lonelier.

“They did,” Ezio says. “Better than anyone could have hoped. All the more reason they could not continue to exist.” Leona flushes with embarrassment. She can’t help her pride. They were still hers, terrible as they might have been. Ezio tilts her head. Her hair is long enough to fall in her eyes. Her smile fades, and she looks so much older without it, so much more like the Brotherhood mentor she has grown into. She squeezes Leona’s knee. “You think they might suspect that you told me about them?”

”It’s possible you might have discovered them on your own, but…” Leona shakes her head. “A rumor is all it would take.” *The Assassino hides in Leona’s workshop. I’ve seen him.* It was only the odd whisper when she still lived in Venezia, but they had been more reckless with their friendship then. 

“If you ever think that you’re in danger, I will hide you,” Ezio says with hushed seriousness, and Leona sucks in a breath that’s half-composed of Ezio’s words, they are so close together.

Ezio looks as though she will leave it there. Her assurance releases a knot Leona hadn’t even known existed in her chest. Logically, she knew the Brotherhood would not leave her to her fate should the Borgia learn of her continued loyalty to the Assassins… to Ezio. But-

Ezio lets go of her knee. Leona has no time to react before Ezio’s hand rises to cup her face. Her palm is warm and rough-worn from the handles of blades and scraping over the edges of rooftops.

“I will keep you safe,” Ezio promises.

Leona’s lips are half-parted with surprise when Ezio first tastes them. Ezio’s other hand joins the first, caressing Leona’s cheek before running through her hair and cradling the back of her head. Leona’s eyes shut when her shock wears off, and suddenly, all that remains to her senses is Ezio. She forgets about being seen, being followed, being found. Her friend is holding her like she has, for the first time, confronted the idea of losing Leona and refuses to believe it possible.

She understands now why Ezio has left broken hearts in every city she’s ever set foot in. There’s strength in her hands, enough to break a man, but when she turns Leona’s head, she does it with such tenderness that the idea Leona could be bruised by her, even by accident, becomes laughable. She grows ever more intense in her affection as the seconds pass, her tongue begging entrance into Leona’s mouth and their bodies pressing together as much as their positions will allow. Leona reaches back for her, trailing her hands up Ezio’s chest and searching for her face.

Her hood slips back because of Leona’s clumsy grasping. Ezio’s dark hair tangles between her fingers. She moans quietly into Leona’s mouth when she pulls too hard.

The kiss breaks. Leona, light-headed, tries to catch her breath with shallow gasps. Ezio pants. Her lips are wet, and her tongue glides over them in search of the taste of Leona, as if even a moment parted from her mouth is a grave injustice.

“Would you believe me,” Ezio murmurs, “if I said I didn’t mean to do that?”

“No,” Leona answers, “and if you don’t do it again, I won’t believe you enjoyed it either.”

This time, Ezio kisses her because Leona pulls her forward again. Ezio licks her way into her mouth, playful and needy all at once. All Leona can think about is the hot plunge of her tongue.

Her hand falls to Ezio’s chest. Broadly armored, there’s nothing at all of her body for Leona to feel. Ezio parts their lips to chuckle at her before Leona reaches up to what she can grab, the soft curls of Ezio’s hair. Ezio moans louder, and heat rushes up Leona’s spine as she remembers they are still in public. It’s hard to have the sense to stop when Ezio tips her head back with Leona’s grip and allows Leona to guide the kiss.

It’s been such a long time since Leona’s been kissed, and dreams of Ezio—which she will never say she had aloud but the contents of her sketches may betray her—are nothing compared to being gifted the real thing.

Ezio delights in touching her. Her fingers drift over the curl of Leona’s ear. She smiles as she cups the side of Leona’s chest.

When Ezio presses down, the fabric of her dress gives easily. She can find the curve of Leona’s breast and squeeze. Leona turns further into Ezio’s touch, shifting her entire body to be angled towards her on the bench. Ezio’s other hand wraps around her side, tugging Leona closer and helping her keep her balance.

It must be Ezio herself that makes Leona prone to this youthful foolishness. Every touch reminds her that they might be discovered.

How much Ezio wants her is clear in the way she  lifts Leona’s dress. Fabric folds above her arm as the heat of her hand sneaks its way up over Leona’s stockings. Ezio is smiling too much to kiss her right anymore, but her mouth still follows Leona’s with affectionate pecks. 

Leona shuts her eyes. Ezio’s hand on her thigh. Ezio’s head cradled in her palm. Ezio’s lips passing downwards to seek Leona’s jaw. 

She pulls back to look at Ezio. 

For a moment, Ezio’s face is full of worry. Leona strokes her cheek, and Ezio turns to press a kiss over her thumb, concern put to rest. She is much more reluctant to pull her hand from under Leona’s dress, and her playful whine of, “So soon?” makes Leona laugh.

It’s always so much easier to laugh in Ezio’s presence.

She cups Ezio’s face. Ezio looks pleased, like she thinks she’s won more kissing with her complaints. Instead, Leona leans forward to rest her forehead against her friend’s. She lingers long enough to find Ezio’s hood for her and raise it up over her head as Leona pulls back. The shadow of it falls across her soft eyes and hides them from the view of anyone too far to look into them. Anyone but Leona.

“Not in the street,” Leona says, soft and playful, as though she wasn’t about to climb into Ezio’s lap herself. It’s easy to pretend to be the more restrained party when Ezio is still trying to sneakily touch her. “Not yet.” She slides back to her spot on the bench, her heart racing faster than before. She can still feel the warmth of Ezio’s hands lingering on her skin. Her lips tingle.

”There are places we could go. Places we would be safe,” Ezio says. 

“I know.” 

Ezio lets out a breath.

”And if I killed Cesare tomorrow, then would you let me love you as you deserve?” She sounds at ease, more so than Leona has heard in her voice in a few of these clandestine meetings. To so effortlessly have that effect on her makes Leona wish she’d throw her rational mind out and take Ezio’s offer.

“Is that the motivation you need to get rid of despots?” she teases instead. There’s never been any doubt in her mind that Ezio will succeed, but that time may be a long ways off.

Leona would choose to spend it with her anyway.

“It helps,” Ezio says. Leona knows she’s still looking at her. Her gaze trails over the side of Leona’s face.

Ezio refuses to let good things go. She leans close and presses another kiss to Leona’s cheek. 

“I will see you again,” she says. 

“You will,” Leona says, and this time, she makes the promise. She doesn’t intend to be one of the people in Ezio’s life who has been forced to break it.

“And next time, you might let yourself be lured into a brothel with me.” Ezio stands. “Most of them reserve a room for me.” 

“I’m not surprised.” She imagines those rooms see most of their use in resting, or hiding, or healing. But this is still Ezio. Their intended use has definitely also been a part of their history. 

“Next time, Leona,” Ezio says around a smile.

”We’ll see,” Leona responds, which Ezio must know is as good as ‘yes’ from the spring in her step. It carries her away from Leona in moments and right up the side of a building. Ezio turns one last time to look down at her again, too far for Leona to make out her expression beneath her hood anymore. 

She knows Ezio is still smiling.

She’s gone after that. Leona falls back against the wall the bench is seated against. She touches her cheek, her lips, the curve of her thigh over her dress. A giddy, beautiful thing has blossomed inside her, and its roots already run so deep in her soul. 

She gives herself ample time before she leaves, and she tells herself its to keep anyone from wondering if they saw an Assassin run from the same direction as she’s come from and not because she needs that long to calm herself down again.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[vidalsbeloved]

BRATTY LITTLE HAWK

RELATIONSHIPS: YELENA BELOVA and KATE BISHOP.

18+ (but nothing too explicit, just Kate being a brat ;)

!WHAT YOU READ IS YOUR OWN ! CONSUMPTION!

But things got a bit messy and then Yelena ended up sleeping on the couch. Yeah, Kate knew she was in the right for saying something to her so she figured Yelena was just upset because for once she was in the wrong.

Yelena hated being wrong.

And originally, Kate was going to apologize that following morning. But then Yelena had disappeared and here they were…

Yelena had yet to say anything to the archer, which only spurred on her frustration. So when she got the chance, she took it. Knowing damn well flirting with America would catch her attention.

And sure enough, it worked.

Kate could feel Yelena’s eyes on her from a mile away, piercing the back of her head and sending shockwaves through her body like an electric current.

But Kate wanted to push her boundaries, she wanted Yelena’s attention on her. So when Kate draped her arm over America’s shoulder— the assassin snapped.

“That is it,” Yelena growled. “You are done here.”

Kate bid her goodbyes to America with a ‘Thank You’ and a wink as she was dragged out of the hub and into the alley. For a good while, as they walked, Yelena was quiet. But her breathing was high and frantic, angry.

“Yelena—“

“Don’t.”

“Yelena—“

Yelena turns, pushing Kate up against the side of a brick building. “I said. Be. Quiet.”

Kate whimpers excitedly and obeys.

Got her.

“So now you want to listen?” Yelena mocks.

Kate doesn’t respond, a heart in between her legs growing the angrier Yelena gets.

She’s so fucking hot when she’s angry.

“Answer me, Kate Bishop.” Growls the assassin.

Yelena’s hand comes to curl around her neck in a vice grip.

Kate swallows her gasp with a silent ‘Yes’ and Yelena chuckles darkly, leaning into Kate to whisper.

“There’s my good girl. Now, Kate Bishop. Tell me. Why have you been a little brat these past two evenings?”

All thoughts are consumed by Yelena now, and Kate suddenly becomes mind clouded and she can’t pinpoint her reasoning for acting out irrationally. She doesn’t respond to Yelena.

“Hmm?”

Kate opens her mouth to speak, but no words form. Yelena laughs, “Cat got your tongue, Дорогой милый ястреб?”

“I uh…I…” Kate stutters.

The hand wrapped around her neck is now in her hair— Yelena tilts her head to the side, peppering her neck with kisses. Kate bites her lip to suppress her moans.

“You’re ‘uh’ what, pretty girl?”

“Yelena—“ Kate groans. “Fuck… please.”

Yelena’s teeth scrap along the column of her throat, leaving a trail of bite marks, that lend blood to the surface. Yelena pulls back from her neck to look into the archer's eyes, which are completely hooded with wanton need.

Yelena smirks. “You’ll have to try harder than that, Красивый.”

Kate whines in defeat.

Yelena tusks. “None of that, Kate Bishop.” she steps back from Kate fully, smirking. “You are such a whiny brat.”

Kate shudders as Yelena’s eyes trail down the length of her body suit. “I must tame you.”

Kate’s eyes light up and Yelena chuckles darkly, “You should be anything but excited, pretty girl. By the time I’m done with you.. you’ll be my good pretty little Hawk.”

With those last words said, Yelena is dragging Kate away from the ally and back to their shared apartment. When they come through the doors, Yelena pushes Kate to her knees.

“I want you on the bed with your ass in the air in the next five minutes, Kate Bishop. Do you understand me?” Yelena asks in a mocking tone.

Kate nods urgently and Yelena’s smile turns genuine. “Good girl.”

Kate’s eyes fall shut at the praise and Yelena runs her hand through Kate’s hair— then suddenly, pulls her head back. Kate gasps.

“Bedroom now.” Yelena demands.

Kate gets to her feet and excitedly jolts up the stairs and into her room, removing her clothes hastily in anticipation of what was to come for her. This being Yelena’s first time having to punish Kate— well— Kate has always been a brat but with Yelena— it came so naturally that Yelena and even herself had hardly recognized it. But this was different. Kate had tethered too closely to the edge the past two days, even before their fight. Yelena was just ready to address it.

By the time Yelena made her presence known, Kate had her ass up, waiting for Yelena to strike.

“Who knew the bitch could follow a command.” sneered the assassin.

Kate whimpered.

Yelena’s fingers started their descent at the base of Kate’s spine, then lower: over her hip, her ass cheeks. Then she reeled her hand back and way laid her first spank onto the archers pale skin.

“Yelena!” Kate moaned.

“Is that how you address me, Kate Bishop?” Yelena growled, yanking Kate’s head back by her hair.

“Fuck…..” Kate muttered. “One Daddy, thank you, Daddy.”

“Hmmm.”

Yelena reeled her hand back further this time and landed her second hit on Kate’s thigh.

“Two Daddy,” Kate hissed. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“Such a good fucking girl,” groaned Yelena. “Taking her punishment so well for me.”

Yelena reeled her hand back again, this time laying two spanks on both of Kate’s ass cheeks.

“Three Daddy!” Kate cried. “Four Daddy! Thank you, Daddy!”

Each spank to Kate’s skin— and hearing Kate cry out because of her, was much to Yelena’s ears. She wished she could live this moment for eternity.

“Eight Daddy!” Kate whimpered. “Nine Daddy, thank you Daddy!”

“Ten Daddy!”

“Eleven Daddy!”

“Twelve Daddy!”

Yelena reeled her hand back for the last time and stroke out, leaning over Kate’s form as she screamed, “Thirteen Daddy!”

Kate collapsed onto the bed after her last spank, crying softly.

Yelena pulled away and retreated to the bathroom for some aloe. Before her hand could so much as make contact, Kate pulled her head up and shook her head.

“I like the feeling of your handprints on my skin,” Kate said.

Yelena rose a brow— shrugged and but the aloe back.

“You can put it on me later, Yelena.” Kate whispered.

Yelena laid down onto her back and turned her head to meet Kate’s eyes. “Did I hurt you?”

Kate shook her head. “I wanted to get your attention, Yelena. You’ve been so cold this week. You’ve snapped at me so many times that I don’t even think you, yourself realize it.”

“Little Hawk.” Yelena whispered.

“I was a brat tonight because I wanted to get your mind off things. I wanted you to spank me.”

“Kate Bishop,” Yelena said teasingly. “You could have just asked.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” scoffed the archer.

“Did my punishment put you back in line?” Yelena asked darkly.

Kate brought a finger up to tap her chin. “Not really, no.”

Yelena pushes up to her elbows and moves to hover over the archer. “Then maybe this time, I won’t be as forgiving. Because let me tell you something Pretty Little Hawk..”

she leaned into Kate’s ear. “You are mine to touch. Mine to savor. Mine have. Mine to punish and tame. And if anyone ever steps in my way… well… I’ll just have to show them no won’t I?”

Kate swallows. “You are so hot.”

Yelena kisses along her jaw and husks. “I know this about me, it is quite deliberate.”

“Fucking tease.”

“Careful.”

Kate leans up. “Make me.”

“I will.”

Yelena flips Kate over onto her stomach and the rest is history.

[sesshy380]

Oooooh for your prompt thingy...

Orange + Indigo + 2

Have fun <3

I hope you like Deathshipping, because that's exactly what you got! And as for the prompt...

Results below the cut!

Amir had followed his quarry far beyond the safety of the market to their perfectly secluded spot deep inside the forest.

He crept among the shadows of the trees, making his way ever closer to his prey.

His hand quietly unsheathed the dagger at his side, his heart racing as he pictured the fear and hopelessness in the eyes of his mark as he toyed with their life.

When the moment was finally right, he struck.

As expected, his target fell easily to the ground, and Amir wasted no time drawing the blade to the man’s throat while wearing a sadistic grin.

Unexpectedly, however, the man didn’t react by panicking or begging for his life. Instead, he lay there for a moment, not the slightest bit surprised, then burst into a fit of laughter as though he’d just been caught in a game of tag.

This annoyed Amir.

“What is it? What’s so funny?” he demanded to know.

The man’s laughter dulled to an amused chuckle.

“An impostor sits upon my throne, and wears my crown. I was simply thinking how long it will be before they regret taking my place.”

Amir furled his brow and blinked in confusion.

“Um…I’m here to kill you…” he stated, weirdly feeling the need to clarify his motives.

“Oh, I know,” the white-haird man said with a smile. The smile then fell to something a bit more neutral. “Can you make it quick though? I’d like to get supper started. You’re more than welcome to join me.”

Amir stared in disbelief.

“Why-...?? What-...???” he stuttered, unable to vocalize his confusion.

The man sighed, appearing bored all of the sudden.

“You took the job from the wanted poster thinking it would be easy money, just like every adventurer and assassin that came before you. What the poster neglected to mention is that I can’t die.”

Amir hesitated a moment, wondering if the young man was telling the truth.

“...can you elaborate?”

The man sighed boredly again, as though he’d grown weary having to explain things.

“I did as many royals do when the weight of the crown becomes a bit too much. A few weeks ago I disguised myself and slipped out of the castle to get away for a bit. I eventually found myself in the forest, talking with a complete stranger, and venting my frustrations. At some point I said something along the lines of wishing I could trade places with the stranger. Like I said, it was just me venting. Next thing I know, there’s a poor copy of me sitting on my throne and no one recognizes my face. Not even a day later, posters appeared around the kingdom giving a reward for proof of  my death…and well…”

The man then gestured around to his current predicament.

Amir slowly removed the blade from the man’s neck and sat up.

“What’s your name?”

The man blinked in surprise then smiled.

“Ryou.”

Amir stood then offered a hand to help Ryou up.

“Well, Ryou…today is your lucky day. I don’t like being tricked. I was promised a reward, and I’m going to get it. If you can’t die, then I guess a bad copy will have to do…that is, assuming you’ll honor the bounty placed?”

Ryou’s eyes lit up in understanding as he took the offered hand and stood. The way he smiled was different from before, and it sent a shiver down Amir’s spine.

“I’m certain we can work something out…but I don’t want the false king to die just yet. If I’m not mistaken, based on your disappointment earlier, you like to make your marks beg for mercy.”

His eyes narrowed, the overly-pleasant smile becoming even more threatening.

“Make him beg for mercy.”

It was then that Amir understood: Ryou was never prey. He was the patient hunter lying in wait. An unsuspecting predator. A wolf wearing sheep’s wool.

Amir found himself filled with awe and reverence at the man before him, falling to one knee and bowing in respect.

“I will do anything that you command, my King.”

Mystery Prompt Game

[lottiesnotebook]

Hiiiiii 👋 happy DADWC

For Surana/Anora from the F+tM list: my body was bruised and set alight

- asexualtabris 💜

Ooh more Melia/Anora? Truly Femslash February is a Blessed Month. These two have such a wild dynamic in my heart, I love them so much. Also sorry-not-sorry, this turned out unhinged and angsty and I love it.

Anora Mac Tir/Melia Surana, angst, whump, choking, yearning, toxic girlies

@asexualtabris | @dadrunkwriting

only if for a night

The knock at the door comes just as Melia is ready to sink into the steaming waters of the bath. All she wants in the world is to scrub Loghain Mac Tir's blood from her skin, to soak the bruises she will not allow Wynne to heal, not yet. She should carry the marks of what she's done on her skin a little longer. She wants nothing less than to see Anora Mac Tir slip through the door, but this is her palace, and Melia supposes that if the queen wishes to slit her throat in her bath, nobody has the right to gainsay her.

Anora does not draw a knife, though, or threaten her. She pauses, her back pressed to the door, blinking.

"Do you have no other clothing?"

It is not the question she anticipates, from a woman who's father she killed mere hours ago, and she cannot look at her. She cannot look at silk-soft, lovely Anora, with her pale hair and dark eyes and soft hands, while her father's blood still stains her hands.

"This is all I was permitted to take with me when I left the Circle, Your Majesty," she admits. "You should- I do not wish you to see me like this."

She'd thought- she'd hoped, after their time cooped up in Eamon's estate, they might be something like friends. She would not like to think of Alistair- Alistair who'd once, so briefly been hers- wedding anyone she could not at least call a friend, and Anora had been- Anora Mac Tir was like a princess in a storybook, lovely and fierce and with a streak of ruthlessness Melia almost envied.

Even now, killing did not come easy to her, and she had never killed anyone she could have shown mercy to before. She would never forget how Loghain had looked through her to his daughter, as she'd struck his head from his shoulders. She could not remember her own father, but even so, something about his expression had haunted her. She did not want to see its counterpart in his daughter's eyes, the ghost of a love she had never known, and killed anyway.

She does not want to hear her next words: "Unacceptable," she says, brusquely. "I will have some clean things sent for you."

"You should not concern yourself with-"

"I am your Queen, am I not? It is not for you to tell me what I should concern myself with." She hears her move closer, slippered feet padding across the rug, but she does not lift her gaze from the floorboards, even as her feet appear in her field of vision. They are such dainty feet, she thinks, tucked into embroidered slippers that have never touched dirt since they were made. She used to wear such slippers, when she was a girl in a tower. When she was still innocent.

"Will you not look at me, Melia Surana?" Her voice is soft, and that frightens her most of all.

"Are you ordering me to?"

"Perhaps I am." She hooks a finger beneath Melia's chin, forces her to meet her eyes. "You killed my father, after I begged you to show mercy."

She swallows. "I did." Grief has reddened Anora's eyes, blotched her cheeks, but done nothing to change her wondrous, terrible beauty. "I- could not spare him."

"It did not look like that to me. When a man is on his knees before you-"

"Not a man," she interrupts. "Your father. If I killed him, there were a thousand crimes that I could have called it justice for: the slavers he sent to the Alienage, the spy he sent to poison Arl Eamon, the assassins he sent to cut my throat, for the crime of surviving Ostagar. If I spared him..."

"If you spared him?"

She wants nothing more than to look away. She cannot look away. "If I spared him, my queen, it would have only been for the love I bear you."

She does not mean to say it, does not know, till she says it, that it is true, and the look it brings into Anora's eyes sickens and shames her.

Her soft, pale hand slips from Melia's jaw to grip her throat, though she cannot press down quite hard enough to choke her. "Do not lie to me."

"I am not lying," she says, "Ask Zevran Arainai, or the Antivan Crows. The contract is not complete, after all. You would be within your rights to ask for your money's worth. I would not stop you."

"Not about that." There is something burning in the pits of her dark eyes, something Melia cannot name. "You do not love me."

"Who could not love you, Anora Mac Tir?"

Her hand tightens, an almost-bruising pressure, and Melia realises that the burning thing reflected in Anora's gaze is herself. There are far worse ways to burn.

[justcallmefox89]

Gnome Troubles - Chapter Four (Astarion's POV)

TW: violence, blood, very brief allusions to Astarion's time with Cazador, short instance of Astarion's gnome racism

That smirk would be handsome on someone taller.

Astarion shakes off the errant thought as Wicket leaps from the tree, landing noiselessly in front of him.  He takes a wary step back, realizing there is more to this necrobane than initially meets the eye.  The vampire stumbles over a rock, losing his footing as Wicket lunges at him with a speed that rivals his own.  Astarion manages to deflect the first blow, hissing as one of the stakes gouges into the pale flesh of his forearm.  Wicket dodges behind him, driving his fist into Astarion’s lower back as his heel makes contact with the back of the elf’s knee.

Astarion crumples to the ground and makes an attempt to crawl away, but Wicket snatches his ankle and pulls him closer before pouncing on top of him.  Astarion begins to panic at the weight pining him down as Wicket straddles his waist and raises a stake over his heart.

Groping hands in the dark… foul breath… rough, unwanted touches… the smell of unwashed bodies and sour ale…

Astarion bucks beneath Wicket, attempting to throw him off, and the stake misses its mark, stabbing into the soft dirt next to his head.

“Hold still, abomination!” Wicket snarls, scrabbling for the second stake and struggling to hold him down.

Not again, not again, not again, not again…

Astarion struggles wildly, caught in his memories like an insect in amber, barely aware of Wicket’s rough voice cursing in Gnim as he fights to retain his hold on him.  Then… a blinding light and indescribable pain…  Astarion is forcibly pulled from his memories and thrust into another’s. 

Fire surrounds him, the smoke thick and choking… the wails of the dying mingle with the screams of children… Blood soaks the forest floor, glowing in the firelight… A single voice rises above the din – a small child crying out for her father…

“Get out of my head!” Wicket screams, drawing Astarion back into the present.  The gnome is wild-eyed and sweating, silver-streaked hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks, his skin nearly as pale as Astarion’s.  Taking advantage of his distress Astarion shoves him away and rolls to his feet, drawing his dagger.

Wicket staggers to his feet, still disoriented, with a stake in his hand and clearly still ready to fight.  “What’s wrong with you?” he slurs.

“What?” Astarion asks, dumbfounded.

“Hands are shaking… scared… felt it with the worm…”

Astarion scowls.  Apparently the tadpole had allowed Wicket a peek into his mind too.  “Most people tend to be shaken when someone attempts to assassinate them, darling.”

The necrobane snorts, clearly not believing the lie.  “As you say.”  A pause.  “Why are you so weak?”

“I beg your pardon?” Astarion stares down at the gnome in disgust.  “Weak?”

Wicket stares back at him, expressionless. 

Astarion lets out an annoyed huff.  “If you must know, my master kept my diet very… controlled.”

“Explain.”

“Rats!  Vermin!  The occasional kobold!”  The vampire throws his hands up in exasperation.  “And only in small amounts, just enough to keep us alive but not strong enough to rebel.”

Wicket hums in contemplation and thinks a moment before darting off to his tent.  His back before Astarion can object, goblet in hand. 

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, taking a wary step back.

Wicket tilts his head to the side and takes a moment to collect his thoughts.  “I don’t know what is going to happen or what potential dangers we will face as a result of our tadpoles.  And leaving you alive could prove to be useful.”

The elf narrows his eyes in disbelief.

“If,” Wicket holds up one finger.  “And only if you can keep your fangs to yourself… I’m willing to forgo my oath.”

“Of course, darling,” Astarion replies with a charming smirk.  “This little venture will be so much easier if we’re all friends.”

But the very moment it appears you’re going to turn on me I will drink you.

Wicket grunts, looking like he already regrets his decision.  As a curious Astarion watches he rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, then draws a small dagger from a hidden sheath in his boot.  Wicket grits his teeth and braces himself, then slices a deep gash across his forearm.  Before a drop of blood can hit the ground, Wicket has the goblet beneath the wound, catching each gloriously enticing drop.

The heady smell of the gnome’s blood has Astarion’s eyelids fluttering, and a small gasp escapes his lips.  He briefly considers crossing the few feet that separate them and licking up the blood that drips down Wicket’s arm; finally gorging himself on the sustenance he’s so long been denied.  Then his lip curls in disgust at the very thought.  Gnomish blood is acceptable, but to actually press his lips to the flesh of one of the little beasts?  He shudders at the very thought.

No, better to wait and see exactly what he’s up to.

After several long minutes the goblet is nearly full.  Wicket whispers a few words of healing, and his wound closes up as if it were never there.  He’s pale and clearly lightheaded from the blood loss, but somehow manages to remain standing.

“Here,” he mutters thrusting the goblet into Astarion’s eager hands.  “We’re going to need you at full strength if you’re going to be any use to us.  Don’t make me regret this.”

[mariacallous]

In Butler, Pennsylvania, a billboard read “In Musk We Trust.” A Tesla Cybertruck parked on the side of the road sported a TRUMP 2024 flag.

With a month left in the presidential campaign, former president Donald Trump returned to Butler for a rally less than three months after the assassination attempt on Trump’s life that resulted in the death of one rally attendee. This time, Trump was joined by X owner Elon Musk and vice presidential candidate JD Vance.

“Welcome Back to Butler, Mr. President,” read a message in Trump’s walk-on video.

When Trump started speaking, the same chart about illegal immigration he was referring to in the moments before the attempted assassination appeared on screen. “And as I was saying,” Trump said. He’d timed this moment so that it took place at precisely 6:11 pm, which was when he was shot in the ear on July 13. He also held a “moment of silence” honoring those who were injured or killed during the assassination attempt in July. Opera singer Christopher Macchio sang Ave Maria, and people in the crowd removed their hats, wiped their eyes, and some even took a knee as Trump looked on solemnly.

“Over the past eight years, those who want to stop us from achieving this future have slandered me, impeached me, indicted me, tried to throw me off the ballot, and who knows? Maybe even try to kill me,” said Trump, floating the conspiracy theory that the attempted assassination was orchestrated by his political opponents. “12 weeks ago we all took a bullet for America.”

Trump later invited Musk on stage. The X owner walked on wearing a black blazer over a shirt saying “Occupy Mars” and a black MAGA hat. “As you can see, I’m not just MAGA,” said Musk. “I’m dark MAGA.” Dark MAGA is a memecoin, a type of cryptocurrency inspired by online trends. The valuation of Dark MAGA soared right around the time that Musk spoke.

Musk repeatedly implored audience members and viewers to register to vote. “This election is the most important election of our lifetime,” said Musk. “This is no ordinary election.”

He wrapped up his brief speech with an ominous message: “Get everyone you know, and everyone you don't know, drag them to register to vote,” he said. “If they don’t, this will be the last election. That’s my prediction.”

Musk’s appearance at Saturday’s rally marked a major benchmark in his political evolution. Following the assassination attempt against Trump in Butler, Musk posted on X that he had decided to “fully endorse” the former president, and shortly after announced the creation of a political action committee (PAC) to support Trump’s campaign. Musk initially said he would donate $45 million per month to the PAC, though he has since changed his tune. Musk also hosted Trump for a glitchy live conversation on X Spaces in August.

Musk was previously an Obama, Clinton and Biden voter who donated to politicians on both sides of the aisle but touted himself as someone who generally tried to stay out of politics. At a 2015 Vanity Fair event, Musk said he hoped Trump wouldn’t clinch the Republican nomination for president because “that wouldn’t be good” and “would be a bit embarrassing.” He also told CNBC that he didn’t believe Trump had the “sort of character that reflects well on the United States” while voicing support for Democratic nominee Hillary Clinton’s policy platform. In 2017, Musk donated large sums to Republicans, signaling a possible right-ward shift in his political outlook. And in 2020, he bamboozled many of his fans with a cryptic Twitter post: “Take the Red Pill.”

Musk is one of several right-wing tech billionaires who have thrown their support behind Trump. Billionaire Palantir founder Peter Thiel, is a longtime Trump supporter, and also helped fund Vance’s 2022 bid for his Ohio Senate seat. Before entering politics, Thiel was one of several Silicon Valley funders who backed Vance’s Ohio-based venture fund, Narya Capital. Vance and Thiel are also investors in the right-wing video sharing platform, Rumble.

When Musk, who has described himself as a “free speech absolutist,” took over Twitter in 2022, he almost immediately fired the vast majority of the company’s trust and safety employees, the people who keep hate speech and mis- and disinformation off the platform. The following year, Musk slashed what remained of Twitter’s election integrity team, posting, “Oh you mean the “Election Integrity” Team that was undermining election integrity? Yeah, they’re gone.”

Hate speech on X increased under Musk and last year European Commission Vice President Vera Jourova said that of all the companies under EU scrutiny, X was “the platform with the largest ratio of mis- or disinformation posts.” Musk also reinstated the accounts of people who had been banned from the platform including conspiracy theorist Alex Jones and neo-Nazi Nick Fuentes.

After Musk finished speaking, and Trump thanked him, rally attendees chanted his name.

Moments later, Musk signed back onto X.

He immediately began sharing election conspiracies about election ballots sent to vacant addresses, before writing, “Make sure everyone you know & everyone you meet has registered to vote,” he wrote. “The fate of our civilization is at stake.”