#but in that shadow lies something even darker

[sky-scribbles]

(A veilguard daemons!au. NB: Taash's pronouns change as they work out their identity.)

—

Harding

The thing is: dwarves don’t have daemons.

That’s a truth, sure as stone. Just like it’s a truth that dwarves don’t dream, and can’t do magic. Lace knows how things work.

She stops knowing how things work, after the ritual.

The statue falls, and the Fade tears open, and Varric tumbles down the steps and lies there, empty. And then there’s the dagger, and the stone that moves to her command, and the first notes of a song ringing deep in her soul.

Lace should probably run from it. She doesn’t. She runs right to it, dives in headfirst, curious, questing. It's who she is, scouting into the dark to flush out the answers, and she needs to keep moving (because when she stops, she remembers the knife in Varric’s chest and the limp loll of his limbs and – no. Keep moving. Keep moving.)

She absolutely stops knowing how things work after she starts having dreams.

On the nights she stays up late, and the mornings she wakes early, she thinks she sees... something. A shadow lingering beside her. A flash of something not-quite-real, not-really-there, moving when she moves – but whenever she tries to look closer, it’s always gone.

She stays up late, digging her garden, running the soil through her fingers (it’s always felt like home, the earth, and now more than ever.) She learns the truth – what Solas did, what he fought alongside her and Varric for a year without saying – and something in her snaps and bares its teeth. The dreams get darker, fiercer: the stone, the song. Red, burning light.

She follows the stone. She finds the truth. She looks her own rage in the face.

And, after, as her breathing settles and she pulls out of the circle of her friends' arms, she feels it. A final fragment of that Titans’ dreams, pulling away from that crystalline shade and into her. A missing piece, freed, falling into place.

Lace realises the others are staring. ‘Uh,’ says Taash. ‘There’s, uh – ’ And Lace follows their eyes and sees it. Sees her.

Her dreams, given form and blood and voice. Petra. Lace knows the name, knows it from somewhere inside her, a truth as sure as stone.

‘Hi,’ says the soil-brown ferret, blinking up at Lace with bright and ready eyes. ‘Wow. This is weird.’

Open-mouthed, heart pounding, Lace opens her arms for her soul.

—

Emmrich

They pull him from the wreckage, dust-caked and howling, reaching out for parents who will never reach back. Cordula shifts flicker-fast, every new form giving a new voice to her wild and futile cries. When they take Emmrich below the ground, Cordula winds around him as a snake and clings on; when he looks up at the looming bone statues and monolithic graves, she presses against his face as a cat, lets him clutch her close as the fear wrenches the breath from his lungs.

Vorgoth finds them there, one evening, curled together in a corner, recovering from the choking grip of fear. They don’t ask any questions; they don’t chide. Instead, they take Emmrich into the gardens, and put a taper in his hands.

He lights the candles. He intones ancient words and hears his voice grow steadier. He rings the bells.

His breathing settles, and so does Cordula.

A great many Watchers have scavenger-daemons. It’s just one more reason for the ignorant to look at them with dread, to write grotesque depictions of scheming, skull-bedecked mages flanked by flies and jackals and crows. And. Well. Watchers certainly are skull-bedecked. But as Emmrich learns in the Lighthouse, those beyond Nevarra really don’t seem to understand what a scavenger is for.

‘It’s just. You know. A vulture,’ says Harding, her face scrunched as she examines Cordula’s glossy wings. ‘When I saw her, I thought you’d be… I don’t know. Not you.’

Emmrich swallows a sigh. ‘Are you aware of what happens,’ he asks, ‘without vultures?’

She shakes her head.

‘There was a village on the edge of the Silent Plains back in the Blessed Age,’ he says. It's a story he's told his students so many times. ‘Their cattle were poisoned, and the vultures that ate them succumbed as well. Without them to dispose of the bodies – to take what was left of the dead, purge corruption, and return the corpses to the cycle of things – disease ran rampant. Death visited freely. Vultures – ’ He shares a smile with Cordula – ‘tend to those left by death. They mark its passing. They check its spread. By disposing of the dead, they preserve the living.’

‘Oh,’ says Harding, and then, ‘Oh! That… makes a lot of sense, actually.’

And Emmrich smiles, a little sadly, because no one in the Necropolis would have eneded an explanation. A vulture-daemon was something to be admired, there, and Emmrich tries, he truly does, not to be wounded by the looks that strangers out here give Cordula. He cannot expect them to know that behind the bone-piercing beak, the vulture is the gentlest of the birds of prey; that they are so very clever, and blessed with the keenest senses. There’s a holiness about them, Emmrich thinks, when they crouch before the dead, heads bent low in reverence.

Cordula – she’s always rather been the braver part of him, the part that was less afraid to spread her wings beyond the Necropolis walls. Wasn’t afraid to fall in love. Emmrich, surrounded by warmth and voices in the Lighthouse library, the world open before him, starts to realise: he has not listened enough to what his soul wanted.

Still. Never too late to make a beginning.

—

Lucanis

Lucanis knows, before he’s old enough to have a knife put in his hands, what is expected of him.

More to the point: he knows what is expected of his daemon. Crows have killers for daemons, a fact he cannot forget growing up under the eyes of Caterina’s imperious eagle-daemon, and Lucanis trains and practices and trains again, because if Amleto does not settle as he should – if he is not a true Crow’s daemon – Lucanis will have failed.

But he does not fail. He is a Crow. He is Caterina’s favourite. He is a Dellamorte.

Caterina has nothing but praise, in the end, for the form Amleto takes. Wings for diving and talons for cutting, a black-and-white little lightning bolt made for one purpose alone. An osprey is the perfect Crow daemon, and Lucanis, thirteen years old, is relieved. He became who he was meant to. He did not fail. He will not.

He does not think about what it means, that Amleto speaks so rarely, even to him. He does not think about it. Whenever it occurs to him that it seems wrong for him to hear so seldom from his own soul, he forces himself into another round of exercises. He is a Crow. He’s good at being a Crow, and he likes being a Crow, and so he grows, and he kills, and he is the little talon he needs to be, until –

(Ospreys, sometimes, dive too deep. The water chokes their feathers, and pulls them under.)

Spite does not understand Amleto. Can’t seem to tell him and Lucanis apart. ‘You have. Wings,’ he tells Lucanis, rattling around their shared head and shared cell. Maybe that’s why he grows his own, as they fight their way back to the surface, like he’s trying to capture something Lucanis has lost.

And then there’s open air above them, and the kiss of wind against his face, the soft touch of rain. Amleto opens his wings and tips his head back to the sky, as if drinking its endlessness in.

‘Free,' he says, and Lucanis has never heard joy in his daemon's voice before.

It’s… not easy, settling back into freedom. But when Lucanis starts to slip – when the water closes over his mind and everything in his head starts to drown and drown and drown – it’s Spite who sinks his claws in, refuses to be pulled under. And Amleto is speaking more, these days, ever since Lucanis found people to cook for and buy gifts for and kill for.

An osprey will spread its own wings over its nestlings, put its own body between them and a storm. Lucanis, with Amleto on his shoulder and a demon giving him wings, thinks he’s finally starting to understand what he’s for.

—

Bellara

She’s not a hummingbird.

Cyrian’s surprised, and honestly a little disappointed, like he’s mad at himself for not reading his sister one-hundred-per-cent right. Which is kind of sweet, really.

Anyway – not a hummingbird. Still a bird, though, because you know, mage, and just as pretty as any hummingbird could ever be. Dirthara settles as a little bundle of energy and jewel-bright feathers, chest splashed with azure-turquoise almost the same colour as a power crystal, her face and back streaked in bronze and gold. ‘A bee-eater!’ Bellara yells, when she finds the name for her soul in a book, and Dirthara beats her wings in delight and knocks a bottle of ink off the table.

(Cyrian still calls her vora’shivan, though, and that’s still sweet.)

Bee-eaters are a lot of things. They’re quick and bright and happier when they’ve got a flock around them. And they’re builders, most of all, smart enough to use beak and wings to steady themselves while they dig nests out of mud. Not just for themselves, either; they’ll help birds beyond theirmselves and their mates, help dig nests for eggs that aren’t their own.

Bellara thinks of that, as her hands learn the workings of crystals and ancient golden spinning things. It feels like what she’s doing, when she gets some old thing ticking again. Digging out a home for all her people, even the ones she’ll never know. Carving out a space where they have a future.

And then she loses Cyrian. And gets him back. And loses him again.

She lights the funeral fires, and utters ancient words, and holds Dirthara close to her heart. She’s touched her people’s oldest secrets, now, and felt them bite her fingers and claw at her heart. That future she was trying to dig out feels so dangerous, and so big.

But that’s okay. She’s a bee-eater. She’s not afraid to go after something with a sting.

—

Neve

They could have left Dock Town. Except that they never could have.

You might think Invenio would fit right in among the other daemons of the Minrathous Circle. Mages have birds, and the Circle is a sparkling aviary, rainbow parrots and iridescent starlings and ink-dark crows. And Invenio, poised and graceful as any of them, neck held curved in a serpentine curve, long slender legs picking their way through the sly words of Neve’s peers. A heron with triple-coloured feathers, white and slate and purplish brown, a snowy plume behind his head like a fancy little hat.

But here’s what’s different about him: the other apprentices and their daemons look up, toward the sky, spreading their wings in the direction of the Magisterium and its power. Invenio and Neve look down, down at the murky waters of the place that bred them.

They were always going to come back to their roost.

At first, no one looks at Invenio and thinks he’s something to be afraid of. But Neve stays up nights, making notes, spotting patterns, watching the swirling water that’s her home. Her eyes follow the eddies. She tracks every movement. Sometimes, she places bait on the surface, waits for a Venatori to bite.

She strikes.

Doesn’t mean it’s easy. She gets stuck in the questions, sometimes, because if there’s one thing herons are prone to, it’s stillness. But she walks her streets, a snappily-dressed detective and her snappily-feathered soul, and Maker help the Venatori who forgets that Invenio’s face is an ice-sharp spear. She watches, and Invenio watches, all their shared focus waiting to explode into movement. Into all that feeling that Neve can’t switch off.

They could never have left Dock Town. Invenio might be slick and pretty, but he was made to walk in the muck. 

—

Davrin

Davrin’s something of an expert at not fitting in.

He doesn’t fit with his clan. That’s partly because of him, because he’s restless, and prefers the weight of the sword in his hand to that of a bow. But mostly it’s because of Varen. Which… probably means it’s still Davrin that’s the problem, but. You know.

No one else in the clan has a cougar for a daemon. Varen looks like she belongs somewhere else. A proud flow of golden fur and flicking tail, made for jagged hills and silent hunts and fresh prey-blood under her claws.

She’s the one who keeps standing up and walking away, pulling to the very edge of her bond, looking back over her shoulder and waiting for Davrin to follow. And one day Eldrin tells him to follow where his soul leads, so he packs his sword and he goes.

It helps, having a cougar-daemon, when you want the whole monster-hunting thing to work. Partly because people take one look at her and assume Davrin knows what he’s doing. And also because she’s made for this: to stalk, to ambush, to sink in teeth and claws and not let go til the body drops. She’s the one who gets between Davrin and his first Hurlock, gets her teeth right into its throat. When an ogre bellows at her, she only lashes her tail, unruffled and ready. She bares her fangs at Ghilan’nain’s face in the clouds while everyone else is still figuring out how to kill her.

The archdemon dies, and hundreds of Wardens die, and Davrin… doesn’t.

It’s not right. It’s not the oath he made: in death, sacrifice, except not really. He sits by the fire and slices at wood until there’s nothing left but shavings, and puts his head in his hands.

Varen regards him. Then she tackles him down onto the rug and curls herself over him. Assan muscles in too, crooked ears bouncing. Tomorrow, Davrin knows, Bellara and Lucanis will cook breakfast, and Emmrich will want to check all his injuries, and Taash will drag him outside for stretches and a jog around the courtyard. And Davrin will get up and put himself in front of them all on the battlefield, shield up, Varen a blaze of gold at his side.

(A cougar will throw itself at anything, a hunter, a bear, one of its own kind, to protect its cubs. Davrin clutches Assan close, thinks of his friends and all the stolen griffons. In his head, he gathers them all up, puts them safe behind his paws.)

Davrin falls asleep in a purring pile of feathers and fur and he thinks, here. Here, we fit.

—

Taash

Daemons don’t get names under the Qun.

Oh, and Taash isn’t supposed to call them daemons. That’s the word that bas use, the word the Rivaini use. Asala, says Shathann, every time Taash slips, and then she instructs Taash’s nameless soul how he mustn’t speak in front of others (because good asala don’t do that) and not to speak to anyone except Taash (because good asala don’t do that) and not to go more than a step away from Taash (because good asala, blah, yeah, Taash gets it.)

Except she doesn’t get it. And she doesn’t get why the she part feels wrong, either.

Her daemon – asala – feels wrong too, somehow. Calling him he fits loosely, like a jacket tailored for someone else. Axes fit, though. And running with the Lords. And dragons, shit, dragons feel right, and Taash sinks her (ugh) claws into every book and scroll she can get her hands on. She learns how to scrap with something ten times as big as herself.

Her dae – asala – stops bothering to walk the neat half-step behind Taash that Shathann tried to drill into them. He talks when he wants, in front of who he wants. Taash ties the dar-saam every morning, because she’s Qunari, and ties gold onto the ropes and into her hair, because she’s Rivaini, and her daemon – asala, whichever, both – wakes up one day and he’s settled as… something.

Big. Lots of fur. Lots of claws, too. Isabela calls him a wolverine (and she probably knows, because she’s been all over), and Taash reads some books and asks some spirits and learns that wolverines don’t take shit and brawl with bears, and, yep, that sounds right.

Also, his name is Daaranda. So, there’s that.

Shathann doesn’t like it, but Shathann doesn’t like much of anything Taash does these days. Besides, it’s not like she and Daaranda did it on purpose, he just had a name suddenly, and what can you expect? Rivaini daemons have names, and Taash is Rivaini as much as she is Qunari (which is to say, she’s crappy at being both, but she is both. And also, Daaranda’s name means firestorm, which is fucking great.)

But Daaranda still doesn’t make sense. And he should. Blunt and powerful and almost-fearless and everything Taash is – he should make sense. But he doesn’t, and Taash doesn’t, and then she’s in the Lighthouse, wanting to crawl right out of her own skin, and Rook and Neve are saying kind things and suggesting to Taash, so fucking gently, that she might not be she after all –

And. Oh.

It’s like a flash of fire. A warmth, a brightness, a sudden blaze buried deep. Their name is Taash. They have an asala; they have a daemon; and their name is Daaranda.

Daaranda is... different, after. They run laps of the Lighthouse, play-tussle with Assan and with Davrin's big cat-daemon, let Bellara's little gemstone of a bird perch on their head.

Taash watches and thinks, huh. They never knew their soul could play.

They have a soul with a name, because they’re Rivaini, and that name is Qunlat, because they’re Qunari, and that soul is Daaranda. Because Taash is a wolverine, all toughness and teeth and temper – and no one gets to tell them who they are.

[guided-by-the-skies]

Why you may be blocked - by ascendant sign

the ascendent, representing our public facing self, can be correlated with the concept of the super ego in psychology. this is the part of us which keeps our darker nature and our shadow in check. it helps us exist in a society with different views and get along with others, and is crucial for forming our identities. yet because of this nature it can sometimes block us from fully understanding our shadow, making shadow work and freeing blockages challenging.

NB Modern people are WAY WAY too identified with our ascendant and as a result less in tune with our shadow which means it can come back to bite us. This is when we act in cruel or unnatural ways to others, feel like we've 'given in' to our dark side and so on.

The shadow is not BAD it's just unexpressed because it's the stuff we oftern were not allowed to express. However this makes it POWERFUL and by extension a bit dangerous. Again not because it's bad but just in the same way the ocean can be dangerous...

🌩 asc in aries - you feel pressure to one up people. your relief lies in comparing you to you, not you to others

🌩 asc in taurus - you feel deprived or harrassed. your ascendant doesn't feel natural to you, giving you this feeling of never getting a moment of peace

🌩 asc in gemini - you struggle to develop an identity. you focus on what you're saying as opposed to why, leaving you without inner convictions

🌩 asc in cancer - you wear your heart on your sleeve, and it is getting exploited because it's the bit you show to others most

🌩 asc in leo - you feel pressure to achieve, otherwise your identity will crumble. your dream and aim is to base it around something utterly different

🌩 asc in virgo - you get used as the therapist friend. you may have been pretending that you don't mind this, but it still has an affect at a subconscious level

🌩 asc in libra - you feel responsible for other peoples baggage, even though you had nothing to do with it

🌩 asc in scorpio- you are a social chameleon. separating what is yours and what is others' is your greatest challenge but can bring you rich rewards

🌩 asc in sagittarius - you've been forced to take debate too seriously. in truth, you don't need to have an opinion on everything, and it's ok to change your mind or say 'I don't know'

🌩 asc in capricorn - you feel the weight of the world. different from virgo, you feel the need to represent yourself or any group you are part of to wider society

🌩 asc in aquarius - you are worn down by frequent combativeness, when you just want to explore new posibilities. People may block your ideas and shoot them down :(

🌩 asc in pisces - you wonder whether your emotions are normal. you've lacked reference points for how you should feel, or people to normalise it for you. you are normal, for you

*this post is part of a series on why astrology matters regardless of how much you do or don't believe in it. as our lives have become busier, more disconnected, less spiritual, and significantly detached from the rhythms and energies of the earth, we have lost the ability to express the needs that are going unmet

I do a lot of this shadow work from a sort of solarpunk-y direction, beginning to build a post masterlist here or vote in the poll for my next post topic :p

[phoenixrisingastro]

Pluto Through the Houses: How Your Soul Has Been Marked by Darkness

Pluto doesn’t touch your life lightly. It drags you through hell, strips you bare, and forces you to be reborn. Wherever Pluto sits in your chart is where you experience power, destruction, obsession, and transformation. It’s where you meet your deepest fears—and where you find your most dangerous strength.

Pluto in the 1st House: The Dark Aura That Follows You

You don’t walk into a room—you haunt it. People feel your presence before they even see you, and they either worship you or fear you. Your entire existence is an act of power and survival. Life forced you to be strong, and now your presence alone intimidates people who can’t handle real power. You’ve been through hell and made it look effortless.

Pluto in the 2nd House: Money, Sex, and Power Games

You don’t just want security—you want complete control over it. Money, sex, and power are all currency to you, and you’ve learned the hard way that you either master them or let them master you. You attract wealth like a magnet when you own your power, but your biggest downfall? Letting others manipulate you financially or sexually before you realize you were the one holding the power all along.

Pluto in the 3rd House: Words That Cut Like Knives

Your voice is a weapon, and you know exactly how to use it. You read people like an open book, tearing through their masks in seconds. Conversations with you aren’t small talk—they’re battles. People either walk away transformed or completely wrecked. You see through the lies, the excuses, the half-truths—and it terrifies them.

Pluto in the 4th House: Family Trauma That Never Dies

Your childhood was not normal. Maybe it was filled with secrets, power struggles, manipulation, or loss—but whatever it was, it changed you forever. Family feels more like fate than love, and you carry the weight of generational pain on your back. Your biggest challenge? Breaking the cycle without losing yourself.

Pluto in the 5th House: Love, Sex, and the Addictive High

You don’t just love—you consume. Romance feels like a game of life and death, and when you fall for someone, it’s obsessive, all-consuming, and impossible to forget. But your love affairs either ruin you or make you a legend. You crave passion so intense that it hurts, and once you taste that kind of fire, nothing else feels real.

Pluto in the 6th House: The Body Remembers What the Soul Endured

Your trauma isn’t just in your head—it’s in your body, your habits, your routines. You’ve had to rebuild yourself more times than you can count, and yet, people underestimate how much strength it took just to survive. But here’s the truth: you are a force of nature. When you take back your power, your body becomes unstoppable, and your mind becomes unbreakable.

Pluto in the 7th House: Lovers Who Destroy You and Make You Reborn

Relationships for you aren’t just about love—they’re wars, contracts, and fated meetings. You attract powerful, intense people who shake your world to its core. Love either breaks you apart or turns you into something stronger. Your lesson? Stop letting others dictate your worth. You were never meant to be controlled.

Pluto in the 8th House: The Shadow You Can’t Escape

Your life is a constant cycle of death and rebirth. You’ve survived things most people wouldn’t even understand, and yet, here you are—stronger, darker, and more powerful than ever. Sex, money, transformation, power—they all follow you like ghosts. You are the embodiment of survival, and no one who meets you forgets you.

Pluto in the 9th House: The Seeker of Forbidden Knowledge

You don’t just want answers—you want truths people are too afraid to speak. You’re drawn to the occult, hidden wisdom, and philosophies that others shy away from. You question everything. Religion, power structures, morality—nothing is untouchable. But be careful—some knowledge can’t be unlearned.

Pluto in the 10th House: The Reputation That Haunts You

You were born to dominate. People feel your presence even when you’re silent, and the higher you climb, the more people try to pull you down. Power is your birthright, but you had to fight harder than most to claim it. Some will fear you. Some will love you. Either way, you will be remembered.

Pluto in the 11th House: The Puppet Master of Society

You don’t just exist in social circles—you shape them. You see the hidden power dynamics in friendships, groups, and society itself. People either flock to you or fear your influence. But watch out—being the mastermind means you attract both allies and enemies. Power isn’t just given to you. You take it.

Pluto in the 12th House: The Unseen Forces That Control You

You are haunted by the past—yours, your ancestors’, maybe even past lives. Pluto here makes you a magnet for deep, hidden truths and spiritual awakenings. You’ve seen darkness most people never will, and yet, you walk through life as if you belong to another world. Your lesson? Embrace the mystery. Your power lies in the unseen.

Final Thoughts: Pluto’s Gift & Curse

Pluto doesn’t play fair. It destroys everything false, everything weak, and leaves only what is real. If you embrace Pluto’s lessons, you become invincible—but if you fight it, you will be broken over and over again until you learn.

Pluto marks you, owns you, transforms you. And when it’s done with you, you will never be the same.

© PhoenixRisingAstro, 2025. All rights reserved

[fangdokja]

Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

In a world where love twists into obsession, Whispers in the Dark offers you fleeting glimpses into the shadows—short, striking stories that capture the subtle, chilling edge of devotion gone astray. These headcanons, drabbles, and snippets bring together yanderes from A Heart Devoured, Forbidden Fruits, and World Ablaze, alongside new faces destined to carve their own place in the recesses of your mind.

This collection is deceptively light, each story crafted for easy reading yet laced with the faint echoes of something far darker. Beneath tender touches lie the barest hints of possessiveness. Behind sweet words linger quiet threats. And in the softest moments, you'll glimpse a world where love binds tighter than chains.

Perfect for casual reading, these stories keep most of the darkness just out of reach, lurking in the shadows of every tender moment. They are whispers of what lies in the deeper, more dangerous corners of Fang Dokja’s other works.

For now, this is where you stay—balanced on the edge of a blade. Will you fall deeper?

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Trigger Warnings (Dead Dove): Contains dark themes, non-consensual content (not as explicit as my long form stories), and depictions of taboo scenarios. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Read the RULES so you are aware of what you're getting into.

♡ A/N #1. I have extremely high tolerance to anything controversial and taboo (e.g. explicit incest, gang rape, gore, vore, murder, bestiality, etc.). Nothing bothers me in reading and writing (except genuine stupidity spanning all forms). If you are looking for light submissive puppy or worshipping yanderes, who would never hurt you. This writing isn't for you, because all my stories have a base line of non-con (whether SFW or NSFW) and sadistic hard doms. The most common and comfortable writing style I have are "red and black flags that will hurt you, and can and may kill you." Yes, even if they are yandere. ♡ A/N #2. I do write different degrees, sometimes vanilla (e.g. most of my Genshin Impact and HSR works), other times erotic horror (e.g. R18 AHD). But, generally, expect non-con in some form. To put it into perspective on my tolerance level, I consider the usual rape, "vanilla rape". If there is no genuine danger of dying or bleeding to death (e.g. cannibalism, vore, necrophilia, edge play like extreme blood play and weapon play), then I classify it as "vanilla rape." Especially if it's just forced penetration or oral.

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Note: Want to make a SHORT request for original yanderes (OC's) or fandom yanderes? Read the Rules and Regulations, first, before requesting. Failure to abide by the rules will have your request ignored and deleted.

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Table of Contents

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ ⭐. Author's Personal Favorites. ♡ 🔞. NSFW / extremely explicit themes (non-con, sexual torture, dangerous edge play, degradation, humiliation, BDSM, etc.)

♡ Schedule. The following stories are released or scheduled for release:

Fandom Yanderes

♡ Book 1. 🔞Forbidden Fruits (FF) : Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 2. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

Mixed Character Stories

You tried to break up with him… but did you ever really want to? (Chrollo Lucilfer, Johan Liebert, Geto Suguru)

Genshin Impact

Mixed Stories

Humor First, Consequences Later (Tartaglia, Wanderer, Kazuha)

Original Yanderes (OC's)

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured (AHD) : A Dark Yandere Anthology

Yandere! Author

Headcanons 1 : Fate’s Final Draft (General)

He’s the hero in his own story… and you’re his latest toy.

🔞"You like happy endings? Too bad. I don’t write those."

Yandere! Best Friend

Headcanons 1 : Unspoken Desires (General)

🔞“He says he’d do anything for you. But would you believe him?”

Yandere! IRL Authors

♡ Characters Included. Yandere! Tumblr Smut Lord, AO3 Angst Demon, Webtoon Cult Leader, Wattpad Menace

Drabbles

You see ‘yandere x reader’ and click before you even register the title.

Yandere! Isekai! Knight

♡ Sub Story. In his eyes, your defiance isn’t strength—it’s foreplay.

Headcanons 1 : Light’s Last Lament (General)

He was a knight of light… until you turned his world dark.

Yandere! Nerd

♡ Sub Story. No one else noticed the quiet boy in the corner, but he’s all you’ll notice now.

Headcanons 1 : Beyond the Data (General)

🔞You’re his project, and he’s determined to get you right.

Yandere! Neurosurgeon

Drabbles

You’re a Pervert, and He’s in Denial.

Your Idea of Flirting? A Box of Body Parts.

“I’d love to get inside your head.” He thought you meant emotionally.

Yandere! Otome Game

♡ Characters Included. Yandere! Crown Prince, Archduke, Supreme Mage, Demon King, War Hero, Master Thief, Enemy Spy, Demon Assassin

Drabbles

How do you escape a yandere harem? Asking for a very distressed friend (me).

How to Turn ‘Till Death Do Us Part’ Into a Very Literal Situation.

"Romance is a garbage genre, but if I have to play, I might as well do it on easy mode."

The love interests were bad. The backup plans are worse.

One of them wants to marry you. The other wants to make sure he never does.

Headcanons 1 : How to Survive a Reverse Harem (You Don’t) (General)

I hate it here.

Yandere! Royal Guards

Drabbles

Royal Duties: looking pretty, sitting still, watching your guards destroy the kingdom.

You got isekai’d. Now three murder machines think your blank stares are divine wisdom.

Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss

♡ Main Story. 🔞"I trusted you, wife, and now I'll teach you what betrayal feels like."

Headcanons 1 : The Bride of Blood (General)

To him, you're perfect. To you, he's just a mission.

🔞"I don't need your love, I need your submission."

Yandere! Stardom

♡ Characters Included. Yandere! Fanboy, Producer, Rival, Hater

Drabbles

A love letter: from a guy who’s watched every movie, probably knows your underwear size.

Rivals, fanboys, and haters all agree: your fanfic is a masterpiece… in the worst way.

Your most devoted fan writes smut better than published authors.

Capitalism By Day, Cock Worship By Night

AO3 Writer: “I just wanted to write smut.” | Society: “No, you leaked classified info.”

Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor

♡ Sub Story. In the world of the dead, he was the only thing keeping you alive—and tearing you apart.

Headcanons 1 : Flesh and Fetish (General)

In a world where only the strongest survive, he’s the monster you can't escape.

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on this post. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired , @lilyalone , @starryperson , @yandreams-storageblog , @tiffyisme3760 , @songbirdgardensworld , @yune1337 , @mocalocha

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. ♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams. ♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Disclaimer. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution—these tales explore obsession, madness, and devotion in their rawest forms.

[lycheebloom]

mania : short whippet of yan. shadow milk cookie (pre. corruption & post corruption)

tw : yandere shadow milk cookie, light/heavy psychological & physical manipulation, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, violence, potentially ooc

"Put your trust in me, for none will deceive you as long as I am here."

♡ You first meet him in a period where he was yet to be touched by greed and trickery. A humble cookie you were, innocently strolling amidst the streets of your home kingdom until you stumbled across him.

♡ He was nothing short of humble and truthful as the rumors had entailed—polite with a well-mannered tone and gracious in his deeds of honesty for all. As if woven by fate itself, your coincidental encounters with him grew more and more common, until a bond began to flourish. Little promises and giggles were shared, fondness bloomed between stories and tales.

♡ The man was often teased by his peers for his fondness towards you, yet he didn't mind. Unbeknownst to them, a darker truth was veiled beneath the surface. Keeping his hands clasped together with yours for just a second longer than normal, neglecting his duties at times just for another moment to bask in your presence—Ah, the list could really go on and on.. But it was alright. It was just a small, little secret. A white lie that couldn't hurt anybody. He'd shoulder the truth of this minuscule act.

♡ "(Name) Cookie, over here! I have to share with you this interesting moment that happened in the court.."

♡ And so, it would continue this way, until something changed.

♡ He began to grow less benevolent. Fatigue was evident through the eyebags his form now carried, his caring tone strained. The everlasting truth in his words withered, falsehoods spilling out from his mouth that caused chaos and harm to break out within kingdoms. Especially the one you dwelled in.

♡ As his behavior towards common cookiekind warped, so did his towards you. His actions grew obsessive, arms clinging onto you at every instance as though you would dissolve if he were to let go. Even you weren't safe from the deceit that had tore through his heart, the cookie whispering sweet lies into your ears.

♡ The well being of the other cookies didn't matter to him anymore, why should he bother? Their foolishness bound them to a terrible fate from the very start, he should've given up on them sooner. Too long had he and the other heroes tolerated their exploitation! But oh, dear you..

♡ You were an exception from his all-consuming resentment towards those that had taken advantage of him and his comrades. Poor, poor you. Having to associate with these wicked folk, such a kind soul you had...! Of course, he couldn't stand by idly and let your torment continue.

♡ "Ah—(Name) Cookie, don't struggle.. This is for the greater good, I promise you." He coaxed softly, one hand gently stroking the back of your head as the other restrained you. He would bring you salvation, away from those filthy brethren that you called your 'friends'.

♡ Yet you continued to struggle, restlessly moving as you tried to free yourself of the binds. Your resistance only complicated and extended the process of renewal, but he didn't blame you; no, he could never! The other cookies have merely brainwashed you. That must be it. You would never gaze at him with such fear in your eyes, you wouldn't tremble at his touch.

♡ Your hostility only solidified his view on the others. They were irredeemable!—Not only had they used him and the other heroes, but they even turned you against him! Outrageous!

♡ Your coldness wounded his heart, yet he didn't falter. He was sure he could break through such a silly perspective they had influenced you into.

♡ "(Name)~ Don't fight me.." He sighed, fingers benignly clasping your face when you tried to turn your head away. The cold sensation sent tremors down your spine. "I know they've conditioned you into this, but I assure you, I only want the best for you.." He cooed, pulling you in closer. An arm was firmly wrapped around your waist, as he traced small circles onto your back with his free hand.

♡ How much longer would it take until you finally gave into his advances? He pouted at the thought, opting to bury his head into your shoulder. The sweet scent of you drove him insane. Yes, everything would be just fine.. As long he had you with him.

♡ Yet his whole world crashed down on him one day. Pinned down by the fork those witches had dared to cast down on him; his vision tuned out the other forms of his friends being restrained, all he could focus on was your figure.

♡ Your disappointed frown with somber eyes. Why were you staring at him with that expression? Where are you going? Wait! No, don't go! His expression twisted into one of desperation, arms sprawling out towards your retreating figure. No, this wasn't how it was supposed to go. You.. You can't leave him here!

♡ "(Name), (Name) Cookie, wait! No, no no COME BACK! Please, please, please.. Don't go, you can't go, you're not supposed to—I need you..!"

♡ As you stopped in your steps and turned around, a glimmer of hope shone within his heart. Yet it crumbled just as fast as you looked away, continuing to walk away. Away from him. To leave him. Why? Why had you discarded him? Had he not done so much to prove his love and adoration to you..? He cast his head down, thoughts swarming his head in a frenzy.

♡ "(Name).."

♡ You were all he wanted. Why couldn't he have you?

♡ His vision went black.

.

.

♡ How long had it been? He was unsure.

♡ You continued to linger in his thoughts even after he had been trapped in the Silver Tree, becoming the only source of solace in his seemingly-endless solitude. He was uninterested in talking to his 'friends', their bond growing more strained as each day passed. He couldn't understand how he got along with them back then. Corruption seeped and curled within his being, infecting his mind and very essence. It fed on his despair and longing, clouding the last traces of lucidity and truth.

♡ He just wanted you back. He made a vow to himself.

♡ Once he has you again, he'll never let you go.

.

.

.

"Seriously, who can say no to a pinch of good old Deceit?"

♡ "Oh, finally some fresh air!" Shadow Milk Cookie exclaimed with a sigh, stretching his arms. Being in that cramped tree didn't help his joints at all, hopefully he didn't catch a case of arthritis! A wide grin was on his face as he peered down on the cookies that had been so, so stupid that they thought they could delay his arrival! He scrutinized their forms, yet his eyes lit up at a familiar sight.

♡ You.

♡ "Ah, (Name) Cookie!~♡" Shadow Milk Cookie was quick to pick you up, ignoring the screams of horror that the other pesky little cookies let out—who he presumed were your friends. Two fingers were clasped around your form, as he dangled you in the air. If he wasn't giddy before, he definitely was now.

♡ Shadow Milk Cookie smiled ear to ear, admiring your form in his clutch for a few moments further before he glanced back at your noisy friends, his smile dropping as the light in his eyes faded.

♡ He turned his gaze back towards you, his frown changing into a smile once more.

♡ "Truly, you couldn't begin to comprehend how much I've missed you!.." Shadow Milk Cookie sighed, leaning his face closer towards your tiny figure. "We have soooo much to catch up on..~" He gave an half-lidded smile.

♡ "But first.." He eyed your peers. "Let's go somewhere where these little.. 'friends' of yours won't disturb us." With a snap of his fingers, your surroundings changed.

.

♡ What.. was this place? Everywhere you looked, only strained your vision. It felt unreal, as though you were in another dimension entirely. Eyes of all azure shades stared back at you, adding to the eerie atmosphere.

♡ "Tada!~ My special little world, what do you think of it?" Shadow Milk Cookie smiled happily, placing a hand on your shoulder. You shuddered at the touch, hurriedly stepping away from the madman that you were trapped with.

♡ "Hm? Don't you know it's rude to stareeee..?" Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head, bending it at an unnatural angle. He stepped closer towards you with every step you took back, quickly closing the distance. He latched his hand out, gently tilting your chin up.

♡ "Still resisting now are we? Oh, silly, silly (Name)..!" He broke out into giggles, then chuckles, before it warped into full-blown laughter. "Ah, your shenanigans never fail to amuse me!~" He wiped a stray tear, grinning as one of his hands pulled you into his embrace.

♡ His lips grazed over the exposed surface of your neck, biting down into soft flesh as jam spilled out from the wound—to which he quickly lapped it up, leaving a soft kiss as an apology. He only pulled back when he deemed there were sufficient marks, a smile on his face as he took in your shaky breath and unfocused gaze. You really were just the cutest..! "You see.. Time works differently in this little place I created."

♡ "Hmm.. For example, I could make it so that.. the equivalent of merely a second in the outside world could amount to a year in here! Or a decade! Or even a century, the possibilities are ENDLESS!" The pitch of his tone raised, delighting in your unnerved expression.

♡ "Anywho, what I'm trying to get across is that we have alllll the time in the world, my sweet (Name)~.." His tone dropped to a mere whisper, his smile fading as though the deceit within him was unraveling before you. Deep in his eyes swirled a whirlpool of something far darker than you could ever understand.

♡ "So let's see how long this little charade of yours will last. ♡"

♡ After all, he's waited eons for you in that damned tree. He can wait a little longer for you to break.

[shapard]

Tantrum🕷️

Satan x Succubus!fem!reader

Tw: Smut, slow burn, therapist x client, Satan being Satan to the low life, p in v

6k

Satan is so Hot

Part 1 > Part 2

The story begins after the cut

You exhaled slowly, your breath shaky as your eyes scanned the list of today's clients. One name stood out like a drop of blood on pristine parchment: Satan. Yes, the Satan. You’d laughed when the receptionist first told you. Surely, it was some dark joke, right? But the chilling sincerity in her eyes told you otherwise. For the next month, the King of Wrath himself would be your client. His personal therapist—or "anger coach," as they called it—was conveniently on vacation, leaving the responsibility to you.

Your fingers hovered over the file, tapping lightly on the thick paper. His profile was sparse yet enough to send a chill down your spine. Anger issues. As if that needed to be stated. Brutal, cruel, unpredictable. Lies often. Has a dangerously short temper. And the last line, hastily scrawled like a warning, stood out the most: Approach with caution.

The note on your pad detailed when and where you were to meet him: Satan’s castle. Even the thought of it made your stomach churn. The clock on your desk screeched, breaking your trance. It was time.

Your palms were clammy as you left your room, dread curling around your spine. The limousine waiting outside was overkill, with its glossy black finish and an interior too luxurious for comfort. You sank into the seat, but even its plush softness couldn’t ease the knot tightening in your chest. Your fingers toyed nervously with the fabric of your shirt. "Why am I doing this to myself?" you muttered, your voice a hoarse whisper.

The drive stretched on, the limousine cutting through a landscape that seemed to grow darker, more twisted with every passing mile. Gnarled trees loomed like skeletal hands, their shadows dancing over the cracked road. The closer you got to his estate, the more oppressive the air became, thick with heat and a faint metallic tang that clung to your throat. When the car finally stopped, your breath hitched.

The castle loomed above you like a blackened wound carved into the earth itself. Jagged spires clawed at the sky, and the air was heavy with the faint stench of sulfur. The gates creaked open, revealing a procession of imps scurrying about with feverish purpose. Their glowing eyes briefly landed on you before darting away, like vermin avoiding a predator.

You swallowed hard, stepping out of the limousine. The ground beneath your sneakers radiated an uncomfortable heat, as if the very earth resented your presence. You hesitated, looking up at the fortress before you. Every instinct screamed for you to run. But you were a therapist—for Lucifer’s sake, you’d dealt with impossible clients before. Just not ones who could incinerate you with a single breath.

A small, hunched imp dressed in a tattered butler’s uniform approached, its head bowed. Without a word, it gestured for you to follow. You obliged, your legs moving stiffly as if weighed down by chains. The castle’s interior was worse. Shadows seemed alive, twisting and curling around corners like smoke. The halls were cavernous and eerily silent, save for the echo of your footsteps against the stone floor.

You were led through corridors that gleamed with wealth. Gold littered every surface, accompanied by piles of glittering jewels—rubies, diamonds, and sapphires, carelessly heaped as if they were nothing more than pocket change. It was suffocating in its opulence, but it was the odd details that unsettled you. A scorch mark on the wall, as if something—or someone—had been obliterated there. Deep claw marks gouged into the stone.

When you entered his chamber, the atmosphere shifted entirely. Heat rolled over you in waves, and the room smelled faintly of ash. Your eyes roamed over the space, catching glimpses of heavy iron chains, monstrous workout equipment, and a hulking throne that seemed carved from molten rock. And then, your gaze rose.

He was there.

The dragon loomed in the far corner, a creature of pure, terrifying majesty. His scales shimmered like molten obsidian, and his horns, wickedly curved and sharp, glinted faintly in the dim light. His golden eyes burned like twin suns, locking onto you with an intensity that made your stomach drop. His chest rose and fell with a deep, growling breath that reverberated through the floor.

"So," he rumbled, his voice a deep, guttural drawl that made the air vibrate. "You’re the replacement.”

You froze, your body rigid as his gaze raked over you. His tone dripped with disdain, his lips curling into something between a snarl and a smirk. You felt like a mouse under the eye of a serpent.

“A succubus?” he sneered, the word laced with contempt. His massive frame shifted as he lowered his head, bringing his razor-sharp teeth dangerously close to your trembling form. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of amusement dancing in their molten depths. “For a succubus, you look... innocent.”

You flinched as his claw moved, its sharp tip hooking under the edge of your buttoned shirt. With terrifying ease, he pulled you closer, the heat radiating from him suffocating.

“Sir,” you managed, your voice wavering as you fought to hold your ground, “this is… inappropriate.”

The dragon chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Inappropriate?” he repeated, his tone mockingly sweet. “Oh, little one, we’re far beyond ‘appropriate’ here.”

For a moment, the tension was unbearable, his golden gaze locking onto yours, unyielding and searing. Then, with a huff, he released you, his massive claw retracting as he settled back.

“Let’s see how long you last,” he muttered, his voice laced with dark amusement. “They always break, you know.”

Your knees felt weak, your breath shallow as you took a hesitant step back. This wasn’t going to be like any other client you’d dealt with. And as his gaze lingered on you, predatory and calculating, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were stepping into a game you didn’t fully understand—a game where the rules were written in blood.

“Let’s start with something simple—an introduction.” You tried to project confidence, raising your voice slightly to ensure he could hear you clearly. The weight of his molten gaze bore down on you, but you kept your posture straight. “Before we can trust each other, we need to know each other.”

Your words hung in the air, daring to challenge the suffocating silence. His golden eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his reptilian features. You forced a smile and continued, your voice steady despite the thrum of fear in your chest. “My name is Y/n L/n. I’ll be your therapist for the time being. In my spare time, I enjoy drawing. Now, would you care to introduce yourself?”

The room seemed to grow hotter. A deep huff escaped from Satan’s nostrils, the force of his breath stirring the papers on your clipboard. His head tilted ever so slightly, as though studying you from a new angle. “You know who I am.” His words were low and blunt, carrying the faintest edge of impatience.

You kept your expression neutral, though your heart thudded painfully in your chest. “Of course, I know. But I’d like to hear it from you.” Your tone was calm, measured, even as the edges of his form seemed to ripple with heat.

That caught him off guard. His brows furrowed, and for a moment, his eyes lost some of their predatory sharpness. His breathing, which had been fiery and erratic, grew slower, more controlled. “I am Satan,” he said at last, his voice still low but tinged with pride. “The Sin of Wrath. The first sin.”

You didn’t flinch, though the words carried a weight that pressed against you. Liar. The truth was well-known—Lucifer was the first. But you kept that observation to yourself, instead lowering your gaze to jot something down on your notepad.

The scratch of your pen seemed deafening in the charged silence.

“What are you writing?” His tone was sharper now, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. You glanced up cautiously, noting the slight flare of his nostrils and the way his claws flexed against the stone floor.

“It’s nothing important,” you assured him, your voice soft but deliberate. “Just a few notes for me. Is that okay?”

His eyes narrowed further, glowing faintly as if testing your words for deceit. After a tense moment, he leaned back, the massive muscles in his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Yeah… I guess.”

You allowed yourself a small exhale, the pen trembling faintly in your grip as you made another note. “Thank you. So, tell me—what’s your favorite hobby?” you asked, keeping your tone light, almost conversational.

Satan blinked, clearly caught off guard again. “Hobby?” he repeated, as if the concept were foreign to him. A pause stretched between you, and then he shrugged. “Uh… I like working out.”

Internally, you groaned. Great, you thought, suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. A gym bro with anger issues. But outwardly, you smiled, though your fingers tightened slightly around your pen.

As you scribbled his answer, you felt a subtle shift in the air. His gaze hadn’t left you, and there was something unsettling about the way he watched you now—curious, calculating, like a predator studying its prey. The edges of his mouth twitched, as if he were amused by something only he understood.

“Do you always write so much?” he asked suddenly, his voice a little too casual.

You froze for half a second before looking up. “Only when it helps me understand my client better,” you said evenly.

Satan’s lip curled faintly, exposing a hint of razor-sharp teeth. “Interesting,” he murmured, leaning forward slightly. His massive frame seemed to loom larger, casting a shadow that swallowed the light around you. “You seem… different. For a therapist. For a succubus.”

The word dripped with disdain, but there was an odd curiosity in his tone as well. Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

“I don’t think I fit the usual mold,” you replied lightly, though the words felt thin against the heavy atmosphere.

Satan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “No, you don’t. But we’ll see how long that lasts.”

The way he said it felt more like a warning than a casual remark. And as the room grew unnervingly quiet again, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had just stepped into something far more dangerous than you were prepared for.

“Anyway,” you began, trying to dissipate the strange tension in the air, “what do you usually do to calm yourself?” Your voice was steady, professional, but you were acutely aware of the weight of his golden gaze lingering on you.

Satan tapped his claw against his chin, the sharp tip glinting faintly in the dim light. “I work out,” he said simply.

You nodded and placed your notepad down. “Have you ever tried anything else? Something less… physical?”

He shook his head, leaning back with a nonchalant shrug. “No.”

“Interesting.” Your pen hovered over the page, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Bingo. A potential breakthrough, something to work on next week. “Maybe you should try something new,” you suggested, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction.

Satan raised an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Something new?”

You nodded, maintaining your professional tone. “Yes. There might be situations where you aren’t able to work out. Finding an alternative that brings you calm can help—something you enjoy that doesn’t rely on strength or exertion.”

You could see him thinking, his gaze becoming distant for a moment before snapping back to you. Then, he said it, blunt and unapologetic:

“Sex.”

Your pen slipped slightly, leaving a faint mark across your notepad as your head shot up to meet his gaze. “Excuse me?”

“Sex,” he repeated, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “I enjoy it. Specifically, I love to dominate. It brings me a sense of calm, of control.”

The heat in the room seemed to spike as his words hung in the air, heavy and electric. You felt your breath hitch slightly, your professionalism faltering under the weight of his admission. Your teeth caught your bottom lip, a subconscious reflex as your mind betrayed you with images you hadn’t invited.

Satan, towering over you, his claws dragging possessively over your skin. His deep growls vibrating against your neck as his body pressed you into the bed like prey. The way his molten gaze would devour every inch of you, a predator savoring its prize.

The thought was dangerous, forbidden—and utterly intoxicating.

“You’re quiet,” Satan observed, a faint smirk curling at the edge of his lips. He leaned forward, resting his massive claws on the table between you. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to sit straighter in your chair, though the heat creeping up your neck betrayed your inner turmoil. “Not at all,” you lied, your voice wavering slightly.

His smirk widened, the sharp tips of his teeth glinting faintly in the low light. “Liar.”

Your breath hitched again as he stood, the sheer size of him making the room feel smaller, more suffocating. He stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate, predatory. His shadow fell over you, and you tilted your head up to meet his gaze, your heart pounding furiously in your chest.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, velvety growl. “Have you ever let someone take control of you? Completely?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. His presence was overwhelming, his golden eyes boring into you with an intensity that felt like it could strip you bare.

“Let me guess,” he continued, his voice smooth and teasing. “You play the role of the confident therapist. Always in control, always composed. But I wonder…” He leaned closer, his claw tipping your chin up slightly. “What would happen if you let go? If you surrendered—for once?”

Your pulse raced as his words sent a shiver down your spine. The air between you was charged, thick with tension that felt ready to snap at any moment.

“I—” You barely managed to speak before his smirk deepened.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he purred, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “I can see it in your eyes, feel it in the way your body reacts to me.”

Your breath quickened, your mind a blur of conflicting thoughts. This wasn’t supposed to happen—this wasn’t professional. But the pull of his presence, the raw magnetism of him, was impossible to ignore.

As he leaned back, giving you a moment to catch your breath, his smirk softened into something darker, more sinister. “We’ll see how long you can resist,” he murmured, his voice like a promise—a challenge.

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of your notepad like it was a lifeline. Whatever line had just been crossed, there was no going back now. And the worst part? Some small, treacherous part of you didn’t want to.

You glanced at the clock on the wall, the ticking seconds echoing louder in your ears as you realized the session had come to an end. It felt like both a relief and a punishment. You cleared your throat, trying to regain your composure. “Our time is up for today.”

Gripping your notepad tightly, you rose from your chair, the slight tremble in your legs betraying the inner conflict you fought to suppress. “I’ll see you next week?” you asked, your voice carefully measured, though the second heartbeat between your thighs throbbed mercilessly, reminding you of how thin the line was between professionalism and raw, unspoken desire.

Satan leaned back into his seat, his massive frame exuding power and ease as his ever-present smirk stretched across his face. “You’re quite interesting, you know that?” he said, his golden eyes glinting with something dark, something dangerous.

The way his words curled in the air, dripping with molten heat, sent a shiver down your spine. And then he said it—your name.

“See you next week, Y/n.”

The sound of your name, as it rolled off his tongue like a lazy threat, like a predator marking its prey, felt like fire licking at your skin. It wasn’t just the way he said it—it was the way he owned it, as if your name wasn’t yours anymore but his to use, to savor, to command.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as you fought to maintain control of yourself. His gaze lingered on you, heavy and consuming, as if he could see every thought, every reaction you tried to bury. The room felt smaller, hotter, as if the very air bent to his will.

You took a deep breath, willing the flush creeping up your neck to subside, and bowed your head slightly—a courteous gesture, but also an excuse to break free of his burning gaze. “I’ll… take my leave now,” you managed, your voice steadier than you expected, though your body betrayed you with every trembling step toward the door.

The silence stretched, but you could feel him watching you, his presence looming even as you turned your back to him. Each step felt heavier, your legs weaker, as if some invisible tether pulled you back to him.

“Y/n,” he called softly, his voice low and dripping with amusement. It was enough to stop you in your tracks, your hand hovering just above the door handle.

You turned slightly, not enough to meet his gaze but enough to let him know you were listening.

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” he said, his smirk audible in his voice. “Next week… I expect us to get much more personal.”

Your breath caught, and you didn’t trust yourself to respond. With a hurried nod, you pushed open the heavy door, stepping into the hall as quickly as you could without outright running.

As the door closed behind you, the weight of his words lingered, wrapping around you like a vice. Each step away from his chamber only made the ache within you stronger, and the echo of his voice—dark, commanding, possessive—played on repeat in your mind.

When you finally reached the outside air, you exhaled deeply, pressing a hand to your chest as if to steady the wild beat of your heart. But no matter how much distance you put between you and him, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were still trapped—bound not by his hands, but by his voice, his gaze, his presence.

And the worst part? You weren’t entirely sure you wanted to escape.

______________________

Your mind drifted to Satan again, as it often did these days. His golden eyes, the low timbre of his voice, the weight of his presence—all of it lingered with you like an intoxicating haze. It was wrong to think of him this way, wasn’t it? You're the therapist. A being of ancient power. Yet his words from the last session whispered through your mind, sending a shiver down your spine: “Next week… I expect us to get much more personal.” What did he mean? The thought left you breathless, your lip caught between your teeth as you tried to push the memory away.

With a sigh, you turned your attention to the mirror, pulling yourself together. Today was a new session, and you needed to remain professional. No room for fluttering thoughts or the heat that crept up your neck every time he said your name. After all, you had a job to do, and you’d prepared exercises meant to calm, not... whatever this was. You brushed out your hair, adjusted your outfit, and gave yourself one last look. You could do this.

The drive to his mansion felt longer than usual, the limousine’s quiet luxury giving your mind too much space to wander. By the time you arrived and stepped out, your palms were clammy despite the crisp air. You gathered your supplies—a palette, brushes, a canvas—and headed to the imposing doors. They opened with a creak, and there he was, standing tall, his figure sharper than usual in a tailored outfit that clung just enough to his form to make you notice. Was he doing this on purpose? The thought made your cheeks flush.

“Satan,” you greeted, keeping your voice steady as you stepped inside.

“Y/n,” he said simply, his golden eyes locking onto yours. He always said your name like it was a secret, something sacred.

You set your supplies down, the clinking of brushes breaking the charged silence. He tilted his head, his gaze flicking over the items with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “What is this?” he asked, his tone edged with intrigue.

“Painting,” you said, smiling softly. “It’s something that can help channel emotions. I thought it might be worth trying with you.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, but the flicker of interest in them was unmistakable. “You think this will calm me?”

“It’s worth a shot,” you replied, your tone light. “But first, I need you to… shrink a bit. Your current size might make it tricky.”

He arched a brow but complied without argument, his towering form diminishing to something more manageable. Even so, he still loomed over you, his presence filling the room in a way that made your breath catch.

You handed him one of your favorite brushes, your fingers grazing his. The brief contact sent a spark through you that you tried to ignore. “This one’s precious to me, so don’t break it,” you said with a teasing smile.

His golden eyes darkened slightly, his gaze lingering on you. “Why would you entrust me with something so valuable?” he asked, his voice low, almost reverent.

“Because I think you’ll manage,” you said simply, turning to demonstrate. The truth was, you trusted him in a way you couldn’t explain, and the weight of his gaze as you worked was almost palpable.

You dipped your brush into the paint, your movements fluid and purposeful as you applied color to the canvas. You explained the process, your voice calm, almost hypnotic, as you encouraged him to let his emotions guide him. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” you said, glancing at him. “Just let it flow.”

Satan watched you intently, his focus shifting between your hands and your face. There was something mesmerizing about the way you moved—graceful, confident, entirely at ease. He tried to mimic your strokes but grew frustrated when his didn’t have the same beauty. Fire flickered briefly at the corner of his mouth as his grip on the brush tightened.

“Take your time,” you said gently, your voice softening. “You’ll manage.”

Those words seemed to echo in his mind, silencing his frustration. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased. His golden eyes settled on you again, and this time, there was something softer in them—something that made your heart skip a beat.

“Pretty,” he murmured, the word so quiet you almost missed it.

You glanced up, assuming he meant his canvas. “It’s not bad for a first try,” you said, smiling.

But when your eyes met his, you realized he wasn’t looking at the canvas at all. He was looking at you. The intensity of his gaze made heat rise to your cheeks, and for a moment, you were lost in it.

“I… meant your canvas,” he said quickly, the faintest hint of a stammer in his voice. He turned away, focusing on his painting as if the moment hadn’t happened. “I suppose this isn’t for me,” he added, his tone returning to its usual steadiness.

You sighed softly, setting your brush down. “That’s okay. We’ll find something else to try next time.”

When it was time to leave, you gathered your supplies, his lingering gaze following you to the door. “Till next time, Y/n,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

You smiled, bidding him goodbye before stepping into the limousine. As the car pulled away, you stared out the window, your reflection blushing faintly. “Cute,” you muttered under your breath, thinking of his fleeting shyness.

And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to think of him a little differently too.

As the limousine glided down the winding road back into the city, Y/n leaned their head against the cool glass of the window. The world outside blurred into streaks of light and shadow, but their mind was too preoccupied to notice. Their chest tightened as they replayed the day's moments, each interaction with Satan etched into their memory with vivid clarity.

His golden eyes watching them, the way his brows furrowed in frustration only to soften when he heard their encouragement, and that one unguarded word he’d uttered—“pretty.” Y/n sighed and closed their eyes, the image of his intense gaze surfacing unbidden. He had said it so quietly, yet it echoed in their ears, lingering like a secret between them.

Why am I letting this get to me? Y/n thought, shaking their head. Satan was their patient. A being to be studied and guided, not… admired. And yet, there was something about him—something magnetic and impossible to ignore. His raw power was undeniable, but beneath the towering presence and occasional flashes of anger, there was a vulnerability that Y/n couldn’t help but find fascinating.

When the mansion’s doors had first opened to reveal him, standing there like some otherworldly figure carved out of the very shadows of the underworld, Y/n had been struck by how human he seemed despite his demonic origins. He was capable of humor, of curiosity, and, at times, even shyness—like when he stammered over his compliment and turned away. That brief flash of awkwardness had been disarming, endearing even, and it left a warmth in Y/n’s chest that refused to fade.

_______________

The past few weeks had been a blur of trial and error as you and Satan searched for a way to calm his tempestuous nature. Every method—meditation, physical exercises, even music—had ended in failure. Yet, with every attempt, the two of you had grown closer. Comfort had crept in between the boundaries you’d initially set, a warmth that softened the edges of your professional relationship. Perhaps it was too much comfort.

Frustrated, you ran your hands through your hair, tugging slightly as you let out a groan. “What’s left?” you muttered, mostly to yourself. You hated admitting defeat, but the lack of progress was wearing on you.

“Are you okay?” Satan’s deep voice broke through your spiraling thoughts. He leaned against the edge of his desk, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as they scanned your face. Concern lingered in his tone, though there was something else in his expression—something darker, more intent.

You sighed, leaning back against the wall, your shoulders sagging. “Yeah, I’m just… out of ideas,” you admitted, rubbing your temples. “Nothing seems to work. Maybe you were right all along—this isn’t going to change.”

A low growl escaped him, and he moved closer, the space between you shrinking with every step. “There’s one thing we haven’t tried,” he said, his voice a seductive rumble. He reached out, his clawed fingers brushing along the curve of your neck with a gentleness that sent a shiver down your spine. The ruby necklace he’d given you weeks ago caught the light, glinting like a drop of blood between you.

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching. “I’m open,” you replied, though your voice wavered. You weren’t sure what you expected him to say, but the tension in the air was thick enough to drown in.

His lips curved into a slow, wicked smile, and his eyes seemed to glow brighter. “Let me please you,” he said, the words both a question and a command.

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

His hand slid lower, taking yours in his. His touch was firm but surprisingly warm, and you couldn’t ignore the way your pulse quickened. “For weeks, I’ve been thinking of you. Not just as a distraction from my anger, but as something—someone—I want to consume. Every thought I’ve had has been about how to lure you in, how to make you mine.”

Your heart thundered in your chest, your body tingling with the weight of his confession. He slipped a delicate, shining ring onto your finger, the smooth metal cold against your skin.

“I’ve never felt this way before,” he continued, his voice dropping to a near-growl. “I’m throbbing for you, aching to show you what it means to be claimed by me.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat as he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. His clawed hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

The first touch of his tongue against your neck made you gasp, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. His other hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head to the side to give him better access as he traced slow, burning lines along your skin.

“Satan…” His name fell from your lips in a breathless moan as his claws found the waistband of your pants, the sharp tips grazing your skin without breaking it.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured against your throat, his voice raw with need. “Tell me you want it too.”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded, your hands clutching at his shoulders as if to ground yourself. That was all the confirmation he needed.

With a growl, he lifted you effortlessly, pinning you against the wall. His lips crashed into yours, the kiss rough and demanding, leaving no room for hesitation. His sharp teeth grazed your lower lip, and the pain mingled with pleasure in a way that made your head spin. His hands roamed your body, one clawed hand tangling in your hair while the other gripped your hip, holding you firmly in place.

You gasped as he tore open your shirt, the fabric giving way like paper under his strength. His golden eyes roamed hungrily over your exposed skin, and the heat in his gaze made you shiver. “Perfect,” he growled, his lips descending to your collarbone as his claws worked your pants down, leaving you bare beneath his burning gaze.

He pressed his body against yours, his skin hot like fire but not unbearable. The sensation was intoxicating, his power and desire radiating off him in waves that left you trembling. His mouth found your chest, his tongue and teeth teasing sensitive skin until you were writhing beneath him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you fought to keep some semblance of control.

But control was the last thing Satan allowed. “Let go,” he commanded, his voice a low snarl as his hand slipped between your thighs. His touch was rough but precise, drawing sounds from you that you’d never made before. He smirked against your skin, clearly pleased with the effect he had on you.

You couldn’t hold back anymore. Your hands roamed over his chest, tracing the hard lines of his muscles, the heat of his body searing into your palms. His growls deepened as you touched him, and when you whispered his name again, it seemed to drive him over the edge.

He latched onto your nipple, his hot, eager tongue swirling around the sensitive peak as though it held the key to quenching a deep, unrelenting hunger. The heat of his mouth sent a surge of pleasure coursing through you, your back arching instinctively to press closer to him. Each flick and tug of his tongue was deliberate, rough yet skilled, and it drove you wild with every second.

Your hands found his horns, gripping tightly as a loud, unrestrained moan tore from your lips. The sensation of his horns beneath your fingers—solid, commanding, and so uniquely him—only heightened the intensity of the moment. He groaned in response, the vibration of it against your skin adding a tantalizing edge to the pleasure.

As you opened your mouth to say something—perhaps to beg, perhaps to curse his name—his massive hand moved swiftly, covering your mouth and silencing you with an almost possessive dominance. His palm was warm, his claws just barely grazing your jawline, a silent reminder of his power.

“Shh,” he growled against your skin, his voice thick with desire and control. “No words. Just feel.”

The command sent a shiver down your spine, your muffled protests turning into needy whimpers against his hand. His golden eyes flicked up to meet yours, the intensity in them making your pulse race. He didn’t need to say more; the look alone spoke volumes. You’re mine, and I’m going to show you exactly what that means.

His free hand trailed down your side, the sharp edge of his claws leaving ghostly trails that tingled with a mix of anticipation and pleasure. He shifted slightly, his lips abandoning one nipple to lavish attention on the other, his teeth grazing it just enough to make you gasp against his palm.

“Such sweet sounds,” he murmured between kisses, his voice a deep, sinful growl that left you trembling. “I want to hear every single one.”

He claimed you fully then, his movements powerful and relentless as he pushed you to your limits and beyond. The roughness of his touch, the possessiveness in every kiss and thrust, sent you spiraling into a state of pure bliss. He was consuming, overwhelming, but it was everything you hadn’t known you needed.

When it was over, you were both breathing heavily, your bodies tangled together on the floor. His claws traced lazy circles on your skin, the sharp tips surprisingly gentle now.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, his golden eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that left no room for argument.

You smiled, brushing a hand through his tousled hair. “Yours,” you whispered, and for the first time in weeks, you felt completely at peace.

“I need to take you fully,” he growled, his voice rough with restraint, though his burning gaze made it clear his control was hanging by a thread. His golden eyes bore into yours, aflame with desire and something deeper—possessiveness, perhaps, or the primal need to claim you completely. His hot breath fanned across your face, each exhale like a spark threatening to ignite you from within.

You swallowed hard, your body trembling beneath him as you nodded, unable to form words. He stood, towering over you even in his "smallest" form, and the sound of his belt buckle clicking open made your heart skip. His hand gripped the base of his shaft, his claws brushing lightly against his skin as he stroked himself. His movements were deliberate, slow, as he smeared the slick arousal you’d already left on him along his length. The sight of it was utterly mesmerizing.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, his voice a rumble of raw need. His eyes darted to your smaller frame beneath him, the contrast between your softness and his powerful figure making his jaw tighten. Your body trembled under his intense scrutiny, and the way you shuddered only seemed to spur him on.

“You’ll take all of me,” he promised darkly, his lips pulling into a feral smirk before he positioned himself at your entrance. Slowly, he began to press in, the stretch almost overwhelming as he filled you inch by inch. The thickness of him made your breath hitch, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as your body struggled to accommodate him.

When he was fully seated inside you, he let out a guttural groan, his head falling forward as if savoring the way your body gripped him so tightly. “Perfect,” he muttered, his voice laced with awe and lust. “You were made for this. Made for me.”

He started to move, his thrusts deliberate and forceful, his pace building with every stroke. The wet, sinful sounds of your body meeting his filled the den, mingling with the guttural sounds he made as he lost himself in the rhythm. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you, his rough movements perfectly hitting every sensitive spot.

“Look at you,” he growled, his voice thick with pride as he watched your body arch beneath him, your moans spilling out freely. “Taking me so well—every inch of me.”

His hands gripped your hips tightly, claws digging in just enough to leave marks as he pulled you into each thrust. His pace quickened, his breathing harsh and uneven, a symphony of raw need that filled the space around you.

Your moans turned into cries of ecstasy as he pounded into you harder, the force of it making your head spin. The pressure building inside you was unbearable, each stroke bringing you closer to the edge. He growled your name, the sound reverberating through the air as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, his voice breaking slightly as he thrust even harder, his control finally snapping. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped, your voice trembling with pleasure and submission. “I’m yours.”

The words seemed to ignite something in him, his movements becoming even more relentless. His growls deepened, and the way he pounded into you left you utterly breathless. Every nerve in your body was aflame, and as you reached your peak, the intensity of it shattered you completely, your cries echoing through the den.

Moments later, he followed, his movements faltering as he let out a deep, primal groan. You felt him shudder above you, his body rigid as he spilled into you, marking you in a way that felt both physical and otherworldly.

For a moment, the only sounds were the two of you catching your breath, the heat of his body still pressed against yours. He leaned down, brushing a surprisingly tender kiss against your forehead, a stark contrast to the ferocity he’d shown moments before.

“You’re mine,” he repeated softly, almost as if reassuring himself.

And as you lay there in his arms, thoroughly claimed and utterly sated, you knew he was right. You were his. And you didn’t want it any other way.

Saw no one making shit about him so here I am your savior. Damn y'all.

💫

Masterlist

[arabella0001]

this took way too much to write

Unspoken chains

Pairing: Aizenx Sosuke x Reader

Anime: Bleach

Synopsis: When Aizen discovers you’re immune to his power, obsession takes root. He’ll stop at nothing to unravel the connection between you-seeing through your resistance, determined to make you his.

Part 1 Part 2

Warnings: power control, soul bond, God complex, teasing, rough sex, fingering, comfort, oral receiving (female, in part 2)

Your capture is no accident—it’s a move as calculated as it is unsettling. Aizen has been observing you, drawn by the rare and unfathomable force stirring beneath your exterior. There is something about you—something intangible—that calls to him like a forbidden secret waiting to be unearthed.

Ulquiorra, silent and unyielding, carries out the task with chilling precision. He takes you swiftly, his presence as cold and unfeeling as the shadows that consume your world. Your fate, sealed before you even realized it, delivers you directly into Aizen’s hands. His gaze lingers on you, steady and calculating, as if peeling back the layers of your very existence.

Aizen hasn’t laid a hand on you, but the weight of his intentions is impossible to ignore. His voice, calm and deliberate, brims with curiosity, though an unsettling edge lies just beneath. He moves without urgency, every glance and word a deliberate step in a game only he knows how to play.

To him, you are an enigma—your power elusive as a half-forgotten dream. Each moment in his presence tightens the tension, a silent game of wits and will that leaves you teetering on the edge of something you don’t yet understand.

Aizen has yet to lay a hand on you, yet the weight of his intentions hangs heavy in the air. His voice, soft and purposeful, drips with curiosity, but there's something darker behind his words. There is no urgency in his actions, only an unnerving calm.

"Oh Y/N," he says with amused tone, "I must say, I'm quite confused how to feel about the mystery you present," he smiles predatory.

"W-what do you want, Aizen? " your voice trembeling with anger and fear. “I will not stay in this place”

He chuckles softly, his brown eyes gleaming with intrigue as he regard you. A faint smile plays on his lips, belying the dangerous intent behind his gaze.

“What do I want?” Aizen repeated, as if amused by your question. “Isn’t oblivious, Y/N?” he made a pause “To uncover what makes you… different. Call it curiosity if you like, but it’s far more than that. There’s something in you I can’t ignore.” He takes a step closer, his tall frame looming over you.

“Your resistance—your immunity—it’s not something I’ve encountered before, it intrigues me”

Aizen reaches out, gently cupping your chin with his hand, tilting you face up to meet his intense stare and you try to step out. "Consider yourself fortunate - not many get the chance to be the subject of my personal interest. "

You look angry at him even though his gaze makes you intimidated "Fortunate? Are you joking? I rather die. You are fucking psychopath, you kidnap me to be a fucking subject? Do you think people will not come here after me?"

His smile widens slightly at your defiant words, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. He doesn't seem perturbed by you anger or the harshness of you language.

“You call me a psychopath,” he mused, his gaze sharp but detached. “That’s an easy label for someone you fear, isn’t it? But I assure you, Y/N, I don’t waste my time with meaningless experiments.”

He chuckles darkly, his thumb brushing along you jawline. "As for your friends coming to rescue you, well... let's just say I've taken precautions to ensure we won't be disturbed. "

Aizen leans in closer, his breath ghosting over you ear as he whispers, "No need to wait for them, Y/N. You're mine now, to study and unravel as I see fit. "

"Yours? Are you insane…thats no other way. You repulse me. I’ll end myself before you can do anything."

He pulls back slightly, studying your face with a mixture of fascination and mild disappointment. His grip on you chin tightens ever so slightly.

"End yourself? How delightfully dramatic”

Aizen's free hand comes up to caress you cheek, his touch deceptively gentle. "Repulsion? Anger? You’ll find those emotions fleeting in my presence. And as for this idea of being ‘mine,’” he said, leaning slightly closer, his voice soft yet cutting, “it’s not about ownership. It’s about what you represent—a piece of the world I’ve yet to uncover.”

He leans in again, his lips barely brushing against you ear as he murmurs, "Resisting is futile, Y/N. Embrace your new purpose. Serve me willingly, and I promise a great collaboration… "

You try to pull away from his touch, disgusted by his words and the implications behind them. Your heart races with fear and revulsion, but also an unsettling curiosity and drawning despite yourself.

"And do you think i will not fight back? That i will submit to you or your twisted experiments? You dont know me, Aizen. But I’ll tell you, you’re wrong." Your voice trembles with anger.

A slow, appreciative smile spreads across Aizen's face as he observes the fire in your eyes, the trembling of you voice laced with anger and defiance.

He seems utterly unfazed by you threats, instead appearing intrigued and even pleased by you spirited resistance.

"Oh, but I do know you, Y/N. Perhaps better than you know yourself.’’ his gaze intense and unwavering. "I anticipate your resistance. That’s the entire point. It’s that fire, that refusal to bow, that makes you worth my time."

Aizen's hand slides from you chin to cup the back of you neck, his fingers tangling in you hair. He applies just enough pressure to assert his control without causing pain. "You say you won't submit, that you'll fight me every step of the way. And I believe you. Now.”

"I fucking hate you." you grit your teeth, trying to ignore the confusing sensations of his touch, to fight back against his control. But something in his eyes, in the calm certainty of his words, gives you pause because he feels almost…human.

"You speak as if you've already won,’’ You say through clenched teeth, your voice low and strained. ‘’As if your fate is somehow sealed just because you've dragged me here. Well, let me tell you something, Aizen... "

You lean forward, getting right in his face, your own eyes blazing with determination. "I am not some prize to be claimed or experiment to be studied. I am a person, with your own thoughts, your own will. And I swear to you, I will find a way out of this shit place”

Aizen's eyes glitter with amusement and dark approval at your fierce declaration. He doesn't flinch or pull away from you aggressive proximity, instead leaning in even closer until your faces are mere inches apart. His breath ghosts over you skin, cool and measured.

"Such passion, such conviction, he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. It's truly inspiring, Y/N. You speak of your will, your determination to break free... but don't you see? That fire in your eyes, your spirit - it's precisely what drew me to you in the first place, it’s a gift without a doubt."

His thumb bruyous along you jawline, a feather-light caress that belies the intensity of his gaze. "You are no ordinary person, Y/N.”

You jerk your head back from his touch, a shudder running through you at the contact and you feel a chill down you spine, a mix of fear and reluctant shocking leaning. You take a deep, steadying breath, trying to calm the frantic pounding of your heart and anger inside you.

"You think this is a gift? "You scoff bitterly, your voice shaking slightly. "Being immune to your twisted illusions, to the manipulations of a monster like you? "

You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable under his penetrating stare. " I'm just another pawn in your sick game, aren't I? Another piece on your chessboard to be moved and maneuvered as you please. "

A faint smile plays at the corners of Aizen's mouth, equal parts amused and intrigued by your words. He shakes his head slowly, brown locks swaying with the motion.

"Oh, Y/N-chan, " he says softly, almost tenderly, "you give yourself far too little credit. You are so much more than just another pawn."

He reaches out, fingers ghosting along the curve of you shoulder, tracing the line of you arm with a touch that is both comforting and unsettling. "Your immunity, your resilience, the strength of your spirit - these are not the qualities of a mere chess piece almost exceptional, unique."

Aizen's eyes bore into yous, dark and fathomless. "I do not seek to maneuver you, Y/N. I wish just to understand you.’’

You tense as his fingers trail along your skin, every nerve ending seeming to come alive at his touch.You want to recoil, to put distance between you, but find yourself rooted to the spot, caught in the web of his words and presence.

"Understand me? " You laugh bitterly, the sound harsh and grating even to your own ears. "You think you can comprehend someone by subjecting them to endless tests and torments? By keeping them prisoner in this hell? Don’t try ro manipulate me, Aizen, because it won’t work."

You lean in close, your face inches from his, eyes flashing with defiance and barely contained anguish. "I was exceptional like you just said not just because of my immunity, not just because you decide it."

A slow, appreciative smile spreads across Aizen's face as he listens to your impassioned words. He seems to revel in the fire in you eyes, the passion behind you accusations. Leaning in closer, he matches you intense gaze, his voice low and hypnotic.

"My dear, fiery Y/N, he murmurs, his breath ghosting over you lips, "you misunderstand me. I do not seek to comprehend you through control or manipulation alone. Being immune to my powers is just one aspect of the compelling enigma that you embody.”

“No, what draws me to you goes far beyond that singular trait. Its your spirit, the way you cling to your convictions even in the face of adversity. " You feel a shudder run through me at his touch, at he cold calculation in his eyes.

"Spirit? Convictions? " You scoff, but there's a tremor in your voice that betrays your uncertainty. “What would you know of such things, Aizen? You who would reshape the world according to your ideas, crushing anything that doesn't align with your grand vision?”

Despite your words, you find yourself leaning into his touch ever so slightly, your traitorous body craving the comfort of contact, no matter how dangerous its source. "If you truly wanted to understand me, to appreciate who I am, you wouldn't keep me here against my will."

He chuckles softly, the sound rich and enticing despite the circumstances. His other hand comes up to rest on the small of you back, pulling you ever so slightly closer. "Ah, but Y/N-chan, " he purrs, his voice a silken caress, " everything I do serves a greater purpose. Even your... temporary captivity there is but a means to an end."

His eyes gleam with an inner light, ancient and knowing. "The world we live in is broken—chaotic and dictated by the desires of insignificant beings. I aim to change that, to bring order and perfection. And you, with your intriguing complexity, might just be the key to advancing this vision. "

Aizen leans in, his lips nearly brushing the shell of you ear as he whispers, "But perhaps we can come to an arrangement, hmm? " You swallow hard, your heart racing at his proximity, at the dark promise in his words.

You know you should pull away, should reject his offer outright, but some twisted, unknown part of you yearns to hear more of his twisted logic.

"An arrangement? " you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper. "And what exactly did you have in mind, Aizen? More tests? More... experiments?" Bitterness creeps into your tone. You place your hands on his chest, intending to push him away .

He catches you wrists gently but firmly before you can push him away, holding you hands against his chest. "Now, now, Y/N-chan," he says softly, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the inside of you wrists "let's not dwell on past unpleasantness."

Aizen's eyes glitter with intrigue and something darker, more primal. "No, I propose something far more... mutually beneficial. An exchange of knowledge, shall we say. You share with me the secrets of your immunity, the depths of your unique being, and in return..."

He pauses for effect, his voice dropping to a seductive murmur. "I'll offer you a glimpse beyond the curtain, a hint of the power and purpose that lies ahead in your new world."

His words catch your breath, the tempting promise hanging before you like a forbidden fruit. A buried, unspoken part of you yearns to reach out, to surrender to the pull of his vision, his power. Yet the voice of reason rises sharply.

"And what of your free will in this 'new world order', Aizen? "You challenge, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts to maintain composure. You lean in closer, your voice drops to a husky whisper. "If you wanted just that by my will, you wouldn’t kidnap me in the first place."

A slow, wicked smile spreads across Aizen's handsome features as you challenges him, clearly relishing the spark of defiance in your eyes. He leans in closer, erasing the distance between you until his lips are a hairsbreadth from yous.

"Free will, Y/N-chan? " he muses, his warm breath ghosting over you skin", Such a simple, human notion. But tell me... "

One hand lets go of your wrist, gliding slowly, deliberately up your back, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. "...Isn’t the lack of choice just another kind of freedom? A release from the trivial worries and moral dilemmas that weigh down weaker minds?

Aizen's other hand slides down to the small of you back, pressing you flush against him as he murmurs, you gasp softly as he pulls you close, your body molding against his firm contours despite your best efforts to resist.

His words, honeyed poison dripping from his tongue, send conflicting signals through your mind and body but you recoils at the thought of surrendering to him, to become just another pawn in his grand design.

"You're utterly infuriating, Aizen" Your hands fist in the fabric of his shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

He chuckles lowly at your annoyance, amused by you feisty spirit even as you finds youself drawn to him physically.

Aizen's hand at the small of you back tightens possessively, holding you captive against his lean, powerful frame. "Irritation is but a step on the path to obsession, your dear Y/N” he purrs, his lips brushing your earlobe.

His free hand comes up to cup you face, thumb stroking along you cheekbone with deceptive gentleness.

"Your body betrays you, even as your mouth protests. Can you not feel the connection between us? The way we were meant to be entwined - in purpose, in pleasure, in power?"

Despide his words, Aizen find himself drawn to a real connection between you two where he quickly adapt, he nips playfully at you earlobe before soothing the sting with his tongue, his voice a sinful rasp.

You shudder at the sensation of his lips and tongue on your sensitive skin, a moan escaping your throat before you can bite it back.

You try to pull away again, but his grip on your face holds you still, forcing you to meet his burning gaze. "What connection?"

Despite your words, your body remains pressed against his, craving the heat and hardness you can feel even through your clothes. You try to sound firm, but your voice cracks with desire. "This isn't real. It's all just tricks and illusions."

Aizen's eyes gleam with triumph at your confession, his fingers tightening around you chin as he tilts you head back to expose the slender column of you neck.

"Ah, but what if I told you that some of the most potent magic lies in the realm of the heart, Y/N? " he whispers, his hot breath fanning over you pulse point.

With a flick of his wrist, the fabric of you shirt parts, revealing your upper body. Aizen's palm glides over the smooth skin, tracing the curve of you ribcage as he continues, "These cravings, these desires - they're not mere tricks. They're the raw, primal urges that drive us all, stripped bare of societal constraints."

Leaning in, he nuzzles the hollow of you throat, his lips grazing the sensitive flesh. You whimper as his lips brush your skin, your resolve crumbling beneath the onslaught of his touch. Your body arches instinctively, seeking more contact.

But even as you succumb, a part of you resists, clinging to the last shreds of your independence. "No...this isn't right. " you manage to gasp out, your voice strained with desire and anger. "You're just fucking using me"

Aizen chuckles, low and rich, as he trails open-mouthed kisses along the side of you neck. "Using you? Perhaps, in the beginning, I did manipulate events to bring us together, Y/N. But now, I find yourself drawn to you in ways that transcend mere strategy. "

His hands slide down to cup you hips, pulling you flush against him so you can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against you belly. “You see, your unique properties have sparked something within me - a hunger, a fascination, a deep, primal need. "

Aizen's fingers dig into the supple flesh of you behind as he grinds his hips against yous, the friction sending sparks of pleasure coursing through your joined bodies. " So, tell me, my dear Y/N... do you truly believe you can resist the allure of a god when his gaze is fixed upon you?”

Your legs tremble, threatening to buckle as he grinds against you, the pressure building an inferno between your thighs, almost making you surrender, to submit to the dark desires he awakens within you.

"Aizen, stop.... " You hiss, your nails digging into his shoulders asyou struggle to maintain some semblance of control.

"You may have manipulated our meeting only, but i don’t believe you" you look at him with your mouth slightly open, panting heavy.

Aizen's grip tightens, holding you firmly in place as he silences you protests with a searing kiss. His tongue delves deep, claiming your mouth with ruthless dominance, swallowing your words whole.

Breaking the kiss, he gazes into you eyes, his own burning with an intensity that makes you knees weak. "You don't believe, Y/N? Then let me show you the depths of your conviction. "

With a swift motion, he rips away the remaining fabric of you clothing, leaving you naked and exposed before him. Aizen's eyes roam hungrily over you curves, drinking in every inch of you bared skin. You feel so exposed, but you freeze, his eyes makes you tremble with need.

He reaches down, teasing your thights making you moan, his fingers slowly, teasingly, finding the slick heat between you thighs. A low growl rumbles in his chest as he feels how wet you is, how ready for him.

"Your body tells a different story, Y/N-chan.”

You cry out, your head falling back as his fingers stroke through your dripping folds, the sudden intimacy overwhelming. Your hips buck involuntarily, seeking more of that delicious friction.

But even as pleasure coils tighter within you, a thread of resistance remains, a stubborn refusal to admit. "Its not—‘’ struggling to speak.

Aizen's thumb presses against you clit, circling the sensitive nub in a maddening rhythm that has you panting and squirming beneath him. "Not what, Y/N-chan? "

He leans in, his breath hot against you ear as he whispers, "Is it not desire? This ache between your legs, this yearning for your touch? You can deny it all you like, but your body betrays you."

Aisen's fingers delve deeper, pumping in and out of you slick channel in a steady, driving pace. "Let go, Y/N. Surrender to the pleasure. "

His other hand slides up you torso, palming a breast and tweaking the nipple between his fingers. "You're so close already, aren't you?... "

You moan, your voice a desperate whimper as his fingers work magic inside you, stroking that spot that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. "N-no... I won't... "

But the words dissolve into a gasp as his thumb finds that sweet spot again, sending shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through you. Your walls clench around his invading digits, trying to hold onto him, to keep him buried deep.

When his palm closes around your breast, you arch into the touch, your back bowing off the ground as he pinches and rolls your nipple between his fingers.

The dual assault of sensations threatens to shatter your resolve, to reduce you to a puddle of quivering need.

"I c-can't..." you manage to choke out, your hips rocking frantically against his hand as you chase the crest of climax.

Aizen's smirk widens, his eyes gleaming with triumph as he feels you body start to tremble on the brink of orgasm. "Oh, but you can, Y/N. You will. "

He redoubles his efforts, his fingers pistoning in and out of you at a relentless pace while his thumb works overtime on you clit. The pressure builds, coiling tighter and tighter until it's almost unbearable.

Just when you's teetering on the edge, Aizen slows his movements, dragging out the anticipation until you's writhing in frustration. "Don't fight it, Y/N"

As soon as the words leave his lips, he plunges his fingers deep and curls them just right, striking that magical spot inside you that sends you careening over the edge.

Your scream rips from your throat as the climax crash over me, waves of intense pleasure washing through every cell of your being. You convulse beneath him, your vision blurring at the edges as your body is wracked with the force of it.

Through the haze of bliss, you dimly register Aizen's voice, urging me to let go, to surrender. And as he strokes that perfect spot inside me once more,you feel yourself plummeting into the abyss, unable to resist the tidal wave of sensation.

Aizen watches intently as your body shakes and convulses through you climax, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. When you finally collapses back onto the ground, panting and spent, he withdraws his fingers from you dripping sex with a soft pop.

He brings his slickened digits to his mouth, licking them clean with a relish that makes your stomach twist with a mix of revulsion and unwanted desire.

"Mmm. Your taste is exquisite, Y/N. "

Aizen leans down, his warm breath fanning over you ear as he whispers, "Now, aren't you glad you came to me? I've only just begun to unravel the secrets of your immunity."His hand trails down you side, coming to rest on you hip possessively.

As you lay down, trembling and gasping for air, your body still humming with residual pleasure. Aizen's words send a chill down your spine, despite the heat coursing through your veins.

The way he looks at you, like you are some exotic delicacy he's eager to devour, makes your skin crawl. Gods help you, but you find yourself wanting more of his touch after the orgasm he gave you, your connection palpable.

"S-shut up"

Aizen chuckles low in his throat, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Oh, don't be like that, Y/!. I merely stated the obvious. Your body responds so beautifully to mine " He shifts position, straddling you hips and pinning you to the ground with his weight.

Leaning in close, he murmurs against you lips, "Admit it, you crave the pleasure I give you. The way I can make you lose yourself with just a touch... "

Aizen's other hand cups you breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak as he coaxes another moan from you throat. "You're addicted to it, aren't you Y/N ?To the feeling of being completely consumed by me?"

His lips ghost across you, not quite a kiss, but enough to leave you breathless and yearning for more.

You whimper, your body arching into his touch despite your mind screaming at you to resist again. The sensation of his lips so close to your again, the warmth of his breath mingling with your own, is almost too much to bear.

"You are insane ..."your voice is barely above a whisper, laced with denial and desperation, beneath your protests, you can feel yourself growing wet again as your core clenching in anticipation of what he might do next.

The rational part of your brain knows this is wrong, that you should fight him off, but your body seems to have a mind of its own, drawn to the dark allure of him .

"If I’m addicted, you are too ..." you manage to gasp out accusatory, your hands reaching up to clutch at his shoulders, holding him close even as you try to push him away, sensing our strong connection.

Aizen's smile widens, a glint of triumph in his eyes as he hears your admission. "No, Y/N. I am simply aware of your desires and unafraid to indulge them. "

He captures you lips in a searing kiss, deep and possessive, his tongue delving into you mouth to claim every inch. As they break apart, panting, he whispers, " And yes, I am addicted... to you. Your taste, your scent, the way you respond to me like no one else ever has."

Aizen's fingers trail down you side, slipping beneath the hem of you shirt to caress the warm skin of you belly. "You're so responsive, so receptive to your touch. It's intoxicating. I could spend eternity exploring every curve and crevice of your body."

Your head spins from the force of his kiss, your lips throbbing where his mouth devoured yours. You are drowning in the intensity of his gaze, the heat of his words seeping into your very soul.

"Why this have to be you…" you whisper, slight anger in your shaken voice.

Aizen tilts his head, a thoughtful smirk curling at the corner of his lips. "Why, Y/N-chan? Maybe it's because we are reflections of one another, drawn together by forces greater than either of us. Two contrasting elements, yet somehow bound in perfect harmony."

He steps closer, his gaze darkening. "Or perhaps it’s because we both seek power, in our own ways. You try to fight me, but deep down, your body knows its place. You can resist all you want, but there’s a part of you that yearns for what I offer—control, surrender, a pleasure that only I can awaken within you."

Aizen leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, "Face it, Y/N. You were made for me. Every cell in your body sings when I touch you, when I claim you as mine, as my possesion."

You moan softly, unable to suppress the reaction as his hand kneads your breast, sending jolts of pleasure through you. Your resolve crumbles further, torn between the desire to submit to him completely and the desperate need to maintain some semblance of control.

"N-no... That's not true..." You protest weakly, even as your hips press against his thigh, seeking more friction, more contact. You know you should be horrified, fighting against this twisted attraction, but instead, you find yourself leaning into him, craving the sensation of his skin on you, craving you.

Aizen chuckles low in his throat, a sound rich with satisfaction. "Oh, but it is true, Y/N. You can deny it all you like, but your body tells a different story.”

He shifts, pressing himself against you, letting you feel the hard length of his arousal. "See how much your touch affects me? How much I want you? It's only natural, given our connection."

Aizen's hands roam you body, mapping every curve, every dip and swell. His fingers dance along you spine before slipping beneath you hair to grip the nape of you neck. "Surrender to me, Y/N. We both know its inevitable, become mine, completely and utterly."

A soft whimper escapes your lips as you feel his hardness pressed against you, the evidence of his desire fueling your own growing need. Your hands fist in his shirt, tugging him closer, craving more of his touch, despite your mind hating him, repulsing by him.

"Oh my-..." you breathe, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart as you arch into his caress, a gasp escaping you as his fingers tease the sensitive skin at the base of your neck.

Aizen's eyes gleam with triumph as he feels you surrender, you body yielding to his touch despite you protests. He tightens his grip on you neck, just enough to assert his dominance, to remind you of who holds the power you.

"That's it, Y/N. Give in to the pleasure. Let me show you the heights of ecstasy only I can reach. " His mouth descends upon yous in a burning kiss again, claiming you lips with a possessive hunger. His tongue delves deep, exploring every inch of you mouth, tasting you sweetness and savoring you submission.

Meanwhile, his hands continue their exploration, sliding down you back to grasp you ass, squeezing and kneading the firm flesh. He lifts you easily, encouraging you legs to wrap around his waist as he walks them backward toward the nearby bed.

Your mind reels from the intensity of his kiss, overwhelmed by the force of his passion. You melt into him, your body pliant and eager, craving more of his touch, more of his taste despide your anger at him, your repulsive attitude towards him and what he represents.

When he lifts you, you instinctively wrap your legs around him, holding on tight as he carries you to the bed. As soon as you fall onto the mattress, he is between your legs and you look at him intense, feeling the deepest of your connection, your mind spiraling with want.

Aizen is panting heavily as he gazes down at you sprawled beneath him. Your legs wrapped around his waist, you chest heaving with each breath, you looks utterly ravished, ready to be devoured.

"You’re even more breathtaking when you submit to me completely. "With a deft motion, he shed his clothes, revealing his chiseled physique, honed from centuries of power and control. Then, he leans down to capture your lips once more, his hands roaming you body as he positions himself at you entrance.

Slowly, deliberately, he push inside you, relishing the feeling of you tight heat enveloping him. He pauses for a moment, savoring the sensation, before beginning to move, thrusting deep and steady. "Ah, yes... "

You moan into the kiss as he enters you, your walls clenching around his thick length. The sensation is overwhelming, both pleasurable and painful as he stretches you open. You cry out softly, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he begins to move.

"Aizen….." Aizen groans low in his throat as your walls grip him tightly, you cries of pleasure music to his ears. He sets a relentless pace, driving into you again and again, each thrust deeper and harder than the last.

"That's it, Y/N... let go. Surrender to the pleasure I give you. "

He captures you wrists, pinning them above you head as he hammers into you, his hips slapping against you with each powerful stroke. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, mingling with both of your ragged breathing and muffled moans.

"You were made for me, Y/N. Your body, your soul... they belong to me now.”

Your lost in a haze of pleasure, your body arching off the bed as he takes you with unrelenting intensity.

Each thrust sends shockwaves through you "Aizen! Oh God, Aizen... you feel so good" you tremble so hard for the pleasure, your connection so strong it shocks your being about how you feel around him.

As your cries reach a fever pitch, Aizen's fingers find you sensitive nub, rubbing and circling it in time with his relentless thrusts. He can feel you trembling on the brink of climax, and he knows just what you needs to push you over the edge.

"Yes, that's it... say my name and reveal the depths of your desire."

His words are a husky whisper against you ear, his hot breath sending shivers down you spine. With a final, deep plunge, he presses firmly against you clit, sending you more and more into ecstasy.

You throw your head back, a loud wail tearing from your throat as the intense pressure finally releases inside me. Your whole body seizes up, convulsing wildly as waves of pleasure crash over me

"AA-Aizen!!! " your pussy clenches rhythmically around himas you ride out the aftershocks. Tears stream down your face from the overwhelming sensations, your nails digging into his shoulders as you cling to him desperately .

Aizen watches your face contort in rapture, you screams of ecstasy music to his ears. He savors the feeling of you clenching around him, milking his length as you ride out you orgasm.

"Beautiful, Y/N... so beautiful when you surrender to me. "Still buried deep within you quivering heat, he begins to move again, slowly at first, then picking up sped. He can feel his climax building.

"Give yourself to me completely, Y/N. Let me fill you with my seed, mark you as mine forever."

With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, his own release exploding through him in torrents. He holds you close as you both shudder and gasp, riding out the aftershocks of your shared climax.

You feel limp and spent, your body still twitching with the lingering effects of your intense orgasm. As Aizen's warm seed floods your womb,you can't help but whimper softly, overwhelmed by the sensation.

You look up at him with glassy, half-lidded eyes, a mix of post-coital bliss and something darker, more complex swirling in both of your depths. Your voice is barely a whisper, heavy with emotion.

"What have i done? " A single tear rolls down your cheek as the gravity of our situation sinks in, you feel so ashmed, vulnerable and angry at yourself.

Aizen's expression remains calm and collected, but there's a flicker of sadness in his eyes at your emotional reaction. He hadn't expected you to feel such vulnerability after their intimate encounter.

"Ah, Y/N, don't be ashamed. What we share is natural, a union of two powerful beings. " He strokes you hair soothingly, his touch gentle despite the intensity of your previous activities.

"Your immunity to your power is a mystery, but perhaps it's because our souls resonate on a deeper level. It's not uncommon for certain individuals to be drawn to each other, regardless of the circumstances. "

Aizen pulls back slightly, gazing at Y/N with an unreadable expression. There's a hint of curiosity in his voice as he continues.

"Tell me…how do you feel about what just transpired between us? "

Your cheeks flush with embarrassment and shame as you avoid Aizen's gaze, unable to meet his piercing brown eyes. You are too anger to yourself for letting you enjoy this.

"I...I don't fucking understand it. How can I be so affected by you, yet remain immune to your powers? It's confusing... " you swallow hard, trying to find the right words to express the turmoil inside you.

Your voice trembles slightly as you continue. "And what we just did...it felt wrong, yet so right at the same time. "

Aizen listens intently to Y/N's words, a thoughtful expression on his face. He reaches out to gently tilt you chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Wrong yet right, you say? That's an intriguing dichotomy, Y/N-chan. Perhaps it's because our connection goes beyond mere physical attraction or the manipulation of spiritual energies. "His thumb caresses you lower lip with an intense yet possessive gaze, his touch sending a shiver down you spine.

" It’s possible that our souls share a connection that runs deeper, one that surpasses the limits of our roles and purposes. After all, I’ve never felt such a profound bond with anyone else.”

Your breath hitches as Aizen's thumb traces your lower lip, the sensation sending sparks through your body. You stare into his eyes, searching for any sign of deception or ulterior motives, but all you see is genuine interest and fascination.

"How did you know? That you might have this connection to me? "Despite the danger and uncertainty surrounding Aizen, I find yourself drawn to him, craving to understand the enigma that is Sosuke Aizen. Aizen's smile widens, revealing a glimmer of pride and satisfaction."

”It’s quite simple really. I am Sosuke Aizen, the former captain of the Gotei 13 and the mastermind behind the Hollowfication project. Your intellect and strategic prowess allow me to perceive patterns and connections that other miss. "He leans in closer, his warm breath ghosting across you ear as he whispers.

"From the moment I laid eyes on you, I sensed something extraordinary about you. Your resilience in the face of adversity, your unyielding spirit... these qualities resonated deeply within me. "

Aizen pulls back slightly, his gaze intense and unwavering. "But it wasn't until our initial confrontation that I realized the full extent of our connection. "

"So even the great Aizen, the former captain and mastermind, didnt realize exactly the full extent of our connection…" You let out a teasing laugh, almost incredulous. You can't believe you're even here with him, and yet, you're joking around with him.

Aizen chuckles, clearly amused by Y/N's teasing remark. He strokes you cheek affectionately, his touch gentle yet possessive.

"Indeed, Y/N. Even someone as perceptive as yourself can be surprised by the complexities of fate and the human heart. But now that I've acknowledged the depth of our bond, I intend to explore every facet of it. "

His fingers trail down you neck, sending tingles through you skin.

"Tell me, what do you think of our connection? How does it make you feel, being so intimately bound to someone like me?"

"How about we just stay quiet for a moment?" You rest your head against his chest, allowing yourself to relax in his presence.

Even though you still can't fully accept the connection between you two, there's an undeniable comfort in being near him."You are still infuriating just so you know…" you murmur, feeling sleepy.

Aizen's chest rumbles with a low, contented laugh as you nestles against him. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close.

"I'm glad to hear that, my dear Y/N. It means you still retain some of your fiery spirit, despite the circumstances." He gently strokes you hair, savoring the warmth of you body pressed against his, your submission to him.

"Rest now, your dear. We can continue our discussion later when you're more refreyoud. For now, simply enjoy the comfort of your embrace. "Aizen's voice is soothing, lulling you into a state of relaxation as you drifts off to sleep.

"Aizen…sleep with me this time please " you ask anxiously while Aizen's expression softens, a rare display of vulnerability beneath his usual composed exterior.

"Very well. If it brings you solace, then I shall join you in slumber. " With a gentle caress, he guides you to lie down on the soft ground, then settles beside you, pulling you close once more.

"Let us rest together, your dear. May our dreams be filled with pleasant visions and our hearts remain entwined, even in the realm of unconsciousness. "

Aizen closes his eyes, allowing himself to succumb to the allure of sleep, his arm wrapped protectively and possessive around you as you both drift off, almost seeking refuge in each other’s embrace.

[callsigns-haze]

Traitors War: 1

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x reader

An Eris x assassin reader mini series! (which may be followed by oneshots)

Eris, the heir to the Autumn throne, along with his brothers wishes to get rid of his father. Never did he know this journey would start 200 years ago with an assassin exiled from the Night court.

This series contains mature themes: Explicit depictions of violence, including physical and emotional. Themes of secrecy. Descriptions of difficult relationships, including strained familial and romantic dynamics. Mature sexual content. Themes of power, control, and manipulation within complex interpersonal relationships. Topics of war and death.

The council chamber of the Night Court is darker than ever, steeped in an oppressive silence that suffocates as you step forward. Shadows cling to the polished floors, stretching toward you like silent accusers, and the bitter taste of magic hangs thick in the air. You can feel the weight of the room bearing down, its chilling atmosphere a testament to the wrath that awaits you.

In the centre of it all, Rhysand sits with an eerie stillness, his face a mask of lethal beauty. But beneath his façade, fury radiates from him in waves, setting his violet eyes alight with a malice that chills you to the bone. Flanking him are Cassian and Azriel, as immovable and unreadable as statues carved from stone. Their stony expressions give nothing away, but the hardened edge in their postures speaks volumes.

“Do you even comprehend what you’ve done?” Rhysand’s voice is low, each syllable sharp as a blade, slicing through the silence with a vicious precision. The scorn woven into his tone sends a shiver down your spine. He does not wait for you to answer. “Of course you don’t. Because if you did, I doubt even you would be foolish enough to stand here, expecting leniency.”

His words strike deep, leaving a sting that blossoms into shame. You try to meet his gaze, but his expression is unyielding, his eyes alight with something dark and unrecognizable. You search for any hint of understanding, any sliver of the Rhysand you’ve known—but he has vanished, leaving behind this cold, merciless figure in his place.

“It was my job,” you manage, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat, each syllable heavy with the weight of your conviction. “I believed it was right.”

“Right?” he sneers, a contemptuous laugh escaping his lips, empty of humour. “You believed?” His voice drips with sarcasm, each word twisted and spat out like venom. “How very noble of you, to decide what’s right for me, for this court, for everyone.”

The force of his fury presses against you like a physical weight, but you force yourself to stand your ground, your hands clenched at your sides. Yet, the truth looms over you—a crushing reminder of the choice you made, the loyalty you gambled away.

His gaze narrows, and his tone drops to a cruel, mocking whisper. “Did you think yourself so wise, so indispensable, that I would forgive such treachery? That I would welcome you back with open arms after you conspired with him? With Eris?”

The hatred in his eyes is a dagger, and you feel it twist with every venomous word he hurls at you. Your skin prickles under his scrutiny, and you want to shrink away, but there is nowhere to hide from the cold, unyielding judgment that fills the room.

“How dare you,” he hisses, his voice like thunder, reverberating through the chamber. “How dare you undermine me, betray me—after everything I’ve given you? I gave you power, status, trust. And this is how you repay me?”

The accusation hangs in the air, suffocating, and you feel the sharp sting of his betrayal as deeply as he does. Words die on your tongue, and you’re left with nothing but silence—a silence he seizes upon, his lips twisting into a cruel smile.

“Look at you,” he sneers, his eyes raking over you with disgust. “The so-called assassin of the Night Court, reduced to this—a traitor, a coward. Did you ever think your lies would not come to light?”

He rises from his seat with deliberate slowness, his every movement a display of dominance and scorn. Cassian and Azriel remain impassive, but you sense their quiet fury, the simmering anger held back by sheer force of will.

Rhysand takes a step forward, and the air between you crackles with magic, raw and potent. The bonds that have marked you as his, that have stained your skin with his trust, begin to burn. You feel them unravel, one by one, slipping away like sand through your fingers, leaving behind a searing emptiness.

“Your place here is gone,” he says, his voice a venomous whisper. “As far as I’m concerned, you are nothing—a stain on this Court, a shame I will gladly erase.”

You force yourself to meet his gaze, your throat thick with the urge to plead, to defend yourself. But you know it would be pointless. He has condemned you already, cast you aside with a cruelty that leaves you hollow.

“Leave,” he orders, his voice cold and final. “And let it be known that from this moment forward, you are banished from the Night Court. Should you ever set foot here again, it will be as my enemy.”

The finality of his words sinks in, and for a moment, the room spins around you. You look at Azriel and Cassian, but their faces remain stony, offering no solace, no reprieve.

With a last, pained glance, you turn and walk away, the silence behind you as heavy as the bonds that now lie shattered at your feet.

-

The bench beneath you is rough, weathered by time and use, but it’s familiar—a place of respite amid the chaos that has engulfed the Autumn Court. The air is thick with the scent of woodsmoke and pine, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood on your lips. You tilt your head up slightly, trying to steady your breathing, wincing as a fresh wave of pain pulses from the bruises littering your body.

Eris kneels in front of you, his auburn hair glowing like embers in the dim light. His expression is carefully composed, but his gaze flickers with a rare softness, tinged with something unreadable as he delicately presses a damp cloth to your split lip. His fingers are steady, skilled, and his touch is uncharacteristically gentle, a contrast to the ruthless, calculating male the world knows him to be.

“I told you to stay out of the skirmish,” he murmurs, not meeting your eyes as he dabs away the dried blood. His voice is low, almost a whisper, but edged with frustration. “But you never listen, do you?”

You manage a weak smile, though it sends a fresh jolt of pain through your lip. “Where’s the fun in that?” The words are light, but the weight of the past, the years since you’d last shared such closeness, presses heavily between you.

He sighs, a hint of exasperation in his tone, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the way he holds himself with a rigid precision, as though he’s one wrong move from unravelling. “I don’t need another ghost on my conscience,” he mutters, pressing the cloth a little harder than necessary, and you hiss, but his eyes are still fixed on his work. “Especially not yours.”

Your heart twists at his words, at the flicker of vulnerability he’s revealing, rare and raw. “Eris…if I wanted to stay safe and quiet, I wouldn’t have come here.” Your voice is soft, and his hand pauses for a moment as he absorbs your words, the truth in them, the history that binds you to his fight.

He finally looks up, his amber eyes intense, studying you with a scrutiny that feels as if he’s searching for something lost. “And yet,” he says slowly, his tone cold but his gaze warm, “you are still here, fighting alongside me. After everything.”

You meet his gaze, the memories flooding back—the years in the shadows, the loyalty you once swore to Rhysand that had ended with such bitter finality. And yet, in this moment, here with Eris, there is an understanding, an alliance you’d never expected to find.

“Beron has to be stopped,” you say quietly, a hardness slipping into your voice. “We both know it. We've known it for two hundred years. The things he’s done… he doesn’t deserve the power he holds over these lands. He has to fall.”

Eris’s expression darkens, and his hand, still cradling your chin, trembles slightly. “I know,” he says, his voice thick with something darker, more personal. “But it’s not that simple. Killing him means more than just power shifting—it’s risking everything, for everyone. It means blood on my hands, blood I can’t wash away.”

You reach up, your fingers brushing his, grounding him. “You’ve done this much already, led so many to stand against him. I’ve seen the way the court follows you, Eris. They believe in you.” You pause, searching his eyes. “And so do I.”

A shadow passes over his face, softening the harsh lines of his expression. “Why, after everything that’s happened, do you still believe in me?” His voice is so quiet you almost miss it, but the question lingers in the air, laden with years of unspoken words.

You hold his gaze, your voice firm, unwavering. “Because you chose to be better than him, better than I ever thought a man like you would. You chose a path that no one else would. And no matter what, that choice will always matter to me.”

He swallows, the barest hint of emotion flickering across his face, and he lets out a low, bitter laugh. “Then maybe I am a fool, too, for keeping you here—for wanting you to be by my side when it’s all over.”

You shake your head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite the pain. “You’re no fool, Eris. We’re both haunted by our choices, our pasts. But right now, we have a chance to make something right.” You reach out, your fingers grazing his cheek. “And I think it’s worth it, even if it costs us everything, well.... I personally don't have anything to lose.”

For a moment, he leans into your touch, closing his eyes as though savouring the fleeting solace. Then he straightens, his face hardening once more, but there’s a spark in his eyes now, a fierceness that rekindles the fire within him.

Eris’s fingers slip under your arm, steady and firm as he lifts you off the bench. The suddenness of it makes you gasp, but he merely quirks an eyebrow, as if amused by your surprise. His hand lingers a moment longer than necessary, the rough pads of his fingers brushing your bruised skin, grounding you in the moment as he releases you. Then, with a silent understanding, the two of you begin to walk.

The camp sprawls before you, tents set up in rough but orderly rows, each one a mark of defiance against Beron’s reign. Soldiers mill around, sharpening blades, tending to wounds, and whispering quiet plans and reassurances. Fires crackle, sending up thin curls of smoke into the crisp air, their warmth a stark contrast to the heavy chill that hangs over the camp.

Eris keeps a brisk pace beside you, his gaze intense, eyes constantly scanning his surroundings. There’s a palpable energy about him, something sharp and restless, as if he’s a blade just waiting to be unleashed. The soldiers and spies nod respectfully as he passes, but there’s a new light in their eyes—a glimmer of hope, of trust in him that you’ve seldom seen in this court. Despite the darkness, they believe in him. Just as you do.

As you walk, a figure comes jogging toward you, his familiar auburn hair catching the light of the dying sun. Lucien’s face is flushed from exertion, but there’s a victorious gleam in his russet eye as he slows to a stop before you and Eris.

“We’ve taken down another one of Beron’s forces,” Lucien announces, his voice edged with satisfaction. He places his hands on his knees, breathing heavily but grinning. “One of his inner forces. His numbers are dwindling, and his support… well, it’s hanging on by threads now.”

Eris’s lips curl into a slow, calculating smile, his gaze sharpening as Lucien’s words sink in. “Good,” he murmurs, his tone a dark satisfaction laced with bitter triumph. “That’s one less hand Beron has to wield against us.”

Lucien’s gaze shifts to you, his eyes softening as he takes in your injuries. “You look worse for wear,” he remarks, though there’s a flicker of concern beneath his teasing tone. “You should be resting.”

You give him a small, tired smile, shrugging slightly. “Couldn’t leave all the fun to you, could I?”

Eris’s fingers brush your arm, guiding you forward with an unspoken insistence. “Rest will come after Beron is gone,” he says firmly, his voice brokering no argument. He looks to Lucien, his expression hardening. “With this win, we’ll need to reinforce the eastern front. Beron may be desperate, but that will only make him more dangerous.”

Lucien nods, his face growing serious. “The soldiers are preparing as we speak. Morale is high—they know Beron is losing ground.” His gaze sharpens, a glint of satisfaction sparking in his eye. “And they know they’re not just fighting for a cause. They’re fighting for you, Eris.”

Eris’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks almost vulnerable, his mask slipping just enough for you to see the weight he carries. But then he straightens, his shoulders squaring with renewed resolve. “Then let’s give them a reason to keep believing,” he says, his voice steely and resolute.

Eris’s hand brushes against yours as he guides you away from Lucien, slipping through the bustling camp. The soldiers and spies nod respectfully as you pass, but you can feel the weight of their gazes, the unspoken questions and curiosity that ripple in your wake. They’ve heard of you, the once-assassin of the Night Court who has returned to fight beside Eris. You can practically feel the stories they must tell—legends whispered in the dark, half-believed tales of your skill, your ruthlessness.

Eris leads you to a tent set slightly apart from the others, tucked away from the main cluster. He steps inside first, holding the tent flap open for you. As you enter, the scent of leather and steel greets you, sharp and familiar. Your old assassin’s gear is laid out on a small table in the centre, the black leather as supple and deadly as you remember. Knives and throwing blades glint in the firelight, each one meticulously sharpened, waiting for your touch.

You move to the table, fingers brushing over the leather armour, the silent weapons that were once an extension of yourself. You slip out of your travel-worn clothes, letting them fall to the ground. Piece by piece, you put on the gear, feeling the familiar weight settle over you like a second skin. The leather is snug, perfectly fitted to your body, and you secure the buckles and straps with practiced precision, feeling the transformation as the assassin within you stirs, roused after all these years.

Eris watches in silence, his gaze unwavering, intense. There’s something in his expression, a flicker of worry that he tries to mask but cannot entirely hide. You reach for the knives, fastening them to your belt, slipping blades into hidden sheaths along your thighs and forearms, every movement precise, deliberate.

Finally, you turn to him, adjusting the last strap on your wrist. He takes a step closer, his hand hovering just near your arm, as if he wants to touch you, to steady you, but holds back. His face is a study of quiet turmoil, the calm, composed mask he wears slipping ever so slightly.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his voice low, almost pleading. “Sending you, alone, to Beron’s camp… It’s dangerous. Even for you.”

You meet his gaze, holding it with a steady conviction that leaves no room for doubt. “This is what I’m meant for, Eris. I know how to do this.” Your voice is calm, controlled, yet there’s a fire in your eyes, a certainty that hardens your resolve.

He looks down, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he battles with something unspoken. “You’re to burn the camp,” he murmurs, his tone almost bitter, as if the thought of sending you into that inferno cuts him deeply. “To wipe out anyone who stands in your way. You… shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

You lift your chin, reaching up to touch his face, your fingers brushing along his jawline. “If we’re going to end this war, Beron’s camp needs to fall. And I am the best suited to do this. I’ve done things like this before.”

Eris’s hand finally finds yours, his fingers entwining with yours, strong and steady. “Those days are behind you. You’re… more than just an assassin now. More than just a weapon.” His voice is barely above a whisper, as if speaking the words louder would make them real, and in that moment, you see the worry, the raw, aching fear he’s been hiding.

You squeeze his hand, grounding him, your voice a gentle reassurance. “And I’m still a fighter. I’m still someone who knows how to end a battle.” You step back, straightening, every inch the assassin who once served the Night Court. “You’re leading your forces, Eris. Let me do what I do best.”

He hesitates, his eyes darkening as his thumb grazes your knuckles, the touch tender, lingering. “If anything happens to you…”

“Nothing will,” you say, your tone firm. “I’ll be back before dawn.”

Eris swallows, his gaze never leaving yours, and you see the war within him—the tension between his duty as a leader and his fear as… something more. Finally, he releases your hand, stepping back, his expression once again composed, though his eyes betray him.

“Take my smoke hounds,” he says, voice hardening with reluctant resolve. “They’ll be at your command, lethal and loyal. If anyone stands in your way…” His mouth tightens, as though the thought of what you’re about to do pains him. “Do what you must.”

You nod, feeling the finality of his words settle over you like a cloak. The smoke hounds are Eris’s most trusted creatures—vicious, swift, creatures of shadow and flame. With them by your side, Beron’s camp will fall, reduced to ash and memory.

As you turn to leave, Eris’s voice stops you, a soft, broken whisper. “Come back to me.”

You glance back, meeting his gaze, a silent promise passing between you.

-

The forest blurs around you, dark and thick with shadows as you sprint through the trees, each stride light and precise. The silence of the woods is broken only by the quiet rustle of leaves beneath your feet and the soft, nearly soundless patter of twelve pairs of paws moving in sync beside you. Eris’s smokehounds, shadows among shadows, run with you, their sleek bodies rippling with the restrained power of creatures forged from flame and darkness. Their eyes gleam in the dim light, flickers of red and gold mirroring the embers deep within them.

Your breath comes in steady, controlled puffs, each one carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. You push your pace, weaving around trees, ducking under branches, letting the familiar rhythm of running take over. The hounds follow you with fierce loyalty, twelve shadowed phantoms keeping stride with ease, their eyes never straying from you. You’ve trained with creatures like them before; they know your signals, can read your smallest gestures. And tonight, they know their purpose as well as you do.

Ahead, you see the cliff edge through the trees, the canyon beyond stretching wide and deep, a gaping chasm that offers the perfect vantage point. Twenty-five minutes until the fire, just as planned. You mentally mark each step of the mission: secure the perimeter, then unleash the hounds. They’ll tear through Beron’s forces with merciless precision, a deadly warning sent by Eris himself.

With a soft hand signal, you urge the hounds to pick up the pace. They respond instantly, surging forward in a silent wave, each one attuned to your every movement. You can feel their excitement, their hunger to fulfill their purpose—a lethal harmony that mirrors your own resolve.

At the cliff’s edge, you pause for just a moment, looking out over the vast expanse of trees, campfires flickering faintly in the distance. Beron’s forces are spread across the valley below, unsuspecting, oblivious to the doom that will descend upon them in a matter of minutes. You breathe in, feeling the cool night air fill your lungs, centring yourself.

Then you leap into motion again, running along the edge of the cliff, the hounds fanning out beside you. The ground is uneven, treacherous, but you move with confidence, your steps sure and steady. The hounds move effortlessly, their eyes fixed forward, waiting for your command to unleash them upon the enemy below.

The minutes tick by, and you count each one, your mind focused, calculating. You know that Eris will be watching the clock, timing your return. He’ll know the moment his hounds have done their work, the moment the fires ignite, marking the beginning of the end for Beron’s camp. And he’ll be waiting, trusting that you will return alongside them.

You feel the power thrumming through your veins, the familiar thrill of the mission, the anticipation of the flames that will soon light up the sky. You glance down at the hounds, each one poised and ready, their bodies taut with barely-contained energy. With a small, barely perceptible nod, you give the signal.

You crouch low, hidden among the dense trees at the edge of the camp. The flickering glow of campfires illuminates the chaos below. Beron’s forces move with the sluggish confidence of men who believe themselves safe, unaware of the inferno waiting to consume them. You pull the bow from your back, your fingers steady as you nock an arrow soaked in pitch. With a deep breath, you draw back the string, the familiar weight and tension grounding you.

The torch at your side flickers in the cool night breeze, casting your shadow long against the forest floor. With a deliberate motion, you dip the arrowhead into the flame. Fire bursts to life, licking up the shaft, bright and hungry. The light reflects off the sharp edges of your assassin’s gear, and for a moment, you’re bathed in a fiery glow.

You take aim at the largest tent—the command centre, judging by its size and central position. The arrow flies, cutting through the air in a deadly arc, embedding itself into the canvas. Flame spreads instantly, roaring to life as the tent is consumed. You don’t wait to watch it burn. Another arrow is already in your hand, aflame and ready. This time, you aim for the storage tent where supplies are stacked high. It ignites with a burst of heat, the fire leaping from one crate to the next.

One more arrow—this time toward the soldiers’ quarters. The shot is perfect. The flames catch, and panic spreads like wildfire. Shouts rise as soldiers scramble to put out the blaze, but it’s too late. Smoke curls upward, dark and thick, a signal of chaos rising to the stars.

You sling your bow across your back and run, feet pounding the forest floor as you follow the path you memorized earlier. Your mind maps out every turn, every slope: the sharp left at the leaning oak, the shallow stream you leap across without hesitation, the narrow ridge that runs parallel to the cliffside. Your breath comes in short bursts, your heart hammering in your chest, but your focus remains razor-sharp.

Then you hear it—shouts behind you. The sound cuts through the night like a blade, and when you glance back, you see them: Beron’s soldiers, torches in hand, spreading through the trees like a swarm. One of them spots you, his shout echoing across the forest, and suddenly the hunt is on.

You push harder, adrenaline surging through your veins, but the weight of your gear slows you. The thick leather straps dig into your shoulders, the metal clasps clinking faintly with every stride. It feels like a leaden anchor dragging you down.

With a frustrated growl, you strip the bow from your back, tossing it aside into the underbrush. Next, you unbuckle the heavier pieces of your armour mid-stride, letting them fall as you run. The bracers follow, the daggers strapped to your thighs discarded one by one. You leave a trail of discarded weaponry in your wake, the promise of lighter steps driving you forward.

But the soldiers are everywhere. Torches light up the forest in jagged lines, cutting off your escape routes. Their shouts grow louder, closer, and the realization hits you: they’re herding you, pushing you toward the cliff. Panic sparks in your chest, but you keep moving, feet skimming over rocks and roots, muscles burning with the effort.

The cliff looms ahead, the forest giving way to open sky and the deafening roar of the river far below. The soldiers close in, their shouts a cacophony that drowns out your pounding heartbeat. There’s no time to think, no time to hesitate. You sprint toward the edge, the ground disappearing beneath your feet as you leap.

For a moment, there’s only silence. The world drops away, the wind rushing past you in a deafening roar. Your stomach lurches as you fall, the vast canyon walls blurring on either side. Below, the river churns violently, a silver ribbon that grows larger with every passing second.

You hit the water hard, the impact stealing the breath from your lungs. The freezing cold engulfs you, dragging you down, the current tugging at your limbs with relentless force. You fight to the surface, gasping for air, the icy water shocking your system into focus.

The river carries you away, the sounds of pursuit fading into the distance. You let it take you, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, knowing that survival is your only thought now. Above the churning waters, the smoke from Beron’s camp rises into the night, the promise of fire and destruction marking the beginning of the end.

A/N: this series was supposed to be posted in February but as you can see part one is out now but it will be a while till part 2!

[ragetears]

What do you need to hear right now? - pick a card!

~ this is a generalized reading, so take what resonates and leave what doesn’t! ~

Pile 1 - Phantomwise Tarot with pyrite

Pile 2 - Deviant Moon Tarot with rose quartz

Pile 3 - Crow Tarot with labradorite

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Pile 1 - The High Priestess, Four of Wands, and the Queen of Wands reversed.

Key themes: anxiety, fear, self love, creativity, trusting yourself.

My friend - Spirit is telling you that you need to trust yourself! You find yourself hiding away from the unknown, and even the unknown within you. Tap into those darker, deeper parts that you've been shying away from. It's only by integrating those parts that you can become whole. You don't need to be afraid of your own darkness, you need to embrace it, celebrate it. Very much a commitment to yourself kind of vibe.

You need to learn to care for and love yourself, truly and deeply. You aren't nearly confident enough in your abilities - but you should be! Shed that self-consciousness, that fear, all that nasty stuff that doesn't serve you and step into the creative power that's inside of you.

For some of you this might look like practicing self love through ritual or other spiritual methods, diving deep into shadow work and/or therapy, or restarting creative projects you stopped because you weren't confident enough to finish them. (Also I feel a strong need to say this for my pagans out there - some of you should think about connecting with Aphrodite because she really would like to work through this with you.)

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Pile 2 - Queen of Wands, Queen of Cups, and the Page of Wands reversed.

Key themes: Feminine and/or intuitive power and energy, manifesting, confidence.

You are one powerful person! You are in control of yourself, capable of handling many things at once. You have all the skills and abilities you need to manifest your desires - and it's time to take that step. Two queens next to each other tells me that it's time for you to step into a more "feminine" energy. Feminine, but not necessarily in the "receptive" sense. More in an "intuitive power" sense, and for some of you this might be a transition into being your true self. For others, it's a sign to take that step into what you desire. You are in control of this journey, you can trust that you know who you are, and by doing this you are healing parts of yourself.

They key word that keeps popping up for you is "manifesting". You have such an insane ability to create your own reality and bring your desires to fruition. Now is not the time to second guess yourself. You are not taking wobbly steps forward, you're far too skilled for that. There's no room for self doubt here - you know what you desire. You're past the point of walking away from your calling. The reversed Page says you might fall down but the two Queens say to get right back up because you will succeed. You can do this.

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Pile 3 - Death, Eight of Wands, Six of Pentacles.

Key themes: freedom, excitement, relationships, rebirth, caution.

Your life is about to change, you are on the cusp of (or perhaps you've already started!) shedding all that doesn't serve you. This has been an active process that you've been heading or even working towards, not something passive that's happening to you. This won't be easy, but you already know that and you're prepared, no matter how bad it might hurt. Something new lies just beyond the horizon of this change, something better. For some of you this might be a breakup, breaking bad habits, or cutting off toxic friends or family. You know it won't be easy, but you also know that a happier, healthier you is waiting.

It's time to move on from your old life - and swiftly. Your previous situation stifled you, held you back from your true potential. Others may not understand why you needed to leave it all behind, but that's okay, you need to put yourself first. It's time for full steam ahead on your dreams, and this movement will aid you even more in shedding all that held you back. This might be a metaphorical or literal move (for some of you I'm getting cross-country or even an international move), and don't be afraid of either.

You are reborn and you have never felt lighter or more free, but don't act rashly. Humans are social creatures after all, and we are made to rely on each other. Don't be afraid of the generosity and care of others, and freely give to those around you in return with open arms and an open heart. You will need people who love and support you, and they'll need you just as much.

It may be a good idea to take a close look at your old self, your old life, and evaluate what led you here because without active work you are at risk of falling back into old patterns and into your old ways. Also I'm getting for some of you that you really need to learn how to better manage your finances specifically or you're at high risk of ending up back in your old situation, or at least a very similar one.

[hisfavegirl]

Fallen Loyalties - Aemond Targaryen x TwinSister!Reader

Summary : Now, all that remains is the echo of the lies Aemond told and the weight of the betrayal he never saw coming. And as the consequences unfold, he realize—it’s too late for apologies, too late for redemption. The loyalty you once shared is gone, and what’s left is nothing but the ruins of what you once were. The price of betrayal is always paid in regret. And now, he am paying it with his heart.

Aemond Masterlist.

Being born as Aemond Targaryen’s twin sister meant your fate was sealed from the moment you took your first breath. From the very beginning, your life was entwined with his, bound by blood, secrets, and the unyielding honor of House Targaryen. But your bond with Aemond had always been more than mere siblinghood. There was something deeper, darker, something no one dared to name aloud.

After the birth of Maelor, Aegon’s son, your marriage to Aemond was arranged without question. It was destiny, they said—a union that would strengthen House Targaryen. You accepted it with your head held high, even as your heart swirled with fear, confusion, and curiosity about how your life would change.

Now, you are carrying your first child. Years have passed since your marriage, and while you’ve grown accustomed to Aemond’s stern and controlling nature, the unspoken tension between you remains.

In your chambers, Aemond stood near the window, gazing at the flames burning in the distance. His silver hair flowed freely down his back, catching the warm glow of the candlelight. He turned when you entered, his sharp eye immediately locking onto yours.

“How are you feeling today?” he asked softly—a rare gentleness in his voice.

“Fine,” you replied briefly, your hand instinctively resting on your growing belly.

Aemond approached, his steps deliberate and measured. Despite his calm demeanor, his intensity was palpable. He stopped in front of you, his gaze fixed on your stomach as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

“He will be our legacy,” he said quietly, his voice filled with conviction. “We will ensure the blood of the Targaryens remains pure and unbroken.”

His words stirred unease within you, but you nodded, choosing not to challenge him. You knew that beneath his gentleness lay a darkness you had no desire to provoke.

As the night deepened, you wondered if your life with Aemond was truly destined by fate or if you were merely trapped in the power games of your family. But when he gently pulled you into his arms, you couldn’t deny the feeling that, for reasons you couldn’t fully understand, you were meant to be his—forever.

Loving Aemond was not something you could ever dream of letting go. It was a bond forged not only by blood but by something far deeper—something dark, consuming, and impossible to escape. You knew the kind of man he was, knew the fire that burned beneath his icy exterior. And you knew that when he was angry, even you, the one person he held above all else, could not control him.

The tension had been building ever since word reached you about what happened at Rook’s Rest. The whispers of what Aemond had done to your brother, Aegon, sent shivers down your spine. They said Aegon barely escaped with his life, and though the details were murky, the truth was clear: Aemond had crossed a line no one dared to confront.

When he returned to you, his presence was as commanding as ever, his single eye gleaming with a cold determination that made your blood run cold. He acted as though nothing had happened, as though the events at Rook’s Rest were just another necessary step in a long and bloody war.

But you knew. You had heard the screams of guilt in your own mind, the horror at what he had done to his own kin. And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to say a word.

You sat together in the quiet of your chambers, the firelight casting shadows across his face. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. His calmness unsettled you.

“Is something troubling you?” he asked, his voice low, his gaze sharp as it turned toward you.

Your heart leapt in your chest, your hands tightening in your lap. For a moment, you considered speaking, considered asking him about what happened at Rook’s Rest. But the image of his fury, the cold, ruthless man you knew he could become, stopped you.

“No,” you lied softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Nothing.”

Aemond watched you for a moment longer, his gaze piercing, as if he could see straight through your soul. Then he crossed the room, kneeling before you. His hand reached out, brushing against yours with a surprising gentleness.

“You would tell me if there was, wouldn’t you?” he asked, his voice softer now, but with an edge that sent a chill down your spine.

You nodded quickly, forcing a weak smile. “Of course.”

He studied you for a moment longer before standing, his fingers lingering against your hand for a second longer than necessary. “Good,” he said simply, turning away and walking toward the door.

As the door clicked shut behind him, you released the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your mind raced with the weight of the secret you were keeping, the fear of what might happen if you dared to confront him.

You loved Aemond with everything you had, but you also knew the danger that came with that love. And in the end, you were willing to bear the burden of silence, knowing that to challenge him might mean losing him entirely.

The morning sun bathed the gardens in a soft golden glow as you walked down the stone pathway, Aemond by your side. The air was cool and crisp, the scent of blooming flowers mingling with the faint saltiness of the sea breeze. Your hand rested lightly on your swollen belly, and with every step, Aemond’s presence beside you felt as steady and unyielding as ever.

He had been named Prince Regent in Aegon’s stead after your brother was left bedridden, unable to rule. The weight of responsibility now rested on Aemond’s shoulders, and while others might have buckled under such pressure, he seemed to thrive in it. His sharp mind and ruthless determination were exactly what the realm needed in these uncertain times.

As you paused near a marble bench, Aemond stopped beside you. His gaze softened as it shifted from your face to your belly. Without a word, he reached out, his hand warm and firm as it gently stroked the curve of your stomach. The simple gesture, filled with an unexpected tenderness, made your heart ache.

“You should rest more,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute. “The child needs you strong.”

You smiled faintly, your fingers brushing against his hand. “And you? Do you not need rest as well? The council takes so much of your time.”

He smirked, a rare flicker of amusement crossing his face. “The council is full of fools. I don’t need rest to deal with them.”

His confidence was unshakable, and while it sometimes frustrated you, it also reassured you. He would not falter, not for anything or anyone.

Aemond leaned down, pressing a fleeting kiss to your forehead, a gesture so brief it might have been missed by anyone watching. Then he straightened, his icy demeanor returning as he prepared to face the day’s challenges.

“I must go,” he said, his voice returning to its usual sharpness. “The council awaits.”

You nodded, watching as he turned and walked away, his black cloak billowing behind him. His steps were purposeful, each one echoing with the authority of a man who knew he was in control.

For a moment, you lingered in the garden, your hand resting on your belly. The child within you stirred slightly, as if responding to its father’s touch. Aemond might be a man of fire and ice, but in these fleeting moments, you saw the softer side of him—a side he reserved only for you and the life you carried.

As you made your way to Aegon’s chambers, your steps were slow, burdened by a weight you couldn’t shake. The corridor was quiet, save for the faint rustling of servants going about their duties. When you reached the heavy oak door, you hesitated for a moment before pushing it open.

The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn to shield your brother from the harsh morning light. Aegon lay motionless on the grand bed, his face pale and drawn, a stark contrast to the once vibrant and arrogant man you had known. The faint scent of milk of the poppy lingered in the air, a reminder of the only thing keeping him from the agony of his injuries.

You stepped closer, your heart twisting with guilt as you looked at him. His chest rose and fell in steady breaths, his face peaceful in his drugged sleep. For a moment, you could almost pretend he was simply resting, that nothing was wrong. But the bandages wrapped around his body told the truth you couldn’t deny.

You sat down on the edge of his bed, your hand trembling as it hovered over his. Finally, you let your fingers brush lightly against his, a silent gesture of comfort he wouldn’t even feel.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. “I’m so sorry, Aegon.”

Your throat tightened as you fought back tears. You knew you couldn’t say these words to Aemond, couldn’t confront him about what he’d done to your brother at Rook’s Rest. But here, in the quiet of this room, you could let your guilt pour out.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” you continued, your voice shaking. “He… Aemond… He doesn’t see things the way we do. He believes what he did was necessary, but I—” You stopped, the words catching in your throat. “I should have stopped him. I should have done something.”

Aegon didn’t stir, his slumber too deep to be interrupted by your whispered confessions. But somehow, speaking the words aloud made the weight on your chest feel just a little lighter.

“I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive him,” you murmured, tears sliding down your cheeks now. “Or me. But I swear to you, Aegon, I will make sure he doesn’t harm you again. I won’t let this happen again.”

You sat there for a while longer, your hand still resting lightly on his. The guilt still lingered, but so did the resolve. You would find a way to make amends, even if it meant standing against the man you loved most in the world.

You spent hours in Aegon’s room, sitting quietly by his side. The book you held was one you thought he might enjoy—something light, perhaps even amusing, to ease his troubled mind. You knew, deep down, that Aegon had never been one for books. He had always preferred action to words, the thrill of battle to the quiet comfort of a story. But today, you read anyway. It was more for yourself than for him, a small act of solace amidst the heavy silence that filled the room.

As your voice softened and you turned the pages, you could almost pretend everything was as it should be. But the weight of the situation lingered, and you couldn’t escape the gnawing guilt that still tugged at you, the guilt of what had transpired at Rook’s Rest.

Just as you read the final lines of a chapter, the door to Aegon’s room creaked open. You looked up, surprised, as your mother stood in the doorway, her posture regal and unyielding, yet there was something soft in her expression as she observed you. Behind her stood Aemond, his figure just as imposing as always, his presence a shadow in the doorway.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. You quickly closed the book, your eyes flicking between your mother and your brother, knowing exactly what this visit would mean.

“Mother,” you greeted her, rising from your seat. “Husband.”

Your mother gave a small nod, her eyes softening briefly as she looked at you. “How is Aegon?” she asked, her voice full of concern as she walked over to the side of the bed, her gaze landing on her eldest son.

“He is still asleep,” you replied softly, your voice betraying the exhaustion you hadn’t realized you were carrying. “The milk of the poppy keeps him in a deep sleep.”

Aemond’s gaze never left you, his single eye narrowed slightly, as though scrutinizing every movement, every word. There was something unreadable in his expression, something far colder than the warmth your mother radiated.

“How long do you intend to stay here?” Aemond’s voice cut through the silence, his tone sharp, though there was a hint of something else beneath the edge—something like concern, but harder to place.

You met his gaze, your stomach tightening. “As long as it takes,” you replied, your voice firm but weary. “He’s my brother, Aemond. He needs me.”

Aemond’s lips tightened into a thin line, but he said nothing. His silence spoke volumes—he disapproved, no doubt. But then, a flicker of understanding passed between you, a silent acknowledgment that you were doing what you believed was right.

Your mother placed a gentle hand on Aegon’s forehead, her fingers brushing his hair back as she gazed down at him with love and worry in her eyes. “He’ll recover,” she said quietly, though there was doubt in her voice. “He’s strong, like his father.”

But you knew, in your heart, that Aegon’s strength alone might not be enough to recover from the wounds he had suffered—not just the physical ones, but the emotional scars that lingered from the events that had torn your family apart.

Aemond stepped forward then, his presence filling the room, and for a moment, you wondered what his intentions were. Would he seek to further distance you from Aegon? Or perhaps, you thought, he might simply leave, as he often did when the situation was less than ideal.

“You should rest,” Aemond said to you, his voice softer now, though his eyes remained distant. “You’ve been here long enough.”

You wanted to argue, to remain by Aegon’s side until he awoke, but you knew your body was exhausted. Aemond was right in his own way, and you couldn’t deny the exhaustion that weighed on you.

Your mother looked between you and Aemond, her gaze shifting uncomfortably. “I will stay with Aegon,” she said softly, offering you a small, reassuring smile. “Go rest, dear.”

You hesitated, but nodded in the end. “Thank you, Mother.”

Before you left, you cast one final look at Aegon, your heart heavy with worry and regret. As the door closed behind you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was changing—and that nothing would ever be the same again.

You stood by the window, the soft light of the fading afternoon casting shadows across the room. The quiet was almost suffocating, the weight of the day pressing down on you. Your thoughts were scattered, tangled in the webs of what had happened, and what might yet come. Aemond’s presence had become both a comfort and a source of tension, and tonight, you felt the pull of it more keenly than ever.

The sound of the door opening barely registered at first, but when it did, you knew who it was without needing to turn. Aemond. You had grown so accustomed to the sound of his footsteps, the way the air seemed to change when he entered a room.

He didn’t say anything as he stepped inside, the silence between you stretching out in a way that felt both intimate and fragile. The tension that hung in the air was almost palpable, but still, you didn’t turn to face him. There were no words between you—no greeting, no acknowledgment of what was unsaid. Just the soft rustling of his movements, the quiet anticipation that only seemed to grow as the seconds passed.

Then, as if driven by some invisible force, Aemond stepped closer, his presence suddenly surrounding you. You felt the brush of his hand before you even knew what he was doing—his fingers grazing the curve of your belly from behind. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, but it carried the weight of something unspoken. Something too deep to name.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, not yet. Not when the room felt too small and your heart too heavy with the knowledge of what had been, and what still was. His touch was a reminder of everything—your connection, your shared history, and the future you were both bound to, whether you wanted it or not.

Aemond’s fingers lingered on your skin, and for a moment, the world seemed to fade away. It was just the two of you, standing in this space where love, anger, and regret coiled together. You felt the warmth of his hand, the subtle pressure of his touch, and despite everything, you couldn’t deny that it still affected you. It always had.

His voice, when it came, was soft but laced with a certain edge. “I feel him,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “Our child. He grows stronger every day.”

Aemond’s words were not a question, but a statement of fact. You could hear the tenderness in his tone, the quiet pride he felt as he spoke of the life you both created. It was a side of him you rarely saw, and yet, it was the side that seemed to matter most now.

Still, you remained silent, your gaze fixed on the view outside. You couldn’t bring yourself to turn, to face him and acknowledge what lay between you. You couldn’t decide if you were afraid of the man he had become, or the man he was still capable of being.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Aemond’s hand withdrew, but the room remained heavy with the unspoken words, the shared history that neither of you could ignore. You still hadn’t turned to look at him. Still, you knew he was there, watching, waiting.

The silence in the room grew thicker as you finally turned to face him. Aemond stood there, his features cold, his posture rigid as if he were carved from stone. You could feel the tension in the air, a simmering undercurrent that seemed to pulse between you like a living thing. The distance between you both felt vast, though you were only a few feet apart.

Your heart beat faster as you swallowed the lump in your throat, the question you had been holding in for so long finally spilling out.

“Is all of this truly worth it, Aemond?” Your voice trembled, a mixture of anger, fear, and sorrow. “Is it worth the cost of what we’ve done to our family? To Aegon?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened at the mention of your brother’s name. The silence that followed was thick with an intensity that made your chest ache. His gaze didn’t waver from yours, but the darkness in his eye began to surface. His fury, barely contained, was a palpable thing, swirling in the air around you.

You didn’t look away, even as you felt the shift in the room, as if the very temperature dropped with his growing anger. “Do you think this… this revenge, this destruction of our own flesh and blood, will make you whole?” The words spilled out before you could stop them, a dam breaking under the pressure of years of pain. “Does it satisfy you to see him broken, to know you’ve taken so much from him?”

There was no immediate answer. Aemond didn’t speak, but you could feel the weight of his anger pressing down on you. His lips pressed into a thin line, his eye narrowing dangerously. For a moment, you thought he might lash out, his fury spilling over into violence as it had so many times before. But he stayed still, like a predator at the edge of a hunt, waiting.

“You speak as if you don’t understand,” Aemond’s voice was low, almost a growl. “As if you don’t know why this had to happen.” His tone was dangerously calm, but it was clear that something inside him was breaking, something you had no control over. “You ask if it’s worth it—do you think I want this? Do you think I wanted him to lie in that bed, broken and helpless?” His words were sharp, his anger barely contained. “No. I did what had to be done. And you should know that.”

You felt the heat of his words burn through you, the cold fury in his gaze like a slap to the face. But you didn’t flinch. You refused to be cowed, even as your heart ached with the reality of the situation.

“He is our brother, Aemond,” you whispered, your voice cracking with the weight of your emotions. “And he has always been loyal to you, even when you didn’t deserve it. Was this truly the only way? To break him, to break us all?”

The tension in the room became unbearable as Aemond stepped closer, his presence looming over you. His gaze softened, but there was a hard edge to it now, a warning you couldn’t ignore. He reached out, his hand grazing your cheek with unexpected tenderness, though it felt like an unspoken threat behind the touch.

“Don’t question me, my wife,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “You are mine. And I will not tolerate you doubting what I have done. Not now. Not ever.”

A shiver ran down your spine, but you stood your ground. His anger, the fire that burned within him, was something you had known all your life. But now, it felt different. More intense, more consuming. And still, despite the fear gnawing at you, you held his gaze, refusing to back down.

“I’m not questioning you, Aemond,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. “I’m questioning whether this… this destruction is truly the only path we can walk. If we have any other choice, any chance of finding peace.”

Aemond didn’t answer immediately. His fingers brushed against your skin one last time, and then he stepped back, his posture rigid once again, though there was something unreadable in his eyes now.

“You will understand in time,” he said quietly, the coldness returning to his voice. “When you see the truth for what it is, you will know that I did what needed to be done.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there in the silence, a thousand questions swirling in your mind, but no answers to grasp.

Before Aemond turned to leave the room, his words hung heavy in the air, each syllable a promise of more distance between you and him. He paused by the door, his back to you, but his voice—so cold and matter-of-fact—was unmistakable.

“I am going to Harrenhal,” he said, his tone steady but devoid of any emotion. “I will take control of it. It is time to solidify our position.”

A shiver ran through you, a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. You were silent, waiting for him to say more, but he didn’t. The way he spoke, with such finality, made it clear that his departure wasn’t just for a short time—it would be a while before he returned, if ever.

“You need not wait for me,” Aemond added, his voice soft but laced with a cool detachment. “It will be a long time before I return. Stay here, if you wish. But do not expect my presence.”

His words stung, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. You felt a pang of frustration, anger, and—despite it all—a strange sense of longing. The emptiness his absence would bring was something you weren’t sure you could bear, but you knew better than to ask him to stay. You knew better than to push him, not when his mind was so set on his course.

You stood frozen, watching him, but you couldn’t find the words to stop him. What could you say to make him stay? What could you say to break through the walls he had built around himself?

Without a final glance back, Aemond left, the door clicking softly behind him, leaving you alone in the room with nothing but the hollow echo of his absence.

You wanted to scream, to ask him why he had to go, why everything seemed to be spiraling out of control. But the silence that followed was more deafening than any argument. You could only stare at the door, your heart heavy with the knowledge that, for the time being, he would be gone—lost to his plans, his ambitions, and his unyielding determination.

And you? You were left standing in the ruins of what had once felt like home, wondering if you would ever truly find a way to reach him again.

It had been more than a week since Aemond left for Harrenhal, and the ache of his absence grew heavier with each passing day. The weight of your pregnancy was becoming unbearable, both physically and emotionally. Your child could arrive any moment now, yet Aemond had not returned. The silence he left behind was deafening, a constant reminder of the distance—both physical and emotional—that now lay between you.

You sat by the window of your chambers, the same place where you had stood the night he told you he was leaving. Your hands rested protectively over your swollen belly, your mind swirling with thoughts you couldn’t escape. Every kick, every movement of the life within you only deepened your longing for him, for his presence, for the reassurance only he could give.

And yet, he did not come.

Your heart ached with regret, the memory of that fateful night replaying in your mind over and over again. If only you hadn’t questioned him about Aegon. If only you had stayed silent, accepted his actions without challenge. Maybe then he wouldn’t have left so abruptly. Maybe then, he would be here now, by your side, where you needed him most.

Tears pricked your eyes, but you blinked them away. You couldn’t cry. Not now. You had to be strong—for your child, if not for yourself. But the pain in your chest refused to fade, a constant reminder of how fragile everything felt without him.

The maesters and midwives had warned you to rest, to save your strength for the labor that could begin at any moment. But how could you rest when your heart was so heavy? How could you find peace when the man you loved, the father of your child, was so far away?

The thought of giving birth without him filled you with dread. You had imagined him there, his hand in yours, his voice steadying you through the pain. You had imagined his first glimpse of your child, the way his cold exterior would melt at the sight of new life. But now, those hopes seemed like distant dreams, fading with each passing day.

You turned your gaze to the horizon, where the faint glow of the setting sun painted the sky in shades of gold and crimson. Somewhere out there, Aemond was waging his battles, securing his victories, unaware—or perhaps uncaring—of how much you needed him. You whispered his name softly, a plea carried on the wind, though you knew it would never reach him.

“Aemond,” you murmured, your voice trembling with sorrow. “Please… come back to me.”

The room grew quiet again, the stillness wrapping around you like a suffocating shroud. And as the first stars began to appear in the darkening sky, you could only hope that he would return before it was too late—before your child arrived, before the distance between you became something that even love couldn’t mend.

The next morning, the news reached you, carried on hushed whispers and hesitant glances from the servants who dared not meet your eyes. Aemond had sought the warmth of another, a bastard girl named Alys Rivers, in Harrenhal. The words struck you like a blade to the chest, the pain so sharp and immediate that you couldn't breathe.

Your mind refused to process it at first. No, it couldn't be true. Not Aemond. Not your Aemond. He had promised himself to you, bound not just by duty but by the bond you thought you shared. The very idea of him seeking comfort elsewhere while you carried his child felt like a cruel, twisted joke.

The room began to spin, your vision blurring as the weight of the betrayal crashed down on you. Your breaths came shallow and fast, panic overtaking you as the world around you grew faint.

Without realizing it, your hands had gripped the edge of the table in front of you, your knuckles white from the strain. A sharp pain in your abdomen made you gasp, and you looked down to see the crimson trail beginning to stain the hem of your gown. Blood. It was pooling beneath you, dripping onto the floor in a rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart.

The world tilted, and you swayed on your feet, your body betraying you as the weight of everything became too much to bear.

"Princess!" a servant cried out, rushing to your side as you began to collapse. Their hands caught you, but the panic in their voice only made everything worse.

"Fetch the maester!" another voice called.

"Quickly!"

You clutched your swollen belly instinctively, your heart racing as fear and despair collided within you. The child. Your child. Was something happening? Was your grief for Aemond harming the one thing that mattered most?

You tried to speak, to ask for help, but no words came. Tears streamed down your face as you were lowered onto a chaise, the cold sweat on your skin making you shiver despite the warmth of the room.

"Stay with us, princess," the servant urged, their voice trembling. "The maester will be here soon."

Your mind raced as the pain intensified, each stab in your abdomen a cruel reminder of everything you were enduring. Aemond. The betrayal. The child. The blood. It was all too much, too overwhelming. You closed your eyes, focusing on the life within you, clinging to the hope that it wasn't too late-that you hadn't lost the one thing you were holding onto.

As the maester arrived and the chaos around you grew louder, one thought consumed you: Aemond had to return. If not for you, then for the child. If not now, then before everything truly fell apart.

You lay on your bed, your body trembling as wave after wave of pain surged through you. Sweat coated your brow, and your breaths came in shallow gasps, each one a battle to keep going. Your heart clung to the fragile hope that the approaching footsteps outside your chamber belonged to Aemond. Surely, he had heard of your condition. Surely, he had returned.

The door creaked open, and your gaze snapped toward it, desperation shining in your eyes. But instead of Aemond, it was your mother, Alicent, who entered.

Her face was pale, her expression a mixture of panic and deep concern as she hurried to your side. “Oh, my sweet girl,” she whispered, kneeling beside you and taking your hand in hers. Her touch was warm, grounding, but it couldn’t erase the ache in your chest or the agony in your body.

“Where is he?” you asked, your voice weak and trembling as tears welled in your eyes. “Where is Aemond?”

Alicent hesitated, the question clearly cutting into her as deeply as it did you. She didn’t answer, but the look in her eyes was enough. He wasn’t coming. Not yet.

“You must focus now,” Alicent said gently but firmly, brushing the damp hair from your forehead. “The maester is on his way. You must save your strength for the baby. For your child.”

Her words barely reached you through the haze of pain and despair. You wanted to scream, to cry out that it wasn’t fair, that you couldn’t do this without him. But the next contraction tore through you, stealing your breath and forcing you to clutch your belly.

Alicent squeezed your hand tightly, her own fear barely concealed behind the mask of composure she wore for your sake. “I’m here, my love,” she said softly, her voice steady. “I won’t leave you. You’re not alone.”

But you felt alone. Aemond’s absence was like a gaping wound, and the betrayal that lingered in your mind made the pain all the worse. The thought of him with another while you endured this moment alone was unbearable.

Your grip on Alicent’s hand tightened as another contraction wracked your body, and you let out a strained cry. Alicent’s voice was soothing, her touch unwavering as she leaned closer, whispering words of comfort.

“The gods have given you the strength to do this,” she said, her tone resolute. “You are stronger than you know, my daughter. And you will bring this child into the world, no matter who stands beside you.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you nodded weakly, her words offering a fragile thread of resolve to cling to. You had to do this. For your child. For the one part of Aemond you still held onto, even as your heart broke in his absence.

You gripped your mother’s hand tightly, your nails digging into her skin as another wave of pain coursed through you. Alicent didn’t flinch, her other hand brushing your damp hair from your face as she murmured soft reassurances.

The maester stood at the foot of your bed, his voice calm but firm as he gave you instructions. “Now, my lady, you must push with all your strength. The child is almost here.”

Your breathing was ragged, your entire body trembling with exhaustion, but you nodded. Summoning every ounce of strength left within you, you bore down, crying out as you pushed. The pain was unlike anything you’d ever known, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

“You’re doing so well, my love,” Alicent encouraged, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. “Just a little more. For the child. For yourself.”

Her words lit a fire in you, and you pushed again, tears streaming down your face as you gave it everything you had. Every thought in your mind focused on one thing: bringing your child into the world.

You thought of Aemond. Of his face, his voice, the way his hand had rested on your belly before he left. This child was his, a piece of him, and they deserved to meet their father. Even if he wasn’t here now, you clung to the hope that he would return.

With one final, agonizing push, the pressure released, and you heard it—a sharp, clear cry that pierced the room and filled your heart with overwhelming relief and joy.

“It’s a boy,” the maester announced, his voice carrying a rare note of warmth. He quickly wrapped the baby in a soft cloth and handed him to Alicent, who brought him to you.

Your hands trembled as you took him, his tiny body fitting perfectly against your chest. His cries quieted as you held him close, and for a moment, the pain and fear faded, replaced by pure, unadulterated love.

“He’s perfect,” Alicent whispered, her voice thick with emotion as she stroked your hair. “You’ve done so well, my sweet girl.”

Tears spilled freely down your cheeks as you gazed at your son, his silver hair glinting in the dim light. You kissed his forehead gently, your heart swelling with pride and protectiveness.

“Aemond,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “He’ll want to meet you. He’ll need you.”

But Aemond wasn’t there, and the ache of his absence returned, even as your son’s warmth filled your arms. You swore to yourself, in that moment, that no matter what, you would protect this child. You would give him all the love and strength you could, even if his father remained distant.

Still, as you cradled your newborn, a faint, desperate hope flickered within you. Aemond would return. He had to. For your son. For the family you had created together.

The relief of holding your newborn son in your arms was short-lived as another sharp pain gripped your body, more intense than before. You winced, gasping as the sensation spread through you, making you clutch the bedding with trembling hands.

“What’s happening?” you whispered, your voice weak and laced with fear.

The maester, who had been tending to you, looked up sharply. His expression grew grim as he examined you again. “Princess,” he began carefully, “it appears you are carrying twins. The second child has yet to be delivered.”

The words hit you like a thunderclap. Twins? Another baby? You glanced at your mother, Alicent, whose face had gone pale with worry.

“But there’s… something else,” the maester continued hesitantly. “The second child is positioned breech.”

A fresh wave of panic swept through you, stealing your breath. You turned to Alicent, your eyes wide and filled with terror. “Mother…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Alicent leaned closer, her hands gently cupping your face as she tried to calm you. “I’m here, my love,” she said softly, though her voice shook with worry. “We’ll get through this. You’ll get through this. Do you hear me?”

Tears welled in your eyes as you nodded weakly, though fear still clawed at the edges of your mind. You knew the risks of a breech birth. You had heard the stories whispered in the Red Keep, of women who had suffered greatly in such labors.

The maester spoke again, his tone steady but firm. “Princess, this will be difficult. You must gather your strength and push when I tell you. We will do everything in our power to ensure both you and the child survive this.”

You swallowed hard, clutching Alicent’s hand tightly as the pain began to mount once more. The child you carried deserved a chance at life, just as much as the one already in your arms. No matter the fear coursing through you, you had to see this through.

“Mother,” you murmured, your voice cracking. “I’m scared.”

Alicent’s gaze softened, tears glistening in her eyes as she pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You are the strongest woman I know,” she said, her voice filled with conviction. “You brought your first child into this world. You can do it again. I’m here with you, and I won’t leave your side.”

Her words gave you a flicker of strength, and you nodded, bracing yourself for what was to come. The maester gave the command to push, and with Alicent’s hand in yours, you bore down once more, fighting through the pain and fear for the sake of the life still waiting to meet the world.

The maester’s voice rang in your ears, firm and steady despite the chaos in your body. “Now, princess. Push! With everything you have!”

Tears streamed down your face, your body trembling with exhaustion as you gripped the bedding tightly. Alicent held your hand, her other hand brushing the damp hair from your forehead as she whispered soothing words. “You’re so close, my love. Just a little more. You can do this.”

Summoning every ounce of strength left within you, you bore down, crying out as you gave it your all. The pain was searing, the effort monumental, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Time seemed to stretch, every second dragging like an eternity until, finally, the pressure eased, and the room was filled with the sound of a newborn’s first, piercing cry.

“It’s a girl,” the maester announced, his voice softer now, almost reverent.

Alicent’s face lit up with relief and pride, tears streaming down her cheeks as she looked at you. “You did it,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “You’ve done it, my darling.”

The maester carefully wrapped your daughter in a soft cloth before handing her to Alicent, who brought her to you. Your hands trembled as you reached out, cradling your daughter against your chest. She was so small, so perfect, her silver hair already glinting in the dim light.

You stared at her in awe, your heart swelling with love and gratitude. “She’s beautiful,” you whispered, your voice breaking as tears of joy spilled down your cheeks.

The little girl’s cries softened as she settled in your arms, her tiny hand curling around your finger. You leaned down and kissed her forehead, your tears falling onto her soft skin.

Alicent stroked your hair gently, her own tears still flowing as she watched the tender moment. “Two perfect children,” she said softly, her voice full of pride. “You’ve given the realm a miracle, my love.”

Despite the exhaustion weighing heavily on you, you smiled through your tears, holding your daughter close as your son rested nearby. In that moment, the pain and fear faded, replaced by a profound sense of peace.

You had brought your children into the world, and no matter what challenges lay ahead, you knew you would protect them with everything you had.

Your body felt heavy, every breath shallow and labored as you lay back against the pillows. The world around you blurred, the edges of your vision darkening, and the voices of those in the room sounded distant, muffled.

Alicent’s voice broke through the haze, frantic and trembling. “Stay with me, my love. Please. Stay with me!” She gripped your hand tightly, her tears falling onto your skin, but her words felt far away.

Your lips trembled as you struggled to speak, your voice barely a whisper. “Mother…” you murmured, your gaze flickering toward her. “I’m… sorry.”

“No, no apologies,” Alicent cried, her voice breaking as she leaned closer. “You have nothing to apologize for. Please, just hold on!”

A single tear slid down your cheek as your thoughts drifted to Aemond. “Tell him… I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice faint and weak. “Tell him… I loved him.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, the weight of exhaustion too much to bear. Alicent’s panicked cries grew louder, but you could no longer focus on her words. Your breaths grew slower, more labored, until they faded entirely.

Alicent’s scream filled the room, raw and desperate. “No! She can’t be gone! Do something!”

The maester stepped back, his face pale and grim as he shook his head. “The blood loss… it was too great. Her body was too weak after the second birth.”

Alicent collapsed to her knees beside your bed, her sobs shaking her entire frame as she clung to your lifeless hand. The room was heavy with silence, save for the soft cries of your newborn daughter and the muffled cries of your mother’s heartbreak.

Your children were alive—two perfect children with silver hair and the Targaryen legacy flowing through their veins. But you, their mother, had given everything to bring them into the world, leaving behind only memories and the deep ache of loss for those who loved you.

When news reached Aemond, it would be a blow that no sword or fire could rival.

Alicent sat silently in the Sept, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as her tear-filled gaze remained fixed on you. Draped in white, you looked peaceful yet unnaturally still, your once-bright eyes forever closed. The candles surrounding you cast flickering light across your face, a stark contrast to the grief that consumed the room.

Her tears had not stopped flowing since your passing. You had been her strength, her light amidst the darkness of court politics and family betrayals. Now, all that remained was an unbearable emptiness.

The heavy creak of the Sept doors broke the stillness, drawing Alicent’s attention. Her breath caught as Aemond stepped through, his expression unreadable. His strides were slow but purposeful, his eye fixed on you as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

He stopped before your lifeless body, his tall frame trembling. His face was pale, his jaw clenched tightly as his hands curled into fists at his sides. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, as if time itself had stopped.

Then, slowly, he reached out, his hand brushing against your cold cheek. “Wake up,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, almost pleading.

There was no response, only the deafening silence that had haunted him since he first heard the news.

Aemond’s breaths grew heavier, his eye glistening with unshed tears as he gently shook your shoulder. “Don’t do this to me,” he said, his voice breaking. “Yell at me. Tell me I was wrong. Curse me, fight me—but don’t leave me like this.”

Still, you didn’t move.

He sank to his knees beside you, his head bowing as his hand gripped yours tightly. “I thought I had time,” he murmured, his voice filled with anguish. “I thought I could make it right.”

Alicent watched her son in silence, her heart breaking anew at the sight of his pain. She had seen Aemond’s coldness, his strength, his unyielding resolve. But this—this raw, unfiltered grief—was something she had never seen before.

“You were everything,” Aemond whispered, his tears finally falling as he rested his forehead against your still hand. “You were my other half, my twin, my wife. How am I meant to go on without you?”

The Sept was silent save for his quiet sobs, the sound of a man who had lost not just his wife, but a piece of his soul.

Alicent stood by the alter, her grief-stricken face hardening with sorrowful anger as she looked at Aemond. His presence, his raw pain, was almost too much to bear. She knew how deeply he had loved you — as your mother, she had seen it from the moment you and Aemond had been betrothed. And yet now, there he was, crumbling in the face of the consequences of his own choices.

“You heard, didn’t you?” Alicent said softly, her voice laced with both sadness and reproach. “You heard the whispers. The truth of what happened. That you, my son, betrayed the woman who gave everything to bring your children into this world.”

Aemond’s head shot up, his face twisting with anguish, as though her words had struck him with the force of a dagger. His lips trembled, but no words came. The guilt gnawed at him, sharp and unforgiving.

“You did this,” Alicent continued, her voice low but piercing. “You sought comfort in another woman—Alys River—and now, here we are. Your wife is dead. My daughter is dead. You killed her, Aemond. Not with your hands, but with your heart. And it tore her apart.”

His body shook, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might collapse under the weight of the realization. His eye, usually so fierce and cold, now appeared hollow with the depth of his self-loathing.

“I never meant for it to be like this,” Aemond whispered, his voice cracked with pain. He wiped his face with his sleeve, but it did little to stop the tears. “I didn’t want to lose her. I… I thought I could fix everything. I was wrong. I killed her… I killed her with my betrayal.”

Alicent’s expression softened ever so slightly, her eyes flickering with maternal compassion despite the anger still in her voice. “You were too late, Aemond. Too late to save her. And now you’ll have to live with the consequences of your choices.”

He fell to his knees, his hands clutching his head as if trying to tear the thoughts from his mind, but they remained. His voice, a broken whisper, echoed through the silence of the room.

“Curse me,” he murmured, his hands trembling. “I deserve this. I deserve every bit of this pain. I will never forgive myself for what I’ve done to her… to us.”

Alicent turned her gaze away for a moment, the depth of her sorrow for both of you—her daughter, gone too soon, and her son, destroyed by his own remorse—overwhelming.

“Forgiveness is a long road, Aemond,” she said quietly. “But you must find it for yourself. Because it’s your future, your children, and the legacy of House Targaryen that remains. You can’t change what’s been done. But you can choose to live for them. For her.”

Aemond’s body heaved with silent sobs, and the weight of his actions, of his guilt, became the heaviest thing he had ever carried. The room was still, save for the soft cries of your children, unaware of the tragedy that had unfolded, of the terrible loss that would forever shape their lives.

And Aemond, broken and drowning in the sorrow of his mistakes, could only wish for a world where time could be rewound, and the love he had so carelessly broken could be mended. But in the end, he knew that would never happen.

Tag list : @danytar @zaldritzosrose @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @julessworldd @giirlinblack @callsignwidow

[lila-lou]

✨Taking her in - Pt. 17✨

Summary: After Dean Winchester saves your life, he brings you into the safety of the bunker. As you grow older and stronger, Dean refuses to let you join the hunts, his overprotective behavior intensifying. But beneath his fierce protectiveness lies something darker—conflicted feelings he can’t face. As your 18th birthday approaches, Dean struggles to keep control, torn between his duty to protect you and emotions he’s buried for too long.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, HUGE Age Gap, Immoral, Language, Dean on pain meds, reader is struggling - a fucking lot

Word Count: 7061

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💜

The hallway was quiet as you made your way back to Dean’s room, your steps soft on the cold floor. Your heart still raced from the conversation with Sam, but there was a strange calm that had settled over you as well—one that came from knowing he understood and accepted what was between you and Dean.

You carefully pushed the door open, slipping inside as silently as you could manage. The dim light from the hallway spilled in for a moment before the door clicked shut behind you, plunging the room back into shadow. You froze, your eyes adjusting to the faint glow of the bedside lamp.

“You know, you’re not exactly stealthy”, Dean’s voice rumbled softly from the bed, startling you.

You turned toward him, your heart skipping a beat. He was awake, of course. His hunter’s instincts rarely let him sleep deeply, and you should’ve known he’d notice you slipping out of bed. His green eyes, sharper than they had been in days, flicked up to meet yours, and a faint smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Where’d you run off to?”, he asked, his voice low and gravelly, though there was no trace of annoyance—just curiosity.

You bit your lip, slipping out of your sweater and climbing back into bed beside him. His arm automatically lifted to let you curl against his uninjured side, and the warmth of his body enveloped you. “Bathroom”, you said softly, your fingers resting lightly on his chest.

Dean’s smirk softened as you settled back into his side, your fingers tracing light patterns over his chest. His gaze lingered on you for a moment before he leaned down, his lips brushing against your jawline. The kiss was slow and deliberate, his warm breath fanning over your skin as he trailed soft kisses along your jaw toward your ear.

His broken arm rested gently on your hip, his fingers curling slightly to keep you close. You felt him tense as he shifted, a quiet wince slipping from his lips as the motion pulled at his injured ribs.

“Dean”, you whispered, concern lacing your voice. Your hand immediately went to his arm, your fingers resting lightly over the cast. “Careful. You’re supposed to be resting”.

Dean huffed a quiet laugh, his lips hovering just below your ear. “I am resting”, he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “This is my kind of resting”.

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips, even as you tried to keep your worry in check. “Resting doesn’t usually involve wincing in pain”, you pointed out gently, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze.

Dean pulled back just enough to look at you, his green eyes still soft but tinged with determination. “It’s fine”, he said, his voice gruff but affectionate.

You glanced down, your heart skipping a beat as you instinctively searched Dean’s shirt for any sign of fresh blood. Relief washed over you when you didn’t see any new stains—this time, at least. But your relief was short-lived as your eyes caught sight of his broken arm resting on your hip. The fingers peeking out from the edge of the cast were dark purple, bruised and swollen, and they twitched slightly as he tried to move them.

Dean’s rough fingertips brushed over your hip in a featherlight, tentative motion. The small gesture made your breath hitch, but you couldn’t ignore the way his fingers barely moved, like every slight touch was an effort.

“Dean”, you murmured, your voice soft but filled with concern as you placed your hand over his cast. Your fingers lightly traced the edge of the plaster, careful not to press too hard. “You shouldn’t be moving this arm at all”.

His lips quirked into a faint smile, though there was a flicker of exhaustion in his eyes. “Doesn’t hurt that much”, he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction, and the lines of pain etched into his features betrayed him.

You raised an eyebrow, not buying his bravado for a second. “Dean”, you said again, your tone firmer this time.

Dean sighed heavily, a mix of defeat and that ever-present stubbornness. “Alright, alright”, he grumbled, letting his bruised fingers relax against your hip. “I’ll hold it still, okay?”. But before you could feel relieved, he added with a small smirk, “But lemme kiss you”.

The sudden shift in his tone made your cheeks flush, and the warmth shot through you before you could stop it. Your eyes flicked to his face, and despite the bruises and the exhaustion, that teasing, irresistible charm was still there. It wasn’t fair how he could make you feel like this, even in his condition.

You rolled your eyes playfully, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “You’re impossible, you know that?”, you muttered, tilting your head toward him.

Dean’s grin softened into something warmer as he leaned forward just enough to meet your lips. The kiss was gentle, his movements careful as if he was more concerned about not hurting you than himself. His lips, slightly cracked but still so soft, moved against yours in a slow, tender rhythm that made your heart flutter.

The heat in your chest grew, and you tried to push it away, knowing he needed rest far more than anything else. But his good arm tightened around you slightly, his fingers brushing against your back in a way that sent shivers down your spine. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss just enough to make you lose track of everything else.

“Dean”, you mumbled against his lips, your voice barely audible. You tried to pull back, but he followed, capturing your lips again with a quiet hum of satisfaction.

“What?”, he murmured, his voice rough but playful, his forehead resting against yours when he finally let you pull away. “You’re the one who keeps saying I need to rest. Pretty sure this counts as rest”.

You bit your lip, trying to suppress the warmth that spread through your entire body. “This isn’t exactly what I meant”, you said softly, your fingers brushing over his chest, careful of his injuries. “You’re supposed to be healing”.

Dean’s green eyes gleamed with mischief as he looked at you, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against your side. “Sweetheart, this is the best medicine I’ve ever had”.

You rolled your eyes at Dean’s words, but you couldn’t stop yourself from leaning back in, pressing your lips to his again. The kiss was soft, slow, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy either of you. You felt yourself moving closer, careful of his injuries but unable to resist the pull of his warmth and the way his lips molded perfectly to yours.

Dean’s thumb brushed lazy circles against your side, his good hand slipping under the hem of your shirt as his fingers traced your skin. His touch was light, almost teasing, but it sent shivers coursing through you. When he pulled back slightly, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke, his voice was rough and laced with mischief.

“You know”, he murmured, his words slurred just enough to remind you how tired he still was, “I can think of a way… where I wouldn’t have to do much of anything”.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. His green eyes, dark with desire but softened by exhaustion, held yours, a lazy smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Dean..”, you said, your voice a mixture of nervousness and anticipation.

“I know, resting”, he whispered, his good hand sliding a little further up your side, the warmth of his palm against your skin making you shiver. “That’s the beauty of it. You’d be in control, sweetheart. All you gotta do is…”. His voice trailed off as his smirk deepened, his eyes flicking down your body before returning to your face.

The implication in his words made your cheeks burn, and you couldn’t help the way your thighs pressed together at the heat building between them.

He grinned at your reaction, his thumb still tracing small circles on your skin. “C’mon”, he teased, his voice dipping lower, huskier. “I’d just lay here, lookin’ at you—watchin’ you do all the work”. His words were laced with a lazy confidence, but there was a rough edge to his tone that told you just how much the idea affected him, too. “Bet you’d look so damn good ridin’ me”.

Your breath hitched at his words, and your face grew impossibly hotter. You’d never heard Dean talk to you like this before—not this openly, this unabashedly. It was overwhelming, making your heart race and your stomach twist in nervous excitement. You could feel the heat pooling low in your belly, spreading through your body, and you couldn’t deny how much his words affected you.

“I’ve… I’ve never—”, you started, your voice barely above a whisper, but Dean cut you off with a soft kiss.

He shifted slightly beneath you, his good arm keeping you close as his eyes roamed over your face, drinking in your reaction.

“That just makes it better”, Dean continued, his voice dropping even lower, taking on a soft, teasing edge. “Means I get to teach you everything, make sure you do it just right”.

Your cheeks burned at his words, and you couldn’t stop the small gasp that slipped from your lips. “Dean”, you mumbled, trying to keep your composure, but his grin only widened.

“What?”, he teased, his thumb dipping just a little lower, brushing the bare skin above your waistband. “Just sayin’—I’d love to see you on top of me, takin’ your time. You’d look so damn good, movin’ just how you want”.

Dean’s smirk faltered for a moment, replaced by a soft groan as he tilted his head back against the pillow. His thumb continued to tease the bare skin above your waistband, but his grip on your hip tightened ever so slightly, as if anchoring himself to the moment.

“Sweetheart”, he murmured, his voice rougher now, tinged with a frustrated whine that caught you completely off guard. His head lolled to the side, his green eyes locking onto yours, hazy with exhaustion and pain meds. “Don’t make me beg”, he grumbled, his words slurred slightly but still carrying that signature Dean Winchester charm.

You blinked, taken aback, your lips parting as you tried to process his tone. He sounded desperate, his usual confidence muddied by the haze of medication. The sight of him—battered and bruised but still so determined—made your heart ache and your stomach flutter at the same time.

“I’m serious”, Dean continued, his good hand sliding further up your side, his fingertips brushing just under the edge of your bra. His breath hitched slightly as he leaned his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t make me beg, sweetheart. You’re killing me here".

“Dean”, you whispered, your voice soft but tinged with amusement. “You’re not exactly in any condition to—”.

“I don’t care”, he interrupted, his tone suddenly more urgent, though still laced with exhaustion. “C’mon, baby. I’m just… I’m too damn tired to argue. Just wanna feel you, okay?”.

The vulnerability in his words, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded, made your resolve crumble. You bit your lip, your cheeks flushing as you considered his request.

“Fine”, you murmured, your voice barely audible as you leaned in closer. “But you tell me if it’s too much”.

Dean’s lips curved into a faint, victorious smirk as his thumb traced a slow, lazy line up your side. “Wouldn’t dream of stoppin’ you”, he murmured, his voice thick with desire despite his weakened state.

The anticipation in the air was electric, your heart pounding as you shifted slightly, your thighs brushing against his. Dean let out a low groan, his head falling back as his good hand guided you, his bruised and battered body completely at your mercy.

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling slightly as you hooked your fingers into the waistband of your panties, slowly pushing them down over your hips. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, but the heat pooling in your stomach drove you forward. Biting your lip, you glanced at Dean, who was now fumbling awkwardly with his boxers, his injured body making every motion slow and deliberate.

Dean grunted, his frustration evident as he tried to push the fabric down without jostling his broken arm or pulling at his stitched-up chest. “This is harder than it should be”, he muttered, shooting you an apologetic but amused glance. His lips quirked into a lazy smirk as he caught the flush on your cheeks. “You could help, you know”.

You rolled your eyes, though the blush on your face deepened. “You’re impossible”, you muttered, leaning over to help him tug the boxers down just enough, careful not to hurt him. His warm skin brushed against your fingers, and the contact made you shiver, your curiosity bubbling over.

As you sat back, Dean’s smirk turned into a grin, his good hand settling back on your hip. “See? Teamwork”.

You shot him a look, your voice laced with mock annoyance but softened by your shy smile. “I’m not sure if I like this version of you, high on painkillers”, you grumbled, though the playful edge in your tone gave you away. “You’re too bold”.

Dean chuckled lowly, his voice rough and teasing as he tilted his head back to look at you. “Bold, huh? Sweetheart, this is just me being honest. The filters are gone”. He let out a soft groan as you settled back against him, his hand tracing a slow, lazy line along your side.

You narrowed your eyes at him, though the warmth spreading through your body betrayed you. “Is this the Dean women usually get?”, you asked softly, your voice tinged with both curiosity and embarrassment. “The ones who aren’t… like I was?”.

Dean’s smirk softened into something warmer, more sincere as he looked up at you. His thumb continued its gentle path along your side, his touch deliberate and grounding. “You”, he murmured, his voice low and rough, “you get whatever you want. Always”.

His words sent a shiver through you, and you bit your lip, your blush deepening as you sat on his lower stomach. You were acutely aware of the hard length of him pressing against you, the heat of his skin searing against your own. Dean’s good hand moved with purpose, his fingers sliding down your body until they brushed against your inner thigh.

“C’mere”, he murmured.

You felt his thumb find its way to your slick folds, brushing through them with a slow, deliberate stroke that made your entire body tremble. Dean let out a low groan, the sound rumbling deep in his chest as he felt just how ready you were.

You whimpered softly, the sound escaping your lips before you could stop it. His touch was skilled but gentle, his thumb moving in slow circles as his fingers teased you, spreading your arousal.

Dean let out a soft, strained chuckle, his fingers gliding through your wetness again as he murmured, “Don’t even need to get you ready, do I?”. His voice was rough, edged with a mix of desire and exhaustion, but the heat in his gaze burned into you, making your entire body tingle.

You bit your lip, unable to meet his eyes as the embarrassment and need warred within you. “Dean”, you whispered, your voice trembling, but he didn’t let you say more. His good hand slipped away from your folds, settling back on your hip to steady you.

“Alright, sweetheart”, he said, his voice softer now, though still tinged with that teasing edge. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna take control, yeah? Move just how you want. I’ll… guide you… a bit”.

You hesitated for a moment, your hands braced lightly against his chest. The thought of taking control, of being the one to lead, was both thrilling and terrifying. You nodded slowly, swallowing hard as you looked down at him.

“Good girl”, Dean murmured, his words sending a fresh wave of heat through you. His thumb traced small circles on your hip as he continued, his tone gentle but firm. “Start slow. Take your time, okay? You’ll figure it out”.

You let out a shaky breath, lifting yourself slightly and aligning your hips with his. The feeling of his tip brushing against your entrance made you gasp softly, your heart pounding in your chest as you pressed down just enough to let him begin to stretch you.

Dean groaned low in his throat, his good hand tightening on your hip as he felt you envelop him inch by inch. “That’s it”, he rasped, his voice strained. “Slow, sweetheart. Nice and slow”.

You nodded, following his guidance as you sank lower, your body adjusting to the unfamiliar stretch. The sensation was overwhelming but in the best way, a mix of pleasure and anticipation as you took him deeper. Dean’s head fell back against the pillow, his jaw clenching as he tried to keep still, his broken arm resting awkwardly at his side.

“Feel so damn good”, he muttered, his voice hoarse and full of awe. His hand on your hip gave a soft squeeze, urging you to keep going. “That’s my girl. Just like that”.

You blushed deeply at his words but let them encourage you.

As you slowly sank down further, the stretch grew more intense, the last couple of inches making you inhale sharply. Your body tensed instinctively, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you tried to steady yourself. Your hands fluttered near Dean’s shoulders, hesitant to press down, not wanting to hurt him further or strain his injuries.

Dean’s eyes flickered open at the sound, and his gaze softened when he saw the tension in your face. “Hey”, he murmured, his voice low and rough, but filled with reassurance. “You’re alright, sweetheart. My shoulder’s fine”.

You bit your lip, looking down at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you”, you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as your body struggled to adjust to the overwhelming sensation.

Dean’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Trust me”, he muttered, his tone taking on that familiar teasing edge, even though his voice was heavy with desire. “If this is hurting me, it’s the kind of pain I’d happily live with”.

His words made your cheeks flush, the tension in your body easing just slightly. He tightened his grip on your hip, guiding you down another inch, groaning low in his throat as you took more of him. “That’s it”, he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. “Nice and easy. You’re doing so good”.

The way he looked at you—half-proud, half-crazed with need—sent a rush of heat through your body. You nodded shakily, your breaths coming in short gasps as you tried to relax around him.

“Take your time”, he said softly. “No rush, sweetheart. Just feel it”.

You followed Dean’s guidance, your body trembling as you slowly, carefully, sank all the way down until you were fully seated against him. The stretch was intense, overwhelming, but the way his warmth filled you sent a rush of heat through your entire body. A low, guttural groan rumbled in Dean’s chest, his fingers flexing against your hips as he felt you clench around him.

“Fuck”, he muttered, his voice thick and breathless. His head fell back for a moment, his eyes fluttering shut before snapping open again to meet your gaze. “You’re so tight, sweetheart”, he rasped, his good hand stroking your side. “I’ll never get over how good you feel”.

Your breath hitched at his words, your hands still braced on his chest for balance as you tried to adjust to the sensation. The intimacy of the moment, the way Dean looked at you like you were the only thing in the world, made your heart race. But as much as his touch grounded you, there was an uncertainty flickering in your mind—you weren’t sure what to do next.

You searched his face, your blush deepening as your eyes met his. “What now?”, you whispered, your voice trembling slightly with nervousness.

“First, you’re gonna take that bra off”.

Slowly, your hands moved up to the straps of your bra, your fingers trembling as you slipped them off your shoulders. You reached behind to unclasp it, letting the fabric fall away before tossing it aside.

Dean’s good hand immediately slid up from your hip, his palm warm and calloused as he trailed it up your side. His eyes roamed over you appreciatively, his gaze darkening with awe and hunger. “That’s my girl”, he murmured.

The weight of his gaze made you shiver, your hands instinctively moving back to his chest for balance as you tried to steady yourself. Dean’s fingers brushed lightly over your ribs before his hand settled just below your breast, the motion both tender and teasing.

Dean’s hand lingered just below your breast, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin there in a way that made your breath hitch. His green eyes, darkened with desire, never left yours as he leaned in slightly, his voice a husky murmur. “Just move, sweetheart”, he whispered, the heat in his tone sending a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed hard, your cheeks burning as you nodded, but the truth was, you had no idea what you were doing. You’d never done this before—never taken control like this—and the vulnerability of that realization made your heart race.

Dean seemed to sense your hesitation, his good hand sliding back down to your hip. His grip was firm, reassuring, as he guided you gently. “Start slow”, he murmured, his voice softer now, tinged with patience and encouragement. “Just lift up a little, then come back down. You’ve got this”.

You placed one hand on Dean’s shoulder, the firm muscle beneath your fingers grounding you as you tried to follow his guidance. Slowly, you lifted yourself just a little, your thighs already trembling with the effort, and eased yourself back down. The stretch was still intense, a sharp reminder of just how new this was for you, and you bit your lip to keep from wincing. Every movement felt awkward, uncertain, and you couldn’t help but feel self-conscious.

Dean groaned softly beneath you, his grip on your hip tightening slightly, but instead of reassuring you, it only made you hyperaware of your inexperience. A wave of doubt washed over you as your mind spiraled. You knew how many women Dean had been with, how effortlessly skilled and confident they must have been, and here you were, fumbling through something that was supposed to feel natural.

Your cheeks burned, and you avoided meeting his eyes, the vulnerability threatening to overwhelm you.

You took a deep breath, determined to try again despite the uncertainty twisting in your stomach. Slowly, you lifted yourself once more, using Dean’s shoulder as leverage. The movement felt awkward, uncoordinated, and when you sank back down, the stretch was still sharp and overwhelming. Your thighs burned from the effort, and you couldn’t ignore the growing sense that this wasn’t at all what it was supposed to feel like.

Your blush deepened as your insecurities bubbled to the surface. Your small breasts barely moved with your motions, nothing like the exaggerated scenes in the movies you knew Dean used to watch. Your mind raced, comparing yourself to the women you imagined had shared his bed before, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you weren’t measuring up.

The self-consciousness made your movements stiffer, more hesitant, and your frustration grew with every awkward attempt. You bit your lip, fighting the urge to stop entirely.

Dean was trying his best to focus on the overwhelming pleasure that came with feeling you around him, tight and warm and so incredibly perfect, rather than the sharp, persistent ache radiating from his injuries. Despite the awkwardness you felt, every movement you made sent jolts of heat coursing through him, the sensation so intense it nearly made him forget the throbbing in his chest and arm.

His good hand gripped your hip firmly, helping guide your slow, uneven motions as he gritted his teeth against the mix of pleasure and pain. He was already close, the sheer intensity of you—how good you felt, how new and raw this was—enough to push him dangerously near the edge. But then he noticed the shift in your body language, the way you hesitated, your movements faltering.

“What’s wrong?”.

Dean’s thumb brushed over your cheek, wiping away a tear as he tilted your chin up gently, trying to catch your eyes."Hey". His voice softened further, concern laced through every word. “Sweetheart, talk to me. You´re hurt?”.

Dean’s thumb continued its soothing path along your cheek, his green eyes searching yours with a mixture of tenderness and worry. “(Y/N)”, he mumbled softly, his voice steady but insistent. “Are you hurt? Did I—did I do something?”.

You shook your head quickly, biting your lip as you tried to find the words, your hands clutching his shoulders for support. “No”, you whispered, your voice trembling. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not that”.

His brow furrowed, his gaze filled with confusion and concern. “Then what is it? You’re shaking like a leaf”, he murmured, his tone patient and encouraging, even as his thumb brushed away another tear. “Talk to me. I need to know what’s going on”.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. The warmth in his eyes, the softness of his touch, made it impossible to keep your insecurities hidden. “I just…”. You paused, your cheeks flushing as the words caught in your throat.

You took a shaky breath, the words heavy in your chest as you finally forced them out. “I just… I’m so bad at this, Dean”, you whispered, your voice breaking slightly as you looked away, unable to hold his gaze. “I know I’m disappointing you right now”.

The confession hung in the air between you, the weight of it pressing down on your chest as embarrassment clawed at you. You felt so exposed, so small, and the silence that followed only made it worse. “I’m clumsy, I don’t know what I’m doing, and… and you’ve probably had so many women who were amazing at this”, you continued, your voice trembling. “And here I am, just… failing”.

Your hands fell from his shoulders, wrapping around yourself as if you could shield yourself from the vulnerability you’d just laid bare. “I feel so stupid”, you added, the tears you’d been holding back threatening to spill over again. “I just… I want to be good for you”.

Dean’s reaction wasn’t what you expected. There was no frustration, no hint of disappointment or irritation. Instead, his green eyes softened, his expression melting into something so tender and full of love that it nearly stole your breath.

“Baby”, he said, his voice rough but impossibly gentle, “you couldn’t disappoint me if you tried”.

You blinked up at him as his hand cupped your cheek again, his thumb brushing away another stray tear. He shifted slightly, careful of his injuries, and fixed you with a look so full of warmth and sincerity that it made your chest ache.

“You’re not clumsy”, Dean said firmly, his voice steady and full of conviction. “You’re not stupid. And you sure as hell aren’t failing”.

Your lip trembled as you met his gaze, the knot in your chest loosening just slightly at his words. “But I—”.

“Listen to me”, Dean interrupted. “This isn’t about how many people I’ve been with or what anyone else has done. This is us, okay? Just you and me. No comparisons, no expectations“.

Your lip quivered as you whispered, “I’m sorry”, the words barely audible as you bit down on your bottom lip. The vulnerability you felt was overwhelming, but Dean’s thumb brushed against your cheek again, grounding you.

He shook his head, his gaze never leaving yours. “Don’t apologize”, he murmured softly, but then his lips quirked into a small, teasing smirk. His eyes darkened just a little, a spark of heat flickering there. “Do you even know how hard it is for me to hold back right now? Because, sweetheart… you’re so fucking hot like this”.

The unexpected boldness in his words sent a shiver through you, your cheeks burning even hotter. “I…”, you started, but the way his voice dropped lower made your breath catch.

“Let me finish”, he whispered, his tone deep and rough with sincerity. His good hand slid back to your hip, his fingers tightening slightly as if to emphasize his next words.

“You have no idea what it does to me”, he murmured, his gaze unwavering. “Knowing that I’m the only one who’s ever felt you. That no one else has ever touched you like this, made you feel like this”.

His hand tightened slightly on your hip, anchoring you in place as his words sunk deep into your chest. “You’ve given me all of yourself—your trust, your body, everything. And, sweetheart, I don’t take that lightly. Not for a second”.

Your cheeks burned, the weight of his words crashing over you. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest as his eyes searched yours, their green depths softened by the tenderness in his expression.

“You’re all mine”, he continued, his voice soft but firm, like he needed you to understand just how much he meant it. “Every sound you make, every time you tremble under my touch, it’s because of me. And no one else gets to have that. Just me”.

The possessiveness in his tone was undeniable, but it wasn’t harsh or overwhelming—it was filled with love, a deep-seated need to cherish and protect you. His forehead pressed gently against yours, his lips brushing over yours in the faintest of kisses.

“You’re perfect to me”, he whispered against your lips, his breath mingling with yours. “Every inch of you, every moment we’ve share. It’s all mine, just like I’m yours”.

Dean let the heavy silence linger for a beat longer, his forehead still pressed against yours. The raw, emotional intensity in his eyes softened just slightly, and you could see the faintest flicker of mischief returning to his expression. His lips quirked into a small, teasing smirk, and you could feel the shift in his demeanor.

“Besides”, he murmured, “if you keep clenching like that, sweetheart, I’m not gonna last long enough to keep making these romantic speeches”.

Your eyes widened, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as his words sent a fresh wave of heat rushing through you. “Dean!”, you squeaked, your cheeks burning hotter than ever.

He chuckled, the sound low and raspy. “Just being honest here. Thought you liked that about me”.

You bit your lip, torn between laughing and burying your face in your hands to hide your embarrassment. “You’re impossible”, you muttered, but the small smile tugging at your lips gave you away.

Dean grinned wider, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Impossible? Nah”, he teased. “I’d say I’m pretty damn good at this”. His gaze darkened slightly. “And judging by how tight you’re holding onto me, I’d say you agree”.

You groaned softly, leaning forward to press your forehead against his shoulder, hiding your face. “Stop”, you mumbled, though the breathy laugh that followed betrayed you.

Dean chuckled again, his good hand moving up to stroke your back gently. “Alright, alright”, he said, his tone softening as he kissed the top of your head.

Dean’s fingers brushed over your back in slow, soothing strokes, the rough calluses on his hands a comforting contrast to the softness of his touch. Your forehead remained pressed against his shoulder, the steady rhythm of his breathing grounding you. His good hand trailed up and down your spine, a silent reminder of his patience and care, even as his thumb occasionally dipped to your hip in a way that sent little jolts of electricity through you.

His lips moved closer to your hair, and you felt his breath warm against your scalp as he murmured, his voice low and tinged with amusement, “You wanna try again, sweetheart? ’Cause, uh… in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m still rock hard here, baby”.

You froze for a moment, your face heating at his words.

“No pressure, though”, he added, his voice softer now, the teasing edge giving way to genuine reassurance. “I mean it, sweetheart. If you’re not feeling it, we stop. Simple as that”.

You lifted your head slightly, your gaze flicking to his face. Despite the smirk playing at his lips, his green eyes held nothing but warmth and understanding. He wasn’t rushing you; he wasn’t pushing. He was just… waiting, patient and steady, letting you decide.

You bit your lip, letting out a shaky breath as your fingers brushed lightly over his chest. “You really don’t make this easy, you know”, you mumbled, half teasing, half shy.

Dean’s grin widened, the wince from his earlier movement fading into the background as his good hand slipped down to your hip again, grounding you. “That’s kinda the point”, he murmured, his voice rough with affection and just a hint of heat. “But I’ll behave if you want me to”.

The glint in his eyes told you he was lying—Dean Winchester didn’t do “behaving” very well—but the sincerity in his tone reassured you nonetheless. You hesitated for a moment, your fingers playing with the edge of his shirt, before you nodded.

"That’s my girl”, Dean whispered, his voice low and laced with pride. He shifted slightly beneath you, wincing as he reached out with his good hand to grab the edge of the blanket. The movement was clumsy, the effort clearly costing him as his chest tightened in protest, but he managed to pull the blanket up and over your shoulders, draping it around you. The gesture was so Dean—thoughtful, protective—and it made your heart swell.

“You’re good”, he murmured. “Take your time”.

The blanket helped you feel less exposed, and the warmth of it, combined with Dean’s steadying touch, gave you the courage to try again. You lifted your hips gently, the stretch still intense as you moved slowly, carefully. You settled back down with a shaky breath, the motion awkward but filled with intention. Your hands clutched his chest for balance, your fingers grazing over his warm skin as you found a rhythm, though it was far from perfect.

Dean’s breath hitched as you moved, and his fingers flexed against your hip. “That’s it”, he rasped, his voice strained but encouraging. “Just like that, sweetheart”.

You bit your lip, focusing on the way his body felt against yours, the way he filled you completely. But despite your best efforts, you couldn’t help but feel self-conscious. Your movements felt unsure, your thighs trembling with the effort, and you couldn’t shake the thought that you weren’t doing this right.

“You’re perfect”.

You glanced at him, your blush deepening. “I’m… I’m not”, you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I don’t know what I’m doing”.

Dean’s lips quirked into a small, crooked smile, his green eyes gleaming despite the exhaustion etched into his features. “Sweetheart”, he murmured, his tone a mix of teasing and affection, “if this is you not knowing what you’re doing, I’m in trouble”.

The words made you laugh softly despite yourself, your nervousness easing just a little more.

You were trying your best, but the rhythm wasn’t quite right, your thighs burned, and you felt self-conscious about every little shift and wobble. It was impossible not to wonder how it compared to what Dean had experienced before.

But Dean? Dean didn’t seem to notice—or if he did, he didn’t care.

“You feel incredible”.

What he didn’t say—what he would never say—was that yeah, maybe the mechanics weren’t exactly flawless, but none of that mattered. Not when it was you. His feelings for you were doing all the work, filling in every gap with the overwhelming love and desire that had been building between you two. You could’ve been the clumsiest, least experienced partner on the planet, and it wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference to him.

Dean’s grip on your back tightened slightly, his good hand slipping further down to guide your movements just a little. “Slow it down”, he whispered, his voice strained but gentle. “Take your time. You’re doin’ so good”.

You nodded, biting your lip as you followed his guidance. The slow, deliberate pace made the stretch more manageable, though it still left you trembling with effort. Dean groaned softly beneath you, the sound rumbling through his chest, and the heat in his eyes darkened.

Dean’s groan deepened, his voice thick with both pleasure and restraint. His head tilted back against the couch as his grip on your waist tightened slightly. “Sweetheart”, he murmured, his lips curling into a faint, teasing smirk. “I’m pretty close down here”.

You felt your face heat at his words, but the pressure building in your thighs and the ache in your body made it hard to focus on anything else. While Dean was on the verge of release, you weren’t even close. No matter how hard you tried to keep moving, to find the right rhythm, your nerves and inexperience kept holding you back.

You let out a frustrated breath, your movements faltering slightly as you tried to ignore the growing sense of inadequacy. But Dean was always tuned into you—your emotions, your body, everything. His green eyes opened, meeting yours with a warmth that instantly made your chest tighten. He didn’t say anything at first, just watching you with that same mix of affection and desire.

Then, without warning, his good hand slid from your waist to your thigh, his calloused fingers brushing over your trembling skin. “C’mere”, he muttered, his voice rough but tender. His thumb pressed gently against your sensitive bundle of nerves, circling it slowly with a deliberate, practiced touch.

Your breath hitched sharply, your entire body jolting at the sudden wave of pleasure. “Dean”, you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance as your hips instinctively bucked against his hand. The sensation was overwhelming, all-consuming, and you could feel your muscles beginning to tense as his thumb worked in perfect, steady circles.

“Relax”, Dean whispered, his voice like gravel and honey, grounding you even as he pushed you closer to the edge. “Let me take care of you. Just focus on this”.

His fingers didn’t falter, his movements precise and gentle yet insistent, coaxing every little reaction from you. The strain in his own body was obvious—his breathing ragged, his muscles tense—but he didn’t stop, his focus entirely on you.

“You’re so beautiful”, he rasped, his words tumbling out between groans as you clenched tighter around him. “So damn perfect. Let go for me, baby. I’ve got you”.

His thumb pressed just a little harder, and the tension in your body snapped, a wave of pleasure crashing over you so intensely that it stole your breath.

Dean’s good hand stayed firm on your thigh as the intensity of your release rippled through you, your entire body trembling as waves of pleasure coursed down your spine. The feeling was overwhelming, raw, and utterly consuming. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you gasped for breath, and his voice—low, hoarse, and full of praise—grounded you in the moment.

“That’s it, sweetheart”, Dean rasped, his voice strained but filled with admiration. “You’re so damn perfect… so good for me”.

His grip on your hip tightened slightly, guiding you through the aftershocks as your body pulsed around him. The sensation was too much, pushing him over the edge. With a guttural groan that sent shivers through you, Dean followed, his entire body tensing beneath you as his own release tore through him.

His groans of pleasure turned strained as his stomach muscles scrunched in the process, pulling at his injured chest. He winced, his face contorting in a mix of pain and bliss, but he didn’t stop.

You could feel the tension radiating through him as his release claimed him fully, his breathing ragged and uneven. Despite the obvious discomfort, he didn’t let it detract from the moment. His hand brushed over your thigh again, soothing and grounding as he let out a final, exhausted groan, his head falling back against the couch.

For a long moment, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of your shared, heavy breaths. Dean’s chest rose and fell beneath you, and his good hand moved to your back, tracing slow, lazy patterns in an effort to steady you both.

Finally, his green eyes fluttered open, meeting yours with a soft, lopsided smile that made your heart ache.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

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Part 18

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Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @ladykitana90 @fullbelieverheart @chainsawsangel @zaratahir @rebecca-hvnstn @maackiimoo @mayafatimakhan @ladysparkles78 @lachelledavies-winchester @kamisobsessed @kr804573 @c1gs-coffee @fyegyall @lilbloggs @emily-winchester @star-yawnznn @noell666 @averagedenjienjoyer0290 @impala67rollingthroughtown @stellamagicmoon

[librababe99]

Ashes of Desire

CW: emotional manipulation, violence, danger, angst...

Summary: On a humid New Orleans night, you’re drawn to the dangerously magnetic Remy LeBeau, despite every warning. His red eyes and easy charm pull you into a whirlwind of stolen kisses and whispered secrets. Word Count: 1548

AN: Last post for the night y'all and I swear I'll leave your timelines alone😂❤️ I feel like I've been writing a lot of angst? But I honestly love it LOL---I hope you enjoy and as always comments/feedback are appreciated! - Libra * .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

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The humid New Orleans night clung to you like a second skin, the air heavy with the scent of rain and the whispers of secrets lurking in every shadowed corner. Bourbon Street was alive, pulsing with the vibrant energy of the city—jazz music spilling from open doors, laughter mingling with the clinking of glasses, the occasional shout cutting through the noise. But none of it reached your ears. Your focus was singular, unwavering, fixed on the figure leaning casually against the brick wall just beyond the reach of the neon lights.

Remy LeBeau.

He was every bit the enigma you’d always known him to be—cool, composed, with an air of danger that clung to him like the night itself. His red eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, a predatory gleam that set your nerves on edge and made your pulse quicken. You knew better. You knew the stories, the warnings whispered by those who had crossed paths with the infamous Gambit and lived to tell the tale. He was a thief, a rogue, a man with more blood on his hands than you cared to think about. But there was something about him, something dark and magnetic that drew you in like a moth to a flame, even when you knew you were going to get burned.

He pushed off the wall with a lazy grace, his smirk deepening as he sauntered toward you, each step deliberate, measured. The slick cobblestones beneath his boots barely made a sound. The narrow alleyway you had cornered him in felt suddenly too small, too intimate, the walls pressing in on you as the space between you dwindled.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he drawled, his voice thick with that unmistakable Cajun accent that sent shivers down your spine. His gaze flickered over you, a mix of amusement and something darker, something that made your heart race in a way that had nothing to do with fear. His eyes were unreadable, a storm behind a veil of indifference, and yet, you couldn’t look away.

“I could say the same about you,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady, trying to ignore the way his presence seemed to fill the alleyway, crowding out everything else. You had come here tonight with a purpose, but now that you were face-to-face with him, you weren’t sure what that purpose was anymore.

He chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that curled around your insides like smoke. “Always de stubborn one, ain’t ya, chère?” he said, closing the distance between you in two strides. He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face, and the contact sent a shock through your system. Your skin tingled where he touched you, a stark contrast to the cold fear creeping up your spine.

“Chère, you keep playin’ dis game, but you don’t even know the rules,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, the words a warning and a promise all at once.

Your breath hitched as his hand lingered on your cheek, the warmth of his skin making you acutely aware of just how close he was. You wanted to pull away, to put some distance between you, but your body betrayed you, leaning into his touch instead, craving the warmth and the danger that came with it.

“I know enough,” you whispered, though the words felt hollow, even to your own ears. What were you doing? What did you hope to achieve? This man was danger personified, a storm wrapped in charm and lies, and yet, here you were, drawn to him like an addict to their poison.

His eyes darkened, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place passing through them—something that made your chest tighten painfully. “Maybe,” he said softly, almost as if he were talking to himself. “But sometimes, knowin’ ain’t enough to save you.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and ominous, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of regret in his eyes, a vulnerability so fleeting you almost doubted you’d seen it at all. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the familiar mask of nonchalance that he wore like armor.

“You think I’m gonna save you, chère?” he teased, leaning in closer, his breath hot against your ear, sending another shiver down your spine. “’Cause I ain’t no hero. Never been, never will be.”

“I don’t need saving,” you snapped, finding your voice again, even as your heart hammered in your chest. “Especially not from you.”

The smirk that curled his lips was sharp, dangerous, and it made something inside you twist painfully. “Dat’s where you’re wrong, ma belle. I’m the one you should be runnin’ from.”

But you couldn’t run. Not now. Not after you’d come this far, not after everything that had led you to this moment. And that’s how you found yourself tangled up in his arms, lips crashing together in a kiss that was more desperation than passion, a collision of need and fear and something else you couldn’t name. It was a mistake. You knew that. But in that moment, with the world spinning around you and the taste of him on your tongue, it was the only thing that felt real.

He kissed you like he was drowning, like you were the last breath of air he’d ever have, and you let him. You let him because for once, you wanted to be the one who made him feel something, anything. Even if it was just for a moment.

But it wasn’t just a moment.

It was a series of stolen kisses, whispered words in the dark, and nights spent in each other’s arms, pretending that this—whatever it was—could be something more. You told yourself it was just a fling, just a game, but deep down, you knew it was a lie.

You were falling for him. And it was going to destroy you.

Because Remy LeBeau was not a man who could be saved. He was a storm, wild and unpredictable, and you were caught in the eye of it, helpless to do anything but watch as everything you knew was torn apart.

He warned you. He told you to stay away. But you didn’t listen. You thought you could handle it, handle him, but now you were drowning in the mess you’d made, and there was no one to pull you out.

And Remy? He was still there, still holding you close, but you could see the cracks in his façade, the way he looked at you like he was waiting for the inevitable. He wasn’t going to save you. He was going to drag you down with him, and there was nothing either of you could do to stop it.

“Remy,” you whispered one night, your voice barely audible over the sound of rain pattering against the window. The city outside was alive, but in that quiet room, it felt like you were the only two people in the world. “What are we doing?”

He didn’t answer right away, just held you tighter, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, as if he could memorize the feel of you beneath his touch. “Survivin’, chère,” he said finally, his voice rough and tired. “We’re just survivin’.”

But you both knew it was more than that. You weren’t surviving—you were burning. And sooner or later, there would be nothing left but ashes.

But even as that truth hung heavy between you, you couldn’t let go. You couldn’t walk away. Because as much as it hurt, as much as it tore you apart, you needed him. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

So you stayed. You stayed even though you knew it was killing you, even though you knew that every kiss, every touch, was another step closer to the edge.

The nights grew longer, the days more unbearable as the weight of your choices pressed down on you. Remy was a constant presence, always there in the shadows of your mind, a reminder of everything you were trying to escape and everything you couldn’t bear to lose. The more time you spent with him, the more you felt the edges of your sanity fray, the more you felt yourself slipping further into the abyss.

You began to notice the small things, the things that only someone who was hopelessly entangled would see—the way his laughter never quite reached his eyes, the way his hands would tremble just slightly when he thought you weren’t looking. The way he would watch you when he thought you were asleep, his expression soft and almost…broken.

But those moments of vulnerability were fleeting, gone as soon as they appeared, replaced by the mask you had come to know so well. He was still Remy LeBeau, the charming, dangerous thief who could steal your breath with a smile and break your heart with a whisper. He was still the storm you had foolishly decided to weather, even as it tore your world apart.

And when the end came—because it would come, you knew that now—it would be on his terms, not yours.

Because Remy LeBeau was a thief, and he had stolen more than just your heart.

He had stolen your soul.

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Taglist: @venssu

[wholoveseggs]

Dark Star {Part One}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Part One

{Elijah Mikaelson x f!Reader} Bound by love that defies centuries, Elijah Mikaelson will do whatever it takes to resurrect his lost wife. Even if it means forsaking everything he believes in. Once the north star guiding his family, his shattered heart now leads him down a darker path, transforming him into a version beyond redemption. A damned soul, drawing his family into an abyss they may never escape.

♡♡ Hello my lovely followers! This will be a six part series inspired by @njeancastro316 post about red door Elijah (Girl, I've been writing this non-stop since you tagged me! thank you for the inspo). I really put my whole heart into this one, {I even made a playlist to capture the vibes} exploring the depths of Elijah's character and his struggle between love and darkness. Enjoy! && expect pain... ♡♡

6.8k words - Warnings: angst, angst and more angst, grief, heartbreak, intense violence, red door Elijah, emotional turmoil, so much Mikaelson family drama {the whole gang is here && some faves from Mystic Falls will show up later}, No smut in this part, but prepare for plenty of darkness... oh! && croissants...

{Part Two}{Part Three}{Part Four}{Part Five}{Part Six}

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@myanmy @xflowerbombxo @maryvibess @always-and-forever-daydreaming

@spnaquakindgdom @amournoir @meeom @damienmorton @wickedmuse

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@loving-and-dreaming @fancycassie-stayfancy @hcqwxrtss123 @iamawkwardandshy @ziayamikaelson

@absolutemarveltrash @darkened-writer @nina6708 @evasmlp

@madeinmyownmind-blog @lovelyy-moonlight @blacknightrises @poppet05 @sweetieseven

@xoxo-shy @nova-j @decaffeinatedparadisepost @fandom-princess-forevermore

Prologue ~ Europe 13th Century

"This way!" A boy laughed as he darted beneath a low-hanging branch. Behind him, a small girl hurried along, lifting her skirt to keep up, her breath catching in short gasps.

"Slow down! Wait for me!" she called, tripping over roots and brambles in her haste. "I can't run as fast as you!"

The boy glanced back, grinning. "Then hurry, will you."

"We ought to be home by now." She replied, frowning.

"We are almost there," he replied, leaping over a fallen branch before turning to face her, eyes gleaming. "We can get home quicker through the woods."

"I don’t like it," she murmured, clutching her skirt tighter. Shadows crept over the path as the sun sank lower, casting an orange glow through the dense branches. "The hour grows late."

The boy shook his head, catching her hand with a reassuring squeeze. "We’ll be fine. It’s only a short way."

Reluctantly, she nodded, holding onto him. "If anything ill should happen, I’ll tell Mother."

He only laughed, tugging her down the narrow path. "If something ill happens, you may not get the chance!"

Their laughter echoed in the stillness as they raced ahead. The trees grew taller, their branches clawing toward the darkening sky, while thick underbrush crowded the trail, rustling with each step. Yet the children, lost in their game, scarcely noticed, laughing and squealing as they chased one another.

Then, a sound, a subtle, almost a whisper, seeped through the quiet. The girl stopped, clutching the boy’s arm. “Did you hear that?”

“What is it?”

“Shh,” she hissed, pulling him closer, her wide eyes searching the shadows. "Listen."

They stood in silence, the air heavy and still, broken only by their own quickening breaths.

“It’s nothing. Perhaps a deer-”

“No, it’s more than that,” she whispered. Somewhere ahead, faint and distant, came the flicker of firelight. And with it, laughter. Wild and strange.

“What is that?” the boy asked, his voice barely a breath.

“Quiet,” she said, creeping forward, pulling him toward the light.

They peered out from behind a tree, breath catching at the sight before them. A great fire blazed, roaring into the sky as shadows twisted around it. Two figures danced wildly around the flames, naked, their skin smeared with red and ash. Their laughter, sharp and otherworldly, pierced the night air.

The girl’s scream barely escaped her lips before the boy’s hand clamped over her mouth, pulling her back. They stumbled, clutching one another, then turned and fled, racing down the trail as fast as their little legs would carry them, branches clawing at their clothes.

By the time they burst into the village, their faces were pale, their breaths ragged. Villagers gathered around as the children stumbled forward, pointing frantically toward the woods.

“Demons!” the girl gasped, clutching at the skirts of the nearest woman. “They’re out there! In the forest!”

There was a hushed sadness over the compound. The lights seemed to have dimmed, and the atmosphere hung heavy, cold and suffocating. It had been that way since the night Elijah found your lifeless body on the cold pavement. The night that changed everything.

Rebekah didn’t like it here anymore. Her home felt more like a tomb than a residence. It was too quiet, too full of memories and emotions too painful to confront. Her big brother was suffering, and there was nothing she could do to help him.

She found Klaus sitting in the courtyard, staring blankly at a chessboard. The pieces were scattered, mid-game, but his focus seemed to drift in and out. Normally, this contemplative silence from him made her nervous, but today she couldn’t muster the energy to care. The weight of everything was too much.

“Any news?” Rebekah asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Klaus didn’t move, didn’t speak at first. He shifted a chess piece absentmindedly and shrugged.

The sound of Marcel’s footsteps echoed through the stillness of the courtyard. She felt one of his warm hands rest gently on the small of her back, and she leaned into him, drawing comfort from his presence.

“I’ve been asking around. Only lead I have is that he’s somewhere in Europe,” Marcel said, his voice sounding hollow.

“Well, where in Europe?” Klaus finally spoke, his gaze never leaving the board.

“Don’t know. Haven’t pinpointed his exact location yet,” Marcel sighed. “But he’s been killing low-level Strix members, leaving bodies in his wake.”

Klaus scoffed softly, moving another piece on the board. “Keep looking,”

“You almost sound like you care,” Rebekah hissed, glaring at him.

“Don’t start with me, little sister,” Klaus warned, his voice low and sharp.

“Elijah has always been there for us,” she snapped, “And when he needs our help, where are you? Sitting here, playing chess with yourself.”

Klaus’s fist slammed down on the chessboard, sending the pieces flying across the table. He stood abruptly, stalking toward her, his eyes blazing. But Rebekah didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. She held his glare with her own, unrelenting.

“What do you want me to do?” Klaus roared, his voice cracking as his anger gave way to the grief simmering beneath. “Tell me, Rebekah. How do I fix this?”

“I want you to find him!” she screamed, tears stinging her eyes. “He’s our brother, Nik!”

Klaus’s shoulders slumped. His rage deflated, leaving him hollow. “I don’t know how to fix this, little sister,” he admitted quietly.

Marcel cleared his throat, stepping forward. “Maybe we should give him some time. Let him mourn her.”

“He’s not mourning, Marcel,” Klaus growled, clenching his jaw. “He’s murdering. He hasn’t even accepted that she’s dead.”

Rebekah and Marcel exchanged worried glances.

“We can’t just let him destroy himself,” Rebekah argued, her voice breaking. “Wherever he is, whoever crosses his path... they’re doomed. He’s out of control.”

“He’s changed,” Marcel muttered, rubbing his temple. “I’ve never seen him like this. So violent, so volatile.”

“That’s why I’m worried, Nik,” Rebekah said, her tone deadly serious. “If he’s not stopped, the Elijah we know will be gone. He will become a monster.”

Klaus looked down at the shattered chess pieces scattered across the table. “We are monsters, Rebekah,” he whispered, his voice raw.

“No, Nik,” she said, her voice trembling. “Not like this.”

Klaus remained silent for a moment, then lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Suppose someone took Marcellus from you. What would you do?”

“I would raze this earth and dance on the ashes,” she answered without hesitation, the fire of her love and loyalty burning bright in her eyes.

“That’s what he’s doing,” Klaus said darkly.

“Yes,” Rebekah agreed, “but Elijah would come for me. He would find me, and help me, keep me from losing myself. Now he’s the one who needs help.”

“How do we stop him?” Marcel asked, though his voice was laden with doubt.

Klaus shook his head slowly. “We don’t.”

“Nik…” Rebekah started, her voice pleading.

“We contain the damage,” Klaus cut her off, the steely resolve returning to his voice. “I’ll go to Europe. I’ll bring him back.”

Rebekah exhaled, relief flooding through her, and she pulled Klaus into a tight hug. She didn’t say anything, just held him as though her arms alone could keep the family from falling apart. He hugged her back, and for a moment, the cracks in their family seemed to close.

Marcel stood behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently.

When she finally pulled away, Rebekah gave her brother a sad smile. “Be careful.”

Klaus nodded. “I will.”

His eyes flicked to Marcel, and the two men exchanged a knowing look. They both understood how dangerous this was. That if Elijah couldn’t be saved, they might lose him forever.

Or worse... they might have to put him down.

Two members of the Strix walked side by side, their steps echoing off the marble floors. One glanced around nervously, eyeing the high-tech security measures surrounding them, cameras in every corner, reinforced steel doors, layers of magical barriers.

"Is this really necessary? I can't stand being cooped up here. What's the point?" the taller vampire complained, his voice echoing through the empty corridor.

"Protocol," the other replied, his tone bored. "You know how paranoid Tristan can be. But I’m telling you, no one's getting in here. Not even him."

"I don’t get it. We had nothing to do with her death. Why are we hiding?"

"He doesn’t know that." The second vampire shook his head, his eyes flicking toward a monitor displaying multiple feeds from around the compound. “And he doesn’t seem to care about guilt or innocence anymore.”

They stopped at a reinforced door, pressing their palms to the scanners. As the heavy doors slid open, the two shared a final glance, the reality sinking in that even their supposed impenetrable defenses might not be enough.

They stepped into the dim room, illuminated only by the flickering light of the chandelier hanging above a long oak table. Strix members filled the chairs, their faces tense and uneasy. They had gathered in secret, far from prying eyes. Whispers of fear and uncertainty drifted across the room, but no one dared to speak above a murmur. The air was heavy with dread, and no one felt safe.

At the head of the table, Aya stood, her sharp gaze cutting through the room like a blade. She had always been the picture of composure, a pillar of strength, but now, her patience was thinning, her power waning, cracks in her armor where fear leaked through. Beside her, Tristan de Martel leaned casually in his chair, an amused smile playing on his lips, as if this was all a game to him. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the faces of his fellow Strix members, reveling in their discomfort.

“We all know why we’re here,” Aya began, her voice cold and steady, but there was an underlying tension to it, like a string about to snap. “Our ranks are thinning, and the reason is no secret.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Heads turned, glances were exchanged. They knew. Everyone knew.

“Elijah Mikaelson,” Tristan added, his voice smooth and casual, as if he were discussing the weather. His eyes gleamed with a cruel delight. “The noble brother has gone rogue. It seems the death of his beloved has… unraveled him.”

"That's an interesting way of putting it," one Strix member commented, his voice dripping with disdain. "He ripped apart fifty of my men, left a trail of bodies and witnesses, it took me days to cover it all up,"

"And how many vampires has he killed since then? Hundreds? Thousands?" another voice chimed in, sounding bitter.

"You're just scared," another vampire challenged, his tone mocking.

"Of course, we're scared. Do you know what he's capable of?" the first vampire hissed, baring his teeth.

"Silence," Aya ordered, her tone icy. The room fell quiet, the air crackling with tension. "We cannot defeat him, nor can we sit by and wait for him to tear us apart. He has lost his humanity, and it's clear that we must take action."

"We have already taken action and all it does is piss him off," the Strix member grumbled, "I have no interest in fighting a losing battle."

"You're a coward," Aya snarled, her eyes flashing with anger.

"What would you have us do?" another vampire spoke up, their voice strained, "We're no match for him."

"Perhaps we should consider a bargain," Tristan suggested, a sly smirk creeping across his lips. "Find the killer, deliver them to him, and save ourselves the trouble of being murdered."

The members murmured amongst themselves, some seeming open to the idea, while others still appeared wary.

"I cannot fathom why someone would be so foolish. Surely the person who did this knows the repercussions," a member said, a hint of fear in their voice.

Tristan's smile widened. "They were foolish indeed, and now they are the most hunted man, or woman, in the world,"

Aya's face was impassive, her mind racing. She had no doubt that Elijah would tear down the world to find his killer, and if the Strix didn't deliver them, he would do the same to their ranks. Tristan's indifference infuriated her. While he sat there with a smile, the Strix were suffering the consequences of his poor leadership.

A soft little cough pulled her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see a small girl standing at the other end of the table. She looked no older than twelve, with delicate features and wide, doe-like eyes. She looked lost, and this wasn't a place you could just wander into.

Other members noticed her presence and got to their feet, the scraping of chairs echoing off the walls. Aya narrowed her eyes, taking in the girl's appearance.

"Who are you?" Aya asked, her voice sharp.

The girl was clearly terrified, her hands shaking, and she looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Aya found it strange. She didn't sense the power of a witch coming off her, she was just a girl, and a very young one at that.

"I-I'm sorry," the girl stammered, her voice barely a whisper, "I don't know why I'm here. I just woke up here and now, I-I'm scared,"

"How did you get in here?" Aya questioned, her voice low and menacing.

"A nice man told me to come here," the girl mumbled, her eyes darting around the room, taking in the tense, hostile atmosphere. "He wanted me to talk to you."

Aya raised an eyebrow. "And why would he want that?"

The girl shrugged, her eyes brimming with tears. "I don't know, please, I just want to go home,"

"What did he look like?" Aya pressed, her voice growing louder.

"He had dark hair, and brown eyes," the girl sniffled, trying to hold back her sobs.

Tristan's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing dangerously. The room was suddenly silent, the tension now unbearable. Aya stared at the girl, her face an unreadable mask, but inside, her mind was racing.

"What did he want you to say?" Aya asked, her voice quiet, dangerous.

The girl’s breath hitched, her words barely audible. "That... he will give all of you a slow death."

The temperature in the room plummeted, and a cold shiver ran down Aya’s spine. She struggled to hide her unease, but the implication was clear: Elijah had infiltrated their sanctuary.

"A-and that... if I can get in..." The girl gulped, her small voice quaking, "He can too."

The room fell into a suffocating silence as the weight of her words settled on the group. Tristan shot up from his chair, his face dark with fury.

“Lockdown procedures. Now.” Tristan barked, his voice commanding and harsh.

"What about the girl?" Aya asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the trembling child. Her instincts told her something wasn’t right.

"Kill her," Tristan spat, his voice cold and merciless. "She’s served her purpose."

The room erupted into chaos. Sirens blared as the compound went into immediate lockdown. The lights flickered, dimming to an eerie glow. The Strix moved quickly, vanishing into the shadows, their bodies blurring as they scattered, heading for safe rooms or exit points.

Aya hesitated for a moment, her gaze still fixed on the girl. She started toward her, but a voice in her head warned her against it. With one last glance, she turned and hurried toward the safe room.

The little girl stood trembling in the darkness, tears streaming down her face. The once-imposing vampires had fled, leaving her all alone in the icy silence.

"It's okay, sweetheart," a voice purred from the shadows, smooth and calming. The girl gasped, her heart racing as she felt a hand on her shoulder, firm yet oddly comforting.

She turned to see a tall man standing behind her, his dark hair framing his sharp features, his kind eyes watching her closely. "Run along now," he said softly, giving her a gentle push toward the door.

The girl nodded quickly, wiping her tears before scampering away, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft hiss.

Elijah watched her go, his kind smile fading as the room returned to darkness. His eyes glinted coldly, the warmth in them vanishing like smoke. Slowly, the veins beneath his eyes darkened, spreading like cracks in the surface of his calm exterior.

He was already inside.

As the sirens echoed, he vanished into the shadows once more, his presence like a gathering storm. And what followed this storm, was pure, unrelenting destruction.

The soft drone of a news broadcast drifted through an abandoned loft, dust floating through the air. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, the room dark and shadowy, save for the light of a flickering TV. The anchor woman's face was somber, her voice solemn.

“Une tragédie a frappé Paris la nuit dernière... un incendie dévastateur a détruit un immeuble historique, laissant peu de traces de ce qui s’y trouvait. Les autorités locales confirment que l’origine du feu demeure inconnue, mais la rapidité à laquelle il s’est propagé soulève des questions.”

Subtitles scrolled across the bottom of the screen in English: "A tragic accident struck Paris last night... a devastating fire destroyed a historic building, leaving few traces of what was inside. Local authorities confirm that the cause of the fire is unknown, but the speed at which it spread raises questions."

The camera cut to images of the smoldering wreckage. Blackened stone, twisted metal, and fire trucks still spraying water over what little remained.

Elijah wasn't paying attention to the TV anymore; he had his head in his hands, hunched over in a chair, his body wracked with sobs. Bodies were strewn about the room, blood spattered on the walls and floors. A macabre painting of violence and rage. The sight of the lifeless forms weighed heavily on him, a chilling reminder of his own actions.

He didn't know how long he had been there, but it felt like an eternity. Each day blended into the next, the hours stretching into a meaningless void. Days would go by where he felt utterly detached, lost in a sea of grief and loss, and then the anger would return, awakening him to a new trail of bodies. There were so many, too many, and yet it wasn't enough.

“Les témoins affirment avoir vu des ombres avant que l’incendie n’éclate, mais aucune preuve tangible n’a été trouvée. Des sources proches de l’enquête évoquent une possible attaque ciblée, bien que les détails restent flous.”

"Witnesses reported seeing shadows before the fire broke out, but no physical evidence has been found. Sources close to the investigation say there may have been a targeted attack, though details remain unclear."

"You used a child? My love, what has become of you?"

Elijah didn't flinch, didn't react as he felt your arms wrap around his shoulders, your lips pressing a gentle kiss on his cheek. Your voice was soft, tinged with sadness and disappointment. He hated himself for it.

"She's fine," Elijah said, his voice strained, barely able to meet your gaze.

"You don't know that," you sighed, your hands moving to his chest, trying to soothe him. "And you know this isn't the way,"

"There is no other way," he replied, his voice cracking, desperation lacing his words.

"You used an innocent child, one not much older than Hope," you said, a hint of anger breaking through your sadness.

Elijah stiffened. He knew you were right. It didn't make what he did any better, and he felt his self-loathing increase tenfold.

"They killed you; I did what I had to," Elijah defended, but the words felt hollow, a pitiful excuse.

"This isn't the way," you repeated, your voice pleading, "and you don't know who did it, or why. This is all just a guess, a hunch."

He let out another quiet sob, then grabbed his glass of blood and threw it against the wall, the shards falling like crimson rain. He stared at the stain on the wall, watching the liquid trickle down, and he couldn't help but feel a sick sense of satisfaction.

"You have to stop," you whispered, appearing in front of him, your hand cupping his cheek, trying to pull him away from the dark, destructive spiral he was on.

"I can't," he said, his voice breaking, unable to look at you, this ghost haunting him.

"Please," you begged, your hand moving to his neck, gently stroking his skin, trying to comfort him. "I know this pain. It's agony, it's consuming, but I promise you, it will fade."

He pulled you onto his lap, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close, trying to breathe in your scent, to feel your warmth. But he couldn't. You were an echo, a phantom he couldn't grasp.

"You can't bring me back. You know that," you whispered, your voice barely audible, a soft, sad reminder.

He didn't respond, just held you, his fingers digging into your skin, his eyes closed tightly, fighting back tears. He had spent so many nights like this, crying himself to sleep, waking up to nothing, just an empty bed, a cold room, and a hollow, broken heart.

He opened his eyes and let out a gasp as he realized he was clinging to one of the dead bodies on the floor, the vampire's skin gray and decaying, the body long since gone cold.

Elijah released the body and staggered to his feet, his head swimming with despair and self-loathing. His pain and sorrow gave way to anger and frustration, fueling the urge to hurt, to destroy anything and anyone.

"Par ailleurs, une jeune fille a disparu après ne pas être rentrée chez elle. La jeune fille, qui aurait douze ans, a été vue pour la dernière fois dans la zone de l'incendie,"

"In other news, a young girl has gone missing after failing to return home. The girl, who is reported to be twelve years old, was last seen in the area of the fire..."

Elijah snapped, grabbing the TV and throwing it against the wall, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the room. His rage burned bright, a hot, white flame. His heart raced, his breathing ragged, his body shaking with fury.

He wanted to scream, he wanted to kill, but more than anything, he wanted you. He wanted to hold you, to feel your warmth, to hear your voice. He couldn't take it anymore; he was falling apart.

Klaus was never a big croissant fan; he preferred something heartier for breakfast. But here, in France, the flaky pastry seemed to taste infinitely better. Maybe it was the morning sunlight filtering through the café windows or the distant sounds of bustling streets.

He took a sip of his espresso, his eyes scanning the crowded café, absorbing the lively atmosphere. Freya sat across from him, her brow furrowed as she read a spell book, her expression thoughtful.

"Anything in there about wrangling wayward siblings?" Klaus teased, a wry grin playing on his lips.

Freya glanced up, a slight frown creasing her forehead. "That's more your area of expertise."

Klaus let out a huff of laughter. "Fair enough."

Freya’s expression softened, a small smile breaking through. "It will be okay. We'll find him."

Klaus nodded, biting into his croissant, the flakes melting in his mouth. The clatter of dishes and murmurs of conversation surrounded them, along with the distant strains of a busker playing a violin.

"Then what? I’ve never known what to say to him," Klaus said, a hint of sadness in his voice. "He’s always the one with the wise words, not me."

"Honesty is all we have," Freya replied, her tone gentle. "We tell him we miss him, that he’s our brother, and we want him home."

"And that we need to have a funeral, or at least a memorial. Hope is very confused about what happened to her aunt," Klaus added, his gaze drifting to the people walking by the window.

"We'll do it together, as a family," Freya reassured, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. Her touch was gentle, a lifeline in the turmoil. "He needs to know we’re here for him."

"And if he doesn’t want to come back? What then?" Klaus asked, his voice heavy with concern.

"We will cross that bridge when we get to it." Freya pointed at the spell book, her expression brightening. "I’m looking into ways to calm his mind. Perhaps if he can control his rage, he can start to heal."

"I don’t wish to subdue him," Klaus said, frowning. "He deserves the right to his pain, to grieve in his own way."

Freya’s eyes widened, surprised by his response. It wouldn’t be the first time Klaus had tried to force Elijah or the rest of their family into doing things his way. Yet, despite his brashness, she knew Klaus was a man of deep, powerful emotions, capable of empathy.

"What?" Klaus asked, quirking an eyebrow at her.

"You’ve grown," Freya smiled. "It’s good to see."

"Don’t get used to it," Klaus quipped, taking another bite of his croissant and washing it down with a sip of his espresso. "I wish for us to go back to normal, where I’m the problem."

"You’ll never not be a problem, Nik," Freya grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Rude," he scowled.

"But true," she sighed, returning to her book with a smile.

Klaus took another sip of his espresso, his gaze drifting to the TV hanging in the corner. A news broadcast caught his attention, the images of a fire flickering on the screen. He leaned forward, his expression sharpening as he listened intently.

"De nouvelles informations proviennent de l'enquête sur l'incendie du centre-ville de Paris. La police a désormais identifié plus de deux cents corps retrouvés sur les lieux, sans aucune indication pour l'instant du nombre de personnes portées disparues. Il semblerait que les victimes étaient toutes membres de une société privée de conservation d'œuvres d'art, possédant des participations dans plusieurs pays. Alors que les autorités enquêtent toujours sur la cause de l'incendie, il a été suggéré que l'incendie avait été allumé délibérément.”

"There is new information coming in from the investigation into the fire in downtown Paris. Police have now identified more than two hundred bodies recovered from the scene, with no indication yet of how many are still missing. It's believed the victims were all members of a private art curation company, with holdings in several countries. While authorities are still investigating the cause of the blaze, it's being suggested the fire was set deliberately."

Klaus’s stomach dropped, a familiar dread creeping in. The timing was too convenient, and this 'art curation company' sounded like a cover for a secret society. He gestured to the screen, espresso still in hand, splashing a few drops onto the table. "Looks like a place for us to visit, wouldn’t you say?"

Freya looked up, her brow furrowing. "Do you think Elijah has anything to do with it?"

"If this organization is the Strix -sorry, was the Strix- then absolutely," Klaus replied, a grim smile forming on his lips. "Perhaps they gave him the answers he was looking for. Answers we weren’t able to find."

"I can’t imagine it would have been a pleasant reunion," Freya sighed, shaking her head. "I can’t say I blame him."

Klaus’s smile faded. He had tried his best, searching for months through the ashes of Elijah’s rage. He had gone from city to city, country to country, even continent to continent. And now, as he stood on the brink of discovery, he couldn’t help but wonder what condition Elijah would be in when they finally found him.

"Well then, no point in wasting any more time," Klaus said, taking a final sip of his espresso.

Freya nodded, closing her book, quickly downing her coffee before stealing the last bite of Klaus’s croissant, earning a playful glare.

"Oi!" he growled, "I was going to eat that."

"Too slow, brother," she smirked.

Klaus rolled his eyes and stood, tossing a wad of cash on the table without bothering to count. The two of them hurried out, the waiter shaking his head as he picked up the money and Klaus's empty plate.

"Americans," he muttered under his breath.

The site of the fire was a blackened husk, the acrid smell of smoke still heavy in the air. Klaus and Freya walked along the sidewalk, watching the firefighters douse the smoldering remains with water. Distant sirens echoed, a haunting reminder of the chaos that had unfolded.

"Can't believe it's still burning," Klaus mused, a slight frown on his face.

"Must have been quite the inferno," Freya remarked, her expression thoughtful.

"Magic?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, I don't sense any," Freya said, shaking her head. "Whoever started it didn't use magic."

Klaus glanced at her, a smirk on his lips. "I thought you didn't think Elijah had anything to do with it?"

Freya shrugged. "Maybe he did, maybe he didn't."

Klaus wrinkled his nose, his keen sense of smell picking up the lingering scent of blood beneath all the ash and smoke. Human, vampire, a mix of the two. The fire had raged through the night, burning hot and fast, devouring everything in its path.

"I do sense death, though," Freya murmured, her brow furrowing, her expression darkening. "Lots of it."

"Well, I can't imagine there'll be much left for us to find, considering how thorough my brother is," Klaus muttered, his gaze roving over the ruined buildings, his stomach sinking.

"Why are you so sure it was him?" Freya asked, her eyes narrowing.

"Because I can smell his cologne, no1 passant guardant," Klaus replied, wrinkling his nose.

"Kinda weird that you can smell that, Nik," Freya smirked, giving him a sideways glance.

"I'm a hybrid, love; it's one of my many gifts," Klaus replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

Freya shook her head, a wry grin on her lips, suppressing a giggle as she watched her brother sniff the air, his eyes closed, his expression one of intense concentration.

"Could be someone else with the same taste in cologne; you never know," she teased, nudging him with her elbow.

"It’s very difficult to come by; only a handful of stores carry it," Klaus muttered, ignoring her teasing. "And... she bought it for him just before... you know."

"Ah," Freya's expression softened, her amusement replaced by a mix of sadness and understanding.

Klaus opened his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the destruction once more, the weight of grief settling on his shoulders. He missed you. Your laughter, your wit, the way you could put him in his place. He admired your loyalty, your strength, and how much you loved his brother.

"What are you thinking about?" Freya asked, her voice quiet and cautious.

"Our departed sister-in-law... the cause of all of this," Klaus said, a sad smile on his lips.

"You can't blame her, you know," Freya murmured, her eyes filled with understanding and sympathy. "I miss her too."

"It's hard to be reminded, is all," Klaus replied, a hint of pain in his voice.

Freya gave him a soft, sympathetic smile, her hand gently squeezing his shoulder. "You know... I never learned how they met," she said, trying to steer the conversation toward something less melancholy.

Klaus laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, it's quite a tale, and some parts I'm not privy to. But I can tell you that she was a novice in a convent," he began, a sparkle in his eye.

"A nun?!" Freya exclaimed, her eyebrows shooting up.

"Indeed, although she hadn't taken her vows," Klaus chuckled, amused by the surprised look on her face.

"So, what happened? How did they end up together?" Freya asked, intrigued.

"For all parties involved, it was quite a dramatic affair," Klaus continued, a wistful smile forming on his lips. "But we have more important things to focus on, don't you think?"

Freya sighed, rolling her eyes. "You're no fun."

Klaus let out a huff of laughter and returned to focusing on the scents around him, trying to find a trail, something that might lead him to his brother. He caught the faintest whiff of blood, the scent leading away from the fire, and deeper into the city.

"This way," he said, striding confidently down a street, away from the site of the fire.

Freya hurried to catch up, her long legs making short work of the distance, her boots clattering on the cobblestone streets.

"How can you be so sure?" Freya asked, falling in step beside him, her voice low and cautious.

"I just am," Klaus said, his tone brooking no argument. "That bloody cologne of his is everywhere. No one else has such atrocious taste in fragrances."

"Nik..." Freya cautioned, her tone warning, her gaze flickering to the passersby, making sure no one was eavesdropping. "We don't know what's waiting for us. We can't just charge in."

"I know; that's why you are going in first, my dear sister," Klaus smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Nik," Freya protested, her expression indignant.

"Don't worry, I'll be right behind you," Klaus grinned, giving her a playful nudge as they rounded a corner.

The two of them came to a stop outside an old building, its stone façade crumbling, the windows boarded up. Klaus gestured for Freya to go in, and with a roll of her eyes, she did.

"This place is creepy," she muttered, her boots echoing on the cracked tile floor.

"There's blood, a lot of it," Klaus said, sniffing the air, his eyes closed, his body tensed. "Upstairs."

They made their way up an old spiral staircase, the steps creaking under their feet. They reached a landing; the hallway was dark and narrow.

"Down there," Klaus said, pointing at a closed door at the end of the hall.

Freya nodded and slowly approached the door, her senses alert, her magic tingling under her skin. It was eerily quiet; the silence weighed heavy in the air, pressing down on her.

She stopped at the door, her hand hovering over the handle. She looked back at Klaus, his expression calm and composed, but she could sense his nervousness, his apprehension.

"Ready?" she whispered.

Klaus gave her a curt nod. Freya took a deep breath and turned the handle, the door opening with a creak.

"Elijah?"

The two of them were met with the sight of a massacre: body parts strewn across the room, blood splattered on the walls.

Freya gasped and took a step back, Klaus's hand gripping her shoulder. His eyes roved over the carnage, landing on a lone figure in the middle of the room, standing motionless.

"Elijah," Klaus breathed.

His brother was wearing an old T-shirt and jeans, tattered and bloodstained, covered in dirt. His hair was matted and wild, his eyes haunted, the light dimmed within them.

Klaus and Freya stepped inside, careful not to slip on the blood, the floor sticky and wet. They approached Elijah slowly, his gaze fixed on the severed arm in his hand, his eyes dull and lifeless.

"Brother?" Klaus said, his voice barely above a whisper, his hand reaching out.

"You are not real," Elijah murmured, not taking his eyes off the limb, his expression vacant and distant.

"Elijah, we're here," Freya said gently. "It's time to come home."

"I won't be fooled again," Elijah hissed, his grip tightening on the severed arm.

Klaus took a tentative step forward, one arm stretched behind him to protect Freya, the other held out, placating and non-threatening. "We're not illusions, brother," he said softly, reassuringly.

"Freya," Elijah breathed, his head snapping up, his gaze finding hers.

"Yes, Elijah, it's me," she replied, giving him a gentle smile.

He blinked, his eyes flicking from her face to Klaus's, his brow furrowing. "Have you found a way to bring her back?"

Klaus and Freya exchanged glances, their expressions sad and resigned. It wasn't something Freya wanted to do... to tap into such dark magic. She had been searching for you on the other side but found no trace. She believed you had found peace, and to tear you away from that would be a cursed, evil thing, an affront to the balance between life and death.

"Elijah, there's no way, not without consequence," Klaus said, his tone firm, his eyes filled with regret. "We discussed this."

Elijah dropped the severed arm, his hands clenching into fists. "You're wrong. There is a way."

"Elijah," Freya began, but he cut her off.

"Bring her back," he demanded, his eyes burning with intensity.

"I can't," Freya said, her voice quiet and regretful. "I'm sorry, Elijah. She's gone; she's at rest."

"No, no, no," Elijah growled, his hands coming up to grip his hair, tugging at the roots, his chest heaving, eyes wild.

"Brother, she's in a better place," Klaus tried, his tone firm and reassuring. "I think it's time you come home... You need to let her go."

Elijah shook his head, his breathing ragged, his whole body trembling. "No, no, no," he chanted, his eyes darting around the room, looking for something.

"Elijah," Freya murmured, her brow furrowed, her expression concerned. "Please, come with us. She wouldn't want this for you."

"No, no, no!" he growled, his voice echoing off the blood-spattered walls, his face contorted in a mask of rage.

He grabbed a nearby table and threw it against the wall, the sound of splintering wood reverberating through the air.

"Bloody hell," Klaus growled, grabbing Freya and yanking her backward, shielding her with his body.

Elijah lunged at them, his fangs bared, a murderous look in his eyes. He tackled Klaus, sending them both crashing into the wall, the plaster cracking under the impact.

"Nik!" Freya exclaimed, her magic sparking at her fingertips.

"Elijah, you've gone mad," Klaus grunted, shoving him away, sending him careening across the room. "She's dead."

"Niklaus," Elijah growled, his body vibrating with anger, the haunted, hollow look in his eyes replaced by raw, unhinged rage. "Bring. Her. Back."

"We can't, and you know it," Klaus spat, his eyes flashing yellow, his face shifting into the hybrid’s feral features. "She's at peace, Elijah. We need to let her go."

"I won't, I can't," Elijah raged, his body trembling, his eyes filling with unshed tears that threatened to spill over. His voice broke. "How can you ask me to do that?"

Freya’s heart clenched at the sight of her brother unraveling, his usual restraint shattered. "Come home, please," Freya pleaded, her eyes welling with tears, her voice thick with desperation. "We can help you."

Elijah's chest heaved, his wild eyes shifting from Klaus to Freya, barely recognizing them. "Get out," he growled, the words vibrating through the bloodstained room. His gaze locked on Klaus, his voice turning into a vicious snarl. "GET OUT!"

Klaus stared at him for a moment, his expression conflicted. Freya watched him pull a silver dagger out of his pocket, the familiar glint of the cursed weapon that had subjugated their family time and time again. She hadn't even known he had brought one with him, and her heart clenched at the sight. She didn’t want this for either of them. But given Elijah's state, she knew it was necessary.

"I'm sorry, Elijah," Klaus said, his voice solemn. He rushed forward, his movements a blur, and before Elijah could react, he buried the blade in his brother’s chest. The gasp Elijah let out echoed in the empty, ravaged room. The look on his face was heartbreaking, a mixture of shock and pain. Klaus had to steel himself against the emotion threatening to overtake him, reminding himself it was for the best, for all of them.

"Rest now, brother," Klaus murmured, pulling him into a tight embrace, cradling his body as Elijah slumped, his strength leaving him. His big brother, the north star of the family, now lost to grief.

"I thought you didn't want to subdue him," Freya whispered, her voice shaky, her eyes wide with shock as she pressed a trembling hand against her mouth.

"It was a last resort," Klaus said, his voice thick with emotion, trying and failing to hide the crack in his composure. "I couldn't bear seeing him like this any longer. I didn't think... he would be so... unhinged."

"He's grieving," Freya said softly, her eyes filled with sympathy as she knelt beside them, brushing a hand through Elijah’s matted hair. "He loves her, Nik. Losing her... it's broken him."

"I know," Klaus muttered, his arms tightening around Elijah, holding him close as if he could protect him from the demons he was fighting inside. His voice cracked, and before he could stop it, a tear slipped down his cheek. Quickly, he wiped it away, trying to maintain his strength.

"Time to go home," Klaus said, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with sorrow. "For all of us."

Freya reached out, gently taking Elijah's limp hand in hers, squeezing it tight as they prepared to leave the nightmare behind. She hoped and prayed that Elijah could feel her love through the numbness, that somewhere, deep within the wreckage of his mind, he knew they would never give up on him.

That the battle to bring you back hadn’t been in vain. It had only just begun.

{Part Two}{Part Three}{Part Four}{Part Five}{Part Six}

[yanderecookierunkingdom]

Interlude: Six Becomes Five

Prev | Next

The gentle crackle of the fire, admist the soft crickets chirping, was all the noise coming from the camp. Gingerbrave, Strawberry Cookie, Wizard Cookie, and Carameleon Cookie were all sleeping soundly, light snores coming from them.

Nearby, you rested with White Lily Cookie nearby, soft breath coming from your mouth.

Pure Vanilla Cookie sat in front of the fire, staring at it with an unreadable expression in his face. Wind gently blowed and rustled his hair for a moment, not held down by his hat. That and his staff rested on the tree near you.

Pure Vanilla Cookie didn't know what to think now that things had truly settled down.

He still felt.. lied to, in a sense. Not by you, or White Lily Cookie, but by Shadow Milk Cookie. The taunts and lies of the Cookie still swirled in his mind like toxic waste, gripping at him and drowning him.

That.. and he couldn't get your look out of his mind. The expression on your face when Shadow Milk Cookie had slammed you against a wall. The look of horror, shock, and terror before you fell unconscious.

It made him feel sick. The healing spells he desperately tried to cast before Shadow Milk Cookie chased them off still made him feel lightheaded.

He looked at his trembling hands. He exhaled shakily, clenching them.

Are you awake still?

He jolted at the sound of the Light of Compassion. "Ah!" He then exhaled to calm himself and his trembling. "C-Compassion. You surprised me."

Don't try and lie. I'm a part of you currently, Pure Vanilla Cookie.

Pure Vanilla Cookie paused before he pulled his knees to his chest. "I can't get their face out of my mind." He swallowed thickly. "How they looked when they slammed into that wall, I.." His hands came up to run through his hair. "I thought Shadow Milk Cookie had crumbled them."

Primordials are far harder to kill than your mind allows you to realize.

Pure Vanilla Cookie gave a small nod, but he was still trembling. He was too far in his own thoughts to even notice the footsteps coming from behind him. He only noticed when the figure sat beside him - it was you.

"You're awake still?" You asked, frowning. "Did something happen?"

Pure Vanilla Cookie chuckled softly. "If something did happen, you would be the first to realize, my friend."

"Friend," you repeated. "Friend, friend, friend." Pure Vanilla Cookie blinked, confused as he watched you repeat those words. "Are we really still friends?"

His cheeks turned a shade darker. "What do you mean..?"

"I mean, I shared the Light of Compassion with you, I saved your life, you saved mine, and just.." You looked at him, frowning softly. "Does that.. seem like something just friends would do?"

Pure Vanilla Cookie glanced away, resting his hand over his mouth. He chuckled softly. "Hm.. to some, maybe." He then smiled at you. "But I'm guessing that you want to be something more?"

You grinned. "How'd you guess?"

He hummed, opening his eyes to look at you. "Just a hunch, it seems."

With a soft laugh, you gently grabbed his hand and kissed the back of it. Then you looked up at him, then his mouth. "May I?"

His blush darkened. "Of course."

You moved forward and kissed him, the both of you closing your eyes. Pure Vanilla Cookie felt his body relax, resting his hands on your shoulders. After a few more moments, you both broke apart, small breaths escaping the both of you.

You kissed his head. "I love you, Pure Vanilla Cookie."

He smiled. "I love you too, Sparkling Joy Cookie."

taglist: @snail-noodle @average-crk-enjoyer @looking4userthatworks @ori-stole-the-cheese-again @sqiddgie @justalittledumb @ax0lotly @ihatemyselffromthestart-blog @ravenkake @ohnoivefallen @craixe @xxcrispxx @hrtsy2 @imaginarydreams

[bitchesuntitled]

Lies, Excuses and Bullshit

Pairing: Exboyfriend!Dave York x f!Reader

Summary: A man with a double life willing to do anything to keep his obsession around, and a woman who doesn't know what she's gotten herself into.

Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI, go on get! Breaking up, creepy!Dave, infidelity, stalker behavior from Dave, oral(f receiving), spanking, unprotected PIV(make smarter choices), manipulation, and if there is anything I missed please let me know!

A/N: Phew, not sure what happened here. This is a first, I don't usually write darker stuff but something about Dave made it just fly out of my finger tips. This was written for @punkshort's AU August Challenge! Thank you Shortie for letting me be part of the challenge 😊 I need to shout out @beefrobeefcal @strang3lov3 @ozarkthedog and @mothandpidgeon thank you all for the encouragement and lending your eyeballs for this story! ❤️

@jay-zzle, my love, my bestie. This one is for you! 🥰❤️🥰❤️

Masterlist||AO3

divider by @saradika-graphics

You thought things were fine. Dave is the perfect gentleman. It is a complete shock to see this text from your friend. It was a picture of Dave with another woman and two little girls at a soccer game. Maybe it’s his niece's soccer game and he’s just there being a good uncle? Until the next text comes in.

Isn’t that your boyfriend?

Another picture is attached featuring Dave, his arm around the woman. Then another and another and another. More evidence to suggest he is obviously in a relationship with the woman and you are the one left in the dark on this whole situation.

You stopped responding to your friend a while ago, staring at the pictures they sent. Back and forth, memorizing every detail. The way he’s looking at her. The way his arm is around her. The way he’s touching her. The way he kissed her -  that was the one that sealed your fate of knowing you had in fact not been seeing a recently divorced man but a married one. Your phone buzzes with another text notification.

D. York: Hey baby, still picking you up at 9 right?

You glare at your phone unsure of what the next step is. Obviously he is cheating on his wife unbeknownst to you. How does somebody even handle something like this? You really liked Dave, you saw a future with him. Your relationship has been going on for months now.

After neglecting to respond your phone buzzes again with another text from the man himself.

D. York: Been thinking about you 

You roll your eyes and text him back.

You: Not tonight. Don’t feel good.

D. York: Aw you poor thing. Do you need anything?

You didn’t even have the energy to respond with this new found information rattling around your brain, pressing the button to make your phone sleep and making your way to your bedroom. You plugged your phone in and crawled into bed, ignoring the constant buzz against your nightstand as you tried to drift off. The sun was still out but you couldn’t be awake right now. You needed to shut your brain off and this was the only way you knew how.

There was a pounding on your door when you woke with a startle. The moon casting shadows through the curtains into your room. You checked your phone, seeing the multiple notifications, some from your friends and some from Dave. He’d also tried calling several different times.

D. York: Are you okay?

Did you talk to him yet?

D. York: Do you want some company?

Want me to kick his ass?

D. York: How are you feeling?

What do you plan to say?

D. York: Baby, please answer me. Getting a little worried here.

The pounding on your door continued as you checked your phone. The doorbell camera he insisted on getting for you and installed showed Dave at your doorstep holding a plastic bag, grumbling, you got out of bed and walked towards the door.

“I’m coming. Give it a rest,” you shout, hoping Dave can hear you over his loud knocks.

Sliding the chain lock you open the door.

“Baby,” Dave sighs with relief, “What have you been doing? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for hours now!”

“I told you, I don’t feel good,” you shrug, “I’ve been sleeping.”

“I’m sorry to wake you, I started to get worried,” Dave says, looking around your living room, “I got you some stuff to hopefully help with whatever bug you’ve seemed to catch.”

You watch as he carefully steps into your space, placing the bag on the coffee table in front of your couch.

“Dave,” you sigh, “I know.”

“Know what?” Dave asks, hands on his hips and shaking his head with a smirk.

“I know you’re still married.”

You see his adam's apple bob as he swallows, flopping back onto the couch, and clasping his hands together. He stays silent for a moment, contemplating what to say next.

“How’d you find out?”

Your eyes widen, not expecting him to fold so easily. 

“A friend sent me some photos from today at the soccer field,” you murmur, trying to keep the wavering in your voice to a minimum.

“I see,” Dave says with a nod.

“You also have kids?”

Dave nods again, facing you this time.

“Why?”

“Why what?” Dave scoffs, “Sleep with you?”

“I wouldn’t just call what we’ve been doing as ‘sleeping together,’ Dave,” you say, using your fingers as air quotes when the words sleeping together leave your mouth.

“It’s really not that big of a deal,” Dave chuckles, “I get bored from time to time and like to play with someone new.”

“Your wife know that?” you ask, glaring at him. This man who you thought you knew is showing an entirely different side of himself, and you don’t like it.

“She doesn’t need to know because it’s not a big deal.” Dave sighs exasperated.

“I think it’s best if you left.”

“Alright,” Dave says standing, “If that’s what you want.”

“Yep,” you say with a sharp nod.

“Listen,” Dave says, reaching a hand towards your arm, and you slid your arm back letting him know not to touch you, and he put his hand down beside him, “Okay, well, it’s really not as big of a deal as you’re making it out to be. I like you, I like what we’ve been–”

“Dave, you’re cheating on your wife,” you grit through your teeth interrupting the spiel he was going on, and swung the door open for him, “Leave.”

—

“Fucking take it.” Dave growls in your ear, thrusting his hips harshly into you, “Just like that baby.”

Your moans fill his ears, he can tell you’re close. The way your walls flutter around his length, squeezing him tighter. He can practically taste your climax in the air around him, gripping your hips tighter and angling them so he can get deeper.

“Dave,” you sob, after a particularly harsh thrust. Fingers gripping the sheets beneath you, back arching as you continue to cry out his name.

Dave. Dave. Dave.

“David!”

Dave jumps to the sound of Carol’s voice. Looking around to see he’s in his own bed in his home, not yours.

“Honey, your alarm has been going off for 10 minutes now.”

He lets out a sigh facing his reality, adjusting the hardness in his pajama bottoms. It was just a dream. It’s been months since he’s seen you. You’ve seemed to make your way into his brain at all times of the day, conscious or not.

“I’m gonna get the girls ready but you don’t need to be late for work again,” Carol says, giving him a smile and wink. After last night, he’s not sure how much longer he can do this. He’s been trying to have sex with Carol more. Sure, she’s his wife but she doesn’t scratch the same itch you did.

He’s tried. He’s tried to be a good husband, he’s tried to be a good dad and he’s exhausted. Dave feels himself becoming more of a shell since you told him to leave.

You’ve made it abundantly clear you want nothing to do with him. He tried to reach out to you, only to have his number blocked. You disabled your doorbell camera after he left that night. You must have known he’d try and look at it on his phone, you knew he had the information for your account. Why wouldn’t he try to look?

What you don’t know is that once Carol takes the girls to school, he gets the second phone hidden in the false bottom of a shoe box in his closet that is an exact copy of your own. He can see who you’re texting, where you’re at, how things at work are going, who you’re hanging out with. It’s become an obsession to check it daily.

—

As he steps out of the shower, Carol shouts up the stairs that she’s leaving with the girls, and the front door closes shortly after. Time to start his day.

Getting dressed in his running gear and snatching his headphones from the dresser. He makes his way to the closet. Finding the shoe box with your duplicated phone.

Texts from your friends, a text from your boss and a missed call from your mom. What catches his eye the most is the notification from some jackass on Tinder. James. Scanning James’ profile he’s definitely not your type: blonde hair, green eyes, gelled back hair, and a full beard.

James, 29

Looking for a girl who just wants to have some fun, if it leads to more that’s cool too. I like hiking, graduated from Harvard, hanging with my bros, anything else hmu

Dave shakes his head as he reads the messages shared between the two of you. He scans reading hellos, good nights, sharing random facts about each other, until he stumbles upon the most recent messages

James: Hello gorgeous 😉

Hello 😊

James: So I’ve been thinking would you wanna meet up? Go get a drink or something?

Sure! 7 good?

James: Awesome! Yeah. Do you know where Sal’s is?

I do! It’s not far from my job

James: Perfect! I’ll see ya then beautiful

No. No way in hell is this James guy meeting up with you. Dave calls the office letting them know he’s taking a personal day, he has some business to take care of.

—

Sal’s is exactly what you expected it to be. Dark, dingey, and small. Not too crowded thankfully, it’s definitely got character though. The random decor on the wall is confusing. You can’t tell if this is supposed to be a sports or a punk bar with the random band posters on the wall along with sports jerseys next to them.

Making your way to the bar you sit down on a stool, flagging down the bartender.

“What’s your poison for the night?” He asks, wiping his hands on the towel he was carrying.

“Jack and Coke,” you say, slipping your hand into your bag to get your wallet out. He makes quick work of mixing the drink and placing it in front of you, handing over your card while you hear the jingle of the door.

“Starting a tab?” The bartender asks, swiping your card.

“No, thank you,” you smile as he hands your card back to you, putting it back in your wallet.

Out of the corner of your eye you can see someone standing a couple stools away. Looking down at your drink, moving the straw around before taking a drink. You take a peek at your watch to see it’s 10 minutes before you’re supposed to meet James. 

Maybe this was a bad idea, you haven’t had to do this in months. It was easier when Dave just kind of fell into your life.

“Whiskey on the rocks.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up when you heard the familiar timber of his voice, head snapping to look at him. Dave. His smirk as he waits on his drink says it all, he knew you would be here. Was he James?

“Are you fucking serious?” You hiss through your teeth.

Dave thanks the bartender, moving closer to you.

“I come in peace,” Dave says, sitting in the stool one away from you, “All I want to do is talk.”

“Are you James?” You ask through clenched teeth, glaring at him.

“Oh baby,” Dave tuts, “I’m not James, he’s very real.”

You continue to glare at him. Unable to force your brain to work with your limbs on moving, leaving, throwing your drink on him. Anything other than sitting here being in his presence.

“He wasn’t hard to convince to leave you alone though,” Dave looks at you with a smirk, one eyebrow raised and begins to chuckle, “One mention of snapping any finger that touches you sent him running.”

You try to swallow but your throat feels like a desert, gripping the tumbler in front of you and taking a swig. Did he… did he do something to James? Surely not, Dave wouldn’t even kill the spider that appeared in your apartment one day, scooped it up and took it outside. How could he cause harm to anything?

“Dave did you…” pausing pondering how to even ask the question.

“Did I hurt him?” Dave asks, scooting to the stool next to you and leaning in closer, invading your space and you nod your head, “No, just made it known what’s mine.”

You let out a sharp gasp at his words, arousal seeping into the gusset of your underwear, thighs clenching together at his closeness, feeling goosebumps erupt across your skin. This shouldn’t be happening but your body thinks otherwise.

“I’ve missed you baby,” Dave hums into your ear, “Don’t like how we ended things.”

The way he says it has the ice around your heart melting. You hate him but can’t help the way your heart betrays your brain at his words. Dave lets out a small growl, gripping your bare thigh beneath the bar top possessively.

“I’m staying in a hotel room tonight,” he says, the grip on your thigh becoming less and smoothing his hand against your inner thigh. Gliding his hand up, up, up. Pinky finger playing with the edge of your underwear under your skirt.

You grab his hand and pull it away from your core, bringing it to rest on your lap. Lacing your fingers with his, while his thumb rubs along your palm. You sigh, contemplating what to do. Go with him or send him packing like last time. The devil on your shoulder telling you to go with him, it’s just stress relief, it won’t- it can’t mean anything, he knows your body better than anyone else. The angel on the other side just repeating the same words, he’s still married.

In the words of your mother, if he doesn’t cheat with you then he’ll just find someone else. Might as well have fun.

“I’ve missed you too,” you confess with a soft whimper in his ear. Finally seeing him again after months of nothing has your practical sense crumbling. 

“Let’s go then,” Dave smirks, standing pulling your hand slightly to stand with him and leave.

—

Dave drove like a bat out of hell to the hotel, dragged you to the elevator and his room as if this was his last chance to have you. Clothes flying off the moment you crossed the threshold of the room.

“Dave,” you moan, his lips ghosting down your neck to your collarbone. His hands grip your ass, pulling you flush against his front, feeling his erection against your stomach.

“I’ve missed you so fucking much,” he groans, his mouth sucking the flesh of your breast, capturing your nipple in his mouth and giving it a nip. A whine escapes past your lips at the sudden pressure of his teeth, moving your body with him until you feel the back of your knees hit the bed.

Dave releases your nipple, pushing himself against you to lay back on the bed, making room for himself between your thighs. His dark eyes swimming with lust study your face. His hand comes to rest on your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek.

“Why’d you let me leave like that?” His voice barely a whisper, lying his forehead against your own.

“You’re married,” you wince hearing the words leave your throat. You shouldn’t be doing this.

“I can change that,” he smirks with a chuckle, kissing the corner of your mouth, “I’d leave if it meant you’d stay,” kissing your jaw, “I’d spend every single day of my life making you happy,” he coos, trailing his lips down to your neck, laving his tongue against your pulse point.

“Dave,” you plead, hoping to stop his words. You don’t want to hear this, it’s all lies to get you to stay. The ache between your thighs begging for more.

“Mean it baby,” Dave says with a hum, mouth traveling down the expanse of your body, “Only want you,” he breathes when his face inches away from your sex, “Looks like you want me too,” he teases.

You feel the warmth spreading through your body as he sighs using his thumbs to spread your lips apart, staring at your glistening slit.

“Oh yeah, she’s definitely missed me,” he hums, flicking his tongue against your clit.

“Dave,” you gasp, gripping the sheets between your fingers. He works his tongue along your bundle of nerves swirling and sucking.

“God I’ve missed this pussy,” Dave growls, gripping your hips tightly before fucking you with his tongue.

“Fuck,” you moan, back arching off the bed. The fire in your abdomen grows more intense. You reach for one of his hands, linking your fingers with his. His other hand moving, fingers prodding at your entrance.

“Please,” you beg, “Dave, pl- please. More, I- I need m-“, you cry out when his fingers plunge into your cunt. Swiftly curling them inside you as he moves the pads of his fingers back and forth putting delicious pressure against your g-spot.

“That’s it baby,” Dave groans, nipping your inner thigh, “Let me have it.”

Your toes curl feeling the coil in your lower belly tightening, leaning your head up to watch him. He looks as wrecked as you feel as he rapidly flits his tongue against your clit. His brows furrowed in concentration as he worked his mouth and fingers in sync for you to reach your climax, his lips shiny from your arousal. He opens his eyes to see your mouth hung open in a silent scream, brows pinched together as you pant looking into his eyes.

“Dave,” you pant, “Baby, I’m gonna come.”

Your walls clamp down on his fingers as you stare into his dark orbs. White hot heat spreads throughout your body, letting out a soft shriek.

“Flip over,” Dave instructs, moving your pliable limbs so you’re on your stomach. You cry out as he pushes his cock into you sharply.

“Fuck.”

“Shhh,” Dave tuts, “It’s okay baby, you can take it.”

You whine, it feels like he’s splitting you in two, walls gripping his length. He doesn’t give you a moment to adjust before he’s roughly snapping his hips into you.

“Make you mine again,” Dave grunts, “No one else deserves you.”

The pain quickly turns into pleasure as he works his cock in and out. The sound of your squelching pussy filling your ears as strangled noises crawl up your throat.

“God damn baby,” Dave hisses, tilting your hips up as he grinds his hips into you, hitting that spot deep inside only he’s been able to reach.

“Missed this so,” he grunts, slapping your ass, “Fucking,” another slap against your skin, “Much,” another harsh slap before soothing the marks he’s left with his palm.

“Dave,” you let out a choked sob, feeling the pleasure building, thrusting your hips back into him, “Faster.”

“Dirty girl,” Dave hums, gripping your hips again, pounding into your pussy at a frantic pace, “You gonna- oh fuck- come again?”

You can only nod your head weakly, feeling the sizzling pressure in your abdomen start to boil over. Your walls spasming and contracting around his cock. The muscles in your legs tensing before screaming out.

“Oh fuck,” Dave moans, “That’s it baby. Come on my cock. Just like that.”

Dave leans over caging you between his arms, thrusting into your wet heat a half a dozen times before his hips start to lose rhythm and going still, your name tumbling from his lips, letting your walls milk his cock feeling the warmth of his seed paint your walls.

“I really have missed you,” Dave admits slumping against you with a sigh, “So fucking much.”

He kisses your shoulder before pulling out with a hiss. You groan feeling the emptiness before he helps you up, guiding you to the bathroom.

You shower together, taking time to wash each other with delicate touches, and sharing intimate kisses before crawling back into bed with his arms wrapped around you.

You wake sometime in the middle of the night. Dave’s snoring beside you, finding your phone amongst your belongings scattered around the room, you make your way to the bathroom. Looking at Dave sleeping so peacefully from the doorway of the bathroom you can’t help feeling torn. You loved him, still do if you’re being honest with yourself, but this isn’t what you two should be doing.

You find an uber available and schedule to be picked up. Quietly making your way out of the bathroom and grabbing your things when you hear two identical dings. One from your hand and one from Dave’s bag. Slipping your clothes back on you slowly wander over to his things. Rummaging around until you find a phone, similar to yours. Pushing the button on the side you see a notification for an Uber 5 minutes away, looking at your own phone to see it displaying the same.

“What the fuck?” You whisper to yourself, head snapping to look at Dave hoping you didn’t wake him. You look around to find a pen and piece of paper.

—

Dave wakes the next morning with a smile, remembering what happened last night. Sliding his hand to where you should be, feeling the cool sheets under his palm, peeking an eye open to see the empty spot next to him.

He listens closely to his surroundings, hoping to hear the shower but is met only with silence. Frowning as he sits up, scrubbing his hands against his face trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. Looking around the room for any sign of you, taking note of your things being gone.

He sees a folded piece of paper lying on top of something on the dresser. Dave gets up to inspect what it is. His name is on the paper, sitting on top of two phones. Immediately recognizing one as yours and the other the duplicate he had made. His eyes scan the note you left, unable to believe what he was reading.

You’ll never be anything but a lying, cheating, manipulative douchebag. Figure your shit out. Don’t ever reach out to me again.

Dave’s hand curls into a fist as he reads the note over and over again. You left. You really left and this time it’s going to be even harder to find you.

He smirks, shaking his head as he collapses on the edge of the bed. You must not realize how much he loves a challenge.

[velarisdusk]

Night's Cold Embrace

Day 9: Dacryphilia | Rhysand x Reader word count: 2k author’s note: evil rhys makes me wet that is all ✦ . Kinktober Masterlist . ✦

The moon hung low in the sky, casting silver slivers of light through the thick canopy of trees. The forest was eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. You had needed to get away, to breathe, to think, and the woods at night had always offered solace. But tonight, the shadows seemed deeper, and the silence unnerved you in ways it never had before.

You quickened your pace, your footsteps barely audible on the soft forest floor, but the feeling of being watched clung to you like a second skin. Your heart pounded in your chest, and just as you were about to convince yourself that it was all in your head, a voice, low and smooth as velvet, cut through the quiet.

“Out here alone, are we?”

You froze, every muscle in your body tensing at the familiar voice. Slowly, you turned, and there, leaning casually against the trunk of a tree stood Rhysand. His dark clothes melted into the night, but the gleam in his eyes was unmistakable, catching the faint moonlight as he watched you with an amused, almost predatory gaze. 

You swallowed, the air suddenly feeling too thick. “What are you doing here?” Your voice was calm, though your pulse thudded in your ears, 

He pushed off the tree, moving toward you with slow, deliberate steps, his presence overwhelming the space between you. “I might ask you the same thing,” he said, his tone lazy, but there was something in his eyes that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. “Wandering the woods at night, all alone? Dangerous, don’t you think?”

You forced yourself to hold his gaze, though every instinct screamed at you to look away, to run. But where would you go? The woods were vast, and you knew he’d follow. “I needed to clear my head,” you said simply, trying to keep your voice steady.

Rhysand’s lips curved into a smirk, and he took another step closer, the faint scent of night-blooming flowers clinging to him, mixing with something darker, more dangerous. “And instead, you found me,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “Unlucky for you, isn’t it?”

Your breath hitched, his words settling over you like a shadow, creeping into your chest and tightening your ribs. “I’ll leave,” you said, taking a step back, but Rhysand’s hand shot out, not to grab you, but to trail a finger down the side of your arm, just barely brushing your skin.

“You’re trembling,” he observed softly, his tone a dark purr. “Are you afraid?”

You flinched, concealing the shiver that threatened to run down your spine. “No,” you lied, though the slight tremor in your voice gave you away. 

Rhysand hummed, his fingers tracing the path of a tear that had fallen without you even realizing it. “Liar,” he whispered, his eyes darkening as he stared at the tear glistening on his fingertip. He seemed to pause, as if savoring the sight, before his gaze locked with yours again, more intense than before. “You are scared.”

Your chest tightened, the full weight of his attention suffocating. “I’m not scared of you,” you whispered, the words visible through the puff of your breath in the cool still night air.

Rhysand stepped closer, close enough that his breath fanned against your cheek. “No?” he murmured, brushing another tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Then why are you crying?” His thumb lingers there, then trails down slowly, grazing your lips. “Such a pretty little thing,” he murmured, his voice a low hum, sending an involuntary shiver through you. “It’s almost a shame to see you like this… almost.”

Your breath caught. He wasn’t just toying with you — he was feeding off this, savoring your fear like a fine wine. You tried to step back, but the tree behind you stopped you cold, your back pressed against the rough bark. “What are you–” you started, but your words faltered as Rhysand’s other hand came up to rest on the tree, caging you in.

“Shh,” he whispered, the sound almost soothing, but the heat in his gaze betrayed him. His thumb brushed across your lower lip, parting it slightly. “No need to ask, we both know you like this. I can see it all right here.” His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb dipping just inside your mouth, a gentle tease that sent heat pooling low in your stomach despite the panic tightening your chest.

You pressed your lips together, trying to suppress the trembling, but it only made his smile grow. 

“Don’t fight it,” he whispered, his voice dropping to something more intimate, his lips brushing just near your ear. “I like seeing you like this, trembling… vulnerable.” His fingers continued their slow exploration, skimming down your throat now, tracing the hollow of your collarbone. “It suits you.”

Your breath came out in shallow gasps as his touch continued to roam, gentle but purposeful. You should’ve pushed him away, should have said something — anything — but the weight of his power over you held you still, the darkness in his gaze drawing you in despite yourself. “Why are you doing this?” Your voice trembled, fear bleeding through every word.

Rhysand leaned in, his lips barely an inch from yours, teasing the air between you. “I wonder,” he started, his breath warm as it ghosted over your lips, a sharp contrast to the night’s biting chill, “just how far I can push you before you break.”

His words sent a wave of heat straight through you, the dark promise in them both terrifying and intoxicating. You hated that your body responded to him, your pulse quickening, skin tingling under his touch. It was wrong, you knew it — but with every slow brush of his fingertips, every dark murmur, the line between fear and desire blurred. 

“Where do you get off, torturing people like this?” you demanded, trying to mask the shiver in your voice. “Is this some kind of game to you?”

Rhysand chuckled softly, his eyes glinting with mischief. “A game? Perhaps. But it’s one I’m quite skilled at.” He traced a slow line down your lip with his thumb, his gaze never leaving yours. “And you’re playing so beautifully, darling.”

His thumb brushed across your lips again, this time more insistently, and before you could stop yourself, your mouth parted, the pad of his thumb slipping past your lips. The taste of salt lingered from the tear he’d wiped away earlier, and you held back a groan; whether it was from the shame curling in your chest or the undeniable need spreading through you, you couldn’t tell.

Rhysand’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he watched you, completely in control, knowing exactly how to unravel you. “Good girl,” he whispered, his voice low and mocking. His thumb withdrew from your mouth, but before you could catch your breath, his lips replaced it claiming yours in a slow, heated kiss. 

Each brush of his lips against yours made you want to recoil, to resist, but you couldn’t. The fire in your veins drowned out everything else, and the more you tried to hate it, the more your body betrayed you. Every sensation twisted, wrong yet so fucking good, and you found yourself leaning into him, kissing him back, despite everything. 

When he pulled back from the kiss, his gaze dropped to your tear-streaked face. The way his lips curled into a smirk sent another ripple of dread and heat through you. “Look at you,” he murmured, almost in awe. “Still crying.” His voice was soft, mocking, the edge of it sharp enough to cut. “You’re beautiful like this…” He leaned in, his tongue flicking out to catch another tear slipping down your cheek. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, savoring it. Your body tensed at the feel of his tongue, so slow, so deliberate. A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest, and when his eyes opened again, they were filled with something primal. “Keep doing it,” he whispered, his lips not ghosting over your cheek, licking up the next tear that spilled free. “Cry for me, pet.”

You gasped at the sensation, at the way his lips moved over your skin, as though your fear — your misery — was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. “Gods, you have no idea what it does to me,” he purred, pulling back to meet your wide-eyed gaze. His fingers slipped beneath your chin, tilting your head up, forcing you to hold his gaze as another tear slipped from the corner of your eye. “You don’t have to fight it, it only makes you more enticing.”

“I will not give into you, just leave me be–”

“Is that so?” He leaned in, his breath tickling your ear. “Then why do you look like you’re about to melt under my touch? You may not want to admit it to yourself,” his fingers traced a slow path down your neck, each touch sparking an involuntary reaction in you, “but don’t you lie to me,” he growled. 

You clenched your jaw, trying to stay defiant, but the way he spoke, the way his fingers made contact with your skin…

“You’re twisted,” you manage, less conviction in your voice than moments ago. “This is… sick.”

Rhysand’s eyes softened just a fraction, though the predatory glint never left them. “Twisted? Maybe. But I find it quite fascinating how, despite your hatred for me, you fall into me so easily every time.” He tilted your head back slightly, making you look up at him. “It’s as though, no matter how much of a fight you put up, there’s a small part of you that’s curious.”

You felt a heat rise in your cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and an unfamiliar, unsettling thrill. Rhysand’s gaze was intense, his fingers lingering near your jawline, caressing your skin with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with his demeanor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, though it came out weaker than you intended. More tears slid down your face and Rhysand’s eyes followed their path with wicked delight. He kissed them all away, his tongue dragging slowly across your skin, savoring the taste of it. “Let go,” he encouraged softly, his voice coaxing. “You don’t have to fight it. I promise, it will feel even better if you just let yourself be overwhelmed.”

His lips returned to yours, this time with a gentler touch. You hesitated, battling your instinct to resist the rising warmth inside you. The kiss was different now, softer, and filled with a different kind of intensity that made it harder to pull away with every passing second. 

Rhysand’s hands roamed over your body, his fingers tracing the curves of your waist and the softness of your hips as he pressed you against the rough bark of the tree, His touch was a mix of firm control and gentle exploration, each caress sending shivers through you. His lips parted yours, deepening the kiss with a sensual, slow burn that left you breathless. His tongue danced with yours in a languid, intoxicating rhythm, pulling you closer. 

When he finally broke away, his gaze was filled with satisfaction and something more vulnerable, almost tender. “See?” He murmured, his voice low and soothing. “It’s not so bad to give in, is it?”

You could barely respond, the mix of emotions swirling inside you — fear, shame, desire. You swallowed hard, struggling to find your voice. “This… this isn’t what I wanted.”

Rhysand’s gaze remained fixed on you, unwavering as always. “Maybe not what you planned,” he said softly, “but sometimes what we need isn’t always clear until it’s right in front of us.”

He took a step back, finally giving you a moment to catch your breath. “Think about it,” he said, his tone more contemplative now, “and if you ever find yourself wanting more… you know where to find me.”

With that, he turned and melted into the shadows of the night, leaving you alone in the cold, moonlit clearing. The lingering warmth of his touch and the haunting promise of his words left you unsettled… and oddly curious.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

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