#but he already burned the tome

[queen-scribbles]

aw, crap, didn't read the details on an animal companion tome, gave it to Hal when I should've done Ziin. :\

[pomegranatelifethis]

I think I'm dying

The Wayne Manor library was your sanctuary, a labyrinth of leather-bound tomes and soft lamplight where you could lose yourself for hours. At sixteen, you’d carved out a place among the Batfamily, not as a vigilante but as a quiet anchor, someone who patched up their wounds—emotional and physical—when Gotham’s shadows spit them back out. Tonight, though, the library’s warmth couldn’t shield you from the sharp, unfamiliar pain clawing at your abdomen. You curled tighter into the armchair, a copy of *Jane Eyre* forgotten on your lap, your breath hitching as another cramp twisted through you.

You’d never felt anything like this. A dull ache had started that morning, easy to ignore, but by evening it was a relentless vise, squeezing your insides with no mercy. Then there was the blood. You’d stared at the red stain in your underwear, heart pounding, before piecing it together. Your first period. You’d read about it, heard friends whisper about it, but no one warned you it would *hurt* like this. Embarrassment burned hotter than the pain—you couldn’t tell *them*. The Batfamily was a pack of overprotective, mostly male vigilantes. How do you explain this to people who dodge bullets for a living?

The library door creaked open, and you stiffened. Dick Grayson poked his head in, his perpetual grin faltering when he saw you hunched over, face pale. “Hey, kiddo, you okay? You look like you just fought Bane and lost.”

You forced a weak smile, clutching *Jane Eyre* like a shield. “I’m fine, Dick. Just… stomachache.”

He stepped inside, all easy grace, but his eyes—sharp, trained to catch lies—narrowed. “Uh-huh. That’s not a stomachache face. That’s a ‘something’s seriously wrong’ face. Spill.”

Before you could deflect, another cramp hit, and you couldn’t stop the whimper that slipped out. Dick was at your side in an instant, crouching to meet your eyes. “Whoa, hey, talk to me. What’s going on?”

Your cheeks flamed. “It’s nothing. Really. Just… girl stuff.” The words felt like broken glass in your throat.

Dick’s expression softened, understanding dawning. “Oh. *Oh*. First time?” When you nodded, barely meeting his gaze, he didn’t laugh or make it weird. Instead, he squeezed your shoulder. “Okay, stay put. I’m calling in reinforcements.”

“Dick, no—” But he was already gone, leaving you to curse your luck. Reinforcements in Wayne Manor meant chaos.

Ten minutes later, the library was a battlefield of Batfamily concern. Dick returned with Tim Drake, who clutched a laptop like it held the secrets to curing periods. “I’ve got articles,” Tim announced, scrolling furiously. “Cramps are caused by prostaglandins, which trigger uterine contractions. Heat helps. Also, hydration. And maybe ibuprofen?”

“Tim, chill with the WebMD,” Jason Todd drawled, leaning against a bookshelf. He’d shown up with a heating pad—where he’d found it, you didn’t ask—and tossed it onto your lap. “Here. Crank that bad boy up. Works wonders.”

You blinked at the heating pad, then at Jason. “You… know about this?”

He shrugged, a rare softness in his green eyes. “Grew up around women. Picked up a thing or two. Don’t make it a big deal.”

Damian Wayne, perched on a ladder with a scowl, muttered, “This is absurd. If the pain is this severe, perhaps a medical evaluation is warranted.”

“Damian, it’s just a period,” Dick said, ruffling his hair, which earned him a glare. “She’s not dying.”

Bruce entered last, silent as ever, carrying a tray with a steaming mug of chamomile tea and a bottle of painkillers. He set it on the side table, his presence grounding the room’s chaos. “Take two,” he said, nodding at the ibuprofen. “And drink the tea. Alfred swears by it.”

You stared at the tray, then at the five vigilantes circling you like overzealous nurses. The embarrassment was still there, but it was drowned out by something warmer—something like belonging. “You guys are ridiculous,” you mumbled, popping the pills and sipping the tea. The heating pad was already dulling the cramps, and the tea soothed the knot in your chest.

“Yeah, well, you’re stuck with us,” Jason said, smirking. “No suffering alone in this family.”

Tim piped up, still scrolling. “There’s also this yoga pose that’s supposed to—”

“Drake, enough,” Damian snapped, but there was no venom in it. He hopped off the ladder and, in a rare moment of gentleness, draped a blanket over your shoulders. “Rest. We’ll handle patrol tonight.”

Bruce’s hand rested briefly on your head, a quiet gesture of reassurance. “If you need anything, you tell us. No shame in it.”

You nodded, throat tight. As they filtered out—Dick with a final wink, Tim muttering about anti-inflammatory diets, Jason tossing you a salute—you sank into the armchair, the pain easing under the heat and care. The library was quiet again, but it didn’t feel empty. Not with them.

For the first time that night, you smiled. Being part of the Batfamily was messy, chaotic, and occasionally mortifying. But it was also this: a room full of heroes who’d drop everything because you were hurting. And that? That was worth every cramp in the world

[heavenlybodies333]

Dirty Fucking Mind - M.R.

Speak of the Devil…and the Devil shall appear

Your luck was fucking awful.

You had come to the Restricted Section with a singular purpose: find the book on alchemy you’d been dying to get your hands on and get out. Simple. In and out. No one would know. But, as usual, your unfortunate timing had yet again fucked you over.

Because you weren’t alone.

You stilled, fingers hovering over the spine of an aged, leather-bound tome, as you caught sight of him. Mattheo Riddle.

He moved between the towering bookshelves like a shadow, deliberate and silent, his sharp gaze scanning the rows as if searching for something just out of reach. But what caught your attention—what made you pause, breath hitching—was the way his lips moved. Barely audible, murmuring a language you had heard before but couldn’t immediately place.

And then it clicked. Parseltongue.

Your brows lifted in mild surprise. You recognized it as clear as day, though your understanding of it was... lacking. A fault of your own negligence, really. Your grandfather—one of the few remaining Blacks to still wield the gift—had tried to teach you, but you’d been too stubborn to care. Maybe if you’d listened, you would have known exactly what Riddle was searching for now.

As he stretched, reaching for a book just out of reach, the fabric of his shirt pulled taut over his forearms, the flex of his muscles making the veins in his hands stand out, and fuck—had he always been this strong? The thought hit you suddenly, unwanted, unwarranted. You imagined those hands on you, wrapped around your throat, pinning you down as his body pressed between your legs. How deep would his cock—

You about done, princess?

Your stomach plummeted as the voice echoed inside your mind. You recognized it instantly, it was Mattheo’s. shit. shit. shit.

Panic flickered in your chest, but you kept your expression composed as you straightened, snapping your head up to meet his gaze. Except…

He wasn’t there.

The space where he’d stood just moments ago was empty, the soft glow of candlelight flickering across abandoned bookshelves.

What the—

His laughter curled around your mind like smoke, seeping into every crevice, dragging icy fingers down your spine.

Legilimency.

You should have known.

Riddle was a fucking menace, a master of slipping into minds undetected, and clearly, you weren’t as skilled at Occlumency as you’d thought. Which meant—

Heat burned across your cheeks.

He’d heard everything. The filthy, unfiltered thoughts you’d had about him.

A slow clap broke the silence, sharp and mocking. "Well, well," came his voice, smooth as silk and twice as deadly. "I must say, I’m flattered."

You didn’t turn immediately. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, you exhaled through your nose, slow and even, before sliding the book back into place. Only then did you pivot, deliberately, meeting his gaze with a lazy tilt of your head.

Mattheo stood mere feet away, leaning against a bookshelf like he had all the time in the world, his arms folded, one brow arched in amusement. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across his sharp features, accentuating the cruel smirk tugging at his lips.

"You must be mistaken," you said, voice laced with boredom. "Not everything is about you, Riddle."

His smirk widened. "Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong." He pushed off the shelf, closing the distance between you in two measured steps. "See, I find it quite hard to believe that you weren’t just picturing my hands around your throat."

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. Instead, you smiled—slow, saccharine, dangerous. "I suppose if you already know my thoughts, there’s no point in lying," you said, voice dipping just slightly. You let your gaze flicker over him, deliberate and slow, before meeting his eyes again. "It’s a shame, really. Fantasy is always better than reality." Taking a step back as he took one towards you. Your back hit the bookshelf as you inhaled sharply, refusing to react, refusing to let the way his body crowded yours make you do something stupid—like, say, pressing your thighs together.

"Is that so?" Mattheo mused, his eyes locked onto yours. He reached out lazily, running his fingers along the edge of the shelf beside your head. You felt the air shift, his presence pressing in closer. then—before you could register the movement—his thigh was slotted between yours, firm and unforgiving.

Your breath stilled in your throat. The heat of him was immediate, seeping through the fabric of your skirt, and—Merlin help you—you were already too fucking warm.

Mattheo noticed. Of course he did.

"Interesting," he drawled, his voice almost thoughtful as his hands came to rest on your waist—not gripping, not pinning, just there. Just waiting. "You act as though I don’t affect you, yet here you are…" His lips curved into something wicked, something knowing, as he shifted just slightly, the movement pressing the firm plane of his thigh against your already aching cunt.

It took every ounce of restraint you had not to react. Not to suck in a sharp breath or—God forbid—moan. Your nails dug into the wood of the bookshelf behind you, grounding yourself, forcing yourself to meet his gaze with unwavering defiance.

"You think too highly of yourself, Riddle," you murmured, voice impressively steady.

His hands tightened just slightly, the ghost of a squeeze, and then his knee bucked up—just a fraction, just enough to force a spark of pleasure up your spine.

Oh, fuck.

Heat licked at your cheeks, but still, you refused to break. Refused to let him have this. You set your jaw, inhaling through your nose, refusing to give him a reaction.

You glared at him. "If you think this little game is going to—"

Another slow, deliberate movement of his thigh.

Your words cut off.

His dark eyes gleamed. "Go on," he encouraged. "Finish your sentence."

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself, but the friction was unbearable. The ache between your thighs only intensified, and you were certain—certain—he could feel the evidence of it. The growing damp spot against his trousers, the way your body reacted against your will.

And the worst part? He wasn’t even holding you there. He wasn’t forcing you to grind down, wasn’t pinning you in place.

You were doing that all on your own.

"You’re quiet all of a sudden," Mattheo murmured, tilting his head. His thumb brushed over your jaw, deceptively gentle as his leg shifted, dragging slow, agonizing friction against you. "I expected more fight from you. Aren’t you going to tell me how much you don’t want this?"

Your nails bit into his wrist. "I hate you," you breathed.

He chuckled. "Oh, I know."

His thigh flexed, and stars burst behind your eyes. You bit your lip, hard, swallowing the whimper that threatened to spill out.

Mattheo’s free hand traced the line of your waist, slow, testing. "You’re soaking me," he murmured, almost thoughtful. "All from just this?" His knee shifted higher, pressing right against the throbbing ache between your thighs.

Your head tipped back, thudding against the shelf. Fuck Fuck Fuck.

You barely noticed the way your fingers worked at his belt, the way you shoved his trousers just far enough down to feel the thick, heavy weight of him against your palm.

Mattheo hissed between his teeth, his breath hot against your neck.

“Fuck, you’re impatient,” he muttered, but his hand was already guiding yours, wrapping your fingers around his cock like he needed it.

The door creaked open. You froze. Mattheo didn’t. You barely had time to react before he shoved you down, your knees hitting the stone floor, his cock in your hand before you could even register what was happening.

“Mr. Riddle?” came Professor Flitwick’s tiny voice. “Still here, are we?”

Your eyes flicked up to Mattheo’s face. He had to step further into the shelves to hide you, but you stayed exactly where you were, blinking up at him with mock innocence, tongue trailing the underside of his cock just to fuck with him.

He stiffened. You swore you saw panic, actual panic, flicker across his features before he schooled it into composure.

“Yes, professor,” Mattheo rasped, voice strained.

You started again, licking his cock slow, deliberate, watching the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his nostrils flared as he fought for control. Letting your lips part, taking the thick, leaking head of his cock into your mouth just.

Mattheo shot you a warning look, but you ignored it, taking him deeper into your mouth, swallowing around him.

His thigh tensed, his jaw locking, and for the first time in your life, you heard him stutter.

Flitwick’s voice remained curious, oblivious. "What is it you’re still doing in the library?"

Mattheo cleared his throat, his grip in your hair tightening as he struggled to maintain control. "J-Just—research, Professor." His voice was even, but you could hear the strain beneath it.

God, this was fun.

You hummed around him, flicking your tongue over the sensitive tip, and his entire body shuddered.

You watched, delighted, as he fought to remain composed, as he struggled against the pleasure you were so generously giving him.

You sucked harder, forcing Mattheo’s cock deeper down your throat.

Mattheo stiffened. His grip on your hair turned punishing. "Shit."

"Professor," he choked out, voice strained. "I… I was just finishing up in the Restricted Section."

Flitwick’s tiny feet pattered closer.

You flattened your tongue, swirled it around the head of his cock, hard, until he trembled above you.

Finishing up. You could hardly help the quiet giggle that slipped from you as you took him deeper into your mouth, pressing until you felt him hit the back of your throat.

Mattheo’s hand tightened in your hair, pulling, silently begging you to stop, but you just stared up at him tauntingly, sucking harder.

“Very well,” Flitwick replied. “Do lock up when you’re done, won’t you?”

Mattheo grunted in response, sharp and clipped, visibly struggling. He could barely manage a nod. His knuckles turned white where they gripped the shelf behind him, while the other hand held a death grip in your hair, pleading you not to move, you did the exact opposite.

The moment the library door clicked shut, Mattheo snapped.

His hand fisted in your hair, yanking you off him with a wet, obscene pop, your saliva still glistening along the length of him as he dragged his thumb across your slick, swollen lips. His eyes, black as sin, drank in the sight of you—breathless, wrecked, your mouth shining with evidence of your depravity.

“You little fucking—”

“What?” You taunted feigning innocence as you pouted at him.

"You," he growled, hauling you to your feet, crashing your bodies together, "are going to pay for that."

His thumb pressed against your tongue, and you—defiant, taunting—wrapped your lips around it, sucking, never breaking eye contact as his restraint shattered.

His hands were everywhere—pushing, pulling, grasping at your robes, yanking at your clothes with a ruthless impatience. He had no time for undressing, your skirt was shoved up over your hips, your blouse hanging open, the cool air ghosting over your exposed breasts.

Your moan was swallowed by his mouth as he pressed against you, his fingers slipping beneath your panties, dragging through your slick folds, spreading you open. "So fucking wet for me," Your nails carved red crescents into his back as you moaned against his lips, and he drank in every sound like a man starved. He lined up his cock, teasing you as he slid through your wet folds pushing his tip against your sensitive clit. His eyes never leaving yours as he thrusted into you, one arm wrapped strongly around your waist and the other gripping your throat leaving bruises you knew weren’t going to heal for days.

"Fuck," you gasped, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling,"Is that all you've got, Riddle?"

His pace faltered, just for a second, before his grip on you tightened like a vice. "You're infuriating." His hips snapped against you in punishment, pulling a cry from your throat.

Your nails clawed at his back, your legs tightening around his waist as he fucked you deeper, harder, driving you into the wood. Your head thumped against the bookshelf, but you didn’t care. Didn’t even feel it over the sharp, consuming pleasure, over the way he was taking you. “You almost fuck me better than my ex,” you moaned.

Then, in a blur of motion, he pinned your wrists above your head, his other hand wrapping around your throat as he rolled his hips against you with devastating precision, dragging himself out excruciatingly slow before slamming back into you so hard you nearly screamed.

"You forget yourself," he growled, lips grazing your ear, his grip tightening just enough to make you whimper. "Do you want to repeat that, princess?" Another thrust, sharp and cruel, making your legs tremble around him. "I thought you were going to stop me, eyes up, look at me, where the fuck is my cock right now." His grip on your wrists tightened, his pace relentless now, your back arched, your lips parted in a silent scream as your body clenched, trembled, broke around him.

Mattheo groaned, as he drove into you once, twice more before he spilled inside you, his head falling against your shoulder, breath ragged, bodies slick and trembling as you came together.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your breathing—a soft shuffle. The unmistakable creak of an old wooden floorboard.

You stilled.

Mattheo’s head snapped up, his gaze narrowing as he peered into the darkened rows of the Restricted Section.

Your unfortunate timing had fucked you over yet again.

And this time… someone had seen.

��� . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: this was supposed to be slow burn but then I blacked out and now there’s thigh riding in the restricted section. oopsies.

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀᴇᴅ: @ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ

MASTERLIST

[maysileeewrites]

🫧 what is this feeling? 🫧

Fiyero Tigelaar x gn!reader

Synopsis: „Stop calling me that!“ „What - darling?“ || Or: Fiyero suddenly finds himself spending an unusual amount of time in the Shiz library

c.w: enemies to lovers (sort of), tension & bantering, gratuitous use of darling & super cheesy ending; (also most of my Wicked knowledge [you’ll notice that I made up a back story of my own for Fiyero] comes from seeing the movie three days ago, I did see the play in the West End 2 years ago, but I’m not in as deep as I’m with other musicals like Phantom) 

w.c.: 2.5k | masterlist

Sighing frustratedly, you slammed your textbook shut in annoyance.

Something you usually didn’t do - the slamming the book shut part, that was. 

But then, you also didn’t usually feel this level of frustration after an afternoon spent at the library; at least not over things that weren’t related to your studying. 

Reaching for your book bag, you got up from the table right next to the window facing Shiz’s garden you’d managed to secure earlier this afternoon. 

But what good was a good table, if the atmosphere in the library was so distracting that you couldn’t concentrate on anything? 

Grabbing your books, you glared at the object of your ire. 

Prince Fiyero Tigelaar. 

Most of the other students here at Shiz, especially Galinda, seemed positively obsessed with him, but you happened to share your friend Elphaba‘s opinion about the young prince. 

In your opinion, he was nothing more than a shallow, self-absorbed troublemaker that apparently didn’t concern himself too hard with other people’s wants and needs. Really, couldn’t he have done his strutting around anywhere else instead of the library? 

„What did that poor book do to you?“ 

You flinched, losing your hold on the books in your hand. You’d been so lost in your thoughts, you hadn’t even noticed Fiyero approaching you. 

The books slipped from your grip, and fell to the floor with a loud, clattering sound. You winced, bending down to pick the books back up, but Fiyero had already beaten you to it. 

He’d already gathered three of the four tomes in his hands and, feeling weirdly annoyed at this sudden, new … helpful site to him, you reached for the last book - at the same time as Fiyero did. 

Your hands touched. 

You felt the rough callouses of his fingertips and wondered what he, as a prince could have possibly done in his life that was the reason for this - before trying to remind yourself that you didn’t care. 

Hastily, almost as if you’d been burned, you drew your hand back and got back up. 

„Well, there you go, darling“, Fiyero said, flashing you a surprisingly genuine smile, as he handed you the four books. 

Again, you felt a weird tingling in your fingertips as your hands briefly touched, and, almost defensively, you clutched the books to your chest. 

„I - thank you …“ 

He laughed, the sound surprisingly warm and deep. This wasn’t his typical, obnoxiously loud laugh you’d come to despise during the last few weeks. 

„It’s nothing … still curious what that poor book did to you, though …“ 

„What?“, you asked, frowning. 

He grinned. „That poor-„, suddenly, he leaned in closer towards you - and was it just the used-up library air you’d been breathing in all day that suddenly made you feel slightly dizzy? - eyes fixing on the covers of your textbooks, „history book. Really darling, I wouldn‘t have expected you to treat a book like that.“ 

„You’re one to talk“, you muttered, without thinking. 

„Well, I guess you’re right there, darling.“ 

„Stop calling me that!“, you exclaimed, feeling your cheeks flush. 

He smirked. „What - darling?“ 

You rolled your eyes. „Yes! Now, if you’ll excuse me-„ 

„You’re off to study some more?“, he asked, genuine wonder in his voice. 

Your eyes met, and you immediately looked away from him again. You didn’t like the way his gaze made you feel. There was genuine curiosity in his eyes and his gaze was far too intense for your liking. 

„Yes, because unlike some, I actually care about my education and my future!“, you exclaimed, before turning away from him. 

Fiyero just chuckled. „Trust me darling, you’re missing out on a lot of fun.“ 

You only rolled your eyes at his statement and walked out of the library without looking back at him. 

If you had, you’d have seen him trying to fight off a smile. 

The next day, your luck was even worse. 

Things started out alright - after classes, you and Elphaba went to the library, managing to secure a table near the garden windows again. Elphaba, however couldn’t stay long, as she had her magic lessons with Madame Morrible in the late afternoon. 

After she left, you managed to catch up on some of your assignments for a while. 

Then, someone sat down right next to you. 

You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. 

„Go away, Fiyero“, you said, not looking up from your textbook. 

Fiyero just laughed. „You’ve really been quite grumpy lately, darling.“ 

„Stop calling-„, you began to say, but stopped. Knowing Fiyero, you commenting on this particularly annoying habit of his would only serve to egg him on. 

„Never mind“, you therefore muttered, turning a page. 

„What are you doing here, though?“ Somehow, the question just slipped out, even though you kept trying to tell yourself that you didn’t care. 

„Studying, of course“, Fiyero replied, his smirk widening even more when you turned to look at him, raising your eyebrows.

„Really?“, you asked, frowning. 

He just smirked. „Really. I mean, there’s quite a lot to catch up on, isn’t there?“ 

„I can imagine“, you replied, frowning. 

To your great annoyance, Fiyero just smirked again, before taking a textbook out of his bag, opening it and grabbing a notebook and a pen. 

Your eyes widened. Was he actually here to study? 

To your utter surprise, it did seem that way, because during the next few hours, Fiyero was completely engrossed in his textbooks, only looking up from them occasionally to jot something down in his notebook. Even his handwriting surprised you - it wasn’t at all the unintelligible scrawl you’d imagined it to be, but a rather concise, if somewhat over exaggeratedly loopy handwriting. But then again, he was a Prince - elegant handwriting must have been taught to him from a young age, among other etiquettes and niceties, not to mention historical and sociological knowledge. 

Really, it was such a shame that he didn’t seem to care at all about a good education. He’d probably already had all the best opportunities one could only imagine, and now he was here at Shiz, studying at one of the most renowned universities in all of Oz. Not that he seemed to particularly care about that, though. 

It did make you wonder, though. Was he really just the rogue prince who rejected every expectation society imposed upon him, was he really as shallow and self-absorbed as you’d perceived him to be these last few weeks? 

Suddenly, you weren’t so sure anymore. 

You chanced another look over at him, and caught him staring at you. Despite yourself, you felt your cheeks flush, when he grinned at you. 

„If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that I’m distracting you, darling“, he said, grin widening. 

You had the sudden urge to grin back at him, but quickly suppressed it by biting down hard on your lip. And was it just your imagination or did his eyes flicker from your eyes to your lips and back to your eyes again? 

„Every time I think your ego couldn’t possibly get any bigger, you surprise me again“, you muttered. 

He just chuckled. „Well, that’s me, darling - full of surprises.“ 

Right - that. 

„Why - why don’t you care about any of this?“, you asked him, the words slipping out before you’d thought them through. 

When he raised his eyebrows at you in confusion, you quickly hurried on. „You’re here, studying at Shiz University of all places, and yet it seems that classes and studying are just this huge burden for you. You’ve been handed this great opportunity on a silver platter - and yet you’re not making any use out of it!“ 

Fiyero’s smile froze and for a second, his eyes seemed to darken as well. „There’s more to life than just studying and books, you know?“

„Like what?“, you challenged him. 

„Like actually living life, instead of just going through the motions“, he replied quickly. 

You frowned irritatedly. Was that what he thought of you? That you were just going through the motions, like you were some kind of robot, devoid of actually having any feelings. 

You felt your cheeks heat up again, though this time it was out of anger. Standing up, you started stuffing your textbooks into your book bag, glaring at him. 

„Well, excuse me - I have to go, going through the motions, because some of us aren’t privileged enough to get everything in life handed to them on a silver platter.“ 

With that, you walked out of the library rather dramatically, not bothering to look back at him, still seething with frustration. 

How was it that he seemingly always managed to get under your skin so easily? 

And why did you care? 

Why did you care about anything having to do with that stupid, arrogant prince who was too full of himself to form any complex, intelligent thought. 

You didn’t. 

You did not care about Fiyero Tigelaar.  

Not at all. 

But no matter how many times you tried to tell yourself, deep down, you knew that it wasn’t true. You hated to admit it, but just thinking about that moment yesterday when your hands had touched, made your heart beat faster. As did thinking about all the not so subtle glances he’d sent your way this afternoon. 

You sighed, running a hand through your hair in frustration. 

Sweet Oz, what was this feeling? 

You didn’t see much of Fiyero during the next few days, at least not in the library. You did see him during classes and at meals, but you did your best to keep out of his way. You were ashamed of your outburst at him in the library a few days ago, and if it were anyone else, you’d have already apologized to them. 

As it was, you did feel sorry for your comment, but the feeling was lessened whenever you thought about how he’d insinuated that you were just going through the motions. 

Somehow, that had frustrated you much more than his stupid insistence on him calling you darling - not that he’d done that since that day in the library. In fact, you’d hardly spoken to each other at all, other than a few off-handed comments, made in passing. 

You could tell that your friend Elphaba was already becoming somewhat frustrated with the situation, because you’d forced her to change directions, walking through empty hallways and taking a detour on the way to class just to avoid having to walk past Fiyero more than once. 

You were starting to feel rather frustrated yourself, but still - you weren’t about to be the one to take the first step. 

And anyway, it wasn’t like you cared much about Fiyero and whether your comment had hurt him. 

Or so you kept trying to tell yourself. 

Frustrated, you turned a page in your textbook, trying to concentrate on your studies. Today, you weren’t in the library, but rather in Shiz’s magnificent garden. You were sat on a bench under a willow tree, a field of red tulips right next to you. 

But no matter how serenely beautiful the atmosphere around you, you were unable to concentrate on your textbook. 

„I thought I might find you here.“ 

Your heart started beating faster and you didn’t have to look up to know who the voice belonged to. 

„Fiyero …“, you said, closing your book shut and getting up rather awkwardly from your bench. 

Fiyero’s eyes found yours and he smiled nervously. 

Wait - nervously? Fiyero wasn’t one to be nervous - at least you’d never perceived him to be so. 

„I - I wanted to apologize … I didn’t - what I said, in the library - I never wanted to imply that you were just going through the motions, I-“

„I wanted to apologize as well“, you interrupted his nervous rambling, fighting off the smile you felt tugging at the corner of your lips when his eyes widened and his gaze seemed to soften. „I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that, I … I had to study - like, really hard, to get a scholarship for Shiz, my family isn’t - I …“, you trailed off, biting down hard on your lip. 

You didn’t know why you were telling him all this. Maybe it had something to do with the soft, concerned gaze in his eyes, or maybe it was just his sudden closeness making you feel rather dizzy. 

„I get it“, he said quickly, running a hand through his hair. „Honestly, if I were you, I’d hate me as well.“ 

„I don’t hate you“, you pointed out. 

„See, darling? Always a good start“, he said, grinning. 

„Don’t test it“, you said, rolling your eyes, but you weren’t quite able to fight off your own grin anymore. 

„The thing is, my family -my parents, they expect so much from me“, he said, turning serious once more. „And I know what you’re thinking, poor prince, his parents put so much pressure on him, yet he’s still living a privileged life, boo hoo“, he continued, shaking his head, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance. „And you’d be right, at least to a certain degree … my parents, they - sometimes I feel that no matter what I do, I’ll always manage to disappoint them somehow. To them, I’ll probably always be a failure.“ 

„You’re not a failure!“, you interrupted him, shaking your head. „You’re not!“ 

„Oh really?“, he asked, and his grin was back in place, though it did look rather shaky and uncertain. „I thought that a good education was the key for everything?“ 

Despite the seriousness of what he’d just said, you rolled your eyes. Trying to soften the mood, you said: „Well, someone once told me that there’s more to life than just books and studying.“ 

He smirked. „Sounds like a wise someone.“ 

You just rolled your eyes.

A moment passed, during which neither one of you said anything, yet the silence didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. 

Then, you found yourself asking: „What were you doing in the library, though?“ 

Fiyero laughed, though somehow, he seemed nervous once more. Maybe it was the way he ran his hands through his hair distractedly, or maybe it was the way his eyes kept flickering between you and the willow tree behind you. 

„Well, for one I am trying this thing called studying …“ 

You laughed, though you could sense that there was more he wanted to say. 

„But … there was also - there was someone I was trying to build up the nerve to talk to …“ 

Suddenly, your heart started to beat faster and you felt that weird tingling sensation in your fingertips once more. 

Fiyero was standing so close to you now, your noses were almost touching and you could feel his warm breath on your skin. 

„Who - who were you trying to talk to?“ 

He laughed. „I’d hate to disappoint you, but I think there’s some questions textbooks simply don’t provide answers for, darling …“ 

Before you could come up with a reply, he’d leaned in even closer towards you, and then his lips were on yours. His lips were soft and full, and the kiss surprisingly gentle. 

Without having to think about it, you found yourself reciprocating the kiss, moving your lips against his. 

Whatever this feeling you felt when you were with Fiyero was, it felt good. Exceptionally good. 

And so, abandoning every other thought, you wound one hand around his neck, tangling the other in his hair. 

And when you felt him smiling into the kiss, you felt your heart soar. 

[aventurineswife]

EXPAND ON DAN HENG NIBBLING ON HIS S/O AND MY LIFE IS YOURS

“My Life is Yours”

Summary: Dan Heng teases his partner with playful nibbles and gentle affection. As he explores the unique ways dragons show affection, his actions are full of both mischief and tenderness. Through laughter and a touch of vulnerability, Dan Heng expresses his deep affection, promising that his life belongs entirely to his partner, and they share a mutual, heartfelt bond.

Tags: Dan Heng IL x Reader, Fluff, Light Teasing, Affectionate Teasing, Playful Nibbling, Intimacy, Romantic Confession, Soft Moments, Mutual Affection.

Warnings: Mild Physical Affection (Nibbling and Playful Teasing), Soft Language and Tone, but No Explicit Content.

The dim, golden light of the Astral Express illuminated the quiet library, where the faint rustle of pages filled the air. You were curled up in one of the plush chairs, your legs tucked under you as you read, utterly absorbed in your book. Across from you, Dan Heng sat with his own tome, his elegant horns catching the light like crystalline crescents. His vivid eyes occasionally flicked to you, watching the way your brow furrowed in concentration, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of a page.

A quiet smile tugged at his lips.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice a deep, soothing melody.

You looked up from your book, smiling softly. “More than comfortable. What about you?”

He hummed in response, closing his book with deliberate care. “I’m... content,” he admitted, his gaze steady but laced with a glimmer of mischief you didn’t quite catch.

As he stood and crossed the room, your eyes followed him, curiosity bubbling. Without a word, he settled beside you, the warmth of his presence immediately engulfing you. His fingers brushed your cheek, tilting your head to meet his eyes, which now sparkled with a teasing glint.

“Do you know,” he murmured, his voice low and almost conspiratorial, “dragons show affection in unique ways?”

Before you could respond, you felt the ghost of his lips against your neck. A shiver ran down your spine as he pressed a feather-light kiss just below your jaw. His sharp teeth grazed your skin, playful and teasing, sending sparks of electricity through you.

“Dan Heng,” you managed, a laugh slipping from your lips, “what are you doing?”

He pulled back slightly, his expression calm but his eyes betraying his amusement. “Exploring this... peculiar tradition,” he said, leaning in again. This time, his teeth gently nipped at the curve of your shoulder, a sensation that made your breath hitch. “Do you dislike it?” he asked softly, though he already seemed to know the answer.

You swatted at him half-heartedly, your cheeks burning. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I enjoy you too much,” he countered smoothly, his voice dipping lower. His nibbling became more insistent, tracing up your neck and along the edge of your jaw. Each playful bite sent a jolt of warmth through you, a mixture of surprise and affection.

“Dan Heng!” you protested again, laughter bubbling uncontrollably now.

He chuckled, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re so expressive,” he whispered. “I can’t help myself.” His hand found yours, threading your fingers together. “It’s fascinating—seeing you like this.”

Your breath hitched, the intimacy of his words grounding you. His lips lingered at your temple, where he pressed a gentle kiss, his nibbling now replaced by tenderness. “You know, in my past life, I was taught that everything a dragon treasures is theirs to protect.”

He leaned back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes shining with unspoken promises. “And you... are what I treasure most.”

Your heart swelled, your earlier embarrassment melting away. “Dan Heng…”

He brought your intertwined hands to his lips, brushing a kiss across your knuckles. “My life is yours,” he said softly, his voice a solemn vow. “Every part of me—past, present, and future.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you reached up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against the smooth line of his jaw. “Then we’re even,” you said with a smile, “because my life is yours too.”

Dan Heng exhaled a soft laugh, his composure finally breaking into something warmer, more vulnerable. He pressed his forehead against yours, his horns glimmering like ethereal ornaments in the soft light. “Then I suppose,” he whispered, his tone light but full of meaning, “I’ll just have to keep nibbling until you believe me.”

[hildergard]

Could you do something where Aemond is already married/betrothed to a highborn lady that’s been approved by Alicent and Otto but he has a relationship with a low born woman (a brothel worker or any lowborn really) and once he becomes Prince Regent he starts bringing her around the castle, giving her a room to herself, treating her better than how a lowborn should be treated in Alicent and Ottos eyes and they don’t like it but Aemond doesn’t care.

MINE TO PROTECT ��� AEMOND TARGARYEN

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Lowborn!Reader

TAGS | Suggestive content, swearing, possessive behaviour, classism

WORDCOUNT | 4k

NOTE | I have seen a lot of fanfictions where the Reader is a brothel worker so I made her a baker instead. I hope that's alright with you! Thank you so much for this great request! I had so much fun writing it <333

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

In the seedy streets of Flea Bottom, rumours travelled in a precise order, memorised by all.

A Lord, drunk with lust, would disclose the Crown’s secrets to a simpering whore, who would be quick⏤once the gold dragons were in her purse⏤to repeat what she had just heard, noble semen still running down her thighs. The other, much less wealthy, customers would then talk about it loudly in bars, attracting the attention of patrons who, once sober, had only to spread the news.

Today, the rumour burst into your little shop when Old Gerald came through the door, looking for his daily loaf of bread. 

 “Prince Aemond’s been made Regent," he said. 

For a second, you did not move. The dough fell on wood. Your floured hands remained stuck in the sticky, flabby mixture. It would have to be kneaded again. The sight of your dirty fingers woke you from your torpor. You gripped the towel from your apron and wiped your palms roughly before turning your back on your customer⏤less to get the fresh loaves of bread out of the oven than to regain your composure.

He had done it. 

Your shovel rasped against the burning slab of clay and peeled off the loaves. 

A few days earlier, when night had enveloped the citizens of King's Landing in its thick cloak, he had told you of his plans and dreams⏤the two were always intertwined, for Aemond Targaryen provoked fate rather than waited for it. His touch had done nothing to soften the brutality of his words. Sordid tales of fire and blood, the kind that filled the tomes of the Citadel. 

Even the Targaryens could not play with fire indefinitely. Aemond rose in the flames. For how much longer? You had protested, your voice hoarse from the moans he had managed to draw from your throat, but he would have none of it and simply told you to trust him, as if all this were far too complicated for you. 

And perhaps that was the case, for what did you know of war and power?

“What about his Majesty?" you asked.

Old Gerald tossed you three coppers, which you pocketed, before handing you a thick piece of cloth. 

“They say he perished in dragonfire. Seems Targaryens are closer to men, after all. With all this quarrel for t'throne, it were inevitable. And, let me tell you, it'll happen again. Today, a brother sits on t'throne. Tomorrow, it'll be an uncle or a sister. Things like that never end.”

You carefully wrapped the golden loaf in the cloth. 

“Wi' Rhaenyra in Dragonstone and his brother's heir dead, he’ll no doubt be crowned King. And the Lady Baratheon, Queen.”

You winced at the name but immediately hid your reaction with a tight smile. Gerald, bless him, took no notice of your torment. You handed the loaf of bread to the old cobbler, who nodded at you and returned to his shoes. 

The rumour ran on and kept you thinking all day. You burnt a dozen loaves of bread, spilt two sacks of flour and forgot to deliver her apple pies to Dorthy Porter, making you lose a silver stag and a customer.

When the key finally turned in the lock of the shop and cut you off from the rest of the world, your shoulders slumped. The sun and all its problems gave way to the moon. Under its silvery eyes, other rumours would no doubt spread but you did not wish to hear them. You longed for your straw mattress and the comfort of your dreams⏤perhaps your love would visit you there, also freed from the pressure the Gods were piling on his shoulders. 

Tiredness weakened your knees⏤you dragged your body more than you climbed the stairs to your modest bedroom. In the middle of the room, the bed and its pillow stretched out its arms to you. You let yourself fall into the feathery embrace and closed your eyes for a moment, praying to the Gods that you would find sleep easily. 

They ignored you. 

The doorbell rang. 

Your eyelids struggled to open. Sleep paralysed them⏤it clutched at your eyelashes and tried to keep them closed but you fought the temptation and, at last, gazed into the dim light of the room. Another series of blows, more hurried, struck against the wood. The whole  shop seemed to shake. 

“I’m coming, I'm coming…” you mumbled. 

You gasped as two members of the Kingsguard appeared on your doorstep, their cloaks far too white to be dragged through the muddy streets of Flea Bottom. 

“The Prince Regent, His Highness Aemond Targaryen, summons you.”

They did not care for your reply and seized you. You protested, demanded to be told the reason for this summon, but nothing would do. The guards dragged you like a rag doll through the streets of King's Landing, indifferent to your screams and struggle. Above and around you, the candlelight in the windows intensified. Some people poked their heads out to watch the racket. You lowered your chin and remained silent, but the damage had been done. 

Already, rumours were spreading. The baker had been arrested. What had she done? Who would make their bread from now on?  

The dizzy shadow of the Red Keep loomed larger and larger. Just the outline of it made your skin crawl. For the first time, you would be treading on the floor of Kings and Queens. You were being plunged headfirst into this unknown, powerful and dangerous place, populated by men and women who despised people like you. One of the guards tightened his grip around your arm. You yelped. Why were they taking you there? Aemond always came to you, not the other way round. 

Did someone know? You blanched. Impossible, you thought immediately. You had been cautious. 

But what if... What if someone had seen you, despite all your precautions? 

 Were they taking you to the Keep to put you to the sword?  

 A flash of fear stabbed you in the guts.  

You finally passed through the large gates of the castle. They were still open, yet, no one was in the courtyard. The swords were resting on the workbenches and the horses were asleep. Only a few guards patrolled the ramparts, their heads turned skywards in search of a dragon. 

“Hurry up, girl. The Prince is waiting.”

A solitary, proud figure emerged at the top of the stairs, in front of the entrance. His long white hair fluttered in the wind and the bluish moonlight accentuated his strict features and pale complexion. The mere sight of his face reassured you. You defied the guards and walked towards him. 

His rough hand⏤hardened by duty and war⏤gripped yours before thin lips kissed it. The Prince pulled you towards him. Your heart slowed as his familiar scent enveloped you and your shoulders relaxed. For a second, you surrendered to the comfort of his warmth and love. The smell of musk and leather soothed your body, but your head kept its wits about it.

“What's happening, Aemond?”

He closed his eye as his name fell from your lips and smiled. His hand came down and grasped your waist in a possessive embrace. You leaned into the touch. 

“There are rumours that Aegon–”

You squeaked. His fingers had dug painfully into your flesh at his brother's name. 

The mere mention of him brought back painful and humiliating memories, which your lover had confided to you, his head on your pillow. Even today, the wounds had not healed. They continued to transpire in every aspect of his life. You are the only thing he has not stolen from me, he had told you one night. Saying that name was like throwing his past back in his face and breaking your promise. He'll never succeed, you had replied, but today, Aegon was on your mind. What did his wound mean for the Crown, for you?

“Is it true?" you managed to articulate. 

“The Council has made me Regent," he nodded. “We will not need to hide any longer, my love.”

“What do you mean?”

But Aemond did not answer you. He smiled, tucked a lock of hair behind your ear and let his fingers brush your neck. With a nod, the kingsguards left. The clink of their armour echoed for long seconds, but the din faded with the tenderness of his gestures. His finger traced the veins in your chest. They led him to your breasts, hidden by your dress. Aemond grunted⏤terribly offended by this affront⏤and pulled at the fabric but it held on. 

Claere Linstar's work was reknown throughout Flea Bottom. You could not find a better weaver⏤today, you were thankful for the two silver stags you had spent. The garment would become the guarantor of your dignity, the bulwark against your desire. 

When you realised that your Prince was not going to answer your question, you took a step back. His hand fell limply between the two of you as a brief look of pain clouded his face. 

“Aemond?”

He straightened up and held out his hand to you. 

“Follow me.”

The labyrinthine corridors made your head spin. You lost count of the turns you took, the staircases you climbed and the alcoves you passed. The beauty of the mouldings and frescoes drew admiring sighs from you several times, but Aemond did not care. He walked past them without giving them a second glance. He's used to all this, you reminded yourself. People of his rank bathed in this luxury and grandeur since birth.  

On the way, maids dressed in red and white stopped at your sight. Their gaze fell on your face, on your body, on your hand locked in the Prince's... Your cheeks heated and you tried to pull away, but Aemond tightened his grip. Out of habit, his thumb caressed your skin. This time, his touch only made you tense. You bowed your head, ashamed. 

They knew. 

The thought stayed with you. 

You only lifted your head when Aemond stopped in front of an ornate door. The mouldings curved into flowers and birds⏤an ode to spring and renewal. Your eyes swept the decor, stopped on a bush of camellias and, finally, met the Prince's satisfied gaze. 

“We've arrived," he announced. 

Aemond opened the door with a confident gesture. Inside, an immense room stretched out and seemed to never end. Wealth oozed out of every corner, from the four-poster bed to the dressing table adorned with sapphires. On the wall, frescoes of flowers had been painted to match the powder pink drapes⏤an explosion of colour that turned drab the corridors you had been raving about just a few minutes before. 

“Is it to your taste?”

You turned back to Aemond. Although his chin was up and his back was straight⏤proud as ever⏤red bloomed on his cheeks. Your lover seemed embarrassed, a far cry from his usual composure. Almost timidly, his hand sought yours. He couldn't help it, you realised. His fingers always found yours⏤skin against skin to find what he had been deprived of all his childhood. 

“I don't know anyone who wouldn't like it," you replied.

“Hmm. Good.”

He pulled you to him. His hands went down to your buttocks and pressed you against his chest. Your pelvises collided. Suddenly, the room made sense. You let yourself drown in these familiar gestures. Your hand caressed his muscular shoulders, moved up to his jaw and brushed against his lips. Aemond kissed the pad of your thumb before replacing it with your lips. Soon, the wet sound of saliva echoed through the room. The sweet melody ignited a fire in your lower abdomen and moved down between your thighs. 

Your hand resumed tracing arabesques on your lover's smooth skin. It stopped at the buttons on his doublet and hastily undid them before wandering lower and lower…

Aemond stopped you before you could take him in your hand. His hand grabbed yours. He kissed your palm and pressed it against his cheek. 

“These will be your quarters.”

The fire went out, leaving you frozen with shock. Your heart skipped a beat. 

“What do you mean?" you asked breathlessly.

“Now that I am Regent, we will not have to hide any more.” 

A new glare lit up his eye. Purple turned black and made you shiver. Flames seemed to dance in his pupil, crushing all remains of the second son he had once been. That Aemond was dead. In his place was a Regent who thought himself above laws and men.  

“It's not proper, Aemond," you tried to protest. “If it gets out that I'm here... If the Dowager Queen or the Hand–”

“They have no say in the matter. My word is law now.”

 “If you want me here… Perhaps I could serve the Crown, join the kitchens. Anything but that, Aemond," you said, gesturing to those quarters, far too luxurious for someone of your breeding. 

“You do not belong in the fucking kitchens," he scoffed. “No. You will be by my side, as my equal.”

“You're engaged," you retorted. “The Lady Baratheon won't take kindly to my presence here. You nobles can make Small Folk disappear in a blink of an eye and no one would notice or care.”

Alira Merchin's story was remembered as a cautionary tale for young girls naive enough to think love could conquer blood. The fable was classic⏤hundreds of similar romances filled libraries, and perhaps it was these very ones that had encouraged the girl to seduce the heir of House Harte. The man fell in love and made the pretty merchant his lover. 

This did not please his wife, the daughter of Lord Chelsted. 

She got rid of the merchant with disconcerting ease. The poor girl was found trampled by horses in white and green bards. That day, Lord Harte lost his true love and spent the rest of his life suffering the consequences of his betrayal. 

Your heart dropped. What would happen to you if you tickled the stag? Ours if the Fury. Their motto was an ode to their rage, to their thirst for violence. If Floris Baratheon found out that Prince Aemond was bedding you... and in the Keep nonetheless…

The storm would come for you and you would perish in its eye. 

“It's not a good idea, Aemond," you finally said. 

“Do not fret, my love. Nothing will happen to you as long as I am here to protect you.”

The Prince pulled you into bed. 

Your protests died on your lips, muffled by moans and the exquisite feel of his skin against yours. 

Your fingers tightened around your thighs. The soap made your skin slippery but did nothing to wash away the shame that had been clinging to it for days. It colonised your flesh and left it tainted, eating away at your muscles and weighing down your heart. 

On the first day, after a passionate night, maids had arrived to prepare you, but you refused their care. You were no Lady. You had bathed alone all your life and would continue to do so. More than anything, you wanted to escape their watchful eyes, which would no doubt have noticed the hickeys on your chest and thighs. 

You did not know how rumours got around in the Keep, but you were sure that they first burgeoned on the maids’ lips. They blossomed as quickly as in Flea Bottom⏤the inquisitive nature of man was innate⏤, but it would not be Old Gerald getting wind of it. No. The stakes were much higher in these parts, and the consequences even more dire. 

The door to your quarters stood in the way of the horror surely awaiting you, but for how much longer? 

Your hands massaged your calf, hoping to rediscover a cherished routine. You longed for the feel of dough beneath your fingers. What would become of your shop? Would you have to sell it? Maybe someone had already moved in⏤abandoned houses never stayed so for long in Flea Bottom, the cradle of the poor and the homeless. 

You could not cherish the roof above your head, yet, you supposed you had to learn to appreciate it. Aemond did not seem eager to let you go.  

Aemond. 

Every day, the sun tore him away from you. His hours were devoted to the Small Council and military strategies, only half of which you understood when he explained them to you. Your Prince needed to talk, to get rid of the weight that was arching his back. You became the shoulder on which he rested, the ear into which he poured his doubts, the flesh in which he forgot himself. 

“I wish to be with you every hour of the day, to attach myself to your side, but the Gods will only grant me this pleasure when I win this war. I am fighting for you⏤for us,” he had told you. 

The moon brought him back into your arms. Every night, without exception, he would cross the threshold of the door and wrap you in a reassuring embrace. His arms would block out your gloomy thoughts and chase away shame and regret⏤all seemed worth it if it kept him close to you. The stars looked down on your love. When the bells rang the hour of the owl, you indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, whispered sweet nothings or simply enjoyed the peaceful silence that the other's presence guaranteed. Sometimes, Aemond, lying on the bed with your head on his stomach, would read you stories with his hand buried in your hair. 

And then, the hour of the Nightingale would sound, its tranquillity burning away in the first rays of sunlight. The enchanted interlude would close and you would spend the day dreaming of a life where sun and duty did not separate you. 

Shame would reappear, its weight with it, and fear⏤tangible and vibrant⏤would turn your stomach. 

The spectre of Floris Baratheon never left you. It haunted you. In the frescoes of camellias on the wall. In the bouquets of flowers dotting your quarters. In the venison served for dinner. The tales of her beauty reached you and left you bitter, but what they said about her quiet authority made your blood run cold. 

She would come for you. 

The Lady Baratheon occupied all your thoughts, so much so that you forgot about another much more dangerous threat. 

One day, Alicent Hightower stalked into your room. 

You dropped your embroidery in your lap and hastily sat up. The needle fell to the floor with a disturbing chime. The bell was tolling⏤this farce had gone on far too long and it would now end. 

The Dowager Queen dropped a small leather bag on the table. Its contents clinked and masked your gasping breath for a second. Your heart was pounding against your temples. Soon, the air would run out. Already your throat was closing up and you were struggling to swallow. 

“What is it?" you asked weakly. 

“Five thousand gold dragons. Enough to buy you a new life, far from the Keep, far from Westeros.”

Away from my son, she meant. 

“I won't leave Aemond.”

He needs me, you thought. 

“The Prince Regent does not need you," the Queen scoffed as if she could heard your mind. “He is engaged. Or have you forgotten that? Whoring yourself in the way you do… It would appear so. Have you thought about the repercussions of your actions when people find out about you? The risks it means for Aemond? Your very presence here jeopardises this entire war.”

“I have tried to–”

“He does not love you, you fool. He just wants a cunt to fuck without having to spend a single penny.”

You recoiled, surprised to hear the famously pious queen speak so vulgarly. 

War transformed souls. It made them ugly. Alicent Hightower’s wide eyes and pursed lips twisted her face into a terrifying expression. 

She sighed and, for a moment, her features became those of a compassionate woman. 

“I don't know what… hold my son has over you," she continued in a calmer voice, “but you seem smart enough to understand this will end badly. You must leave. Take the gold and let us be done with this farce.”

The door slammed against the wall before you could even consider the proposal. 

Aemond reached your side with a confident stride. 

“What's going on here? Mother?”

When the latter did not answer, he looked to you for answers. You lowered your head, unable to bear the look of concern in his purple eye any longer. 

It fell lower, onto the table and the leather purse.  

“What is the meaning of this?” he raised his voice. 

Silence stretched before Alicent Hightower relented. 

“You cannot… support a lowborn in such manners, Aemond. The girl must go.”

The Prince ignored his mother and took you in his arms. His nose nestled under your ear as his hands buried themselves in your hair. He guided your head into his neck and whispered comforting words, which you could not hear. You did not care. His familiar scent embraced you and brought tears to the corners of your eyes. They wet your cheeks and his collar. 

You should never have come here. 

“Out.”

His mother protested. 

“Imagine the shame for your future wife, the Lady Baratheon! For her house! If we lose Storm's End because of... because of this w–” 

“Hold your tongue and leave.”

“Aemond, if you do this, we are lost!”

“Get out!”

Footsteps retreated. A door slammed. Aemond sighed. His hand drew abstract symbols on the back of your head for a moment before encouraging you to look at him. 

“Oh, my love," he said, seeing your misty eyes. “All is well now. She will not hurt you any more.”

The danger you had put yourself in was greater than you had thought. Fear dried your mouth and exhausted your words. You stammered a few excuses before taking a deep breath. Your Prince's fingers did not weaken. They continued to comfort you and, at last, gave you the courage you needed to finally speak. 

“Maybe I should return to Flea Bottom. I–” 

“No," Aemond’s voice cracked. 

His hands framed your face and pulled you closer until your noses were touching. 

��You are not leaving me.”

His lips were harsh, covering every inch of your skin. He kissed the bridge of your nose, your warm cheekbones, your wet eyelids. Tears ran aground in the cracks of his lips and dried up under his exquisite tenderness. No beauty spot, no eyelash, was spared. His lips erased his mother's words and the doubts in your heart. 

“You belong here, with me. I do not care for blood or war. I only wish for your love.”

Aemond filled the space between your mouths. His hands reached down and grasped your breast. He feasted on your lips and the taste of them like a hungry man. Tingles caressed your spine and tickled your lower abdomen. You rolled your hips, searching for his, but your lover pulled away.

You didn't want him to stop. 

The Prince shushed your complaints and pushed you to the bed. Your back bounced on the goose feather mattress. Eager to feel his skin against yours, you sat up and tried to pull him to you, but Aemond took a step back. A petty smile stretched his lips as he heard you whimper. He ignored you and stood silent, admiring you. His eyes, now black, gazed down at your body, contemplating its shape and softness.

“Aemond, please…”

Your lover grabbed an ankle and kissed it. You moaned. He moved up your calf, caressing your knee and digging his fingers into your thighs before spreading them apart. His teeth nipped at the flesh, which his tongue immediately soothed. Your breathing quickened and breathy moans fell from your swollen lips, intoxicated by his touch. He skipped over your dripping cunt, his hands grazing your hips and sides.  

Suddenly, Aemond stopped touching you, placed a farewell kiss on your belly and sat up on his elbows. 

“I will take care of everything, my love. You will never have to fear for your life. It is mine to cherish, mine to love, mine to protect," he said before reaching up to capture your lips with his. “Mine.”

“I love you," you sighed. 

Aemond smiled, as he did every time the words fell from your lips. One could not get used to the sweetness of love. It forever stirred the heart and soothed the soul. Your Prince placed a chaste kiss on your lips before moving down and disappearing between your thighs. 

His words vanished in desire and pleasure. You forgot them the next day, when the hour of the Nightingale struck.  

You should have known that Aemond Targaryen would keep his promise.

Three days later, the Lady Baratheon was found dead in the Kingswood, impaled on a stag's antlers. 

[illbegottenfaith]

lucky pt 2 - theo nott x reader

after the Felix Felicis incident, your relationship with theo has dramatically changed, for better and for worse

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

a/n - by popular demand! rip my title tho the best alternative I could come up with was ‘feminine ass-kicking’ but idk if that’s too out there. also I’ve started part 3 too! (which should be the final part) this was kind of inspired by gilmore girls season 6 :)

tropes/warnings - academic rivals to lovers, angst, slow burn, miscommunication

word count - 2.1k

The Felix Felicis incident had given the both of you much to think about. Outwardly, you maintained the appearance that nothing had changed between the two of you, taking snipes at each other every now and then. But every night, before you’d fall asleep, your mind would wander back to that evening at the Astronomy Tower, the sight of Theo and the harsh contours of his face softened by the forgiving setting sun. Every night, he asks if you have anything else to say. Every night, you shake your head.

And as much as you’d like to pretend otherwise, things had changed between you. Theo became more reserved, somehow, less determined to spar with you. Your fights didn’t hold anywhere near the spark they once did. And you hated it. You hated that it bothered you, you hated that it upset you, you hated that it was all you could think about every time you were in the same classroom as him. It just wasn’t fair.

What also wasn’t fair was your entire group falling sick the day before an extremely crucial Potions project was due. They were all more than apologetic, but it didn’t change the fact that months worth of work to complete in one night if you wanted even a semblance of a chance at passing.

Which was how Theodore Nott found you in the library late one night, pouring over five gnarly tomes on Potions from the Medieval era, writing what looked like three essays at once. You flinched when you heard a noise near the bookshelves, and your mood wasn’t much improved when you saw who it was.

“Trying to read every book in one night, L/N?”

You wanted to roll your eyes. After weeks of stunted conversation, now that it was just the two of them, he was suddenly feeling chatty?

“I'm busy. Buzz off.”

Ignoring you, Theo crept closer, tilting his head to read what you were haphazardly scribbling.

“The Potions project? But we started that months ago. And it’s due tomorrow.”

You swept the papers up out of his sight. You were already in a testy mood to begin with and you were in no mood to have him crow over your bad luck.

“What part of ‘buzz off’ don’t you get?”

“Where are your groupmates?”

“Sick.”

“Sick?”

“They all went on some Hogsmeade trip together, the whole lot of them. They all caught it from each other and they’re supposed to be stupidly contagious.”

“But their reports should be fine.”

“They were, until Madam Pomfrey declared them a biohazard.” Your head was beginning to hurt from the bottled-up frustration. You knew it wasn’t their fault for falling sick, but now you had to pull an all-nighter just so you wouldn’t fail. You stood and walked past him to the shelves, pulling out any and every book that remotely looked like it might help. 

You glanced at the clock, mentally calculating how much time you’d need. There was no way you could get it all done by 9 am. Feeling quite proud of yourself for successfully giving Theo the same cold shoulder he had been giving you the past couple of weeks, you walked to the library telephone and started dialing the number to Slughorn’s office. One of the only people who could help you now was Jeeves, Slughorn’s teaching assistant, provided he was in a good enough mood.

“Jeeves, hi. Yes, I know it’s late, but I was wondering if you could delay the Potions project submission by just an hour? I’m sure Slughorn wouldn’t mind. It’s just my entire team fell sick all at once, and Madam Pomfrey threw out everything they’ve touched in the past three days, including their reports. I know it's due 9 am but couldn’t you bend the rule a little, just this once? For me?”

You rubbed your forehead anxiously, an unpleasant expression on your face as you tried to follow whatever Jeeves was yammering about punctuality. When he moved on to the importance of personal accountability, you felt like you were going to combust if you didn’t shut him up soon.

“Y’know, Jeeves,” you interrupted with a dramatic sigh, dropping your voice, “just the other day I was thinking about that one Quidditch match you had played a couple of years back. Yes, that one game you subbed in for the Chaser? I have to say, you’re no slouch yourself out on the pitch. You sure look like you know your way around a broom. Yes, exactly, way better than those oafs on the team. I always thought it was a shame you didn’t make the cut - one hour. Yes, yes, that’s all I need. Thank you, thank you!”

You hung up, already feeling much more hopeful with the one-hour extension. All that was left to do was slave away for the rest of the night, and by morning you’d have a more than acceptable report ready.

“…what was that?”

You started, having nearly forgotten who was with you. “What was what?” You asked, half-distracted, once again absorbed in rearranging the layout of your Potions project.

“That, with the - ‘you look like you know your way around a broom?’ Really?”

You glanced at Theo, frowning. “Well, how do you get what you want?”

You turned your gaze back to the book splayed out in front of you, missing the brief look of longing that passed over Theo’s face. “Hmm. Bribery, mainly.”

“Right,” you said slowly, a hint of sarcasm in your tone underneath the flurry of activity. “That trust fund isn’t going to spend itself, now is it?”

“My trust fund doesn’t kick in ‘til I’m 25, tesoro.”

You wanted to kick yourself when your heart fluttered over the stupidly endearing pet name. You didn’t realise how much you missed it. “Oh, oh, of course. Mr. Moneybags here is just absolutely rolling in it even without his trust fund. How could I forget?”

“Mr. Moneybags? That’s the best you can come up with?”

You huffed without any real annoyance. You walked over to where Theo was lounging as he lazily watched you spin like a top between the bookshelves. He had the decency to sit up slightly as you approached and dumped the stack of papers into his lap.

“Look, Nott, I’m on a time crunch here. So either help me or get out.”

Theo looked up at you without a trace of mockery in his otherwise teasing blue eyes. You willed yourself to not look away. 

“Yes, ma'am.”

You made the mistake of holding his gaze. A beat passed, then two. It seemed that it was surprisingly impossible for either of you to look away. Finally, you snapped out of it, mentally giving yourself a good shake as you hurried out of his magnetic field back to the table. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have thought you were flirting with him.

“Wha -?”

“Toast. From breakfast.”

You glanced around the room bleary-eyed, seizing Theo’s wrist a little harder than necessary as you blinked the sleep out of your eyes. As much as you hated to admit it, last night had gone better than you could have ever hoped. It helped to have another pair of hands and a brain that was almost as good as yours. Unfortunately, you must have nodded off at some point, 

Cursing as you finally made out the time on his watch, you peeled off the piece of parchment stuck to your face and continued writing, even as every muscle in your palm protested. Theo rolled his eyes and stuck the toast in your mouth, which you mindlessly nibbled on for the next hour or so. 

When you were finally done, you stuck your group’s names on the cover page and the two of you hurried down to Slughorn’s office a little before 10 o clock. Jeeves, good man that he was, was still in. But your relief was short-lived.

Jeeves did an insufferably exaggerated impression of reading the time as you walked in. “It’s 2 past 10. I’m afraid I can’t accept your submission.”

This was it. You reached your limit. You weren’t running on what was at most 2 hours of sleep just for some self-important dimwit of a teaching assistant to refuse your submission.

You grabbed the collar of Jeeves’ shirt, manhandling him with hours' worth of frustration. “Listen here, Jeeves. You will accept my group’s submission if you want to walk out of here with every part of your anatomy intact. You will take these essays I have here and you will accept them graciously, Merlin help you if you don’t.”

“What happened to using your feminine wiles?” asked Theo, thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Yeah, well, now I’m more in the mood for a feminine ass-kicking. Jeeves, come on. ”

You only released him when Theo placed a calming hand on your wrist. He reached into his pocket, offering something to a very red-faced and highly affronted Jeeves.

“C’mon, Jeeves. Maybe we could make this more worth your while.”

You hesitated, torn. On the one hand, you were raised better than to bribe people or accept financial aid, especially when you didn’t really need it. On the other hand, this project was worth 40% of your grade and Jeeves was being a little bitch. 

Jeeves mulled over the coins in his palm, taking his sweet time appraising them. Just as it looked like he was about to ask for something a little more, you slammed a hand on his desk.

“Alright, fine, hand it over.”

Once you’d finally successfully submitted your project, the two of you walked out of Slughorn’s office in a daze. Without the stress of the impending deadline to act as a buffer between you, a certain awkwardness started to set in. Theo had his hands in his pockets, rubbing at a scuffed patch on the floor with his shoe.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you started, but he waved off your protests. Still, no one pulls an all-nighter for just about anyone.

“So how much did you give him?”

Theo sighed. “L/N.”

But you were already pulling out your coin purse. “It can’t have been more than what I have on me now.”

“Y/N.” You stopped counting out your coins. He was looking at you strangely, like he didn’t understand what he was doing either. “Forget it. Really.”

Reluctantly, you pocketed your coin purse. A hysterical sort of giddiness was starting to set in. “We did it.”

“You did it.”

Maybe it was the long night of endless writing or your grumbling stomach. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Or maybe it was the way he was looking at you now, with a smile so sincere like he was genuinely so proud of you. Whatever it was, you took a step towards him, and then another before throwing your arms around his neck.

It was a little less dignified than you would have hoped, what with you trembling with barely any sleep and the vestiges of caffeine-induced adrenaline and him having the audacity of being a whole head taller than you since sixth year. But he steadied you before you could tip back, his arms resting around your waist. You had never shaken hands, much less hugged each other, but something about it felt so warm, comforting, familiar. The feel of his solid body pressed against yours didn’t feel so terrible.

But as you pulled apart, you caught sight of his expression, and your face fell. He wasn’t smiling like you, not anymore. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out, immediately feeling like the biggest idiot in the world. He still wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look angry either. He looked - you couldn’t tell how he looked. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear almost regretfully, before turning to leave.

“Don’t.”

Theo paused. He didn’t turn to face you.

“Don’t do this, Nott. Don’t be cold. Don’t be distant.”

He adjusted the shoulder strap of his satchel. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was nervous. “I have Charms to get to.” He turned his head slightly but not enough to meet your gaze. “You should get a proper breakfast.”

And then he left, as if he had no idea what you were talking about. As if the last twelve hours hadn’t occurred. As if he hadn’t felt the void festering between you the past couple of weeks.

As if he didn’t care about you.

Part 3

[paranoiastudio]

His wife

pairing: Aemond х Tully!wife

warnings: 18+ smut, p in v, lactation kink, cream pie

word count: 1,7k

English is not my first language, sorry about mistakes

The rustling of ancient tome pages breaks the silence of the room, merging with the crackling of logs in the fireplace. Night has long since come into its own, but Aemond is in no hurry to go to sleep, studying chapter after chapter, practicing his High Valyrian. The dinner that the maid brought a few hours ago has already cooled and remained untouched.

A loud clap of thunder tears the prince from his thoughts and he belatedly realizes that it was the roar of Vhagar, hungry for flight. But even this noise did not prevent the Targaryen's sensitive hearing from catching something else. The door?

- I told you not to disturb me. - Without turning his head, Aemond returns to the book, bending even lower than before.

- Yes, I was told your words, but I thought that you would make an exception for me... Husband.

Your voice penetrates the prince's head like a sweet melody and he straightens up in his chair. Quiet footsteps are heard behind you, you came barefoot, probably just got out of bed, again not finding your husband nearby.

A light scent of cinnamon and lily fills the space around Aemond and he enjoys the elusive warmth that your presence gives him. His wife... His sweet wife, always so kind to him, always reasonable in public and burning with passion next to him. And only next to him.

- Will you allow me to stay here? - Aemond nods and you find yourself in the chair opposite, straightening out a large sleeping robe for your figure. The blue fabric was decorated with silver threads that formed silhouettes of large and small fish.

- The colors of your house suit you. - A white nightgown was visible from under the robe, the thin lace clung to your chest so seductively that the prince had to make an effort to look away.

- My home is now the Targaryen house. - You smile at each other. - Are you going to sleep tonight?

- It was in the plans. - Aemond shrugs and picks up another book.

- Sounds promising. - You roll your eyes and put your feet up on the chair, like a child. - We haven't been together for so long, since...

It's been half a year since your son was born, maternal cares have not left you, while Aemond was busy with state affairs and only occasionally saw you and your boy.

The maester recommended waiting with intimacy, you needed rest after a long and rather difficult birth. Every day, looking at yourself in the mirror, you could not help but regret your beauty, which now seemed to have faded.

You couldn't help but worry about your marriage: Aemond was so rarely around, and Aegon, on the contrary, hung around more than usual, throwing his barbed remarks at his brother.

- Do you still love me? - Aemond's violet eye immediately pierces you. - If you don't love me anymore, then just tell me not to expect what is not available to me.

Targaryen rises from his seat and kneels before you, clasping your small and cold palms in his large ones.

- No one will ever make me abandon you and you know it. I swore to love you and I love you, do you remember?

Even before the ceremony in the sept, Aemond swore to you, his bride, his love and fidelity. He himself chose you among all and never regretted his choice, it is unlikely that there was a more suitable woman.

- I remember, but...

- No "but", my love. - Aymond touches your hair, which falls in a thick cascade over your shoulders. - And I do not want to hear doubts.

You wanted to download something else, but the prince kisses you, as if deliberately cutting off the paths of retreat. You grab his beautiful face and kiss him back.

It was as if for the first time: Aymond kissed you with passion, pressing closer and closer, your lips seemed to tingle from the intensity of his closeness. His warm tongue slid into your mouth and any doubts in his words disappeared. He touched you as always, gently and lovingly.

You leaned back, the hard back of the chair did not allow you to fall, when Aymond, standing between your legs, opened the heavy robe. The nightgown, the object of his attention, hugged your tender body so beautifully, not hiding you from her husband's gaze. Aymond's gaze slides from the bottom up and immediately notices two wet spots on your chest, milk was still flowing.

- You are so beautiful... - Throwing your legs over his shoulders, Aemond rolls up your shirt to your waist and pulls you closer. - My beautiful, beloved wife.

A wet kiss to the epicenter of your arousal makes you shudder, you squeeze the wooden arms of the chair and slightly lift your hips. Aemond immediately grabs you under the buttocks and presses closer, burying his tongue in your swollen and needy clitoris.

Slowly, he runs two fingers along the wet folds and slightly stretches you, without stopping the movement of his tongue. You play with his blond hair and almost purr from the sensations, you did not hope for this in the morning.

- I will fill you again, dear wife. - Aemond moves his fingers faster, smirking at the squelching sound that your aching cunt makes. - If I could, I would stay inside you forever.

- Aymond, please... - His words spurred you on, your husband's praise always gave you confidence. - I...

- Cum for me, wife. - Aymond doesn't take his eyes off you, continuing to fuck you with his fingers and lazily swirl his tongue over you. - I'll catch you, my love...

Your eyes close on their own, as if a bucket of water had been poured over you: your breath caught, and your limbs were shackled by a sweet spasm. You involuntarily press yourself against your husband, not at all embarrassed by the fact that you are literally rubbing your wet, hot pussy against his face.

Aymond doesn't show any displeasure, he continues to caress you until you calm down in his arms. He doesn't miss the fact that your breasts continue to flow with milk and have almost completely wet your nightgown.

- You are amazing. - Aymond licks his lips and lifts himself up so that your faces are level, the fabric of his pants rubs against your still sensitive pussy and you gasp, pulling him closer. - My beloved. Mother of my child.

Aymond's hand slides along your thigh, feeling how you tremble, but you do not shy away from his hand, trustingly accepting the caress. Aymond cannot help but walk over his favorite places: your hair and shoulders, your plump and heavy with milk and desire breasts, your thin ankles.

- Please, husband, make me a mother again. - You move your hips, leaving wet spots on your spouse's clothes.

Aymond lowers his pants just enough to expose his already erect member. He is still kneeling in front of you and pulls you so that he can comfortably settle between your plush thighs.

You feel his heat, dripping onto Aemond's cock and taking it easily as he fills you in one smooth motion. It's so tight and hot inside that the prince freezes and closes his eyes, trying not to cum right then and there.

You whine and squirm beneath him, but Aemond doesn't move, watching you with a cheeky smirk. He always loved to see what desire did to his sweet, kind wife.

- Aemond, why are you... - You huff angrily, pushing your unruly hair out of your face. - Please, let me...

- You will have everything you want, my dear. In time... - Aemond runs a finger over your lips and you immediately grab him, sucking the finger into your mouth. - So needy...

- Kostilus... Kostilus, valzȳrys... - The words come out of your mouth surprisingly easily, you have long studied High Valyrian, wanting to communicate with your husband in the language of his ancestors.

You see the effect your words have on him: Aemond's healthy eye darkens even more, he licks his lips and falls to your breast, biting and kissing the tender flesh, still wet with milk.

His tongue collects the droplets and finds a hot, swollen nipple, absorbing the milk and easing the pain in you're full tits.

- Gods. - You pull your husband closer, running your fingers through his blond locks. - Aemond, please...

The prince pulls away from you and settles himself more comfortably, distributing his weight on his elbows. You grip his strong forearms and shift, taking him even deeper.

A rough growl escapes your husband's mouth, he catches a fast rhythm, filling you so perfectly that you were ready to cry with pleasure. A white ring gathered at the base of his cock, demonstrating your desire.

- My sweet wife. - The fact that Aemond could speak so smoothly amazed you. - My beautiful, sweet wife, the most beautiful woman in the world. Fuck!

Aemond penetrates especially deep and you close your eyes, feeling how he hits the right spot again and again, pushing you to the edge.

- Aemond, I... just a little more, kostilus... - Targaryen fucks you, the chair creaks under you and you fall over the edge when Aemond's thumb touches your clit.

- Yes, that's it, my girl, cum on my cock, show me how much you want me. - The grip on your hips tightens and you only accept what your husband gives you. Your pussy pulses along Targaryen's length, as if sucking all the seed out of him.

- I love you... - Your whisper does not go unnoticed, and Aemond cums, crushing your lips in a greedy kiss.

Sweat covers your body and your legs ache slightly from the awkward position, but the unique feeling of fullness and satisfaction overpowered all the inconveniences.

- Wait. - You stop your husband, not allowing him to leave your body. - Stay.

Aemond slowly softens inside you, feeling the fruits of your love flow out of you. Slipping out, he pushes his seed into you with his finger, catching your quiet sighs.

- Don't you dare think again that I don't love you. - Aemond grabs your chin and turns your face to him. - You are all I have and I will never, do you hear me, never betray you.

You wipe a drop of milk from your husband's chin and smile tenderly at him, accepting Aemond into your arms.

- And I love you, my dragon. - The warmth of this closeness calmed your heart, which had been gripped by fear for the past few months.

[honest-moth-of-silver-grove]

hc for adrian having a girlfriend or s/o prior to his mother's death. they're human and maybe her apprentince or something. and the church takes her too, but before they can burn her at the stake, dracula shows up and rescues her because he knows lisa was fond of her. during adrians and draculas fight maybe she interbenes at a critical moments so drac doesnt kill him and alucard gets away but she's now a prisoner of dracula w/n his castle. and maybe she befriends the generals?

A/N: Aw, man. Sometimes I wonder if Lisa did have an apprentice, that maybe Dracula wouldn’t be as anti-human as he ended up being, or if she could start to turn him to see the error of his ways sometime before Alucard and Dracula end up in Adrian’s childhood bedroom. 

Apologies for the delays in updates. But my brain went WILD with this request so it’s a long one, I hope that makes up for the less frequent posting. Anyway, I hope you enjoy these somewhat bittersweet (then depressing then bittersweet again) headcanons! (Also this is unbeta-ed and prob grammatically messy as hell, so read at your own expense lol.) 

Word Count: 6.2k 

TW: Canon Typical Descriptions of Graphic Violence; Brief Mentions of Sexual Violence; Canon Death; Descriptions of Torture (the church is high-key fucked up here)  

Adrian W/ A Human S/O Reader (Who’s Also Lisa’s Apprentice, Prior to Her Death):   

━━━━━ ❂ ━━━━━   

The Beginning:   

Okay, so let’s get one thing straight… FIRST OF ALL, Lisa would adore you!!! Like, you make her baby boy happy and you’re smart??? What else is there to it? And then to top it all off, you’re super sweet and kind and interested in learning about medicine and the world around you!   

Lisa meets you once over dinner and she’s already planning the wedding in her head.   

Adrian is smitten, because of course he is, but in an adorable, somewhat restrained way. He doesn't have a lot (ahem, ANY) experience in this department, so he’s hesitant to take things forward with you, mainly because he doesn’t want to scare you off or make you suspicious about what he is. (It’s hard to make out with someone when you have two big vampire fangs in the front.)   

Adrian is young, like you. So, on top of all the complications, he feels no need to rush things. Sure, he’s heard a few whispers here and there about Dracula having a son, a son who according to rumors and gossiping villagers is to rise as the antithesis of Dracula. It’s all silly superstition, but it does stay fixed in the back of his mind. What would this future legacy mean for his relationship with you? And, should it ever come to pass, would you even be a part of it?   

That’s neither here nor there though, and in the meantime, the two of you simply enjoy the talking phase. You get to learn more about each other's interests, and beliefs, but mostly, you spend time in proximity to one another— you remain busy attending to his mother, learning all you can about healing while he, just a table over, spends his time rereading one of his many favorite tomes.   

I honestly don’t see you meeting Dracula until you and Adrian are like a fully committed couple. I’m pretty sure you would have to have been Lisa’s apprentice for a while and/or lived with the Tepes in their Lupu cottage for months before Lisa finally breaks through Dracula’s protests and makes him officially meet you.   

I don’t think that meeting would happen in Lupu either. No, I imagine it would have to take place at Dracula’s castle, just in case you were to freak out, you’d have no way of escaping and telling any others.   

I can almost see your reaction being similar to Lisa’s upon first entering the castle, especially if Adrian is already at your side. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure Dracula is terrifying, but there’s also a giant telescope in the next room calling your name so….   

Much to Adrian’s relief, this newfound information doesn’t make you frightened of him at all, if anything, it simply reignites your fascination with him. You throw rapid-fire questions at him: If he's part vampire, how come you’ve seen him eating human food? Does he need both food and blood to satisfy each of his halves? If he needs blood, he could take some of yours you know…   

Your penchant for learning softens Dracula a little. For a brief time, he wonders if, perhaps, it was as Lisa said, that the humans could change, that humanity was changing for the better.   

He sits across from you at their grand dinner table, watching you intensely as you and Adrian talk about the recent literature you’ve read. You’d no doubt feel Dracula’s all-powerful gaze on you, making you turn to him and… Wait, did you just smile?!   

You’ve got guts, Dracula will give you that.   

Knowing the family secret, you can’t exactly break up with Adrian, nor do you have any desire to. I wonder if Dracula would have rings made for the two of you, maybe commission a new family portrait or two.   

You stay with Lisa in Lupu during Dracula's travels. Adrian is around, although he's always off between the castle and their cottage, so you never feel entirely alone or vulnerable. Your life is perfect! It’s better than you could have ever imagined!   

That is, until…   

━━━━━ ● ━━━━━   

The During:   

When the Church comes to take Lisa, you beg them to see reason. You cry and scream, hell, you even try to fight your way out at one point, only for both you and Dr. Tepes to be overpowered by the Church’s henchman.   

The two of you are taken, violently, to Targoviste, where you’re thrown into dark, damp cells with little to no light. Freezing, you huddle together for warmth, each trying your best to reassure the other, that all will turn out well. Adrian was still around, right? He’ll have to come home to find you missing, he’ll come and rescue you. And Dracula was due to return soon, correct? Surely, they’ll come. Surely, they’ll stop this madness.   

It’s a few days later, after hours of interrogation and brutal torture that you realize with a heavy heart, that no one is coming to rescue you. And what’s worse, that these so-called men of the cloth cannot and will not listen to reason. You’re starved and beaten, your hair is sliced off so close to your skin, that they take bits of your scalp with it in some places. And despite initially being imprisoned with Lisa, you find yourself being separated from her for longer periods.   

The men try everything to get you to turn on her. They tell you if you recant her wicked ways now, say she used her evil magic to trick you, your sentencing will be easier. You could still live— they dangle betrayal in front of you as a last lifeline. You don’t take it of course. You love Mrs. Tepes, and you know she’s no witch. You muster what little might you have left, spitting at the men as you tell them to go to hell. You swear she’s innocent, that she knows nothing. Hell, at one point, you find yourself confessing to having manipulated her! You don’t think they buy it though, if the poor doctor’s screams from down the hall are anything to go by.   

The night they light the pyre, the night of Lisa’s murder, you’re sick on more than one occasion. You scream your throat raw, begging them to burn you first! That she was innocent! That you corrupted her! That it was all your doing! But to no avail.   

In a scene that could only rival the Crucifixion of Christ himself, you look up through tear-soaked eyes to see Lisa, enshrouded in flames, begging Dracula to show mercy on her killers, to forgive them, that they know not what they do. “I know it's not your fault,” she cries out, “But, if you can hear me, they don't know what they're doing! Be better than them. Please!”   

You sob and wail, watching as your would-be mother-in-law is burned alive. You scream out for someone, anyone! To please help you, save you! With Lisa’s last words echoing in your mind, you can’t help but fear Adrian’s and his Father’s reactions, should they find you both killed.

Oh, gods…   

You don’t know what makes you feel sicker… The barbaric display you’re witnessing now or the hypothetical one that threatens to wipe out all living people in Wallachia once Dracula learns of what’s happened. You need not wait long for an answer.   

In a fury of fire and grandeur, Dracula’s head appears, molded in flame, demanding to know what has happened to his wife. You cry out to him, apologizing profusely, saying you begged them to burn you first! You scream out how they refused to see reason, they killed her for helping! Injudiciously, in your indignant anger, you plead with Dracula to release his fury on the priests who did this, to send them to hell to be tortured for eternity for this unforgivable transgression!   

With the silent fury of a gathering storm, Dracula’s fiery visage speaks calmly as his anger grows concertedly less. "I give you one year Wallachians,” he finally decides. “You have one year to make your peace and remove any marks you have made upon the land. One year, and I'll wipe all human life from the land of Wallachia. You took that which I love, so I will take from you everything you have and everything you have ever been. One year."   

No sooner than he spits out the words, a coil of fire bursts from his image, winding itself around your body. The guards surrounding you gasp and flee, avoiding the coil’s tail as it whips back and forth, hoisting you into the air.   

The fiery coil burns your skin, and the smell of even more burnt flesh makes you gag. If you had any bile left over at all, you’re certain it’d come up yet again. The pain is like a thousand stinging nettles and boiling water constricting your arms and midriff all at once. Your vision grows blurry as you feel your body move through the air, your nostrils taking in one last wretched breath of sulfur and smoke.   

━━━━━ ◉ ━━━━━   

The After — Part One:   

When you awake you find yourself laid, practically bare, a heap on the floor within Dracula’s castle— the evil Lord himself only feet away, raging over his magic well— as shards of his magic mirror whip around him at incredible speeds. Your head is pounding, it feels as if it might explode, and your arms… Fuck.   

Where the supernatural coil grabbed you, your skin was red and raw, small pockets of blisters already beginning to form. Your arms tremble uncontrollably as you try to move them, the pain that’s consuming your nerves is far too intense to hold them steady as you sit up into an upright position.   

It doesn’t feel real; nothing feels real. It feels like a nightmare. It had all been perfect, everything was perfect— you all were happy! How did it turn into such horror so fast?   

Shakily, you rise to your feet and clutch the remains of your clothes to your chest in an attempt to preserve your modesty, although it’s more of a subconscious act on your part. Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion, yourself included. It’s like the air is heavier here somehow, its weight filling your lungs and weighing you down.   

A loud noise shocks you back to the present, nearly making you stumble over in fright. At least you would have, had Adrian not used his superspeed to catch you before you fell. One of his gloved hands grasps your left arm directly over the burn, causing you to let out a hiss. His rectangular eyes look wider than you’ve ever seen as he releases his grip, looking over your battered form.   

“(Y/N) ...” Adrian says, his voice serious and quiet, barely a whisper.   

You shake your head furiously, unable to trust your ability to speak without breaking. Upon Adrian’s gentle insistence, you feel your mouth opening, and the words slipping out, scraping against the back of your reddened throat as they exit your frail body.   

“They killed her, Adrian…” you whisper, your voice quivering. “I, we tried to stop them, they just wouldn’t listen!” Somehow, your eyes begin to water again, despite your earlier certainty that your body had no water nor tears left in it at all.   

“Once she realized they wouldn't listen to reason, she lied and told them I was innocent. She told them she had manipulated me, that I was just a child, that I didn’t know what I was doing, that she never got the chance to teach me!” A feeling of guilt consumes you as you speak the words aloud, and soon enough, your body is once again plagued by uncontrollable sobs.   

Adrian listens intently to your words, his brows furrowed. You watch through teary eyes as a range of emotions flash across his face: anger, hurt, pain, sorrow, and finally… acceptance. Your beloved hardens his gaze, choking down whatever grief he may be feeling. At the present, Adrian knows, there are more pressing matters at hand.   

You follow Adrian’s steely gaze back, seeing his Father where he is bent over his summoning circle, cursing in a language that is foreign to you before he switches back to Romanian.   

“One year! It will take me one year to summon an army from the guts of Hell itself!” Dracula proclaims, promising to enact vengeance for the death of his love.   

“No.” Adrian counters, slipping out of your grasp.   

“Adrian,” you whisper, warningly. “Don’t—”   

“What do you mean, ‘no’? That woman was the only reason on Earth for me to tolerate human life!”  Dracula retaliates, enraged his son could even conceive of such lenience.   

“Then find the one who did the deed,” Alucard proposes. “If you set loose an army of the night on Wallachia, you cannot undo it, and many thousands of people just as innocent as her will suffer and die.”   

“There are no innocents! Not anymore! Any one of them could have stood up and said, ‘No, we won't behave like animals anymore.’"   

“(Y/N) did.” Adrian points out. “She tried to take all the blame, in an attempt to save Mother’s life.”   

Dracula looks over at you with blood-red eyes, contempt clear on his face. “And yet,” he snarls, “Here she stands, and my Wife, your Mother does not!” He hisses the last word, livid that out of the two of you, you were the one who survived.   

With large, fearful eyes, you watch as Adrian closes the gap between him and his Father.   

“I won't let you do it. I grieve with you, but I won't let you commit genocide.”   

“Adrian,” you warn again.   

The next bit happened all so quickly.   

Faster than you could blink, you watch, helpless, frozen in horror as Adrian charges his father, his longsword drawn. Despite their vampiric speed being unrecognizable to the untrained human eye, you swear you watch the scene unfold in slow motion. Adrian charges first, but Dracula, roaring in a fit of rage, counters faster— his Father’s elongated claws slash diagonally across Adrian’s chest, before his fist pauses, still embedded deep within your lover’s gut.   

You don’t have time to think before you act. To you, Adrian has the abilities of a god, but to his Father… It was clear there’d be no match. You have no clue how you got your hands on it, no idea as to how you even managed a successful hit, but the next thing you know, a triangular shard of magic mirror is impaled in Great Lord Dracula’s back, put there by your very hand.   

Too terrified to even breathe, the only sound you can hear beyond your racing pulse is a wet, gory squelch as Dracula retracts his claws from Adrian’s body. You hear the spray of blood before you see it, a rush of bright red blood gushes onto the marble floor between Dracula and his son.   

Standing at his impressive full height, Dracula turns ever so slowly, ever so menacingly, to face you. His pupils are that of a blood moon, his sclera so bloodshot they practically look as black as night. In that second, you know you’ve fucked up.   

You cower as Dracula raises one hand to you, instinctively shielding your neck from his nasty bloodied talons. With surprisingly repressed strength, Dracula backhands you, the force sending you flying backward, smashing into the base of one of the curved bookshelves lining the walls of his summoning room.   

With his focus still on you, Dracula stalks toward you. Knowing it’s now or never, you scream at Adrian to flee. “Run!” The words rip out of your raw throat, sounding like an eleventh commandment.   

You see Adrian, previously stunned by his Father’s disregard for his life, holding together the gaping wound across his chest. He has no time to even spare you, his beloved, a last look before evaporating into clouds, his cloud of bloodied mist bolting for the door, fleeing as fast as his injured state would allow him.   

Dracula only turns to watch as his son, his very possibly fatally wounded son, flees the confines of his castle. For a moment it is silent— only the sound of both yours and Dracula’s heaving breaths echo across the chamber.   

Clenching his clawed fingers into a fist, Dracula says nothing as he too makes his way to the castle doors, leaving your bruised and broken body alone in the dark.   

━━━━━ ❍ ━━━━━   

The After — Part Two:   

Somehow, Christ only knows, you find your way to one of Lisa’s old labs and do a half-assed job of patching yourself up. You find your burns and dislocated shoulder to be the most painful of injuries.    

Thankfully, Lisa had taught you enough about setting a patient’s shoulder that you managed to smash it into an adjacent wall, popping your joint back in yourself. The burns you wrap in honey and milk-soaked linen gauze, wincing every time the bandages brush against your skin. It’s awful work, slow work too, but you must have managed it alright because you find yourself patched up and passed out in one of the castle’s kitchens a few hours (or days? had it been days?) after that.   

You eat raw vegetables and berries— nothing that requires cooking. Lord knows you couldn't prepare anything successfully now even if you were to try. Eating your foraged meal in silence you debate your next steps. Do you go back home? Would your family even welcome you home after your long and unexplained absence? And if they, along with all the humans in Wallachia were ultimately to be driven from the land, did it matter anyway?   

‘Oh god,’ you think. You have to warn them, have to make them flee before a year is up. But where would you go? Where could you go? Greater Styria was a possibility, although it was not by any means an easy journey, and the climate there was much colder than your folks were used to here. You shakily rise to your feet and set out to find a map within one of the Castle’s many libraries.   

After a good night’s rest, you find your mindset with a newfound determination: you will go home. You were going to get your family on the move and then… Then, you’d come back here.   

You knew, in all likelihood, that returning to Dracula’s castle after the fact entailed certain death. But you also knew, things would get worse if he were to be left alone.   

Dracula may not have ever loved you for a daughter-in-law. Hell, he may not have ever loved anyone aside from Mrs. Tepes, but you promised her while huddling together that first night in those dingy cells that no matter what happened, should either of you get out alive, you would not leave Adrian and Vlad. “They need humans, (Y/N),” Lisa coughed into your ear. “And most importantly, humanity needs them.”   

Dracula would resent your company, he would want to be rid of you. But you could not be rid of him, not after what Lisa had asked of you.   

‘Besides,’ you thought, ‘Nobody should have to grieve alone.’   

The journey back home to your parents is majorly uneventful. Sure, it was touch and go for a while, your body was exhausted after the ordeal you endured, and your wounds had gotten infected once or twice. Thankfully, you had the mind to pack with you any potential treatments you might need.   

It felt good to be home, to be amongst family again. You couldn’t stop crying and hugging everyone when you first arrived. You kept the details to a minimum but made it clear they needed to be the hell out of Wallachia before a year. You told them you had found an apprenticeship, that the woman was kind to you, but while in Targoviste, you saw the burning of a witch, and soon after the face of Satan himself appeared in flames, threatening the crowd. It caused a panic, you see, and you had gotten trampled in the process.   

You didn’t bother to explain that the woman you were learning under was this so-called witch and that this Satanic figure was her husband. Nor did you tell them of your half-inhuman partner. You knew had you told the family the whole truth, they might have cast you out as a devil worshiper and a liar and choose not to heed your words.   

Your warnings spread through your extended family like how ivy creeps up a stone wall. A fair part of your relatives in the country believed you enough to agree to uproot their lives and settle outside of Wallachia: some settled on Syria, others had decided on Greece, Egypt, or Rome. The more skeptical ones who hemmed and hawed over the validity of your claims agreed to move into the countryside, a decent distance from any major Wallachian city or village.   

When you were certain they’d heed your words, you told them you could not stay with them, your Mother wept for three straight days and your Father could do little to console her. As much as it broke your family’s heart, you knew that your need to return to Castlevania was larger than yours. You weren't just doing it for your family, you were doing it for every family across the land. You couldn't be selfish. Mrs. Tepes was the most selfless woman you had met, and she taught you well. If you meant what you said to her when you first met, that you wanted to help people, you would need to buck up and accept the consequences of that.   

Your journey back to the castle was much more melancholy than your journey home. You could almost feel the whispers of the tortured souls Dracula had slain before blowing cold air into your ears, begging you to turn back. Nevertheless, you continued. You entered Castlevania to find you were alone, however, that would not be the case for long.   

Months later you had fallen into somewhat of a predictable routine within the castle and its new occupants. Dracula had recruited two humans to serve as his war planners— men by the names of Hector and Isaac, respectively. You appreciate the levity Hector, and his undead pets bring, and you admire the intelligence and loyalty Isaac has. You just wish they weren’t going along with Dracula’s plan.   

You tread carefully as you find the time to express to each of his Generals that you wish they wouldn’t go through with this plan. You explain humans are not the kind of species to give in to subjugation, they will revolt eventually. You suggest the vampires come up with some sort of tit-for-tat system with the humans instead like, for example, promised blood servants would equal vampiric protection for that territory.  

It’s safe to say no one is impressed with your centrist ideals, so eventually stop taking part in the conversation. You silently hang around Hector, and just listen with a sorrowful expression, satisfied with knowing that if you can’t change the Generals' minds, you can, at the very least, make them somewhat uncomfortable.  

When Carmilla arrives, you’re immediately put off by her little display of insolence. Unlike yours, her dissent doesn’t seem to come from a place of concern. You make a mental note to keep an eye on her.  

It’s during the General's next argument that you receive a ray of hope: “We are quite certain that Alucard sleeps at Gresit.”  

You feel your body grow lighter.  

“So, that means,” you speak aloud to yourself more so to anyone else, “Adrian is alive?”  

You’re met with a handful of annoyed glares from the other vampires as Isaac continues: “And that there was recently a Belmont there.”  

Upon hearing Carmilla berate the others for not sending night creatures to the ancestral Belmont home, your smile falls and your improved mood falters. These Belmonts were famous monster hunters, famous enough to frighten your current vampire company. That means, if there was a Belmont in Gresit, at the same time as Adrian, as Alucard, whatever the hell he’s going by these days, it could prove disastrous for your love. For all you know, he’s still recovering from the wounds dealt to him by his Father. And if this Belmont, this monster hunter strikes first and asks questions later, he may accidentally kill the only living vampire in existence who stands against the very nature of this war.  

‘How ironic,’ you think solemnly. Just as fast as the universe gives you hope, it rips it away once more.  

You excuse yourself, and make your way towards Hector’s forge, aiming to distract your distraught mind with some cute reanimated pets.  

Shortly thereafter, Hector joins you. He asks if you truly did not know Dracula’s son was still alive. You shake your head ‘no’, telling him how you had prayed every past night to any God who would listen, that they would send their holy armies and angels to guard him, but no, you had mostly just feared he was dead.  

You spend the rest of the night talking to Hector about Alucard, Adrian as you knew him. How smart he was, how much the two of you used to laugh, and how much he looked just like his Mother.  

“Perhaps that’s why,” Hector supposes, “Dracula could no longer bear to see him.”  

You say perchance he’s right, conveniently leaving out the part where the Father and Son duo almost fought to the death right in front of you.  

The conversation with Hector reignites something within you. You feel as if you had been praying all this time for an answer, and this was it. Alucard was alive, and so was Belmont. You understand now what needs to be done.  

Your lover must once again fight his Father, and this time, he must win.  

Your silent observations allow you to learn of Carmilla’s scheme fairly early on, as well as Godbrand’s demise at the hands of Isaac, yet all that time, you say nothing. You keep your mouth shut and your eyes down. If Carmilla divides Dracula’s army and court, she will inevitably make it easier for Alucard and Belmont to destroy him.  

The Generals, and even Dracula himself, believe you are mourning the loss of your love for the second time, as his demise will be inevitable the moment he meets his Father and his armies— or at least, that’s what they assume.  

When Carmilla has Hector send special night creatures to the remains of the Belmont home, you attach a letter around one of the creature's necks, hoping your love will notice it, and if he doesn’t, you pray he instinctively outwits the traps that await for him within his Father’s castle.  

━━━━━ ❂ ━━━━━   

Beginning Again:   

The night Dracula chooses to move the Castle to Braila, you manage to speak with him one last time.  

You bring him some tea, even though you know he won’t drink it, and you tell him, for what must be the hundredth time, how sorry you are about all that’s happened. You apologize for not being able to do more to save his wife. You tell him that if you could do it all over again if you were given a choice between who they should burn first, you’d demand it be you.  

Dracula turns away from the fire to look at you upon hearing those words.  

“She was fond of you, you know.” He says, sounding far away as if lost in a distant memory. “She was overjoyed at the thought of gaining a daughter”  

You nodded along a hurt smile on your face. “It was my honor.” Gathering your courage you continued: “Even though it didn’t work out, I want you to know I loved your wife very much… And,” you kept going. “I love your son very much.”  

Dracula said nothing. He simply turned his attention back to the flames within his study’s fireplace.  

“It’s not too late, you know,” you prod gently. “If Adrian is alive, he could still come back, we could still be a family-”  

“No!” Dracula’s low growl sent shivers down your spine.  

For a moment you feared he would rise to attack you or perhaps berate you further, but no such action came. Instead, the former Great Lord Dracula’s shoulders deflated back to their hunched position, as he fell silent once again.  

Quietly, you made your way back to your room, shutting and locking the door behind you. If you had any tears left at all, you would have shed them throughout the night. Instead, you merely lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if there would even be a tomorrow to awaken to.  

Pleased to still be alive at this point, but feeling increasingly suffocated by this overwhelming sense of doom, you spend the next day cooped up in your room, on your knees, the rosary in your hand, whispering prayers of safety for your loved one. You couldn't explain it, but at the time, you felt compelled to recite prayer after prayer and reveal all the fears and worries in your heart.  

You speak out to Death, to God, to all the angels and saints, and beg them to grant Adrian safe passage as he completes his task of saving humanity— it’s something his Mother would have wanted after all.  

Amidst your fervent prayers, you feel the Castle shake and creak, but you soon realize something is off: it keeps jerking from side to side, several times, way too many to be a case of a single relocation. Your heart races, and in the pit of your gut, you know this is it:

The Alucard has come.  

Your love has come back for you.  

You scramble behind the door, poised with a wooden stake in hand (just in case, you never know), and wait.  

And wait.  

And wait.  

Following a crescendo of metallic crashes and screaming, you hear more crashes, this time lesser in intensity and they’re accompanied by the distinct scent of fire, sulfur, and burnt flesh.  

It terrifies you, bringing such horrible memories of your almost demise to the surface. You look down at the burn scars on your arms and feel physically ill. Every time you shut your eyes to blink, you see the corpse of Ms. Tepes, burning alive right before you as if no time has passed at all, as if you’re trapped in the permanent hell of that memory.  

The overwhelming ornery atmosphere in the castle only grows, seeming to suddenly flood your nostrils and every pore.  

You watch in shock and horror as thousands of soot-colored transparent ghouls burst through your doorway, the shock of the impact sending you reeling into the bed. Tortured faces of all shapes and sizes circle you menacingly, before bursting through your room’s glass window, vanishing just as fast as they came.  

Within an instant you feel… lighter, freer almost. It’s as if something major has changed, but you don’t know what.  

Timidly, stake still in hand, you make your way down the castle corridors. Unfortunately, you have to take several detours, your regular route being cut off by giant holes in the architecture. A good portion of the castle looks like it had been hit with cannon fire.  

You sincerely hope that whatever caused that damage is no longer rampaging around these halls, lest you stumble upon them yourself.  

By the time you reach the throne room, the sun is just peeking out from behind the horizon. The sight of it flowing freely into the castle interior lifts your spirits with hope. Sunlight means no vampires. No vampires means…

You follow the originating path of the sun’s beams, finding three figures illustrated against the sunrise. One of them is a burly-looking man, with a large frame and broad shoulders. Another is a woman, at least, you’re fairly certain they’re a woman, with curly hair, dressed in flowing blue robes. And the third is….  

You don’t even need a second glance to know who the third person is.  

Crying out his name, you run towards your long-lost lover, almost losing your footing over all the debris covering the floor. But just as he would before, and just as he always would, your lover, Adrian, catches you before you can fall.  

The two of you cling to each other for dear life, just silently sobbing, feeling grateful to be in one another’s embrace. You’re not sure how long the two of you stay intertwined like that, you just know however long it was, it could never be enough to make up for how much you missed him this past year.  

“Adrian,” you clutch his coat, “I thought you were dead! I thought he had killed you! I was so worried.”  

“He almost did,” the strange broad-shoulder man reveals in a teasing fashion. You watch as the robed woman elbows him in the gut.  

“Alucard,” Adrian says, regaining your attention as he grasps your hands in his. “I am Alucard now.”  

You look into his golden eyes, sensing while this is still very much the body of the man you loved, this Alucard before you, is not the same person that your Adrian was. After all this time, it feels like quite the loss, and yet, you cannot fault him for it. You are unaware of the journey he’s been on, of the sacrifices he’s had to make. God knows your character must have changed as well, living amongst a vampire court and necromancers for just under a year.  

You back away from your love, temporarily ignoring his concerned expression.  

“Hello Alucard,” you say, extending a hand, “My name is (Y/N). And I’d very much like to share a drink with you if you’d let me.”  

“Don’ know about Alucard,” the broad man mumbles, gripping his side in pain, “But I’d very much like a drink. Or five.”  

“Trevor!” The robed woman scolds.  

“What?”  

You smile at the three of them, feeling beyond blessed that your love has found such wonderful new friends.  

When you had first fallen for Adrian, you assumed your family would consist solely of him, his mother, and his father, that you’d spend the rest of your days learning medicine in a little cottage nestled in Lupu. That simple life was to be yours. But now, it’s all changed. And Alucard is all that remains of that family you once loved.  

You gaze out into the forest beyond the castle grounds, closing your eyes and sighing as you feel the morning’s sun on your face.  

Yes, it was true Mrs. and Mr. Tepes were gone.

It was true that the old Adrian could never come back.

But if you had to choose a new life, a life here amongst a gorgeous castle, with your former lover and his two new friends, well… you doubted you could pick a better one than that.  

A/N 2.0: WHY DID THIS TAKE ME SO LOOOONG? Who knows? Anyway, it’s here now. And hey— did you pay close attention to the symbols in the dividers? Go ahead and look back if you didn’t, just a silly little fun symbolism storytelling. Oh, also, I will finally be updating The Queue List to reflect all the asks I’ve since answered and posted to not confuse people checking on the status of their ask/new readers.

If you liked reading this, please REBLOG! Likes are great but reblogs spread my work much further. 

If you really, really liked reading this, Consider Buying Me a Coffee <3. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Cut Deep

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, violence, bullying, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Bad news brings the worst out in Logan. [reader is a mutant who can see emotions]

Characters: Logan Howlett (Wolverine)

Note: since this is my first time writing this character, I'd especially appreciate some extra feedback

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

“So, me and Scott just wanted to let everyone know we chose a date!” Jean is ecstatic. You can feel her happiness radiating from her. Despite how often you try to block those vibrations out, hers are so strong, you can’t. “And we’ll send out the invitations soon. Be sure to RSVP! And we know you all can make it because it will be right here at the mansion.” 

She beams as Scott drapes his arm around her shoulders. They are such a cute couple. Perfect. Everyone on the team loves them. Well, everyone except for the one person roiling with black clouds of spite. 

You glance over at Logan as he stews by the door. He stands with his burly arms crossed, his biceps straining in his leather jacket. He glares at the happy couple and curls his lip. Everyone also knows that he has a rotten infatuation with Jean, too. You feel bad for him really. 

He catches you staring before you can tear your eyes away. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes. You quickly look away and swallow. You get up and go to Jean and Scott. 

“Congrats, guys,” you smile, “let me know if you need any help with planning.” 

“Thank you. Of course,” Jean smiles as Scott echoes her. 

You make room for another well-wisher and back away, basking in the good energy all around. Well, mostly. You feel Logan steaming still but you refuse to look at him. You know how he gets when he’s upset. You don’t need to be able to see into his mind to know he’s pissed off. 

As the room converges on the happily engaged couple, you opt to leave before the noise can get too much. You’re always a bit more sensitive with the extra effort of trying to block out the sounds that you don’t want to hear. It’s like a buzz on the other side of a wall. If the door cracks open, it will all blast in like a sonic wave. 

You go into the library and reclaim the book you set left carelessly open on a leather armrest. It’s a history of mutants written in the 1700s. A secret tome Professor Xavier collected among his endless search for compatriots, both past and present. 

Some you know from the history taught in schools for non-mutants. Like the queen accused of witchcraft or the countless people executed for the very same. Emperors who’s legacies are chalked up to folktale and superstition over the reality of their beings.  

You sit up as you sense the shift in the air. That greyness seeps in before the door opens. You know who it is already yet you’re surprised to see him enter. Logan scowls as his eyes pinpoint at you. His rage continues to burn hotter and hotter. 

“Oh, hi,” you close the book, “sorry, did you need the library--” 

“I need you to stop tryna poke around in my head,” he growls. 

You flinch as you stand slowly, “I... I don’t do that. Those are the rules. I stay in my own.” 

“I saw you staring,” he accuses. 

“I just looked. I could... feel. That I can’t control,” you explain. “Sorry.” 

“Feel what? Huh? What do you think you know?” 

You clear your throat and shake your head. “Nothing, I don’t know anything.” 

“Damn right, you know shit all, little girl,” he stomps over to you. 

You gulp as you stare back at him. Logan, Wolverine, X-Man. He’s one of the most admired and well-known mutants alive but that’s all you know of him. You’ve seen him hundreds of times in the mansion, but only in passing. He never wanted to talk to you, only Jean. As far as you knew, he didn’t even know you existed. 

“That’s correct,” you agree. 

You peek down at the book in your hand. You should put it back. You sniff but as you go to turn, he rips you back by your upper arm. His grip is steel. You face him and wince as he squeezes enough to make your bones ache. 

“You think I’m what? Some pathetic creature that’s slathering over another guy’s girl?” He barks. 

You shake your head, “nope. No. I wouldn’t... know.” 

“You fucking wouldn’t,” he grits, his fingertips pushing into your tender arm. You let out a squeak. “Me? What about you? Always around. Riding her fucking coat tails. All for what? Cause you can tell when I’m having a bad fucking day. Every day is fucking bad.” 

You stare at him. A vein bulges in his forehead, another in his neck, and he’s slightly red with his fury. You don’t understand why he’s mad at you. Well, people often don’t aim their emotions in the right direction. Often, there’s too much for them to feel and it just spills over.  

Logan’s aura deepens to a thick black. Darker and bolder than anything you’ve ever witnessed. It tendrils around you as you squirm. You clasp onto the book and try to wiggle free as the blood throbs in your arm. 

“Ouch. Please, let me go. I wasn’t meaning to--” 

“You’re never going to be her. You know that? You won’t even be an X-Man. You’re just one of Charles’ pets.” He reaches for the book and rips it from your hand. “He keeps you in your birdcage and you flutter around and read these stupid things.” 

He tosses the book onto the floor and steps closer. You step back and whine. He keeps on until you’re against a shelf. 

“You’ll never be her and I’ll never have her,” he grits out. “So, we’ll compromise.” He grabs your neck and you writhe and whimper. “What do you feel now, huh?” 

A wisp of red tinges the black fog unfurling from his broad shoulders. More anger but something more. Lust. Love is a delicate pink or a pale purple, but lust is a deep and lurid crimson. Mixed with his rage, it is something more. It’s a tainted hue. 

“I can pretend. You should try to do the same.” 

“Please,” you press your hands against his stomach. 

“Don’t try that shit,” he drags his other hand down your arm and puts his knuckles to your side. He lets his claws out just enough to jab you. “You can’t get in my head. Professor made well sure of that.” 

You squeak and shake your head, “I wouldn’t-- Logan, please--” 

“Shut your damn mouth and pull your pants down. I ain’t got all day,” he snarls. 

“What?” You bat your eyes as they glisten. “No, no, what are you--” 

His claws poke you again, easily piercing your shirt and scratching your skin. You lean back into the shelf as you peel your hands away from him. He glowers at you as he releases your neck. He crowds you in as you wait just a moment longer, hoping, wishing he would go. 

You lower your hands cautiously. You drop your gaze, humiliated. You shake as you hook your thumbs under your waistband and push your leggings down. You gulp as your eyes tingle. 

He grabs your shoulder and spins you to face the shelf. You let out an oomph as you catch yourself against the books. He trails up to the back of your neck and pinches. You squeal into a sob. Your disbelief bubbles to horror. You brace the wood as he yanks on your panties. 

“Fucking girl,” he mutters. “Lookin’ at me... what d’ya fucking know?” 

“Logan--” 

“Stop saying my goddamn name.” He shoves your head so it hits a shelf and you groan. Ouch. 

You close your eyes and lean your forehead on the wood. Jean says you need to breathe. Centre yourself. It’s hard when you’re terrified. 

You inhale, taking in his emotion, his anger, even a tinge of that other desire that drives him so slap your ass. He digs in his nails as you babble. You gather the black cloud and blow it out. 

He hisses and recoils as it ripples off of you like fire. He growls and as you go to turn, he sweeps your feet out from under you. You flail as you fall, landing on your elbow so it throbs. You whine and roll onto your stomach. You drag yourself over the floor as he clutches his head and snarls. 

“I told ya not to try anything,” he barks. 

“Please, please, I didn’t do anything.” 

He steps over you and falls to his knees. He straddles you as you claw at the floor, pushing your toes down as you try to escape him. He swats the back of your head so hard your vision blurs. His anger darkness the room and disorients you. 

You’ve never felt anything so intense and you feel everything. Love, joy, pain, grief, confusion... fear. His anger strangles you as he forces your head down to the floor, leaning his weight on his head as he pins you. 

He raises himself on his knees and shifts. You kick out, thrashing your arms. You open and close your hands and clamp shut your eyes. You can do it. Take his anger in-- 

You scream as you’re scalded by the corrupt energy pouring from him. No, it’s too much. You’re not ready. All that training and you’re still weak. 

You murmur at the floor, “no, no, please, no...” 

He traces his hand down your ass and forces his fingers between your thighs. He feels around roughly, scratching your as he flicks along your dry folds. You gulp and heave. Your tears swell in an unstoppable flow. 

You slap your hands on the floor and tense as he prods around, dipping a thick digit into your cunt with a grunt. Your legs distend and you push your toes down. He delves, in, out, deeper, harder, smashing into you. 

He rips his hand away and you whine again. He leans over you, his hand stretching across your skull entirely. You can feel his strength in your neck. He bends, hot breath scalding your scalp with the flames of his wrath. 

You weep as he brings his tip along your flesh and guides it around blindly. He puts more weight onto your head as he stretches you around his tip. You shriek and jut your arm out straight, the edge of the rug curling in your grasp. 

“Help, someone! Help--” 

He grabs your head with both hands and slams it into the floor. The reverberating impact fractures your voice and thoughts. He rams his hips down and impales you around his thick cock. You murmur as spittle leaks from your mouth and tears continue to smear your face. 

He thrusts, holding himself at his limit and well past yours. He grips your skull tighter and tighter with each tilt. He huffs and puffs, growling and groaning as he tears you up from the inside. 

Finally, he releases your head. The metallic shink of his claws cuts through the delirium of physical and mental anguish. The pain in your bones can’t compare to the dagger of his anger piercing through your soul. 

He stabs his claws into the floor on either side of your neck. The adamantium grazes your skin, keeping you still for fear of cutting deeper. You wheeze and go rigid as he rears back and slams down harder and harder. His flesh clasp louder with each cruel descent. 

The black cloud creeps over the floor like heavy fog. It crawls up the walls as a glimmer of red weaves through it. He ruts deeper and deeper, the motion jarring you so that his claws scrape away the skin at your neck. 

He bends over you, curling his shoulders as you feel him tense. He exhales as the blackness covers the ceiling and casts you into shadow. You reach to grasp at his claws, slicing your palms helplessly as you cling on. 

He thrusts until you feel him in your guts. Once, twice, several time with all the hatred he can summon. He growls and trembles as he spills into you, a heat hotter than even his boiling rage.  

Your hands slip from his claws and you spread your bloodied palms on the carpet. You quake in horrified sobs. He buries himself as he lays his entire weight over you limply. He puffs as he dislodged the metal from the floor.  

He hangs his head next to yours and sneers, “it shouldn’t be him, Jean.” 

You hold your breath. You can’t speak or move for fear of reminding him what he’s just done. Or worse, reigniting his assault. 

He groans and slides out, flipping off of you to sit on his ass. He rests his arms on his bent knees and sighs. You watch the black haze dim to a dull grey. He’s still angry but he can contain it. The storm has calmed but it's far from over.

[shanastoryteller]

Happy love day Shana! Could I ask you for either WWX and Jiang Yanli run away or for the AU where John never goes missing and Sam stays at Stanford and he and Jess get married and then Jess calls Dean and John when Sam goes missing (from this post: https://www.tumblr.com/shanastoryteller/766664341635448832/au-where-john-doesnt-go-missing-dean-never-gets) ? It's too hard to pick between those, they're both so good!!

a continuation of 1

Dean's just getting off from a salt and burn when he gets a call from an unknown number and almost doesn’t answer it. He needs bed and a shower and not in that order, but you can never know in this profession, so he rubs a hand over his face and says, “Hey.”

There’s a girl and she’s crying and that’s already waking him up when she says, “Dean?”

“That’s me, sweetheart,” he says, not recognizing her voice. He’ll figure out how she got his number later. “You okay?”

She takes a steadying breath. “Sam’s in trouble and I need your help.”

His blood goes cold. Sam. His little brother who he hasn’t spoken to in five years.

She won’t get into specifics, only gives him an address in San Francisco and tells him to get there as fast as he can. He curses down the line and she just hangs up on him. He almost calls her back, but he figures the fastest way to get some answers is to get his ass over there like she told him too.

But first, he has to call Dad.

John not the most reliable form of backup, Dean’s been hunting mostly on his own for years, and at least half the time Dean says that he could use a hand, he gets brushed off, but Dad will come this time.

He’ll come for Sam.

~

The smoking hot blonde who answers the door is tall and steel eyed and has an engagement ring and wedding band on her left hand which Dean doesn’t think much about until she’s looking them head on and says, “Dean, John. I’m Jessica Winchester. We need to find Sam.”

Even Dad – grim and closed mouth with an edge of fury to him that Dean hasn’t seen since Flagstaff – goes blank, staring at her in shock. Dean doesn’t know what his own face is doing.

“Come on,” she says, nudging the door open further. “Anything could be happening to him right now.”

“Wait,” he says. “You’re-”

“Sam and I got married last year,” she says. “We don’t have time for this. Azazel has Sam.”

“Who’s Azazel?” he asks, following her inside. It’s a nice apartment, decent, full of shit like throw pillows and matching dishes and all the things Sam used to crave so badly. The kitchen table is piled with books and papers, thick tomes the likes of which he’s used to seeing at Bobby’s and nowhere else. How did she pull this all together so quickly? She only called him seven hours ago and most of that was the middle of the night.

Unless they already had it. But that doesn’t make sense. Sammy left them, left hunting, why would he –

Jessica rolls her eyes. They’re red, but it seems she’s moved on from the tears to militant determination, but Dean’s still reeling. “The yellow eyed demon.”

Dad goes completely still.

“The what?” he asks.

“The thing that killed your mom,” she says impatiently.

He’s barely processed that when Dad says, “You found it.”

“We found the other kids it targeted,” she says, eyes and voice going colder than when she’d just been speaking to him. “Sam started getting visions a couple years ago and we found a couple of the other psychic kids and then some more. A few months ago they started going missing and we haven’t found any of them. It’s always sulphur and anyone in the same room left for dead. It’s Azazel. He was taking them and now he’s taken Sam and I can’t do this on my own so I called you.” She glares at both of them. “Don’t make me regret it.”

~

Sam wakes up alone in an abandoned town with a splitting headache. Jess is nowhere that he can see, which is good, he thinks. His phone is dead and he’s thinking it’s some sort of ghost or something until he literally walks into Andy.

“Sam!” he says in relief, gripping onto his sleeve. “Oh man, am I happy to see you!”

Ansem, who Sam still thinks isn’t quite sane most days, snorts and crosses his arms. “Yeah, are you? Because if we’re here and Sam’s here that means we’ve probably been taken like all the others. That we haven’t been able to find and have never heard from again.”

Andy wilts. “Oh, right.”

“Come on,” Sam says. “How’s your–”

“Not as good as yours,” Andy says. Ansem frowns. “It’s not and you know it. We all have our specialties for a reason.”

That’s fine. They’re going to figure this out. Jess must have noticed him missing by now and she’ll be looking for him. He doesn’t think about how they’ve been looking for the others for months with no luck.

They hear a scream and they’re running towards it. There’s someone trapped in what looks like an old outhouse, pounding on the door so hard it rattles. Sam doesn’t even think about it, he makes a yanking motion with his hand so the door flies off the hinges and out tumbles Ava.

Who’s been missing for months.

She stumbles out, breathing in air greedily, but she’s already backing away from them, shaking her head, her hands held out. “Don’t make me – I’ll do it, I’ve done it before, but I won’t, not if you don’t make me – please don’t make me–”

“AVA!” he shouts, reaching out for her. She shoves him back, or tries to, but his telekinesis is a lot stronger than hers and there’s nothing she can do to stop him from striding forward and grabbing her shoulders.

She’s struggling against him, nails digging into his arms. “I’ll do it, don’t make me do it, I don’t want to, but I will, I will I will I will!”

He shakes her. “AVA! Stop, calm down. It’s Sam. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

She stops, finally raising her head enough to look at him. There’s something crazed and desperate about her that wasn’t there when he saw her last. She was scared like they were all scared, but she wasn’t like this. “They always say that in the beginning and then they make me do it.”

“Do what, Ava?” he asks, trying to keep his grip form being bruising now that she’s not fighting against him.

Her eyes fill with tears and she whispers, “Kill them.”

He hears Andy go, “Woah, holy shit,” behind him and then the sound of Ansem hitting him.

“No one is killing anyone,” he says firmly. “I’m not killing you and you’re not killing me. Okay?”

“I don’t like it,” she says intensely. “I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“Ava,” he says, ducking down so she has no choice but to look him in the eye. “You don’t have to, okay? If something, who is not one of us, needs killing, then I’ll do it.”

“I can help too,” Ansem says. Then, “Ow!” as Andy steps on his foot.

Her face softens into something that’s finally familiar and her lips twitch up. She leans around Sam and says, “Hi guys.”

“Hi Ava,” they say in unison.

Sam’s starting to get why Dad was always creeped out by him and Dean doing that. “What’s going on? Are you okay? We’ve been looking for you.”

“We thought you were dead,” Ansem says.

Andy adds, “But we’re really glad you’re not!”  

Jesus.

Ava swallows. “They show up in groups. Some we knew, some we didn’t. Sometimes everyone gets along and agrees to work together. Sometimes the backstabbing starts quickly. Azazel is here and if people aren’t killing each other quickly enough, he whispers to them, manipulates them, turns us against each other.”

“Been there, done that,” Ansem says.

Ava doesn’t so much as twitch. “Until it’s just me and them and no one will listen to me, Sam, they keep not listening, until it’s me or them and I don’t want to do it, but I don’t want to die, I really don’t want to die. So I kill them and then it’s just me and then I wake up trapped again until someone gets me out.” Her voice drops. “No matter what I do, I can never get myself out.”

“It’s okay,” he says, even though he feels sick. Of all the possibilities they’d considered, this wasn’t one of them. “We’re going to stick together and figure this out. We’ll get out of here.” He pauses. “Where is here?”

“If you try and walk out, the demons stop you. Some die that way,” she says. “I don’t know. It’s been weeks and it’s already getting warmer, so I’d say somewhere in the middle of America? But everything here is old and no one's phones ever have any service.”

Okay, that’s all bad news, but, “Weeks? Ava, it’s May. You’ve been missing since February.”

She stares, yanking on the edge of her shirt anxiously. “What? No. That can’t – that can’t be right. The days sort blur, but it can’t be – that’s not possible. It hasn’t been that long.”

“When you’re the last one, you just wake up to it starting all over again, right?” Ansem asks. “People haven’t been disappearing all at once. Not the ones we know about, anyway.”

“What? You think Azazel is putting me in some sort of – that he’s just keeping me on ice or something in between,” she cuts herself off, fine tremors in her hands.

Sam hugs her, folding her against him and digging his chin into the top of her head, just like he hugged her the first time she had a panic attack in her kitchen. As if Azazel bleeding in all their mouths as babies wasn’t bad enough, he’s now put Ava through actual hell, turning her into something she never wanted to be and doing who knows what with her body in between. The comforting platitudes are starting to sound false, even though he means them, so he just holds her and lets her cry herself out.

Eventually she gently pushes away from him and rubs her sleeve over her eyes. “Sorry. I – sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says gently. “You’re my friend. We’re going to get out of this together. I’m sorry I wasn’t there before, but I’m here now, okay?”

Her eyes are red and her face is swollen and this time when she smiles, he almost recognizes her. “Okay.”

“Uh,” Andy says nervously, stepping behind Sam and dragging Ansem with him. “We’ve got company.”

He turns and sees someone’s just turned a corner at the other end of the street with his back to them and he’s halfway to pushing Ava towards Andy when he gets close enough for Sam to recognize. His shoulders slump and he shouts, “JAKE! Hey!”

Jake pauses, turning towards them and a grin breaking out across his face as he jogs in their direction. “What the hell? I was in Afghanistan, man.”

“Have fun explaining this to your CO,” he says. If they make it out of here alive.

~

Jess doesn’t know if she’s done the right thing by calling Dean.

It wouldn’t be so bad if John wasn’t here, she doesn’t think, but she’d known better than wasting her breath trying to convince him not to call him. But Sam’s said over and over again that his father’s a good hunter, a good tracker, and they need that right now.

They’ve been losing people, one after another, and it felt like a noose tightening around their necks. And now Sam’s missing and what they’d been doing hadn’t been working so she’d done something else.

He’s still alive. He has to be.

Please let him still be alive. She can’t do this on her own.

“We have to leave for the airport in an hour to pick some people up,” she says. “Lily and Scott’s planes are landing about forty minutes apart.”

“Who’re are they?” John asks.

She swallows down something biting. “Lily can stop hearts and Scott electrocutes things. They’re friends and they’re going to help.”

John’s lips press together but he doesn’t say anything. Dean looks like he’s waiting for a punchline, but it’s no joke.

They’d kept everyone apart before, thinking it would just cause Azazel to take them all together, but that hadn’t done shit and now Sam is gone.

Neither Lily nor Scott had even hesitated. They’d been scared and desperate and confused when she and Sam had met them, like so many of the others, and Sam had been comforting and kind and told them that they weren’t alone, he’d been the one to help them figure out their powers and the one they called when they had nightmares and now he’s gone.

Jess doesn’t know what she’s going to do if they do find Azazel, but she knows she’ll feel a lot better about it with two powerful psychics on their side.

John is stone faced as he looks over their research, but he hadn’t been all that surprised, just like Sam had expected. Dean is still in shock and she’s not even sure which part is throwing him the most – Azazel, Sam being psychic, or that he has a sister-in-law that he’s never met.

They hadn’t had groomsmen or bridesmaids at their wedding. Even after four years of silence, Sam hadn’t felt right about anything else and Jess hadn’t pushed. It kept costs down, at any rate.

He’d been convinced that John and Dean would care more about Sam having Azazel’s blood than theirs. She doesn’t tell them that part, doesn’t tell them anything she doesn’t have to, but she wonders at it, that Sam could both be that convinced they’d hate him for something he couldn’t help and love them that deeply.

Based on the stories, she’d believed it more easily of John than Dean, but she doesn’t know either of them. Not really.

She just knows that she needs Sam and she needs help and as long as they find him, they can figure out the rest later.  

[seijorhi]

Bloody

Hellhound Umemiya Hajime x female reader

tw: blood and gore, hard vore (not reader), mentions of miscarriage and domestic abuse, physical abuse, yandere-ish

Fairy & Rhi’s Big Bad Valentines Event ~ Here there be monsters

“Girl, take the beast into town.”

You nod mutely. Speak when spoken to, not spoken at, a lesson imparted swiftly and one you do well to remember. 

The Magister gestures at a stuffed knapsack with a roll of parchment, undoubtedly serving as your list for the day, by the door. “Be back by nightfall.” 

You’re dismissed with a flick of his wrist, the Magister already poring over the heavy tome on his desk, a gnarled, ancient finger trawling across the page, muttering to himself in a language you don’t understand. Before the metal collar around your throat can wake, you turn and shoulder the knapsack, gently stuffing the list into the pocket of your dress, and off to find the beast you go.

The cemetery grounds sprawl around the manor, with the sun burning high, you don’t have the time to waste searching for the hellhound. A quick glance tells you he’s not in the immediate vicinity, and, well, you’d know it if he was. There’s nothing for it. From your boot, you pull a small, thin blade and quickly slice it across your palm, biting back on a hiss. Blood wells to the surface – not much, it wasn’t a deep cut, but enough. Tilting your hand, three drops spill to the earth, soaking into the dirt. 

“Umemiya.”

The clouds don’t part and the ground doesn’t shake, one moment there’s nothing, and the next–

“You rang?” The growling rasp of a voice behind you almost immediately dissolves into a bark of laughter, the hellhound endlessly amused by his own quip.

“I need to go into town for the Magister’s deliveries,” you say, eyes fixed to the ground, your own voice quiet. “Would you come with me? Please.” Magister’s orders or not, you don’t dare presume to command anything from a creature who could rip you apart with a single, lazy swat. 

A gust of warm breath billows over you, tousling your hair; an amused chuff. “I suppose I could be convinced.”

This is the part you hate. You squirm on the spot, blunt fingernails biting into the palm of your hand. “There’s a man in town, the baker’s son,” you eventually mumble. A name – not even that. You aren’t condemning him, although he certainly deserves it, merely pointing out his existence.

Although, you suppose that excuse wears thin when, once night falls and you’re safely returned to the manor, Umemiya will take your words to heart and hunt him like prey to devour.

The first time, with the guard you’d seen tormenting one of the stable boys, he’d left the arm on the ground beneath your window, partially chewed, but unmistakable. Proof, you suppose, of his end of the deal. 

He always leaves something. An arm. A mangled foot. Once, part of what you think was a man’s liver. If you weren’t so deathly afraid of him, you might’ve considered asking him to stop, but you haven’t and so he doesn’t. 

“The Baker’s son.” He sounds like he’s mulling it over, weighing the taste of your choice in his head. “You sure?”

No. “Yes.” 

The Magister’s never given any indication he’s aware of the demands his pet hellhound makes every time you’re sent to fetch him. If you give the name of someone the Magister has plans for and he finds out, the punishment won’t be pleasant. If you refuse to make the choice and leave Umemiya behind, the collar around your neck will burn through skin and mangle your throat. You’ll live, and wish you hadn’t. 

But the baker’s son beats his wife and she lost their baby. His name is as good as any.

You turn. The hulking mass of muscle, teeth and claws behind you sits on his haunches, ash white fur wreathed in smoke, two thick horns cracked with veins of glowing red protrude from the top of his head, reaching skyward. He grins, as much as a hellhound can manage, and chuffs again. “No one else?”

Your blood runs cold. Another? 

Does he– is he– 

You don’t have anyone else on your list. Not yet. You need time, you need– you can’t just condemn another person, someone who might be innocent. “N-no?”

Umemiya snorts, leans forward and jolts you into motion with his snout. You take it as acceptance of terms struck and re-shoulder the knapsack.

The journey into town is at least two hours on foot. Dawdling is not a luxury you can afford. 

—

“You’re late. Idiot girl.”

The crack across your face sends you to the floor, ears ringing. Blood, hot and coppery, coats your tongue, your teeth. Seeps from the scratch his garnet ring left behind and drips into the ground below. 

The Magister said nightfall. You know he said nightfall. 

Like a dog, he kicks at your stomach, and like a dog, you curl up to make yourself small and whimper into the dirt. Your face throbs and stings in equal measure. Tears burn unshed and it feels like you’re going to throw up with every shallow, wheezing breath. 

The sun hasn’t set. The collar at your throat lies cold. 

You haven’t broken the rules; the Magister doesn’t care. 

“Next time you’ll do as I say, hm?” Always condescending. Dismissive. Cruel, because whatever shrivelled up inside of his chest surely isn’t a heart. 

You did nothing wrong. You never do and it never makes a difference.

In that moment, it isn’t pain or shock or despair for the unfairness of it all that sparks in your chest and bleeds through your veins like poison. Spitting a mouthful of bloody saliva into the dirt, you screw your eyes shut and surrender to it, for better or worse. 

“Umemiya.”

This time, a growl precedes his arrival. Dark and thunderous, it rattles at your ribs, you feel it down to your core. His shadow sweeps over you, blocking out the dying daylight, and still, you keep your eyes squeezed shut.

“What, you think the beast will help you? Foolish, stupid girl.” 

The insult misses its mark, fuel to the black pit seething inside of you. 

Give me a name. The words aren’t spoken aloud, you hear them in your head, whisper soft but unbending and unflinching. An order. A plea. And it occurs to you then, what Umemiya was pushing for earlier. What he’d been trying to pull from the first time you’d summoned him. He isn’t loyal to the monster who collared you.

The hellhound belongs to the cemetery.

“The Magister.”

You don’t open your eyes when the screams begin, savage snarls and snapping bones. The wet tear of muscle and flesh, the agonised gurgles of an old, dying man. 

The crunching continues long after the cries die out, but you don’t move an inch. You don’t dare look, certain that if you do, you’ll lose the battle you’re waging with your stomach. Violently. The sounds are bad enough.

The padding of his steps is near silent, but the purring rumble as he approaches gives his presence away, and when something wet and heavy drops to the ground in front of you, you slowly crack open an eye.

Umemiya, maw dripping with red, great splatters of it marring his coat, slowly lowers his head to nuzzle at your cheek.

“Give me a name,” he pleads.

His tongue laps at the drying blood, and as your hands sink into the soft, smokey fur, and you gingerly ease yourself upright, you look to the gift he’s laid before you.

The Magister’s heart, a little chewed up, but unmistakable. 

“The parents who sold me.”

[moodymisty]

could we get a primarch fussing over pregnant reader? I'm partial to lorgar but they're all great

Author's note: I love Lorgar so any excuse to write for him is all I need XD Relationships: Lorgar/Fem!Reader Warnings: Tokophobia/Pregnancy

"My love, please,"

Lorgar voice is laced with exasperation, attempting to corral you back into bed as you waddle away from it. You give him a scowl and stand fully, partly ignoring him.

"Lorgar! I will not die just from walking around a bit."

Lorgar flips through his emotions, clearly wanting to give into to his need to have you be coddled and cared for until the stars burn out, but also being concerned for his child.

"...Very well, but please be careful."

He still hovers around as you move to leave your bedchambers, the flowing fabric of your clothing trailing behind you. The ache of your muscles continues for a few moments as they adjust to finally being used after a decent while of laying, but the feeling fades after a dozen or so steps.

"Where are you wishing to go?" You contemplate for a moment, rubbing your arms.

"I think the librarium would be nice, it's been awhile since i was there."

You've been confined to your shared bedchambers for much time in the ladder half of this pregnancy, though much of it was needed. You may have a burst of energy today, but you understand Lorgar's concerns.

This has been very hard on you. A child clearly not meant for you has been leeching off your body so intensely, your energy is at best minuscule. You want to take advantage of the small bursts of energy you get while you still can. The medicae will surely not be pleased to hear about it, but for the sake of your sanity you'll risk it just a tad.

Leaving your bedroom it's not moments after your foot leaves the doorway that Lorgar speaks again, walking right behind you. His strides are slow and short, to not instantly overtake you. Lorgar usually had little qualms about simply picking you up, however he's recently done so less out of the nervousness with your belly; As well as the bout of nausea abruptly going upwards two or so meters could give you.

You could still tell it took a bit of resisting that habit for him, which is amusing.

"I could always have the books brought to you, you know my sons are eager to help you."

You continue walking but can't help but let out a sigh, looking up to your husband.

"If i don't walk around, I soon might not be able to. I'll have no muscle. I only want a bit of fresh air."

It's nice to feel the fresh air as you walk, and the aches in your body relent a bit as you finally move about. The smell of old, musty tomes in the librarium is even better however, and your pace quickens as you enjoy the change in scenery. There aren't many Word Bearers here as well which you appreciate; What vehemence Lorgar has with your child and their implied divinity, they have three fold. It's begun to make you a bit uncomfortable, but you suppose that aggression simply comes with their creation.

When you sit down, not grabbing something to read Lorgar looks at you a bit oddly for a moment, before you say you were just looking to be somewhere else for a bit; Stir crazy, you add. He smiles warmly, and you're happy to have caught him in a good mood.

"I still find it hard to believe it hasn't been that much time," He reminisces, kneeling down to putting a hand on your shoulder before then your belly. You shrug, feeling your child shift around a bit to the sound of Lorgar's voice. He reads to them so often, you would almost think they know his voice more than your own.

"If things keep going well, we still have a few more months."

You sometimes doubt it will; It already has taken a toll on you more than you'd expected, and there's still time left to go. You had expected there to be problems, for all of Lorgar's humanity his genetics are still extraordinary; However, you hadn't expected just how much it would eat at you.

"You haven't even seen all of the gifts the other primarchs have been getting for you," Lorgar says, and smiles when you look at him surprised. He laughs quietly.

"A few of them are quite excited to meet the first child of a primarch, a few more than others. If i didn't know any better, I think they're almost trying to wish that luck on themselves."

You wouldn't entirely doubt that suspicion, but Lorgar oftentimes seems to find jealously where there might not be. It isn't your place to say anything, after all you barely know the primarchs, but their near constant squabbles amongst each other do lend to the idea a bit.

You wouldn't wish this pain on another though, despite the joy it might bring. Though that's a thought that will firmly remain in your own head.

"Are you alright?"

Lorgar's happy expression begins to crack when you realize your expression slipped, and you nod before he changes further.

"Yes, sorry just a wave of nausea, it's gone now." You wrap your hands around his fingers, holding them. The warmth of his skin is nice on your palms, and you enjoy having a moment where he isn't half distracted by Colchis and his legion.

"Can we stay a moment longer before you shuffle me back?"

His forehead wrinkles, before he sighs. He mumbles about the trouble he has refusing you.

"Very well. Let me get something we will both enjoy."

[magic-shop-stories]

bts reaction to reader purposefully hiding an injury from them (mafia au)?

💌 Reply:

Ah, diving into the mafia AU angst pool again... I love it! 💜 Your request for BTS reacting to the reader purposefully hiding an injury? IT'S GENIOUS, thanks fot that!

NAMJOON

HOW YOU GOT HURT

You were sent to negotiate a weapons deal with a minor syndicate (Namjoon’s orders: “Observe, don’t engage”). But their leader recognized you as his weakness. Ambushed. A blade to your throat, a hissed threat: “Tell your boss to back off, or I’ll mail you to him in pieces.” You fought back, got a gash across your ribs for it.

You hid the injury for 6 hours, stitching it yourself in a gas station bathroom. But your phone died. By the time you limped back to his penthouse, blood had seeped through your shirt.

HOW NAMJOON FINDS OUT

Setting

he’s in his library

annotating Sun Tzu’s The Art of War

you stumble in

the scent of blood/ iron hits him first

Immediate Reaction

Physical

freezes mid-sentence

fountain pen snapping in his grip

ink bleeds across the page (like a Rorschach test)

Eyes

darken from warm amber to obsidian

jaw clenches so tight his molar almsot cracks

Voice

whispers, glacial

“Who.” 

not a question = a demand

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“I miscalculated. I trusted their fear. I should’ve burned them first. She’s bleeding. My fault. My failure.”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

crosses the room in three strides

grips your shoulders too tight

scans the injury like a malfunctioning equation

Dialogue

“Sit. Now.” 

already texting his surgeon

his hands don’t shake (they never shake)

Subtext

clinical touch

but his thumb brushes your pulse point (once)

checking if you’re real

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Anger

not at you

at himself

“I built an empire on predicting chaos. How did I not see this?”

at the syndicate

“They touched what’s mine. They’ll learn the cost of ignorance.”

Fear

flashback to his mother’s death (gang crossfire when he was 15) (at least in my mafiaAU imagination)

“Not again. Never again.”

Guilt

when the surgeon arrives, he stands in the corner

cleaning his glasses obsessively

“I should’ve been there. I am there, in every move. Except hers.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Intel

locks himself in his war room for 4 hours

maps the syndicate’s connections on a hologram grid

discovers their leader’s estranged daughter in Paris

“Ah. Leverage.”

Phase 2: Psychological Warfare

sends the daughter a vintage music box

(her mother’s, stolen from their old home)

note: “Your father misses you. Say goodbye.”

leaks their drug routes to Interpol

lets them flee straight into his men’s custody

Phase 3: Interrogation

Location

his underground vault

soundproofed

lined with first editions of Nietzsche and Kafka

Method

forces the leader to read your medical report aloud

“‘Laceration, 8cm depth.’ tell me, do you measure your failures so precisely?”

Finale

brands their foreheads with a quote from Thus Spoke Zarathustra: 

“Whoever fights monsters…”

Phase 4: Financial Annihilation

donates their assets to a charity in your name

texts you the receipt: 

“For your trouble.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he’s distant for weeks

assigns you a bodyguard (ex-KGB, mute, terrifying)

you find him at 3 AM

re-reading your injury report like a penitent hymn

Your Move

corner him in his library

press his palm to your healed scar

“You didn’t fail. I’m here. We’re here.”

His Breaking Point

slams his fist into the bookshelf

first edition Tolstoy tomes crash to the floor

“You don’t get it. I planned for everything, except losing you.”

Key Dialogue

You: “You’re not a god, Namjoon. Even strategists bleed.” Him: “Then let me bleed. But not you. Never you.” 

(Voice cracks on the last word)

Physical Reconciliation

crushes you to his chest

heartbeat erratic against your ear

“Stay. Let me… recalculate.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!JOON EDITION)

to the syndicate leader: 

“You thought her my weakness? No. She’s the reason your death will be a footnote.”

to you, post-revenge: 

“I’d raze every city in this empire to keep you safe. Tell me to stop.” 

(he hopes you won’t)

whispered in the dark: 

“My mind is a weapon. But you you’re the hand that steadies it.”

BONUS DETAILS

Cigar Ritual

only smokes when planning vengeance

brand? “Monte Cristo”

nod to his literary rage

Glasses Tell

cleans them when overwhelmed

after your injury, he buys 7 spare pairs

Secret Softness

hires a chef to sneak banana milk into your meals

 “For calcium. Don’t argue.”

JIN

HOW YOU GOT HURT

Jin sent you undercover to infiltrate a rival family’s casino grand opening. You were posing as a blackjack dealer, but the Don’s son grew suspicious. To test your loyalty, he offered you a drink, poisoned champagne. You drank it to keep your cover, but the toxin burned through your system. You barely made it back to Jin’s penthouse before collapsing in the marble foyer.

You hid the poisoning for 2 hours, using antidote pills Jin gave you "just in case." But the pills were expired (he forgot to check). By the time you crawled to his doorstep, your lips were blue.

HOW JIN FINDS OUT

Setting

he’s hosting a “peace summit” with rival bosses

serving haute cuisine laced with mild sedatives

you stagger into the dining hall

clutching your stomach

room falls silent

Immediate Reaction

Physical

drops his wineglass.

shatters like a punchline

smile stays frozen

knuckles whiten around the steak knife

Eyes

gaze flicks from your trembling hands to the rival Don’s son

“Ah. This is why you RSVP’d late.”

Voice

laughs, sharp and honeyed

“Yah, jagiya, you’re ruining my soufflé’s grand entrance!”

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“Expired pills. Expired. I’m a genius, huh? Should’ve poisoned myself instead. She’s cold. Why is she so cold?”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

sweeps you into his arms

cradling you like a bride

murmurs: “Shh, I’ve got you,” 

kicks open the kitchen door

Dialogue

“Who’s the drama queen now, hm? Save the theatrics for my stage.”

his voice cracks

Subtext

blames himself

hands tremble as he presses a cloth soaked in milk thistle extract to your lips

(his homemade antidote)

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Anger

at himself: 

“I’m supposed to be the protector. The funny one. How’s this funny?”

at the rival: 

“They poisoned my masterpiece. Time to return the favor—with garnish.”

Fear

flashback to a younger gang members death (close friend)

(food tampering, age 24)

“Not again. I’ll burn every kitchen in this city first.”

Guilt

forces his chef to taste-test every dish in front of you for a week

“See? Safe. Eat.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Invitation

hosts a “reconciliation dinner” for the rival family

menu: “Apology Bouillabaisse” 

laced with aconite

Phase 2: Culinary Theater

serves the poisoned soup with a wink: 

“Bon appétit! Don’t worry, it’s to die for.”

as they choke, he plays their death rattles through the penthouse speakers

“Ambiance, right?”

Phase 3: Reputation Ruin

leaks their family recipes to Michelin critics

swaps sugar for salt

“Now the world knows your cooking sucks.”

sends their matriarch a sympathy bouquet with a note: 

“Roses for your loss. P.S.: Your son tasted bitter.”

Phase 4: Legacy Erasure

buys their casino and renames it “Jin’s Revenge Buffet.” 

free shrimp cocktails for anyone who spits on their logo

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he becomes suffocatingly overprotective

installs cameras in your bedroom

“For lighting! You look better in 4K.”

catch him staring at your antidote vial like it’s a cursed relic

Your Move

cook him jjajangmyeon

burnt, salty, inedible

force-feed him a bite

“See? I’m fine. Now you trust me.”

His Breaking Point

slams his fist on the table

porcelain shatters

“You think this is a joke? I could’ve lost you!” 

tears mix with black bean sauce

Key Dialogue

you: “You’re not just my boss. You’re my home. Let me protect you too.” him: “Home?”  he laughs wetly: “Then… redecorate. But no more poison-themed curtains.”

Physical Reconciliation

pulls you into a hug

face buried in your hair

“If you die, I’ll kill you. And then myself. Then we’ll be a rom-com.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!JIN EDITION)

to the rival Don: 

“You tried to cook in my kitchen? Cute. Now burn in it.”

to you, post-revenge: 

“I’d starve the whole world if it meant keeping you fed. Eat.”

whispered while stitching your wound: 

“I’m Worldwide Handsome, not Worldwide Hero. But for you… I’ll try.”

BONUS DETAILS

Apron Code

wears a pink “Kiss the Chef” apron during hits

the back has a hidden dagger pocket

Dad Joke Defense

cracks jokes mid-interrogation

“Why did the gangster cross the road? To die!” 

(then shoots their kneecaps)

Secret Softness

learns your grandma’s recipes to cook for you

“What? It’s research. For… poison. Yeah.”

YOONGI

HOW THE YOU HURT

Yoongi tasked you with hacking a rival’s financial network. You succeeded, but stayed behind to erase traces, ignoring his order to “exit after the first firewall.” Their enforcers cornered you in the server room. A bullet grazed your thigh. You limped to a safehouse, sutured the wound with a USB cable and vodka, and hid it for days… until infection set in.

You passed out mid-debriefing in his underground studio. Your blood seeped onto his sheet music.

HOW YOONGI FINDS OUT

Setting

he’s composing a piece titled “Silent Retribution” when you collapse

scent of iron mixes with his sandalwood incense

Immediate Reaction

Physical

freezes mid-keystroke

hands hover over the piano like he’s been electrocuted

Eyes

darken from sleepy amber to black-hole void

“Fuck. Fuck.”

Voice

a rasp, deceptively calm

“Who.”

already pulling a scalpel from his desk

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“I told her to leave. She never listens. Should’ve chained her to the piano. My fault. My fault.”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

drags you onto his leather couch

cuts away your jeans with the scalpel

clinical, no hesitation

Dialogue

“Idiot. You’re lucky I hate wasted effort.” 

hands shake as he injects antibiotics

Subtext

hums Clair de Lune under his breath

the song he played at his mother’s funeral

steadying himself

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Rage

at himself: 

“I’m supposed to be the fucking brain. How did I miss this?”

at the rivals: 

“They shot her. My code. My music. They’ll beg for silence.”

Fear

flashback to his mentor’s death (a botched hit when he was 19)

“I won’t lose her. Not like him. Never.”

Guilt

replays your last argument: 

“You’re not my keeper, Yoongi.”  “No. Just your curse.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Digital Carnage

hacks the rival’s accounts

donating $10M to an animal shelter in their name

“Let the IRS sniff that.”

Phase 2: Symphony of Pain

kidnaps the shooter and his boss

chains them in his soundproof studio

Interrogation Method

forces them to listen to a 12-hour loop of Baby Shark at 200dB (yeah hate me for that)

“You like noise? Drown in it.”

Finale

brands their palms with sheet music for Dies Irae (Day of Wrath)

Phase 3: Poetic Justice

replaces their bullets with piano wire coils

sends their corpses back in grand piano crates

texts you a photo of their leader’s melted eardrums: 

“Track 7. Your lullaby.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

avoids you for weeks

burns the bloodstained sheet music daily

find him asleep at his piano

head on the keys

gun in his lap

Your Move

play Clair de Lune on his piano (badly)

he wakes, scowling

“You’re murdering Debussy.”

His Breaking Point

slams the piano lid

“You don’t get it. I plan everything. But you... you’re a goddamn variable.”

Key Dialogue

you: “Variables keep you human, genius.” him: “Human?” 

he laughs bitterly

“I’m a weapon. Weapons don’t..."

kiss him

he melts 

“…Fuck.”

Physical Reconciliation

presses his forehead to yours

breath shaky

“Stay. Or I’ll… compose something worse.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!YOONGI EDITION)

to the rivals: 

“You think pain is loud? I’ll show you silence.”

to you, stitching your wound: 

“You’re my magnum opus. Ruin yourself again, and I’ll erase the world.”

whispered against your hair: 

“I’d burn every piano on earth… but not the one you play.”

BONUS DETAILS

Piano Key Necklace

a gift from his mother

he wears it under his shirt

never takes it off

Coffee Ritual

brews you honey-vanilla lattes after nightmares

denies it

“It’s caffeine. Don’t cry.”

Secret Softness

writes your name in Braille on his bullets

“So they know who ended them.”

EXTRA SUPER SOFT ACT (CRUELTY’S CONTRADICTION) After burning the rival’s headquarters, he takes you to an abandoned music store. Plays Clair de Lune on a broken piano, lit by moonlight. “This is yours. The only thing I’ll never destroy.”

J-HOPE

HOW THE YOU GOT HURT

Hobi sent you to broker a deal with a "friendly" syndicate. Unbeknownst to him, they’d discovered his weakness for you. During negotiations, they offered a toast, spiked champagne disguised as peace. You drank it, only to collapse as their goons ambushed your convoy. A bullet grazed your temple. You escaped, but the neurotoxin left you temporarily blind.

You hid the blindness for hours, relying on muscle memory to drive back to his neon-lit nightclub. You stumbled into his VIP lounge, blood streaking your cheek like war paint.

HOW HOSEOK FINDS OUT

Setting

he’s hosting a “business meeting”

a traitor strapped to a chair

you stagger in

pupils dilated and unfocused

Immediate Reaction

Physical

drops his taser

his grin doesn’t falter = it sharpens

Eyes

glint like polished obsidian

“Oh? Did we crash the party early?”

Voice

singsong, icy

“Sweetheart, you’re dripping on my new rug.”

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“They poisoned her. Poisoned. I’ll melt their teeth. I’ll... Focus. She’s shaking. Why is she shaking?”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

catches you mid-collapse

fingers digging into your waist

forces eye drops laced with antidote into your eyes

“Blink. Now.”

Dialogue

“You’re lucky I like messy.”

his voice cracks on lucky

Subtext

hums “Chicken Noodle Soup” under his breath

his comfort song

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Rage

at himself:

“I’m the planner. The smile. How did I miss this?”

at the syndicate: 

“They think poison is fun? Let’s play.”

Fear

flashback to his sister’s abduction (age 17)

“Not again. Never again.”

Guilt

replays your last conversation: 

“Trust me, Hobi.”  “I do. That’s the problem.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Neon Nightmare

floods the syndicate’s warehouses with neon-green acid (his mafia signature color)

texts you a video: 

"All for you baby..."

Phase 2: Invitation

hosts a “charity gala” for their families

laces the champagne with drugs

livestreams their confessions to the dark web

Phase 3: Artful Annihilation

kidnaps the traitor’s leader

forces him to paint a mural of your face with blood and gold leaf

Finale

seals him inside the mural’s frame

“Art is eternal, right?”

Phase 4: Legacy Erasure

buys their nightclub

renames it “J-Hope’s Lullaby.” 

neon sign flickers: 

“CLOSED FOR ETERNITY.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he becomes hypervigilant

replaces your perfume with neroli oil  (he swears he can track by its smell)

find him staring at security feeds, muttering coordinates

Your Move

blindfold yourself

find him in his office by touch alone

“See? I trust you. Even in the dark.”

His Breaking Point

slams his fist on the desk

“Stop. Stop being brave. I’m not... I’m not worth it.”

Key Dialogue

you: “You’re not just my shield, Hobi. You’re my light.” him: “Light?” 

he laughs hollowly

“I’m a blacklight. I only show the stains.”

Physical Reconciliation

crushes you to his chest

heartbeat erratic

“If you die… I’ll forget how to breathe.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!HOSEOK EDITION)

to the traitors: 

“You wanted a sparkle? Let me show you fire.”

to you, applying ointment: 

“You’re my equilibrium. Break again, and I’ll shatter the world.”

whispered in your ear: 

“I’d drown this city in neon… just to see you smile.”

BONUS DETAILS

Fashion Warfare

wears blood-red gloves during hits

the lining is silk

“For smooth exits.”

Coffee Code

leaves hazelnut lattes on your desk

denies it

“The barista’s obsessed with you.”

Secret Softness

built a panic room with plush blankets and your favorite manga

“For… tactical naps.”

JIMIN

HOW THE YOU GOT HURT

Jimin sent you to retrieve a stolen ledger from a rival’s yacht. You succeeded, but the heir recognized you as his “weakness.” As you fled, he slashed your arm with a jeweled dagger.“A gift for your prince.” You hid the injury, stitching it yourself as best as possible. By the time you returned to Jimin’s penthouse, sepsis had set in.

You collapsed in his rose garden, staining white petals crimson.

HOW JIMIN FINDS OUT

Setting

he’s hosting a masquerade ball for the city’s elite

you stumble into the ballroom

clutching your arm

orchestra screeches to a halt

Immediate Reaction

Physical

freezes mid-sip of champagne

smile stays perfect

his grip cracks the flute

shards glitter like tears

Eyes

darken from honey-sweet to void-black

“Darling, you’re dripping on my marble.”

Voice

airy, lethal

“Who let the rats in?”

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“I’ll peel their skin. No, too quick. Slower. She’s pale. Too pale. Should’ve locked her here. Mine.”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

Sweeps you into his arms

silk gloves soaked in your blood

carries you to his private suite

Dialogue

“Silly dove. Jewels are for wearing, not surgery.” 

voice wavers on dove

Subtext

hums Serendipity under his breath

the song he played on his piano the night he met you

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Rage

at himself: 

“I’m the puppeteer. How did I lose control?”

at the rival: 

“They marked her. Marked her. I’ll erase their bloodline.”

Fear

flashback to his best friends assassination

(poisoned roses, ten years ago)

“Not her. Never her.”

Guilt

bans white roses from his estate

“Red suits you better.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Invitation

sends the rival heir a golden dagger 

(the one that hurt you)

engraved: “For your last dance.”

Phase 2: Elegant Execution

Method

orders his men to drag the heir to a mirrored ballroom

forces him to waltz with a poisoned partner 

(slow-acting toxin)

livestreams it to the dark web

Finale

texts you a screenshot of the heir’s corpse mid-twirl: 

“Artistry, no?”

Phase 3: Legacy Erasure

burns the rival family’s vineyards

plants white roses in the ashes

“Blooms for my dove.”

Phase 4: Public Humiliation

leaks their financial crimes to their grandmother

“Granny dearest sends her regards.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he becomes icily distant

gifts you a diamond choker with a tracking device 

“For safety.” 

find him in his greenhouse

shredding roses with bare hands

Your Move

wear the choker to his next ball

whisper: “Chain me yourself next time.”

His Breaking Point

slams you against the wall

grip bruising

“You think this is a game? I could’ve lost you!” 

tears streak his cheeks

Key Dialogue

you: “You’re not a monster. You’re my haven.” him: “Haven?” 

he laughs bitterly

“Havens burn, darling.”

Physical Reconciliation

crushes his lips to yours

desperate

“Stay. Or I’ll… build a cage gilded enough to tempt you.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!JIMIN EDITION)

to the rival heir: 

“You thought her my weakness? No. She’s the reason your death will be art.”

to you, cleaning your wound: 

“I’d drown the world in glitter… just to see it shine in your eyes.”

whispered at dawn: 

“You’re my first��sin. And my last.”

BONUS DETAILS

Perfume Warfare

spritzes vanilla-musk on letters to rivals

“So they’ll smell me in their nightmares.”

Mirror Ritual

checks his reflection before hits

“Monsters should look the part.”

Secret Softness

learns sign language after noticing your hands tremble post-trauma

“So you’ll always… speak to me.”

EXTRA SUPER SOFT ACT (CRUELTY’S CONTRADICTION) After burning the rival’s estate, he rebuilds it as a glass conservatory filled with doves. Gives you the key: “No blood here. Just… us.”

TAEHYUNG

HOW YOU GOT HURT

Taehyung tasked you with retrieving a stolen Monet painting. During the heist, a rival’s trap backfired, a chandelier crashed down. You shoved Taehyung’s lieutenant out of the way, but a shard of crystal impaled your shoulder. You hid the injury, snapping the shard off and wrapping it with a silk scarf from the loot. By the time you returned to his gallery, you collapsed into a display of Venetian glass roses.

The scarf was Taehyung’s first gift to you. Blood soaked its embroidered initials: KTH.

HOW TAEHYUNG FINDS OUT

he’s hosting an “art auction” for laundering profits

you stumble into the gallery

clutching the bloody scarf

the room gasps

Immediate Reaction

Physical

drops his wineglass

it shatters

his grin widens unnaturally

“Darling, you’re upstaging the Monet.”

Eyes

pupils dilate

black swallowing amber

“Who… broke my masterpiece?”

Voice

soft, singsong

“Oops. Time to repaint.”

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“My fault. Mine. Should’ve burned that gallery first. She’s pale. Too pale. I’ll paint the walls with their veins.”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

lifts you onto the auction podium

ignoring the crowd

presses a jade dagger (his favorite) to your collarbone

“Hold still. This’ll sing.”

Dialogue

“You ruined my scarf. Now I’ll ruin them.” 

his hands tremble as he extracts the crystal

Subtext

hums Winter Bear under his breath

(AU!) the song he wrote after his father’s murder

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Rage

at himself: 

“I’m the curator. I protect beauty. How did I fail?”

at the rivals: 

“They scarred her. I’ll turn their bones into art.”

Fear

flashback to his grandfather's death ((AU) stray bullet at an art show, he was 14)

“No..."

Guilt

shatters every mirror in his estate

“Reflections lie. She’s the only truth.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Exhibition

kidnaps the rival’s family

forces them to recreate the Mone

with their blood as paint

Phase 2: Artistic Annihilation

Method

carves the rival’s logo into their leader’s chest

fills the wounds with molten gold

“Now it’s priceless.”

Finale

mails the sculpture to their matriarch

texts you: “New centerpiece?”

Phase 3: Legacy Erasure

burns their galleries

plants black dahlias in the ashes

“Beauty from rot, jagiya.”

Phase 4: Public Humiliation

leaks their forgeries to Interpol

“Picasso would weep.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he becomes a ghost

haunting his studio

find him smashing clay sculptures

muttering: “Ugly. All ugly.”

Your Move

recreate the Venetian glass roses he loves

leave one on his desk: 

“Still your muse?”

His Breaking Point

crushes the rose

cuts his palm

“Don’t. Don’t make me care. I’ll... I’ll break.”

Key Dialogue

you: “Break, then. I’ll mend you.” him: “Mend?” 

he laughs brokenly

“I’m shattered glass. You’ll bleed.”

Physical Reconciliation

traces your scar with his bloodied hand

“Next time… let the world burn. Just… stay.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!TAE EDITION)

to the rivals: 

“You thought her fragile? No. She’s the fire that melts your gold.”

to you, stitching your wound: 

“I’d raze every museum… to build you a shrine.”

whispered at midnight: 

“You’re my magnum opus. Crack, and I’ll shatter the sky.”

BONUS DETAILS

Cologne Code

wears oud wood during hits

“Smells like… legacy.”

Artistic Outlet

sketches your face on enemy blueprints

“For focus.”

Secret Softness

collects vintage teddy bears for your panic room

“They’re… bulletproof. Obviously.”

JUNGKOOK

HOW YOU GOT HURT

Jungkook assigned you to guard a shipment of vintage motorcycles (his prized collection). A rival gang staged a “distraction”, a stray kitten mewling near the warehouse. You, ever the softie, went to rescue it. A rigged trap exploded, sending shrapnel into your leg. You hid the injury, using your belt as a tourniquet, and delivered the bikes… with blood pooling in the sidecar.

The kitten survived. You named it Tannie and tucked it into your jacket. Jungkook notices the blood after he coos over the cat.

HOW JUNGKOOK FINDS OUT

Setting

in his garage

polishing his Ducati

you limp in

Tannie pokes its head out, unharmed

Jungkook’s smile dies when he sees the crimson streak on your boot

Immediate Reaction

Physical

drops the rag

hands twitch like he wants to strangle the air

Eyes

dilate

flickering between feral black and wounded doe

“You… you’re bleeding.”

Voice

agrowl, low and guttural

“Who. Touched. You.”

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“My fault. Mine. Should’ve been there. Should’ve smelled them. Stupid. Stupid.”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

lifts you onto his bike seat

rips your pant leg open

presses a switchblade-heated rag to the wound

no flinch

Dialogue

“Don’t. Move.”

already revving his Ducati,

Tannie tucked in his hoodie pocket

Subtext

murmurs “good girl” to the kitten

won’t meet your eyes

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Rage

at himself: 

“I’m the weapon. Weapons don’t fail. I failed.”

at the rivals: 

“They used a kitten. A fucking kitten. I’ll skin them alive.”

Fear

flashback to losing his childhood dog in a gang raid. 

“I'll fucking kill them all...”

Guilt

buys Tannie a diamond collar

“She’s… practice. For keeping things safe.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Feral Hunt

tracks the rivals to a chop shop

lets Tannie loose to trip their alarms

“Distraction for a distraction.”

Phase 2: Brutal Efficiency

Method

uses a motorcycle chain to dismantle their leader

breaks bones in reverse order

toes to skull

Finale

leaves the body zip-tied to a “For Sale”

sign: “Free scrap.”

Phase 3: Psychological Warfare

steals their tires

replaces them with marbles

texts them: “Drive safe.”

floods their HQ with stray cats

“Meet your new bosses.”

Phase 4: Legacy Erasure

torches their garage

builds a cat sanctuary on the ashes

Tannie gets a gold plaque: “Head of Security.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he avoids you for days

bench-pressing obsessively

find him asleep in the garage

Tannie on his chest

knuckles raw and bleeding

Your Move

challenge him to a sparring match

let him pin you

“Still think I’m breakable?”

His Breaking Point

slams his fist into the mat (right next to your head)

“You are! You’re everything! And I... I’m just… this.” 

gestures to his bloodied hands

Key Dialogue

you: “You’re not just this. You’re my always.” him: “Always?” 

he scoffs

tears mixing with sweat

“Always is a lie. But for you… I’ll pretend.”

Physical Reconciliation

presses his forehead to yours

breath ragged

“Stay. Or I’ll… tie you to the Ducati.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!KOOK EDITION)

to the rivals: 

“You hurt her? I’ll make you beg for hell.”

to you, cleaning your wound: 

“You’re my only soft spot. Don’t… blunt me.”

whispered to Tannie: 

“Protect her. Or I’ll… cry.”

BONUS DETAILS

Tattoo Tell

his ”ARMY” tattoo throbs when he’s angry

rubs it like a worry stone

Garage Ritual

builds a mini ARMY bomb replica to hang from his bike (but it's literally a bomb)

“For luck. Duh.”

Secret Softness

learns to knit

to make Tannie sweaters

denies it

“The cat did it.”

[aventurineswife]

Can I request: workaholic Reader with their hair normally tied/pinned up.

Maybe in a messy bun, or a high ponytail that looks deceptively short but is actually twisted and pinned to look that way (speaking from experience, I do the second one more often). Anyway—

Reader walking into the archives first thing in the morning to cross-reference some information they were looking at last night, and it’s the first time Dan Heng (and any of the crew, really) has ever seen Reader with their hair completely down.

And, yeah, it’s a little frizzy because Reader doesn’t do much more than shampooing, conditioning and brushing it out; but it so, so very soft and fluffy. It rivals Jing Yuan’s hair in fluffiness and it just looks really nice. 💖

Caught in the Morning Haze

Summary: An early morning in the Astral Express archives leads to an unexpected moment of quiet connection between Dan Heng and you. When you, usually reserved and work-focused, show up with your hair completely down for the first time, Dan Heng finds himself unexpectedly captivated. Amid the usual routine, he lets slip a rare compliment that lingers in the air, sparking a subtle shift in your dynamic.

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Fluff, Slow Burn, Quiet Intimacy, Hair Down Trope (?), Workaholic Reader.

The corridors of the Astral Express were dimly lit, the quiet hum of the train a constant companion. It was early—too early for anyone else to be stirring, save for the occasional flicker of March’s light steps or Himeko’s tea kettle boiling in the lounge. Most of the crew preferred to start their mornings slowly. But not you.

The door to the archives hissed open, revealing its familiar quietude. Stacks of books, glowing monitors, and scrolls arranged with Dan Heng’s meticulous care greeted you. You stepped inside, your pace brisk, already reaching for a datapad to cross-reference some notes from the previous night.

Dan Heng, however, was already there, seated at his usual spot behind the central desk. His teal eyes flickered up from a scroll he’d been examining, only to widen slightly in surprise.

Your hair—usually swept up in a high ponytail or pinned into a messy bun that spoke to long nights and longer workdays—was down. Completely untethered, it cascaded over your shoulders in soft, slightly frizzy waves.

It wasn’t perfect—there was a fluffiness to it that spoke of minimal effort, but it had an air of naturalness that somehow made it more striking. The soft strands framed your face, adding an unusual touch of warmth to your typically serious, workaholic demeanor. In that moment, your hair seemed to capture the same quiet grace and softness that surrounded Dan Heng himself.

Dan Heng’s gaze lingered just a second too long before he remembered himself. He cleared his throat quietly, returning his focus to the scroll in his hands. “Good morning,” he said, his tone even, though there was a subtle note of awkwardness beneath it.

“Morning,” you replied absently, already flipping through a thick tome you’d left on the desk the night before. You didn’t notice his lingering gaze or the way his fingers paused mid-turn on the page he was reading.

But Dan Heng was acutely aware of it. The sight of you like this—a little more unguarded, a little more human—unsettled him in ways he couldn’t quite define. He found himself thinking about how soft your hair looked, how it seemed to glow in the dim archive lighting. It reminded him of sunlight filtering through clouds—an image both soothing and strange in its sudden intimacy.

“You’re up early,” he said, breaking the silence as you scribbled notes onto a datapad.

“So are you,” you countered without looking up.

“I always am,” he replied simply.

You let out a soft chuckle, one he rarely heard from you. “Guess I am too, now.”

Dan Heng hummed, leaning back in his chair slightly as he continued to watch you from the corner of his eye. For someone so consumed by work, you rarely let anything distract you. Yet, in this moment, he found himself wishing you would notice his gaze, even if it might fluster him.

He frowned slightly at himself, refocusing on his work. “You should take better care of yourself,” he murmured after a pause, his tone softer this time.

That caught your attention. You glanced up at him, eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”

“Your hair,” he said, gesturing vaguely with his hand. “It’s... frizzy.”

You blinked, momentarily surprised. Then a small laugh escaped you. “What are you, my stylist now?”

Dan Heng’s ears turned faintly pink, though his expression remained stoic. “I’m just saying... it looks softer than usual,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You should wear it down more often.”

You froze, the pen in your hand hovering over your notes. “What?”

“It suits you,” he added quickly, almost reluctantly, before turning his attention fully back to his scroll, as if the conversation had already ended.

For a moment, you stared at him, caught off-guard. Dan Heng wasn’t one for compliments—or conversation, for that matter—so his comment felt oddly personal.

A faint warmth crept into your chest, though you quickly dismissed it, shaking your head and returning to your work. “I’ll... keep that in mind,” you said quietly, your voice softer than before.

In the silence that followed, the two of you continued your respective tasks, though an unspoken understanding lingered in the air. Dan Heng stole another glance at you, his expression unreadable but his thoughts a quiet storm.

Perhaps mornings in the archives weren’t so quiet after all.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the ravenous rupture

fused with the foe, chapter five

a/n: and that's it for fused with the foe! but don't you worry, our wonderful king and queen will return in both of the next instalments of the series ♡ (the release date for the next one is already up on the masterlist)

summary: “I don’t want you to think we have to have a conventional marriage, gods know we haven’t so far,” he added with a tilt of his head, “so, I just wanted to convey to you that if you ever want to be with someone else, at any degree, then you have my full support to do so.” 

warnings: king!steve rogers x reader, smut, fantasy AU (monsters, but not much magic), original fantasy world, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, slow burn, innocent!reader, love confession, crying, kissing, loss of virginity, semi-public sex, manhandling, size kink, belly bulge, dirty talk, oral, fingering, handjob, pussyjob, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, aftercare

word count: 3895

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

previous chapter | series masterlist

info about the world | maps | pinterest board | playlist

masterlist | join my taglist

Raising yourself up onto your tip toes, your fingertip still didn’t even manage to graze the spine of the tome you were trying to reach, only the tall shelf it stood on. 

But just then, before you could turn to get a chair to balance on, an inked hand came into view and grasped the book for you. 

“The Biology of Soil: A Farmer’s Comprehensive Study of Dirt,” Barnes dryly read the title out loud, “sounds absolutely riveting.”

“Don’t mock,” you snatched the leatherbound tome out of the knight’s hand, “it is interesting!”

“Of course, it is, your majesty,” he bit down a chuckle, “my apologies.”

A soft laugh couldn’t help but bubble out of you as you exited the library, “you know, you remind me a lot of my brothers.”

Walking at your side, he shot you a squint, “is that a compliment?”

“Well, I meant it as so, but I guess it could also be interpreted as an insult, all depending on which brother.”

Sinking further back into the plush armchair, your eyes danced from star to star as they glinted back at you through the big library window. 

The full moon was so bright that you hadn’t needed to light a candle in order to make out the sentences in the open book that rested in your lap. 

But suddenly, the creak of the heavy double doors to the chamber found your ears and when you twisted your head to discover who it was, your frame immediately sprung up from your comfortable seat. The forgotten tome tumbled to the floor with a dull thump as the embroidered dressing gown you wore over your ivory chemise fluttered around your legs as you swiftly stood.

“Your majesty–, Steve, I mean, Steve,” you clumsily corrected yourself, “hi, hello.”

“Evening,” he simply smiled, slowing his stride as he watched you bend down to pick the hardback off the floor. 

Hugging the book to your chest, you blew out a breath, “what–, uh…” you eyed the loose linen shirt he had sloppily tugged into his trousers, “what are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he shrugged, “thought a boring novel might do the trick,” letting his fingertips kiss the ends of each bookcase as he neared you by the window, “what about you?”

“Yeah, I can’t sleep either,” a soft sigh flowed from your lips, “my mind just doesn’t seem to wanna settle down these days…”

A gentle furrow appeared to Steve’s brow, “what’s troubling you?”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” you placed the book down on the round side table by the armchair. 

“If it’s keeping you up then it’s not nothing,” gripping the tall back of the chair, he rested against it as he gazed at your visage in the moonlight, “come on, you can talk to me.”

The knot in your chest tightened, “no, I can’t,” and you averted your gaze to the stone floor, “I really can’t…”

“Why?” 

“Because–…” clenching your jaw in an effort to keep tears at bay, you briefly shot him a glare as you snapped, “because I just can’t, alright?” squeezing your eyes shut, you quietly muttered just beneath your breath, “gods… how long will I have to wait…” 

Having apparently had better hearing than you’d thought, Steve then queried, “wait for what?”

Fluttering your eyes back open, you met his gaze and uttered sombrely, “…for it to pass…” feeling your heart thump painfully in your chest just from the mere sight of him. 

A low sigh slowly seeped out of his lungs before his unwavering gaze averted to the upholstery of the chair, “…I hope you know that I’ve grown to care for you a great deal. You’re a very dear friend,” he uttered with the utmost sincerity, “and as a dear friend, I wish for you nothing but the purest of happiness. I want you to experience all of the great and wonderful things that life has to offer,” his ocean eyes then drifted back up to catch yours, “don’t let our union hold you back for any of that.”

Sucking in a breath, you asked, “what do you mean?”

“I don’t want you to think we have to have a conventional marriage, gods know we haven’t so far,” he added with a tilt of his head, “so, I just wanted to convey to you that if you ever want to be with someone else, at any degree, then you have my full support to do so.” 

Averting your gaze, “…is that what you want?” you dug your nails into your opposite palm, “for us both to openly be with other people?”

“I don’t want you to be lonely and depressed,” fragments of desperation resonated in his tone, “you’ve already experienced more than one lifetime of hardships and I really don’t want this to be another one. So, when you fall in love, please don’t hesitate. You of all people deserve to experience that.” 

“…I–…” a shaky breath escaped you, “I can’t–…”

“…you can’t?” he echoed in nearly a whisper. 

“I can’t because–…” lifting your gaze, the library around you grew more blurry by the second, “because I can’t stop thinking about you,” you revealed, “from the moment that I wake to even the dreams that possess me at night. I can not shake you from my thoughts no matter how hard I try,” as you blinked, a tear escaped and rolled down your cheek, “Steve, I wish for you to experience those very joys you speak of just as fiercely. I just want you to be happy even if I’m not the source.”

Looking as if he was scarcely breathing at all, his gaze stayed fixed upon you as he uttered, “dove, why do you think I wish that for you?” your eyes grew wide at his confession, “I don’t wanna be with someone else when you are the one I want by my side,” his fingers faltered from the grip they had on the back of the armchair as his slow steps began to carry him closer to where you stood, “not just as my queen, but as my friend, as my conscience, as my judgement, as my heart,” his eyes glistened as he then declared, “I am yours, Y/n. I didn’t plan for it, I don’t even know when it happened or how, but I do know that it’s true.”

Closing the short distance that remained, you walked up and pulled him down as you began to rise up to your tip toes. As you crashed your lips against his, it didn’t take long before you felt his broad hands glide over your waist. 

Breaking the kiss, you retracted just enough to catch the beguiling look in his eye. The corners of his lips drew up dreamily just as yours did right before you dove back in.

As your fingers weaved in his beard, so did his tongue as it danced against your own, making you lightheaded as your feet began to shuffle back, though you didn’t realise that you’d even been moving till your spine crashed against a sturdy bookcase. 

Parting momentarily at the impact, a soft giggle swiftly followed your initial squeak the collision conjured. As his gentle chuckle echoed your own, Steve’s palm caressed down your features before he captured your lips once more. 

When the fire inside of you crackled and burned too hot for you to ignore, you pulled back, a glossy string of saliva still kept you connected a moment before you gasped, “Steve, I–… I–…”

Resting his palms over yours as they clutched the top of his tunic, he tilted his chin back further, “what?” creating enough of a distance between you to truly check in. 

But how you were going to ask of him what you desired remained a mystery, no matter how hard you scrambled your fuzzy mind. So instead, you wrapped your fingers around one of his wrists and slowly guided it lower. 

“Dove…” he sucked in a breath as his gaze shadowed the journey you were taking his touch on, “do you wanna–…” finding your eye, he asked you softly, “you sure you know what it is you’re asking for?” 

“Yes,” swiftly flowed out of you as you nodded dizzily, “I–… I know. I read the books, I read all of them, I know how it all works,” your rushed words conjured a lovely little chuckle from the royal, “I just–… please?” your hot breathed fanned across his features as he leaned back in close, “I–… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you…” with your fingers still enveloped around his wrist, his touch slowly began to take over and to move on its own, “fantasising about what you might be like…” unhurriedly ghosting up and down the curve of your waist, “about what your touch must feel like…” each time creeping closer and closer to where you wished for him to caress, “how it differs compared to my own…” till his teasing touch ended each fluttering swoop with feather-light grazes at both the swell of your tits, as well as the lower part of your abdomen, just before he actually reached anything real, through still leaving you utterly dazed. 

Leaning a forearm against the shelf behind you, he smirked, “…you think about me?” 

“Every night,” you dug your fingers in the fabric of your chemise and pleadingly began to hike it up, “sometimes the sun doesn’t even manage to set before I need a moment alone… all because of you.”

As he then captured your lips in a fierce kiss, his wandering hand dipped under your thin shift before you’d even raised the hem completely. When his touch found your buzzing pearl, a whimper slipped from your lungs and vibrated against his tongue as your grip on the fabric faltered and it dropped to hang around his wrist like a curtain.

“Is this how you dreamed about me touching you?” he gazed down at you, smiling at the way you struggled to keep your eyes open. 

Mind melting to ooze, you bubbled, “yes–, but also–, oh!” your brows knit together as he switched to circle your clit harder, “a-also–”

“Also how?” you could hear your want reverberate off the palace walls as he touched you, “did you dream about me kissing you down here?” holding your gaze, Steve then sank to his knees before you. 

Your breaths came in ragged as you blinked down at him, “y-yes,” watching intently as he dipped his head under your gathered-up skirts. The sloppy pecks he then lavishly began to plant over your glistening petals felt like nothing you’d ever imagined, “oh, that’s–,” you let out a broken moan, “don’t stop, please don’t stop!”

Throwing your head back against the bookcase, Steve’s grip buried in your crumbled clothes as his soft tongue dragged through your desperation. 

Letting go of your chemise with one hand, it drifted down your hip. Enclosing his lips around your throbbing clit, he sucked down hard as his fingers joined to sweep through your mess, only parting from you for a breath, “gods, you taste so fucking good,” before he eased one digit inside your clenching cunt. 

You barely noticed that it was falling before the robe you wore slipped off your frame and tumbled to a puddle on the floor, leaving you with only the thin shift and the king’s hot kisses for warmth in the cold night. 

“I can’t believe this is actually happening,” you whimpered, reaching down to thread your fingers in his honied hair as a second finger sneaked in beside the other, fucking you gently with them. 

You nearly wiggled out of his grasp when his luscious laps unravelled you completely, but somehow the monarch managed to follow your every squirm till he softened his efforts and replaced them with a few soft pecks over your sensitive clit that made your whole form twitch.

Fluttering your eyes open, you met his gaze as he raised the back of his hand to wipe some of your juices from his beard. 

Breathlessly, you uttered, “get up,” and as he did, you didn’t waste any time before your eyes drifted from his tender stare, “take your shirt off.” 

With one hand, he reached back and tugged the tunic off of his head, swiftly letting it drop to the floor and join the fabric puddle already at your feet. 

For a moment, he didn’t give in on his urge to close the short distance between you, simply stood there and let your stare study him, learn the galaxy of his flesh, every little mark and scar that told the story of his past. 

With your eyes still glued to the burliness of his fuzzy chest, you uttered, “tell me again,” before lifting your gaze up to meet his, “tell me again so that I know this is real.”

Reaching out to grasp your right hand, he said, “it’s real,” stepping closer as he placed your ceremonially scarred palm over his heart, “I’m real, this is real,” his fingers on his own marked hand, which clasped over yours, gently brushed over your knuckles as he spoke, “I am yours,” he shifted again and closed the small gap between you, “I will always be yours till my dying breath.”

Sucking in a shaky breath, you watched as the moonlight glinted in the blue of his eyes, making them look like the sea on a stormy night. 

“I think my heart has belonged to you ever since the dragon attack,” you professed, “though it took me a while longer before I realised what it was, why you made me feel the way that you do,” you parted your fingers against his chest, “Steve,” and let his weave in with your own, “I love you.”

Using his hold as an advantage, Steve yanked you to him till your lips crashed against his. Letting your free hand wander across his warm skin, it swiftly came down to cup the palpable tent in his trousers.

“Fuck…” he groaned lowly as you offered him a light pet. 

As you shifted to fiddle after the buttons on the side of his breeches, even the aid of your other hand didn’t yield any success in undoing more than one of them. Swiftly coming to your rescue, you swore it only took him three seconds before they hung loose enough around his hips for his cock to spring free.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe as you glanced down at length which stood so proud it poked you in the stomach. If only you had the proper context to truly know how intimidated you should have been at the discovery of his fat girth. 

Hesitantly inching your fingers closer as you stared, you asked, “can I–…?”

“Mhm,” he hummed as he slowly brought your hand the rest of the way down, engulfing his own grasp around yours and gently showing you how to touch him. 

As a sinful curse flowed from Steve’s lips, his free hand drifted up to weave itself into your hair. 

“Will it hurt?” you watched how your fingers failed to meet on the other side of his girth. 

“I don’t know, I hope not,” his forehead rested against your own, “but if it does, then we just stop and figure something else out, okay?”

“Okay…” you hazily nodded. 

Feeling his fingers flex around your own, you saw precum glint at the bulbous tip. 

“It’s all for you, dove,” you felt him throb at your touch, “all because of you,” a desperate growl then seeped out of his lungs as he seized your lips in a fervent kiss, and the next thing you knew, the whole world fell out from under you as he scooped you up into his arms. When a shrill yelp escaped you, Steve simply readjusted his grip on you and said, “don’t worry, I’ve got you,” nipping gently at your neck, “I won’t let you fall.”

With your fingers still grasping his girth, the new position now had your pussy pressed dangerously close to it, so close that you couldn’t help but sweep the head of his cock through your soppy folds and drench him. Tapping your clit a few times, the instinctual drive of his hips triggered you to simply cup his length near and let him part your pretty petals and lather himself in your needy nectar. Each desperate thrust ended in an electric nudge at your pearl, rendering you to whimper shakily into the night. 

But then suddenly, in the fog of it all, the very tip of him caught your entrance and slipped inside, purely because of just how wet and ready you were. 

“O-oh, fuck!” everything froze as you reeled at the staggering sensation, breathlessly digging your nails into his broad shoulders and leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake.

“Sorry,” he hastily panted, “you okay?”

“Uh–… uh-huh,” you nodded fuzzily, shutting your eyes a moment as you caught your breath. 

But then as your gaze fluttered open once more, you caught his stare and offered him a short, affirming nod, holding his eye as he slowly began to move. 

Your mouth hung agape as he shallowly fucked you, barely even giving you anything but still turning you into goo in his grasp. 

“Y-you’re so beautiful,” you whispered as you fluttered around him. 

Gliding you’re your palm up to his cheek, moans tumbled out of you both as he gently began to offer you more. Your legs couldn’t help but twitch in his grasp as he practically split you in half with the way he eased you down on his fat cock. 

“You’re doing so well,” his face crumbled up in a silent moan as you felt every detail of him slowly stretch you out, “gods, you’re so wet…”

And the next thing you knew, it wasn’t so slow and steady any longer, as the bookcase your spine was pressed against rattled at his efforts. 

You thought before that just the bulbous head of him was overwhelming, but to have that tip kiss desperately against the deepest part of you was something else entirely. You couldn’t speak, you couldn't think, you could barely even breathe, just go slack in his firm hold and feel him, not just right there, but fucking everywhere, that’s how stuffed you were. 

Steve’s strength wasn’t that novel to you these days, but to have him lift you up and sink you down on his cock, like you were just a leaf on the wind, still managed to amaze you. 

“F-fuck,” you blubbered as you tumbled over the edge once more, “oh, fuck!” accidentally knocking a few books down as one of your arms flailed for purchase. 

You barely registered the loud thud the crashing books emanated as your frame melted down into his hold. Your face buried itself in the crook of his neck as he breathlessly came to a halt, still embedded deep inside of your clenching cunt. 

The sound of his breaths directly in your ear helped to soothe your tingling senses as he rested his cheek against the crown of your head. 

Shifting his feet, Steve carried you the short distance over to the comfortable armchair you’d inhabited earlier. Carefully sitting down in it and keeping you in his lap, his arms silkily slid up your back and hugged you close. 

After persuading you to curl out of your hiding spot by planting soft pecks all over your face, you blinked down at him, bathed in the moonlight that gushed in from the tall window beside where you sat.

Gliding a hand around to your front, Steve gently tugged on the thin string at your neckline, undoing the bow, before he pulled the shoulders down your arms till you slid out of the sleeves and the top of the undergarment crumbled to gather at your waist with the rest of the fabric. 

As he pressed his lips to the peak of your tits, one of his palms accompanied the kisses. A soft whine flowed out of you as your hand slid down to where your bodies were still joined and played with your puffy pearl. 

Casting a glance down, he groaned, “yeah, rub that little clit for me,” and your hips intuitively began to rock gently. 

As you touched yourself, something else caught your attention as you slowly began to ride him. At the lower part of your stomach, you felt the dull bulge of his staggering size poke your palm steadily to the rhythm of your gentle efforts.

Letting your pebbly nipple escape from his lips with a pop, his gravelly timbre washed over you as you slowly rocked, “that’s it, fuck–,” his grip slid down to be firm on your ass, “that’s my girl.”

Abruptly, as if snapping out of a trance, you notice just how loud you both were being.

“Wait,” you shushed him though didn’t halt your hips motions, “we’re in the library, someone could hear us!”

“Then fucking let them hear us,” his fingers dug into your ass as he desperately took over and bounced you in his lap, manhandling you as he slammed you down on his cock hard enough for you to lose your breath, “no one would dare bother us, trust me.”

And before you knew it, your cunt clamped down one last time around his cock, hard enough to halt his efforts and milk him of all of his worth. 

Weakly letting his dick slip out, your skin was practically glued to his as you plastered yourselves to each other and you sensed his hot load slowly leaked out of your sensitive hole. 

As you listened to his heartbeat slowly return to normal and your heavy lids fought to stay open, a thought entered your mind. 

“Hey, Steve?”

Shifting his arms around you, his soft hum washed over you, “hm?”

Keeping your voice low, you shared, “I don’t wanna sleep alone tonight…” but to your surprise, a gentle chuckle then rumbled in his chest, “what?” you lifted your head and blinked up at him, “why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just­­–,” he smiled, gazing down at you as if Zondür himself had divinely created you especially for him, “you really think I’d let you skip off to your room alone after all of that, like it never even happened?” 

Huffing out a short giggle, you lowered your glance, “well, when you put it like that…”

“Yes,” he pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, “if you want me to sleep beside you, I will,” rising from his comfortable seat, he readjusted his grip on you, twisting you to him as he hooked an arm behind your knees and at your back. As he carried you close, he began to lumber out of the library and down the hallway, concurring the short distance to where your chambers lied, “my queen, I would love nothing more for the rest of my days than to fall asleep with your head on my chest and wake up to your softness arching against me…”

Flexing your fingers around his neck, you raised yourself up enough to capture his lips in a tender kiss one last time just as he kicked your bedroom door shut behind you both.

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble