#but then he never claimed to be a brave man did he | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

angelshadowsinger · 2 years ago

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𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Azriel x f!reader

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.8k

𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐲: smut, & a lil dosage of fluff at the end

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬:

dirty talk, heavyyy praise kink, oral(f receiving), implied size kink, light breeding kink, creampie, cum play, a little overstim, Az is a fuckin freak, sweeeeet aftercare 💗

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:

Azriel hears that no one has ever made you orgasm before, and makes it his mission to show you what you've been missing... again and again.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞:

y'all this is narstyyyyy nasty... as in, absolute filth. literal prawn. the most detailed smut i have ever written... probably too much detail. be warned.

･゜゜・．｡･゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･．｡･゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･

ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇ: ʙʏ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇʟᴏᴡ ꜱɪᴘʜᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴇʀᴛɪꜰʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀ 18 ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪɴᴏʀ. ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ᴍᴀʏ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴ ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ.

･゜゜・．｡･゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･．｡･゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･

“I dunno, I’ve just… never been able to finish when I’m with a guy,” you shrugged, nonchalant.

Mor’s jaw was on the floor, her big brown eyes filled with horror. She gasped, “A man has never made you cum?”

You reached across the wide oak table and slapped her arm roughly. “Would you shut up before every citizen of Velaris hears you??”

It had been quite a while since you’d lost your virginity, and after you’d run through a couple partners, you’d come to accept the fact that a man would never deliver that finishing, white hot ecstasy to you. But the way your friend had said it like such sacrilege made you embarrassed, a flush creeping up your ears.

“It’s fine, it’s not like I’ve never come in general,” you went on a bit too quickly, like you had to explain yourself. “It’s just that if I’m with somebody, and I wanna finish, then I have to�� do it myself.”

“Gods,” Mor sat back, finishing the final sip of her— how many was that again?— umpteenth glass of wine. “This is why I prefer women.”

You stifled the laugh that nearly escaped. “I wish I could share that sentiment. Sadly…,” you sighed, “Penis is what does it for me.”

“Apparently not,” Mor whispered under her breath, going to sip more from her cup, but it was already empty.

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed the open bottle, ready to pour her another— but nothing came out. The two of you blinked at the empty glass, slow to register what that meant exactly.

“Welp. Should we start taking shots, then?” She asked with concerning sincerity.

You were quick to shoot her down. “Um, no thanks. I'd rather not feel like complete death at training in—” you glanced at the clock above the hearth, “six hours.”

Mor’s expression turned sour, as did yours. Six hours was certainly not enough time for your tipsiness to wear off completely, especially since wine had been your choice of poison for the night. “Fucking cauldron. Guess we should call it a night,” she groaned, dragging her pretty hands across her face.

The House cleaned away your glasses and the numerous empty wine bottles and corks that littered the surrounding area. You thanked it, stroking the table briefly as Mor trudged off, wanting to take a minute to yourself and maybe have some tea to relax before bed. You were completely unaware of the shadowy figure that was frozen around the kitchen corner, having heard every word of your secret confession.

Azriel stood in silent contemplation behind the doorway. He did not believe in fate, or destiny, or whatever crock of nonsense others would claim ruled their lives, but… was it not a sign that he had been walking into the kitchen for a late night sweet, only to stumble upon you spilling drunken secrets? It was rare to find anyone else up as late as him, and it would be a lie if he claimed he wandered out of his chambers tonight solely in search of a snack.

The two of you were quite close friends, but there was something more there that neither of you were brave enough to acknowledge. Lingering glances, teasing flirtation that always went a bit too far, the easy back and forth you volleyed with your sarcastic, dry comments. Yes, somehow the shadowsinger had found himself wrapped around your little finger, yet again enamored with a beautiful lady friend who did not return his interest.

Except you did.

Azriel was too blind to know it; too doubtful, too hard on himself to believe you would really want him. But that did not stop him from thinking about you every time he fisted his cock in the long, solitary hours of the night.

Everyone else in the circle could see it plain as day— in fact, Mor was perhaps the most eager proponent of them all. And perhaps she was a bad friend for allowing you to spill that sultry, enticing secret when she was aware that the shadowsinger who loved you now idled within earshot. Perhaps she was even worse for leaving in a hurry, a smirk on her lips and her fingers crossed as she skipped off to her room.

You remained at the large wooden table, unaware that the man who ruled your fantasies was just around the corner. He was silent and still as possible, battling himself with whether he should sneak off and never breathe a word of this, or if he should join you and take the risk. His shadows reported to him from the other corner of the room, informing that you were now sipping tea and looking gorgeous as ever, clad in a tight, sparkly evening dress that you had worn to the club that Mor had taken you to earlier that night.

Azriel stepped out from his hiding place.

You jumped— even with your fae hearing and so many hours spent with your friend, you never adjusted to how sneaky the spymaster could be. He emerged from the darkness of the kitchen, donned in gray sweats that hung low on his hips, exposing a glorious stripe of tanned, hard muscle that you stared at shamelessly. The white t-shirt that stretched across his broad chest was criminal, and you had to actively avert your eyes from burning into his visage, finally forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

But Azriel was looking at you, too, taking in how your dress flawlessly hugged your every curve, the expanse of your arms and décolletage that laid bare in the sleeveless, sweetheart ensemble. He noted the matching heels that were kicked haphazardly underneath your seat, the hair now falling from the clip you’d pinned at the beginning of the night, your slightly glazed expression. A small smirk graced his lips.

“Az!” You sighed, a hand on your chest, “How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me like that?”

The Illyrian only shrugged, approaching slowly. “How many times do I have to tell you to work on your awareness? Always take note of your surroundings?” He quipped back easily, coming to stand beside you. He was so tall that you had to crane your neck to look up at him, and you motioned for him to take the seat that Mor had vacated only minutes earlier.

You play-scowled as he obliged, only replying once he was sat, his large wings tucking in behind broad shoulders. “And why would I do that, when one of your shadows is always watching for me?”

Azriel’s hazel eyes widened, a faint blush tinging his cheeks. You wished you could commission Feyre to paint that expression— you loved how boyish it made him look, how cute. But he quickly recovered, that measured mask of cool returning to his handsome face. “You should be flattered. They seem to take interest in you.”

“Hmm,” you feigned thought, rolling your eyes to then land on him and bat your lashes, “Just them that are interested?”

The shadowsinger couldn’t contain his grin. Flirting with you was just too easy, and he loved when you looked at him like this, gave him all your attention. It never led anywhere, anyway— so really, it was harmless… right? He chose not to respond, shrugging and taking a sip of the teacup that the House had conjured for him.

You huffed, displeased. Azriel was always the one to cut your flirting short, only entertaining you to the point where you weren’t sure if he was just playing with you or if there was actually some sincerity in his antics. It was fittingly mysterious of him, and undeniably irritating. You decided you weren’t going to have any of that tonight, the remnants of your liquid courage just enough to push you a step further than you would otherwise go.

“Az, tell me—,” you crossed your arms over the table and leaned toward the spymaster who took another sip of tea, nodding for you to go on. It took every ounce of the male’s willpower to not drop his gaze to your cleavage that was now pressed onto the tabletop, squished between your arms. “— Have you ever made a girl come?”

Azriel spit out the hot liquid, wings going rigid behind his back and his scarred fingers clutching the tiny cup in his palm. You examined the fresh line of tea that was sprayed onto the table, slightly amused as the House began to clean it away. But you continued on, determined to get an answer.

“I’ve heard you have a long list of lovers, surely you know how to do it?”

The Illyrian’s cheeks were now a bright red, the most obvious display of emotion you’d ever seen from him. “What—” he stuttered, still shocked that you had really just asked him that. “—Who told you that?”

You frowned, tilting your head in your hands, elbows sliding out further onto the table. “I asked first,” you pouted, taking a sip from your cup.

The male fumbled for words. True, he had heard your conversation with Mor and yes, he did make the choice to come in and sit down with you but never would he have expected you to ask him such a thing, so outright, so brazen.

“…I have,” he finally replied, slightly hiding behind his cup. You’d never seen the shadowsinger look so timid; it was endearing.

“But how do you know you really did?” You queried, looking at him curiously. “I mean— girls can fake it, so how do you really know?”

Azriel seemed offended at your insinuation. But he only pursed his lips and said, “My question…?”

You clicked your tongue and answered, “Cassian and his big mouth. And then Rhys with his… And maybe Mor at some point as well.”

His face contorted into a scowl, shadows coming to lick at his shoulders. But he decided to save his revenge for later, instead meeting your inquisitive gaze and deciding that your intention was not to slander him. “I am almost certain that my partners have never faked completion,” was all the explanation he gave.

“But how do you know—”

“Do you fake a lot of orgasms, Y/N?” Azriel shot back, his turn to pose the picture of nonchalance as he leaned on one elbow, hand on his cheek.

Your cheeks burst into flames. “W-What? No— I—”

The shadowsinger smirked at your flustered babbling. He was tempted to poke at you some more but took pity, instead savoring how cute you looked when you were embarrassed. But you couldn’t find the strength to answer, so he went on to fill the silence.

“If a man cannot make you finish, you should move on and find someone who can,” he said calmly, studying your bashful gaze that was now fixed on the table before you.

You sat up, removing your arms from the table so you could cross them over your chest, guarding yourself. It was your choice to enter this conversation but now it was getting a little too real, and your mortification was getting worse by the minute as Azriel’s steady hazel eyes were pinned to your every movement.

“Yeah…,” you agreed. In theory, his advice was all good and well, but there was no way that it would be that easy. “That’s hard to find, though.”

Azriel gauged your expression, wondering if he should admit he heard your earlier confession to Mor. But you seemed so embarrassed, he didn’t want to make you any more uncomfortable.

“Is there, like, a class you took or something? Maybe you can introduce me to one of your fellow classmates,” you attempted a joke, but the shadowsinger’s gaze only hardened, the corner of his lip twitching in distaste.

Jealousy and possessiveness swirled in his gut, not liking that you had just asked him to set you up— even if you had only meant it as a joke. You were not his, yet your faux request rubbed him the wrong way.

But the slightly hurt look you were giving him now was enough to wipe away any ill emotion that had briefly bloomed. “Just kidding…,” you murmured, fingering the handle of your now-empty tea cup.

Azriel fought to find the words that could navigate him through this strange situation. If only somehow he could reassure you, offer his services, but not ruin your friendship, nor come off creepy.

He took too long, because you rose, excusing yourself, “I think I better get to sleep.” Your cup disappeared and you quietly thanked the house, turning away from the male and heading toward the bedrooms.

The spymaster stood as well, following you down the hall. Both your rooms were at the very end of the walkway, meaning he at least had another minute of your time. His heart beat quickly in his chest, desperate to smooth things over with you, desperate for however much longer he could get with you. “I did not take a class,” he said, matching your pace.

You shot him an inquisitive look over your shoulder.

“One of the marks of a true man is to be able to fully pleasure a lady.”

You laughed, pausing so that you could walk by his side. “So you think of yourself as a true man? What is that supposed to mean?”

Azriel smirked, glad that your disposition seemed a little looser. “It means, I’ve had five hundred years to cultivate my skills.”

“Riiight, with your countless lovers,” you quipped, a little smirk growing on your lips.

A scarred hand pushed you gently, just hard enough to let you know he didn’t appreciate such accusations— even if they held some truth. Those gorgeous hazel eyes rolled as he clicked his tongue, about to shoot something back when you arrived at your door.

You didn’t reach for the handle though, instead turning to look up at him as your back brushed against the sturdy wood of your threshold. “Thanks for all your—,” you blushed, gaze fleeting, “insight.”

Dark brows furrowed at you. You had said it in such a meek little voice, your hands wringing with anxiety. It was easy for him to read your body language, but also, his earlier eavesdropping had cued him in more than you knew. Even though your conversation had made him seem like the one with all the expertise, his heart was slamming wildly against his ribs, tanned cheeks feeling hot. Somehow the spymaster managed to keep his composure and dared to take the leap.

“May I ask why you are so curious all of a sudden, little dove?” He said, a gleam in his gaze. “Would you like for me to prove myself to you?”

You chuckled, shocked, unbelieving. “That joke is deplorable— I think you’ve been spending too much time with Cassian lately. ”

Usually a jab at his brother would make the shadowsinger bark out a laugh, but he remained stoic, looking down at you with profound intensity. The two of you stared at each other, and you found yourself unable to look away. There was always something about Azriel that drew you to him, and in that moment, as he leaned a hand against the door behind you and filled your senses with the scent of cedar and crisp, chilled night…

His gaze flicked down to your lips.

You studied his, the full, soft pink calling to you.

Azriel could barely find the strength to resist kissing you, his face only inches from yours. The sweet, fresh smell of you was so devastatingly strong with such a short distance between you, and the way you were looking at him… he swore he could discern hunger in your beautiful, captivating gaze…

“Do you want that to be a joke, Y/N?” he murmured, warm breath washing over your cheek. The tip of his nose just barely scraped yours, another muscular arm coming to trap the other side of your body so he had you right up against the door with no escape. “I did not intend for it to be, but if that’s what pleases you…”

You looked at him with wide eyes, a shiver running through you. A new scent greeted your nose, and your lips parted as you took it in, your body shamelessly eating up the smell of his growing desire.

The shadowsinger licked his lips, gaze piercing yours as he detected the beginnings of a similar, honeyed scent emitting from you. There was no going back now, he decided. He was closer to you than ever, and he couldn’t pretend he could find satisfaction in you both returning alone to your rooms, not tonight. He dared to caress your jaw, the smooth skin a contrast to the rough texture of his scars.

“It’s your pleasure I seek, always…,” he said, and you held your breath, unblinking as you beheld his astounding beauty up close. “I only aim to please you… will you allow me to?”

Permission— he was asking permission. You could barely think; was he serious? Azriel was not the type to fool about things of such gravity… If this was some cruel joke…

Before you could give it much thought, your mouth was already moving. “Yes,” you breathed, answering him so quietly it was nearly inaudible, “Please, Azriel…”

The Illyrian’s brow twitched and he shuddered. He leaned down lower, lower— big, gentle hands coming to brace the small of your back and the nape of your neck, a thumb slipping along your jaw to point your face up to his… slowly, slow enough to give you the chance to change your mind… You leaned forward, eyelids fluttering shut. Another second went by and then, he kissed you.

Time stopped, and everything else faded away.

His lips pressed against yours and your arms wove around his neck, every place your skin touched exploding with sparks. The smell of him and his desire overwhelmed your senses, your knees weakening as he claimed your mouth with his, pressing you against him harder, hungrier.

You were snug between the door and his broad, powerful body. His hands squeezed at your hips, then slid down to your ass and lifted you effortlessly, your legs securing around his waist. The small friction of your core rubbing against his abs through your clothes was enough to make you gasp for breath.

Azriel seized the opportunity, his tongue coasting into your mouth without caution. The slick muscle wrestled with yours and you pulled at his hair, savoring the quiet moan that spilled onto your lips. You wanted more— to explore more of his skin, discover more of those sounds… Wordlessly the shadowsinger came to the same realization, fumbling with the door handle and tucking the two of you into the privacy of your room.

Your hair fanned out onto the pillows as the male deposited you on your bed, muscled thighs coming to part your legs and settle himself on his forearms above you, lips never leaving yours. It felt unreal to be consumed in the shadowsinger’s kiss, to have his hard body pressed up against yours and your hearts pounding together in harmony.

He felt the same, hardly believing you were really here beneath him, your small hands caressing his arms and his neck, fingernails digging into the meat of his shoulders and curling into his thick onyx locks. Finally he tore his mouth from yours, panting, studying your breathless form under him. “You are so gorgeous,” he praised, licking his kiss-bitten lips, hazel eyes ablaze as he examined the valley of your breasts. Before he leaned closer, he whispered, “Your safe word is moonlight, should you want to stop at any time.”

Though you didn’t plan on using it, you appreciated the consideration… and you wondered just what the male had in mind that might require such a precaution. But he captured your attention once more and you murmured his name as he moved to trail his tongue down your jaw and nibble at your throat, slowly making his way to plant open-mouthed kisses on your exposed cleavage. He pawed at the top of your dress, taking his time as he memorized the taste of your skin, tugging the material down. Your breasts spilled out for his eager mouth to immediately greet, soft lips capturing a nipple and his tongue rolling over it while his fingers found the other. Instinctively your hips bucked up against his, pleasure tickling you as he gave all his attention to your chest, grinding his aching cock into the mattress below.

Teeth grazed the sensitive nub and a moan escaped you at full volume, your cheeks burning when a ravenous glint met the shadowsinger’s eye. With just one swift look you knew he would do anything in his power to elicit more of those sounds from you, and your excitement only bloomed further as a hand slid up the slit in your dress, rough fingers raising goosebumps on your now-exposed thigh.

He kept busy as he explored your chest, sucking and kissing the swell of your breasts. The slow trail of his fingers up your thigh had you clenching in anticipation, whining when the digits brushed the lace edge of your dampening panties.

“Az, wait,” you huffed, causing the male to release your breasts, his warm gaze coming to inspect your face. Even though it was an embarrassing admission, for some reason you felt the need to inform him of your predicament. “I um— I’ve never… No one has ever been able to…”

Hazel pierced into you from his lower position on the bed, his broad shoulders steady and wings taut behind his back. He finished your sentence for you, ceasing your struggle, “…make you cum?”

Just hearing him say it made your soul want to leave your body, and you shut your eyes, nodding, wishing you could just skip this part. A gentle hand cupped the corner of your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek with such tenderness that you dared to meet his gaze.

“I’m honored to be the first,” Azriel stated, unwavering as he looked deep into your eyes. His own were peering into you, the gold in his irises seeming to shine even in the dark of the room.

Your mouth opened to protest that he lower his expectations, but his thumb pressed into your parted lips and the words died in your throat. There was sheer determination in the look he was giving you— promise.

“Don’t think,” he whispered, his other hand coming to pull you down the sheets, back flat on the duvet and now squarely underneath his entirety. His toned body dwarfed yours and his ability to maneuver you with such ease made something distinctly female stir deep inside of you. “Just relax and focus on me. Focus on how my hands feel on you, my lips…”

A mewl escaped you as he leaned down to kiss the hollow of your neck, your head turning into the blanket while he left his mark on your throat. Your hips squirmed and his own pressed down in response, the hard length of him reaching for you through his sweats. The heat that resonated there made you dizzy, a fresh wave of desire pulsing through your pussy as he rutted against it.

The Illyrian’s groan rumbled across your skin, and he sank lower, again taking your breast into his mouth, an elbow digging into the mattress to hold himself up and curl a large hand around the back of your waist. The other wandered up your dress again, this time his fingers immediately cupping your core through your soaked underwear.

A string of quiet moans floated from your lips as his fingertips began to map your dripping cunt through the soiled material. The firm press of his digits against your entrance teased you until they wandered up to slowly rub your clit, his teeth grazing at your nipple. You whimpered, face twisting in ecstasy. Already the shadowsinger was making you feel better than anyone else had, and you weren’t even fully undressed.

At the realization, you fisted the cotton of his shirt. He complied instantly, ripping the article off of him with no issue, and you watched as the tattered cloth was swallowed by the shadows that danced at the foot of the bed. You then took in the sight before you, mouth watering at his utterly male form— the tan, lean muscle that tapered from his wide shoulders to his narrow waist, the contours and bulges that made his long hours of training evident, black ink melding perfectly with the straight planes and dipping down under the hem of his sweats.

Your fingers wandered on their own accord to splay across his broad chest, tracing the tattoos that laid there and thumbing over his nipples. That bit a low moan from the male, and he leaned down and captured your lips once more, tongue dominating yours. His hands disappeared behind your back and suddenly the zip down your back was undone, the material slipping down your sides. You helped him free you of the gown, now only clad in your soaked panties, hips squirming as you throbbed with need.

“Azriel,” you whimpered when his lips touched your sex through the cloth, the male taking a deep breath of your honeyed scent, and closing his eyes. His brow pinched as he experimentally licked at you, your thighs twitching as he released a moan of approval.

You gasped when he tore the drenched fabric off of you effortlessly, his teeth bared in a quiet snarl. Then he grabbed your hips and dragged your pussy onto his mouth, tongue spreading your folds and moaning as he savored the taste of you. He dove into you and you cried out in pleasure, his mouth sucking and nibbling on your sensitive core, tongue dragging up and down your seeping slit with fervor.

All of his attention focused on you was making you delirious, your eyes rolling back as you relished the sensations he was causing. His hands tucked under your ass and grappled onto your hips, not allowing you to squirm away from his generous attack. He alternated between gently sucking on your clit, your folds… then washing the sensitive bud with the flat of his tongue, laving over you wave after wave.

You were clenching, your hole leaking more and more as your body begged for some kind of relief. Utter want throbbed through you as scarred fingers slowly made their way toward your core. All remnants of thought left your skull at the press of rough digits at your entrance. There was nothing you could say or do as a finger slid inside of you, nothing but stretch around him and keen, gasp for breath. Before you could even moan, a second pushed in and disappeared knuckle-deep, right beside the first. The foreign stretch made your thighs tremble around his face, his nose nudging your clit as he continued his ministrations with his tongue.

His name became a prayer on your lips, a chant as those blessed digits curled and his knuckles scraped parts of you whose existence you had not known before. Slick was pouring down your thighs now, the steady, rough friction of his scars rubbing so deliciously along your gummy walls. You forgot any worries you had harbored, left them far behind as Azriel brought you closer and closer to the edge.

At some point you started begging, actually begging— you couldn’t help how good the shadowsinger was making you feel, couldn’t think to filter the words mixing with your ragged breaths.

Azriel only trekked on, mouth earnestly working in sync with his hand, examining the furrow of your brow, the part of your lips, the roll of your eyes back into your skull. Only then did he speak, mouth popping off of you just long enough to encourage you as you circled the drain.

“Good fucking girl,” he growled, the words vibrating through your cunt, tongue lashing against your folds between his praises. “I can feel your tight little pussy clamping down on me, I know you wanna cum…”

You could only whine and latch onto his shoulders as you hurtled toward that line no partner had ever been able to push you to, at full speed now that the shadowsinger was egging you on, pure filth falling from his lips.

“You can do it baby,” he purred, pressing another kiss to your clit, a brush of tongue following in its wake. “You’re gonna make me so proud, I swear my little dove, you’re right there… Come on pretty girl, cum for me, cum on my tongue.”

The tension in your belly heightened and you gasped, your body tensing under his firm grip and your back arching, teetering on the edge. And then you were cumming, your core gripping onto his fingers and pulsing, your head thrown back onto the sheets as you let out a long, sultry moan.

Azriel’s cock throbbed at the sound, his curiosity peaking as he wondered how your pussy would feel milking his cock like that, so tight and wet for him.

Your body was humming with bliss, fingernails embedded in the sheets beside your hips, your breath ragged and sweat glistening at your forehead. You’d only cum that hard a handful of times before, and it had taken a hell of a lot longer for you to get yourself to that point.

The Illyrian’s pace slowed, his fingers and his tongue still moving just enough to let you ride out your orgasm without overwhelming you. He continued to kiss your clit softly— even as his patience was wearing thin, his length crying for you, trapped tightly, painfully, beneath his pants.

His fingers finally fell from your entrance and he inspected the glossy sheen on them before he stuck them in his mouth. You watched as his tongue ran over every inch, savoring the taste of your cum. He pressed one final kiss to your clit and sat up, the tent in his pants more prevalent than before.

“I’m so proud of you, angel,” Azriel praised, a hand skimming down your thigh. His gaze was warm as he made eye contact, but the movement of his hand landing on his cock pulled your eyes from his.

You watched, still breathless as he firmly gripped his length through his sweats, a low sigh falling from his lips. He looked absolutely criminal touching himself like that, the shine of your cum still on his lips and his muscled torso heaving as he caught his breath.

All thought left your brain as his thumbs hooked the hem of his pants, dipping lower until you could see the base of his dark… thick cock. He pushed his pants down fully and your cunt clenched as his fully erect member slapped hard against his navel. The tip was the most beautiful shade of pink you’d ever seen, and your mouth dried as you examined the trail of glistening pre that dripped down the side. He fisted the base of himself, the wide vein running along the underside flexing as he twitched for you, eying the apex between your legs and your shared desire.

“See how hard you make me?” he said, a sinister glint in his gaze pinning you to the mattress. Both of you were fully naked now, and the sight of him approaching you, those big, ominous wings billowing with shadows behind him… he looked like a god, one that was about to completely decimate you. “See how much I ache for you? You completely own me, fuck… now that I’ve had a taste of that pretty little cunt, I’m yours.”

Your heart skipped a beat. It was unclear whether this was just dirty talk, or if he really meant that, but in the heat of the moment, you allowed yourself to believe his words were sincere.

He crawled toward you, completely predator as he neared. Heat rolled off his bronze skin, his member reaching for you, wings shuddering in anticipation. “These lips are yours…” he murmured, mouth grazing over yours. You closed your eyes, your arm reaching around his head, fingers carding through his soft hair. “These hands are yours…” His scars skimmed down the curve of your side, tingles echoing in their wake. “This cock, it’s yours…” you gasped as his hot tip sliced through your folds, tracing down your slit with ease from the orgasm he had just gifted you.

You moaned, hips lifting and your sex sliding along the length of him, coating him in your essence. He groaned at the sight, his breath mingling with yours as he panted, watching your most intimate parts slide against each other, your love juices mixing.

“Please, Az,” you cried. You’d never been more turned on in your life, the very tip of him nudging against your hole, the promise of pleasure so close you could taste it.

The shadowsinger could barely hold himself back, but he needed to hear you say it. “Tell me what you want,” he commanded, grit in his harsh tone as he began to lose his manners.

“I want you to fuck me,” you replied instantly, inhibitions thrown to the wind. “Please, please— I need you to fuck me, make me cum with your cock, please Az—”

Whatever semblance of restraint the Illyrian had was lost then, his lips pulling back in a desperate snarl. The sound had your legs spreading, your body feeling fuzzy with the overwhelming urge to be filled by him, taken and claimed by him.

Your body sang as he speared the tip inside of you, your cunt stretching around the sizable girth of him. A whimper fell from the male as he lowered his hips, half his cock disappearing into your tight, wet heat. It felt like he was heaven incarnate inside of you, your eyes rolling back and your legs parting wider around his hips, welcoming him deeper inside of you.

Azriel obliged, his balls slapping the wet backside of your thighs as he surged forward. The moan that fell from both your lips was pure sin, your bodies exploding in pleasure as they connected in the deepest, most intimate way, him fully seated inside of you.

Slowly he started to thrust, hips almost shaking at the all-consuming pleasure that was washing over him. He was already fighting his orgasm as he began to find his pace, the moans he was summoning from you urging him to press deeper, harder.

Again and again his hips slapped into yours, burying that impressive length deep within you. The depths he reached made your eyes cross, your pussy squeezing down on him, and your mouth drying from the constant panting he had you victim to.

He was growling into your ear, sweat sticking his hot chest to yours as he exerted himself. The sounds that tumbled from him only made your slickness grow, a wet patch forming beneath your ass as he started slamming into you with reckless abandon.

“Fuck, you look so pretty with my cock inside of you,” Azriel crooned, his face falling so that the bridge of his strong nose skimmed your cheek. It made his breath fall on the crest of your ear, rendering you privy to all the low, delicious noises that slithered out of his mouth. “M’gonna take good care of you, promise…”

Suddenly he pulled out and you wailed at the loss, but he was already flipping you over before you could register what had happened. He yanked you onto your knees, landing a quick slap on your ass before he nudged your legs apart and pushed himself into the new space. His cock dipped into your folds from behind and he loosed a delectable moan as he slid all the way back inside.

From this angle, the tip of him prodded a sacred, uncharted spot that had you shaking, arching your ass onto him and your back bowing in submission. The place he was reaching at the end of your inner walls made you weak, the hard length of him too euphoric for you to handle. He gave a tentative thrust, a hand coming to fist the hair by your scalp, the other weaving around you to tweak a pebbled nipple between his fingers. You sobbed at the newfound intensity, your stomach knotting and your hips sliding back on their own accord, once again seating yourself at the base of his cock.

“You like having me all the way inside, hmm?” he gasped, thrusting deep and hard, the clench of your cunt almost tempting his load straight out of his aching balls.

You gasped an affirmative, each thrust making stars dance on the back of your eyelids. “Yes, ah— yes, deeper— Az!” It must have been your g-spot he was ramming into because you could barely sit upright now, your body nearly collapsing in pure pleasure. “There, oh please right there!”

Azriel’s hand at your chest dove down, a large palm landing right above your womb, right where his cock nestled inside your throbbing cunt. “Here, baby?” He gave a few more thrusts, the very tips of his fingers nudging your engorged clit. “Feel my cock right here, dove? I’m right here inside you, fuck—“

You cried as he continued, ruthlessly pounding into you, the hand in your hair pulling your head back so he could manipulate your body and bend you into the perfect angle to continue hitting that spot.

Again you were rushing toward completion, completely stupefied by the shadowsinger rearranging your guts from behind. The pleasure was too intense— with each thrust his huge, thick cock stretched you to the brim and dragged against that delicious spot deep inside. Sweat dripped down both your bodies, heat and the lewd slap of his wet front against your ass filling the room again and again. His name became the only word you knew, a raspy chant as he brought you closer, closer—

You came with a silent cry, pussy pulling tight and fluttering down onto his hard cock. This orgasm was even stronger than the last, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull as his thrusts slowed, the intensity of your throbbing too great for him to continue his quick pace. Rough fingertips continued to circle your clit, drawing out your euphoria as you slumped into his strong chest, trembling with pleasure.

The Illyrian was fighting every inch of himself not to cum right then, blood tanging on his tongue as he bit the inside of his cheek. He refused to violate your perfect womb with his seed, even if every fiber of his being was screaming with the need to claim you as his. But he would not relent to his desires, not without your permission. And he didn’t want to finish yet, not when this was the highest he had ever felt, sheathed inside your ethereal body. So he clutched onto you and channeled all of himself into supporting your weary frame, rubbing your clit as you floated back to earth.

Once you had ceased twitching, Azriel laid your back onto the sheets again, joining you on his side, adjacent to you. You were still panting as you came back to reality, examining his mussed hair and how it clung to his damp forehead, the flecks of pure gold in his hazel irises, his slick, still-hard cock— a ring of your cream adorning the base of him.

Wordlessly you wiggled closer and kissed him. He moaned in surprise, either at how soft and sweet your kiss was, or at the touch of your small hand wrapping around his aching length. You jerked him slowly, the sound of it absolutely obscene, your thumb grazing over the weeping head where precum had once again begun dripping out. Your back pressed up flush against his chest, guiding his cock to your center and slipping the head into your slit, hips pushing into his.

The shadowsinger’s vulgar moan rung out as your warmth surrounded him again, your nails scraping his scalp. An arm slipped beneath your waist, his grip securing on the opposite hip and fully penetrating you once more. This position had your pussy tighter than before, and his chest shook as he tried to breathe normally, trying to fend off his orgasm. His finger slipped to the back of your head again, this time much gentler than before, just to turn your face and peer into your soul.

Azriel couldn’t find it in himself to thrust, just savoring how your bodies were completely intertwined like this, feeling absolutely one with you and staring deep into your gaze. But you wanted him to cum— needed it, pressing your ass flush onto his hips and clenching tight. The male’s broken growl was his only reply, words failing him. It was he who had planned to drown you in pleasure; he had not been prepared for how incredible you would truly feel, how whole he felt when he was inside of you.

You reached down and cupped his balls, feeling how tight and heavy they were with his seed. Azriel’s teeth grazed your lip at the movement, his body starting to shake with the need to release everything he had deep within you.

“Y/N,” he choked out, hips starting to press tentatively to yours on their own volition.

You studied the desperation on his handsome face, the shake in his thighs at each slow thrust, the dull fingernails that dug into your skin as he clung to you. “Azriel,” you moaned, he was reaching that spot again and rutting into it so slow, hard and precise… you could hardly think as pleasure filled your brain with fog once again. “Please… Need you to cum inside of me.”

Azriel groaned, tongue wrestling with yours and conceding as he began to lose himself in you. His thrusts became slower, sloppier, so you hooked your leg around his and began to arch back into him. The Illyrian began panting, fingers grappling onto your hips.

“This cock is mine,” you purred, repeating his earlier words, your ass slapping back against him harder.

His fingertips were blanching, the sight of his wet length sliding in and out of you from behind as you fucked yourself onto him mesmerizing.

“This cum is mine, too,” you squeezed his balls again and he let out a loud whimper, his orgasm surging forth as he started to meet your thrusts. “Give it to me, fill me up with your cum— fuck Az, need it deep inside me, please.”

He snapped, suddenly hard and fast and deep, a few more snaps of his hips that had you crying for him until— The most pornographic moan sounded for him and he pushed every inch of himself inside of you. His wings fluttered, thighs shaking as he gripped onto you and smushed you into the mattress under his weight. Warmth filled your belly as hot waves of cum spurted deep into your womb, his cock throbbing as you pulsed around him, milking every drop you could get. Sharp teeth lodged into your neck as he emptied himself inside of you, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself up as to not crush you completely.

Sweat dripped from his breathless form onto your back, and you laid there blissfully as you caught your breath. The sheets beneath you were completely ruined, drenched in sweat and slick and cum, but you couldn’t find it within yourself to care; not when Azriel was naked on top of you, cock sheathed all the way in and his cum spilled deep in your womb.

After a minute, the shadowsinger’s dark chuckle sounded from above you, his fingers tracing down your spine. “Naughty little thing,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear before he laid a kiss there.

You smirked, squeezing onto his cock that was still inside of you, retorting “You like it. You like me~”

He growled lowly, nipping you with his teeth. But he nuzzled you then and your heart melted, his lips ghosting over your cheek as he said, “I do. Very much, in fact.”

You whined as he pulled out of you, the loss of him much too noticeable for comfort. But he was right there, turning you onto your back with care, pressing soft kisses into every inch of your sweat-slicked skin. You could feel his release seeping out, the sheer amount of it too great to stay tucked inside where you so desperately wanted it to be.

Azriel gently pulled your legs apart, inspecting the slow stream of creamy white that trickled out of your raw entrance. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to last long enough for you to cum again,” he said, a thumb running down your soaked folds, “I know you were getting there…” He licked his lips as you clenched under his heated gaze, embarrassed that he was outright admiring your most intimate part. Was he seriously apologizing for not giving you a third orgasm? “Allow me to make it up to you, angel.”

The male leaned down and pressed a kiss to each thigh, sliding back onto the foot of the bed and pulling you with him. You shot him an incredulous look as he settled between your legs, lips just inches from your soiled cunt. There was no way he was really about to do this— the mix of your cum with his was spread wide, coating your inner thighs, your pussy, your ass.

His tongue was like lava as he licked at you experimentally, eyes taking note of the shock apparent in your expression. Hazel glinted at you as he began to make out with your ruined center, his seed dripping from you as he made you clench. But he didn’t seem to mind the taste of himself, for he closed his eyes and traced his tongue down to your messy hole, petting you unabashedly, happily, even.

You didn’t think he could get any hotter. But this… this was outright perverted. Your core felt aflame at the sight, his pure enjoyment as he devoured the mixture of your cum like it was the most sacred delicacy. It had you moaning, legs trembling around his head, clit throbbing as he kissed and sucked at the poor bud.

Deft fingers brushed your core and were immediately coated in that same mixture, slick pouring from you as the shadowsinger continued his depraved quest. Two entered you with no warning and your back bowed, the digits instantly searching for that sweet spot as they pushed through the river of his release. A third joined and you released a garbled sob as they found their target.

Azriel, ever the observant one, took note and pummeled the spot relentlessly, knuckles curling as they slid in so they achieved full stimulation. His tongue was flat against your clit, licking you back and forth, and you were so sensitive from your previous orgasms that tears dotted the side of your eyes, your breathing ragged.

“Az, oh Gods— I—,” you mewled, hips squirming as the pleasure became too much. “Please, I can’t, it’s too much!”

But the Illyrian did not stop, would not stop unless he heard your safe word, his fingers picked up speed. “Come on baby, one more. Just one more,” the words vibrated through your cunt as he held you down, palm flat atop your tummy and pressing your sweet spot down so that it was even more vulnerable to his attack. “Trust me, it’s gonna feel so good angel, I swear.” His lips took hold of your abused pearl and he ravished you, his cum squelching as his fingers drove into you without reprieve.

Pressure gathered deep in your core and you whimpered, the intensity of your pleasure so great it was almost painful. You were close— so close to something big, you could feel that it was different from before with the way your cunt leaked and throbbed, the way your entire core felt on fire.

“Please—” you gasped, not even sure what you were pleading for, “Fuck Azriel, please, yes—!”

You screamed as you came, white-hot ecstasy imploding from your center. You nearly lost consciousness, your eyes crossed with utter bliss as liquid sprayed out of you and onto the shadowsinger’s chest. His chin, his torso, your thighs, and sheets, all of it was drenched as you couldn’t stop the squirt from pouring out of you. Fast fingers replaced his mouth and continued rubbing your clit, only slowing once you had ceased squirting.

Your entire body was shaking, toes curled into the filthy sheets, your brain trying to catch up but it was a mile behind your body.

“I’m— Az, I,” you stuttered, attempting to sit up, shock and shame taking root in your chest. The male was completely drenched from the chin down, the sheets beyond salvation. “I never— I’m sorry—“

A towel appeared from his shadows, and he swiftly wiped himself dry before he joined you on the bed, uncaring of the huge damp spot that now lay beneath you two. He shushed you with a kiss, taking your trembling form into his arms, a hand tucking your hair behind your shoulder. His lips were soft, his touch gentle as he tucked you against his chest.

“You have nothing to apologize for. I am so proud of you,” he said quietly, his low voice rumbling in your ear, “You did so well, little dove. Now let me clean you up.” His praise sent a pleasant warmth through your bones, and you curled closer to the male, basking in his embrace.

Secured in his arms, his shadows enveloped the pair of you in darkness, their cool caress whispering on your skin. Then, you were hovering over a large marble bath, steam wafting from the filled basin that Azriel was standing in the middle of. Slowly he lowered the pair of you into the water, holding you tighter when you squeaked at the heat from the water leaching into your tender core. He sat behind you, wings stretched over the lip of the tub, your chest against his back.

Wordlessly he tied your hair back and ran a damp cloth over your skin. You were still coming down from your high, the warmth from the water and the strong male at your back making your eyelids droop, exhaustion ebbing into your body. He held you up and washed your back and then his front, and when you leaned back against him, you somehow found the strength to smirk at the erection evident behind you. You scooted back to brush your ass against him and he growled lowly in your ear. The sound sent shivers through you, and you turned to face him, looping your arms around his neck.

You nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, humming in content. The Illyrian kissed the top of your head, large hands supporting your weight as he lifted you from the water. The soft brush of a towel met your skin and his quiet laugh graced your ears when you refused to separate from him, your wet front clinging to his. Eventually he was able to pry you off of him so that he could fully dry you, but it took many kisses of encouragement and gentle praise.

Finally he placed you onto his bed, the silken sheets welcoming your clean, naked skin and flooding your senses with his strong, woodsy scent. Azriel slipped in beside you, his inked arms wrapping around you as he laid on his side, nose tucked into your hair, covering you under the blankets.

“So, did you fake it?” he whispered in your ear just as sleep was about to take you. He had clearly proven himself, teasing you now that you had experienced his full talents.

You swatted him with what little strength you had left, a lazy smile curling the corner of your mouth. “You’re deplorable,” you said and he laughed, gathering you closer to his chest.

You didn’t know what this night would mean moving forward, but you didn’t have the energy to care at the moment— completely drained from the earth-shattering orgasms the shadowsinger had summoned from you. You had the feeling he didn’t want to question it now, either, not as he held you like you were the most precious thing in the world, not when he had you naked, in his arms, in his bed. So you succumbed to slumber, content to leave the questions for the morning, your heart full and your body completely sated for the first time in your life.

⤷ masterlist

#azriel x female!reader #azriel x you #azriel x reader #acotar x reader #acotar x you #azriel smut #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #acotar fanfiction #angelshadowsinger #my work #azriel spymaster #azriel shadowsinger

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moonlight-prose · 6 months ago

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FIRST LOVE IN THE LATE SPRING AIR

a/n: guess who is back on her joel miller shit again. i had the image of young joel possibly in love and just starting out and had to run with it. after not writing for him for some time, i really did miss this grumpy man. i do have a few fics in the works for him so hopefully this fixation lasts some time. this is an unedited jumble of words so enjoy! divider by the incredible @saradika-graphics.

summary: in the late spring air with summer setting like the sun, life with joel suddenly becomes clear.

word count: 1.6k+

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, fluff, domesticity, she wrote something without angst y'all, allusions to possibly an apocalypse but not really, mentions of pregnancy (don't worry), joel miller being a fucking softie, they're just so in love it's sick.

His sheets clung to your already warm body, molding to the bare skin that scratched along the wrinkled cheap cotton. You asked why he never bought something better, he claimed he didn’t mind how it felt. Of course, that’s how it usually went. Your questions, answered with sarcasm layered in anguish. He never bought more because he never thought he deserved it.

You ignored it for his sake—never pushing further than necessary; he felt like a stone wall at times, and you were the person searching for his cracks. A place to set your hammer into place and swing.

The sun cast shadows in the darkened room, his curtains pulled away to expose the already open window. He was helping his mom fix the air conditioner; you were sweating beneath his covers. The dichotomy felt wrong—too domestic for you to swallow. Yet you drank it down like cold water straight from the tap, already addicted to the way it chilled your insides and pooled in your stomach.

It never occurred to you that the things you did for love would feel silly in ten years time.

But that was in ten years. And this was now.

“I can feel you,” he mumbled into his crushed pillow squished between his arm and cheek.

You’d been scooting away from him for the past ten minutes. Not because you desired distance—quite the opposite—you couldn’t fathom the way his skin gave off heat. He was a fire waiting to burn you, singe the hair on your arm and beg for more to consume. You were merely asking for reprieve from the suffocating way he felt atop you in the middle of the night.

Spring in Texas was promised to be cool. Sunny air, bright dispositions, and weather you’d find in a luxury brand’s catalog. The kind his mother kept around for you when they arrived in the mail. Yet as soon as May set in, welcoming humanity with open arms and blooming flowers, the heat shoved its way forward. Settling into the air with a vengeance. A promise that you’d suffer through the next few months until you felt defeated enough to beg for winter.

“It’s hot,” you whined, shoving the thin gray sheet off your body. “I need a cold shower.”

“Mm.” His arm slid beneath the covers, tanned skin and already rough fingers reaching out to find you. “Sounds like a good idea.”

You bit back your smile and scooched even closer to the edge of the mattress—your leg halfway off and nearly to the floor. “I meant for me.”

The mess of rumpled brown hair shot up from his pillow, hazy brown eyes catching you in the snare of their web. “You’d leave me outta that?”

“Joel—”

“Cold water and you naked?” He shook his head, flipping onto his back and sitting up before you could get both feet on the floor. “Sorry darlin’. Ain’t happenin’.”

“You’ll distract me.”

He smiled all lazy and warm. Enough to have you considering your chances of braving the overheated bed sheets that still clung to your thigh. Joel in the morning wasn’t a sight to forget so quickly. He looked like he’d been dragged from sleep roughly, as if he’d rather spend hours more in the unconscious state than out with the real world. But when he gazed at you like this—eyes glassy with sleep and lips curled into a soft smile—you finally understood why people died for the ones they love.

“That’s the point.”

How could you argue? When he practically pleaded with you through his gaze alone. His hand grabbed ahold of your upper thigh, fingers digging into the warm flesh in order to yank you closer. Fighting his strength was no use when you were lazy with sleep yourself. Still halfway past the waking point and a dreamland that housed an image of a man who looked oddly like Joel.

Just a few years older.

“What time do you work today?”

He grunted. Awake enough to comprehend you naked, but still far too delirious to realize he’d have to be up in an hour to make it on time. He slept less than he wanted, but on days where the sun was warm and spring beckoned life forward, he didn’t mind so much.

Tommy being away didn’t help the loneliness that had settled on his shoulders within the past few months. His younger brother—the troublemaker. More fuckin’ trouble than he’s worth. Were words Joel was spouting two months ago the night before Tommy’s leave; you caught the pain in his eyes, the dull emptiness that chewed away in his chest.

Despite the multiple jests and bickered words that never quite stuck like they used to—now that they both knew there’d be no time to make up with cheap beer snuck into the backyard and cigarettes Joel claimed weren’t his—Joel would miss his brother.

“Two hours,” he mumbled, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye.

“Then go back to sleep.”

His gaze narrowed. “You’re gonna have to get back in.”

“Why?” You rolled your eyes, already reaching for his t-shirt tossed to the side last night when silence gave way to heady looks and soft promises beneath the light of the moon.

“Can’t sleep when you’re not here,” he huffed, falling back into the mess of sheets. “Need to feel you.”

An ache pricked at your heart, barely a nick in the fleshy organ, but you knew you’d feel it in a year's time. When life looked different. When life shined a bit brighter and Joel finally started up his business. When those promises came with a feasible future.

Wordlessly, you climbed back underneath the too warm sheet that immediately settled over you like a muggy cloud. But Joel’s hands sliding around your waist, tugging you closer, appeased whatever discomfort that attempted to push through. As if his touch was a promise of protection against the weather’s strange antics. A warning to be careful not to fall in too deeply. Lest you wind up left with a broken barely beating heart and a hollow space where he once occupied.

“What are you doin’ today?” he breathed, his leg sliding between yours, ankle hooking around the back of your calf.

Your hands found their way into the tendrils of his hair that stuck up in the back—curling with the heat. “The diner opens at ten.”

He hummed. “I’ll be there for breakfast.”

“Mr. Miller, what on Earth will people think of us?”

“That you’re my fuckin’ girl.” His eyes fluttered open, lashes longer than yours yet still dainty against his face. “Besides. We always have breakfast together.”

You hummed, bliss soaring in your heart as you shifted closer. Life with Joel must resemble this. Simplicity in such a small bubble of privacy you already created together. Mornings filled with coffee over a shared newspaper, lunch on the phone, dinner in a kitchen that always needed cleaning. Nights on the couch until one (or both) of you fell asleep, until Joel eventually woke, leading you to the mattress that would engulf your hopes and dreams with open arms.

The promise of domesticity with the knowledge that it would always be more.

“I have a question,” you whispered.

“Uh oh.”

An audible groan echoed in the room when your elbow met his stomach lightly. “It’s not a bad one.”

“Then shoot darlin’.”

“Romantic. Cowboy,” you scoffed. “What’s our life gonna be like in five years?”

He stilled. The hand sliding gently along your hip in soothing motions suddenly a heavy press against your waist. And you could feel the weight in your chest begin to sink like an anchor, settling in your stomach with force. Lead, cannonballs, the pain of intestines twisting and twining. It all hit you like a hurricane rushing to the shore, wiping clean every bit of life in its path. There was no swimming away from it, no catching the path of the torrential waves that sucked you under.

You could only wait, breaths measured and heart racing, as he processed your words.

“Got somethin’ to tell me honey?”

The gravity in his eyes nearly floored you—his meaning slamming into you with enough fervor to make you lose your breath. “No! Fuck. No, no, no, no—”

The solemn way he watched you never wavered, even as you breathed a laugh in the hopes of moving on quickly. “Definitely not that.” You sucked in a breath, lighter than before. “I just meant…what will we be in five years?”

His lips twitched, hand sliding even lower in order to cup your ass. “Hopefully that.”

“Joel—”

“I love you darlin’.” Something familiar—warm like the soothing balm of the sun caressing your skin in the afternoon—bloomed in your chest. Enough to make you nearly tear up. “That ain’t gonna change in one year or five or ten or even twenty.”

“Yeah?” you murmured, curling in so close your lips brushed his. “You sure you won’t get sick of me?”

He huffed, lips capturing yours briefly as his eyes slid closed. “Can’t get sick of somethin’ I’m addicted to.”

You laughed into the kiss, eyes daring a glimpse at his serene expression. “I’ll hold you to that in twenty years Miller.”

“Good.” His face dug into the crook of your neck, body wrapped around yours. “Means you’ll be around.”

The sheet lay above your heads, forming a haven you had no desire to leave. A space that breathed whispers of a future you could finally form a picture of. What once existed in a dreamscape you often habited on nights spent grasping for more than simply one spring and summer, now turned physical. Slowly shaping that malleable past that led you to right here.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller #joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #the last of us fic #pedrostories #my writing

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youraverageaemondsimp · 1 year ago

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If I can't have you, no one can. // Yandere!Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader [ONE SHOT]

Summary: Aemond cannot bear to watch you be married to someone else.

WARNINGS: nsfw content, mdni: dark themes, obsession, possession, major character death, angst(?), yandere!aemond, smut (p in v, fingering), violence, murder, creepy behavior. + not proofread.

WC: 1,450

Aemond has always been obsessed with you as far as he can remember, he remembers the moment he fell in love with you.

He was a young boy, recently recovering from the incident at driftmark, wearing bandages around his face to recover, he didn't get out of his room much, too insecure to show his face after the incident.

The rare times he was out was to converse with his sister Helaena, and in those exchanges was when he met you, you were a lady of a small house, assigned to Helaena as a lady in waiting, or a playmate. She had introduced you to him and he was reluctant and had his guard up at first, but eventually he warmed up to you, and soon became friends with you too.

You saw him without his bandages once, it was an accident, Aemond panicked and screamed at you to get out, being extremely insecure at the wound, and you immediately obeyed, not wanting to anger him further.

You found him crying in a corner for an odd reason, and he looked up at you, before wiping his tears away and looking ahead. You sat down next to him to which he was surprised by.

“Why are you crying?” you asked him, and he sniffed, “You can drop the acting, I know you think I'm hideous, a monster.” he spits bitterly.

You gasp at that before quickly reply, “I do not, your wound is a proof of your bravery, I do not know how you got it, neither do I intend to pry on it if you are not comfortable, but it is a reminder that you are brave. That you overcame a dire situation.” you say and he sniffs once again, he hated being seen so vulnerable but never in his life did he feel so accepted and loved.

And then went on to tell you how he got it and by the end of the story you were seething, “Those vile bastards, how could they do that?” you seethed, Aemond was surprised at that before he chuckled, “I wasn't planning on hitting them with the rock, they are my nephews after all.” he explained his side and you nodded, defending him and taking his side.

It was the moment he fell in love with you, watching you talk about he didn't deserve that, you didn't pity him, you shared his anger and wrath, and from that moment onwards, he wanted to have you.

As you both grew older, Aemond's love got more twisted and dark, his love becoming obsessive and suffocating, he refused to let any man gaze at you longer than needed, always staying by your side and only leaving when he had to. He would lay on your lap as you read to him before pressing kisses on his forehead, you eventually fell in love with him too.

You were unaware of his doings, he killed multiple people who he saw as a threat, a threat to your relationship, he wanted to rip everyone who touched you to shreds, he wanted you to be only his, forever and ever.

And so begun your secret relationship, he would pull you to an isolate area to shower you in kisses and lovebites, he made your father get a position in the small council so you could stay in the keep, he would sneak to your room at night from the secret pathways.

He remembers vividly when he took your maidenhead, promising to marry you as he spilled his seed deep inside of you. He was the happiest man alive in that moment, he thought about you swelling with his child, and how much of a great mother you would be.

His plans came to an abrupt stop when he heard that you would be marrying a Cregan Stark, in hopes of bringing more allies to back up Aegon's claim when they usurp the throne, and also that Cregan had taken interest in you so much that he was willing to break an oath, which is never done by any Starks.

He saw red in those moments, felt pure rage, how could they propose that? The realm be damned for hells. He would rather rain fire on the realm than watch you get married off to someone else.

But alas, he was bound by duty and had to watch you be married to him, the wedding took place in the keep like your father had insisted, as the North would be too cold for them to visit.

The consummation of your marriage was to be done in your chambers. You had left early because you didn't want this either. Cregan was talking to important lords and it seemed that it would take a while before he retired.

So you laid on your bed thinking of what to do when you heard the door of the passageway open and your head snapped to the side finding Aemond, he immediately wasted no time pouncing on you.

“Fuck, fuck I can't let him have you.” He breathes against your neck, trailing kisses down to your breasts, he pulled up the chemise revealing your intimate area and breasts before he latched his mouth onto one and suckled like a hungry babe.

His hand trailed towards your intimate area, finding it wet already, “Is this for me or for him?” he asks, and your breath hitches in your throat when you feel him press the fingers down on your clit, “Y-you.” you say and he smirks before his rubs small circles against your clit.

His fingers trail down further and prod at your entrance before he slides in a finger, you gasp when you feel his fingers hit the rough patch almost immediately, it seems as if he knew it by memory. He thrust his fingers in and out, watching you squirm and moan his name, he wanted to be inside of you so badly, so he pulled his fingers out and licked them clean.

He undid his breeches before pushing your legs apart and burying himself in your cunt, you moaned in pleasure as you felt him spilt you open, you wrapped your legs around his hips and encouraged him to move, his hands pinned yours to the side before he started moving and rutting his hips against yours

You moaned and chanted his name like a prayer, he hands left your hands to grope your breasts as he kissed your lips, he pulled away to look at your dazed expression as he felt you clenching around him knowing that you are close, he watched as you closed your eyes before moaning his name out loud and coming undone beneath him, he groaned at the pretty sight.

His thrusts became more sloppier before he pushed to the hilt and came inside you with a loud gasp.

You both were breathing heavily, you pulled your chemise down and turned to him, he plopped down beside you, doing up his breeches and you rested your head on his chest, the moment was so perfect, but the truth weighed on him like a curse, and so he got up and paced the room, angrily, wanting to do something, but knowing he won't be able to do anything without destroying the alliance.

He can't let Cregan have you either.

You sat up and looked at him and then the atmosphere of the room shifted into a sinister one, Aemond going mad to his obsession with each second, he slowly stalked towards you before he stood in front of you, caressing your face and leaning down to kiss you.

“You're mine, you belong to me, I can't let him have you, no no, you're mine.” he grunted angrily and just then something evil popped up in his head.

His hand slowly reached for his dagger, you watched him, confused.

“If I can't have you…… ” he trailed off before kissing you.

“No one can.” he whispered against your lips as he plunged the dagger straight into your chest, digging it in your heart and stabbed you, you gasped in pain before the light in your eyes faded, falling unconscious.

He pulled his dagger out and watched as you fell backwards onto the bed, the life leaving your body, the blood soaking your chemise and now the white blood sheets, he snapped out of his dark thoughts and felt the weight of the situation.

He panicked when he realised what he had done, he immediately left the room when he heard the door open, hiding in the passageway, having guilt weigh on him, but he also felt satisfied in a sick way that no one could ever have you now, just like he can't.

Cregan screamed for the guards and for some odd reason, this entire situation somehow was blamed on the blacks, accusing them of sending assassins to kill you, this only made Cregan support the greens more.

Aemond had achieved what he wanted, but he couldn't bear to live along with the fact that you were gone, feeling lonely, he went mad and so, he followed you.

That day, Alicent screamed when she found Aemond's dead body, a letter written to apologise to everyone for leaving them behind, but he couldn't bear to live without you.

And so you and Aemond went down as a tragic story of unrequited love.

Where everyone tells the stories of how Aemond was smitten with you since a young age, but he watched you get married off to someone else and also die in the same night, it was told how he mourned and grieved for you, succumbing to madness before finally following suit.

The story was more sinister than that.

However they wouldn't know.

Nobody would know the truth.

———

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sevsbestfriend · 3 months ago

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I usually write fics here but I just wanna rant rn.

Sometimes I got to old posts and stuff, either to get new ideas or just see what the fuck is going on with the other side of the fandom.

The people coming to James defense or crazy, like on one hand they are like 'oh he was only human, he grew as a person otherwise how would lily love him?'

We literally have cannon confirmation that the fucking prat didn't stop hexing people, he just learned to hide it better. Sirius and Remus confirmed this when they called Severus a 'special case'. I don't give a shit about them saying he attacked first, you better believe I am attacking first if I come across a guy who has stripped me naked in public when I didn't do shit to him. (Or the other guy who tried to get me killed by bloody werewolf) Like wtf are you even talking about at that point???

Also, Harry comes across a detention report of them hexing another student in their 7th year. So uhm...yeah.

Then they are like 'oh Severus hates him so his memories are biased'

Did you morons even read the books?? Pensive memories are unbiased, any manipulation is extremely apparent as we saw in Slughorns case. So NO they aren't biased that extremely uncomfortable read of SWM? it's fucking canon in its truest sense.

Also, how in the ever living hippogryph does a guy who strips people naked for fun change so much that he becomes head boy??

It's pretty simple, he doesn't. He learns to hide it better and given the fact that this person has always been given the benefit of the doubt, it is very easy for them to their nature.

Dude had a map that showed him everyone's real time location and an invisibility cloak, he could damn well harass anyone in isolated corners of the castle if he wished. Which is exactly what he did.

Also, these people love to claim how 'lily only approved of him cause he changed.'

To that I say, Who the fuck is Lily?? Mother Teresa??

How is she the ultimate decider of what is good and bad and at the same time, completely right in dating someone who stripped another student makes after a year (or 2) of the event??

Don't get me wrong, she doesn't owe Severus anything, really, but seriously this is just ridiculous. Like if I was a woman, I would be genuinely terrified of someone like that, especially when they got away with no real consequences what so ever.

James was a prick with a very good PR team for friends and teachers. That's really it, it is often said that good looking people can get away with a lot of things and James is just a prime example of that.

---_---_---_---_---_---_---_---_

Also...BRAVE?? Dude had 2 cheat items and the advantage of a Pureblood upbringing and was still too PUSSY to face Severus alone. Yeah..what a real Gryphindor that one. Scrams bravery to you doesn't it? He did this all the way till 17, so yeah he definitely was super important in the order right??

---_---_---_---_---_---_---_---_---_

Dumbledore invested quite a bit in the Marauders with his blatant favoritism and letting a werewolf in the school risking his own position as a headmaster.

And...they all turned to be bloody useless. With only James being useful because of his participation in the birth of Harry Potter.

Sirius in his madness derailed a murder investigation for a fucking decade.

Remus, I genuinely can't remember anything substantial Remus did, except for letting someone he believed was a murderer into Hogwarts and never telling Dumbledore that they were Animagus to begin with.

---_---_--_---_

Seriously, the most useful person in the war had to literally beg on his knees for the man to use him. Even fate was like, for fucks sake, just give this guy a chance already.

#anti marauders fandom #severus snape #pro snape #anti jily #anti james potter #anti lily evans #anti sirius black #anti peter pettigrew #anti remus lupin

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months ago

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Cool for the Summer 1

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, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, 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: After finishing your degree, you return home only to find things aren't as you left them.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Note: Hellooooooooo. I've done it.

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. 💖

The heat is suffocating. There’s so many people crammed into the tight space. Enough to smother you and make you sweat. You're close to the end.

The train is finally still and passengers rise to take down their bags and form a queue along the center aisle. You stay patiently in your seat. You’d rather wait there then brave the crowded shuffle as the impatience to disembark mounts.

At last, the doors open and people begin to move. You don’t stand until the last person passes your row. Your suitcase is at the front of the car with the bigger luggage.

Step-by-step you make your way up and slip your bag off the middle shelf. You haul it awkwardly to the door and the man on the ground helps bring it down. You thank him, looking only at his branded pin, and step off.

You drag the bag behind you and hike up the smaller bag on your shoulder. You’re exhausted and it’s not even noon. The automatic doors stand open as the other passengers enter the station. You follow and wheel your bag to the side so you’re out of the way.

You take out your phone. Your mother texted that she was here ten minutes ago. You can’t see much through the busy station. It’s summer and everyone is on their way somewhere; going home or heading out on vacation.

You’re relieved to be back but you won’t be able to relax until you’re at your mom’s house. You can’t wait to hide in your room and catch up on your reading. After four years at college, you have a long list.

As endless as your list may be, your reprieve won’t be. You have your degree now. You need to use it. Find a job, start your life, be an adult. The prospect is exciting but terrifying. More the latter as it entails associating with strangers. You’ve never been very good at that.

You did so well in school because it’s all you did. You didn’t go out and party, you didn’t distract yourself with dating or drinking, you didn’t even sign up for that book club that looked fun. You only stayed in and studied and occasionally ate in the cafe instead of boiling ramen or ordering in.

You don’t see her. You roll over to a free seat and sit. You text and ask where she is.

The general public stirs around you, blending into your peripherals as you stare at your phone and wait. You’d be better off waiting outside. Maybe. There’s a line of taxis and it’s all clustered with people trying to claim one.

“Ahem, excuse me.” The deep tone draws your head up but your eyes don’t go all the way. You focus on the man’s neck and the silver and brown stubble under his chin. He says your name and you sit up taller. “That’s you, right? Your mom showed me a pic. She’s just run to the bathroom.”

“Huh?” You clutch your bag tight.

“She did tell you I was coming, didn’t she?” He asks.

You shake your head and gnaw on your lip, “no. Who are you?”

You don’t know him. Not by his voice or the brief peek at his face. He’s older. Maybe her age. His dark hair is peppered with grey and his face is lined around his eyes and mouth, a few softer wrinkles in his forehead. His blue eyes are as bold as gems.

“Bucky.” He answers as if that should be explanation enough. He offers his hand. “Finally, we meet.”

You look around and accept his hand. You shake it. “Um, okay?”

He lets you go and grabs the handle of your suitcase. You reach for it in panic and stand. You nearly tip over and barely avoid brushing against him.

“She didn’t mention me. At all?”

You shake your head.

“Bucky,” your mom’s voice undercuts the awkward introduction. You turn to watch her flutter over. “Oh, sweetie, you’re home!”

Your mom seizes you and wraps you in a tight hug. She usually lets you have your space. You’ve never been touchy feely but you don’t protest. It has been a while since you saw her.

“Um, mom?” You murmur as she releases you.

She steps back and looks between you and the stranger. No, his name is Bucky.

“Oh, yes. You two. This is Bucky. Bucky--”

“We met,” Bucky interrupts.

“So sorry. I had an iced coffee on the way,” she trills.

“Bucky?” You raise your brows in your mom’s direction.

“You remember. I told you I met a guy,” she lowers her voice and nudges you. “This is him.”

“Oh.”

You vaguely remember her mentioning it after Christmas. You didn’t think too much about it. You don’t remember it coming up again. She always just said she went out or talked about chores. You wonder if she didn’t tell you on purpose. If maybe she expected you to overreact.

“We thought we could take you out for lunch as a bit of a homecoming. That train food isn’t very filling.” She smiles. “Well, it was Bucky’s idea. He’s so sweet.”

“Honey,” he chuckles. “Please, you’re giving me a lot to live up to.”

“Erm. If you want.” You shrug.

“Sounds like a plan. I’m starving.” Bucky pulls your bag away and you flinch again. “Ladies, first. Want me to get your other bag?” He offers and you shake your head.

Your mom moves first and you quickly catch up to her. You wish she’d at least warned you. You’re entirely unprepared for this. She knows you don’t do well with new people but maybe that’s why she didn’t say anything. So you couldn’t come up with an excuse to get out of it.

The sun beats down and adds to the sheet of sweat across your nape. Bucky looms behind you, his shadow skewing on the pavement, and you search for your mom’s car. You don’t see it.

She leads you to a dark blue car and you stare at it dumbly.

“Bucky drove,” your mom explains. The trunk pops as Bucky rolls your bag up. You step back as he lifts it inside. You thank him again as guilt bristles in your chest.

You follow your mom around the side of the car, waiting for her lead. When she opens the door, you open the back one. When she gets in, you get it. When she clips in her seat belt, you do. Bucky gets in on the driver’s side and drops his keys in the little tray between the cup holders. He jabs the button to turn the engine.

He doesn’t shift into gear right away. He does up his own seat belt, adjusts his posture, then fiddles with the mirror. You glance up as his eyes dart away in the mirror. Was he looking at you?

You pick at the hem of your sleeves button-up and lean into the door. You really hope you’re not in the way. You have that rotting sensation in your gut. You’ve ruined their day.

“Alright, everyone buckled in?” He grips the wheel with one hand, the other hooking behind your mother’s seat as he cranes and backs out of the spot. You stare at his thick fingers as you slump down in self-consciousness. You know he’s only checking his rear window but you’re always paranoid of being seen.

He rolls the car straight and steers between the slanted rows of vehicles. He idles behind the fleet of cabs and weaves his way through the chaos. Your mom sighs and shifts. She’s a less than patient driver.

“So, we were thinking the new bar and grill, figured you haven’t been around to try it,” your mom explains. “But if you miss Dezi’s, we can go there. Me and Bucky love getting Sunday lunch there. You remember how we used to go?”

Your lips twitch as you fright a frown. Dezi’s is your place. You and your mom went there since you were in grade school. Knowing she’s been taking him feels like a violation. The suspicion that you’re being replaced unnerves you. You don’t have any right to be mad about it. You’re grown now and your mom’s allowed to live her life. Thing’s change, they already have.

“New place is fine,” you grumble.

“Great! Megan recommended it. I’ve been dying to try it.” Your mom is elated.

She’s never short of enthusiasm but you don’t know the last time she didn’t have a single complaint. If it’s a nice day, she’s disappointed she can’t be at the beach. If she has the day off, she’s upset she has to do the laundry, even if you offer to throw it in with yours. And when she finally gets her food at a restaurant, she laments that she didn’t order the chicken instead of beef. Maybe change is good.

“Your mom’s a great tour guide. I don’t feel so lost anymore.” Bucky stops at a light and looks at her. “Uh, Lauren?”

“Straight then left,” she instructs him with a point of her finger. Her nails are done. Not her usual chipped paint on her short square cuticles; she has a full set with a lovely almond shape.

He follows her directions and continues through the green. You turn your attention out the window. You were only just home for the holidays but everything feels so different. Or maybe you are too.

There’s nothing ahead of you no, yet everything at the same time. You haven’t found much in your job search. Every job your mom sent you, you applied. You trawled the online boards and even used the student career center for help with your CV. A dozen articles littered your feed deeming the market oversaturated.

Another disappointment for your mom. You’re sure she won’t fail to mention this one. You exhale and twine your fingers together in your lap.

“Tired, sweetie?” Your mom asks.

“Uh, yeah,” you answer. It wouldn’t do any good to share your worries. You still have time to find a job. Eventually, you have to get something.

“Alright,” Bucky flicks his blinker on and waits to turn. “Here we are.”

He pulls into the lot of the bar and grill. It’s built to resemble a log cabin and the entire theme has a rustic tint. He slides into a spot and shuts the engine off. In the silence, your stomach rumbles loudly.

“Hungry?” He chuckles and peeks back over his shoulder. As your mom jostles her purse and untangles her seat belt, he winks. Your blink dumbly and click the button to release yourself.

“Sure.” Your voice creaks as you pull the door handle. It doesn’t budge. You try again. Then frantically feel around for the lock.

“Oops.” Bucky turns and hits a switch. The locks thunk back.

Your mom gets out first and you follow. Bucky catches up and brushes by you as he passes. He beats you both to the front door and opens it for you. You trail your mom and he stays close as he enters behind you.

“Such a gentleman,” your mom praises and giggles. She sounds bubbly. You can’t remember her sounding like that before.

“Table for three,” Bucky says to the hostess.

Again, he lets you go ahead of him. Your mom is ahead of you as the hostess leads you into the dining room. You’re sat at a booth. You’re relieve to have a bench to yourself, facing your mother and Bucky, but she insists on being on the outside in case she needs the bathroom. That leaves you across from him.

“Drinks.” Bucky intones as he grabs the slender menu. “Cocktails?”

“What do they have?” Your mom leans on him as she reads over his shoulder.

“Hmm, interesting. Apple cider’s a bit out of season,” Bucky comments. “Figured we should celebrate. Baby girl is home and graduated.”

You wince at the reference. Baby girl? He sucks his teeth as he examines the menu then turns it around. He offers it across the table.

“Think I'll stick to beer,” he says.

“Go on,” your mom goads. “Get something special, sweetie. You earned it.”

“Oh, it’s okay, I’ll just have water.”

“It’s a special day,” she insists.

“Well, er...” you take the menu and nod. You look down at the listings as your cheeks burn hot. You don’t like to argue, especially when there’s no good reason.

You try to make sense of it. Blackberry sounds good but you’re not sure what bitters are. You don’t drink. You had one glass of wine at a New Years party with your mom’s friends a few years ago and didn’t really get the appeal. It made your stomach feel swishy.

There’s a lemonade that sounds okay. You like lemonade. You settle on that and put the menu down. Your mother scoops it up and you apologise. You should’ve asked her if she needed it.

A server appears and takes your drink orders as she doles out a set of larger menus. You take yours and listen as she recites the specials. You don’t really catch any of it. You’ve always done better with writing than oral instruction. She leaves and you wait for the others to open their menu before you do the same.

“This is nice,” your mom says. “I’m so happy you two are getting along.”

You force a smile and Bucky slips his arm around her and squeezes. Your eyes meet again and his cheek dimples beneath his beard. You quickly avert your attention back to the sandwich options.

Getting along? You barely know him. Not to mention, you didn’t expect him. No use in whining about it. He's here and your mother is happy.

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #marvel #mcu #cool for the summer #winter soldier #captain america #avengers #au

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imsilay · 10 months ago

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HAMARTIA

MNDI +18, cw: oral (f!receiving), fem!reader ( i don’t think there’s much to warn :/ )

cw: 2.3k

bigger font as promised lol and not proofread sorry :/ my stomach hurts :(

(i need my mouth on his abs. and hands it’s a need trust me. idk the cr please tell me.) it’s royaidni on X guys :> -i might buy patreon for him-

You swore this was the day that you’d kill this man as you tightened your hands around his thick neck. He smirked under his mask, you were strong. You were strong enough to take your anger out of him and knock him to ground when he asked for a fight with you. His words were taunting, irritating even as he did so which was something you happened to not like. You didn’t really knew if he was doing it on purpose. You suspected that he was trying to get the best of you.

And you were undoubtedly right.

He absolutely loved the way you clenched your fists when someone challenged you. He observed you long enough to know you wouldn’t say no to any competition. What a brave girl you are. “You… are weak.” he managed to choke out as you breathed rapidly. Oh how beautiful you were… From the blood dripping down from the edge of your lips to your heaving chest. You were a mess, he wasn’t easy on you, he knew what you were capable of, he knew if he let his guard down you could easily knock him down which was predictable and happened as soon as he froze for a moment. He froze because he couldn’t believe he really punched your precious face, because he couldn’t believe how pretty you were when you spit the blood pooled on your mouth and jumped on him like a lioness. He felt his whole body shivering underneath you, not daring to move away, not daring to do anything to ruin the positions of your bodies because Gott- your form rose heavenly on his stomach.

The angle was just right, he could see- nein, he could feel the way you looked down at him, was it another way of saying him he’s nothing different than a bug without words? Did you hated him enough to not even utter a word? That couldn’t be the case because he saw the burning lust in that gaze, felt it in his bones. It flowed into his skin from your palms around his neck.

“Said the man who’s about to die from my hands.” you snickered, breath coming out short and rapid. You felt a hot sweat rolling down on your spine as he chocked out a dry laugh. It was chocked because you had no intention of loosening your grip. “It would be a honorable way to die.” he finally got a hold of your wrists and pried your hands from his neck.

“But not today, Maus.” he lead your body down from his stomach to his crotch. Oh he loved the dumbfounded expression of your face, eyes going wide and lips forming a small ‘o’ shape. Because what was the thing poked your ass, you hoped it wasn’t his gun- or maybe you hoped it was. You were frozen and only remembered to get up when he tilted your chin up with his nose. You pressed your knees firmly against the floor to have the leverage to push yourself off of him. “Sit down.” he barked, both of you knew you could try more and eventually break free from his grip but you were a little curious thing. You wondered if he was really getting off from fighting with you. You were also curious when you accepted his challenge, wondering that König, the colonel who never talked with anyone unnecessarily but a few people, came to you on his own.

Did you loved to be on top? Or did you prefer to let your partner have the control? Would you like if he had you in a mating press and emptied his balls deep inside you until you break and cried for him to sop? Or would you prefer to ride him until he was overstimulated and panting like a dog?

These were the overwhelming thoughts he had every single night since he saw you kill a enemy which he claimed as his target. Along with 10 others. Your skin was hard, not squishy and soft like he was used woman to be. Your skin was scared from the bullets and sharp knifes. Your skin was tortured, beaten, overworked even. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to cause you any pain. The punch he landed on you made him want to cut his wrist off and feed it to dogs. You weren’t fragile but he loved how sensitive you were. Just like him, you weren’t so used to have someone so close and intimate. He could feel your heartbeat pick up as he pressed his clad lips on your pulse.

You were being oddly obedient and he loved it.

You we sitting on his lap like you weren’t choking him to death just a minute ago. You could be a witch or siren, whatever you name it, because there was no other explanation for your enchanting presence. He felt weak, for the first time in a decade he felt like he could drop to his knees and worship you like a temple.

You weren’t patient as you were strong. You wanted to feel him grow harder, you wanted to feel him as impatient as you so you could have him. So you started to grind your hips against his throbbing length, successfully drawing a growl from him. But not without a smack to your hips.

“Behave. I didn’t knew you were much of a slut. I thought you were just an arrogant brat.” he mumbled, not bothering to leave the confines of your neck. So you grabbed his hair with his mask and yanked his head back. “Are you going to fuck me or do i have to continue where i left of?” you hissed, wrapping your now free hand around his nack and getting irritated with his calmness. “Don’t wanna hurt you Maus, but you give me no other choice.” he purred yet there was irritation matching with yours, maybe even more. “Sometimes you forget who you’re talking to, and i’d be more than happy to fix that.” he pushed you back onto your back and you landed on the ground with a thud. You didn’t expected him to push you off after nuzzling you like a stray cat. You thought you had him in your palm, but he wasn’t like others. You were so shocked that you couldn’t do anything to stop him when he pressed on your torso and tugged down your pants. You wanted to kick him which you could with your current position but something primal in you prevented you from it. You wanted to let him put you in your place, you wanted to see if he could.

Now he was the one breathing heavily as he looked down at your exposed panties. The black ones, his favorite. He saw you in them one time, by accident if you believe. And since then he couldn’t get any sleep. He gritted his teeth, this was his lucky day. “Don’t move.” he retreated his hand from your torso so he could pull your panties with both of his hands. As he pulled down the fabric his hungry eyes drank every bit of skin that was being exposed to him. You thought he was doing it slowly on purpose, you thought he was teasing you for being touch starved but you just couldn’t notice how his hands were trembling and he was thankful that you didn’t noticed. “This wet from a little fighting and grinding? You’re pathetic. And i’m your colonel. Aren’t you ashamed? The strong soldiers everyone’s afraid of is getting wet for her colonel, i bet they would kill to see you.” his words hit just the right spot, it traveled through your veins and rushed your blood pressure. And of course that cocky bastard noticed that. How couldn’t he? His eyes were never leaving you!

But you wanted him to do more than looking, you wanted to feel his hands, mouth, tongue- god you wanted him all over you. “Oh look at that…” He parted your folds with his thumb and catched that glob of arousal dripped from you. “Do you need something in your pretty pussy? I got something you’d like.” he snickered, how needy you were… He’d never thought you would be so cute under him. You’d be hot of course but not that cute. He imagined every possibility but the way you covered your face with your forearm and the way you lifted your hips to chase his thumb never crossed his mind. “Give it to me.” your voice came out muffled by your forearm but he could understand you very loud and clear. “Nein Maus. You forgot to ask properly.” he dab his thumb on your clit, slowly and lightly. “What do you want?” he asked again and you knew it was your last chance. He never liked to repeat himself. You threw your head back when he licked your slit before you could answer. He swallowed thickly and pressed his fingers into your thighs. You had to answer before he lost his control and did something he would regret. “I…” you hesitated, he was your colonel but he was the one who offered all of this. You looked for your morals but they were no where to be seen when König was between your legs, looking into your eyes with his halfway lifted mask and your slick on his chin. “I want your cock. I want to feel you, i want you to fill me up until i am full of you.” oh your sweet voice, your sweet sweet words. “Braves Mädchen. That was what i wanted to hear.” he practically growled when he buried his fingers and face into your cunt. You gasped by intensity of both at the same time. His long and thick fingers dragged along your walls and curled just right as his lips wrapped around your sensitive bundle of nerves and sucked and lapped until your hips rose from the ground by his merciless attack. “Slow down!” you grabbed his hair to pull him away but you couldn’t use your strength due to his teeth gently grazing your clit. Your hips twitched and you could feel the overwhelming pleasure pooling within you, ready to explode with a poke. And the poke was his fingers hitting your g-spot. You pushed his head away- at least you tried but he didn’t left his place. His tongue lapped every drop you offered as you squirted all over him and the floor. “Mein, mein, mein.” he purred as he pulled his fingers out of your quivering hole and kissed your pretty pussy all over. Along with your strong thighs and throbbing clit. He sucked and licked your folds like he’s making out with your pussy. You were still twitching and trying to calm down after your intense orgasm. “König, enough.” you whined, your whiny voice strange to even yourself. Oh but did he love it. He’d kill to hear you whine and beg him again.

“I can’t understand what you’re saying, Maus.” he mumbled against your slick pussy and continued to lick until there was nothing left from your orgasm. He wanted it back. Not just your sweet slick, he wanted your sweet cum on his tongue. But he had to leave your pussy as his cock throbbed painfully in the confines of his pants. He straightened his back and that was when he could get a glimpse of your glossy eyes. His heart kicked his chest like it was trying to rip his skin and present itself to you. ‘Beautiful, pretty, cute, but mine, mine, mine.’ His twisted mind screamed as he hungry gaze drank the sight of you. You were just laying there obediently, for what? For your colonel to sink his cock into you and fuck the breath out of your lungs. He felt the globs of precum dripping from his slit to wetting his boxer. “Open your pretty legs f’me Maus.” he taunted, looking for a defiance or a little light of irritation in your eyes at his order but surprisingly you brought your hands under your knees and pulled your legs open for him. His whole body shuddered and he felt like he had been blessed by the god himself. His hands were erratic as he unbuckled his belt and fished his cock out. He hissed when his painful erection was finally free. He grabbed the base of his cock as he opened your folds with his long pointer and middle fingers. “You’re so ready f’me.” he breathed, you’d think he was talking to himself. He dragged his cock up and down on your slit until it was covered with your slick. You twitched and moaned everytime his tip kissed your clit. As he pushed the tip in he caressed underneath of your thighs and stopped under your knees where your hands hold your legs up and open for him. “Leave it to me Maus.” he softly pushed your hands and replaced it with his. You tried to breathe and loosen up for him but he was just so thick and it felt like he was splitting you open. Finally when he was fully inside you and filled you up like you wanted, you felt him pressing your thighs further into your chest. Your breath left your lungs when he snapped his cock out and inside you to the brim. He thought you couldn’t feel any better than engulfing him like a glove but when he left you breathless your walls clenched around him like you wanted to milk his balls empty.

After a few thrust your moans got louder and louder along with the clenching of your walls. "Scheiße Maus. If you continue to squeeze me like that-“ he grunted and picked up the pace. He felt like he couldn’t hold back anymore but he wanted you to cum with him. So he brought a hand between your impossibly flushed bodies and drew firm circles on your clit until you cum with a screaming of his name and he painted your walls with his relase.

a/n: please support me by reblogging, if you liked the content ofc <3 your comments also makes my day :* and i love to reply all of them :>

#silay #könig #konig cod #konig x you #konig x reader #könig smut #könig x reader #konig x y/n #könig fanfiction #konig smut #konig imagine #könig modern warfare #konig modern warfare #konig headcanons #konig x female reader

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sunaluv · 2 years ago

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WAGs

WAG: A wife or girlfriend of a sports star

Featuring: k.sakusa, r.suna

[ushijima,atsumu] vers.

Note: happy new year! I love how I posted like 5 things then dipped but I wanted to write some more on here 😭 enjoy!

Sakusa:

You had met sakusa whilst he was making a name for himself. He wasn’t as big as he was now, but his name would be floating around the internet somewhere.

That’s actually how you first saw him. One of your friends had shared a photo of his in a groupchat, and the whole chat was going crazy over this insanely hot insanely talented upcoming volleyball star.

Of course you found him attractive, but you were absolutely certain he would be yours. There was no mindless attraction. You geniuinely believed your friend had just send your future husband directly to you.

She kinda did tho

Flash forward a couple months, you were doing some early morning shopping as one does. The store was quieter, everything’s was in stock. It was perfect. It was SO PERFECT.

because just as you were picking out snacks for your apartment, you saw a masked man dressed in a black hoodie that may have been a bit to small for him, seeing as you could make out the definitions of his muscles through the fabric.

You knew that man from anywhere, after all you had only been dreaming of him for the past few months.

Not wasting this opportunity, you bravely approached him, making small talk about the stuff you were buying.

‘This was no one and done situation though, ‘you thought.

The next store runs, you slowly grew closer, sometimes going to the shop only to talk to him.

He eventually gained the courage to ask you on a date and from there your relationship progressed until you took his last name.

By now, sakusa was bringing in BANK, not that that was the reason you were with him but still.

He vowed to spoil you like you deserved whilst you were in the talking phase, and boy did he keep his promise.

Eventually, you quit your job after your husbands persistent pleads that he makes enough money to support the both of you. All you had to do was support him in his games.

And with your new free time, you were seen at the majority of them, looking pretty on the Jumbotron with your hair done, dressed to the t with the finest jewelry, the most noticable one being the gold necklace with his jersey number on it that sat in between your collarbones.

Naturally, you gained your own cult following on social media, and you were often photographed at games and events due to your great fashion sense.

Speaking of

You met the rest of kiyoomi’s team at an MSBY exclusive event, aswell as the other wives and girlfriends of the players.

Sakusa loves you dearly and will spoil you at every given chance.

SUNA

You and suna were highschool sweethearts

You had supported him ever since the inarizaki days and continue to to so as he plays for EJP.

People have known about you for YEARS. It was almost like you grew as he did.

But it was mainly because he still has the cheesy romantic highlights of you from inarizaki, so as he gained more followers, more people viewed the highlights.

Even if they didn’t, his actual feed is full of pictures of you.

When it comes to spoiling you, he sees gift giving as more as a thank you or appreciation for sticking with him all these years, because you played a big part in shaping his career too, looking after him when he didn’t.

That being said he really does appreciate you, shown by the various Swarovski crystals adorning your neck and wrists, the sleek sports cars he bought for you claiming ‘they’re our children’, or the random, but costly furniture you obsess over dotted around your shared penthouse.

The man introduced you into a world of luxury and endless princess treatment, and vowed to never take you out of it.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #hq x reader #haikyuu fluff #suna x reader #haikyuu!!#hq drabbles #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa x reader #suna rintaro x reader #suna x y/n #suna x you #sakusa x you #sakusa drabble #sakusa kiyoomi

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flowerandblood · 1 year ago

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The Fall from the Heavens (3)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: oral sex, smut, angst, incest, obsession, violence, swearing, humiliation, chauvinism, mention of injury ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

When he learned of the death of Daemon's wife, he knew it was a sign from the gods that his time had come − Vhagar, the largest and oldest dragoness in the world, was left without a rider.

He thought that at last he would make his father proud, that he would take his niece to Essos as he had promised her.

It seemed to him that the heavens were finally smiling on him, that everything made sense and was slowly beginning to come together, that he could see above the mist that surrounded him his destiny.

As he fled from the fortress in the middle of the night he thought only of the fact that he might die and hoped that if he did, his betrothed would mourn him greatly and never marry any other man.

Her sign of love and loyalty, of respect for his sacrifice for her and their future family.

Vhagar was frightening and huge, like a giant, dark, moving mountain, with her every movement the earth shook around her; he couldn't believe it when she obeyed his command, his body trembled as he climbed the ropes to the great saddle on her back, he screamed with fear and joy as she flew with him into the skies.

He was like Visenya, like Aegon the Conqueror, and his future wife was like sweet Rhaenys.

Everything was as it should be.

He ran through the underground caverns to wake her and tell her everything, to kiss her, to spend the night in her embrace and listen to her assurances that he was fearless, that he was brave and that she was proud to become the wife of the man who had become the rider of the most powerful dragon flying in the skies in their lifetime.

It was then that he came upon them.

He thought he would never let them humiliate himself again, that bastards or weak, quivering little girls who couldn't even tame a dragon would never stand in his way again.

All that mattered was her, and though he knew she would be upset, he felt that she would forgive him, that she would understand that this was revenge for all the years of humiliation he had suffered from them.

And then Luke cut his face with his blade − he suddenly heard his own loud, squeaky, almost girlish scream and grabbed his left eye where he had lost his sight completly.

He was given poppy milk to ease his pain and a stick was put in his mouth that he was told to clamp his teeth on; his mother cried out loud, horrified when she saw what had happened to him, the maester said the eye could not be saved and would have to be taken out.

That he would be a cripple.

He wailed and screamed, feeling the cut of the heated blade on his skin, struggling and writhing like an animal, tied to a chair, and then he stopped feeling anything, staring dully ahead, his mother and Aegon unable to look at it.

He saw her as if in a dream, and though she always smiled at the sight of him, this time she screamed loudly, terror and fear in her eyes.

She covered her mouth with her hand trying to hold back the sounds that came from her throat.

Then he understood.

So what if he had claimed a dragon, if she would never desire him again?

How would she force herself to marry someone who was from now on supposed to look like him?

He returned to King's Landing with the thought that all was lost and he didn't want to see anyone, much less her.

He didn't want her tears of sympathy, her assurances that she still loved him, her pity, the fact that in order not to offend him she would refrain from showing how disgusted she now was by his face.

He was no fool.

Her letter only angered him − he tore it into little pieces clenching his lips, thinking she was an idiot, giving him books now that he had lost one eye, reminding him that he would never see well again, that he would always be defective, that he would have to learn everything from the beginning.

However, as soon as he did so he immediately regretted it and burst out crying, looking at the pieces of parchment lying on his sheets, thinking of how he wished he could read it again because it was her handwriting, her words to him.

His conviction of his ugliness and the fact that what had happened crossed him out in her eyes as a man she could desire deepened his state into complete withdrawal, sinking into the darkness of his thoughts, fears and desires.

He needed someone to loathe, to throw all his ill emotions at, and he had chosen Luke as such a person, however it was the thoughts and dreams of her that kept him awake at night.

Waiting for her letters was his obsession.

She sent one every two months, always on the same day, for many years. At first they were short and full of uncertainty, but then it seemed to him that she had the impression that he didn't read them anyway, so she began to write and confide in someone who no longer existed, revealing to him the darkness and suffering of her own heart.

He was embarrassed by his own reactions, that whenever he saw a sealed message from her lying on his table, he would take it reverently and sit down on a chair by the fire, as if in some kind of ceremony pulling off the lac and unrolling it slowly, feeling his heart beat fast.

Dragonstone appears to me like a prison, like a black coffin, the sky above me full of clouds. I can't remember the last time light dawned in my heart − when I wake up I wonder for a moment about the meaning of it all, only to realise that thinking about it is pointless, it only sinks me further into the darkness.

It seems that the more I move away from what surrounds me, the greater the silence that settles in my head.

After what happened something inside me died.

Not in the aspect of my body, but in the sense of a conviction that something is missing, like when you look in a mirror reassembled from hundreds of pieces and, even though it is whole again, you can clearly see its cracks.

I wonder, are you sleeping well, uncle? Are you having nightmares again? I often return in my dreams to that night. I see you and although I want to say something, I can't get anything out, just as I did then. I wake up with the conviction that I am still a child.

I pray a lot, although I don't know myself to which gods anymore. I guess to any of who would be willing to listen to me. They don't answer me, just like you.

He repeated to himself in his mind that he would read her despairing, feminine ramblings to mock her, but in fact he was immersed in her thoughts, in her world, trying to imagine her, analysing each word with pietism, returning to the sentences that had taken the most root in his heart and would not leave him afterwards for days.

He read her letters for hours, treating such evenings like a sacred day, running his thumb over his lower lip, staring dully ahead in the light of the blazing fire, thinking of her words.

Although he pretended that what she wrote meant nothing to him, once in a while, usually when he was waiting for her next message, he would take all her letters and read them one by one, analysing how her handwriting had changed, now much prettier and assured, how her choice of words had evolved, rich and full of metaphors.

He knew that, like him, she read a lot.

She never brought up the matter of his or her family, the details of their conflict, their betrothal and the fact that his mother had insisted that he marry one of Lord Baratheon's daughters.

When he learned that Rhaenyra planned to marry his niece to her cousin of House Arryn he grabbed all her letters she had sent him over the years, which he kept locked in his wooden drawer, and almost threw them into the fire, hesitating at the last moment, squeezing them in his hand, panting with rage.

Although he kept repeating to himself that it was a good thing he wouldn't have to take a bastard wife, immediately his mind went into a fury at the thought that she might have become someone else's mistress, borne children to other man, and he found himself sinking into her letters again, as if re-appropriating her in this way.

He feared nothing more than that one day she would stop writing to him.

He dreaded what he would do then.

The days when Aegon could mess with him were long gone. His older brother the drunkard knew he was no match for him in hand-to-hand combat, he was taller, smarter and stronger than he was.

Yet it was Aegon who was to inherit everything that would not fall to Rheanyra as future queen.

He wanted to be his opposite in every sense of the word; his appearance made him even more isolated from the opposite sex and he didn not look at women at all, spending long hours in the Great Sept with his mother praying at her request.

If it had been up to him, he would have prayed to the gods of Old Valyria, but he saw her loneliness and loss, and wanted to be a support for her, a son she would be proud of.

Despite what he tried to tell himself, the tension he felt as a man grew stronger within him, even more so in the evenings when he leaned over her letters again, when he thought of her scent, of her hand holding the quill.

He wondered involuntarily what she looked like now, what he would notice if he undressed her, if he exposed her bare breasts to him.

Would they fit in his hand, would they be soft and warm?

Would she moan sweetly if he touched her there?

He tilted his head back, trying to read further, settling himself more comfortably in the chair, his free hand slipping under his breeches, gripping his already half-hard, throbbing manhood.

He imagined that it wasn't his hand but hers that was touching him, that she wasn't disgusted by him, that just like before her hands were stroking his cheeks, her lips were finding his in a sweet, warm kisses.

A murmur escaped his throat at the thought, a wave of heat surged over him and he quickened, fucking himself with his own hand until he came with a low sigh of relief, imagining that she was sitting on top of him, that he had just filled her with his seed, that she was begging him not to stop.

However, when he regained his sanity he felt rage and shame.

He hid her letters in a drawer and did not take them out for weeks, as if offended that it was their fault he had to pray again and beg the gods for forgiveness.

He promised himself that this would not happen again, however, it always ended the same way.

The knowledge that he could not forget her enraged and calmed him at the same time, as if this state was natural, the parallel hatred and desire for her became one and the same in his eyes.

He hated her because he desired her, desired her because he could not have her, could not have her because he hated her.

He locked himself in this circle, not allowing anyone to see what was poisoning his mind and heart.

If in the poems women appeared innocent and bright, she was to him the symbol of his downfall, his flame of his eternal suffering, which burned him every day, but which he did not dare to extinguish knowing that complete darkness would then prevail inside him.

When it became known that Vaemond Velaryon had challenged Luke's claim to the throne of Driftmark he laughed out loud at the Small Council meeting, amused, embarrassing his mother and grandfather.

He thought the gods were cruel but fair.

The grin disappeared from his face, replaced by a strong heartbeat when their Queen conveyed that Rhaenyra, along with her entire family, would appear in King's Landing in a few days to settle the matter.

With her entire family.

He sat by the fireplace that evening, running his thumb over his lips, feeling that there was complete panic in his mind, hundreds of thoughts running through his head.

He wasn't ready for this.

He didn't want to see her.

He wanted nothing more than to see her again.

He was disgusted by her and her brothers, by the fact that he would be sitting at the same table with her.

Would she touch him with her soft hand? Did she still smell of vanilla? Would she whisper that she missed him?

What was he to answer if she did?

Mock her, tell her that she should retain the remnants of her dignity.

Tear off her gown, press his lips to her soft, bare body, saying that he would sooner kill her than let her marry someone else.

He let out a loud shuddering breath, burying his face in his hand, feeling like his head was about to explode, his heart pounding like mad.

He had the feeling that he was losing his mind, that he was descending into madness.

When he saw Jace and Luke among the crowds, when he saw how small and skinny they were compared to him, when he saw their mouths wide open in shock as they realised who they were looking at, he thought he had never felt more satisfied in his life.

"Nephews. Have you come to train?" He asked in a deep, teasing voice feigning concern as he played with the hilt of his sword in his hand, flipping it between his fingers.

He wanted nothing more than to humiliate them in public.

His musings and wild excitement were interrupted by Vaemond's entrance into the courtyard − he grinned broadly at the sight of him, feeling a sense of satisfaction, sighing quietly, thinking of how the gods had rewarded his patience.

He turned impatiently, extending his hand to his servant, willing him to hand him another wooden shield and froze in half-step, out of the corner of his eye noticing a silhouette looking at him from the cloisters.

It seemed to him that his heart knew who was standing there even before it reached his mind, for it began to pound like mad, his breath stopped in his throat.

He forced himself to look there again and that's when he saw her − he couldn't believe how much she had changed.

Although he could see the obvious features and similarities by which he recognised her immediately, her eyes, her eyelashes, the shade of her hair, the shape of her nose and face, it seemed to him that if she had been a bud when she left the Red Keep, she was now a flower that had blossomed, a ripe fruit that begged to be plucked, to bite into its flesh.

He imagined his swollen lips brushing the hollow of her bare neck, the soft skin of her shoulders, the scent of vanilla he would smell and he shuddered, ashamed and horrified at how hard his manhood throbbed in his breeches.

This sight, so clear, blunt, final, completely shocked him, and though it lasted only a moment, he managed to remember the shape of her breasts and hips, the shape of her parted mouth, her terrified gaze full of longing.

He turned away from her, furious, thrusting his sword at Criston, their blades clashing in the air with a loud clang of steel.

That evening he felt that something hung in the air. He felt her presence in the keep and had the impression that if he turned he would see her silhouette behind him.

He played between his fingers with his dagger and looked at it, wondering if he would feel relief if he killed her, if he would then regain control of his body and mind again.

Maybe it was the right path.

Maybe it was because of her that he was unable to move on.

He shuddered and tensed all over when he heard a quiet knock on the door to his chamber − he felt a cold sweat on the back of his neck, knowing that it was her, that destiny had reached him.

He felt it in his bones.

He wanted to remain silent, he wanted to show her that she no longer had access to his world, that he recognised years ago that there was no way for them that they could walk together.

I pray a lot, although I don't know myself to which gods anymore. I guess to any of who would be willing to listen to me. They don't answer me, just like you.

He closed his eye, feeling a squeeze in his throat at the thought of those three sentences that echoed through his mind and heart like a bell, that undeniable desire on her part to be reunited with him that he pretended not to share.

"Come in." He said coldly, feeling the thrill of excitement, his heart pounding so hard that he felt like it was going to burst out of his chest.

The door opened with a quiet creak of wood, and she appeared in it, surrounded by the glow of candlelight, looking like a saint, like a ghost, like an innocent, sweet maiden who was lost in the black maze that had always been meant to lead her to him.

He resigned himself to the fact that there was no escape from it.

She closed the door behind her and turned to look at him; he wasn't sure if it was the flames that was trembling or if it was her body that was quivering all over with fear, in her big eyes terror, desire, suffering, everything she had written to him about.

Only after a moment did he realise that his jaw was clenched, that he was involuntarily still playing with his dagger in his hand as he looked at the indistinct silhouette of her naked body peeking through from under her nightgown, her long dark hair loose, its curls falling freely over her back.

He felt his length throbbing hard at the thought of her coming to him dressed as a lover, as if she were his.

He licked his lower lip with his tongue, catching himself breathing loudly.

Gods, how long he had waited for this.

"Did you received my letters?" She asked quietly, as usual without any further pleasantries, her voice trembled slightly betraying her fear.

He shuddered to hear that she no longer sounded like a child, the way she spoke was melodious and pleasant, soft, warm.

"Yes." He replied in a low, deep voice, sounding like an echo in an endless, dark bottomless well.

He saw that she blinked rapidly, as if she hadn't expected such an answer; she pressed her lips together and swallowed loudly, gathering the courage to say more.

She knew she had ventured into the dragon's cave and might never leave it again.

He knew, he felt that she was aware of what was on his mind, that she saw it in his gaze.

"Have you read them?" She asked at last, there was something final in her question.

He parted his lips slightly, lifting his chin in a defiant gesture, stretching comfortably in his chair, wondering if he should humiliate her with words that he had burned them all.

To let her know that she no longer meant anything to him.

He wanted to say it, but he couldn't.

"Yes, my Lady Strong. I have read them all. Many times, here, in this chair." He hummed, running the blade of his dagger across the armrest, making a deep, chiseled line on it.

Go on, he thought, ask me why I didn't write back, what I thought of your tendentious, weepy musings, what I thought of your feminine, touching guilt, of your weakness, of your coming to me now like a dog to beg forgiveness.

She, however, asked nothing.

He shuddered and threw her a surprised glance as she suddenly moved ahead with a grave expression on her face, as if she had lost interest in the subject, making him feel discomfort.

"Does your mother-whore know you're here?" He asked dryly, wanting to take away her confidence, to embarrass her, to strike at her dignity, reminding her that she herself had come to a grown man in such a shameless negligee.

She, however, merely threw him a surprised glance as she approached his bookshelves, the small one he had been given as a child replaced by three new ones, made of oak wood, high to the ceiling, filled to the brim.

She reached for one of the volumes and he felt a squeeze in his throat when he saw that she had taken out The Reflections on the Dignity of the Ancient Philosopher Areon.

"My, as you put it, mother-whore, never knew when I visited you, uncle. I was very determined not to be caught." She said calmly, but with an air of regret and weariness, as if the situation between them was tiring her, as if she believed that facing him like a ghost from the past would allow her to move on.

He thought they both could have done it, but he wasn't sure if the blade he held in his hand wouldn't have cut her neck then.

He snorted, turning his gaze to the flames, involuntarily turning his dagger in his hand − he grinned despite being tense and bitter.

"Do you often visit men like this?" He asked reluctantly, though inside he was dying to prove to himself that surely she had already slept with her guards or other men who would give her pleasure, that the sweet, innocent girl he remembered was long gone.

He heard her footsteps and felt her presence; he lifted his eye to her, surprised, and noticed that her gaze was cloudy, her brow furrowed.

She looked as if she had been exceptionally offended by those very words.

"Have you no shame?" She asked him in a cool, trembling voice; he could feel the pain in the way she asked the question, his lips tightened into a thin line.

He was struck by how direct the question was.

He wasn't used to being spoken to like that.

But before he had time to respond with anything, to finally stab her in the back with words that were like poison, she began to speak, as if a dam had suddenly burst inside her and her thoughts poured out at him.

"I don't know who you are, the man who sits now before me, but if there is even a fragment of the boy I was meant to marry in you, let that boy know that he was and will be the only one in my heart. He was my beloved friend and I failed him. It is hard to live with the thought that someone you loved so deeply has died in a way, but there is neither a grave to pray over nor any hope of peace for his soul. What I fear is that the boy I knew has disappeared among the darkness and is dying in it every day."

He was ashamed that he felt a squeeze in his throat, that he felt a burning under his eyelids, that his heart was pounding like mad, that he froze completely in disbelief and shock as he stared at her wide-eyed.

She bursted into sobs in front of him, as if she was really mourning someone's death, and he didn't know what to do – even if he wanted to humiliate her, tell her to leave, he couldn't get anything out of himself.

He drew in air loudly and his whole body stiffened, the dagger fell out of his hand with loud clatter when she surprised him completely by sitting down on his lap, snuggling into him like a little child.

He had the feeling that she was not embracing him in the here and now, but a figure from the past that she missed so much.

"– forgive me – forgive me – forgive me –" She whined in a desperate, trembling, quivering voice.

He felt he was struggling to catch his breath, his nostrils filled with her scent, the smell of vanilla, her familiar warmth, his manhood hidden beneath his breeches swelled in response to this sudden, unexpected closeness, hitting her stomach.

She shuddered feeling it and looked up at him, her face flooded with tears, terrified and ashamed, her gaze asking him what she had just felt underneath her.

He began to breathe through his mouth, feeling the panic rising inside him because of the heat and tingling he felt in his lower abdomen.

There were drops of her tears on her eyelashes, her eyes big, her gaze hot, tender, terrified, her cheeks flushed with emotion, her lips puffy and plump, slightly parted in an accelerated breath.

"– can I kiss you? –"

He wasn't sure if he really heard it, it seemed to have only resounded in his head as his memory of that sunny day, but involuntarily he leaned lower.

He sighed as if relieved when her arms suddenly embraced his neck, her plump breasts snuggled into his tunic, and her wonderfully wet, soft lips pressed against his in a sticky, loud kiss.

They both moaned into each other's mouths as they felt his erection throb under her again, harder this time − he wasn't sure if it was his will that guided the movements of his hands as one clamped down on her hip and the other on the back of her neck, holding her in place, not allowing her lips to pull away from his as he slid his tongue deep into her throat.

They both trembled as he tentatively began to rock his hips, rubbing against her from below, teasing her palate with the tip of his tongue, overwhelmed by her familiar closeness and scent, her so-needed, gentle hands stroking his hair and cheeks, her thumb running over his scar under his eye patch.

The sight of her body, her sweetly parted lips, her hot gaze in which everything lurked, and her scent, the smell of fucking vanilla filled his entire mind.

He rubbed his already hard cock against the place between her thighs again and again, panting heavily, sliding his free hand under the material of her nightgown, placing it on her naked, hot hip, digging his fingertips into her wonderfully soft skin.

He saw the blush on her sweet, innocent face, her hips in a slow, smooth motion began to move back and forth, pressing what was underneath her; he shuddered all over feeling it and they both sighed quietly as her fingers ran over his jaw.

"− uncle −" She whispered softly into his mouth, exactly like in his dreams, like when he touched himself between his thighs with his hand.

With longing and desire.

He was unable to remember when she pressed her sweet-tasting lips to his again, hugging her soft breasts into the fabric of his tunic, what the reason for their disagreement was, it seemed to him to be completely trivial and unfounded.

He thought it was obvious that the lovers had argued with each other and then reconciled.

That was all he thought about as he undid the ties of her nightgown, sucking and caressing her fleshy, moist mouth, her jaw, her neck, her shoulders with his swollen lips, leaving wet, hot marks on her skin – his hands slid it slowly off her arms, revealing her bare body, her lovely breasts, unashamedly before him.

He delighted in this sight, almost mythological, noble, for breasts were the joy of husbands and the source of milk for their offspring, something beautiful, admirable.

He could feel her trembling all over in his hands, terrified by her negligee; he was sure now that no one had ever seen her naked before him and this thought spread like a wonderful, hot wave through his body.

"− easy − your uncle will treat your body with proper respect −" He murmured in a deep voice trembling with arousal, his large hand grasped one of her breast and squeezed it tentatively; he sighed feeling how warm and soft it was.

She moaned innocently in front of him, making his long erection press against her lower abdomen again.

He grasped her cheeks in his hand, with a brutal, sudden movement drawing her face closer to his, his fingers ran over her soft, wet, full lips.

"− please −" She mumbled, her gaze warm and hazy, her little body trembling in his embrance.

He decided to take pity on her, sliding his tongue deep inside her throat, stifling her loud mewl.

His thumb began to tease and play with her nipple, making her whole body shivered; he felt her hands tighten in his hair, her lips melt into his in a quick, hot dance of saliva and teeth.

"− uh − it tickles − here –" She muttered, rubbing against his swollen erection with her hips, as if she really didn't know what was happening to her, as if she wanted him to help her understand what her body was trying to tell her, however he, hearing this, lost his temper.

Despite the material of his breeches separating them where their bodies met, he could feel her moisture.

She was wet.

She wanted him inside her.

"− it's understandable − you missed your uncle − hm? −" He murmured into her mouth with a kind of tenderness and understanding that surprised him, as if it had been obvious that this was how it would end.

She nodded quickly like a child who agreed with his teacher, who wanted to be guided, to be shown what was right.

She squealed as he stood up with her, holding her in his arms, just thinking about the fact that he hadn't felt this calm for years, the sight of her, the smell of her made his head spin.

He couldn't even remember why he was mad at her, why he hadn't written her back, why he wanted to kill her.

How could he ever hurt her, his sweet little wife?

"− lie on your back − yes, just like that −" He murmured with delight, looking at her partially exposed body; her lips was pink and puffy from his caresses, her breath heavy as she looked at him dreamily, watching as he began to undo the fastenings of his tunic, getting rid of it, leaving only his shirt and breeches.

He climbed onto the bed with a loud creak of wood, not quite sure what he should do, sensing subconsciously, however, that this was the day of their reunion, their reconciliation after years of separation, the figures of Lord Baratheon's daughters and Lord Arryn's son seemed to him nothing more than a joke.

He knew that he couldn't take her maidenhood, deprive her of her virtue even it was the only thing he desired now and, desperate, he reminded himself about what his brother said to him one day.

Then he was embarrassed by his words, but now he thought that he could make use of them.

Aegon spoke to him of how wonderful it was to taste the woman between their thighs, that they quivered with delight when he licked them there, and since he would devour her whole if he could, he decided to try.

She was horrified and distraught when she saw his face between her thighs; he thought, lifting the material of her nightgown above her hips, that her womanhood reminded him of a flesh of a fruit, pink, moist and fleshy.

She tried to push him away, asking him fearfully what he was going to do as he leaned down, but she only tilted her head back as his tongue ran over her leaking, throbbing, hot slit, the sound she made surprised even him.

"− o-oh, gods −" She whimpered as he licked devotedly what spilled out of her, the taste and flesh of his future wife, her proof that she didn't despise him, that she still wanted him, that her little cunt was waiting for him and for his caresses.

"− have you touched yourself here? −" He gasped between one lick of his tongue and the next, her thighs trembling in his hands, her fingers clenched in his hair, trying to rub against his face.

He grinned involuntarily sensing her desperation, seeing that she nodded and ran the tip of his nose over the puffy bud hidden between her folds, making her moaned loudly.

Encouraged, he grasped it in his mouth and began to suck on it, licking it with his tongue; her whole body arched, uncontrollable whines erupted from her mouth. He tried to cover her lips with his hand, fearing that someone would eventually hear it, but she clamped her hands on his wrist, blocking his movements.

"− please, uncle, too much − too much −" She whimpered, trying to escape; he stopped, seeing that her body was shaking in convulsions, surprised how sensitive the female body was and how many secrets it hid.

He thought he now understood why it was Rhaenys that Aegon the Conqueror wanted in his bed.

In the art of the body, one could not be aggressive and brutal as on the battlefield.

What they were doing was some sort of a feast, tasting and satisfying their desires, full of moistures and hot embraces.

He hummed as he leaned down again, intrigued, and slowly slipped his tongue deep inside her, feeling how rough and wet her fleshy walls were, groaning quietly as her wonderful taste spread across his palate.

"− uncle − mghmm −" She mumbled, breathing hard, with each flick of his tongue inside her drifting away more and more, he could feel her insides pulsing all over around nothing.

"− it'll be wonderful to feel it clench around my fat cock one day − don't you think, sweet niece? −" He asked, pressing his face closer to her body, licking and rubbing her walls in place that when he touched it with the tip of his tongue she trembled the most, moaning helplessly, her hips coming up to meet his face, her breathing getting louder and louder.

"− oh g-gods, Aemond − oh gods,oh gods,oh gods −" She mewled, startling him as she raised herself up on her elbow, tilting her head back, bliss and delight painted on her face, her plump, glossy lips parted in sweet moans as if in disbelief that something so wonderfully pleasurable had shaken her body.

It was the first time he had ever seen female fulfilment and it was a stunning, wonderful sight.

He groaned low as he felt how much moisture flowed out of her, kissing her hot, throbbing entrance devotedly, slowly licking everything off, not wanting to waste a drop, even though she begged him to stop.

Everything he drank from her was for him, the wonderful nectar of his sweet wife.

He rose on his knees, wiping his face with his hand, looking at her in disbelief, panting loudly; she lay as if without strength, with her hands spread on either side of her head, her plump, puffy lips slightly parted in ragged breath.

His niece.

"Touch me." He demanded, slipping off his breeches, taking her hand in his, with a desperate, sudden movement clamping her fingers on his swollen, twitching erection, leaking from his own wetness. They both moaned helplessly when, with movements of his hand, he showed her how she was to touch him.

She looked up at him in shame, squeezing his long, swollen manhood with sure up and down strokes, feeling it throb all over in her grasp; he rocked his hips involuntarily, sensing that he was embarrassingly close to fulfillment.

"− fuck − fuck, come here −" He gasped, grabbing her by her hair, forcing her to rise up and kiss him − their lips collided in a sticky, messy kiss, the combination of their tongues and their saliva, the smell of her, the sight of her bare body, the scent of her sex, her moisture around them, proof of what they were doing.

Against their gods, against their family.

He didn't care what happened next.

"− don't fucking stop − faster − fuck-fuck-fuck −" He hissed and groaned low, surprised at the helpless sound that came from his throat, coming with a sigh of relief onto her nightgown, his translucent, pearly spend spurting out onto her, startling her; he hushed her with his kisses, whispering to her between the sticky brushes of their lips.

"− easy, it's just me − shhh −" He whispered, letting go of her hand, allowing her to release her grip, her fingers all sticky with his seed.

"− lick it off − don't waste a drop −" He growled, wrinkling his eyebrows.

She swallowed loudly, all red with shame at his lewd words, obediently licking her finger after finger, looking him straight in the eye. He watched her with satisfaction, grinning, thinking of how obedient and good a wife she would indeed be.

"− you are going to spend the night with me −"

______

From the author: In Stay and love, leave and die oneshot Aemond would not allow her to enter his chamber, he would remain silent - in his opinion, she had forgotten about him and suddenly wanted to regain his favor, which he found pathetic and irritating, not worth his attention. None of her letters reached him through the years, having been intercepted and burned by Otto. The next day, he informed his mother that either she would leave the Red Keep or he would, and she decided to return to Dragonstone so as not to escalate the conflict. In that universe, they actually speak to each other only in Strom's End.

______

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

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gentrychild · 1 year ago

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An anon who was rereading Anyone asked me what would have happened if Izuku didn't like eggs and how you tell a supervillain you don't like what he made and that you want something. I have bravely tried to answer said ask but Tumblr laughed at my pain, so here is it, on a new post.

------------------------

When confronted with the super villain Izuku had accidentally broken out of the most secured prison in the country, a man who had basically walked out of said prison as soon as he hadn’t been restrained anymore, Izuku did the only thing any rational person would do.

He ran like hell. No shoes, no plan, nothing except Full Cowl roaring in his veins and he fled.

At least, he tried to.

Strong tendrils stopped him dead, then hands picked him up by his shoulders and suddenly, his feet weren't touching the ground and he was forcibly brought to the kitchen table.

''No, no, no,'' All for One said with the tone one would employ with a disobedient pet or a very young child. ''Your breakfast is going to get cold and we have so much to talk about. Sit. Enjoy the eggs. If you don't like them, I can make something else.''

And he dropped him on his chair, before putting the plate in front of him. Then, he sat at the other end of the table, facing Izuku, his own plate in front of him and he started to eat. Slowly, his manners perfect, while Izuku was dying of sheer stress over there.

Then, he looked at Izuku. Then at Izuku's plate.

''You're not eating?''

Izuku looked at the man who had literally reduced people to paste last night and then at his plate of eggs and bacon, then back at the lunatic who was probably going to skin him alive soon enough. He needed to do something, to get the time to find a way out of this mess.

Now, any reasonable human being would have eaten a bit of eggs and bacon – well, eaten the bacon in Izuku’s case – but he had just woken up, was in a pre-caffeinated state and truly, Izuku had never claimed to have the slightest working relationship with sanity.

“I don’t like eggs,” he blurted out.

The supervillain, the very same man who had literally gone through a prison riot of fellow villains like he was running through wet paper, was startled so badly by those four words that he dropped his fork.

“What do you mean, you don’t like eggs???” he asked like this was a ludicrous notion, like everyone’s favorite breakfast should be eggs and bacon.

“Never liked them,” Izuku lied, by pure spirit of contradiction, far more developed than for most people, for it had been left with quite the amount of room after the disappearance of all his survival instinct.

And it was indeed a lie because, once upon a time, it had been his favorite comfort food, but when he had been a kid, during one of those weeks where his mom was gone and the neighbor supposed to watch over him was busy forgetting his existence, he had gorged himself on it at every meal until he had gotten so sick of it that he had been unable to eat them ever again.

All for One watched him with something that went beyond annoyance, it was the patented look of someone who knew one was messing with him and the words “You’re a goddamn liar” were probably fighting to be left out but he had no proof that Izuku was bullshitting him and if even if he somehow had a lie-detecting-quirk, Izuku would keep denying it because he probably wasn’t making it out alive anyway so why deprive himself of the chance of annoying his would-be-killer?

And actually, why wait?

“I prefer waffles,” Izuku informed him because, after all, All for One had offered him to make him something else.

All for One stared at him without saying anything, probably thinking about all the ways he could have killed Izuku back when they were in Tartarus. Meanwhile, Izuku gave the illusion to be staring back at him when he was actually thinking about the fact the window made a faster exit but All for One would have the time to catch him before he landed seven floors lower while the door offered him more options.

All for One eventually abandoned his plate and started to rummage through the cupboards, going straight to the place where Izuku and his mom usually put the baking ingredients. Either everyone organized their kitchen the same way, or All for One had broken in so many homes that he was just a pro at using any kitchen he found himself into.

“Do you have flour?” the lunatic called out. “I can’t find it.”

Izuku had already flowed out of his chair and was making his way to the door by walking backwards, trying to radiate nonchalance and not the need to RUN AWAY WITHOUT LOOKING BACK.

“Try the highest shelves,” Izuku helpfully suggested, his hand on the doorknob.

It was where his mom put the heaviest pots and pans they usually didn’t use, since everyone in this household needed to climb a chair to access it. With a little luck, they would all fall on All for One.

Izuku left the apartment, not even bothering to fully close the door behind him, and he ran. He was in his pajamas, had found his sneakers by the door and they were still in his hands as he booked it out of his neighborhood as fast as Full Cowl could carry him and he didn’t stop until his building wasn’t in sight anymore. Then, he stopped on a bench, the couple flirting on it deciding they could do that somewhere else when they saw him approaching, and he put his sneakers on, took a deep breath, and decided to run some more, still in the opposite direction of where Todoroki was living, and then, he would figure out a plan.

Unfortunately, liquid shadows chose this moment to appear right in front of him, revealing All for One, who was holding a bag from Waffle Palace in one of his hands.

“I didn’t find any flour or sugar so I just ordered in.”

Some people would have screamed or been startled but Izuku had already ripped the bench from the ground and thrown it at All for One. The villain batted it away with his empty hand but it didn’t matter because Izuku was already half way through the park, or at least until black tendrils grabbed him and yanked him back.

“Your waffles are going to get cold,” All for One sternly informed him before grabbing him by the back of his shirt and he warped again, this time with Izuku under his arm.

#I hope you see this Anon #anyone fic #anyone au

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lcriedlastnight · 6 months ago

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Accidental kiss with enemies to lovers with Oscar

this is such a good idea, thanks anon! hope you like.

tw: fem!reader, swears, idk if this even makes sense, lmk if you want me to add anything.

w/c: 881

everyone said you held a grudge for way too long. you would disagree but you can't really because you've held a grudge against oscar piastri since you met him and you've known him for years. you wouldn't admit this to anyone but you can't even remember what it was he did that had pissed you off so badly, that you knew from the first time you spoke you didn't like him.

it did cause a little commotion between the paddock, seeing as you frequented it often, and you were not going to stop enjoying your favourite sport because of oscar's annoyingly cute face.

the amount of run ins you have had with the mclaren driver, where he gives you that polite cat smile and you scowl in response. you find it weird he still tries to be kind to you even though he knows you don't like him.

your standing with alex, charles' girlfriend as the grid surrounds you, waiting for the drivers parade. you really like alex, she always gives you the best fashion tips and it never hurts to see your favourite furry friend, leo. charles had told you to stop playing favourites with his sons, seeing your clear distaste for oscar. you had rolled your eyes, not finding the joke funny to begin with. although that probably had something to do with the fact that it involved oscar and you claim to hate anything involving oscar.

the room was small which made it seem like the forty-odd people inside, look like they were packed in like sardines. you were literally brushing shoulders with people trying to get from one side of the room to the other. you had remembered that you had left your handbag on the chair across the room, so you put on a brave face as you try to make your way through the sea of people. everyone was aware of the lack of space and tried their best to move when someone was trying to get past, it was just difficult when there wasn't really anywhere to move to.

now, you were clumsy at the best of times so having to avoid about eighty pairs of trainers as well as anything else laying on the floor seemed like the most impossible mission that you were sure to, without a doubt, fail miserably. you make sure every step you take is carefully planned. you couldn't however, plan for the boys of rb to cause a ruckus and sending poor yuki barrelling towards you. you didn't see it coming, as yuki tripped into you from behind it creates a chain reaction. it's almost like it happens in slow motion. yuki calls your name in a warning but it's too late as you trip over your own feet and a foot that has somehow ended in between yours. the owner of the foot spins around to see what's going on and you barely have time to register that it's oscar you are this close to - and falling into.

oscar's hands are quick to grab hold of your waist to steady you and stop you from falling on top of him. he clearly didn't use enough strength because you were still falling too fast and before you could question how in the fuck it could even happen, his lips were on yours. if it wasn't for the foot oscar had stuck behind him, he probably would have went falling too.

you pull away from his as soon as you realise what has happened. oscar's hands are still on your hips as he holds you towards him. you blush bright red in embarrassment and it's probably the cutest thing he's seen. the things oscar would do right now to pause this moment to take a picture of you and your rosy cheeks.

most of the grid has seen what had happened and all you want is for the ground to swallow you whole. how has a three second kiss made you want to marry this man? you jump away from the driver like he had burned you. "fucking hell. watch where you're going next time, piastri. i could report you for that."

your brows are furrowed as the other drivers seem to part like the red sea to let you by. you end up leaving the room, going to the bathroom to compose yourself.

oscar stands there with pink ears, his friends watching on in amusement as he stares at the door you just left through. if he wasn't in public he knew he would be putting his fingers to his lips, just like they do in the movies.

"well i did not see that coming. well in, oscar, one step closer." lando comments. a hand slapping the back of the curly haired boys head. it was charles on the behalf of the still awestruck oscar. he feared he was never getting over this, oscar needed another kiss soon or he would die. he was sure of it. he just wanted the next one to be on purpose. the guilt already eating away at him even though he didn't really do anything wrong. an idea pings to his head.

oscar will find you and apologise. maybe you will want a kiss as an apology. a man can only hope.

#oscar pastri fluff #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri angst #oscar piastri #op81 x you #op81 x y/n #op81 angst #op81 fluff #op81 imagine #op81 x reader #op81 fic #op81 #f1 fluff #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #lcriedlastnightrequests #lcriedlastnight

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seancekitsch · 1 month ago

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The Sword and the Quill: Chapter Four

Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Reader

In the weeks leading up to little Daeron's departure to Oldtown, Queen Alicent finds herself trying to entertain the unmarried ladies of court. As one of her ladies in waiting, you agree to an anonymous penpal in one of the men at court, and end up spilling your heart to him. He is your perfect match, your equal. The only issue? The Queen's brother Gwayne Hightower will not stop teasing you as you try to uncover who responds to your letters.

My Sweet Unfamiliar,

Do not look for betrothal in other men. I will admit I was not looking for a wife in these letters, merely fun to distract from the banality of court, but a personality such as yours has me rethinking it all. If you were to have me, I would take you by horse or by wheelhouse or by ship to anywhere that would please you. However that means I must find you first. My list has gone from six to two in the past week; and I feel all the more confident that I shall find you soon.

At the tourney I swore I could see you, yet I was not sure if your eyes were on mine. I saw one lady sure and steadfast and utterly bored by the entire event until the final one, and I assumed it had to be you. Though, I am uncertain if my affectionate gaze carried to where you could notice. I do not find you too forward, Sweet Unfamiliar, as when I find you I will be difficult to restrain myself from kissing your lips bruised. I find myself besotted by you despite not knowing you, and I regret to inform you that I will be forever envious of the man who claimed your first kiss.

To read a work as forbidden as Wylde’s must mean that you are a lady of some pull at court, as that book is not so easily come upon. I too have read it, stolen away from my studies by the temptation of the restrictions placed on the text. We may have read two of the only copies that still exists. That is yet another clue you’ve given me to your identity. Though I must wonder, what did you learn from it? Did you enjoy what you read? Do I dare ask further? No, I shall not. It is unbecoming of a man of my stature, and unbecoming to ask you so plainly. Hence, though, it will be what I dream of.

Congratulations, My Unfamiliar, you have just convinced me to learn Jenny of Oldstones. You are correct, what a beautiful and haunting song. What a careful and remorseful tune. I will be sure to learn it well for you so that I may play and you may sing. Surely, I do not know your voice, though I am sure if I am taken by your personality your voice will do the same for me.

To answer your queries, I will say that I believe love can be both: fated and fleeting. Some people, I truly think, are meant to be together. Yet the world makes that a fleeting thing. To think how many great love stories are cut short by senseless tragedies, or circumstances keeping two apart? To think, My Unfamiliar, how easily we could have never known each other like this?

I would never wish for you to dance without music, and thought I will not be playing at the next feast, I will be requesting the song.

At the next feast, what will you wear? Will I be able to finally put a face to the lovely letters?

If you give me the word, I will use it, and use it often that night. I will even shout it if I must! But I do not wish to, instead I wish to whisper the word to you, in hopes that quietly, privately, we can discover each other. Then, and only then, will I claim that dance.

And if we are brave, I will claim that kiss.

Hopeful and waiting,

Your Unfamiliar

You sigh as you cross names off your list, half exasperated and half thrilled.

Your sentiments are returned, a faceless phantom of a man, wants to kiss you wants to take you traveling wants to play you music. This man seems genuine, sweet and caring; Yet also passionate, bold and forward with his affections. The idea pleases you, that someone in this big stagnant castle is forcing movement within you.

And more than anything, your affections are returned. This man, whoever he may be, finds your personality as attractive as you find his, and he wants to kiss the breath out of you. Admittedly, your first kiss was not one to commit to any history. It was a kiss with a lower lord from the north during the early days of your life at King’s Landing hastily done and even more hastily finished. For a fortnight after you had convinced yourself that kissing was worthless and betrothal even moreso.

You hope this one will be better. You hope it to be the soft lips and passionate embraces you’ve read about. A Caution for Young Girls as a read did nothing but excite you, with tales of adventure and travel and wild romance that feels so foreign from what you’ve been given so far. You want to experience at least the thrill of these things.

But that isn’t something you’ve ever voiced outside of these letters the past few weeks. Especially not to Alicent, who sits at the next table over and pours over a list of invitations. She has been revising them all afternoon, worry marring her beautiful features and making her look much older than she is.

“I cannot make any waves with this,” she mutters, not exactly to you, but also not to no one. She has been making excuses for over an hour now, though it falls on understanding and also inconsequential ears.

“You have invited everyone of honor,” you tell her, for the fifth time since lunch. You close your journal, confident in the names you had crossed out of your now list of potential suitors, and rise from your seat.

“Let me see that,” you ask her, and the corners of her lips rise as she hands you the parchment. Throughout the past few weeks, you’ve noticed the dropped formalities between the two of you to have a profound effect on Alicent Hightower. You realize that maybe you are the first person to address her as an equal since herself and the princess fell out. Granted, you are not her equal by a long shot, but she has allowed you to be free tongued almost as much as your Unfamiliar. And she seems healthier for it. Your eyes scan over the guest list for the feast, all of the lords and ladies of all of the great houses of Westeros besides Dorne, and even a few of the more notorious Pentoshi merchants and their wives. This included notable vassals and knights from each of the seven kingdoms, as well as the High Septon and his advisors.

“I cannot see anyone who would be missing,” you tell her “Unless you’d like to invite a Dothraki warlord, I think we are good to start penning these.”

She laughs, more than just a scoffing sigh. Not a full laugh, but still more than just a sigh. You give the list back to her, and she waves over two of her maids. They quickly take their supplies and get to work, writing out each invitation diligently, drying the ink and then rolling the parchment to be delivered by raven to every great house in the seven kingdoms. Alicent always gets jumpy at feasts, and you do not doubt that you will be sat next to her again at this one. You only hope that despite sitting with the royal family, you will be able to do your little investigation. With any luck, you will be able to get out onto the dance floor and converse with some of the men.

Alicent was right about these letters, and brilliantly so. Even you yourself, who while supporting her doubted you would enjoy them, now has her to thank for the reinvigoration of the court. You trace your thumb across the spine of your journal thoughtfully, as Alicent hovers over the girls writing.

“That will not make the invitations be sent out faster,” you tease the queen, your gaze still turned downwards, and from the corner of your eye you can see her spin on her heels.

“You are right,” she concedes, and comes over to you, “Perhaps we should find somewhere else to go and stop pestering these lovely girls?”

She asks, and you fumble with your purses, tucking away your journal and supplies.

“A wonderful idea, Your Grace,” you smile at her as you stand, and hold out your arm to her.

Alicent leads you to one of the balconies overlooking the training yards, a nice shady spot with a light crossbreeze and ample seating to lounge on and far enough away that you cannot actually hear what the knights are saying over the sounds of your own conversations. It is one of the more peaceful parts of this side of the castle, though it is not one you come to often. She has two serving girls bring fresh water and lemons and a spread of cheeses and you quickly situate yourself on the cushions of one of the settees on the balcony, pulling your skirts up as you kick your legs up onto the cushion next to you. You stretch your legs and point your toes before you finally sit back onto the cushions, lounging yourself as you reach for a piece of cheese and some bread. This is not the ideal spot she could have taken you. You would have rather gone to the gardens or even one of the sitting rooms where you could call in one of the musicians. You could be just as content pulling up your skirts and lounging there instead of just out of the reach of the sun’s rays. However, you suspect that there is more than one reason why she has chosen to come here: her brother, and the fact that often the maester’s bring her sons here after their lessons.

Soon Aegon and Aemond will come bounding into the training yard to hang from Ser Criston Cole’s arms and climb the man until he offers to put a training sword in their pale little hands. That, at least, is always entertaining and gives you a good laugh. The poor Kingsguard always looks so lost and desperate under the boys’ onslaught.

“A sea of blue down there,” Alicent remarks, tipping the cup of water to her lips, “Many men seemingly showing off their loyalty these days.”

She is indeed correct; many of the men training below- save for the Kingsguard- wear blue tabards or bits of cloth pushing the sweat off of their foreheads or other adornments worn to be flashy as if there is some favor they’ve been given.

“Perhaps Gwayne has shared the book he borrowed,” you joke, but your mouth runs dry when you realize he is among the men in blue. Instead of his normal Hightower Green, his tabard is a deep royal blue like that of a sapphire. By wearing this, he is showing to everyone he is loyal to a lady; and it’s not lost on you that the crown he placed upon your head was also blue. Does he mean to signal to all of court that he is loyal to you? That you and he are bound to one another? The thought brews an anger behind your gaze. He knows you are looking for your writing partner, and yet he pulls this stunt to obscure your availability. Now any man at court could come to some conclusion. The knights are probably already coming up with rumors of how Gwayne finally shut up the shrill companion of the queen. The ladies can probably already guess and assume the things you’ve done with him in hidden corridors and behind bookshelves. Gods, the entire idea of it has you feeling angry to the point of sickness.

You grab three more pieces of cheese, shoving them into your mouth hastily. Maybe, with enough aged cheeses, you can brighten your quickly souring mood.

“The book you showed him?” Alicent speaks, and you actively cringe as you swallow your bite.

“A Guide on Courtly Love,” you scoff, attempting what you can to not give away too much. For some reason, to tell Alicent all of what has gone on feels too intimate for her station. If you told her all of what’s transpired between you and her brother, all of your feelings, the letter’s contents.

“Gwayne asked you for that?” She asks, as if in disbelief.

“Yes?”

It is Alicent’s turn to scoff. She does it politely though, with her dainty hand over her mouth to disguise her obvious smile.

“He did not need that,” she explains, “Believe me, he is well versed in the acts of courtly love.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, and then wave over one of the serving girls to bring wine instead of water.

“As a boy, he was obsessed with becoming the best knight in all the realm. He studied the blade, clearly, but he also read every guide on chivalry and courtly love and every famous old story or fable about knights and their gentleness and goodness. I am certain he has read every single written word that exists on the topic.”

She delivers this news completely unaware of how it changes your view of the past few weeks interactions with her brother. All you can do is hum in response, and reach for the goblet of wine the serving girl brought over to your side table.

You sink into your wine and cheese quietly, a front of content in the afternoon to hide a churning mystery unraveling below.

Maybe it will not be the colors of your house that you wear, you think. Now the sight of deep blue almost making you nauseous. You could wear all black, as if in mourning, but you’d already promised to save your black dress for the masquerade the king wanted to old. Plus, this is the celebration of the birth of a prince. Black may be too much an omen. Green is out of the question, as is gold.

You look down to your goblet, ruby red wine sloshing around and dripping down the inner sides of the silver cup. Ruby red. Thats it! Rubies. Maybe a dress color isn’t what your Unfamiliar should be looking for, but a jewelry color. You’ll wear rubies, earrings and a big ring! Big enough for him to press his lips against before a dance with you

You’re shaken from your thoughts by a new voice.

“Was my performance at the tourney not enough to showcase my skill in honor of the crown?” Gwayne calls out, smiling as he ascends the staircase to the balcony.

“Brother! Of course it was, I simply wanted some fresh air,” she motions towards him to sit next to her, scooting herself over on her settee. She pats the cushion as she makes herself smaller, your eyes on her hands and on the fine upholstery instead of the man intruding on the quiet afternoon.

“And my Queen of Love and Beauty, how are we?” he asks, his voice loud and cheerful.

“Lovely, just lovely,” you sneer, tipping your goblet to your lips again, “Until you showed up.”

“Please do not start,” you hear Alice grumble, but neither of you listen. It is her turn to focus on the cheese rather than the situation at hand.

“Here I was thinking you’d finally fallen off your high horse,” he spits back, “Such poisonous lips yet whom do I catch ogling me like I am a piece of meat?”

“I do not ogle!” offense makes your voice rise an octave as you slam your goblet down onto the side table.

“Then what do you call it? Watching me with eyes that are not becoming of an unmarried lady? While my pious sister sits by?”

“Do not bring me into this game,” Alicent sighs, and Gwayne does indeed back off slightly, leaning back on the settee farther away from you. You push yourself to sit up, kicking your legs off your settee. Though, you do not miss the way that Gwayne’s eyes are glued to your legs, bare as your skirts flutter and reposition themselves. You shake your head, incredulous.

“And you say I am unseemly in my gaze? What of your eyes, Ser Gwayne?”

“I am simply looking at Love and Beauty.”

You set your jaw tightly, looking away from the Hightower siblings. Below, Aegon and Aemond are actively smacking Ser Criston Cole with their training swords, right on schedule.

“My Queen, may I retire to my chambers? I feel I’ve had enough of the sun today, it is heating my blood in a way I don’t find favorable,” you ask, sighing deeply as you reach for another piece of cheese.

“How many times must I remind you to call me Alicent?” she chuckles, exasperated by whatever it is going on in front of her, “But yes, you may. I’ll call upon you when Helaena wants to see you before bed.”

You nod, and rise to your feet.

“Thank you, Alicent.”

You give her a smile as you depart, but it fades the moment you turn away from her.

“Why must you push her?” you can hear Alicent’s voice the moment she believes you are out of earshot.

Unfortunately, you cannot hear Gwayne’s answer.

Hours later, you hastily pen another letter, after looking into your wardrobe and in fact finding a perfect dress for the feast. The annoyance from earlier leaves your system when you finally get to sit down at the writing desk by candlelight. Sweet solitude clearing your mind, so you can only focus on him.

My Hopefully Discovered Unfamiliar,

This letter will be brief. More brief than we are used to, but I feel confident we will not write much longer unless we truly want to. I feel we will find each other at this feast to celebrate the birth of the Prince Lucerys.

I will leave you, perhaps an answer that teases you, my findings upon the writings of Corinne Wilde: I have learned much. I know much. I enjoyed it.

I fear we were almost ghosts of a story, and I must praise our Queen Alicent for creating this letter system. I think I agree with your philosophy on love regarding Jenny of Oldstones.

I will not tell you the color of my dress, for in truth I have not picked it yet, but my jewelry will be rubies. Blood red rubies. You will know me by rubies.

Our word will be CLANDESTINE, and I want you to learn to dance an Almain, if you are able. If not, I am sure a man like you will catch on quickly.

Yours, hopefully unveiled,

Your Unfamiliar

You fold the paper thrice before sealing it into the envelope, heart fluttering in both panic and excitement.

#gwayne hightower x reader #gwayne x reader

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astra-ravana · 3 months ago

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Must Love Demons

Demon originally meant "spirit replete with wisdom", that is until Christianity gained supremacy and began negatively labeling every spirit or pagan deity as a demon. Today it still conjures images of horror movie monsters and torturous possessions. When I tell others that I choose to work with demons, even other witches, I am met with everything from concern to disgust to morbid curiosity. But, I'd like to take a moment to clear up some misconceptions and ease fears regarding these brilliant and misunderstood spirits.

First off, what makes a spirit a demon? Well, as it turns out, lots of things can qualify you as demon. Many of the demons of the goetia started their spiritual reverence as pagan gods, then were disgraced by early Christians for going against their god by simply existing. Most of these beings are very complex in nature, but not evil as rumors would claim. Here's some things angels, spirits, and deities did to gain demon status:

• Knowing astrology/astronomy

• Being one with nature

• Taking back stolen books

• Falling in love with a human

• Helping spirits connect with mortals

• Being a "beast"

• Being a woman and refusing to submit to a man

• Connecting with/assisting the dead

• Doing magick

• Teaching magick to mortals

• Divination

• Having horns

• Being part animal

• Having too much confidence

• Inspiring love

• Teaching people science

• Being a strong goddess figure

• By doing nothing at all

So, would you be considered a demon? I know I sure would. As you can see the criteria by which a spirit is designated a demon is incredibly broad. Most demons mean no harm and conversely, have a wealth of knowledge to share with worthy mortals. These spirits are as diverse as human souls, having preferences, flaws, habits, different areas of expertise, personalities, and emotions. Some of them lived lives as human beings and/or were worshipped as deities.

When you begin researching demons you'll discover that this label encompasses a large, intricate pantheon of spirits, each with their own domains and abilities. Chances are, there's a demon out there who would resonate with you.

When I first started my demonic journey I was answering the call of a spirit that had been reaching out to me in my dreams since childhood. He was patient, however, and when I finally was brave enough to reach back he was overjoyed. This was the demon king of Hell, Paimon. I had never had such clear communication with a spirit and at times I forgot we were on different plains of existence. I had never had a spiritual connection with anything, not like this. Soon I began introducing myself to other spirits. I identified a demon that had protected me my whole life, befriended another, reached out to one to ask for knowledge, and my circle grew. Today I work with dozens of demon spirits and still find them to be the most relatable, loyal, understanding, and patient entities to work with.

I guess the moral is not to judge a book by its cover. I mean we know by now, being condemned by the church means very little in the realms of morality and actual goodness. As witches, our history with the church has a lot of common ground with demons. It's only natural we work together. I hope this maybe makes some reconsider any prejudices they may have towards these spirits. They are individuals, like us, chaotic, charming, loving, angry, divine, wise, and very real. They can bolster your spiritual growth and magick, gift you knowledge, and be a friend too. Can you learn to love a demon? It might just be worth finding out.

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theonlyqualitytrash · 20 days ago

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Ultima Sacrificium - Fyodor x Reader

Synopsys: The wolf and the lamb, it all comes full circle. Living in a cult was a beautiful lie, woven by those that claimed to love you.

Warnings: Fyodor, no ability au, graphic violence, mental and emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, cult themes and brainwashing, religion, moral ambiguity and ethical dilemmas, death (just lots of it)

A/N: This took two white nights to write I was high for most of it. I took a lot of inspiration from Midsommar and Kindred's lore (league) — thought it fit the relationship dynamic between Fyodor (a wolf in sheep's clothing) and the protagonist (a lamb). Enjoy :)

Word count: 8,800

"Once, long ago, there was a pale man with dark hair who lived in a world much like ours. But the pale man was terribly lonely. Why was he lonely? Well, you see, all things must meet this man one day, and so they feared him. They shunned him. They whispered his name with trembling voices and hid behind locked doors, hoping he might forget them. The pale man was patient, for he knew that time would bring all things to him eventually. Still, he wished for company, for understanding, for love. But how could he ever find such things when everyone turned away from him?"

"The pale man grew tired of his solitude, so one day, he took up his axe and made a choice. With one swift swing, he split himself in two, right down the middle. From his pale form, two figures emerged. One half became a lamb, soft and gentle, with warm eyes and a voice like a lullaby. The lamb would comfort those who came to the pale man, wrapping them in its embrace, whispering sweet assurances: 'Do not fear, for I will make your passing gentle.' The lamb brought peace and stillness, a quiet that felt like a soft bed on a cold night."

"The other half became a wolf, fierce and watchful, with sharp teeth and piercing eyes. The wolf would guard those who came to the pale man, protecting them from fear, doubt, and anything that might harm them in their final moments. 'Do not fear,' the wolf growled, 'for I will keep you safe as you walk into the unknown.' The wolf brought strength and courage, a shield to carry into the great beyond. Together, the lamb and the wolf made the pale man less frightening. No longer did the people shun him, for they saw in him not an end, but a promise. A promise that their journey would be gentle and strong, warm and brave, all at once."

"Now, the pale man is never lonely. All things come to him in time, and when they do, they do not turn away. They open their arms to the lamb and the wolf, knowing that both will guide them to their destiny."

Children are the fruit of society, and children were taught to see the world through stories like these. Some grew to be rotten, while others became little lambs—gentle, obedient, perfect for the herd. It was what society hoped for, and as a child, you were no different. Your parents told you bedtime tales of faith and sacrifice, and you learned that life in your community was a blessing. You had food and shelter. You were loved. You were taught to be kind and giving. These were virtues, they said, and to give back was the greatest blessing of all.

But as you grew older, the ways of giving back began to unsettle you. Were they truly necessary? Must they be so cruel? So violent? The gods demanded it—or so you were told. Your parents would never lie to you. The Shepherd would never lead you astray. He was chosen by the gods, blessed with their wisdom and charged with guiding you all. Surely, he only wanted what was best for you, for the community.

Yet, the thoughts prevailed, whispering doubts that you dared not voice. It must be your fault, you decided. Everyone else was content, even joyful. If you could not share in their faith, then something was wrong with you. These thoughts were dangerous, blasphemous, and you tried to bury them. But they had already taken root.

Your reflection was broken by the splash of something warm against your skin and applause that rippled through the crowd. Your senses snapped into focus, and you saw where you stood: the red square. Such a lovely place most days of the year, yet on days like today, bearing grim weights of tradition.

Before you lay a woman’s body, her head severed and resting at the base of a stone table. The table was stained with layers of sacrifice: black, brown, and the fresh crimson of her blood. Her hair, once long and red, was cut in two—strands still clinging to her head, framing her lifeless eyes, and another resting softly against her back, swaying in the breeze.

It was Gift Giving Day.

On paper, the celebration was a joyful offering of thanks to the gods for protection, for fertile harvests, for mercy from disasters. In truth, it demanded a human life, and however you looked at it, you could not find peace in it.

The Shepherd’s voice boomed across the square, smooth and commanding. "My dear children, my fleecelings… another good harvest is upon us! We thank the gods for welcoming Karolina into their kingdom and for keeping us safe…”

You forced yourself to listen, masking your unease with a polite smile. He was a good man, wasn’t he? He stayed among the people, with the guidance of selflessness your mother so often spoke of. He loved your mother when they were all younger, but he took on the mantle of leadership because his people needed him, allowing your mother to be given to another. Yet was that ever truly a thought of your own? Or had it been drummed into you since you had gained a sense to understand it?

When you’re branded as part of the flock from childhood, perhaps it’s easier to believe the brand is part of you as an adult.

"... As for next year's gift," the Shepherd went on to say, "I plead with the ewes and wetherlings to come forth for the choosing!"

You stepped forward alongside others your age, the motion automatic, your breaths shallow. A part of you yearned to be chosen, to end the cycle of watching others die year after year. But fate was neither kind nor cruel—merely indifferent.

"Fyodor! My dear boy, come forth!"

The same fate fell, by a flick of an eye, on a dark haired and paled skinned boy. Fyodor had always seemed distant, as though he existed in a world apart, he rarely spoke, his expression unreadable, his eyes unfocused. His frail body could barely wield an axe, unlike the other boys. Yet now, a faint smile graced his lips as he stepped forward to accept the flower crown from the Shepherd.

You clapped along with the crowd, your forced smile hiding the churn of emotions in your chest. You hadn’t spoken much with Fyodor, but you didn’t want him—or anyone—to meet this fate. Yet the community’s expectations weighed heavy, and you were one person, too insignificant, to defy them.

---

Bath time—a sacred ritual in your home. It was a communal act where you sat shoulder to shoulder in the steaming water, exchanging quiet words with your neighbors and washing one another. It was meant to cultivate unity and cohesion, a sense of belonging. No one felt shame; the sight of everyone bare before each other was considered a blessing, a return to innocence as God had intended. It symbolized the absolution of the first sin—disobedience—and the renunciation of shame and knowledge of good and evil.

The bathhouse was vast, its walls lined with mosaics of the pale man, the lamb, and the wolf. Light poured through the domed glass ceiling, fracturing into kaleidoscopic patterns on the marble floors and casting the room in a serene glow. It was a cocoon of peace, but you found no solace in it. You sat in the water, apart from the muted hum of conversation around you, their words blurred together, echoing faintly, as your thoughts churned. Someone else would soon be sacrificed. Fyodor. How much weaker would his fasting leave him? How frail would his already frail body turn? The questions weighed heavy on your mind.

You cupped your hands, splashing the salted water onto your face in an effort to shake yourself loose from your thoughts. The warmth of the bath should have soothed you, but instead, it only managed to heighten the restless ache in your chest.

“(Y/N)…” A voice, quiet and almost gentle, pulled you out of your reverie. The gentle ripples in the water announced his approach before his words did. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Slowly, you glanced over your shoulder to meet sharp, dark eyes—Fyodor’s eyes. There was something magnetic about him, an allure that transcended his frail appearance. Perhaps it was his intellect, the spark of something greater that placed him at the forefront of the Gift Giving list. He could have been a leader, you thought, had he not been chosen to die so young.

“May I help with your back?” he asked, his voice soft but steady.

You nodded, a quiet hum of approval escaping your lips. It wasn’t unheard of for people to help one another wash, but it should have been the other way around. Fyodor, as the sacred fleece, was the one meant to be tended to, venerated. People would clamor for the chance to serve him, yet here he was, offering to serve you. The gesture struck you as strange, even kind. Perhaps you had misjudged him. Maybe he didn’t dislike you, as you’d once thought. Maybe you were simply two people who had never truly known one another.

His hand settled lightly on your shoulder, steadying you as he began brushing your back. His touch was soft, almost hesitant, yet firm enough to create a sharp contrast with the roughness of the bristles. The juxtaposition brought you back to your thoughts, unbidden questions rising to the surface. Why was he doing this? Why you? You were just another lamb in the flock, no more significant than the others waiting their turn for slaughter. Did anyone matter in the grand scheme of things?

“You flinched today,” Fyodor murmured, his voice cutting through the quiet. “During the prayer.”

He was right. When the axe fell, you’d instinctively closed your eyes, to shut yourself from the scene. You hadn’t realized anyone had noticed it. The memory brought a flush of heat to your cheeks, and the oppressive warmth of the bath made it hard to breathe.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, shame creeping into your voice. “It’s just… it felt wrong. Celebrating this.” The words were out before you could stop them. Panic flared—what if he took this to the Shepherd or the Judge?

“Then you’re not as blind as the rest of them,” he said, his tone gentle, almost coaxing. His focus seemed more on his task than on your confession, but his words seemed to be more substantial, as if he held you in place. Your throat tightened, you could not vomit nor gulp down your words. “Do you really believe this is what the gods want?” Fyodor continued, his voice barely more than a whisper. “That spilling blood will make the crops grow, or keep the storms at bay?”

“It’s what we’ve been taught,” you replied, your voice trembling. “It’s what… everyone believes.” You wanted to defend your words, but they rang hollow even to your own ears.

“That may be what they believe,” he murmured, leaning closer, his hair brushed against your shoulder, his breath ghosting against the skin of your neck. “But not you. You see the sickness in this system, don’t you? You’ve felt it all your life but were too afraid to name it. Did you notice the storm last year, after the sacrifice? The gods didn’t seem pleased, did they?” He pulled back slightly, resuming his gentle strokes with the brush. His words were heresy, yet in his tone lay no fidgets, no show of discomfiture; quiet, almost serene.

You stared at the rippling water, your fingers now wrinkled and pruned. “I’ve noticed… things,” you admitted, the words soft, hesitant.

Fyodor hummed low in his throat, the sound more content than accusatory. “Good,” he said simply. His words wrapped around you like the steam rising from the bath, invasive yet oddly comforting. To the others in the room, it was nothing more than a simple act of communal care. But for Fyodor, it was something far more deliberate.

His gaze flickered briefly toward the Shepherd, visible through the mosaic-glass walls, speaking with a small cluster of elders. Fyodor leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your shoulder once more. “He watches you sometimes,” Fyodor murmured, his tone thoughtful, the words slipping into your mind like a dagger “I wonder why. It’s as if he’s searching for something.” You blinked, startled by the observation. Had you noticed? Maybe. There had been moments, fleeting and strange, when his gaze seemed heavier than it should have been. But no—no, it couldn’t mean anything. You didn't reply and tried to dismiss it—tried to bury the unease rising in your chest. His words, like everything else he said, felt both dangerous and true.

The last sentences words lingered, like a noose in the air, as Fyodor quietly tended to your back.

---

It is tradition for the sacred fleece to be adored for the year. The chosen family is granted elevated status, moved to a new living space overseen by the Sheppard and Judge. Being selected as an offering is considered the highest honor, and the community celebrates it with fervor, but Fyodor saw it differently. He recognized long ago the sacrifice’s true purpose: It kept the population docile and loyal because of fear and conditioning.

My taciturn had tipped them off, he thought bitterly. Perhaps if I seemed more brain-washed, then they wouldn’t have chosen me.

The selection, he knew, was rarely random. It was political, targeting those who dared to think too freely or challenge the system in subtle, unsettling ways. He despised their hypocrisy—the cunning way they cloaked control in the guise of divine will, using fear of the gods to tighten their grip over the community. But perhaps it was the only way to keep people from turning away.

As for you, the thought of the sacrifice made your skin crawl. Your hair stood on end every time it was discussed, and your chest settled in a place of deep discomfort. But you never voiced your doubts. The community seemed so content, so pios. Surely, it was you who was wrong. Surely, you needed to be reformed.

Days turned into weeks as you found yourself looking at Fyodor differently. Something lingered in your mind—an ache, almost a longing. You remembered the way he spoke that day in the bathhouse, his words sounding like echoes that refused to fade. He understood something about you, about the restlessness you couldn’t name. Soon, though, he would be gone, sacrificed in a few months’ time. He was the only one who had ever made you feel less lonely, and now he would be lost, like so many others before him. The loneliness this thought stirred in you was deep and unshakeable.

You couldn’t help but cast lingering glances in his direction, hoping—foolishly, perhaps—that he would catch your eye and say something to you again. But he never did. At the next community feast, the monthly celebration following days of fasting, you stole another sidelong look at him. He was seated with his family at the center table, each of them adorned in flower crowns crafted by you and the others in the village.

Fyodor wore the one you had made, the only one woven with cornflowers. The blue-purple hue complemented his eyes, a detail you had noticed while weaving it. You didn’t realize you were staring until his gaze met yours. His gentle smile, soft and welcoming, sent your heart stuttering. You returned a small, hesitant smile before quickly looking back at your plate.

You didn’t want to think about his death. A year could pass so quickly, slipping through your fingers before you even realized it.

The soft clatter of plates echoed in the grand dining hall was a far cry from the cheerful celebration that had filled it hours ago. The other young women and men hummed and chattered as they worked, their hands moving in a practiced rhythm. You, however, labored in relative silence, a heaven in the monotony of it. Each swipe of the cloth, each stack of plates, served to dull the noise in your head—if only for a moment.

But the reprieve was short-lived.

“You made this one, didn’t you?”

The voice, low and unmistakably familiar, startled you. You whipped around to find Fyodor standing right behind you, holding the wreath of flowers between his slender fingers. The cornflowers stood out against the pale hue of his hands, the same way they had against his dark hair and fair skin earlier.

Your heart quickened. “I—I did,” you stuttered, not quite knowing what to say.

His smile deepened, soft but deliberate. “It’s beautiful. The craftsmanship is… meticulous.” He turned the crown gently in his hands, as if admiring its every petal and weave. “You’ve a gift for creation, I see.”

You felt yet again a suffocating heat rise to your cheeks at his praise, and you quickly looked down at the plates you were drying. “It’s nothing, really. Just something small. Anyone could have done it.”

“But they didn’t,” he countered, his tone smooth and confident. “You did. And it shows.” You bit the inside of your cheek, unsure how to respond. Compliments were not uncommon in the village, but something about the way Fyodor spoke to you felt different—personal, intentional. “May I help?” he asked, gesturing to the plates.

You blinked at him, confused. “You shouldn’t… You’re the sacred fleece. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Proper,” he repeated, his smile faltering for a moment as his eyes darkened. “I tire of what’s ‘proper.’ Surely it wouldn’t offend the gods for me to lend a hand, would it?”

You hesitated, unsure whether to agree. But he didn’t wait for your answer, stepping closer and picking up a damp cloth. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though testing the boundaries of this small rebellion. The two of you worked in silence for a moment, the air between you charged with an unspoken tension. Finally, he broke it.

“Do you ever wonder,” he began, his voice low enough that only you could hear, “why we fast before we feast? Why we deprive ourselves, only to indulge?”

You glanced at him, taken aback by the question. “It’s… to show devotion. To the gods.”

He hummed thoughtfully, as though weighing his decision by your words. “Devotion,” he repeated. “It’s a curious thing, isn’t it? How easily it can be mistaken for fear.” His words sent a shiver down your spine. You glanced around, suddenly aware of how close he was standing, of how his voice seemed to put you in a trance.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” you said, though the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you, you knew exactly what he was talking about.

He paused, setting down the cloth and turning to face you fully. “Perhaps you do,” he murmured, his gaze piercing. “Or perhaps you will, in time.” For a moment, neither of you said a word. The sounds of the other people cleaning seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the heavy weight of his words hanging in the air between you, pulling you under and drowning you.

“You have a gift,” he said finally, his voice soft but firm. “Not just for making flower crowns or weaving cloth. You see things others don’t. You feel things we’ve been taught to ignore.” You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. Instead, you found yourself looking into his eyes, searching for some hint of what he meant, of what he saw in you. “I only hope,” he continued, his tone barely less wistful, “that when the time does come, you’ll trust what you see—and trust me.”

Before you could respond, one of the older women called you for help with the larger platters, breaking the moment. Fyodor stepped back, the faintest smile playing on his lips as he bowed his head slightly.

“Good night, (Y/N),” he said, his voice carrying a warmth that lingered even after he turned and walked away.

You stood there for a moment, clutching the cloth in your hands, your mind aflame. His words echoed in your ears, stirring a very strange mix of fear and hope. Trust what you see. Trust me.

---

For the next few nights, sleep eluded you. Fyodor’s words replayed in your mind over and over again, each phrase eating away all other thoughts. His certainty disturbed you—not because you doubted his sincerity, but because it awoke something within you. The realization was almost too heavy to bear: if you wanted change, you would have to reach for it yourself. But how could you, alone?

When the message came—a whispered request to meet him in the forest clearing—a thrill stirred uneasily in your chest. It wasn’t proper to meet him like this, not when he was supposed to be praying and meditating in solitude as part of his sacred duties. But propriety seemed increasingly irrelevant at this point.

The moonlight bathed the clearing, lending a ghostly glow to the figure who awaited you, it seemed almost surreal. Fyodor stood at the center, his white garments clinging to his frail frame, his flesh paler than usual—proof of the toll fasting had taken. You did not know where his kosovorotka ended and where his skin started. He turned as you approached, a weary soft smile oozed onto his lips.

“You came,” he murmured, his voice carrying a quiet warmth that made the hair on your arms quiver.

You stopped a few feet away, uncertain of how close was too close. “You asked,” you replied softly. “I… couldn’t refuse.”

His smile widened slightly, though his amethyst eyes glinted with something deeper, sharper. “You’ve been restless,” he said, more a statement than a question. “Our last conversation... it’s been weighing on you.”

You hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “I’ve been… thinking,” you admitted. “About what you said. About… everything.”

“Good,” he said simply, taking a step closer. “That’s the first step—thinking. But thinking alone won’t change anything.”

Your breath hitched. “And what would? What can I do? I’m just one person.”

“So am I,” he countered, his tone firm yet kind. “But together, we’re more.”

You frowned, searching his face for some hint of what he meant. He met your gaze unflinchingly, his eyes piercing through your uncertainty. “I know the way,” he said, his voice low and steady, each word a promise. “Let me show you. And we can cleanse them together.”

His last word echoed in your mind: together. He wanted you to help him. To stand by his side in this unthinkable mission. He wanted to make the community a better place—to rid it of the Gift Giving Day and its sacrifices. It was what you had secretly longed for, what you had thought impossible. Yet hearing it spoken aloud felt like standing on the edge of a precipice.

“Fyodor…” you murmured, your voice barely audible. His gaze held yours, firm, almost devouring. “How… how do you plan to do this? With only the two of us?”

He smiled weakly, as though he’d expected the question. “Trust is a luxury few can afford,” he said. “Especially in this place, under these circumstances. But you—” he paused, studying your face intently, “—you don’t realize it yet, do you? You’re different from the rest of them. You see the cracks in their perfect little world. That’s why I chose you.”

Your heart was racing from his words. "Why me?" you whispered.

His expression softened, and he reached for your hand. Slowly, deliberately, he turned it over, tracing the lines of your palm with a fingertip. The touch was featherlight, yet it sent an electric jolt through you. “This,” he murmured, his voice low and contemplative, “is the hand of someone who wants to save the people.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. He lifted his own hand, pressing his palm to yours, as though comparing them. “We are the same,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of conviction. “We want to make a change—for the betterment of our community.”

His fingers laced through yours, and he gave your hand a gentle squeeze. The intimacy of the gesture, the way his eyes searched yours for an answer, left you breathless. “You’re right,” you whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. “We are alike.”

His smile returned, softer this time, but no less determined. “Do you trust me?”

You hesitated, the weight of the moment pushing down on you. But as his words, his presence, filled the silence between you, something inside you shifted. “I trust you, Fyodor,” you finally said, your voice steady though a tempest swirled in your chest.

His smile deepened, and he squeezed your hand again, as though sealing an unspoken pact. “Good,” he said, so plainly.

---

Winter

Every great plan has steps, though Fyodor felt the need to gradually explain everything, taking one baby step at a time—his words, not yours. The first step was simple, really. He wanted to show the people that the doctrines and preaches of the Sheppard and Judge were nothing but empty words. They were fundamental to this community, to the ‘salvation’ of the people, yet they didn’t walk the path they preached, and certainly, they didn’t know every word by heart—again, Fyodor’s words.

A part of you was still unsure, still clinging to the belief that the larger community was right, and maybe, just maybe, you and Fyodor were the just outsiders. Maybe we are wrong. But every time Fyodor spoke, that doubt felt more and more remote, buried under the weight of his unwavering certainty. “Those are the words they use to control us,” he had said, quietly but with sharpness in his voice. “They preach salvation, but they never walk the path they claim to, do they?” There was something unmistakable in the way he said it, a quiet accusation that seemed to grow louder with each passing day.

You didn’t speak at first, but a part of you—one that had always questioned, always wondered—began to listen. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the things you’d been taught, the things you’d always believed, weren’t what they seemed.

Fyodor’s plan was simple, almost too simple. He would subtly distract the Sheppard during the church service, while you sneaked away before the sermon to rip a few pages from the tome the leader was meant to preach from. Disarm him of his words, Fyodor had said. It wouldn’t hurt anyone—not directly. And if Fyodor was wrong, if the Sheppard did indeed know the words in the book by heart, then perhaps you could walk this path of reform together. You could still fix everything. You could undo what had been broken.

The weight of the plan pressed down on your chest as you quietly took the pages from the tome, the paper crinkling beneath your fingers. You slipped them into the pocket your heart racing. The deed was done, and you weren’t quite sure if it was a victory or a betrayal. You felt that familiar pull of doubt claw at your insides, but Fyodor’s steady presence beside was enough to slightly anchor you to the present. We’re doing the right thing, his eyes seemed to say every time they met yours.

When you sat down beside him on the pew, you didn’t even realize how tightly you were pressed against his side. You were still tense, the guilt from what you’d just done gnawing at you, your chest burned — oh how you wish you could burn everything down and not have to bear the weight of your actions. Fyodor didn’t say a word. He merely let you lean into him, his silence an unsaid reassurance. He knew you were ill at ease, but he didn’t push you, never urged you towards speech. The sermon started, and your mind wandered right back to the missing pages, your stomach tight with the knowledge that the Sheppard would notice soon.

As the Sheppard reached the point where the pages should have been, you saw the flicker of panic in his eyes. He faltered for only a second, but it was enough. His smooth composure cracked down like a Prince Rupert's drop, and he tried to cover it up, but you could see it—could see him struggling to maintain control in front of his congregation. Your stomach dropped, the tension in the room thickening.

Fyodor sat beside you, still and calm. You caught in his eye the faintest glint of satisfaction, something darker behind the quiet pride. The faintest hint of triumph danced in his expression, as if this was only the beginning. “See how fragile the illusion was?” His voice was low, barely a whisper “How quickly it falls when you expose their lies.”

You couldn’t help but glance at him, his words ringing in your head. Was it really an illusion? The Sheppard had looked so untouchable—so sure of himself. You had never dared to question his authority, never thought to doubt the very bedrock of your faith. But now, as Fyodor’s gaze met yours, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—the world had been built on nothing more than lies.

Your heart beat loudly in your chest, the weight of what you’d done sinking in. This wasn’t just a small step anymore. You had helped tear down something sacred, something people had built their lives upon. And yet, Fyodor's presence beside you steadied your resolve, as if his belief in this mission was enough to carry you through the uncertainty.

---

Spring

Vernal came as a season of ephemeral promise of renewal, the fields suddenly bursting with color and air alive with the pulse of warmth. The community prepared for the flower dance, a sacred tradition meant to honor the gods for favors received during in the harsh winter and reaffirm their devotion. The villager folk adorned themselves with garlands of freshly plucked flowers, their laughter echoing in the air as they wove intricate crowns and looped floral chains around their wrists.

You, too, wore a crown—a delicate circle of violets and daisies that your friends had insisted you wear. It felt heavier than it should, its vibrant beauty clashing with the weight of your thoughts. For tonight, Fyodor had chosen the next step in your shared quest. The supply house, a monument to what the leaders took from and doled back out to the people, was to burn under the cover of darkness. But for now, you stood amidst the celebration, caught between the life you knew and the path you had begun to walk with him.

The dancing of flowers began at twilight, when the village square glowed with the light of torches and the Shepherd and Judge took their seats on an raised wooden platform. They watched the revelry unfold with expressions of practiced benevolence, their presence a subtle reminder of the community's rigid structure. The dancers, linked hand in hand, moved in concentric circles, their feet beating a steady rhythm against the ground. The steps were simple yet hypnotic, a weaving of bodies and flowers that seemed to pull the onlookers into its spell.

You joined the outermost circle, your hand clasped tightly in a neighbor’s, but your eyes strayed to Fyodor. He lingered on the edges of the crowd, a wraith in white. Even if he wanted to join he couldn't, the physical strain the dance had on the body was too much for his condition, leaving him lightheaded and prone to fainting. He watched the leaders with barely concealed contempt. But when his gaze met yours, something softened in his expression. He inclined his head slightly, a wordless reminder of the task ahead.

Your feet flared for one short second, breaking the rhythm of the dance for the briefest moment. The woman beside you glanced at you in concern, but you got your footing back, forcing a smile as your heart pounded in your chest. Fyodor’s eyes stayed on you for a second longer before he slipped away into the shadows.

When the dance ended and the villagers started to scatter, Fyodor found you near the edge of the square. He didn’t speak at first, his presence a quiet anchor amidst the revelry. It wasn’t until the distant sound of the Judge’s laughter reached your ears that he finally said, “Do you see how they watch us? How they bask in their power, even as they pretend to celebrate with us?”

You looked toward the platform where the Shepherd and Judge still sat, their eyes sweeping over the dispersing crowd like hawks watching their prey. The unease you had felt all evening finally bubbled to the top, but you nodded. “Yes,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Fyodor stepped closer, his voice low and deliberate. “They control everything—what we eat, what we believe, even how we dance. Tonight, we take that control away from them. It’s a small step, but it’s necessary.”

His words wrapped around you like a shroud, silencing the part of you that still hesitated. “But the people…” you began, your voice faltering. “The supplies… won’t they suffer?”

Fyodor’s expression softened, and for a moment, you thought you saw genuine compassion in his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted. “But sometimes, suffering is the only way to wake people from their complacency. They need to see that their leaders cannot protect them, that the gods they worship are powerless to stop what’s coming.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing against yours in a fleeting touch. “Trust me. It is essential...”

As the echoes of laughter and music faded into the night, you slipped away with Fyodor, hearts pounding in tandem with the thrill of what was to come—and the weight of what it meant. The storage cabin loomed ahead, limned by the moonlight on its wooden frame. It seemed almost alive, a sentinel of the community’s lifeblood, and your hesitation felt like a betrayal of its quiet presence. But you pressed on, following Fyodor’s unwavering lead.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of dried grass and stored grain. You worked in tense silence, stuffing chaff into corners, cramming the cracks of the small room with anything that would catch quickly. Your hands moved on autopilot, though every movement screamed at you to stop. This would hurt people. Families. Yet each time doubt clawed its way to the surface, you’d glance at Fyodor—his calm, his resolve, his quiet conviction—and something in you would steady, if only for a moment.

When the cabin was filled with enough tinder to guarantee its destruction, Fyodor stepped back, surveying the space with a critical eye. His gaze landed on you, and he lingered, a strange warmth flickering in his expression despite the coldness of the act. He struck a match, the hiss of ignition startling in the silent room.

His eyes met yours, the flame dancing shadows over his keen features. “This is necessary,” he murmured, as much to himself as to you.

He held the match a moment too long, its light trembling between his fingers before he let it drop. The fire caught immediately, spreading with an unnatural greed, and you flinched as the heat licked at your skin. Fyodor didn’t flinch. He grabbed your hand and led you out swiftly, his grip firm but not unkind.

You emerged into the cool night, the smell of smoke chasing after you. By the time the fire fully took, you were standing among your families and neighbors, blending into the crowd as if you had nothing to hide. The cabin was an inferno, flames twisting and writhing against the dark sky. The air was filled with the acrid scent of burning supplies and the muted gasps of your fellow villagers.

You watched the fire burn, your heart heavy and your stomach twisting with guilt. What had you done? How many would go hungry now? Would they blame you—if only they knew—or the gods?

The Shepherd and Judge stood before the crowd, their faces masks of authority as they did their best to placate the people. The Shepherd’s voice rang out, promising reassurance, spinning stories of divine testing and unshaken faith. But his words fell flat. You could see it in the eyes of the villagers—fear, not of the leaders, but of their helplessness. If the Shepherd and Judge couldn’t protect them, if the gods they worshipped demanded so much yet gave so little… what was left for them?

Beside you, Fyodor’s expression remained composed, his features illuminated by the flickering glow of the flames. Yet, as the fire crackled and the crowd’s uneasy murmurs grew, he turned slightly toward you, his voice low, intimate. "This... it couldn’t have happened without you.” His gaze met yours, steady and intent, as if he could see the storm of emotions roiling within you. The faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips—not smug, but almost tender. His hand brushed against yours briefly, the touch grounding in its subtlety.

“You were brave,” he murmured, his voice carrying an almost dangerous sincerity. “More than anyone else here. They’re still trapped, still blind. But...—"

"...—We will show them the light" You softly cut him off. He smiled gently, his hand brushed lightly against yours once more—so fleeting it could almost be imagined—yet it stayed you in ways words couldn't.

The crowd began to murmur, uncertainty rolling through them like a restless tide. The Shepherd barked orders to his Judge, but there was a crack in his commanding tone, a tremor that betrayed his fear. He was losing control, and everyone could feel it.

You looked back at the fire, the embers glowing like distant stars, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to believe that this was more than destruction. Perhaps it was the start of something new.

---

Summer

You had come so far, yet progress felt agonizingly elusive. Each act you and Fyodor committed against the cult chipped away at the illusion of its sanctity, but the larger structure stood resolute. Fyodor’s sacrifice loomed just two weeks away, a date you couldn’t ignore no matter how hard you tried. Every mention of Gift Giving Day wrapped a tight coil of dread around you.

It couldn’t end this way. Not after everything.

Desperation drove you to find Fyodor one sultry summer night. You found him beneath the canopy of an old willow, his slender form outlined by the moonlight. He turned at your approach, his amethyst gaze softening when it met yours. “We’ve done so much,” you murmured, your voice trembling as your fingers twisted the fabric of your garments. “And it’s still not enough. I... I don’t want to see you go.”

Fyodor studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before stepping closer. His hands, delicate yet firm, reached for your chin, tilting your face toward him. “It will be okay,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something softer, almost tender. “I’ve prepared something for us. One last step to free everyone. I will not abandon you, dearest.” His thumb stroked your cheek, sending a shiver through you. “You have no idea how precious you are—not just to me, but to this cause. I won’t let anyone, or anything, take that from us.”

His words wrapped around you, both a balm and a tether, as he revealed the final phase of his plan: the elimination of the cult’s leaders. For the betterment of the community: They must fall

You choked on your own saliva, pulling away from him, every inch of your body tense. The suggestion felt like a violation of the very ideals you were fighting for. “Are we not doing the same as them?” you argued, your voice cracking under the weight of your conviction. “Taking a life to suit our own needs?”

Fyodor remained composed and patient, though urgency flickered in his tone. “This is not the same,” he said, his voice measured. “They’ve built their power on the lives of others—on fear, manipulation, and blood. This is a small sacrifice to honor those who’ve suffered and to free those who remain shackled.”

His stayed with you, finding cracks in your resolve over the following days. Memories of last season when the shed burnt down, the suffering of the people, their hunger while the Shepherd and Judge indulged in excess, gnawed at you. The weight of time pressed down, and you couldn’t ignore the urgency. With Fyodor’s sacrifice approaching, you found yourself reluctantly agreeing to the plan.

The Shepherd would be the first.

Fyodor, weakened by fasting, lacked the physical strength to carry out the act himself. He guided your trembling hands to the axe’s handle, his voice low and encouraging. “Do it for them. For their salvation. You’ll see—it’s the only way.”

It was a chilly quiet night.

The Shepherd’s chambers were dark, thick air with the scent of wine and old parchments. Fyodor stood outside, his figure barely visible through the crack in the door as you stepped inside with the axe concealed behind you. The Shepherd sat slumped in a wooden chair, a half-empty goblet of wine swaying in his hand.

“Ah, child,” he slurred, his gaze fighting to focus on you. “What brings you here at this hour? Troubles of the soul?”

You nodded, your throat dry. “I... I needed to confess something. To speak with you alone.”

He waved his hand lazily, gesturing for you to approach. “Then speak, my child. The Shepherd is always here to guide his flock.”

As you inched closer, the axe hidden behind your back, he rambled on, his words becoming less and less coherent. Then, suddenly, his tone changed. “Do you know,” he began, his voice slurred with wine, “that I’m your true father?”

Your heart went cold, and you nearly let the axe fall from your grasp.

He let out a bitter chuckle and reached for another drink. “Left you with that fool, your mother’s husband. Had no time to raise a child when the gods demanded my service. But I suppose it’s all... come full circle.” Shock seized you where you stood, the metal felt impossibly heavy in your hands as his words echoed in your ears. He was your father? The man whose sermons had shaped your entire life? The very leader whose tyranny you sought to destroy?

He rambled on, his words grew softer until he nodded his head forward, asleep in his chair. The room fell silent except for your ragged breaths. When Fyodor entered, sensing your hesitation, his sharp gaze darted between you and the sleeping Shepherd, and you explained the situation in a whisper. And for the first time ever, you saw something like surprise in his expression, but it hardened quickly into resolve.

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,” Fyodor whispered, his voice sharp, sharper than what you are used to hearing from him. His words pierced through the haze of your confusion, his presence a cold, steady force grounding you in the suffocating weight of the moment. “He may have fathered you, but he abandoned that role long ago. He is as valuable to this world as a walking corpse.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry and aching. “But he—he’s my blood. What if he—”

Fyodor stepped closer to you, his hands hovering just above yours as you clutched the axe. “He has taken everything from you, from us, from them,” he murmured, his voice softening just enough to feel personal. “Do you want to go back to being their lamb, waiting to be slaughtered? Is that the life you choose after everything we’ve done?” He gestured to the sleeping man before you, his voice turned urgent, almost desperate. “This is your moment. Take it.”

Your vision blurred with tears, but his words echoed in your mind, warring with the voice that screamed against this violence. The axe trembled in your hands, its weight unbearable. The man before you, your supposed father, lay slumped in his chair, wholly unaware of the maelstrom raging in your heart. You tightened your grip, breathing shallow and rapid. The room seemed to tilt around you, the seconds crawling into eons while the world narrowed to the rise and fall of his chest and the chilling presence of Fyodor at your side. Slowly, you raised the axe, tears streaking your face.

When you brought it down, the impact reverberated through your entire body, a sickening crack filling the room. You gasped, stumbling back as the Shepherd slumped forward, lifeless. The silence that followed was deafening, your breaths ragged and uneven as you stared at your blood-stained hands. The axe slipped from your grasp, clattering to the floor. You turned to Fyodor, your legs trembling beneath you. “I... I...” Words failed you as sobs overtook your body.

Fyodor stepped forward, his arms encircling you in an embrace that was unexpectedly warm and steady. You buried your face against his chest, shaking uncontrollably. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard. His hands rubbed soothing circles against your back. “You’ve done so well. It’s over now. It’s over.”

But it wasn’t over. The next morning, they found the Shepherd’s body. You hadn’t even tried to hide it. You didn’t care. All you could think about was the blood on your hands and the look on his face before you swung the axe. The Shepherd’s death sent shockwaves through the community. Whispers spread like wildfire, murmurs of unease weaving through the congregation. The Judge, desperate to maintain his grip, moved Gift Giving Day closer, hoping to reassert control. But the cracks were already visible. The people’s faith in their leaders, once unshakable, had begun to unravel.

As the day of the ritual arrived, the air was thick with tension. Fyodor knelt in the red square, his frame frail from fasting but his presence unyielding. The Judge stood behind him, addressing the crowd with fervor that bordered on hysteria. His voice thundered over the square, but there was a desperation in his tone, a fragility beneath the surface.

You stood hidden among the throng, the weight of the axe once again heavy in your hands. Every step forward felt like wading through quicksand. Your mind raced, the memory of the Shepherd’s death haunting you with every heartbeat. The crowd swayed, their heads bowed in solemn reverence as the Judge raised his arms, calling for unity and sacrifice.

This was it.

Your breath hitched as you stepped out of the shadows, weaving through the congregation. Nobody noticed you at first, your movements swallowed by the sheer number of bodies. The closer you came, the louder the Judge’s voice grew, his words grating against your ears. Finally, you stood behind him, so close you could hear the strain in his breathing. Your fingers tightened around the axe, your pulse roaring in your ears. The world seemed to hold its breath as you raised the weapon, the weight of the moment bearing down on you.

With a swift motion, you brought the axe down, lodging it into the back of his neck. The sound of steel meeting flesh was sickening, a visceral, wet crunch that silenced the square. Blood sprayed in a gruesome arc as the Judge lurched forward, collapsing onto the stone table. His body twitched once, then stilled, his voice silenced forever. The crowd erupted in chaos, gasps and cries rippling through the congregation. For a moment, you stood frozen, the bloodied axe still clutched in your hands, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might break free through your ribcage.

Then, Fyodor rose.

Despite his weakened frame, he exuded an aura of quiet authority, his voice cutting through the panic like a blade. “The gods have spoken,” he declared, his tone calm yet commanding. “The leaders were corrupt. Their reign is over.” The crowd fell silent, their fear and confusion turning to awe as Fyodor stepped forward. His gaze swept over the congregation, landing briefly on you before returning to the people. He extended a hand, beckoning for you to stand beside him. “We have seen the truth” he continued, his voice rich with conviction. “And together, we shall guide you to the promised salvation.”

The people’s eyes pierced into your very soul, their expressions a mix of hope and uncertainty. Fyodor took your hand in his, the gesture both possessive and protective, grounding you yet again in the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

---

The air was heavy with the scent of incense and the faint metallic tang of blood, the detritus of the chaos that had led to this moment. The congregation outside still whispered Fyodor’s name with a mix of awe and fear, their voices carried by the wind into the quiet chamber. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a solitary candle, its light casting a long shadow across the newly ordained leaders of the flock.

You sat on the edge of a plain wooden bench, the ceremonial white garment draped over your frame feeling heavier than any armor. Its pristine folds were a cruel irony against the weight of your sins. Fyodor stood before you, his dark attire stark against the pale hues of your robes. The intricate wolf motif embroidered into his cloak seemed to ripple with life in the wavering candlelight, a predator looming over its prey.

He stepped closer, the movement slow and deliberate. His pale hand reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with a gentleness that felt both comforting and unnerving. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, softened for a moment as he looked down at you. “You’ve been my strength through this,” he murmured, his voice as smooth as silk yet edged with something darker. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

You leaned into his touch, seeking peace in the familiarity of his presence despite the emotions roiling inside you. His lips brushed your forehead, the gesture lingering—an offering of comfort, yet unmistakably possessive. It was as if he claimed you in that kiss, silently binding you to him in a way that words never could.

As his arms encircled you, a shard of the Pale Man’s tale drifted to the surface of his mind. The wolf protects the lamb not out of kindness, but because he cannot bear to let anyone else devour her. Fyodor’s thoughts mirrored that very sentiment as he held you close, his expression almost content. To him, you were no mere lamb to be devoured by others; you were his lamb, precious and irreplaceable. The world could burn, the gods themselves could fall silent, but he would not let you go.

You closed your eyes, resting your head against his chest. The beat of his heart was steady, grounding, but it did little to soothe the ache within your own. You had survived, yes. Together, you had dismantled the foundations of this twisted faith. Yet, as Fyodor stood poised to guide the cult into a new era, the sin staining your hands felt like it would never wash away.

When the murmurs of the crowd grew louder, Fyodor pulled away, his hand lingering on your shoulder. “It’s time,” he said, his voice commanding yet calm. He turned to his right, with that inky mantle billowing out behind him as he moved to address your people. You followed, your white garments out of place on the dark path before you. The symbolism was unmistakable: the wolf and the lamb, stepping out as one. As Fyodor ascended the steps of the altar, his gaze swept over the gathered flock. “The gods have chosen us,” he declared, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Together, we will lead you to salvation.”

The people bowed their heads, their faith in their new leaders palpable despite the lingering unease in the air. You stood beside him, the vision of purity and sacrifice, your presence cementing the narrative he wove so expertly. As Fyodor raised his hands to the sky, the crowd chanted his and your name. You couldn’t help but glance at him, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering torchlight. Despite everything, a small, bitter smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

Finally, the wolf and the lamb had found their place at last. But at what cost?

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