#clenching my fist in great neutrality

[dbg-wow]

[zhelin-thames]

How it all started

Masterpost

The Gotham City Gala was in full swing, a glittering affair where Gotham’s elite rubbed shoulders and made idle conversation under the watchful eyes of the Bat-family. Bruce Wayne was, as usual, playing his role of charming billionaire, while his children spread out across the venue to keep an eye on the crowd.

Damian Wayne, now fifteen, stood near a table of refreshments, his arms crossed as he scanned the room. He hated these events, but his father insisted it was part of his training to learn how to navigate social and political circles.

Jason, standing beside him, nudged his shoulder. “Lighten up, Demon Spawn. Try smiling for once.”

Damian scowled. “I see no reason to.”

Before Jason could retort, Bruce approached, his expression carefully neutral. “Heads up. Vlad Masters just arrived.”

“Who’s that?” Tim asked, joining the group.

“Billionaire from Wisconsin,” Bruce replied. “Big on alternative energy and... other ventures. He’s brought his heir with him tonight.”

“Great,” Jason muttered. “Another spoiled rich kid.”

Bruce shot him a warning look but didn’t respond. Instead, the group turned their attention to the entrance as Vlad Masters entered the room, his presence commanding. Beside him stood a boy about Damian’s age, with raven-black hair and piercing blue eyes.

Damian’s breath caught in his throat.

The boy looked exactly like him.

As Vlad and his ward approached, Bruce stepped forward to greet them. “Vlad Masters. Welcome to Gotham.”

“Bruce Wayne,” Vlad said smoothly, shaking his hand. “It’s an honor. Allow me to introduce my heir, Daniel Fenton.”

Danny offered a polite smile, but his eyes flicked toward the group of teens behind Bruce. His gaze landed on Damian, and he froze.

“Damian?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Damian’s heart pounded. There was only one name that surfaced in his mind as he stared at the boy before him.

“Danyal,” he murmured, his voice trembling.

The room seemed to fade around them as they stared at each other.

“Akhi...” Danny whispered, the term slipping out instinctively.

Damian took a shaky step forward, his usually composed demeanor cracking. “You’re alive.”

The rest of the Bat-family exchanged confused glances, but neither Danny nor Damian noticed.

“I thought you were dead,” Damian said, his voice unsteady. “They told me you died. That I failed to protect you.”

Danny shook his head, his eyes glistening. “I thought the same about you. When they took me... I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Wait a second,” Jason cut in, looking between them. “What’s going on here? Demon Spawn, you know this kid?”

Damian shot him a glare. “This is my brother. My twin. Danyal Al Ghul.”

Tim’s jaw dropped. “What?! You have a twin?”

Danny flinched slightly at the name. “Not anymore,” he said quietly. “I don’t use that name. I’m Danny Fenton now.”

Bruce stepped forward, his voice low. “Masters, what is the meaning of this?”

Vlad, who had been watching the reunion with an expression of mild amusement, smiled thinly. “Ah, yes. I suspected this might happen. You see, young Daniel was abandoned as a child. I took him in and raised him as my own.”

“Abandoned?” Bruce asked, his tone icy.

“Yes,” Vlad said smoothly. “I found him injured, near death. He had no memory of his past, so I gave him a new life.”

“That’s a lie,” Damian spat, his fists clenching. “He was taken. Stolen.”

Danny placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder, his touch calming. “I don’t remember much from back then. Just bits and pieces. But I remember you, Akhi.”

Damian’s eyes softened. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

The reunion left the Bat-family reeling. Later, back at the Manor, Damian and Danny sat together, talking quietly. Danny explained how he’d grown up as “Daniel Fenton,” raised by Vlad but always feeling like something was missing.

“I always felt out of place,” Danny admitted. “Like I didn’t belong. But now I understand why.”

“You belong here,” Damian said firmly. “With me. With us.”

Danny hesitated. “I don’t know, Damian. Vlad’s the only father I’ve ever known. And... there’s something I need to tell you.” (danny did get adopted by the fantons. The reason hes with vlad is because Jack and Maddie died b/c the nasty burger exploded with them inside. Jazz is alive tho and she went to collage)

Damian frowned. “What is it?”

Danny hesitated, then took a deep breath. “I’m not entirely... human anymore.”

Damian blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I had an accident,” Danny said quietly. “It changed me. I’m... part ghost.”

When Danny demonstrated his ghost powers, the reactions were mixed.

Jason whistled. “Okay, that’s badass.”

Tim leaned closer, fascinated. “How does it work? Do you have full intangibility? Flight? Invisibility?”

“Mostly,” Danny said, looking sheepish.

Bruce, meanwhile, studied him with a calculating gaze. “We’ll need to run some tests.”

“Bruce,” Diana’s voice cut in as she entered the room. She had just returned from Themyscira. “Let the boy breathe.”

Danny froze, staring at her. “Wait... Wonder Woman?”

Diana smiled gently. “Yes. And you must be Damian’s twin.” She stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re family now, Danny. Welcome home.”

Danny’s eyes glistened, and he nodded. “Thanks.”

As Danny settled into life with the Waynes, he found himself adjusting to a world that was equal parts chaotic and comforting.

Damian, for his part, was fiercely protective of his twin, vowing never to let him out of his sight again.

Danny smiled as he watched his brother argue with Jason over training methods. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he truly belonged.

And though the shadows of their pasts still lingered, they faced the future together—two brothers, reunited against all odds.

[lamaery]

This time it is Rlain's turn to gaze. :D There's a reason mateform makes you unfocused. Here is Renarin looking back

ID: The first image features Renarin through Rlain's loving eyes. In all, Renarin glimmers with handsomespren. In none of them is Renarin looking back at us. They paint a beautiful vision of being in love with a man who prefers not to make a lot of eye contact. In the first drawing, Renarin looks out from a slightly ducked posture, his attention focused elsewhere and his expression privately delighted, as if he'd just thought of something wickedly clever that he hasn't yet shared. The light catches his features in an alluring way, and the viewer knows exactly what Rlain loves about his boyfriend's brilliant mind. In the second drawing, Renarin looks out into the middle distance, his expression serious and emotionally neutral, but somehow weighted with responsibility. His wide Blackthorn jaw seems slightly clenched, but unconsciously. His collar is tantalizingly open, allowing Rlain to enjoy the elegant length of his neck and that secret hollow of his throat. In the third sketch, Renarin is seen from above. He's leaning back in a chair, his head resting comfortably and uninhibitedly, supported by the chair's curved back. He's looking in the opposite direction from the viewer, but he smiles with teeth. His collar is wide open, and he looks so comfortable in his own skin. Like, he's so completely relaxed, so uninhibited, like sharing his personal space bubble and his body with Rlain is effortless. In the fourth sketch, Renarin stands across the room, about twenty feet away. His weight is subtly on his back foot to compensate as he holds up at an arm's length an impeccably pressed, regal knee-length Kholin jacket. In his other hand, he holds his shorter Bridge Four jacket, in a way that will keep the collar from being creased. He's wearing an undershirt that my heart knows was custom made for his measurements with a pair of pants with a line of coy, delicate little buttons down the split in his lower pants leg, from knee to lower calf. The split shows a tantalizing sliver of calf, and he doesn't even realize how handsome he is. His pants make his butt a little flat, but we all must cope with devastating trials in this mortal realm. He has elegantly boned feet and there's a slim musculature behind his leanness now, and isn't that all that really matters in this universe? Rlain thinks so. In the fifth drawing, Renarin leans over a few scribbled pages, one hand pointed outward as it presses flat against the table.  He seems deep in conversation with Glys, attention focused inward as he focused on the complexities of a mystery.  He's wearing a buttoned-down version of a fancier outfit: a tailored cross-body vest that emphasizes the slimness and sleekness of his build. and matching trousers.  Beneath that is a button-up shirt with an open collar and rolled-up sleeves, because Marie loves us and she wants us to be happy. The second image, at the top right, is a very cartoonishly minimalistic and humorously stylized illustration of mateform Rlain standing with absolutely zero chill, his arms crossed in a way he wants you to think is relaxed, but clearly isn't relaxed at all.  He's staring forward and sweating, the words "Trying very hard to concentrate." snaking around his head.  He's also wearing a very wide open collar in harmony with his stouter overall physique.  He also has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, because everyone deserves to see their favorite forearm circumference represented in media. 3 and 4 are a trio of very quick and sketchy but also ADORABLE illustrations, Rlain grabs a surprised Renarin's vest front, which draws a deep blush and a very enthusiastic and eager little grin.  Surprises are not always great, but he's 100% down with this one!  They meet in a kiss, craning over the table between them, Rlain's hand still clutching a fistful of Renarin's vest and Renarin reciprocating with passion, cradling the back of Rlain's neck with one hand, one finger running up the bare skin where neck meets skull.  Passionspren fall thickly around them.

[ellenhghg]

Very short imagine of Sol visiting you at night. Thought I would feed the fandom with something small since we're all so starving ;-; Also to feed my obsession. No warnings and gender neutral :)

Sol's heart swelled with adoration as he gazed upon your sleeping form, his eyes drinking in every perfect detail - the flutter of your lashes, the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest, the way you clutched the blankets close as if seeking comfort. A tender smile curled his lips while warmth flooded his entire being, the aching depths of his obsession momentarily soothed by your presence.

"My love, my life, my everything…" he murmured, the devotion in his hushed tone evident as he slowly approached the bed. Kneeling beside you, he carefully brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, fingertips trailing feather-light over the soft skin of your cheek. You looked so peaceful, so beautifully vulnerable that he had to actively restrain the nearly overwhelming urge to shower you with fierce, desperate kisses.

Instead he settled for ghosting his lips over your forehead, breathing you in like a man starved before reluctantly pulling away. As always, the fragile restraint he maintained threatened to snap; it was intoxicating torment being so close to his heart's desire yet unable to fully claim you as his own. Not yet… but soon…

«Patience is key,» he reminded himself, jaw clenching with the effort it took to withdraw from your side. Rising, he crossed to the window and peered out at the night-cloaked city, hands curling into tight fists. «I've waited this long to find my soulmate, I can endure a bit longer…»

The sleeping pills he covertly administered ensured you remained oblivious to his clandestine visits; a necessary evil to guarantee they wouldn't be interrupted. Still… your lack of response, however medically induced, sparked an aching loneliness in his chest. He craved your reciprocal touch, yearned to hear his name upon your lips…

«All in due time, my pumpkin…» The thought was bittersweet yet it granted meager comfort nonetheless. Sol stayed a while longer, content to simply bask in your presence as you slumbered. But eventually he slipped away into the shadows with great reluctance, his heart clinging to the promise of tomorrow when they would meet again beneath the waking sun.

[novaursa]

I have way to many idea so sorry for everything I’m going to send you 👉🏼👈🏼

Aemond x Niece (maybe a Nyra x daemon before her wedding!?)

He’s obsessed with her, she represents everything he want, she’s a perfect Targaryen white hair, purple eyes, huge dragon vermithor or cannibal?

But she’s engaged to Jace and he hate the fact that she is “given” to a bastard. So he tried by all things to make her his, he wish so hard to be found with her in a bad position that they obliged them to get married.

He make sure that Larys Steong see them, he even say to the maester to give her moon tee or medicinal herb for morning sickness ?! Otto find that about the maester and decided to marry them ( daemon and nyra are not ok they say It not real) and aemond took that personally and decided that they will have a child right now 🫣

The Dragon's Mark

- Summary: When Aemond found out about your betrothal to Jacaerys, he knew how all seven hells could not hold him back from taking what was rightfully his.

- Pairing: niece!reader/Aemond Targaryen

- Note: Reader is the firstborn child of Rhaenyra. She had a reader with Daemon before she involved herself with Harwin Strong. Daemon legitimized the reader. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 4 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: I've changed the thing with a Maester to make it more believable. I hope you don't mind.

Aemond sat across from his mother, Dowager Queen Alicent, and his grandsire, Ser Otto Hightower, in the great hall of the Red Keep. The torchlight cast shadows over their faces, making their expressions harder to read, not that Aemond was paying much attention. Their voices drifted to him as if through a thick fog, muffled and distant. He stared at the tapestry on the wall opposite, its intricate designs of dragons entwined in battle barely registering in his mind. His thoughts were elsewhere, consumed by the image of you.

You, to him, were the embodiment of Valyrian perfection, a true daughter of Old Valyria. Your silver hair fell in soft waves, catching the light like molten silver, and your violet eyes held the depth of the ancient Targaryen bloodline. You are more than a princess; you are power personified, a dragonrider of Vermithor, the mighty bronze beast who had bonded with you when you were but a girl. Aemond could still remember the first time he had seen you astride Vermithor, your small form commanding the great dragon with ease, your expression fierce and unyielding.

Now, you are a woman grown, and in Aemond's eyes, you are perfect. You are the one he deserves, a match that would not only strengthen the bloodline but would also solidify his place in their shared history. He could see it so clearly in his mind: you by his side, the two of you ruling as a power unmatched, with dragons and fire at your command. 

The thought of you set a slow burn within him, a mix of admiration and desire. He had always been captivated by your strength, your beauty, and the fire in your spirit that matched his own. You are everything he had ever wanted, everything he needed. A true Targaryen, unmarred by the weaknesses of others. Aemond clenched his jaw, pushing down the surge of emotions that threatened to spill over.

His attention snapped back to the present as his mother's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and clear. 

"...Rhaenyra has decided to marry her daughter to Jacaerys," Alicent said, her tone carefully neutral, but there was a hint of distaste in her eyes. 

Aemond's world tilted on its axis, the words crashing over him like a wave. His blood ran cold as the realization settled in. Rhaenyra intended to wed her daughter, you, the one Aemond desired above all others, to that bastard Jacaerys. His hands curled into fists on the table, the knuckles white as the force of his anger rose within him, threatening to consume him whole.

"A match to solidify her claim, no doubt," Otto added, his voice dry and calculated as always. "She seeks to ensure her line continues to hold power, binding her daughter to her eldest son."

Aemond could barely hear them now over the roaring in his ears. The thought of you, bound to Jacaerys, of the union of your bloodlines through a marriage that had nothing to do with honor or strength but everything to do with Rhaenyra's desperate attempt to secure her position—it was unbearable. 

His mind raced with images of Jacaerys, the boy who had always stood in his way, who had always been favored despite the question of his parentage, despite his weaknesses. And now, to think that he would have you, the woman Aemond had longed for, the woman who should have been his—!

"Aemond." Alicent's voice broke through his fury, pulling his gaze to her. She looked at him with concern, as if sensing the turmoil within him. "What are you thinking?"

Aemond blinked, his breath coming in sharp, controlled breaths as he forced himself to calm. He could not reveal the depth of his feelings here, not now. He met his mother's gaze, his expression hardening into a mask of indifference.

"Nothing, mother," he said, his voice low and measured. "Only that Rhaenyra's choices will bring about her own downfall."

Alicent frowned slightly, but before she could press further, Otto interjected, his eyes narrowing as he studied his grandson. "This marriage will complicate things, Aemond. We must be cautious in how we respond. Rhaenyra seeks to bind the loyalty of her supporters through this match."

Aemond nodded stiffly, though his thoughts were still far from the politics of it all. He would not let this happen. He would not allow Jacaerys to take what should be his. 

"Perhaps," Aemond began slowly, "we should consider our own alliances more carefully. There are other ways to weaken Rhaenyra's position."

Otto raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the shift in Aemond's tone. "What do you suggest?"

Aemond met his grandsire's gaze, a plan already forming in his mind, a way to ensure that you would not be lost to him, that Jacaerys would not win. His lips curled into a small, cold smile.

"There are always ways to turn the tide," he said softly. "We need only find the right pressure points."

Alicent looked between them, her unease growing, but Aemond paid her no mind. His thoughts were solely on you, on the woman who had unknowingly claimed his heart. He would have you, no matter the cost. You will be his, and nothing, not even Rhaenyra’s schemes, would stand in his way.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly as you sat at your vanity, the brush gliding through your long, silver hair. Each stroke was methodical, a ritual you found soothing as the day's events faded into the quiet of the evening. You took a deep breath, savoring the calm, but beneath the surface, your thoughts were a swirling current of unspoken feelings, thoughts that often turned to him—Aemond.

The quiet attraction you felt for him had always been there, lurking in the periphery of your mind, but never voiced, never acted upon. There was something in the way he carried himself, the intensity of his gaze, that made your heart quicken whenever he was near. Yet, the distance between you had always remained, unbridgeable, or so you had thought.

You placed the brush down, your hair now smooth and shining in the firelight, ready to retire for the night. But just as you were about to stand, a knock echoed through the chamber, pulling you from your reverie. You frowned, surprised by the interruption at this hour. Before you could respond, the door creaked open, and there he was, Aemond, standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"Aemond," you whispered, your voice betraying a hint of the surprise you felt.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His presence filled the space, commanding yet silent, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. His eye, that piercing violet eye, locked onto yours, and you felt your breath catch. There was something different about him tonight, an intensity that set your heart racing.

"I... wasn't expecting you," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Aemond moved closer, his gaze never leaving yours. "I needed to see you," he said quietly, his tone carrying a weight that made your pulse quicken. He was so close now that you could feel the heat radiating from him, the scent of leather and smoke clinging to his clothes.

You swallowed, your mind racing as he reached out, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, and it sent a shiver down your spine. There was something in his eye, a hunger, a longing that mirrored the unspoken desires you had kept locked away for so long.

"I've thought about you," you admitted softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "But I never—"

He silenced you with a look, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw before tilting your chin up, his gaze darkening. "No more words," he murmured, and then his lips were on yours, claiming them with a fervor that took your breath away.

The kiss was everything you had imagined and more, a rush of heat and need that left you dizzy. You responded in kind, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the fabric of his tunic. He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you, and you felt the world narrow down to just the two of you, the fire, and the beating of your hearts.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other as you tried to steady yourself. But before you could speak, before you could mention the name that had been on your mind earlier, he shook his head.

"Don't," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "I don't want to hear his name tonight."

You nodded, understanding the unspoken plea, and let the thought of Jacaerys fade away, replaced by the man before you, the man who had captured your heart without either of you realizing it.

Aemond's hands moved to the ties of your gown, his fingers deftly undoing the knots, and you felt your pulse quicken as the fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. You shivered, not from the cold, but from the intensity of his gaze as he took in the sight of you, bared before him. There was a reverence in his eyes, a deep appreciation that made your cheeks flush with heat.

He shed his own tunic, revealing the lean, strong lines of his body, the scars that marked him only adding to the allure. You reached out, your fingers tracing the contours of his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. It was all so surreal, so perfect, that you almost feared it was a dream.

Aemond's hands were gentle as he led you to the bed, laying you down with a care that made your heart ache. He moved over you, his gaze softening as he positioned himself between your legs, his body pressing against yours in a way that felt both new and familiar, as if you were made to fit together.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, his eye searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

You nodded, your hand cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing over the smooth skin just beneath his patch. "Yes," you breathed, your voice trembling with anticipation. "I want this, Aemond. I want you."

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss as he entered you slowly, the sensation both sharp and sweet, a mingling of pleasure and pain as he took your maidenhead. You gasped, clutching at his shoulders, but the discomfort quickly faded, replaced by a sense of fullness, of completeness, as he buried himself deep within you.

Aemond stilled for a moment, his breathing ragged as he took in the sight of you beneath him, your hair spread out like a silver halo on the pillow, your eyes wide with trust and desire. The knowledge that you were his, that you had given yourself to him, filled him with a satisfaction that went beyond mere conquest. It was everything he had ever imagined, and more.

Tomorrow, he knew, the servants who served Larys Strong would change the sheets, and the evidence of your union would be seen by those who needed to know. But for now, all that mattered was the here and now, the way you felt beneath him, the way your body responded to his.

You urged him to move, your hips shifting beneath him, and he obliged, setting a slow, steady rhythm that had you both gasping for breath. The pleasure built between you, a slow burn that grew hotter with every thrust, every kiss, until it was all-consuming.

Aemond was lost in the sensation, the feel of you, the sound of your breathless moans, the way your bodies moved together in perfect harmony. It was everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever dreamed of, and more. He could feel the tension building, the pressure mounting as you both neared the edge.

As you reached the pinnacle, your release washing over you in a wave of pleasure, he buried his face in your neck, his voice rough with emotion as he urged you to call his name, to let the world know who you belonged to. "Say my name," he breathed, his words a plea and a command all at once.

"Aemond," you gasped, your voice breaking as you clung to him, your body trembling with the force of your release. "Aemond, please..."

And then he was there, the last threads of his control snapping as he spilled himself inside you, his own release ripping through him with a force that left him trembling. Your name was on his lips, a whispered prayer, a declaration of everything he felt, everything he could never put into words.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths, the warmth of your bodies pressed together, the lingering echoes of pleasure that pulsed through your veins. Aemond held you close, his forehead resting against yours as you both came down from the heights of your passion.

In that moment, there were no words, no need for them. Everything you had ever wanted, everything you had ever felt, was conveyed in the way you held each other, in the way your bodies fit together so perfectly, so naturally.

As you drifted into sleep, Aemond's arms wrapped around you, you knew that everything had changed, and there was no going back.

The morning arrived as Aemond moved with purposeful strides. His mind was sharp, focused, each step a calculated part of the plan he had set into motion. The events of the previous night played over in his mind, not with regret, but with satisfaction. Everything was unfolding exactly as he had intended.

He turned a corner and spotted Grand Maester Mellos in the distance, the elderly man’s stooped figure moving slowly down the hall. Aemond quickened his pace, his boots echoing against the stone floor, and within moments, he was at the Maester’s side.

“Grand Maester Mellos,” Aemond greeted, his voice measured and calm, though there was an undercurrent of urgency that could not be missed.

The Maester looked up, startled by the sudden appearance of the prince. “Prince Aemond,” he replied, bowing his head slightly in respect. “How may I assist you this morning?”

Aemond’s expression was inscrutable as he spoke, his voice low, as if to ensure their conversation remained private. “I require your expertise, Maester. There is a matter concerning Princess Y/N—my niece—that needs your immediate attention.”

Mellos frowned, his brow furrowing in concern. “Of course, Your Grace. What seems to be the issue? Is Princess Y/N unwell?”

Aemond shook his head, his gaze intense as he met the Maester’s eyes. “No, she is not unwell. However, I wish for her to be examined… to ensure that she has not been harmed.”

Mellos’ confusion deepened, and he tilted his head slightly, trying to understand. “Harmed, Your Grace? I do not follow. What examination, exactly, do you require?”

Aemond hesitated for only a fraction of a second before he continued, his voice steady and deliberate. “Last night, she and I... shared an intimate moment. I want to ensure that she was not hurt during our union, that she was not harmed in any way.”

The Maester’s face went pale, the full implication of Aemond’s words sinking in. His eyes widened slightly, and he took an involuntary step back, his hand trembling as he clutched the folds of his robes.

“Your Grace…” Mellos began, his voice shaky as he tried to comprehend the gravity of what had been revealed to him. “You… you wish for me to confirm that Princess Y/N was… that she…?”

Aemond’s gaze remained fixed on the Maester, his expression unwavering. “Yes,” he said simply, allowing the full weight of his words to settle between them. “I want you to ensure that she was not harmed. And if any trace of injury is found, I want you to inform me immediately.”

Mellos looked as though he might faint, the color draining from his face entirely. His mind raced, trying to grasp the enormity of what Aemond was asking, and the consequences that would follow. The bloodied sheets, the confirmation from the Grand Maester—these were not just symbols of a consummated union; they were a declaration of intent, a claim that could not be ignored by either Otto Hightower or Rhaenyra Targaryen.

“I… I understand, Your Grace,” Mellos stammered, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But, Prince Aemond, surely you realize that such news… it will reach the ears of the Queen, and Prince Daemon…”

Aemond’s lips curled into a faint smile, though there was no warmth in it. “That is precisely what I intend, Maester. The sheets will speak for themselves, and your examination will confirm what is already known. My niece is now mine, and any plans to wed her to Jacaerys must be reconsidered.”

Mellos swallowed hard, the implications of Aemond’s words weighing heavily on him. The Prince’s plan was clear now, as was the role he had unwittingly been drawn into. The Maester nodded slowly, realizing that there was no turning back from what had been set in motion.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mellos finally said, his voice hoarse. “I shall see to it immediately.”

Aemond inclined his head, satisfied that his instructions would be carried out. He could see the fear in the Maester’s eyes, the way his hands shook ever so slightly as he turned to leave. But that fear was necessary, a tool to ensure that the plan would proceed without a hitch.

“Thank you, Grand Maester,” Aemond said, his voice as smooth as silk. “I trust that you will handle this matter with the utmost discretion.”

Mellos nodded quickly, his face still ashen as he hurried away, his steps faltering as though the weight of what he now carried was too much to bear.

Aemond watched him go, a sense of triumph settling over him. The seeds had been sown, and soon enough, they would bear the fruit he desired. His grandsire would be forced to recognize the union, and Rhaenyra would have no choice but to break the engagement to Jacaerys. There would be no way to deny him now.

As he turned and walked back down the corridor, a sense of satisfaction filled him. Everything was falling into place, just as he had envisioned. And as for the flushed and worried Grand Maester, he was merely the first to feel the ripple effects of the plan Aemond had so carefully crafted. Soon, everyone would understand that you belonged to him, and no one—not Jacaerys, not Rhaenyra, not even Daemon—could take you away from him now.

Aemond entered the chamber, summoned by his grandsire. The usual sense of foreboding that accompanied meetings in the Tower of the Hand was magnified tenfold by the figures waiting inside. Otto Hightower stood near the center of the room, his expression grave, while beside him stood Rhaenyra, her face a mask of barely concealed fury. But it was Daemon, pacing like a caged beast, whose presence dominated the space, his anger felt in the air.

Aemond, however, was unperturbed. He walked with measured steps, his posture erect, his face a picture of calm satisfaction. His eye met Daemon’s, and he could see the rage simmering there, a wildfire barely restrained. Aemond’s lips curled into a slight smile, knowing full well that it would only infuriate Daemon further.

“You summoned me, grandsire?” Aemond’s voice was even, respectful, but with an edge of smugness that did not go unnoticed.

Otto cleared his throat, his gaze flicking between the furious Targaryens and his grandson. “Aemond, it has come to my attention—” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “It has come to my attention, through certain… whispers, that Grand Maester Mellos was called upon this morning to examine Princess Y/N. An examination that has confirmed… certain truths.”

Rhaenyra’s fists clenched at her sides, her violet eyes blazing with a fury that matched the fire of the dragons themselves. “How dare you,” she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. “How dare you lay a hand on her!”

Before Aemond could respond, Daemon stepped forward, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword, Dark Sister. His face was a mask of barely restrained violence, and for a moment, it seemed he might strike Aemond down where he stood.

“Daemon,” Otto warned, his voice firm, though there was a thread of unease beneath it. “Violence will solve nothing here.”

“Violence is all I see fit to deal with this insolent whelp!” Daemon barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “He dares to defile my daughter, and you expect me to stand idly by?”

Aemond, unflinching, met Daemon’s gaze head-on, his own expression hardening. “I have done what was necessary, uncle,” he said coolly. “She is mine now, and there is nothing you can do to change that.”

Rhaenyra’s voice broke through the tension, sharp and cold. “Her betrothal to Jacaerys has been agreed upon for years. You cannot simply cast that aside as if it means nothing.”

Otto interjected, his voice measured, though the urgency was clear. “In light of these recent events, the betrothal to Prince Jacaerys must be reconsidered. It is in the best interest of both houses that Princess Y/N and Prince Aemond are wed, to avoid any… further complications.”

Daemon’s eyes flashed with a deadly light as he turned on Otto. “You would sell my daughter to this boy after what he has done? You forget yourself, Hightower. She will not be tangled into your schemes!”

Aemond stepped forward, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “This is not a matter of scheming, uncle. It is done. She is mine now, and there is nothing that can undo it. You cannot deny what has been consummated.”

Daemon’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it. Aemond’s words, as blunt and provocative as they were, held the weight of truth, and that was what infuriated Daemon most of all.

“The marriage must happen,” Otto pressed, sensing the shift in the room. “And it should happen soon, before word spreads and this matter becomes a scandal that neither house can afford.”

Aemond did not miss the opportunity to twist the knife deeper. “Indeed,” he said, his voice smooth, dripping with a satisfaction that only inflamed Daemon’s ire further. “The ceremony should be conducted in the traditions of old Valyria, where fire and blood bind us as one. And it should be done with haste.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the room before delivering the final blow. “For I hope that soon, another dragon will be born of our union.”

The implication hung heavy in the air, and Rhaenyra’s face turned ashen, her fury giving way to something colder, more calculating. Daemon, however, looked ready to strike again, his entire body tensed with the desire to lash out, to wipe that smug look off Aemond’s face.

But Aemond stood tall, his gaze steady, unflinching in the face of Daemon’s rage. He knew he had won. The plan had worked flawlessly. The whispers from Larys Strong, the bloodied sheets, the Maester’s examination—all had been carefully orchestrated to force this very outcome.

A tense silence stretched between them, thick and oppressive, until finally, it was Rhaenyra who spoke, her voice cold and sharp as a blade. “If this is to be done,” she said, “it will be done according to our customs, and with the respect due to our house. But know this, Aemond—should you ever bring harm to my daughter, not even your dragon will save you from my wrath.”

Aemond inclined his head slightly, accepting her warning with the same unyielding calm he had maintained throughout. “As you wish, sister. I will see to it that Y/N is treated with the honor she deserves.”

Daemon said nothing, but the look he leveled at Aemond spoke volumes. It was a promise, a vow that if Aemond ever crossed a line, there would be a reckoning, and it would be brutal.

But for now, Aemond had what he wanted. He had claimed you, and soon, the two of you will be bound in marriage. The thought of it sent a thrill of triumph through him, and though he kept his expression carefully neutral, inside, he reveled in his victory.

Otto, sensing that the matter was settled, nodded gravely. “Then it is decided. The preparations will begin at once.”

Without another word, Aemond turned and left the chamber, leaving behind a flushed, furious Daemon and a conflicted Rhaenyra. He knew that the days ahead would be tense, that there would be fallout from his actions, but none of it mattered now. You were his, and soon the world would see it, would understand that he was not to be trifled with.

And as he walked away, his thoughts were already on the future, on the life he would build with you, a future forged in fire and blood, just as the old ways dictated.

[feirceangel]

Asks are open you say? Well how about a dynamic flip? Feyd is the proud warrior but is unexpectedly bartered away in a deal his brother makes to humiliate him. Surprised and furious he fully intends to conquer his new "brides" family and kingdom only for them to recognize his strength and be met with the satisfying challenge of warrior/ farming planet.

So, I kinda went in a different direction with this, but I hope you still enjoy it, Anon!!

Imagine | A Match (Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen)

Imagine Feyd is given in marriage to a wealthy House in order to gain an alliance. His new bride is not what he expected.

Word Count: 1,737

Warnings: arranged marriage, attempted choking/stabbing, non-sexual nudity (reader), Powerful! Reader.

"What?" Feyd's voice is barely concealing his rage as he stares down his uncle and smug brother.

"It was necessary, my darling," the Baron's voice is rough, his tone placating. "We need this alliance more than you know."

Feyd finds his teeth clenching, hands forming fists at his sides. "Why not Rabban?"

"You know why," the Baron glares. "They would not accept Rabban as a suitable match. You are to go and wed their daughter. And in return they give us whatever we ask."

Feyd growls, "I outta slit your throat, uncle."

The Baron laughs, "This is for your benefit as much as it is mine, dear nephew. Now go."

Feyd storms out of the room, a hurricane of rage sweeping through the halls. He has never felt an anger this severe in quite some time. He should have known something like this would happen eventually. And, knowing his uncle, there is another scheme at play.

Always plans within plans within plans.

It's not the worst situation, he muses later when he has calmed and steadied his mind.

House Wallach would be a formidable ally, an asset that shouldn't be taken lightly. With control over three planets and being the largest horticultural power in the Landsraad, they are powerful indeed.

The leaders of House Wallach has birthed only a daughter, which leaves them without a male heir. All manner of eligible men have tried their hand at a marriage to their daughter. None has been successful.

Until now, apparently.

A feral grin spreads across Feyd's face as he thinks of the possibilities.

He will have no issue wedding the daughter and taking control of House Wallach when the time is right.

And, perhaps if he plays his cards right, take control of House Harkonnen as well.

He cares not who he has to marry, even if he'll be mad about it for awhile. After all, he can dispose of her eventually.

~~~

Feyd arrives with much fanfare, as befitting the na-Baron of House Harkonnen.

Bright sunshine surrounds those gathered to greet him, people who are swamped in bright greens, yellows, and browns. All around the envoy are orchards of all kinds of fruit trees. A vibrant sea of green.

So much more colour than Feyd is used to.

His expression remains neutral as he greats the Lord and Lady of the House. They appear cautious of him, perhaps overly so. It seems they know House Harkonnen’s reputation.

"It is an honour to be here," he says, bowing slightly. The lie slides easily off his tongue.

"We are pleased to have you in our home, na-Baron." The Lord says, returning the bow. "Our daughter is so pleased that you accepted the match."

Feyd's lips quirk up. Surely he's lying, no noble lady would hold any desire for a creature like him.

"As I said, it's an honour."

His gaze sweeps around, searching for his wife-to-be. All he finds is diplomats and soldiers.

"Where is Lady Wallach?" He asks, unimpressed at her absence.

"Forgive us, your arrival coincided with an event she could not miss," the Lord replies. "She is attending a Munus Ceremony."

This catches Feyd's attention, "A fight?"

"Yes, if you come this way, we may still witness part of it."

Feyd follows Lord Wallach, silently fuming.

His betrothed is watching other men fight to the death instead of welcoming him? His outrage is unparalleled, yet he remains collected.

They lead him up to the viewing tower of an outdoor coliseum, with vines growing on every available surface.

The viewing box is empty.

"There my lord."

Feyd's attention is brought down to a figure in the ring who brandishes a dagger with a graceful air.

"Our daughter,” Lord Wallach smiles, the action appearing forced.

He hadn't expected this.

Feyd was picturing a regal noble lady, demure and pitiful. He had not once pictured this creature before him, fluid in her movements as she battles her opponent.

She blocks attacks with ease and avoids ones that would cause serious damage all while attacking just as fiercely. Her opponent is skilled, to be sure, but is no match for the ruthlessness of her attacks.

He falls to the ground, unmoving. Feyd’s bride-to-be lifts her arms in victory, grinning as blood drips down her blade.

“We honour!” She shouts, and the crowd responds with deafening cheers.

“We know she is not exactly… How can I put it? Traditional, let’s say.” Her mother frets, “But she will be a good wife, na-Baron.”

He barely hears her, eyes transfixed on the beauty in the arena as she battles another opponent. Yes, this is an interesting turn of events indeed.

“Of course she will,” Feyd replies. “I must meet her.”

He watches as she disappears into the building, no doubt going to change and bathe after her match.

“Certainly. She’ll be out to give you a tour in no time. Meanwhile, a guard can show you to your room.”

Displeased, Feyd nods and obediently follows the man to his room. As soon as he’s alone, Feyd opens the door and stalks out with determination.

He cannot wait.

There is surprisingly little security surrounding your change room, Feyd notes as he quietly opens the door.

Your piercing gaze meets him immediately. Instead of being frightened, like he had anticipated, you smile warmly.

“Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha, I was not expecting you here. I’m afraid you have caught me unprepared to greet you properly,” you say calmly as you continue to unbutton your fighting tunic.

He doesn’t know what to make of your reaction. You’re not put off by his presence at all.

“I couldn’t wait,” he replies honestly.

You hum, “Excited to see me, na-Baron?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

The sound of your laughter is unexpected, “Of course not. I doubt I was what you were anticipating.”

His gaze lingers as you remove your clothes and retrieve a washcloth and bucket.

“Don’t you have servants?” He finds himself asking, motioning to the washcloth.

“I prefer to do it myself.”

He frowns, “You don’t seem very noble.”

“I assure you, Wallach blood flows deep in my veins,” your voice has taken an edge.

It seems he’s struck a nerve.

“I meant no insult, my lady,” his grin says otherwise, his voice rough and teasing. “It just appears you have odd taste. Fighting and doing the work servants should be doing.”

You return his even gaze, “I am not some snivelling noble who cannot take care of herself. Feyd, it seems you do not remember me.”

Your last statement has him pausing.

“What did you say?”

Lathering suds onto your bloodied skin, you barely spare him a glance.

“I said you don’t remember me. We met once, you know.”

He does not remember such a thing.

“Don’t toy with me,” he snarls. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” you roll your eyes. “Feydie, I can’t say I’m not hurt you don’t recall.”

Your bastardization of his name brings a memory to the front of his mind.

A young girl bearing the Wallach crest getting angry with him over something and punching him clear across the face. He naturally returned the blow and they broke out into a fight right then and there.

He’s shocked he forgot it.

You watch as recognition filters through his eyes. Smiling, you rinse the suds off your body.

“Now you remember. To be honest, I don’t know why I was so angry with you.”

“You’ve always been a fighter,” he acknowledges with an inclination of his head.

“And I knew you could not be satisfied with a weak wife.”

He’s coming to realize this match may not have been a scheme of just his uncle.

“You wanted this match,” he phrases it as a statement as if he already knows the answer.

You smirk, “Does it not please you?”

“What makes you think I would want you as a wife?” He sneers, crossing his arms.

“I know you planned on controlling me, or killing me - whichever suited your needs best. You want power, Feyd. I can give you that and so much more. Is it too much to ask for you in return?”

He cannot find words, mulling over your proposal as his eyes study your every move.

You’ve certainly grown from that little girl who could barely throw a proper punch yet had the rage to carry through a fight.

Feyd observes as you dry yourself off. He leans over before you can, and grabs your fresh shirt from the table.

“Allow me, my lady.”

Surprised, you nod and present your back to him. A foolish mistake, to turn your back on a potential threat. He contemplates disposing of you right now, but finds himself frowning at the idea.

You’re so much more interesting than he first imagined.

Despite himself, he wants to know you better, to find out when you had your first gladiatorial fight or when you realized you could be so much more than wedding fodder for your parents to make a match with.

“So many suitors have tried to win your hand,” Feyd rasps as he guides your arms through the sleeves of your shirt. “Yet you denied them all.”

“None were you, my lord.”

“Why chose me?” He leans into you, pressing his chest to your back as he slowly starts buttoning your shirt.

You lean back into him, “You are a fighter, a warrior. You can wield blades and talk politics. And I know you can treat me right.”

“Why would I treat you any different than a common whore?” He suddenly presses his arm against your throat, cutting off your oxygen.

He looks at your expression, surprised to find a wide grin. A flash of pain goes through his side. Your eyes flicker downwards and Feyd looks down to find the tip of a blade piercing his skin.

He releases his hold.

“You will treat me differently, Feyd. And do you know why?”

You turn to face him, placing your hand on his bleeding wound.

“Because I will make you.”

Feyd cannot stop the smile forming on his plush lips as you bring your hand to his cheek.

He doesn’t say anything as you continue place a kiss to his lips before shoving him away.

“We must ready ourselves for the dinner tonight, there is much to discuss about the wedding.”

“Of course, my lady.”

[Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!]

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Imperfect Couple - 19 | End

Character: politician!Bucky x ex-wife!reader

Summary: A separated couple must pretend to be happily married while the husband runs for Vice President, dealing with old issues and political pressures during his election campaign.

Warning: Triggering conversation. Character died.

Words Count: 5,588

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

When life seems perfect, it often hides a test—a calm before the storm. For Steve, months after Peggy’s death, everything felt whole, secure. His presidency was steady, bolstered by approval from the public and respect from allies. Policies were sailing through Congress, his popularity was soaring, and his vision for the country was unfolding exactly as planned.

But something gnawed at him, an intuition sharpened by years in the military. A storm was coming—he could feel it.

“Mr. President,” Natasha’s voice cut through his thoughts as she entered the office with a stack of documents in her arms.

“Yes, Natasha?”

She placed a folder on his desk. “Here’s the speech draft for the press conference announcing your engagement to Miss Hazel,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “If anything… goes south after the announcement.”

Steve took the folder, scanning the first page with a furrowed brow. He plans to introduce Hazel and Nate to the world. The public would need time to adjust to the news, and if the backlash was harsh, he’d be ready with a statement that cast Hazel in a sympathetic light.

“Thank you,” he replied, placing the folder aside.

Just then, the door burst open. An aide stumbled in, looking flushed and frantic. “Mr. President, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you need to see this immediately.” He thrust a tablet onto the desk, his hands shaking slightly as he pressed play.

A news anchor appeared on the screen, her voice grim and insistent. “Breaking news on an international scandal that could shake the nation. Our sources have uncovered what they’re calling ‘Deals in the Dark: Inside the Global Conspiracy Threatening Economic Stability.’”

The words "Steve Rogers" flashed across the screen, and the anchor continued, "Our investigation has linked these troubling deals directly to the highest office in the land.”

Steve’s face blanched. His name—his reputation—was being dragged through the mud in front of the entire country. Rage flared within him as he looked up, his jaw tight. “Get the Vice President in here. Now.”

A tense silence settled over the room as they waited. Moments later, Bucky entered, his expression carefully controlled, his eyes meeting Steve’s with a flash of concern.

“Close the door,” Steve ordered, his voice low and taut.

As the door clicked shut, Bucky stood before him, the weight of the situation hanging between them like a loaded gun. Steve’s hand curled into a fist, his voice barely a whisper but laced with fury. “Did you know about this?”

Bucky looked down, drawing a steadying breath, then met Steve’s piercing gaze. “I knew her was digging into things after her friend died, but… I didn’t know it would go this far.” He clenched his jaw. “I didn’t realize how deep she’d go—or how reckless she’d become.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed, a vein throbbing in his temple. “So you’re telling me you had no idea?”

“No, I didn’t,” Bucky admitted, his voice weighted with regret. “And I’m sorry, Steve. I’ll make this right. If you need a name to take the fall… blame me. I’ll shoulder this.”

Steve looked at him, surprised. Here was his Vice President—his friend—willing to sacrifice himself to protect him. It would be so easy to accept the offer, to let Bucky take the brunt of the fallout. It would keep Steve’s image intact, and Bucky could be quietly replaced.

But the advantage of having Bucky loyal by his side was too great. “No,” Steve replied, shaking his head. “This wasn’t your doing. And I need you here, not buried under this scandal.”

Bucky stepped forward, his gaze steady. “It’s alright, Steve. I haven’t done much lately as Vice President anyway. Let me take this on. We’re a team, aren’t we? Your problems are mine.”

Steve paused, looking at him, his anger tempered by the loyalty in Bucky’s eyes. “You’d take this for me?”

“Without hesitation,” Bucky replied firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

Steve exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He extended a hand, and Bucky took it, their grips strong, but their shared look even stronger. Then, in a rare moment of mutual trust, Steve pulled him into a fierce, brotherly embrace.

“Thank you, Bucky,” he murmured, his voice softened with unspoken gratitude.

As they pulled back, Bucky’s expression was resolute. “Whatever’s coming,” he said, his voice low, “we’re facing it together.”

Steve nodded, his mind racing with strategy and resolve. The scandal might be a blow, but with Bucky at his side, he felt fortified, ready to weather the storm—no matter how dark it threatened to become.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

With Bucky's promise still fresh in the air, Steve watched as his vice president worked hard to keep issues from flaring up. Bucky stood tall, his confidence showing as he spoke to reporters and citizens, assuring them that their concerns were being handled. But underneath, Steve could sense the tension in Bucky—his jaw tightened, and worry flickered in his eyes whenever new problems popped up.

Each time one issue seemed to fade, another arose, and it always seemed to lead back to you.

As Steve stood in the Oval Office, the weight of the scandals crashing down around him felt almost suffocating. Illegal domestic surveillance, military manipulation, a nuclear program scandal, and Stark Industries' data misuse—all of it traced back to you. The walls felt like they were closing in as he realized you were the mastermind behind this revelation. Even Bucky was oblivious to the full extent of the details.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady the rising tide of anger and betrayal, and faced you across the room. The tension hung heavy in the air, electric and dangerous. “When will you stop?” he demanded, his voice low and filled with barely restrained fury. “This is not only hurting me but also Bucky.”

You met his gaze, unflinching, your own anger simmering just below the surface. “Come and kill me, you crazy sociopath,” you shot back, your voice dripping with defiance.

Steve took a step closer, his fists clenched at his sides. “If you keep doing this, you’ll ruin the future of Nate’s life,” he warned, his tone now tinged with a desperate edge.

“I knew you have a soft spot for him. And I appreciate it,” he sneered. “But imagine him being branded with the image of being the illegitimate child, with his father as the most evil president in history.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “Or you could choose this one: he’ll find out who I really am. Instead of shame, he’ll be proud to be the son of the president.”

“You fucking psycho,” you spat, taking a step back, putting space between you and the weight of your shared history. “Using your own son as your shield.”

Steve shook his head, disbelief mingling with a simmering rage. “You hate me because I killed your friend. Sure, I understand that. But if he were still alive, your husband and I probably couldn’t win the election.”

As the two of you locked eyes, the atmosphere crackled with tension—a brutal dance of hurt and anger, intertwined with a strange sense of familiarity. Steve’s breath quickened, the realization dawning on him that the battle wasn’t just external; it was deeply personal, and it threatened to consume them both.

“Everything is about paying back. Everyone in here knows everyone’s secrets.” Steve's voice was cold, his jaw clenched tightly as he glared at you, the tension in the air crackling like electricity. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, as if holding back the urge to lash out.

"I hate people like you—the idealistic type," Steve said, his voice low and simmering with frustration. He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he locked onto yours, the tension in the air palpable. "If you get rid of me, there will only be another just like me."

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

After talking to Steve, you returned home, your heart still racing with the weight of the conversation. As you stepped through the door, you saw Bucky waiting for you, his expression unreadable. The moment you locked eyes, tension filled the room.

"You’re just a puppet for Steve," you spat, your voice dripping with disdain. "I’m so ashamed of you."

Bucky's face hardened, his jaw clenched tightly as he stepped closer, his frustration boiling over. "You don’t understand anything! I’m doing what I have to do," he shot back, his tone sharp and defensive.

“Doing what you have to do?” you scoffed, your hands trembling with anger. “You’re covering up Ian’s death! You’re a coward for letting this happen!” Your words hung heavy in the air, each accusation striking a nerve as you paced back and forth, unable to contain your rage.

Bucky’s eyes flashed with a mix of hurt and anger. “You think it’s that simple? It’s not just about me! I have to protect what’s left of this place, even if it means making sacrifices!” He ran a hand through his hair, the frustration evident in the way his fingers curled into his scalp.

You shook your head, refusing to back down. “Sacrifices? You mean sacrificing your integrity? You’ve lost yourself to this game, Bucky! I can’t believe you let Steve manipulate you like this.”

Unbeknownst to both of you, your heated argument was being overheard. Natasha listened intently from the hidden bug that had been planted in the room, her brow furrowed with concern as she glanced at Steve. “Both of them are fighting. Bucky sounds surprised,” she informed him, her tone serious.

Steve leaned back in his chair, a slight smirk forming on his lips. “Good,” he replied, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. He relished the chaos unfolding, knowing that conflict could lead to clarity, both for Bucky and for you. The storm brewing between you two was exactly what he needed.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Even though there was turmoil at home, everything had to keep going. Bucky had to accompany Steve to attend the parade. The parade was a vibrant spectacle, a sea of red, white, and blue, with flags fluttering in the crisp air. Cheerful crowds lined the streets, waving banners and chanting the names of their leaders, their excitement palpable.

"Mr. President! Mr. President!" they roared, their voices a chorus of admiration for Steve Rogers, who stood tall and confident, a smile breaking across his face as he waved back. The warmth of the people's adoration radiated around him, but as the crowd's energy surged, the atmosphere felt electric, almost frenetic.

Beside him, Bucky Barnes maintained a more stoic demeanor. Though he wore the badge of Vice President, the cheers seemed to pass over him, fewer and far between. He appreciated the excitement but felt a twinge of disappointment that the cheers weren't for him. He turned to Steve, his brow furrowing slightly, and remarked dryly, "You know, I thought they would be a bit more enthusiastic about me."

Steve had brought Bucky here to entertain him because he knew about the problems between Bucky and you. You're wild and couldn't be tamed.

Steve chuckled, eyes glinting with mischief as he leaned closer, "Put a leash on your wife, or she'll embarrass this country." His laughter rang out, mingling with the cheers of the crowd, but Bucky's gaze drifted past him, scanning the parade route.

"Yeah," Bucky replied, a hint of agreement in his voice, but his eyes were still fixed on the crowd. There was a tension in the air that he couldn’t quite place.

Steve turned to Bucky, his brow slightly furrowed with concern. "How is she?" he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.

Bucky crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched as he replied, "I told her to be quieter."

“Good,” Steve said, his expression softening a bit. He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before continuing, "I’m planning to have Hazel by my side."

Bucky's eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face. "What?" he exclaimed, his posture tensing as he processed the implications of Steve’s words.

"I knew you’d know," Steve said, a hint of regret creeping into his tone. He stepped closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "And I’m sorry. But I promise you, I will give Hazel and Nate the best future."

Bucky fell silent, the weight of Steve’s promise hanging in the air between them. He looked away for a moment, his thoughts racing, before finally nodding, a mix of resignation and reluctant acceptance etched on his face.

Steve smiled, relief washing over him as he saw Bucky's reaction. There was a sense of camaraderie in the moment, a silent understanding forged in the midst of tension. But as Bucky looked at Steve, his eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty, hinting at the underlying conflict that still simmered just beneath the surface.

"I'm so glad to have you as my partner," Steve continued, sincerity evident in his tone. "May we work together until we die."

"Until we die," Bucky murmured, his voice almost lost in the surrounding commotion.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the noise, calling out, "Barnes!" A hand waved from the throng, the first time anyone had shouted his name that day. Bucky glanced at the person but didn’t respond with a wave like Steve did. Instead, he gave a subtle nod, a flicker of acknowledgment that felt more calculated than celebratory.

In that instant, chaos erupted. "KYAAA!!!"

A sharp crack rang out, slicing through the jubilant atmosphere. Bucky staggered as if struck by a physical blow, his eyes widening in shock.

The cheers turned into gasps of disbelief, and screams erupted as the crowd reacted in panic, some dropping to the ground, others frantically searching for cover. The Secret Service sprang into action, "Protect the Vice-President!", a wall of suits forming around Bucky as people pushed back in terror, the once-cheerful parade transformed into a scene of horror.

"Bucky!" Steve shouted, rushing forward, his heart pounding as he reached his partner's side. The world around him blurred, and all he could focus on was Bucky, crumpling to the ground.

Everyone was shouting, the air thick with fear and confusion, but all Steve heard was the ragged sound of his own breathing and the desperate cry of his friend. "Bucky!" he repeated, urgency lacing his tone.

Bucky's breath came in ragged gasps, his body sprawled on the pavement. The color drained from his face as he struggled to lift his hand, feeling the warmth of blood seeping through his fingers. With a surge of effort, he grasped Steve's arm, pulling him closer, anchoring himself to his partner even as the life slipped away from him. "All hail the President," he managed, his voice weak but resolute.

Steve's expression shifted from shock to horror, his body taut with the weight of impending dread. Bucky's grip tightened, holding him in place as if preventing him from moving, creating a storm of emotions that threatened to overwhelm them both. "Bucky, stay with me," he urged, desperation lacing his tone.

Bucky locked eyes with Steve, seeing the fear reflected there. A strange calm washed over him as he whispered, "As Nate's father, this is my gift for you."

Then, without warning, a searing pain tore through Steve’s chest, a sharp shot of agony that rooted him to the spot. The world blurred around him as he struggled to comprehend what was happening, realizing in that instant that he was the true target.

Steve felt the impact before he could process the meaning behind Bucky’s words. The world around them seemed to slow as the realization of betrayal hit him. He caught a glimpse of Bucky's fading form, and in that moment, a twisted smirk crept across his lips. "Well played," he murmured, before the darkness consumed him, and he dropped to the ground.

Bucky’s grip slackened, the warmth of his hand slipping away. Bucky’s body went limp, and as everything turned dark around him, Steve felt his own strength faltering.

That day, which was meant to be a celebration, turned into a day of mourning. Two main leaders of the country were injured, and no one knew who was behind the attack. With the most important figures in the nation harmed, it felt like an embarrassment for a country that prided itself on its strength.

Both parties in the government reached a silent agreement to keep the situation under wraps and portray Steve as a hero.

The news headlines that would follow would echo through history: “The President Dies Protecting the Vice President.” It would be a legacy of sacrifice, a testament to their bond. Steve Rogers would forever be remembered as the only president who lost his life protecting another, a tragedy that would resonate for generations.

Everyone would remember him as a good symbol, sacrificing himself for someone, without recalling the darker aspects of his actions. This was the last gift Bucky gave to him.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

2 days later

Bucky's eyes fluttered open, the sterile brightness of the hospital room piercing through the haze of his coma. As his surroundings came into focus, the first thing he saw was you, your face streaked with tears, a mixture of relief and anger etched across your features.

You rushed to his side, gripping his arm tightly, your voice trembling with emotion. "You idiot! What kind of plan was that? Risking your life?"

Bucky's brow furrowed slightly as he tried to process your words, his voice hoarse but steady. "Didn't I tell you? I will accept it if you hurt me."

Both of you pretended to fight to keep Steve from suspecting anything. He knew how much Bucky loved you, and with the two of you constantly bickering, he wouldn't notice that someone else had hired an assassin.

It was Caroline. She was the one who hired the sniper to take Steve's life. Don’t mess with a mother—or a woman like her.

Bucky getting shot first was all part of the plan. Caroline’s intention was to take out Steve, but Bucky warned her that he would also become a suspect if that happened.

Instead, he proposed that he get hurt first, diverting everyone’s attention to him, allowing Steve to be vulnerable next.

It was a risky plan—an idiotic one, really. But Bucky insisted, determined to see it through despite the danger that loomed over them all.

A deep sigh escaped your lips, a blend of frustration and relief washing over you. You leaned against his chest, resting your head there, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. In that moment, everything else faded away—the anger, the fear—and all that mattered was that he was alive.

Risking his life was necessary to make his plan work. He didn't want the past six years of his efforts to go to waste.

The past six years had been exhausting for Bucky Barnes. He had immersed himself in the treacherous waters of politics, drawn in by the intoxicating taste of power that left a lingering sweetness on his tongue.

He quickly realized that understanding the law was not merely a tool; it was a weapon. Knowledge of loopholes became his advantage, a means to navigate the convoluted game of governance. But knowing the rules wasn’t enough; he needed to be ruthless. That was where Steve Rogers came into the picture—his mentor, a family friend for years, whose facade of integrity masked a far more sinister reality.

In Bucky’s eyes, Steve had always been perfect, a paragon of virtue. But as time wore on, the veneer began to crack, revealing the monstrous truth lurking beneath.

Steve was a predator cloaked in a hero’s guise. His charming smile belied a voracious greed that left a bloody trail in its wake. It was a shock to discover that Steve had been having an affair with Hazel, and now he was the father of Nate, the child whose very existence felt like a dagger to Bucky’s heart.

This betrayal was too much to bear. Bucky’s hatred for the man he once idolized simmered just below the surface, boiling over as he considered how to dismantle the carefully constructed empire Steve had built. Bucky knew the rules; he understood the political landscape better than most. But how could he bring down someone so deeply entrenched in the system?

Despite all his advantages, Steve believed he was the master of this game. No, he wasn’t. Bucky’s confidence swelled as he acknowledged that Steve’s skills—his war experience, his tactical mind—would ultimately falter against the true currency of politics. In this brutal arena, the real gold was connections and money. Behind every politician lurked unseen puppet masters pulling the strings, and Steve was no exception.

Bucky knew that while Steve had forged connections, he lacked the pedigree that defined the upper echelons of power. Steve had been a nobody until Peggy Carter had invited him into their circle, and that was when they made a monumental mistake—choosing Steve. He might have had his allies, but he would never be blue blood like Bucky and Peggy.

Then there was Peggy. The last straw. Bucky’s heart twisted as he recalled the circumstances of her death. He was all too aware that it had been Steve's machinations that had ultimately led to her demise. Bucky had witnessed the toll it took on her, the way she had struggled under the weight of her decisions, her life unraveling in the shadow of Steve's ambition. Bucky’s hands tightened into fists at the memory.

Caroline had been the voice of caution, her words echoing in his mind: “This is why you never bite the hand that feeds you.”

She may not have been a good mother, but she had been a loyal friend to Peggy, always protecting her interests, ensuring that her secrets remained buried. Bucky could see how easily Caroline could hire an assassin, how she moved through the shadows like a whisper, orchestrating the chaos without ever getting her hands dirty.

He never thought you and Caroline would join forces to rid the world of Steve. With each passing day, Bucky felt the walls closing in, the weight of the decisions he had to make pressing down on him like a vice. Steve would fall; it was only a matter of time.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Bucky stood in the Oval Office, a resolute figure beside the iconic Resolute Desk, a Bible open in front of him. The room was thick with anticipation, everyone watching him intently as he prepared to deliver his vow. His posture was firm, shoulders squared, as he looked around at the faces of his colleagues and allies, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He glanced at the words on the page, drawing strength from their meaning as he readied himself to speak.

With a steady voice, he began, "I stand before you today, not just as your president, but as a servant of the people. I vow to uphold the Constitution, to protect the rights of every citizen, and to work tirelessly for the betterment of our nation. Together, we will fight against corruption and ensure that government truly serves the people. I promise to lead with integrity, to listen to your voices, and to bring about the change we so desperately need."

You stood behind him, pride swelling in your chest as you witnessed Bucky fulfill his promise to become president.

Behind you sat Caroline and Julius, the latter in his wheelchair, their expressions a mix of hope and admiration. Bucky’s oldest brother, Shawn, had called to congratulate him, his voice brimming with encouragement. Your brother Tim stood nearby, a smile on his face, reflecting the joy that filled the room. At the back, Hazel lingered, her posture tense and withdrawn, reluctant to stand close to her family.

As the applause began and everyone congratulated Bucky and you, Natasha approached Hazel, who stood near the corner as if she wanted to hide.

Perhaps she was too embarrassed to be there. Before, she had come to the White House as Steve's mistress, and everyone knew who she was but kept their mouths shut. This time, she was here only as Bucky's sister. “I have something for you,” Natasha said, extending an envelope toward her.

Hazel hesitated, her brows furrowing in confusion. “For me?” she asked, glancing from the letter to Natasha, unsure of what to expect.

Natasha nodded, a subtle smile breaking through her serious exterior. “Yes, it’s from Steve.” With that, she stepped back to take her position.

Hazel’s fingers trembled slightly as she took the letter, the weight of it heavy in her hand. As she opened it, memories flooded back, and she felt a rush of emotions. It was a final message from Steve, words that resonated with her deeply.

The atmosphere in the room shifted as Hazel read the heartfelt letter, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Hazel,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m probably no longer living. And that's okay; I've come to accept it. The world I’ve inhabited has been fraught with danger, and I’ve made choices that have led me here.

Hazel, from the moment I met you, it felt like looking into a mirror—a reflection of my own heart and soul. You brought warmth and light into my life, even when I was lost in darkness. Your strength has always amazed me, and I want you to carry that with you as you move forward.

Live the life you’ve always wanted. I’ve made arrangements for you and Nate, ensuring you both have the financial support you need to thrive.

Please, for our Nate, support him and listen to him. He will need you more than ever now, and I have every confidence in your ability to guide him.

If there is a next life, I hope we never meet again. You deserve someone better than me. Now that I’m gone, please try to forget me and the mistakes I made. I genuinely wish you and Nate nothing but the best.

Steve Rogers

P.S. Don’t worry about the twins. They’ve been independent since they were young and have the Carters to guide them. They’ll be okay."

Tears fell onto the letter as Hazel finished reading it.

“Mom?” Nate's small voice broke through her moment of grief.

Hazel looked down at her son, the last legacy of Steve, and quickly wiped her tears away. “Do you want to visit Uncle Steve?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Nate nodded enthusiastically, his bright eyes shining with admiration. “Yes! He’s a hero for saving Uncle Bucky!”

Hazel flinched at the mention of Bucky, but she forced a smile, wanting to be strong for her son. She knelt down to his level and took his small hands in hers, feeling the warmth of his tiny fingers. With her other hand, she clutched the letter written by Steve, a reminder of his love and hopes for her.

Together, they held hands as they walked, Hazel’s heart swelling with determination. Just as Steve had wished, she would live life to the fullest and be a great mother to Nate.

After Hazel and Nate left, Natasha approached Bucky with a serious expression. “Both of them have left,” she informed him.

Bucky turned to her, his demeanor cool and composed, devoid of any trace of warmth. “She read the letter?” he asked, his voice steady and flat.

“Yes,” Natasha replied, nodding her head.

“Did she believe it?” Bucky pressed, his gaze sharp and focused.

“I hired a professional to copy Steve's signature, and I added a bit of his perfume to the paper,” Natasha explained, her tone measured and confident.

“Good.” Bucky’s expression remained impassive, his eyes betraying no emotion. He had written the letter himself, crafting it to sound like it came from Steve. His intention was clear: he wanted Hazel to move on from Steve, to find a new path without the shadows of the past weighing her down. This was necessary for her future, and he understood the sacrifices it took to ensure that.

“Good job.” Bucky looked at Natasha again, and she nodded in acknowledgment.

It was a curious alliance—how could a loyal supporter of Steve choose to work with Bucky? The answer lay in humanity. Natasha had pledged her loyalty to Steve because he saved her from the chaos of war when she had no one to turn to. In her eyes, he was a hero, and she had turned a blind eye and deaf ear to his misdeeds, including the affair with Hazel.

But everything changed when she witnessed the heartlessness Steve displayed toward Peggy. The righteous man she once admired had morphed into a monster, and her faith in him shattered. With Steve’s death, Natasha reevaluated her principles and decided to align herself with Bucky.

Bucky brought her on board because he recognized her skills and capabilities. He needed people like Natasha—sharp, resourceful, and fiercely dedicated. But he also understood the value of loyalty and did not intend to take it for granted. Their partnership was strategic, grounded in the shared goal of reshaping the political landscape, and Bucky was determined to build a team that could challenge the corruption that had long plagued their world.

“Have you got everything you need?” your voice pulled him away from his thoughts.

“Yes,” he replied, a smile breaking through his usual stoicism as he took your hand in his.

As you both walked through the grand halls of the White House, the sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting a warm glow on the polished floors. Bucky’s grip on your hand was firm, steady, a reassuring anchor in the midst of the political storm surrounding him.

Bucky had his share of greed, but he loathed those who didn’t know their limits. Among those were his so-called friends, Edgar and Brock. Together with Steve, they formed a trio of self-serving opportunists, always proclaiming their actions were “for the people” while their true motivations were purely selfish—“for me, me, and me.”

What set Bucky apart from Steve, Edgar, and Brock was his ambition to dismantle the very system they thrived in. He wanted to rid politics of corrupt individuals like them, who masqueraded their greed as altruism. Bucky had seen too much of the damage they had inflicted on the community, and he was determined to be the catalyst for change. He refused to become like them.

To clean up the government, he knew he had to start with this corrupt trio. It was a slow and grueling process, requiring patience and strategy, but Bucky was committed to the fight. He would work behind the scenes, gathering evidence, building alliances, and slowly dismantling their influence. It was exhausting, but he was relentless.

His ultimate goal extended beyond simply removing them from power. He envisioned a government rebuilt on integrity, one that truly served the interests of the people rather than the egos of a few. The road ahead was fraught with challenges, but he was willing to face them head-on. Every step he took toward exposing the trio brought him closer to realizing his vision of a more just and equitable political landscape.

As Bucky navigated the murky waters of politics, he felt the weight of his mission pressing down on him. He was no longer just a pawn in the game; he was a player with a purpose. This time, he wouldn’t be silenced. He was determined to take the fight to them, fueled by a deep resolve to expose their hypocrisy and restore honor to a system long tainted by greed.

But alongside you, he realized something important: for an imperfect couple, you both made a perfect team. As you walked together, side by side, it felt like you were crossing a finish line, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. Each step was a testament to your shared commitment—a bond forged in trust and understanding, built on the ashes of past mistakes.

You glanced up at him, and in that moment, you could see the determination in his eyes, the fire that ignited whenever he believed in something. Together, you were more than just individuals; you were partners united in a common cause, ready to fight for a better future. In the complicated world of power and betrayal, your partnership was a beacon of hope, lighting the way toward justice and change.

-The End-

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who followed this series until the end. This story has its flaws, but I truly appreciate your support and dedication. It was incredibly difficult for me to wrap up this journey and say goodbye to Bucky and his fierce ex-wife. Writing a tale that intertwines politics with romance has been both a challenging and rewarding experience. I've learned so much about character development and the complexities of relationships, and I'm grateful to have shared this journey with all of you. Your feedback and encouragement have meant the world to me.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

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[cece693]

Enemy (Edward Cullen x Werewolf GN! Reader)

Summary: Imprinting was supposed to be a good thing, not for you though. Fate seemed to be mocking you by having your imprint be a leech—Edward Cullen, to be more specific.

tags: gender-neutral reader, reader is a werewolf, post-Eclipse, Edward is your imprint, mentions of wanting to be dead, no established relationship

You were on enemy land, yet you didn’t care. Let them come. Let them do their worst. Maybe it’d be a mercy, a reprieve from the torment you’d been living. The trees around you stretched endlessly, their branches clawing at the sky like the fingers of ghosts, haunting you with every step you took into Cullen's territory.

Imprinting on a vampire—it should’ve been your death sentence. An abomination, they called it. The whispers, the disgusted glares, the sneers from your packmates. Your family wouldn’t even look you in the eye. So, why not wander where you weren't wanted? Why not provoke those you should be avoiding?

A snap of a twig echoed through the forest, and you halted, every muscle tensing. You knew he was there. You always knew. It was a curse, this damn imprinting, a cruel joke from the universe to force you to feel everything for the last person you should.

“Edward,” you spat, the bitterness in your voice impossible to hide. “I know you’re watching me. You may as well come out.” Silence stretched and then he emerged—graceful, quiet, like a shadow having been given a form. His golden eyes were fixed on you with such an intensity, it made your blood boil.

“You shouldn’t be here.” he said, his voice irritatingly soft, like he actually cared about your wellbeing.

A laugh escaped you, the sound harsh and bitter in the stillness. “And where should I be, huh? With my pack? My family?” You took a step toward him, your fists clenching at your sides. “Because let’s be honest, they’d prefer me dead. I imprinted on a vampire, Edward. That makes me as good as a traitor to them.” You forced yourself to meet his gaze, defiance burning in your eyes. “And you—you hate me, too. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

Edward’s expression tightened, but he didn’t break eye contact. That infuriating calm, as if nothing could shake him. It only fueled your anger. “I don’t hate you.” he whispered.

“Oh, don’t lie,” you snapped, shaking your head. “I know you do. How could you not? I broke up your happy little life with Bella, didn’t I? You were supposed to be with her, not be tied to…” You gestured toward yourself with a bitter laugh, “…whatever this is.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—pain, perhaps regret—but it was quickly replaced by his usual composure. “Bella and I were never meant to last,” he said with great honesty in his voice, catching you off guard. “We loved each other, but things changed. We changed. It was my choice to let her go.”

“Your choice?” You scoffed, narrowing your eyes. “Then why are you even here, Edward? Why bother with me? I’m just a mess—your sworn enemy, for crying out loud. If you hate this as much as I do, then do us both a favor and end it.”

He moved so quickly that you barely registered the motion. One second, he was standing a few feet away, the next he was in front of you, his hand gripping your arm with a surprising gentleness that left you frozen. His eyes bored into yours, a fire burning in their depths. “I told you, I don’t hate you,” he repeated, his voice edged with a hint of frustration. “And you’re not a mess, not to me.”

“You’re…” He hesitated, his jaw tightening as he searched for the right words. “You’re my imprint. I didn’t ask for this, nor did you, but here we are. And I…I can’t stand to see you like this. I won’t lie and say it’s easy,” he admitted.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. We can’t change what happened, but we can try to make something of it. Maybe we start with being friends?"

You barked a laugh, though it was devoid of humor. “Friends,” you echoed, tasting the word like it was foreign. “You think we can be friends?”

“It’s a start,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “And maybe, in time, it can be more. If we both want it to be.”

The vulnerability in his words caught you off guard. You expected pity, maybe even indifference, but not this—this honest hope that things could be different. You let out a shaky breath, feeling some tension drain from your shoulders. “Alright,” you murmured, the fight leaving you. “Friends…We can try.”

A small, tentative smile crept onto Edward’s lips, and for a moment, warmth spread through your chest, easing some of the ache that had settled there. It wasn’t a solution, not by far, but it was a beginning.

[arixella]

Bound by sacrifice

╰┈➤ pairing: Sanji x fem! reader

a/n: Ive been on a great generational run with my Tumblr ever since break started😭

summary: Amid the rain-soaked chaos of Whole Cake Island, the reader confronts Sanji, determined to bring him back, only to face his heart-wrenching facade of indifference as he pushes them away to protect them.

wc: 755

contains: angst

The rain poured relentlessly over Whole Cake Island, a perfect backdrop to the storm in your heart. You’d finally found him. Sanji stood before you, the man you loved, dressed in the regal clothes of a groom, his expression carefully neutral.

"Sanji," you called softly, desperation laced in your voice. "Please. Just come back with me."

He turned his head, lighting a cigarette with a calmness that made your blood boil. The faint glow illuminated his face, but his eyes didn’t meet yours. Instead, they stared at the horizon as if you weren’t even there.

“You’re wasting your time, (Y/N),” he said, his tone cool and distant. “I’m not going back.”

Your heart clenched. "Don’t do this. Don’t pretend like you don’t care about us, about Luffy—about me."

He flinched ever so slightly at your words, the tiniest crack in his façade. But just as quickly, he masked it with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

"You think I care about any of that?" His voice carried an edge, but you saw through it, saw the way his hands trembled as he took a drag from his cigarette. "This is my life now. You don’t belong here, and I don’t belong with you anymore."

"Stop lying!" you snapped, stepping closer. The anger you’d been holding back boiled over. "I know you, Sanji. I know you’re only doing this to protect us. So stop pretending and come back with me!"

He finally met your gaze, and the intensity in his eyes made you falter. There was pain there, buried deep beneath the cold indifference he was trying so hard to maintain.

"I told you to leave," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I don’t want you here. Go back to Luffy before you get yourself killed."

You shook your head, tears mixing with the rain on your face. "No. I’m not leaving without you."

Sanji’s composure cracked, his cigarette falling from his lips as he grabbed your shoulders, his grip firm but not cruel. "Why can’t you just listen to me, damn it?!" he shouted, his voice raw. "This isn’t about what I want! It’s about what I have to do!"

"Then let us help you!" you cried, your hands gripping the front of his jacket. "You don’t have to do this alone! We’ll fight with you, Sanji. We’ll protect you just like you’ve always protected us!"

His eyes squeezed shut, and for a moment, you thought he might break. But when he opened them again, the wall was back up, stronger than before.

"You don’t understand," he said quietly, releasing you and stepping back. "This is bigger than me. Bigger than you."

"I do understand!" you insisted, your voice cracking. "I understand that you’re hurting yourself for something you don’t even want. Don’t you see? You’re the one who doesn’t understand how much we care about you."

Sanji’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You think I don’t know that?" he said, his voice trembling with barely contained emotion. "You think I don’t want to go back? That I don’t want to be with you?!"

The confession hung in the air, heavy and bittersweet. Your breath caught, hope flickering in your chest for a fleeting second before he spoke again.

"But I can’t," he said, his voice breaking. "If I go back, you’ll all suffer because of me. And I won’t let that happen."

You stepped closer again, your hands reaching for him, but he turned away, his shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

"You’re an idiot," you whispered, your voice shaking. "You think we’d be happier without you? That we’d just give up on you?"

He didn’t answer, and the silence cut deeper than any words could.

“Sanji…” your voice softened, and the tears you’d been holding back finally spilled over. "You don’t have to do this alone."

But he didn’t turn around. His head bowed, and his hands trembled as he forced himself to walk away.

"Go back to the Sunny, (Y/N)," he said, his voice barely audible over the rain. "That’s where you belong."

You watched him disappear into the storm, your heart shattering into pieces you weren’t sure could ever be put back together.

Even as the rain soaked through your clothes, you stood there, silently promising yourself one thing: this wasn’t over. You would bring him back, no matter how long it took. Because Sanji was your family, your love, and you refused to give up on him.

♡♡♡

[floralcyanide]

˚₊✩‧₊◜kinktober 2023! ―

― day twelve ⛧ threesome

Billy Loomis x Stu Macher x GN!Reader

After you, Billy, and Stu's grand plan goes as expected, a little celebration ensues.

warnings:  smut, threesome, gender neutral reader, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, rough oral sex (m receiving) cum eating

word count: 643

author's note: hello hello so sorry this is like, a week late lol life has been beating the fuck out of me lately and I've been busy and exhausted and stressed. lots of stuff to get caught up on like classwork, but also kinktober!! stay tuned!! thanks for any feedback (:

kinktober masterpost | kinktober taglist form | main masterlist | main taglist form

this fic has been cross posted to ao3.

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

It was a good plan, a great plan, even. And it worked out in the end without a hitch. 

You, Billy, and Stu successfully fulfilled your plan to get your revenge against Sidney Prescott, and now you’re celebrating in Stu’s bedroom. The three of you were covered in blood and downing pounds and pounds of liquor, and one of you (you can’t recall who anymore) got the bright idea to play truth or dare. Might as well air out your dirty laundry now that the three of you are all connected by blood. The game turned frisky quickly when you dared Billy to kiss Stu. After Billy had yet to pull away, you decided to get in on the action by attacking Stu’s neck with your teeth. And it sort of snowballed from there. Now, you’re sitting on Stu’s lap on the edge of his bed, his cock buried deep inside you, while Billy’s standing in front of you, his cock pounding the back of your throat. Being so full never felt so right. The adrenaline from the earlier murders mixed with the alcohol is doing wonders for your brain, as well as the untapped pleasure you’re experiencing from both ends of your body. 

“Taking my cock like such a good little slut,” Billy praises as he fucks your face, his hands gripping the sides of your head for leverage. 

Stu bucks his hips into your ass, his tip brushing your cervix with every movement he makes. He doesn’t pull all the way out and slam back in, instead, he keeps you seated and still until he wishes to fuck into you. And when he does, it’s hard and sudden. Stu decides to change his mind and begins to lift you by your hips so you pull off his cock almost all the way before he guides you back down. Your ass slaps against his thighs as he gains a rhythm for you, your body limp and allowing Stu and Billy to do whatever they want to it. 

“You’re so tight, Jesus,” Stu curses as your hole clenches around him.

Grabbing a fistful of your hair, Stu then starts bobbing your head back and forth along Billy’s cock. Billy lets go of your head and smirks as he watches Stu shove your face forward until you gag. You open your mouth as far as your jaw will allow, letting Stu force you to gag on Billy, his length mercilessly fucking your throat rapidly. You moan around him, gagging and drooling pitifully. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Billy grits his teeth, his cock twitching as he watches Stu fuck in and out of your tight entrance flawlessly.

“Can you swallow my cum for me, sweetheart? Be a good little slut? Hmm?” Billy grabs your jaw, pressing his fingers into it as he stares directly into your eyes.

You nod the best you can as he snaps his hips into your face, chasing his orgasm. Stu watches as Billy comes undone in your throat and on your tongue, the tip of his cock hitting that sensitive spot inside you and sending him to his own release. Swallowing Billy’s cum, your release follows soon after, the sensation of being filled with cum and cock sending you over the edge. You continue to bounce on Stu and suck off Billy, milking them of everything they have to offer as you ride out your high. 

They both pull out of you, and you whimper at the loss of fullness. Stu gently drags you onto the bed to lie down with him, and Billy crawls next to you under the sheets. There’s just enough room for all three of you in Stu’s full-size bed. There, you spend the rest of the night giggling about what you just did and planning the next person or people to torment in your Ghostface costumes.

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@ins0mniac-whack @mypoisonedvine @berlyrecords @scribbuluswrites @vampireluck @kelloggs @whiispii @generalvoidthing @mg-i-have-issues @banshailey @ilikefictionalmen @sweatymuffinweasellamp @pheonist @your-platonic-gay-lover @doestalker @darthannie @julesmendoza890 @im-a-slut-for-this-man2 @cancelledkaley @slashersluttt @alishajade @hellocals @omens-in-reverse @spacerobe @littlebambieeyes444 @chuckybitch1988 @thequeenoftheisleofavalon @langdons-slut @pplanetoparis @straykids-gives-me-life @muffinlove7 @detectiveapparatiagreen @jessica987 @justafangirl @amanda08319 @works-of-fanfiction @topperscumslut @cranesbathtowel @butlersluvbot @nela-cutie @straykids-gives-me-life @ineedmyaccountback @itsbebeyyy @blankbedroom @purejasmine @mrsbutler99 @tiredkitten @ab4eva @kai-wifey

[writer-freak]

Where hate meets heat | Gojo x gn reader

Kinktober week 2 - hate fucking, fighting as foreplay and sixty nine

Words : 2.6k

Warning: NSFW, reader is gn, no genital description, unprotected sex, use of lube, fingering/prep, english isn't my first language

A/n: I struggled a bit with this especially because I tried my best keeping it gender neutral and in the end I wrote quite a lot. And thank you bestie for the title idea <3.

Thank you for reading and Comments, likes and reblogs are always appreciated and really motivate me to write more <3

The tension between you and Gojo had always been palpable. Every conversation ended in an argument, every glance was seen as a challenge. And today was no different.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” you snapped, crossing your arms as you glared at him.

Gojo smirked, his signature grin flashing across his face. “I’m insufferable? That’s rich coming from you,” he shot back, his voice laced with mock amusement.

You felt your frustration rise, heat filling your chest. “You believe you’re so great, don’t you? Just because you think you're the strongest?”

He tilted his head, his grin widening. “I don’t think I’m the strongest. I know I am.”

“You’re so full of yourself, Gojo,” you said in frustration, your eyes narrowing as your fists clenched at your sides.

He smirked, leaning lazily against the training room wall, his cocky grin spreading wider. “And you’re so cute when you’re angry. Wanna keep going? You’re just upset you can’t win.”

Familiar frustration started boiling up. “Shut up and fight me, let's settle this once and for all” you growled, stepping closer, your body tense with barely restrained energy.

“Oh, you want to fight?” His voice dropped, something dark and amused creeping in, eyes full of anticipation behind his glasses. “I thought we were just playing, but if you insist…”

Without warning, you lunged. The moment your fist met his palm, adrenaline shot through the both of you. It wasn’t just anger anymore—something else crackled between you two. Each strike and counter was filled with a different kind of tension, a back-and-forth exchange of raw, pulsing energy that burned hotter the longer it went on.

Gojo grinned at every dodge, every frustrated growl escaping your lips, his own breathing quickening, but not from exertion, but instead from something else entirely.

“You’re getting slow, I expected more from you” he taunted, eyes shining as he sidestepped another attack, moving fluidly, his breath hot against your neck as he appeared just behind you. “You sure you can handle this?”

“Shut up,” you growled your elbow shot backward, aiming for his smug face, but he caught it, spinning you around and pressing you into the wall. Your chests collided, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The heavy breathing, the heat radiating from his body—Gojo was so close, too close.

“Fuck you,” you spat, but your voice wavered with something more than fury. Your heart was beating out of your chest, every nerve alight as his hand slowly trailed down your arm, his grip on you firm yet teasing.

He chuckled, voice low. “Is that what you want? Because I could make that happen.”

Your heart pounded as you pushed back against him, your bodies straining against each other as you tried twisting out of his grip. “You’re infuriating,” you hissed, but your voice lacked its usual bite. There was something else now—an edge of desperation that you couldn’t quite ignore.

“Am I?” Gojo’s voice was low, almost a purr as he pushed even closer, behind his glasses his eyes were dark sending a shiver down your spine. “Or are you just frustrated because you can’t beat me?”

Your breath was caught in your throat as he reached out, his fingers brushing against your neck, his touch light but leaving an unbearable heat behind. You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But he just smirked, his hand trailing down until it was resting against your hip.

“You know,” he murmured, leaning in close, his lips almost brushing against yours. “There are other ways to work out that frustration.”

You hated the way a shiver ran down your spine at his words, hated the way your body reacted to the heat of his touch. But more than that, you hated the way his gaze seemed to burn right through you, seeing everything you tried so hard to hide.

“Shut up,” you whispered, before a gasp escaped you as his knee nudged between your legs, the friction barely there but enough to set your skin aflame. Your voice shook as you grabbed the front of his shirt "Just… shut up.”

But instead of pushing him away, you pulled him in for a searing kiss.

The kiss was hard and angry, teeth clashing and tongues fighting for dominance. Pouring every ounce of hidden desire into it while continuing the battle from before. He reacted just as heated his hands having a bruising grip on your hips as he pushed you against the wall.

Each push and pull, and the sharp gasps exchanged between kisses, all deepened the tension. You took this opportunity and spun out of his grip kicking his legs from under him, straddling him on the floor in a quick, fluid motion. His smirk didn’t falter for a second, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him.

“Getting cocky now?” he murmured, eyes alight with lust and challenge.

“I’m just getting started,” you shot back, grinding down on him for emphasis. His breath hitched, his cock twitching against you through the fabric of your clothes.

Gojo’s response was immediate. In one swift motion, he reversed the position, pinning you beneath him on the training room floor, a flash of victory in his eyes. “So eager, aren’t you?” His voice was dripping with smug satisfaction as his lips brushed your ear. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

The next thing you knew, you were both in his dorm room, clothes hastily discarded, the fight continuing with every tug, nip, and bite. Neither of you were willing to fully give in, both fighting for control and dominance, even now.

“Still wanna challenge me?” Gojo whispered, his voice husky as he hovered over you, his gaze dark with desire.

Instead of answering, you shoved him back, hard. He let out a breathless laugh as you scrambled over him, hands pinning his wrists to the bed. “Always.” You leaned in capturing his lips in a bruising kiss.

“How about we make this more interesting?” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and teasing. “A little competition, maybe?”

You raised an eyebrow, your own competitiveness flaring up at the challenge in his tone. “What kind of competition?”

His smile was wicked as he shifted freeing his hands from your grip, then he let them wander down your body until they reached your pants. “Let’s see who can hold out the longest,” he suggested his voice husky with anticipation. “Think you can handle it?”

You bit your lip, your heart racing as you met his gaze, the challenge clear in his eyes. “You’re on,” you breathed, your own voice shaking slightly before with a swift, deliberate movement, you slid down his body.

Kissing and biting your way down his chest before changing your position so that your sex was above his face. Gojo’s eyes lit up with anticipation, his hands instinctively gripping your thighs as you straddled his face, his cock standing stiff in front of you.

“Sixty-nine, huh?” His voice was muffled against your skin as he kissed the inside of your thigh, breath hot and teasing. “Bold move.”

You didn’t respond with words, simply running your tongue along his length, savoring the groan that escaped his lips as you took him into your mouth. "Simply thought that this was the fairest way."

But Gojo wasn’t one to be outdone. The moment you started, he retaliated with his own brand of intensity, his mouth latching onto your heat, tongue, and lips working in tandem to bring you to the edge.

The dual sensations were overwhelming. His cock twitched on your tongue with every moan you dragged out of him, and your legs shook as his tongue pushed you further toward your own release. The rhythm between you was relentless, each of you determined to break the other first.

He sucked at your sweet spot, his hand joining the assault, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. But you refused to let him have the upper hand, hollowing your cheeks and sucking harder on him, your hands gripping his thighs as you bobbed your head.

The pleasure built quickly—too quickly—and you could feel Gojo trembling beneath you as well, both of you on the brink of release.

“Not… giving in,” he gasped, his voice strained but full of competitive edge.

“Neither… am I,” you managed to choke out between breaths.

But in the end, it didn’t matter. You both lost at the same time, your bodies giving in to the intense pleasure that ripped through you simultaneously. The wave of euphoria washed over you both, your body trembling, muscles twitching as you collapsed beside him, breathless.

You both lay there for a moment, panting and sweaty, but the competition was still not over.

“You came first,” Gojo muttered between ragged breaths, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. His hand lazily traced circles on your thigh, his fingers grazing the skin just enough to send a lingering spark up your spine.

You scoffed, rolling over to face him, eyes narrowing. “Like hell I did. I felt you twitching first.”

Gojo’s smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he propped himself up on his elbows. “Sure you did,” he taunted, voice dripping with mock amusement. “It’s cute that you think you won, though.”

Your blood boiled, not just from the challenge in his words, but from the way his gaze raked over your body. “You’re full of shit,” you snapped, pushing yourself up. “You lost.”

He moved faster than you could react, pinning you back to the mattress with ease, his body caging yours beneath him. His breath was hot on your ear as he growled, “Say that again.”

Your pulse spiked as the familiar anger swelled, and you pushed against his chest, but he didn’t budge. “I said,” you hissed, locking your gaze with his, “You. Lost.”

The smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a darker, hungrier expression. “You really wanna push me right now?” His voice was low, vibrating with barely contained frustration, but beneath it, you could feel the raw, primal desire coming up again.

Your lips curled into a defiant smile. “Do your worst.”

That was all it took. Gojo’s grip tightened on your wrists as he slammed his mouth onto yours in a bruising, desperate kiss. There was no more teasing, no more playing—this was pure heat, raw and unrestrained. His tongue battled with yours, teeth clashing as your bodies tangled together, a continuation of your earlier fight, only now it was fueled by lust.

“Always so fucking stubborn,” he growled against your lips, his voice rough with desire. He pressed his hips hard against yours, making you gasp at the delicious friction, already reigniting the fire low in your belly.

“Shut up and fuck me,” you shot back, your voice dripping with the same venom and need.

His eyes flashed with challenge, but instead of rushing, he smirked again. “I’m not done with you yet.” He opened his bedside drawer, pulling out a bottle of lube. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat through you as Gojo squeezed some onto his fingers, the cold slickness a sharp contrast to the burning tension between you.

“You think you can handle this?” he asked, voice low and teasing as his fingers slid against your entrance. He moved slowly at first, watching your reaction with that insufferable grin still plastered on his face.

You bit back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how badly you wanted him. “Is that all you’ve got?” you shot back, trying to keep your voice steady despite the growing heat curling through you.

Gojo chuckled darkly. “You’re gonna eat those words.” He pressed his fingers deeper, the slick slide of lube making the stretch more intense, but he didn’t let up. His touch was rough, and purposeful, as if reminding you who was in control. Every pump of his fingers sent sparks through your body, but you forced yourself to stay quiet, determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg.

“Always such a tough one, huh?” he muttered, voice laced with challenge. “Let’s see how long that lasts.” He added another finger, curling them inside you, drawing out a sharp gasp you couldn’t hold back.

Your body jerked, your hands fisting the sheets beneath you. You wanted to curse him, wanted to tell him to fuck off—but instead, you bit your lip, your body betraying you as you pushed back against his hand.

“Admit it,” he growled, his fingers thrusting deeper, his other hand gripping your waist to keep you in place. “You’re already falling apart for me.”

“Fuck… off,” you managed to gasp out, even as your body trembled under his touch, right on the edge. He pulled his fingers out with a slow, deliberate slide, leaving you feeling empty, the loss of contact almost unbearable.

“Guess I’ll just have to make you beg then,” he muttered.

In one swift motion, he flipped you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up with a roughness that made your breath hitch. The weight of his body pressed into yours, firm and relentless as he positioned himself behind you.

“Gonna fuck that attitude right out of you,” Gojo muttered, his breath hot against the back of your neck as he lined himself up and pushed in, slowly, making sure you felt every inch. The stretch was sharp, intense, but the slick lube made the slide almost too easy.

Your hands fisted the sheets again, a groan slipping out despite your best efforts to stay quiet. “You... talk too much,” you spat, pushing back against him, refusing to let him have the upper hand.

Gojo’s laugh was dark, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force as he picked up the pace. “We’ll see how much you’re talking when I’m done with you,” he growled, his hips slamming into yours in a hard, punishing rhythm. It wasn’t gentle, it was rough, fast, and exactly what you needed.

The sound of skin slapping against skin, mingled with your shared gasps and groans, filled the room, both of you fighting for control even now. “Is that all you’ve got?” you managed to gasp out, voice defiant despite the fire building in your core.

“Fuck... you,” he growled through gritted teeth, his hips driving into you harder, faster. “You’re... so fucking stubborn.”

“You... love it,” you shot back between panting breaths, the heat in your voice mirrored by the burning heat of his body moving against yours.

The bed creaked under the intensity, your bodies colliding with each thrust, the tension between you becoming tighter and tighter with each second. His hands gripped your waist harder, fingers digging into your skin as he slammed into you with bruising force, each thrust sending shockwaves through your body.

“Not... gonna let you win,” Gojo muttered, voice strained as he fought to keep control.

“Too... late,” you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper as you felt yourself teetering on the edge. But you weren’t giving in without a fight, rolling your hips back to match his pace, determined to push him just as far.

And then, with one final, brutal thrust, you both shattered. The pleasure ripped through you in waves, your body trembling beneath him as you came hard, every nerve alight with a raw, overpowering sensation. Gojo followed, his grip on your hips tightening as he came, his body shaking with the force of his release.

For a few moments, neither of you moved, both of you gasping for air as the aftershocks of your release slowly faded.

You collapsed onto the bed, both of you breathless and shaking, Gojo's weight pressing down on you. For a few moments, the room was silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing.

Gojo was the first to speak, his voice a bit raspy but carrying that familiar smugness. “Guess I win.”

You rolled your eyes, too exhausted to argue. “In your dreams.”

But there was no real bite to your words this time.

Divider by: @cafekitsune

[brittscafe]

Pairing: Sukuna Ryomen x gn! reader

Summary: Sukuna saves his s/o from danger and comforts them and it turns into something a little more...

Request: Heyo came across your account and you’re a really great writer! Saw that you’re accepting requests. Was wondering if you could do a Sukuna nsfw with a gender neutral reader? The reader is like his opposite: someone who sees the best in people, very soft hearted, etc. And Sukuna will do anything to protect his lover. Maybe slightly angsty where the s/o is in danger and Sukuna protects them. He mad af at whoever tried to hurt them, but his lovers begs him not to hurt the enemy. Sukuna shows mercy for once in his life and then takes his s/o away and takes care of them. Then later after the s/o is ok, Sukuna scolds them for being so trusting. They apologize profusely, feeling bad for making him worry. Then he tells them to be careful, implying he was just worried about them without really saying it cause he’s emotionally constipated. Then things get a bit…heated I guess you could say 😂 before they progress, Sukuna asks his partner if they want to go further to which they smile, giving their full consent. Maybe they’re a virgin and for once Sukuna is gentle in his life? So like fluffy nsfw, but Sukuna still teases them lovingly and such? Sorry for the long post lmaooo there’s no rush! Thank you

A/N: Heyyy! Thank you so much, glad you like my page <3 I hope I wrote the gn! reader part ok for the nsfw, i don't really write gn! for nsfw, but I hope you enjoy, much love!! <3

There is practically smoke pouring out of Sukuna's ears as he stomps on the ground. You're sitting on your knees in the dirt, heart ramming against your chest as Sukuna storms up to the person who was trying to hurt you.

The man crumbles in fear as Sukuna wraps a hand around their throat

"Wait!" your voice rings out and Sukuna pauses, holding his breath for a moment. He glances back at you, his expression softing as he gazes at you.

"What, y/n? Can't you wait until after I kill this idiot?" he snarls out, muscles throbbing. You shakily inhale and sit up on your knees.

"Wait, don't kill him. Please," you beg Sukuna. He glances back at the person who's struggling to breath due to his hand squeezing his throat so tightly, then back at you.

You're teary eyed and a frown is resting on your face. Sukuna sighs deeply and releases the man, who crumbles to the ground in defeat.

Sukuna rapidly spins around and marches over to you. His fists are clenched and he wears a panned expression on his face. You gulp, but a sudden gasp leaves your lips as Sukuna sweeps you up into his arms, taking off.

You rest your head against his chest, feeling so vulnerable in his strong arms as he whisks you away from the site. His arms are tight around you, making sure not to let go until you're back home.

"How could you be so trusting, y/n? It was some random man who turned out to harm you," Sukuna scolds you, hands gentle running over your body and checking for bruises or cuts.

You're sinking into the bed, Sukuna sitting beside you.

"I'm really sorry. I am so sorry. I really didn't mean to make you worry," your voice is wobbly as you rush through your words. Sukuna's eyes soften for a second and he reaches his hand out.

He cups your hand with his jaw, thumb brushing over your skin. "Just be careful, it would be really stupid of you to die," his voice is strict, but also gentle at the same time.

His words aren't the softest, but deep down you know they have a gentle meaning. In Sukuna's way, he's saying he cannot lose you.

"I just can't lose you, y/n. You're too important," Sukuna comments and your facial expression relaxes. He brings your face closer to his, thumb gripping onto your bottom lip and pulling it down.

You gaze into his eyes and Sukuna eagerly presses his lips against yours. You moan because of the suddenness as Sukuna pulls you into him.

Your lips collide together, desperate and needy. Sukuna presses you down into the mattress and climbs on top of you. He pins you into the bed and his hand explores your body.

His hand touches your most sensitive part and your body jolts. He pulls his hand away and breaks away from your warm lips.

"You're so jumpy," he chuckles out with a deep voice.

"Shut up," you groan out, tearing your eyes away from him. Your face is getting hot and you can feel a buzzing in between your legs.

"Do you want to keep going?" Sukuna whispers, lips hovering above yours. You breath wobbles and you smile, nodding your head. A grin spreads across his face and he smashes his lips against yours.

His hands waste no time slipping underneath your shirt and feeling your warm flesh. You press your body into his, gripping onto his shoulders tightly.

Sukuna pulls away from your lips and starts attacking your neck in a pile of wet kisses. He grabs onto your shirt and tears it off of you. His eyes gaze down at your bare top half and licks his lips.

"Stop staring..." you mumble out, bringing your hands up and covering yourself. He scoffs and pulls your hands away slowly and gently.

He sits up and takes off his shirt. Your mouth waters staring at his abs and muscular body. You squeeze your legs shut, trying to stop the buzzing feeling.

Sukuna reaches his hand down to his pants, taking them off. Your heart pounds against your chest and Sukuna's hand travels down in between your legs.

You gasp and arch your back, wanting more of him. He chuckles, hovering above you.

"You're so sensitive," he teases you, voice sending a shiver down your spine. Sukuna carefully takes off your pants and undergarments, along with his.

Your eyes lock onto his hard cock and your lips part open. He inches in between your legs, spreading them and making you feel vulnerable as ever.

"Now, stay still, ok? It might hurt a bit," Sukuna comforts you and you nod your head.

A tiny gasp leaves your mouth and Sukuna chuckles, settling inside of you. A smirk forms along his face as your jaw stays dropped opened, feeling him inside of you in your most sensitive place.

"Easy, y/n. I haven't even started yet and you're about to roll your eyes into the back of your head," he teases you, running his hand down your side and gripping your torso.

You chuckle nervously, stomach churning. "Shut up. I'm nervous," you admit. Sukuna cocks his head to the side and smiles warmly at you.

"I bet you are. So jumpy and nervous, can't wait to get enough of me, huh?" he teases you, slowly starting to move his hips back and forth.

You moan and gasp as he moves, you're so sensitive down there and he's so huge. Sukuna hangs his head low, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

"God, you feel so good. You're already moaning so loud for me," Sukuna groans out, hips smacking in the room. Your moans grow louder and fill the lustful room.

Sukuna's cock throbs inside of you, ready to fill you up with his cum any moment now, but...he's got to hold on. He wants you to feel pleasure before he does, you deserve it.

"Sukuna...," you gasp out, eyes rolling into the back of his head. His cock makes you feel so good and the tears are filling up your eyes. It feels too good.

Your stomach starts to twist into tight knots and your body tenses up. Sukuna feels it and cups your cheek. You glance up at him, panting heavily.

"Just relax, ok? Be good for me, y/n. Let it feel good," he whispers into your ear, pounding into you. The way his skin slaps against yours makes you moan ever so loudly.

Your thighs start to shake as the stomach in your knots come undone. You gasp, letting out a series of moan as you cum hard. It rattles your body as Sukuna continues to thrust in and out of you.

"That's it. How did that feel?" he asks, voice shaky and grunty. You pant heavily and your chest thuds.

"Very good."

"Good. Oh...I'm about to..." Sukuna groans out, unable to finish his sentence.

Sukuna releases his seed in you with a deep throaty grunt, sinking down a bit, his chest almost pressed against yours. It's warm and oozing out of you.

Your fists are clenched around the bedsheets as Sukuna slowly slides out from you. He's panting heavily, collapsing beside you on the bed.

Sukuna wraps his arms around you, holding you close. Your body is still coming down from it's high, sweat gleaming on your forehead.

You rest your head on Sukuna's chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. He cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your warm flesh.

He loves the feeling of your hot laying against his, soaking in the moments after a very joyful one.

"Let's get you cleaned up."

[cupofatokirina]

Genesis

Chapter 5: Behind the Glass

(y/n) sat on the edge of the cold metal cot, staring blankly at her reflection in the large mirror. The voices beyond the door were muffled, too distant for her to make out. She had no idea where she was or why she had been taken. Her heart raced with anxiety, and her instincts screamed at her to escape. But without her emergency bag, she felt exposed. Vulnerable.

The door creaked open, and she jumped to her feet as a tall figure entered the room—a male navi, his eyes sharp but calm. He closed the door behind him arms crossed over his chest. (y/n) took a small step back, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. Who was he? And why was he here?

The man studied her for a moment before speaking. “You’re safe,” he said, his tone neutral, though his gaze remained cautious. “We found you alone and brought you here.”

“Where am I?” she demanded, her voice tense. “Who are you?”

The man hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the mirror behind her, then back to her. “You’re in a secure location. My name’s Jake. Jake Sully.“

“Jake sully?” The name was vaguely familiar, (y/n)’s breath caught in her throat as the name Jake Sully hung in the air. Her father had told her stories about him, about the great Toruk Makto, the human who had become Na’vi, the one who had led the rebellion against the RDA. It was a name of legend, a symbol of resistance and survival. But seeing him now, standing before her as a man—tall, imposing, and undeniably real—felt surreal.

“Jake Sully?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes widening in disbelief. “The Jake Sully?”

Jake gave a small, tired nod, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, that’s me. But that was a long time ago.”

Her mind raced. This was the man her father had spoken of. But why was she here, and why was he the one holding her in this cell?

Her wariness deepened. “Why am I here? I’m not with the RDA. I don’t even know where they are.”

Jake held up his hand, his tone still calm but firm. “I believe you. But I need you to understand something. We’re careful here—for good reason. The RDA’s done a lot of damage, and we’ve had to fight for everything. So when someone new shows up, we have to be cautious.”

(y/n) frowned, her frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “I’m not a threat. I didn’t come here to hurt anyone. I just needed a place to be safe. I just want to go home.”

Jake’s gaze softened as he watched the fear and frustration flicker across (y/n)’s face. He knew that look. He had worn it himself once—back when he was caught between two worlds, trying to make sense of who he was and where he belonged.

“I get it,” Jake said gently, his voice steady but measured. “You’re scared. You want to go home. But right now, we need more information before I can let you go.”

(y/n)’s eyes flashed with desperation. “What more do you need from me? I’ve told you the truth. My father Callen he sent me here. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Jake’s brows furrowed. There it was again. Dr. Callen. The man from the video, pleading for her safety, urging him to protect her. But there were too many unanswered questions. She didn’t know the truth, not yet. And telling her now would only confuse things further.

“I believe that your father wanted to protect you,” Jake said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “But until we understand more about why you’re here, I can’t just let you walk out of here. The RDA is still a threat.”

She bit her lip, the frustration evident in her clenched fists. “I’m not with the RDA,” she repeated, her voice trembling slightly. “I don’t even know where they are.”

“I know,” Jake said, stepping closer but keeping his tone calm and even. “But it’s not just about that. There are things we need to figure out—about you, about what your father was doing. We’ll take care of you, but for now, I can’t let you go.”

(y/n) sagged, her shoulders slumping as the weight of the situation pressed down on her. She didn’t have anywhere else to go. And something told her that Jake wasn’t lying. But it didn’t make this any easier.

Seeing the defeat in her posture, Jake nodded toward the door. “I’ll have you moved to another room—something more comfortable, less like a cell. I don’t want you to feel like a prisoner here. We’re not your enemies.”

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for any sign of deception. “Why are you helping me?”

Jake paused, considering her question. “Because… I’ve been where you are. Lost. Unsure of where I belonged.” He glanced toward the mirror, knowing Neytiri was watching closely. “But you’re not alone anymore. We’ll help you figure this out. Just give us some time.”

(y/n) nodded, though the confusion and uncertainty still lingered in her expression. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll wait.”

Jake offered a small, sympathetic smile. “You’ll get your answers. I promise.”

With that, he turned and knocked on the door, signaling for the guards outside. “Take her to the other quarters,” he instructed as they entered. “Make sure she’s comfortable.”

As the guards approached, (y/n) cast one last glance at Jake. She wasn’t sure whether to trust him yet, but for now, she had no choice. As they led her out of the cold cell and down the hall, the unfamiliar surroundings only added to the swirl of emotions inside her.

Back in the observation room, Neytiri watched the door close behind (y/n). “You are taking a great risk, Ma Jake,” she said quietly, her tone measured but wary.

“I know,” Jake replied, his voice heavy with the weight of responsibility.

Neteyam, who had remained silent for most of the exchange, finally spoke up. “Do you think she’ll find out? About… what she really is?”

Jake didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the closed door, his mind turning over the possibilities. “Maybe,” he said finally. “But not yet. We have to be careful about how we handle this. If she finds out too soon… it could break her.”

Authors note: Hey! i will send the other chapter tomorrow since im excited to continue this. I hope I'm doing the taglist correctly—if not, feel free to let me know.

Taglist:

@fries11

[mothergold]

| After Hours | 

Pairing: Dottore x GN!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Gender Neutral Reader, No Pronouns for Reader, He/Him for Dottore, Blowjob, Face Fucking, Humiliation, Non-con, Reader has hair, Hair Pulling, Abuse, Cum Swallowing, Angst, Dottore has a short temper, Mention of biting off Dottore’s dick at one point but it doesn’t happen, 1.4k words. 

A/n: Teehee I finally finished it. I hope you guys enjoy this. If there are any tags I missed please let me know! Also just a reminder to please read the tags and read this at your own risk!!! 

Summary: Dottore punishes you after you so rudely interrupt his work. 

Tags: @auphelia

Just a little bit more..

Dottore held the scalpel in his hands with precision as he reached his hand out to carefully make the final adjustment. He was close, so incredibly close. He needed only to remain steady and focused. Everything was going according to plan. He was just about to make one last adjustment when your voice echoed through the halls of the lab. In an instant his near perfect experiment had become a failure in a matter of seconds. 

“Dottie! Dottie! I figured it out. I finally cracked this stupid thing wide open.” You sprinted towards his hunched over figure 

He clenched his fist and tossed the scalpel onto the floor not caring where it landed. He dug his hands into his scalp and pulled harshly on his hair. Letting out a great big sigh he turned around to face you. You, who looked at him with a face of dwindling excitement.

“Dottie? Is something-” You asked, hands trembling as you slowly backed into the table behind you.

He grabbed your wrist and grit through his teeth. “What did I say about interrupting me while I’m working?” 

“I-” You started to speak but were quickly dragged away.

Your heart pounded in your chest and tears began to well up in your eyes. Never in your entire relationship with Dottore had you seen this side of him. Sure, you heard rumors about his behavior, but surely he would never act rashly with you. Right? 

Truthfully, you knew better than to interrupt him while he was working. Which is why it hurt all the more when Dottore showed his true colors. 

Reaching the privacy of his room he tossed you onto the floor with a loud thud. The realization of what was about to happen had begun to seep in. You looked up at him broken hearted with a frightened look in your eyes, and he glared at you like you were the bane of his existence. In that moment you could practically feel yourself shrink in size. The man that you loved was no more, only a monster remained. 

“I-I’m sorry, Dottie. I didn’t mean to-” You tried to reason with him, blinking away the tears that fell from your pleading eyes. You apologized as best as you could, but before you could try again, Dottore yanked you up by your hair. 

“Quiet.” He demanded as he pushed your face against his crotch and rubbed your cheek against his hard on. 

You whimpered and squeezed your eyes shut. The smell of his arousal stung your nose as you tried pushing him away. Sadly, Dottore was stronger than you and forced your face back against the area, again. 

“This’ll only be harder the more you fight it, my love.” He said. 

In your mind it was all a bad dream that you’d eventually wake up from. Yes, you reassured yourself, there was no way that what was happening could truly be real,  but no matter how nightmarish everything seemed it was without a doubt real. 

Before you could shed another tear Dottore had undone the button of his pants and with one hand still woven tightly in your hair, he used the other to release his cock from its confines. He rubbed his tip leaking with pre-cum against your wet cheek. You attempted to back away, push yourself off of his legs before he quickly yanked you back.

He smiled. “Open your mouth.” 

The worst part of all was the way you listened to him, immediately doing as he told. You wished you had resisted a little at least, because in one swift motion he had his cock thrust into your mouth and poking the back of your throat. Tears frantically fell from your eyes as he began fucking your mouth at a fast pace, not bothering to consider whether you were okay or not. 

Your voice muffled against the throbbing muscle, and your eyes looked up at him with a panicked expression. He almost felt bad for what he was doing. Almost. 

You squirmed as you struggled to breathe. Looking around frantically for a way out of your unfortunate situation you started to feel your chest heave up and down. 

“If you keep this up I’m gonna cum early.” Your eyes widened in horror. “And we wouldn’t want that now would we?” 

You wanted to shake your head in agreement, but Dottore had other plans. Still gripping his hand in your hair he used his other one to hold your head into place, fucking your mouth with a hunger that rivaled those that starved. He didn’t say anything, only grunted and groaned as your mouth sucked him in such a pleasant way. You’d never seen him so blissed out before, so excited. It terrified you.

A part of you wanted to bite down until you were severed from his flesh, but you knew exactly how that would end. As horrible and disgusting as the situation was for you, you couldn’t bring yourself to bring any harm to Dottore. It was sad, really. You still protected and admired a man that was merely a figment of your imagination. He could never love you in the way you needed to be loved. Not now, not ever. 

Dottore picked up the speed of his thrusts. Taking both hands and putting one on each side of your face he pistoned himself in and out of your mouth. He forced his way inside of your mouth, using your throat like a flesh light. You felt like you would both throw up and cough at any given second, but you forced the feeling down. More than anything you just needed to get through it in one piece, as long as you were alive it would suffice. You promised yourself you’d find a way out of Dottore's grasp the moment it was all over. The thought may have been naive but it was the one thing that truly comforted you in that moment. 

Feeling spit spill from your mouth you could feel your heartbeat in your throat, or maybe it was his. It was hard and heavy, thumping inside your throat like a beat of a drum. As you felt Dottore get rougher with you your nails dug crescents into his thigh, leaving marks even when his skin was still covered by the cloth of his pants. You tried focusing on anything but the heavy feeling of his cock hammering in and out of your mouth, but he was relentless. He never gave up no matter how hard you cried or pushed him away. 

Thankfully, he was close, really close. He was so close you could practically taste it. The scent of his lust was so thick it burned. You squeezed your eyes shut and whined as you felt Dottore’s cock hit the back of your throat with one hard push, and then he held it there as he released himself inside your mouth.

“Look at me. I want to look you in the eyes when you swallow.” He demanded, yanking on a clump of your hair to get your attention. 

Sadly, you had no choice but to peer up with red, tear-filled eyes as Dottore smiled down at you with the most loving expression. That alone was enough to kill you. Oh, fuck if only he hadn’t looked at you like that, like you were the sweetest thing he’d ever laid eyes on. It was that instant that you swallowed his cum without a second thought. You didn’t care anymore about escaping or all the horrible things he’d done to you. For some reason you just wanted to feel his soft skin against yours. . 

“You did so good.” He praised you with a smile, gingerly caressing your cheek once he slowly slid out of your mouth. 

You smiled back, betraying your mind and body which begged you to run, fight, anything. Instead of giving in however, you rested your head against the palm of Dottore’s hand and thanked the archon’s for showing you mercy on that day. 

You expected Dottore to ask for more after the frightening event that had happened, but instead he grabbed a nearby rag and reached for your face gently. “Allow me.” He spoke quietly and full of care.

As he carefully wiped the fluids off your face you could see a hint of the Dottore you knew in his eyes. Something swirled and glittered within the red irises of his that caused you to almost purr with satisfaction. With a look like that it was almost too easy to forget what he had just done to you, but you were very quick to shoo away those thoughts to make room for the sickeningly sweet ruminations instead. Maybe, you thought to yourself, you could learn to forgive him in time. Until then you would simply learn to forget. 

[novaursa]

Legacy (castle black)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Both the canon plotline and timeline have been altered to compliment the story. Consider plot holes to be magic.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: of bloodline

- Next part: the pyre

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal

The soft sound of waves crashing against the shores of Dragonstone provided a rhythmic backdrop to the day. The midday sun filtered through the narrow windows of your solar, casting fractured beams of light across the ancient stone floor. You sat at a carved table, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of a goblet as you read over a missive Tywin had sent from the great hall earlier that morning. Maelor lay in a cradle nearby, his quiet coos filling the room as he batted at the dangling dragon-shaped toys suspended above him.

It was a peaceful moment—a rare reprieve from the weight of duty that pressed upon you every day. But that peace shattered with the soft but deliberate sound of footsteps outside your door. You looked up as Varys entered, his movements graceful and silent, as though he were a shadow come to life. His face, usually a mask of calm neutrality, was grave.

“My lady,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “I bring news. Grave news.”

Your heart stuttered, an immediate sense of foreboding settling in your chest. You stood, your hands tightening into fists as you moved toward him. “What is it?” you demanded, your voice sharper than you intended. “What’s happened?”

Varys hesitated—a rarity for the spymaster. His gaze dropped for a moment before meeting yours, and you saw the weight of his words in his eyes. “It’s about Jon Snow… your—” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “The man you raised, my lady. The one you loved as a son.”

The blood drained from your face. “What about Jon?” you asked, your voice trembling now. “What’s happened to him?”

Varys exhaled softly, his hands folding in front of him. “He was betrayed, my lady. By his own men of the Night’s Watch. Stabbed to death… on the grounds of Castle Black.”

The room seemed to spin around you, the weight of his words crashing into you like a wave. You stumbled back, your knees buckling as you grasped the edge of the table for support. “No…” The word came out as a whisper, barely audible over the pounding in your ears. “No, he can’t—he can’t be gone.”

Varys stepped forward, his expression uncharacteristically sympathetic. “I am truly sorry, my lady. The news comes from a trusted source. It is true.”

Tears blurred your vision as you sank into the nearest chair, your hands trembling. “How?” you choked out. “How could they do this? He was their Lord Commander. He—he swore to protect them, and they… they murdered him?”

Varys nodded solemnly. “It seems his actions divided the men. Bringing the Wildlings through the Wall did not sit well with many of his brothers. They called it betrayal. And so, they turned on him.”

A strangled sob escaped your lips as you buried your face in your hands. The image of Jon—brave, strong, so much like the man you had helped raise—being struck down by the very people he had sought to lead and protect was too much to bear.

“I should have been there,” you whispered, your voice muffled by your hands. “I should have done something. Protected him. Warned him.”

“You could not have known, my lady,” Varys said gently, his voice soft but firm. “Jon Snow made his choices, and they were choices born of honor and conviction. He lived as he believed, and he died the same way.”

You looked up at him, tears streaming down your face. “And what does that mean? That his honor was worth more than his life?”

Varys hesitated, his gaze steady but kind. “It means, my lady, that he will be remembered as a man who stood by his principles, even in the face of betrayal. And that is no small thing.”

Your hands clenched into fists as you struggled to compose yourself, though the grief threatened to consume you. “He was… he was my son, Varys,” you said brokenly. “Maybe not by blood, but in every way that mattered. I raised him. I taught him. And now he’s gone.”

Varys bowed his head slightly, his hands clasped before him. “You gave him the strength to become the man he was, my lady. That is no small legacy.”

But his words were little comfort in the moment. The ache in your chest was unbearable, a raw, gaping wound that no amount of logic or reasoning could ease. You turned your gaze toward the cradle where Maelor lay, his innocent face oblivious to the pain in the room. The sight of him grounded you, reminding you that life continued even in the face of loss.

You wiped at your tears, your voice trembling but determined. “Thank you for telling me, Varys. I… I need a moment.”

Varys inclined his head, his expression understanding. “Of course, my lady. If there is anything you need…”

You nodded absently, your focus already drifting as he slipped silently from the room. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone with your grief and the weight of the loss you had just learned to bear.

You rose unsteadily, moving to the cradle and gently lifting Maelor into your arms. His small, warm body against your chest brought a sliver of comfort, though it could not ease the ache in your heart.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I should have done more. I should have been there.”

The soft murmurs of the sea wind brushed through the narrow windows of Dragonstone, carrying with it the faint tang of salt and the ever-present weight of isolation. You sat near the large window, your gaze fixed on the horizon, though your attention was far from the waves that danced below.

Before you, on a padded mat strewn with soft blankets, Damon and Maelor played. Damon, nearly three years old, sat cross-legged, holding a small carved lion in one hand and a dragon in the other. He made them "roar" at each other with all the dramatics of a child. Maelor, just shy of a year, lay on his belly, his tiny fists grabbing at the dragon toy Damon occasionally waved above him. Their laughter, innocent and sweet, filled the chamber, yet it barely seemed to reach you.

Your fingers twisted a strand of silver hair as your mind churned, haunted by the news of Jon Snow's betrayal and death. His name lingered on your lips, unspoken but ever-present. The image of him—of the boy you had raised, guided, and loved as your own—stabbed by his brothers, left to die alone in the snow, was a torment you could not escape.

The heavy door creaked open, and Tywin Lannister entered, his presence commanding as always. He wore a dark crimson doublet trimmed with gold, and his expression, sharp and calculating, softened slightly as his gaze fell upon you and the boys. He closed the door behind him, the sound heavy in the quiet room, and stepped closer.

“You’ve been here all day,” he said, his voice low but edged with concern. “You’ve missed the council meeting.”

You didn’t look at him, your fingers still absently twisting your hair. “The council will survive without me,” you replied softly, your voice carrying a weight that hadn’t been there before.

Tywin’s gaze lingered on you for a moment before shifting to the boys. Damon let out a triumphant roar as his dragon “defeated” the lion, while Maelor giggled and reached for the toy. Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he stepped closer, placing a hand on the back of your chair.

“I know what this is about,” he said, his tone measured. “You cannot let grief consume you.”

Your gaze flickered to him, finally meeting his eyes. “It’s not just grief, Tywin,” you said, your voice trembling but firm. “It’s anger. It’s… guilt. Jon didn’t deserve to die like that. Alone, betrayed. He deserved better.”

Tywin’s expression remained impassive, though his gaze softened slightly. “The world does not often give us what we deserve,” he said. “You know this better than most.”

You turned away, your hands clenching in your lap. “He was a boy when I left Winterfell. A boy I raised, who trusted me. And I left him there. I thought I was protecting him, but… I should have done more.”

Tywin’s hand rested on your shoulder, the weight of it grounding. “You did what was necessary. You gave him the tools to survive, to lead. His choices were his own.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight with unshed tears. “And now he’s dead,” you whispered. “Because of those choices. Because of… betrayal.”

Tywin was silent for a moment, his gaze moving to Damon and Maelor. “You cannot change what has happened. But you can ensure the future remains secure—for them.”

Your gaze drifted to your sons, their innocent laughter like a balm and a wound all at once. “And what of Jon’s future?” you asked softly. “What justice is there for him?”

Tywin’s grip on your shoulder tightened slightly. “Justice, like legacy, is what we make of it. But it must not come at the cost of what you’ve built here.”

You didn’t respond, your thoughts swirling like the storm clouds that often lingered over Dragonstone. Your gaze returned to the horizon, and in that moment, a quiet resolve began to take shape within you.

Tywin lingered for a moment longer, his sharp eyes studying you. Then, with a quiet sigh, he turned and left the room, his heavy boots echoing against the stone as the door closed behind him.

The chamber fell silent save for the boys’ laughter and the distant crash of waves. You leaned back in your chair, your hands trembling slightly as you exhaled. Viserion’s presence stirred faintly in your mind, the bond between dragon and rider stronger now than it had ever been. You could feel her restlessness, her growing awareness of your turmoil.

You rose slowly, crossing the room to where Damon and Maelor played. You knelt beside them, brushing a strand of hair from Damon’s face as he looked up at you with a wide grin. “Mama, the dragon wins!” he exclaimed, holding up the toy triumphantly.

You smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “The dragon always wins,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Damon returned to his game, and you scooped up Maelor, holding him close as he babbled happily. But even as you cradled your youngest son, your mind was elsewhere—far to the north, where snow fell and shadows loomed.

The room seemed to tremble as a low, resonant shriek echoed through the air. It was not loud, but it carried an undeniable power, a vibration that seemed to rattle the very stones of Dragonstone. Damon looked up, his eyes wide, and even Maelor quieted in your arms.

You turned your gaze to the window, your expression hardening as Viserion’s call reverberated through the night. It was as though she knew, as though she felt the decision solidify within you.

“I’ll avenge you, Jon,” you whispered, your voice trembling but resolute. “I swear it.”

The dragon’s cry grew louder, echoing across the island like a war horn, and the storm over Dragonstone seemed to answer, its winds howling in tandem. The night had begun, and with it, the first steps toward vengeance.

The stillness of the night on Dragonstone was broken only by the faint howl of the wind and the distant crash of waves against the rocky cliffs. The moon hung low in the sky, its silvery light casting long, ghostly shadows across the ancient castle. The air was cold, biting against your skin as you pulled your cloak tightly around you, the hood drawn low to obscure your face.

Your footsteps were silent as you navigated the winding corridors and stairwells that led to Dragonmont, where Viserion slumbered. Each step was deliberate, your resolve solidifying with every quiet breath. The weight of your decision pressed heavily on your chest, but it was dwarfed by the fire of determination burning within you.

When you reached the open archway leading to Dragonmont, the heat hit you immediately. The cavern pulsed with warmth, the faint glow of molten rock illuminating the jagged walls. At the center of the cavern, Viserion lay coiled. Her massive form rose and fell with each deep breath, her tail curling around her like a protective barrier.

Standing at the entrance, as if waiting for you, was Ser Barristan Selmy. His white cloak billowed slightly in the breeze, and his expression was solemn but calm. He made no move to stop you as you approached, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.

“My lady,” he said quietly, inclining his head. “You’ve made your decision.”

You nodded, your voice steady despite the turmoil within. “I have. I cannot stay here, not after what I’ve learned. Jon deserves justice.”

Ser Barristan studied you for a moment, his weathered face unreadable. “You know the risks,” he said finally. “Flying north alone, without support, into the unknown… It is dangerous.”

“I know,” you replied, your gaze unwavering. “But I must do this, Ser Barristan. For him. For myself.”

He exhaled softly, his hand falling away from his sword. “Then I will not stop you. But know this—I would have followed you into the fire, had you asked.”

A flicker of gratitude crossed your face, and you stepped closer, placing a hand briefly on his arm. “You’ve served me well, Ser Barristan. But this is a journey I must make alone.”

The old knight nodded, his expression softening. “Then may the gods watch over you, my lady.”

You turned toward Viserion, her massive golden eyes opening as she sensed your presence. A low rumble echoed from her throat, a sound that was both a greeting and an acknowledgment of your intentions. She shifted her great body, the ground trembling slightly as she unfurled her wings, the glow of the molten rock catching on her membranes.

You approached her slowly, your hand resting against her warm, scaled flank as you whispered, “It’s time, girl. We’re going north.”

Viserion let out a soft growl, her eyes narrowing in what almost seemed like understanding. She shifted again, lowering her body to allow you to climb the saddle that rested between her shoulder blades. You pulled yourself up with practiced ease, fastening the leather straps around your waist as you settled into place.

“Fly fast,” you murmured, leaning forward to brush your hand along her neck. “We have far to go.”

Viserion let out a resonant roar, the sound echoing through the cavern and beyond, shaking the very walls of Dragonmont. Her wings unfurled fully, their span massive as she crouched low, her muscles coiling in preparation.

Behind you, Ser Barristan watched in silence, his expression shadowed by both respect and worry. He gave a slight nod as Viserion leapt into the air, her powerful wings propelling her upward with a burst of heat and wind. The night sky swallowed you both as she soared through the open mouth of the cavern, the stars above glittering like cold fire.

In the great hall, Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the long table, his eyes fixed on the maps and reports spread before him. Around him, several lords and knights listened intently as he laid out his strategies. The talk was grim, centered on the looming threat of Daenerys Targaryen and her army of Dothraki, Unsullied, and her dragons.

“She will come by sea,” Tywin stated firmly, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “The Greyjoys will provide her with ships, and their rebellion will ensure they have nothing to lose. We must be ready to meet them head-on.”

One of the lords, a burly man with a thick beard, leaned forward. “And the dragons, my lord? How do we fight them?”

Before Tywin could respond, a low, guttural roar echoed through the night, vibrating the very air around them. The room fell silent, all heads turning toward the sound. A moment later, another roar followed, louder this time, accompanied by the distinct rush of powerful wings.

Tywin rose from his seat, his sharp gaze snapping to the nearest window. “Viserion,” he muttered, his expression darkening.

Jaime, who had been leaning casually against the wall, straightened, his golden hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Where is she going?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his mind working quickly. “North.”

One of the knights spoke hesitantly. “Shall we send riders to—”

“No,” Tywin interrupted sharply, his voice cold. “This was her decision. She’ll face the consequences, but not now. Not yet.”

Jaime stepped closer, his brows furrowed. “She’s your wife. And she just flew off into the night with her dragon. You don’t find that concerning?”

Tywin’s gaze was like steel as he met Jaime’s eyes. “What I find concerning is the chaos Daenerys Targaryen will bring to our shores if we are not prepared. That is where my focus lies.”

Jaime opened his mouth to retort but was silenced by another deafening roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of Dragonstone. Through the window, they saw the golden shimmer of Viserion’s scales as she flew northward, her massive wings cutting through the sky like a knife through shadow.

Tywin turned back to the table, his expression hard. “The dragon is her weapon, just as this castle is my stronghold. She knows her path, and I will not distract myself from mine.”

But even as he spoke, a flicker of something unspoken crossed his face—worry, perhaps, or a grim acceptance of what was to come. Jaime watched him closely, his own thoughts clouded as the sound of Viserion’s roars faded into the distance.

Far above, you clung to the saddle, your eyes fixed on the horizon as the cold northern winds began to bite at your skin. Your resolve burned brighter than the stars above, guiding you toward the vengeance that awaited. Viserion, as if sensing your thoughts, let out another roar, her cry carrying across the sea like a herald of fire and fury.

The cold at Castle Black was relentless, biting through even the thickest furs as the dread within the Wall's ancient halls grew unbearable. The air was heavy with unease, the divide between the mutineers and Jon Snow's loyalists as sharp and icy as the winds that howled across the frozen expanse.

Within Jon’s quarters, where his body lay cold and still upon the wooden table, a quiet desperation filled the air. Ghost, Jon’s massive white direwolf, lay curled protectively near his feet, his glowing red eyes flicking toward the door at the faintest sound. Around the table, Davos Seaworth, Eddison Tollett, and several others stood in uneasy silence, their breaths visible in the frigid air.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Edd said finally, breaking the oppressive quiet. His voice was low but edged with urgency. “Thorne and his men are outside. It’s only a matter of time before they try to break through.”

Davos, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, nodded grimly. “Aye, but what choice do we have? There’s no running from this. Not with Jon still here.”

Ghost growled softly, his ears twitching as though he sensed something amiss. The sound sent a shiver through the room, drawing every pair of eyes to the direwolf.

“We need reinforcements,” Davos said, his tone firm but laced with frustration. “But who would come to our aid? We’re isolated, surrounded by men who’d rather see us dead.”

“We’re not alone,” Edd replied, glancing toward Jon’s still form. “Jon’s not just the Lord Commander. He’s a Stark, and the North remembers. There are men out there who’d fight for him.”

Davos sighed, his fingers brushing over the hilt of his sword. “That’s if we survive long enough to send for them.”

A sudden noise cut through their conversation—a faint, distant shriek that seemed to echo from beyond the Wall itself. The men exchanged uneasy glances, their breath hitching as the sound grew louder, more resonant, shaking the very walls around them.

“What in the Seven Hells was that?” Edd whispered, his voice barely audible over the rising noise.

Before anyone could answer, a deafening roar split the air, followed by a sound like thunder as something massive flew overhead. The ground trembled beneath their feet, and the icy cold seemed to intensify as a distant crash reverberated through the castle.

Davos unsheathed his sword, his face pale but resolute. “Stay close. Whatever it is, it’s not here for pleasantries.”

Ghost stood, his hackles raised as he let out a low, menacing growl. The men tensed, weapons drawn as the sound of shouting erupted from outside. The muffled cries of the mutineers were punctuated by the clang of swords and the unmistakable terror in their voices.

“Something’s out there,” one of the men whispered, his hand tightening on the hilt of his axe. “Something big.”

Another roar shook the ground, this one closer and more visceral, followed by a heavy thud that rattled the walls and sent frost cascading from the ceiling. Ghost snarled, his teeth bared as he moved toward the barricaded door, his entire body stiff.

“We can’t just sit here,” Davos said, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. “We need to see what we’re dealing with.”

Edd nodded, his grip firm on his sword. “Agreed. Whatever it is, it’s got Thorne’s men rattled. Maybe it’s on our side.”

Davos moved to the door, his hand resting on the wooden barricade. He glanced back at the men, his expression grave. “Stay sharp. And if this goes sideways… protect Jon.”

He pushed the barricade aside with effort, the door creaking open to reveal the chaos outside. The courtyard of Castle Black was in disarray, men running in every direction, their cries of fear and confusion filling the air.

And there, in the center of it all, stood Viserion.

The massive dragon loomed like a creature out of legend. Her wings, partially unfurled, created an imposing silhouette against the night sky. Her eyes burned with an intelligence that sent a chill through even the bravest hearts.

The men of Castle Black were paralyzed with fear, their weapons clutched tightly but useless against such a creature. Some dropped their swords and fled, while others stood rooted in place, their faces pale and wide-eyed.

A figure dismounted from the dragon’s back, descending the saddle with practiced ease. Clad in a thick cloak of black and crimson, her silver hair catching the firelight, you stood tall and resolute, your eyes sweeping over the chaos with a calm intensity.

Davos and Edd stepped out into the open, their weapons lowered but their stances cautious. Ghost bounded forward, his growls quieting as he stopped short, his ears perking up in recognition.

“My lady,” Davos said, his voice carrying a mixture of awe and confusion. “What… what are you doing here?”

You turned to him, your expression hard but resolute. “I’m here for Jon.”

The words carried a weight that silenced even the chaos around you. As the men of Castle Black watched, unsure whether to see you as savior or threat, Viserion let out another roar, the sound shaking the very ground beneath their feet.

The North had felt fire for the first time in centuries, and it would never be the same again.

The icy wind howled through the courtyard of Castle Black, carrying with it the sinister air that clung to every man present. Viserion stood like a looming sentinel, her eyes glowing faintly in the firelight as they swept over the men assembled before her. Her massive wings partially unfurled, creating an imposing shadow that stretched across the snow-dusted ground. Every movement she made—every twitch of her tail or puff of smoke from her nostrils—sent ripples of unease through the mutineers.

You stood before them as you pulled your cloak tighter around you. Your violet eyes blazed with fury as they scanned the faces of the men who had betrayed Jon Snow, your voice cutting through the cold air like a blade.

“Bring them forward,” you commanded, your tone brooking no argument.

The crowd hesitated for a moment, unsure of who should move first, until Alliser Thorne stepped forward, his expression as hard as the ice beneath his boots. Behind him, Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwyck, and the boy Olly followed, their faces pale but defiant. A few others shuffled forward as well, their guilt written in the stiffness of their movements and the way their hands twitched near their weapons.

Alliser’s gaze locked on yours, his jaw tight as he spoke. “You have no place here, Targaryen,” he said, his voice steady despite the weight of the moment. “The Wall and the Night’s Watch answer to no king—or queen.”

You took a step closer, the snow crunching beneath your boots as you raised your chin, your voice steady and cold. “The Night’s Watch answers to honor,” you said sharply. “To duty. Tell me, Alliser Thorne—was it honor that drove you to plunge a blade into Jon Snow? Was it duty that led you to murder the man who saved your lives?”

Alliser’s lip curled, but he stood his ground. “Jon Snow was a traitor. He brought Wildlings past the Wall—people who’ve killed brothers of the Watch, burned villages, slaughtered innocents. He betrayed us. We acted in the best interests of the Watch.”

“Betrayal?” you hissed, your voice rising as your fury spilled over. “You speak of betrayal when you stabbed a man who trusted you, who led you, who sought to protect you from a threat greater than your petty hatred? Do you even know what’s coming for you, for all of us?”

Viserion growled low, the sound reverberating through the courtyard. Smoke curled from her nostrils, and the ground seemed to tremble beneath her massive weight. Some of the mutineers flinched, their bravado faltering as they cast wary glances at the dragon.

Alliser sneered, his defiance unshaken. “You don’t scare me, Targaryen. This is the Wall. Your fire has no place here.”

You took another step forward, your voice dropping to a dangerous calm. “You think I need to scare you, Alliser? I could burn this entire cursed castle to the ground and turn you all to ash in a heartbeat.” You gestured toward Viserion, her eyes narrowing as if in agreement. “Or perhaps I could simply starve you. No supplies, no food, no warmth. How long would you last up here with nothing but your pride to keep you company?”

The crowd murmured uneasily, the reality of your threats sinking in. Even the most loyal of Thorne’s men shifted nervously, their hands twitching at their sides. Bowen Marsh’s face paled, and Othell Yarwyck glanced down at the ground, his resolve crumbling under your gaze.

Alliser opened his mouth to retort, but you cut him off, your voice like ice. “You will burn alive,” you declared, your words ringing through the courtyard. “Each and every one of you who raised a hand against my son. That is a promise.”

Viserion roared again, the force of it shaking the very walls of Castle Black. The torches flickered wildly, and the men cowered, their earlier defiance melting away like frost under the dragon’s breath.

Turning abruptly, you addressed Davos and Eddison Tollett, your voice softening but still carrying the weight of command. “Take me to Jon,” you said. “Now.”

Davos nodded, his face grim as he gestured for you to follow. Edd glanced once at the mutineers, his lip curling in disgust, before he turned to lead the way. Ghost padded silently at your side, his red eyes glowing with an intensity that matched your own.

As you walked away, the mutineers were left standing in the dragon’s shadow, their breaths visible in the cold air. Alliser Thorne’s defiance faltered for the first time, his gaze following you as you disappeared into the dimly lit halls of Castle Black.

The weight of your promise lingered, heavy and unrelenting. The men had no doubt that the fire you threatened to unleash was real—and that it would consume them all.

The halls of Castle Black were eerily silent, the usual sounds of men at work replaced by the faint echo of your footsteps. Davos Seaworth walked beside you, his face grim and solemn, while Eddison Tollett led the way, his shoulders squared despite the weight of the moment. At your side, Ghost moved silently, his massive white form a steady presence, his eyes fixed ahead.

As you turned a corner, a group of Wildlings, led by Tormund Giantsbane, came into view. They stood clustered in the shadows near the stairwell, their weapons still in hand, their expressions wary but curious. Tormund’s piercing blue eyes locked onto you immediately, his brow furrowing as he took in your presence, the dragon outside still fresh in everyone’s minds.

“Targaryen Princess,” Tormund said gruffly, stepping forward. His voice carried the weight of suspicion and curiosity. “You’re the one they’ve been whispering about.”

You stopped, meeting his gaze with your own, your voice steady but heavy with emotion. “I am. And I am here for Jon.”

Tormund’s lips pressed into a thin line as he studied you, his expression unreadable for a moment before he nodded. “He spoke of you,” he said quietly. “Said you were the closest thing he had to a mother.”

Your throat tightened at his words, but you forced yourself to speak. “And he was the closest thing I had to a son at Winterfell. Let me pass, Tormund. I need to see him.”

Tormund’s gaze softened, and he stepped aside, motioning for his men to do the same. “Go on, then. But know this—we owe him a debt. Whatever you plan to do, we’ll stand by you.”

You inclined your head in gratitude, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

As you passed through the group of Wildlings, Ghost let out a low growl, his hackles raised slightly as he stayed close to your side. The anxiety in the air was thick, every step toward Jon’s quarters feeling heavier than the last.

When you entered the small room where Jon’s body lay, the sight before you was like a dagger to your heart. Jon was stretched out on the wooden table, his pale face still and peaceful, his dark curls framing his head like a crown. The bloodstains on his tunic were stark against the white fabric, a grim reminder of his brutal end.

Your knees buckled, and you sank to the floor beside him, your hands trembling as you reached out to touch his face. His skin was cold beneath your fingers, and the reality of his death hit you like a storm.

“Jon,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Oh, my sweet boy…”

Tears streamed down your face as you leaned over him, your forehead resting against his shoulder. “I should have been here,” you sobbed quietly. “I should have protected you.”

Davos and Edd stood silently by the doorway, their heads bowed in respect as they gave you the space to grieve. Ghost moved to the other side of the table, his low whine breaking the silence as he nudged Jon’s hand with his nose.

You stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, the weight of your grief pressing down on you like the cold of the North itself. Memories of Jon as a boy flashed through your mind—his shy smile, the way he’d look to you for guidance, the pride in his eyes when he’d achieved something he thought impossible.

Finally, you sat up, your fingers brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “They’ll pay for this,” you murmured, your voice trembling but resolute. “Every single one of them.”

The room seemed to grow colder, the air thick with an unspoken tension. And then, as if summoned by some unseen force, the door creaked open.

Melisandre stood in the doorway, her red robes vibrant against the shadowed hall behind her. Her expression was serene, almost otherworldly, as her piercing gaze swept over the scene before her.

“My lady,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of prophecy. “You mourn, but do not despair. The Lord of Light has not yet abandoned us.”

You turned to her, your tear-streaked face hardening as you met her eyes. “What do you mean?” you demanded, your voice sharp with both hope and anger.

Melisandre stepped into the room, her presence like a flame in the darkness. “Death is not always the end,” she said cryptically, her gaze drifting to Jon’s lifeless form.

The room seemed to grow even colder as Melisandre stepped fully into the chamber, her presence radiating an almost oppressive heat despite the icy air of Castle Black. Her red robes swayed with each deliberate step, the ruby at her throat glinting faintly in the firelight. Her gaze remained fixed on Jon Snow, her expression serene yet filled with purpose.

You, however, froze as a sudden, chilling voice echoed in the recesses of your mind. It was not your own but felt both ancient and familiar, laced with the weight of a truth long hidden.

"She is the one."

The voice sent a shiver down your spine, your breath catching as it continued.

"The one who sent the shadow to take what was yours. She sought the life of your unborn son—Damon. It was her hand that set the darkness upon you, but the old powers protected him. Protected you."

Your heart pounded in your chest, the memories flooding back. The night in the Red Keep when you were heavily pregnant with Damon—the unnatural chill that had crept into your chambers, the fleeting but horrifying image of a shadowy figure reaching for your swollen belly, and the deafening caws of ravens that had inexplicably swarmed the room, driving the shadow away. You had never understood the event, dismissing it as something random. But now, the pieces fell into place with sickening clarity.

Your body trembled with a mix of fury and horror as you turned to Melisandre, your voice low and trembling with restrained rage. “You,” you said, the single word cutting through the air like a blade.

The red priestess paused, her serene expression faltering as her gaze shifted to you. “I sense… anger in you, my lady,” she said carefully, though her voice carried a note of caution. “What troubles you?”

You stepped forward, your fists clenched, your violet eyes blazing. “It was you,” you hissed, your voice rising with each word. “It was you who sent that shadow after me. After my son.”

Melisandre’s eyes widened slightly, her composure slipping for the briefest moment. “Your son?” she repeated, her voice soft yet guarded.

“Do not feign ignorance,” you spat, taking another step toward her. “When I carried Damon, a shadow came to take him from me. I thought it was something else, but now I know the truth. It was real. And it was you.”

The air in the room grew filled with dread, even Davos and Eddison Tollett shifting uncomfortably, their hands instinctively moving toward their weapons. Ghost growled low, his red eyes locked on the priestess, his hackles rising.

Melisandre hesitated, her expression unreadable as she regarded you. Then, with a small, almost regretful nod, she spoke. “It is true,” she admitted, her voice calm but laced with something resembling remorse. “I sent the shadow.”

The room erupted with gasps, and your breath hitched as her words confirmed your worst suspicions. “Why?” you demanded, your voice breaking with a mixture of fury and anguish. “Why would you try to take my son? What did he ever do to you?”

Melisandre stepped closer, her gaze steady but no longer serene. “It was not personal,” she said softly. “It was necessity. At the time, I believed your child to be a threat to the great war to come. A child born of fire and lion’s blood, destined to reshape the balance of power. I believed his existence would disrupt the will of the Lord of Light.”

“Necessity?” you repeated, your voice trembling with outrage. “You call an attempt to murder an unborn child necessity?”

“I was wrong,” Melisandre said, her voice firmer now, though a shadow of humility crept into her tone. “I miscalculated. The forces protecting you—protecting him—were beyond my understanding. The shadow was driven back before it could fulfill its purpose. That night, I realized there was more at work than even I could comprehend.”

You took a step back, your breathing ragged as her words sank in. The sheer audacity of her confession, coupled with the cold detachment in her tone, made your blood boil. “You miscalculated?” you repeated, disbelief heavy in your voice. “You speak as if this was some minor mistake, like spilling wine at a feast. You tried to kill my son!”

Melisandre’s gaze softened slightly, though it did little to soothe your rage. “And yet, he lives,” she said, her voice quieter. “He was protected. Shielded by forces older than any of us. Forces that even the Lord of Light respects.”

Your chest heaved with anger, but something in her words gave you pause. “Forces?” you asked, your tone sharp. “What forces?”

Melisandre glanced toward the ruby at her throat, her fingers brushing it briefly. “I do not know their name, my lady. Only their power. Your blood—your son’s blood—it is touched by something ancient. Something beyond my sight.”

You stared at her, your fury mingling with confusion and unease. The room seemed to grow colder, the weight of her words pressing down on you like the icy winds beyond the Wall.

“I will never forgive you for what you’ve done,” you said finally, your voice trembling but resolute. “If you ever come near my son again—”

“I will not,” Melisandre interrupted, bowing her head slightly. “My actions were a grave mistake, and I have no intention of repeating them. But my presence here is not for him. It is for Jon.”

At the mention of Jon’s name, your focus shifted, the raw ache of your grief resurfacing. “Why are you here, then?” you demanded. “What do you want?”

Melisandre’s gaze flickered to Jon’s still form, her expression somber. “To serve the will of the Lord of Light. He brought me here for a reason, my lady. And I believe that reason lies with Jon Snow.”

Her words hung in the air, the silence in the room thick and unrelenting. For a long moment, no one spoke, the crackling of the hearth the only sound.

Finally, you turned away from her, your hands trembling as you moved to stand by Jon’s side. “If you think I’ll trust you after what you’ve done,” you said quietly, your voice cold, “you’re a greater fool than I thought.”

Melisandre said nothing, her gaze lingering on you for a moment before shifting back to Jon. Whatever she intended, you knew one thing for certain: her presence here was far from benign.

And whatever her Lord of Light intended, you would not let her—or anyone else—threaten what remained of your family.

[sdr2lovemail]

Daki with a gender neutral reader that's like a parent or older sibling to her. The reader is willing to help daki despite knowing she's a demon. and if you could add platonic cuddles that would be nice

Comfort in the Kyogoku House (GN Reader)

Synopsis: In the blood-soaked world that is her life, Daki finds comfort in the Reader's presence.

Notes: Slowly but surely getting back into writing. I have a few wips I hope I can finish! :)

Requests are open!

The shoji door slams open with great force. Your needle and thread nearly fall at the sound. Warabihime stands in the doorway, a nasty glare on her delicate features. She wordlessly stomps through the room, shutting the door behind her. 

“Warabihime, good evening.” You greet her with a small smile.

She takes the kimono from your hands, tossing it to the side without a care. The oiran takes the fabric's place, practically throwing herself in your lap and hiding her face in your kimono.

You sigh while gently removing her ornate hairpins. “I’m supposed to be fixing that garment, Warabihime.” 

There’s a sharp growl before she starts to whine. “So what?! That kimono is hideous! I’m more important than some disgusting colored fabric.” There’s a moment of silence as she rests her head against your thighs. Her voice is softer, more childlike. “Call me Daki, now.”

Unlike the other members of the Kyogoku House, you knew that Warabihime was a demon named Daki, along with knowledge of her brother. Originally, Daki planned on taking you away with her obi. As one of the nicer-looking members, she wanted to eat you herself.

She should’ve killed you a long time ago. You didn’t act like everyone else around the house. No, you spoke against her, chastised her for picking on the younger girls, never just obeying her like everyone else did. But you also weren’t mean to her. Acting so friendly towards her and wanting nothing back in return. In a way, you reminded her of Gyutaro. Always wanting what is best for her.

When you talked to her, it was stern but never harsh. It made Daki feel weird. She never gave anything to you but snide remarks and mean glares, so why did you look at her with such kind eyes? The entertainment district wasn’t a place of goodwill. People were only nice when they wanted something. Patrons pretending to be friendly to get a piece of the girls, house members trying to kiss up for better treatment.

You treated her like what she is not; a human. It was a new feeling that Daki didn’t want to snuff out yet.

Once you’ve finished taking out her hairpins, her hair starts to fall out of the usual intricate style. Your fingers rake through the dark locks, feeling her cold scalp against your skin. “Is everything okay, Daki? You seemed upset when you walked in.”

Daki’s brow furrows as her body tensed. Her nails dig into the fabric of your kimono, tearing small holes into it. Sitting up from her resting spot, she starts to go off.

“A slayer came by today! He was hideous. Another annoying brat who thought they could beat me. That stupid worm got his nasty blood all over my kimono!” She whined, beating her fists on the floor. “I’m Upper Moon Six! I’m stronger than any of them!”

There’s that feeling again. When your hand touched her clenched fist, Daki felt that gross feeling of warmth. 

“I’ll wash your kimono with the next load of laundry. It’ll wash right out.” It wasn’t your first time washing out bloodstains. You've convinced the sibling demons to let you clean the rooms after obtaining their meals.

Daki puffed up like a happy kitty, returning back to her place, curled up at your side. She took your hand and placed it atop her head, wanting you to keep playing with her hair. Letting out a happy sigh, she pressed her cheek into your clothes. “You always do everything for me. That’s why I like having you around. Someone who treats me the way I deserve.”

Those weren’t her exact feelings. When Daki is around you, she feels a way she never has. Like it was a hundred years ago and she was a little girl again. But unlike then, she felt… secure with you, something she only tended to feel with her brother.

There was the sound of cracking bones and ripping flesh. From her back, Gyutaro separates himself from his sister. He starts to poke at Daki’s forehead, his face still holding that same apathetic expression.

“Mnnn, you can’t just come crawling to them when you’re inconvenienced. You act like such a baby when they’re around.” He groans as Daki swipes her nails at him. His skin breaks and heals just as fast.

“I do not! Unlike you, I can show my appreciation for them and their unwavering loyalty. Now shut up, you’re ruining my peace!” The younger demon moves so her head is resting on your thighs, her face almost pressing against your stomach.

Gyutaro growls at her snide remarks and reaches over to flick her before rethinking. He rests his hand at his side while looking over to you.

With that warm, kind smile, you wordlessly offer the other side of your body for him to rest. Sucking his teeth, Gyutaro turns away from you, resting against the wall instead.

For a while, the room is silent. While demons didn’t need to sleep, Daki enjoyed it. The quiet nothingness was relaxing. At some point, you had shut your eyes as well. Thinking you were asleep, a matted mop of hair rests against your shoulder. Cold skin grazing against your neck. 

They’ll be gone once you wake up. But for now, you could enjoy this strangely domestic moment.