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miss-tarja · 1 month ago

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Hojōjutsu

Art by mag_bya on X ❤️

Ninja! Miguel O’Hara x Ninja! Reader.

Another for the Miguelverse ✨

WARNINGS: MINORS DON'T INTERACT. Dom/Sub dynamic, Smut, fingering, Oral (F! Receiving) Unprotected p in v, use of bdsm equipment, mentions of Kinbaku poses (Or bondage), mentions of Japanese terms, bratting, ninja activities, espionage, spanking. Rimming (F! Receiving).

A/N: Was going through my photography essays and found a lovely photo shoot I did back then 🤭, then had that fanart sitting on my gallery for too long, untouched. And I might be ovulating so... yeah. Merely indulging myself here jsksk. Hope you like! Feedback and reblogs are always welcome c:

Word count: 7505.

PD: The Hojojutsu is a Japanese martial art used ever since Edo period, used to immobilize prisoners. Due the lack of iron to create tools such as handcuffs, the police back then had to make use of ropes. Still is a practice used in modern days as part of the Japanese police training ~ ✨ It was the main inspiration for the Kinbaku (Erotic tying) that came later in the same period ❤️.

Frantic steps ran through the overcrowded grass field, dodging and zig zagging left and right, until a foot turned on its heels to the right once more in a stupid attempt to lose him and keep himself alive a little longer.

The young man knew what the task of being a messenger ensued, the dangers he'd face ahead on the treacherous path he'd chosen. But never in his short life he'd think he'd encounter danger this early on his very first mission.

The young man's panting increased, like the fear devouring all coherent thoughts inside his panicking brain, begging to keep on running, to keep himself away from the silent steps behind him, preying, approaching him with a deathly and stealthy pace and a single goal in mind.

The scroll.

Not only it contained compromising information about some powerful lords in the underworld, but names of those that weave their webs behind Underground New York's imperious daily activities.

The powerful, the self proclaimed gods among mortals, that looked down upon those beneath them. Lords or modern daimyos (Feudal lords), as they called themselves, strategically distributed in seven sectors through the living contradiction the city was.

A blur of red made the courier's eyes nearly pop out of their socket as it hovered over him. The young and naive man knew running was as futile as sending a signal of help in an open field. He also knew running would just delay the eventual end awaiting with open arms his way. When the courier turned, all that his horrorized eyes could do was widen as open as they could, his mouth gaped, like a fish out of water but no scream for pity or sound came out of it; while the moving blur stopped right in front of him, in the shape of a man.

Someone he was often warned by his mentors, the survivors of his prowess, stood tall and proud before his very eyes. None other but The Spider-man was his chaser and executor. Red, blue and a flash of white by the elongated fangs dashing, was all the courier saw before a powerful sting erupted from the side of his neck, spreading a burning numbness through his limbs, like a disease. Stilling and subduing each movement of his muscles effortlessly.

The flesh skeleton he had for a body twitched painfully, the soft coppery smell tickled his nose along the faint scent of gunpowder flooding each breath.The gloved hands held him still as the bite deepened. It all had happened so quickly, yet the beating of his heart slowed down, menacing to stop at any second. The burning within was too overwhelming for his brain to register.

A bite. It all took a bite from the colorful blur to end it all. Not that the courier’s chase had been exhausting, if anything it all meant a mere game he had lost even before starting. The scroll fell off its secure grip on the ground, like him and his soon to be lifeless body. Unable to tear his gaze from the… creature standing before him. A glint of beady red eyes watched him, with a satisfied smirk on his face before disappearing within the blink of an eye into the night.

Despite the city's futuristic layout, many lived simple and rustic lives, after all, the social barrier was ever present among the denizens of the upper terrains.

Old and new walked hand in hand, carrying the hefty weight of a constantly evolving dystopia. Even though technology oozed in the upper echelons of the city, the most basic and borderline rudimentary ways of life thrived in the subworld. Another reality, some said.

While the top was beautifully constructed with skyscrapers that scratched the sky and beyond, the sublevels of the city still used technology deemed ancient. Manual labour, handwritten letters, artisanal constructions among others that could be found only in history records. Many used it as a getaway from the overwhelming and speedy pace the upper city kept, others, too stubborn to embrace the change to be part of it, but for a certain powerful group, it was the perfect ambience for criminal activities off the radar.

It was no secret that Underground Nueva York was controlled by six individuals that always made their word an ominous promise and the underworld they remained hidden, their playground. Old ways of intel gathering were brought to the table, and old arts of espionage once again resurfaced, leaving the good and the bad to clash in a never ending fight for justice and interests alike.

You often wondered what was the real cause they fought for. Money? Maybe. Power? Definitely. Men loved to show off their power, even in the most subtlest of things. Especially one, your boss. The one and only and true mastermind behind the other daimyos agendas, Tyler Stone.

The man had requested your presence right after you had finished another mission. Infiltration and a little else were your speciality, eventually they both helped you to get the right amount of recognition to put your name out there, earning yourself a good spot as Tyler’s best spy.

“You called?” Your voice echoed behind him, as Tyler read the many scrolls full with intel from his uptown allies. Scrolls were untraceable, unlike an email.

“Your new mission just arrived, Shadow.” His favorite nickname for you, despite your initial mockery for it. “You see, one of Osborn’s agents was supposed to deliver us some information. He never showed up. My scroll is missing and as you might know, if there’s something that grinds my gears is to have my intel in pieces” He sighed, opening the next scroll in line. “You know I’m a complete picture sort of man. So bring it to me. Will you, dear?.”

“Anything else?”

“For you to be careful.”

A tinge of wariness raised in the back of your mind. It was rare when Tyler, out of everyone, warned you, and the times he did it meant only one thing. A formidable enemy awaited.

“Careful?” You repeated, almost incredulous.

“Yes, my dear Shadow. Careful. Whoever is dispatching our agents, is quick, efficient and dangerous.”

So am I

“Is there any pattern?”

“That’s the thing. Whatever this…creature is, leaves a single thing in the bodies. A signature of sorts.”

Tyler handed you a couple of pictures, all of them showed something in common. The lurid silhouette of a man’s bite, nesting too comfortably in the right side of the victims’ necks. Two deep and parallel punctures stood out the most for you, located right in the jugular as an ambar liquid oozed from them.

Creature. It suited the description beyond perfection. The bite reminded you of those fantasy beings you used to read about in your spare time, but with science and progress living above your head, the idea of whoever or rather whatever doing this wasn’t as crazy as it sounded. You had seen your fair share of strange things and mutants. One that loved to bite wouldn’t spook you out.

Without anything more deemed substantial to know, you disappeared. Ready to search and retrieve.

The first two districts had been empty of what you needed. Their people either knew how to hide a good secret, or they were too oblivious as to what had happened with the missing courier. Some thermal water attendees commented briefly on it, but nothing good enough to make it a lead.

Then you infiltrated into an inn, as a masseuse, after tracking one of Osborn’s soldiers. The man turned out to be nothing else but his right hand, and if there was something all the lackeys from the daimyos’ shared, it was their loose mouth.

“-Next thing I know is that he’s gone. Poor kid. It was his first day and he got the bite.” The soldier huffed as you moved your oiled up hands among the layers of skin and bumps, earning a gurgling and approving moan from him.

“See? This is what I call VIP service.” He mumbled, too lost into the relaxation invading him, like the other soldier accompanying him. Another girl worked his neck and back.

“So, that kid, Ricky’s dead then?” The other soldier asked, contemplating.

“Seems so. That… Spider creature is scaring my men shitless. But when I catch him? I swear… he'll pay. I liked Ricky. Was young and stupid, but was a good soldier.”

A him? Spider creature?

Your ears perked ever subtly as you listened and massaged the man's shoulder diligently, while your brain connected two and two. You were on the right track.

“Osborn wants him dead.”

“Like everyone.” His companion chuckled, “He's been messing us up for too long. Even Tyler is looking up for that Spider guy.”

Osborn’s right hand gave a low whistle.

“Yeah. That means we stay out of his way and let him handle it all. If he fails, hope not, we'll be screwed. None wants to be a messenger now, because of that arachnid son of a bitch.”

“Ah, c’mon, it can't be that hard to get him! Just round up some other shinobis and we'll settle a trap for him.”

“That's the thing, dumbass… It's not only him.”

After long days of discreet and low profile searches, you finally managed to not only make a solid lead, revealing more of this phantom-like character to you and those brave or stupid enough to dig past the surface about him.

You found out that what killed the young man was a severe allergic reaction to a toxin located in some spiders you had heard were used in the upper city labs of Alchemax. The arachnid creature was more a fact than a hypothesis now.

And although you had to pay a visit to the upper dystopia to get more information, it all eventually led you back underground. More specifically to the Takuya district. Or colloquially known as “The Spider” sector. Rumors about a secret army being trained under the command of a man were often encountered in your research. And no matter how much Tyler’s minions tortured the captured enemy’s spies, none sang.

Some rather die, others bite their tongue off. None dared to say a word, nor a peep. Until one did, giving you a name in hopes for you to stop the pain consuming him.

Miguel O’Hara.

The very same ghost that owned the residency before you. The very same creature that from time to time, meaning almost on rare occasions, allowed himself to be a regular man and spent the night with some high end courtesan.

Thanks to your connections, you managed to swap with the assigned woman for the task. The madam couldn't make enough emphasis to not be bold or rude or else you'd never work for them again, as he had complained about the last woman they sent.

“Don't look him in the eye if he doesn't allow you to.” “Don't speak unless you’re asked to.” “Don't-”

Will I get to breathe though?

The sudden thought was too tempting to be kept in your red tainted mouth, but common sense prevailed and you remained shut.

One thing you always found curious was the clothing people wore in this side of the underground city. Yukatas, kimonos, obis, so many traditional clothing you had seen back in the museum records. Even the security guards wore the signature red and blue uniforms you had seen since entering some parts of the district. All wearing a spider symbol in their chest or backs.

Once ready, you were allowed in, and soon were guided to the assigned room. The house, or rather manor, was as impressive inside as it was from the outside. Your eyes were already taking mental notes, how many hallways, how many doors, people and soldiers, and of course, how many weapons each carried. Security was alarming, meaning the scroll was somewhere within.

The heavy steps from outside, snapped you out of your thoughts, and when the door slid open, your breath stuck in your throat.

Not only was he the tallest man you had ever seen, but the most serious. Sharp features adorned his strong jaw, the red irises were too strange and pretty to ignore, especially when they raked you up and down, causing a chill to tickle your skin alive while you bowed. Somehow you could understand a bit more on why people feared him.

“You're early.” He noted, closing the door behind you both. The people behind the thin walls left, conceding privacy to you both.

By his damp hair you could tell he was fresh out of a bath. Wearing a burgundy and blue colored yukata contrasting with his luscious cinnamon skin. Dark chestnut and shiny locks perfectly slicked back, almost too elegant. But his eyes were the ones that did the trick for you. Bright red and dangerous. Staring right into your soul.

“Madam Odai refuses to get another complaint from our best client, so she sent me earlier to give you extra time as a compensation, sir.”

His head tilted slightly as his eyes refused to leave you, an appreciative hum left him.

“On your feet. Face the wall.” He instructed right on.

Your brow quivered at his sudden order, but obeyed. Once again your breath caught when the sudden sensation of warmth irradiating from his body pressed against your back. Big hands palmed up and down your sides, squeezing briefly any portion of space his hands reached.

Straight to business, huh?

His hot breath tickled your neck as his hands took a good and proper feel of you, your breast, waist, hips. He hummed pleased, when he found the obi around your waist, and with an impromptu twist, you faced him as the belt fell at your feet. Like the first layer of your robes.

“Haven’t seen you before.” He huffed, his eyes too focused on whatever piece of your exposed skin, as if looking for something.

Your cheeks couldn't help but flush lightly at the sudden pace his hands worked. But a gasp came out of your mouth when his body pushed you against the wall, and with a swift motion of his hands, he peeled off layers and layers, until nothing but a fine linen robe separating your nakedness from his scrutiny remained.

“I-Is there something wrong, sir?”

Although your voice came out laced with innocence and curiosity, confusion crossed Miguel’s eyes for a moment. There were no weapons on you, which earned him a low growl. He was sure he'd find something, anything, tiny as it was. But there was nothing.

Yet.

His eyes smothered you, like blazing and gorgeous fire stones ready to scorch you alive, following every breath you did. He didn’t trust anyone, not even his own shadow.

“Hands above your head.”

You obeyed, with a subtle and playful bat of your lashes. The sleeves of your linen dropped back, exposing your now naked arms. His eyes followed every trace of your bare skin, stopping at your partially open lips for a second longer.

“Are you looking for something, sir?”

“Quiet.” He held with a single hand both of your wrists, pinning you down on the spot. Earning you a ticklish giggle when his brows furrowed deeper. “I would’ve been informed if a new girl showed up.”

“I work in another district. Madam Odai requested my help, her girls were busy for the night. She didn’t want to let you down.”

His hands pulled you closer to him, only to flip you and press your face against the wall with your hands behind your back, his grip tightened, you noted. A tingle ran down your spine, pooling down in the very pit of your abdomen. Your hips arched in his direction, bumping ever softly against his.

Ironic as it was, playing in the handsome face of danger was your best card, but deep in the back of your mind, Tyler’s warning rang loud and clear. To be careful. He was no ordinary man after all.

“...Sir?”

Miguel huffed, almost too amused your charade was still up. For how long though? So far you seemed confused at best by his behavior, you weren’t panicking nor complaining. A big red flag on your end. Other women struggled, over-explained themselves or cried initially, and he always made sure to reward their endurance to the frighten, and here you were, calm and collected as if expecting his next move.

“You never told me the district you came from.” His breath tickled your cheek.

“Well, you never asked.”

“Ha, funny aren’t you?” He pressed tighter, pulling a tiny whimper from your lips. “Where?”

“D-District four.” you gasped. And the hairs of your nape stood. “Your grip is hurting me, sir.”

“Four?” He chuckled and your alarms flared. “And you say Odai sent you?”

“Is this a routine of yours I wasn't told of?”

“You see… If there’s something Odai hates is sloppy jobs” He turned you once again, his hot breath fanning your face as he hovered over you, his hand easily maneuvered your arms above your head, pinning you once again. “And district four. Now, let’s try again before my patience runs out. Who. Sent. You?”

“I told you already! Madam Odai did!.”

He squeezed your wrist tighter as a warning, yet no bigger reaction than a glower crossed your features. His other hand pulled your chin up, making your eyes meet his, the scowl on his handsome face revealed just enough for you to see the tip of his elongated fangs peeking out.

He was the creature. The Spider. The ghost stalking your agents, and everyone deemed a threat towards his interests.

“Are you sure you wanna play that way, pequeña? Cause let me tell you, If we'll play, it'll be on my terms.” His voice turned an octave lower, hissing on your ear, slamming you hard enough against the wall to get his point across. “And I don't play gently.”

“I’m sure Madam Odai won’t like hearing you’ve been terrorizing her employees-”

The slam was enough for you to growl. The confused courtesan mask slowly cracked before him.

“How convenient for her to send a new employee when I precisely requested her to not send any other girls here.” A smirk stretched in his plump lips, “But I do appreciate her collaboration in handing me over stupid people like you that think they have a chance.”

Your eyes widened for a moment, earning a satisfied huff from him.

That old hag…

Odai had delivered you right into his palm, like a butterfly purposely placed in the sticky webs of a hungry spider. A sacrifice for her own and her business protection. A normalized practice within the underworld.

“Are you gonna kill me?” Your eyes followed him with the same intensity he scrutinized you.

“Depends. What are you here for?”

“To please someone. But, guess I'm not his type. A shame really.”

His eyes narrowed. “Your time runs out, corazón. Like my patience, so you better speak.”

“I don't feel like it, actually. Not a good talker when I'm cornered.” The little smirk in your lips was enough for his eyelid to twitch.

“Enough!” He growled, squeezing your wrist tighter, earning a wriggle from you. “Give me names, now. I don't have time for this.”

“Neither do I.” You hissed back and sunk your knee in his side with a powerful kick, pushing all air out of his lungs and weakening his grip on your wrists as he staggered back. All pretense gone, leaving your true colors before him.

“You'll pay for that.” He hissed

“You'll hit a woman? How shameful of you.”

With a sweep of his feet on your ankles, your balance was compromised by losing your footing as you stepped into the discarded silky robes. His hand grabbed a handful of your front robe and pulled you towards him, his angry and gorgeous face inches away from yours.

“It's self defense when you attack me first, bonita.” He growled, dodging and pushing you against the wall with the sole intention of disorienting you, specially with a sudden body slam he did. But you were persistent.

A flurry of kicks and punches moved his way, but he easily dodged, learning your fighting pattern, analyzing your every move. Proficient, effective, lethal and graceful, like a proper kunoichi (female ninja) trained from a young age. Until he seized the chance and grabbed your ankle, pulling upwards, lifting you effortlessly with enough strength to make you yelp, surprised at the sheer display of power, but also making your robe to rile up even further.

“Put me down, asshole!” Your hands tried to reach for the railing hems of your robe and his face, to no avail.

“Como desees, corazón.” (As you wish, sweetheart)

Not only did he put you down by letting your body fall with a loud thud on the ground. But pounced on you before you could scramble on your feet and dash towards the door.

You threw a blind punch with your elbow, earning an amused chuckle from him as he caught it mid air.

“My, my. For being a little thing you sure do put up a fight, I’ll give you that.” He mumbled cockily while restraining both of your arms behind your back and held them on the spot by pressing his knee on them. All while he retrieved a white long rope from a nearby compartment on the floor. “Now be a good girl and stay still.”

Your eyes frowned when his fingers placed the rope around your neck. And just when you thought his fingers couldn’t work faster, there he was, twisting the rope behind your underarms to create a lubber’s knot and restrain your arms behind your back. Leaving zero chances for them to move. And if it wasn’t enough for him, he finished the tie with the ropes caging your breast above your chest and underneath them, perfectly secured in a box tie.

With a pull, he easily lifted you from the ground, the rope around your neck tightened enough to cut off your air intake briefly, earning him a gasp. Your feet clumsily stood, with Bambi-like steps, but a squeal, easily mistaken for a moan, left you as his face found the right side of your neck and sank his fangs in the tender skin, right above your pulsating spot and pulled you closer to his chest while at it.

The sting was something you hadn’t felt before. Unlike the courier, a soft buzz spread through your limbs, heightening every receptor in your pores and skin. Increasing your body temperature with a pleasant scorch that slowly traveled through your chest, hardening your nipples, to finally fall deep in the pit of your fluttering stomach.

Your eyes nearly rolled back when he pulled his fangs out, licking the amber droplets of his poison, off your now trembling skin in the way.

“We’ve already played your games.” He pushed you to walk out of the room. “I think it’s time to play mine.”

The cold splashes of water doused your heated skin, awakening from your sudden slumber. When did you fall unconscious? You didn’t know. All you remembered was him biting you, your body burning and him leading you somewhere.

“Rise and shine, sunshine.” He mumbled while splashing another bucket of ice cold water on your face.

Your groggy eyes fought for a moment to focus, the water droplets blurred your sight, yet you could still see the blue and red blur pacing back and forth before you. Your head hung, too heavy to keep it up, yet the alarms rang once more as you didn’t feel the floor under your feet. A little late you realized you were dangling in the air.

The blur came closer and yet another splash of water doused you once more, making you cough, shiver and gasp. His hands wiped your eyes from the stubborn water pooling in the corner of them, clearing your sight for you to watch him properly. The flimsy and soaked robe now stuck on your body like a second skin.

“There we go. You gotta look a bit more alive for me, darling.” His fingers patted your cheeks softly, squeezing your chin to face him.

“W-Where…” You coughed again, gasping for air.

He just watched you, impassive, as you tried to pull your arms back with a tug, yet they didn’t budge. Your feet twitched. The only part of your body that remained unrestrained. If you fell, the pain wouldn’t be too much. You were hovering a few feet above him after all.

Slowly the numbness holding your brain hostage left, earning you back some mobility, but enough to stop and look down at yourself, or at least attempt to. A spreader bar kept your arms separated behind your back. Your upper body leaned towards him as the rest dangled.

The cold water dribbled in little rivulets down your shivering thighs, you didn’t have time to protest as the ice cold liquid drenched you again.

“F-Fuck, stop!” you gurgled, kicking in the air. But he made sure each part of you was soaked. “I’m awake already you-”

He splashed your face with a smirk, silencing your yapping, earning himself a glare. You were awake. And aware, just like he needed you to be.

“Good. Good. Now… mind telling me who you’re running errands for?”

“Fuck you.”

“Don’t know them. I think you'll have to illustrate me.”

You thrashed and kicked his way. Pulling a mocking yet brief laugh as he caught your first leg. His eyes raked your exposed and shimmery wet skin. His thumb rubbed just above your tabi socks, slowly increasing in a powerful squeeze.

“There’s only three people that are in touch with Odai’s services.” He mumbled, pulling you by the hostage ankle, the suspension device you were tied to, moved in his direction, obeying without reply, unlike you. And by the looks of the room, you supposed it was a torture space.

Bars, ropes and other weapons rested too comfortable on the tables. But what truly snatched your whole attention for a moment was seeing the different objects and other tools you often got to see not so well hidden in the massaging rooms. The inns and massage houses were often a decoy for cruising.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.” He pulled your chin and spoke again. “Like I said only three people, daimyos especially, have the connection with Odai. Kingpin.” Your face turned in disgust at the name and he hummed.

“Osborn.” Your eyes went wide for a moment. “Yeah, it’s as surprising for me as everyone that finds out. And last but not least. The boss himself, Tyler Stone.”

Your lips flattened in a tight line at the name, yet Miguel’s eyes shone.

“Tyler is it?” He nodded with pursed lips, then a nonchalant huff escaped his lips. “I see. Guess the upper city life wasn’t doing that old man any good.”

“Old man? Oh god, Save it, will you?I’m not here to talk about your daddy issues, Spiderman.”

You teased, but that earned you a firm spank that had your jaw clenching in a hiss and your toes curl, drowning a cuss.

“Too bad he still fails as one for not teaching his pets to behave.” A dark glint crossed his eyes, “But don’t worry. We’ve got time.”

With a growl you tensed up your muscles, strengthening your core enough to gain some balance and kick his way, but the attack was ridiculous and you only managed to annoy him.

“So damn impolite.” He slapped with precision your cold pussy. Pulling a yelp as you stilled. “That’s better.”

His hands took the rope and wasted no time bending your knee back against your thigh. Although you gave him another kick, it barely budged him. He restrained the first and caught the other one just in time before it connected to the side of his head.

“Dios mio, you’re such a brat.” He restrained the other leg, almost with a lick of humor, leaving you in nothing but a frog-tie position.

Not only now you hovered over him, completely soaked, angry and hogtied. But your cunt was also exposed to him. A shade of flush traveled through your cheeks as he pulled the lever to lower the suspension device just enough for his eyes to meet your folds. And as much as you tried to close your legs and deny him the sight, you couldn’t.

“Now… What does Tyler want so bad he sent you here, hmm?” He stepped back, raising his hand to show his talons protruding from the tip of his fingers.

Your eyes widened for a moment while one of his sharp fingers tipped your chest. You didn’t have to be a genius to understand one slice of them was enough to end you on the spot. But nervousness had a habit of turning you into a parrot when the nerves kicked in.

“Might as well call you kitty-man.” A stupid parrot that earned a growl from the danger before you.

The sound of fabric tearing was too deafening for a moment, your eyes closed as soon as the talons reached up to you and then a shiver ran through your skin when the cold air hit your bare and hardened nipples. He had sliced to shreds your robe, leaving nothing but hanging pieces in between the ropes and you. A beautiful soaked and flushed mess. His talons retracted.

“I liked you better when you weren’t talking without my permission.” He mumbled and approached the special table, retrieving a bamboo gag and waving it for your eyes to see. “Ball gags are unsafe for little things like you. Wouldn't want you to choke on purpose.” His hands fastened the gag around your mouth, making your teeth sink into the bamboo piece. “I’d rather do so myself.”

A crawl pooled in your lower back, but even so, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, refusing to completely acknowledge his undeniable advantage.

“Now. I speak, you listen.” His hands pulled your open thighs closer to his face, his eyes couldn’t help but admire properly the wondrous display of his authority effects on your skin.

A lovely patch of hair covered your pubis, stopping an inch away from your cleft. Puffy labia remained slightly parted by the position of your thighs, doing a poor job in covering the prized pearl of nerves resting in between them, calling for proper attention. His pupils widened involuntarily when it pulsated.

The man in him urged him into making you talk. And by the reactions of your body, he knew the perfect torture for such task. Conventional methods would only be inefficient but boring. Even if you were his enemy, the chivalrous side of him dictated he couldn’t ignore a wet pussy.

His eyes darted to a wriggling you, staring, amused at how your desperate movements of freedom made the ropes to friction tighter, leaving faint red imprints of their pattern in your skin. But oh, when the little whimper echoed behind your gag as soon as the rope touched your nipples, fueled him. He knew he had to do something.

“Look at me.” He instructed once more and your eyes darted his way with a glare.

That stupid and smooth smirk in his plump lips only fed dry bones to the hatred fire burning within you.

“We’ll make this quick and easy. I’ll ask something and naturally you’ll reply. I know… I know. Don’t look at me like that, corazón. If the answer is yes, you’ll…” He took your chin and made you nod. “But if it’s a no?” He moved your head to shake it side to side gently. “Understood?”

Upon not hearing an answer, he reached for your folds and pressed his thumb against your clit, applying the right amount of pressure. Your thighs twitched and you whimpered.

“I said, understood?”

You nodded almost right away.

“Good girl.” He released your clit and rubbed the inside of your thigh, relishing in the sight of the wetness seeping through your pores.

Miguel reached for a little clamp and pried it open, hovering it over your nipple. Your eyes followed the wooden device, backing up as much as you could.

“Do you know what the scroll contains?” He held you still

You shook your head. But the clamp was put on your nipple anyway, tearing a throaty whimper from you while glaring his way. You weren’t lying, and still the asshole preferred to complete the task by adorning both breasts with the wooden clamps. The pressure sent a delicious crawl through your chest.

“You came here to retrieve it, without knowing what it had inside?” The palpable mock in his tone had your eyes rolling, annoyed, but he tapped your clit, rewiring immediately your focus on him. “Nuh-uh. Eyes on me. Yes or no?” His thumb found its way to your pulsating bundle once more, rubbing in tortuously slow circles. Your hips by instinct twitched to the side, seeking more of the friction.

You managed to nod, panting behind the gag while he flickered it to the sides. Each touch only sent burning waves of need through your body.

“Silly girl. Fetching things without knowing what they have is dangerous and stupid.” His face hovered over your cunt, examining with narrowed eyes the way your insides clenched around nothing the more he caressed it.

“Does it feel good? Hm?” Other fingers joined the party as they parted your folds apart, revealing the soaked flesh in between. A fine thread of your juices escaped, smearing itself on his palm, a frisson of lust crossed his focused features when you eventually nodded.

Of course it felt good. Too good for your own well being and damned you if Tyler found out about it. He’d deem you not trustworthy on the spot. But… Did it matter? You were done for anyway as the man before you, edged you into breaking two of the three most important restrictions a shinobi couldn’t break. Need for pleasure and longing.

Both a distraction that nearly cost your life once, and now has gotten you into this predicament. You didn't need his hot breath fanning your pussy, and you certainly didn’t longed for his fingers to explore your insides, like his eyes were. You couldn’t.

“Bet. Just look at you” He kept your puffy and sensitive folds open, too focused on the delicious mess he had created just with his fingers. He smiled, pleased. “So fucking wet. Has it been a long time for you, huh preciosa?”

He buried one of his long fingers inside, watching every reaction of you. Your brows arched and your eyes turned glossy, the flush in your cheeks increased despite the feeble attempt of anger flashing in your eyes. Yet you were angry at none but yourself for enjoying this man’s touch. Not that you could do something about it. And the more friction he provoked inside your spasming and needy walls, the more you planned on doing nothing about it.

The moment his fingers stopped a whine dared to float out from your gagged mouth. And never in your life had you seen a man smiling so shamelessly. And he beamed when another fingers sunk in the glistening and clenching hole, knuckle deep.

“Hear yourself, cariño.” He whispered and your breath hitched. His long and thick fingers curled up in a hook motion and pumped. Once, twice, over and over and over. Faster, deeper.

Each pump turned wetter and wetter than the previous, the sounds your sopping cunt did only mixed with the whimpers and groans your mouth gave him. For once you were grateful you were gagged, or else the shame of having to beg him to not stop would be too much to handle. Yet each stroke of him inside your melting walls caused an obscene slurp and suck, and when the first spasm came, he released your insides with no remorse.

You wriggled, desperate. If your mouth couldn’t beg, your hips and cunt did by moving forward, trying to still get a feeling of his fingers.

“Did you hear that?” He chuckled, admiring the hot and wet mess in his hand. Much to your disbelief, he took each of his soaked fingers in his mouth, groaning as soon as the first hit his taste buds.

Your eyes stared, pupils wide, at the way his tongue cleaned every single trace of your juices off, like if he had just ate the most scrumptious of delicacies with his hands.

“Funny thing is that you interrupted my meal time.” He stepped back to slick the stray strands of hairs that had dared to come in his sight, but quickly propped your bent and tied knees on top of his shoulders, “Guess you’ll do.”

Nothing prepared you for the feeling of his mouth sinking in between your thighs, devouring, starved, caring little for the finesse his mouth kissed and sucked every inch of your cunt. One of his hands held your thigh in place, as the other held your hips tightly, his thumb pressed against the curve of your stomach. Preventing you from wriggling too much.

His ears kept fueled with the syrupy sweet moans erupting every couple of seconds the more he delved in. His nose buried in the soft patch of hair as his tongue focused solely on your clit. He dribbled it with such hunger and energy it was impossible for your eyes to keep themselves in front.

But you had to, cause you didn’t want to miss a single second of his tongue slipping in and out, dribbling, slurping and sucking that sweet bundle that nearly made you see stars. A spank echoed and you groaned. Drool escaped the fissures of your lips, also making the gag a mess.

A violent shiver shook you when his tongue traveled further and further, your head shook but he spanked you again, a warning to stay still and he now parted your cheeks and used his tongue to tease the pulsating ring of muscles. Your spine arched in a way that would put a contortionist to shame when he shook his head and traveled up back at your clit.

Devouring was a flimsy word for what he was doing. His eyes pinned you in the spot as his tongue feasted on your pussy, viciously. The sounds coming out of his mouth nearly matched the ones his fingers did.

“Don’t come.”

Well, fuck him cause that was just what you were about to do. How could you not when he was purposely instigating that spot that ached so good? Fuck him and his authority. Fuck his warnings. Fuck him. You came.

It was like an electric jolt had impacted through your body, your head shook over and over, too overridden trying to assimilate the orgasm hitting you with such force it bulldozed all coherent thoughts from your brain. The muffled shriek was like music to his ears, but even so a growl rumbled in his chest. You had disobeyed.

His eye twitched for a second but sighed, backing up. His hand wiped his glistening chin and lips and approached the table once again. He took a long dark bar that elongated itself when he pressed a button. The hooked a set of cuffs in the hoops on each side’s end pulled the lever of your contraption down.

The chains whirred and he maneuvered the lever again, stopping you right before you impacted the floor. When he crouched right before you, a hardening bump in between his robe caressed your face as he removed the gag.

You coughed, meekly, with swollen and flushed lips, exhaling like you had ran a marathon in just a couple of seconds.

“Since you wanna disobey me so bad…” With a swing of his talons he cut the ropes that held your body suspended, and he caught you, just to put you gently on the floor. “I think it’s time for discipline.”

Miguel placed the bar right above your ankles and secured each limb on each side with the cuffs, spreading your hips and thighs as well, giving him the perfect view of your exposed holes. He carefully cut the box tie around your breast in charge or caging them but didn’t remove the clamps. Instead, he took your reddening arms, full of the rope texture imprinted and guided them underneath you, straight to touch the bar.

“Hold it.” He ordered and took a piece of jute nearby and bound your wrist to the stretcher.

The numbness in your arms mattered little when the tingling remains of your peak still drowned your mind. Too momentarily gone to notice he had removed his robe, leaving his bare body to your unfocused scrutiny.

He kneeled behind you and pulled your hair back, showing the mouthwatering curve of your throat. For a moment, the itch of his fangs to sink in that tender skin of yours was too strong to ignore, but his self control reminded him of the punishment he had in store for you.

His hand lifted your hips higher, to align his cock into your trembling cunt. Miguel stretched his hand to grab your nape and press you deeper against the cold floor. Your body welcomed the coolness as the burning persisted.

A moan echoed in the room as his broad tip rubbed against your drooling hole.

“You want it, pequeña?”

Your hips gave him the answer as they bucked to meet him, but he pulled away, chuckling.

“No, no. I removed the gag because I want you to use your voice, so use it. Do you want it?”

A throaty and meek ‘yes’ came past your lips and it was all he needed to push inch by inch inside. An involuntary gasp rumbled in your mouth

Each bit of himself stretched and molded your walls to his hefty girth, as they choked and gobbled him in. The fiery fluttering of them had Miguel sighing in relief while he kept your hips in place. And once he pushed against your hilt, he pushed forward, as if needing to go beyond, deeper with a powerful thrust.

Your skin slapped against his once, twice, thrice, four times, until you couldn’t keep up the pace to count, or breath, or think. Your breast shook underneath you, the clamps and the coldness of the floor stimulated the right spots, yet no sound dared to come out your mouth. Too fucked out to chose which one you’d vocalize with the pleasure he inflicted.

The sound of flesh slapping unceasingly screwed the synapses course in your brain, filling the room. Weak and broken sobs turned into breathless wheezes. Your mouth parted open, in a silent scream when his pace increased. His hand once again pulled your hair back as his hot breath tickled your neck.

His tongue licked the pleasure tears rolling on each side of your flushed and ruined cheeks. The mascara and the courtesan makeup were no longer able to withstand the heat, nor the sweat pearling your body. For a moment he took the time to admire his cock stretching you, filling you to the very top as you milked him.

“You take me so well, corazón” He grunted, plowing with all his might, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. To your inevitable doom. “You wanna cum, pequeña?”

“Y-Yes!” You shrieked in between wheezing sobs.

“Have you earned it?”

Your poor body bounced mercilessly underneath him. Your nails scratched and sunk into the bar, desperate for permission as the first sparks of your peak ignited in the pit of your abdomen.

“Ple…Please!” You choked, unable to hold it in any more.

“See? Manners aren’t that bad.” He smiled against your neck and groaned right into your ear. So sinfully deep and commanding. “Cum.”

It wrecked you. He ruined you completely after hitting that forbidden spot that had you a blubbering and shrieking mess underneath him. Peak too devastatingly good for your poor brain to process, too intense to keep it all in, you came. And came hard. Drowning his cock in the warmth of your juices as they gushed the moment his tip kissed your cervix.

The raspy and manly groan he gave you as he shot the hot and thick ropes of himself in the depths of your spasming walls was everything he needed for an idea to finally seed out in his mind.

“From this moment…” He panted, satisfied with the wreckage he just created. “You belong to me.” He gasped, pulling out with all the reluctance of the world. “Meaning, you work for me now.”

He staggered and picked his robe, a giant spider symbol scarred into his chest was quickly covered when he secured the robe around him. A fulfilled smirk played briefly in his flushed mouth.

“Don’t disappoint me, preciosa.” Was all you managed to hear before the door closed.

Maybe being a double agent wouldn't be that bad.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

#t writes✨#miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguelverse

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ruzz9 · 19 days ago

Text

Nostalgia Adulterated

NSFW +18

Severus Snape x FemChubby!reader

Summary: Your former professor, Horace Slughorn, invited you to his abode within the castle to celebrate your promotion at the Ministry. You dragged Snape along, but you hadn’t accounted for the peculiar wine at the reception.

A/N: Don’t worry—intimate matters only involve your old Severus. No third wheels here. 🙂‍↕️

Warnings: Smut, loss of virginity, virginity, first time, possessive sex, multiple orgasms, drinking, adulterated wine, angst, rough.

6k words

You knew very well why you were at Hogwarts that night. It wasn’t a fortuitous return, nor an official summons from the institution. No, the invitation had come from one of your old professors, someone who, with his persuasive charm and zeal for keeping useful connections, now clamored for your presence. Horace Slughorn, with his loving and warm hospitality, surely hid behind his smiles and effusive recollections some veiled intention. It wouldn’t surprise you if he were trying to weave your recent appointment at the Ministry into a delicate web of favors and influence. It was no secret to you: you knew his methods, his ways of operating. However, you agreed. Nostalgia had its own magnetism, and the idea of a dinner at his abode within the castle was a tempting entertainment.

What you did not expect was to find him.

You turned a corridor with confident steps, your mind lost in memories of your student days, and you almost collided with a tall figure in dark robes. Both of you were striding quickly, and the impact was nearly inevitable—if not for his swift reaction to stop in time. You looked at him, and there he was: Severus Snape, his expression unreadable, brow barely furrowed, examining you with a flicker of surprise just barely perceptible in his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in his characteristically skeptical tone, as if your presence in the castle were some kind of anomaly.

You had guessed as much. He was surprised to see you walking Hogwarts' halls after so long.

"I’m going to dinner with Slughorn" you commented with feigned indifference, as if it were a simple commitment and not a maneuver to maintain his network of contacts.

The idea of dragging Professor Snape with you had arisen at that very instant, almost like a flash of inspiration. It would be a fascinating contrast. With him present, Slughorn would be forced to moderate himself. His overflowing enthusiasm would find an insurmountable wall in Snape’s severe gaze, and perhaps, just perhaps, that would spare you the discomfort of having to navigate favors wrapped in sentimentality. Besides… you admitted there was something amusing about the idea.

And then at just the right moment, you added with apparent nonchalance: "Why don’t you accompany me?"

His reaction was immediate. You observed him, seeing his uncomfortable expression and his natural resistance to the mere thought of sharing a table with his former head of house.

"Ridiculous" he snapped without hesitation. "I see no need for such a gathering."

But you were not one to give up easily. With a persistent smile, you began to insist, pointing out that the presence of another person would balance the conversation, that without him, the evening would likely turn into an endless monologue from Slughorn about former students and worn-out anecdotes.

“Wouldn’t it be interesting, for once, to share a meal without the strict formalities of the institution? Don’t you think it sounds exciting?” you suggested. Your eyes gleamed.

His expression grew even harder.

“I’d rather ingest poison,” he replied with utter seriousness, and in an attempt to evade you, he took a step to the right.

You moved without thinking, sliding into position to block it. His eyes narrowed.

"Professor, come on," you insisted in an almost sugary tone. "Slughorn would be thrilled to have you there."

Snape tried to go his way, you, with all the intention disguised as innocence, moved in his direction again, blocking him once more. You didn't pause, you didn't give him a chance to respond.

"l'm truly glad to see you, Professor. You know, I miss the days when you were my mentor."

He tried to move again, now a step aside. You edged forward with the same precision, not giving him a break.

“One might say it’s nostalgic, don’t you think? Coming back here, remembering those days,” you continued, pretending not to notice his growing irritation. “You should come to dinner with me, for old time’s sake.”

Another attempt. Another block from you. Snape exhaled sharply through his nose.

"Slughorn appreciates you a lot..." you added, taking a step closer to ensure he wouldn't escape.

This time his scowl deepened so severely it looked like he was seriously considering using magic to move you out of the way.

“I could hex you right now and feel no remorse.”

“It’ll be pleasant,” you interrupted, unfazed, “we could have all sorts of enlightening conversation, three exceptional wizards around one table.”

Snape exhaled in resignation, looking at you as if you were the most infuriating creature. He watched you with a mix of exasperation and resignation. Then he closed his eyes for a second, as if trying to summon within himself the patience he clearly didn’t have.

“If I accept, will you get out of my way and stop irritating me?”

You smiled with satisfaction.

"I solemnly swear," you said with a hand on your chest.

"Make it quick," he grunted. Without saying anything more, he turned on his heels and started walking toward Slughorn's abode, muttering something unintelligible about the unbearable stubbornness of some individuals. You followed him with barely concealed satisfaction. You had won.

They arrived shortly, without saying a word. You stopped in front of the door and knocked firmly. At your side, Snape had already turned, slipping back down the corridor with the clear intent of vanishing. You noticed—and with a swift flick of your wand, you conjured a spell that halted his cloak mid-motion, yanking him back with a sharp tug. Snape nearly lost his balance, but his reaction was immediate: he spun around, wand in hand, fury barely contained and ready to curse you without the slightest hesitation.

Your growing nerves were on the verge of betraying you.

And then, the door opened.

Both of you froze on the spot, as if someone had captured the scene in perfect stillness. Snape had hidden his wand in the shadows of his robe and raised his chin with composure, while you lowered yours with the same naturalness of someone who had done absolutely nothing improper.

Slughorn didn’t seem to notice anything strange. Or if he did, he didn’t care.

"Oh, how wonderful!" exclaimed Slughorn with his characteristic exaggerated spontaneity, extending his arms with overflowing excitement. His eyes sparkled with genuine joy upon seeing you. "My dear, what a joy to see you again!"

He enveloped you in a strong hug that almost lifted you off the ground. Amidst laughter, you returned the gesture, although you were quick enough to steal a glance at Snape out of the corner of your eye. His expression was priceless.

And then, Slughorn saw him.

"Oh! Severus!"

Slughorn's enthusiasm grew even more, if that was possible. Snape tightened his jaw upon noticing the direction things were taking, but before he could utter a word, you took the initiative casually.

"I couldn't resist inviting him," you said lightly. "Someone I also hold in great esteem, and I’m sure you would be pleased to receive him too."

Snape let out a slow breath and, under his breath, murmured with irony:

"Oh, yes. An invitation impossible to refuse."

Horace, either oblivious or deliberately indifferent to his sarcastic tone, caught him in the same enthusiastic hug he had given you. Snape, of course, did not reciprocate at all, but Slughorn did not seem affected in the slightest.

“Come now, both of you, inside!” he said cheerfully, stepping aside to let you in. “This is a special occasion, indeed. You know, Severus! I always wished you had joined my little club back when you were a student—it would’ve been an honor to have you.”

Snape made a barely audible sound, which could well have been a brief laugh or a snort of disbelief.

Slughorn burst into hearty laughter, undeterred by the grumble, and closed the door behind you.

The room was lit with a cozy warmth, and the atmosphere was exactly the same as you remembered: elegant but overflowing with excess, with comfortable furniture, dim lights, and a certain order.

"Ah, but this is not an ordinary meeting!" Slughorn exclaimed as he headed to a shiny antique sideboard. He turned his head for just a moment to ask what they would like, but without waiting for an answer, he had already decided for everyone. He opened a bottle of dark wine, with a dense and aged aroma, and poured a couple of glasses with a satisfied smile. Then, for himself, he poured a lighter variety. “This one sits better with my stomach… age-related things, you know,”

You took the glass he offered and raised it kindly. Snape held his with just two fingers, the stem firmly between his index and thumb, and lifted it with the slightest of gestures, barely a tilt. His free fingers rhythmically tapped the surface of the table, in no hurry to drink.

"To three exceptional wizards gathered here tonight!" toasted Slughorn, his face flushed with excitement. "And to the old times, always so vivid in memory."

"Charming," said Snape quietly, barely audible, with no emotion whatsoever.

The conversation began without delay, as was typical of Slughorn. He turned to you, resting an elbow on the armrest of his chair while holding his glass.

“You know, dear, young Severus was an extraordinary student in my classes,” he said with a thrill. “Brilliant! Naturally gifted in Potions, of course, but with a mind that went far beyond the conventional.”

Snape, who had barely touched his wine, clenched his jaw with a barely perceptible gesture.

“In fifth year,” Slughorn continued, now fully immersed in the tale, “he appeared in my office with the tips of his fingers completely blackened. Claimed it was a miscalculation in a potion. But I wasn’t fooled!”

He gave Snape a light tap on the arm with a familiarity few would dare to display.

“It wasn’t a mistake, was it, Severus? You wanted to test the reaction for yourself.”

Snape set his glass down on the table with a soft clink. “One must be aware of all possible outcomes—only then can precision be achieved,” he replied in his most emotionless voice.

“Oh, of course!” Slughorn agreed eagerly. “Although, if I’m not mistaken, that experiment almost cost you the use of your right hand.”

You struggled to suppress a smile. Snape’s face remained stony, but the slight stiffness in his posture betrayed his discomfort with the direction the conversation had taken.

You swirled the wine in your glass with interest.

“Really?”

Without moving his head, Snape glanced up at you. There was no expression, but something in the atmosphere tensed. Snape cut the conversation with a dry and precise tone:

“I’m afraid this evening is not meant to dissect years of my youth. Perhaps it would be more fruitful to speak of our guest’s meteoric rise in the Ministry.”

There was a momentary silence. Slughorn nodded, not too put off, but you felt the direct blow to the stomach. You had brought Snape specifically to divert this kind of conversation… and he himself had brought it up. Very much in his style. Slow poison, well calculated.

Fortunately, the conversation flowed with an almost magical naturalness during dinner; it was not as bad as you had imagined. Slughorn spoke with overflowing enthusiasm, praising your achievements both academic and professional with overly grandiose adjectives that made you blush. You, true to your style, preferred to downplay your merits, humbly thanking him, elegantly diverting the compliments to maintain the balance between respect and discomfort.

Snape, as expected, didn’t speak much. But he didn’t appear detached. He observed. He participated with brief, sharp remarks—sometimes even sarcastic, though less biting than usual. Something about the way he sat there told you he wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as he seemed. His eyes roamed the table with care—on you, on Slughorn, on the glass. He drank. Not anxiously, but with steady consistency. Horace went from glass to glass, laughing louder, talking faster, and drifting into anecdotes barely related to the present.

What was surprising was that the atmosphere was comfortable. Warm, even. And that was not something you expected. You anticipated evasions, tension, a forced conversation. But no. Everything felt so strangely well-woven, so sincere, that you found it hard not to fully surrender to the evening.

Between dinner, dessert, and the open bottles, Slughorn fell into his natural state of sentimental drunkenness. He became more nostalgic than usual, his words more drawn out, his eyes heavier. At one point, he let out a gigantic yawn and simply settled more into his armchair, as if he were ready to fall asleep right there.

It was then that you noticed something changed. Not in him. In Snape.

He gently took your empty glass and refilled it, without even looking at the bottle, as if he had done it many times before. He brought it closer to you with the same meticulous manner, but without saying a word. And when you lifted your gaze to thank him, you found him looking at you with an expression so subtly different that you paused for a moment longer.

"I remember..." he said in a low voice, as if he were barely thinking out loud, "that you would stay longer in the classroom after class. Even when I sent you to detention. You always came back."

You looked at him skeptically, though without moving the glass away.

"Are you saying that as something positive, Professor?"

He raised an eyebrow slightly, but there was a strange softness in his expression. Not that usual rigidity that boxed him into stony gestures. No. It was... different.

"I don’t usually waste time remembering my students. But you, you were persistent. Despite everything, something about you seemed... Curious."

You took a small sip, as if to give yourself some margin. Was what you just heard real? Or was the wine starting to play tricks on your senses?

Then you connected the dots.

Slughorn. The bottle. That vague statement about the clearer variety of wine, which "sat better in his stomach." He hadn’t drunk the same thing as you two. And the change... was undeniable. You felt it in yourself as well. You were more comfortable than usual, more open, your filters more tenuous. It was hard to say if it was the natural effect of the alcohol or something more elaborate.

You knew that Slughorn would never put anything dangerous in the drink. But manipulating emotions for the sake of a perfect evening... that was another matter. That was completely his style.

You glanced at the professor dozing in his chair, then at Snape, who was now playing with the base of his glass, silently, but closer, more tangible.

You were lost in thought. “Sweeten nostalgia”… that’s what Professor Slughorn would have said, right? To justify a little alteration. To achieve the perfect atmosphere.

But what you could never have anticipated was the delayed effect that was beginning to bloom in Snape. One as delicate as it was explosive.

"Your boldness. That voracious enthusiasm for complex study…"

Each word was closer. Lower. More direct.

You were like a version... less broken of me. And seeing what you’ve achieved," he added, his voice tinged with something that sounded dangerously close to pride, "was to be expected."

You dared to swallow, barely, as your fingers brushed the glass in a mechanical gesture. His tone wasn’t flattering. It was clinical, analytical, but filled with something that felt dangerously personal.

You realized too late how close he was. Your heart raced, and your body, a mix of instinct and confusion, began to back away just… until his hand rose.

Large. Rough. Firm.

He held you by the chin with just enough strength to stop you from moving, but without hurting. His eyes, black, intense, searched for something in yours. Perhaps a confirmation. Perhaps nothing. His other hand rested on your waist, with a strange softness. Not with violence, not with urgency.

And then, without another warning, he kissed you.

Your body tensed immediately, and your eyes widened, unable to process whether it was surprise or fear you were feeling. It was a contained kiss, not clumsy, but charged with something primal, as if it had been kept for years behind clenched teeth. There was no sweetness in it, but there was a fierce respect.

He pulled away barely from you.

"Professor...?" you whispered, the word cracked against the edge of a sigh, as if saying it were a spell that could undo what had just happened.

He did not respond. His eyes remained fixed on yours, as if each second of silence spoke more than any phrase. You still felt the brush of his lips on yours, the warmth of his hand on your chin.

His fingers still pressed against your soft skin, over that generous curve, as if he owned the right to hold you, at least for that moment. The weight of something ancient and dense seemed to have awakened between the two of you.

The room felt heavy, filled with a warmth that didn’t come only from the fire in the hearth. Slughorn, overcome by drink, breathed deeply from his armchair, lost in a deep sleep that would not be interrupted. In front of him, however, reality was unfolding with a silent intimacy.

He pulled you closer with unexpected confidence, guiding you toward the firmness of his body. You settled onto his lap with a slowness that felt like vertigo. Only the slight creak of the chair. The heat beginning to concentrate in his palms over your clothed skin. Time became thick. Only the ever-decreasing distance between his breath and yours.

There were no words.

Your fingers found the edge of his cloak, held on, let go. You didn’t know if you were trembling from the closeness or from the awareness of what this meant: crossing a threshold you never thought would open.

It was a suspended language, never spoken, that now began to write itself into the air you shared. His lips met yours once more, this time with greater intent, without hesitation. The hand that had rested on your waist descended with precision, exploring the outline of your back, pausing for a second just at the edge of your dress, before sliding it upward.

The fabric rose with a timid whisper, and there, in that suspended pause, in that fragment of contained air, it was then that you said it.

"It’s the first time that..." your voice came out in a broken thread, more tremulous than your hands. "I’ve never..."

You didn’t finish the sentence. You couldn’t. The weight of the moment, combined with the full awareness of the insecurity of your body, so different from others, so yours, so real, weighed down on your chest. You tried to cover yourself, without really doing it. Not because he had looked at you with judgment, but because you didn’t know how to hold his silence. You had never imagined yourself in this situation. Until a few hours ago, your relationship with him was completely exhortative. You didn’t know what to do with that gaze so attentive, so penetrating, that seemed to read every corner of your confusion and newfound vulnerability.

Snape did not move right away. He just watched you. As if the confession of your virginity held more value than any ancient spell. As if your wide nervous eyes and flushed skin had touched him in a secret place he himself rarely visited.

And then he spoke. His voice was low, raspy, but without a hint of mockery.

"I know."

Your thighs, wide and tense from the position, awkwardly adjusted over his legs. The dress, gathered up to the middle, left the curve of your skin exposed against the roughness of his dark pants.

You shifted, unsure. The heat in your face was almost unbearable. Your eyes searched for anything but his. Perhaps the ground, perhaps an escape. The tension you always shared was still there, persistent, marking its presence now, even in a different kind of silence.

With devastating calm, both of his hands sank into your wide hips, into that soft flesh that molded under his touch, warm, alive. A grip with a reverence that made you hold your breath. As if there was nothing more important than bringing you back to yourself.

"You have always been unusually difficult to ignore," he said quietly, as if each word cost him.

One of his hands barely moved down. The tip of his fingers traced the line where your skin met the fabric of your panties.

His fingers pushed the damp fabric of your underwear aside, and the contact with your center was gentle. He drew barely perceptible circles, testing your reactions, listening to every gasp, every involuntary contraction. And when he slid a finger inside you, he did so with precise slowness, guided by your ragged breath and the way you clung tighter to his shoulders.

Your hips moved awkwardly. You wanted to avoid that sticky sound, that tremor, that moan that escaped you, but he took it with satisfaction. As if there was nothing more erotic than your nervousness.

Your hips moved involuntarily, causing a more direct friction between your thighs and his hardness. He groaned, a low, contained sound, but it reached you to the bones.

He added another finger, measuring your body, opening you up with a patience that contrasted with his evident desire, with the rigidity of his erection beneath you, pressing against you just where you were most sensitive.

You felt when his fingers retreated, damp, warm, leaving a stinging trail of pain and need. You raised your gaze just in time to see him move his hand to the opening of his pants. The movements were dry, skilled. There was no rush. The sound of the leather yielding. It was all a current that ran through you.

Your breath hitched again, and your legs seemed to hesitate for a moment. He noticed. His gaze, dark yet attentive, did not leave you as he pulled down his pants just enough to free his erection. He brushed against you, warm and firm, right between your legs still open over him.

"You're going to feel it," he said, low, direct. "It won't be gentle."

He positioned the tip of himself between your lower lips, still barely covered by the displaced fabric, and slowly pushed, pressing against your wet but tense entrance. Your body reacted with a jolt. A muffled moan escaped you as you felt him open you up, invade you. Your nails clung to the fabric of his cloak, purely instinctually.

"Shhh," he murmured, with one hand on your back. "Calm down..."

And with a single thrust, measured yet forceful, he took you completely, giving you a raw sensation of being split in two.

The heat, the pressure, the feeling of being stretched like this for the first time... it all overwhelmed you. You closed your eyes, drowning in the total contact, the way his hips rose to meet you from below, taking you to the depths, where modesty was useless.

The burning displaced everything else. A stabbing, sharp pain, barely concealed by the moisture that had prepared you. A moan escaped you, unlike the previous ones. It was not pleasure. It was an internal burn, a real invasion that your body did not yet know how to accept.

Your body tensed over his. Your back arched, your fingers dug fiercely into his shoulders. Snape gasped softly, through clenched teeth, noticing the defeated resistance, the slight wet pull that betrayed you. A thick, warm sensation mingled with the friction. When he looked down, he saw the red stain, as subtle as it was definitive, at the base of his member. The last threshold of your inexperience. Now, broken.

Your legs trembled around him. You felt your hips full, too sensitive, and for a moment you thought about how you must look from the outside. So open. So naked. But before shame could settle in, he spoke again, through gritted teeth.

"This is how I wanted to see you. Fucking mine."

His movements were slow, not out of tenderness, but for the pure pleasure of savoring you inch by inch. His grip remained firm on your waist, forcing you to feel every thrust, every touch, as if he wanted to mark you from within.

You moaned again, between a whimper and surrender, pressing your lips as if trying to hold back something more.

"It hurts..." you whispered, not wanting to say it, unable to avoid it.

Snape leaned his face to your ear, his uncontrolled breath brushing your neck.

"It will pass," he replied as he sank back into you.

There was no comfort in his words. Only certainty. He was not a man who knew how to ask for permission, nor to feign sweetness. But his way of holding you, guiding you, of not stopping despite the slight tremor of your thighs, spoke of absolute possession.

The moisture mixed with what remained of the tearing. Sticky, warm. It dripped down your thighs as your hips slowly adjusted to his thickness.

Amidst spasms of discomfort, you began to move over him by yourself, more clumsily than sensually, it was he who released a breath as if something inside him broke.

His hands slid down your wide thighs, over the soft flesh that trembled from the impact of your bodies.

The pain did not disappear completely. It persisted, dull, like an echo in your guts. But your body was starting to surrender. He felt it in the way your pelvis began to seek his with more urgency, in how your hips, still clumsy, still somewhat inexperienced, tried to follow his rhythm, desperate to reach him. The gasp that escaped him was darker and more ragged. As if he could no longer contain himself. He gritted his teeth, and suddenly, took control.

His hands descended, until gripping you more firmly beneath your thighs and lifting you slightly, then guiding you forcefully downwards. He made you fall onto him with measured violence, over and over again, establishing a rhythm where you could no longer think, only let yourself be used. You filled him completely, wet and hot, still somewhat in pain, but the constant friction of his pelvis against your clitoris turned everything into an urgent pleasure.

And then, that rising wave, that knot in the pit of your stomach that transformed into spasms. Your nails dug into him as you felt it. The first true moan escaped you uncontrollably, loud, almost clumsy, and he let out a rough sound laden with desire in approval.

Your body trembled, convulsing around his, trapping him. You gripped him from within with an unexpected strength, your legs involuntarily closing around him, and he did not stop. Not for a second. He continued to thrust into you from below, faster, deeper, his breathing on the verge of breaking.

And when you were still moaning, giving and shaking, it was he who broke now.

With a low, almost guttural groan, vibrating in his throat, hoarse, choked against your neck, Snape spilled inside you in a raw explosion. He held you with both hands as if the orgasm robbed him of control over his body. The warmth of his seed filled you instantly, wet, thick, mixing with the blood that had not fully dried yet. The contrast was wild. Intimate and Irreversible.

They remained like that, entwined, breathing as if the air had become denser. Your forehead resting on his shoulder, his hands still holding you, lost and absorbed, while silence fell, heavy, over both.

He still remained inside you, as firm as at the beginning, as if the climax had not drained a bit of his desire. You felt him throb inside you, hot, latent, and a new wave of excitement coursed through your spine despite the sharp echo of of the recent tearing. You barely moved, in a gentle sway, seeking him again, forcing him to feel the effect he still provoked in you. A shiver shook his body; the sensitivity after his orgasm was no barrier against the raw intensity of the moment. He let out a low growl, with that dangerous mix of rage and pleasure, and you knew he had lost control again.

Without warning, his hands closed over your hips and he lifted you as if you weighed nothing. Your legs barely managed to wrap around him before he positioned you against the table in front of you. The coldness of the wood against your skin contrasted with the heat that still vibrated between your legs. The noise didn’t seem to disturb Slughorn’s deep sleep at all, who still lay knocked out by alcohol on the other side of the room.

One hand pressed firmly against your lower back, forcing you to lean forward, while the other gripped one of your thighs, lifting it, opening you more for him.

"We haven't finished" he murmured, almost with fury, and moved inside you again, with more hunger than before.

Your hips began to move on their own, surrendered to the rhythm imposed by his grip. You felt yourself being filled over and over again, with the fierce weight of his flesh opening you and claiming every part of you. Your skin burned, your body vibrated… and in the midst of that vertigo, between moans and spasms, your voice came out broken, dragged by the impulse to confess what still bound you to guilt.

"Professor..." you gasped, your voice shaky. "The wine… the one Slughorn gave us… I think it had something in it."

He didn’t stop, but his body tensed immediately.

"What?" He let out a heavy exhalation, more like a whip than a question.

"I’m not sure…" you said between moans as he kept thrusting into you. "I suspect that… it must provoke some mix of relaxation... an increase in sensitivity... emotional and... physical".

He stopped dead in his tracks, the silence that followed was terrible.

He straightened without letting go of you, his eyes burned with barely contained rage, beneath the shadow of his soaked forehead. His jaw clenched. You knew it instantly — it wasn’t just disgust. His expression was thick with mistrust.

"Are you saying that Slughorn drugged us?!" he spat through clenched teeth with growing irritation, as his thrusts resumed. Deeper. There was no longer delicacy, nor care. But it was not against you. It was against the situation. Against the humiliation of having let himself go.

"That because of that stupidity" he continued, each word punctuated by the impact of his hips against yours, "I find myself here, buried deep inside my former student, losing every damn gram of self-control that has taken me decades to build".

He pressed you against him as if he wanted to fuse you into his body. Your lips barely managed to form sound. Pain returned for a second with the accelerated rhythm, but you didn’t complain. You were soaked in him. Inside, outside, everywhere.

"And yet…" he murmured, his voice broken by rage. "I can’t stop".

Because it was true. Despite the wine, despite the anger, despite the judgment. The way your body trembled around his, still so tight, still so wet, was consuming him.

"It's not your fault," he grunted. "But damn it... you dragged me here."

And with one last push, fierce, deep, he came again. More violent than before. He filled you a second time, with an explosion of heat so dense that your body felt it even more than the first. He grunted as he emptied himself inside you, with his teeth clenched, breath ragged as if he were exorcising something dark that had inhabited him forever.

He didn't move immediately.

He remained inside you, burning, gasping, with his forehead resting on your collarbone. His whole body trembled. Not from pleasure. From fury.

The morning light of the Great Hall stunned him directly in his eyes. Every clink of cutlery against plates, every early laugh from the students, was a stab in his skull hammered by a terrible headache. Snape dropped into his usual seat, his every movement taut with fatigue and an unmistakable sense of discontent. The air smelled of toasted bread, sweet fruits, and freshly brewed coffee, and yet, it all felt suffocating to him.

And to make matters worse, Slughorn settled next to him with a satisfied smile and a bubbly gleam in his eyes, clearly not remembering (or not wanting to remember) how many glasses he had drunk last night. He had a napkin stuffed into his collar like a bib and a piece of blueberry pie on his fork.

"Ah, Severus! Good morning, boy." he chewed enthusiastically, oblivious to the stony expression beside him. "What an evening last night, huh? You were more animated than usual. I think I finally managed to soften that heart of yours."

Snape did not respond. He merely served coffee with a hand that barely contained the tremor. He needed it loaded with caffeine. Strong. Very strong.

"What a shame that young Y/N left without saying goodbye." Slughorn took another bite, unaware of anything. "She was lovely last night. Brilliant as always… that dress was very charming, don’t you think?"

The silence was so sharp that even the elderly man seemed to notice it.

Snape put down the cup with a sharp thud that splashed a bit of the dark liquid onto the saucer. He turned slowly toward him, with a look of pure ice.

"What the hell did you put in the wine, Horace?"

The elderly man blinked, tilting his head as if he did not understand the question. Or pretended not to.

"Huh? The wine? Oh… just a touch of cordial opening elixir. I use it at receptions, you know… it smooths conversations, dissolves tensions... nothing serious, I assure you."

Snape squinted. "Nothing serious?"

"Come on, Severus," Slughorn laughed, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "You know better than anyone that there is no spell or potion capable of forcing someone to do what they do not truly desire. It just… helps them admit it."

Snape tensed even more. The echo of your gasping voice, your body clinging to his over that damned table, pierced him like a dagger. He didn't clearly remember what came next, only the scent of your skin, the taste of his own shame, and the persistent burn of having let himself be carried away. And now, you were gone. Without a note. Without a word. As if it had never happened.

"The next time you pretend to manipulate me as if I were one of your social experiments," he murmured with contained poison, "be sure not to add ingredients that affect my perception and judgment."

Slughorn looked at him with a mix of surprise and genuine confusion.

"Severus... I didn't know it would affect you like that. It was a kind night, I thought..."

Snape got up without saying more, the cloak fluttering with his movement. He left the half-drunk cup and walked out of the dining room with long, stiff strides, not looking back.

"What the hell happened last night...?" Slughorn murmured softly.

#Severus Snape #severus snape x reader #harry potter #severus smut #smut #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter oneshot #harry potter smut #hp fandom #hp marauders #hp #x fem!reader #x chubby reader #chubby #chubby femme #professor snape #alan rickman

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anjelicawrites · 1 year ago

Text

Homophrosyne

Paring: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader Synopsis: homophrosyne: a thinking and knowledge that is shared between two people. When your soulmate decides to come after you, you try to escape him. Too bad he’s Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, he’s never going to give you up. Warnings: blink and miss reference to the Baron’s abuse of Feyd, blink and miss reference to Feyd killing his mother, soulmate bonding considered as a curse, Feyd being very done and also horny, Feyd’s fascination with reader’s hair and body hair, switch!Feyd, switch!reader, attempted murder (not from Feyd to reader), murder, kissing, oral (f and m receiving), hair pulling, titty sucking, biting, blood licking, overstimulation, marking, Feyd’s pierced cock, a bit of ball torture. A/N: reader is AFAB, the only descriptor is that they have long hair. Where needed, they/them pronouns used.

You were one year old when you first learn that having a soulmate is more akin to a catastrophe, than a blessing. You shouldn’t remember the horrified gasp both your Bene Gesserit and your adoptive mother had exhaled, when they discovered your soulmate’s words on your body, yet you retrieved the memory when your Bene Gesserit mother taught you how to meditate. The two women had instilled the distrust of the bond in your heart, in hope to avoid what was unavoidable: the gravitational pull between two soulmates, before the forging of the bond.

Was the universe conspiring to realize this goal, when you felt compelled to follow your soulmate’s energy, the dark thread that pulled you towards him during that fateful afternoon you were meditating all alone? How could that sad, bald boy be a curse? He looked so alone in the big, dark room: how could you not go to him, when you felt him so strongly within yourself, for the first time?

All your parents, both biological and adoptive seemed keen in convincing you that stunting the newborn bond was the safest way for you to live: you couldn’t break you adoptive father’s heart when you had seen how ashen his face had become as soon as you told him the name of your destiny. You were but a child of six, still learning the ways of the world and put all your energies in forging a wall between you and him, learning to ignore the tug of your soul towards him, until you could pretend you never visited him. It was a fool’s errand, a wall made of feathers, not bricks, the one you, so desperately, crafted to make your family happy. Through the cracks, tendrils of the bond had, slowly, made way for themselves, as you deluded yourself with believing you were safe, that you could escape your destiny. You were a fool, your whole family was. He was biding his time, patiently waiting for the tendrils to envelop the bricks of your defenses and destroy them: if his uncle had taught him something, was the patience of the spider that weaves its web and you, little fly, were going to be ensnared. It was destiny, after all.

You haven’t seen him since that fateful encounter. Stupidly your brain expected him to still be a child of five, sad and alone the way you first met him, you struggle to recognize him in the grown man observing you like a predator would its prey.

“Found you.” He says, his voice a gravelly drawl that makes goosebumps explode on your dream skin.

He’s grown, dream you thinks, of course he’s an adult now.

“You are a stubborn little thing, aren’t you?” He deadpans.

There’s a sort of tenderness in his blue eyes, in the way he assess you from his perch. The irony doesn’t escape you, your first meeting had happened in his bedchambers, your positions the same: him sitting on the bed, you standing in front of him, two curious children who had been playing with forces beyond their understanding.

You want to look everywhere but at him, yet your eyes are drawn to his naked form under the black bed sheets, the strong planes of his hairless chest and the raw, masculine energy you feel coming from him in waves. Even though this is a dream, you can feel your dream body react to his non-presence, your nipples stiffen under the soft cotton of your nightgown and your cunt pulsates with the need to be filled by him.

“You have no idea.” You growl back.

His dark gaze travels down your body, clad only by the soft material of your nightgown and you have to steer yourself from covering your skin from the hunger in his gaze.

“Join me.” He says, beckoning you with one hand. “You know you want to.” “You’ll soon realize how little you know about me.” You spat back, disgusted by the desire coursing through your dream body.

You know that, if you were to follow the desperate howl of need you feel, the pleasure he’ll give you will be unparalleled, it will ruin anyone else for you. There will be no escaping.

With a speed that only exists in a dream, he stands in front of you, glorious body naked, pierced cock erect and straining towards you.

“Why make this harder than it should be? You’re made for me and I am made for you. It’s no use fighting this.” He drawls, the sound a low rumble you feel in your bones. “Because I forge my own path. And I have no use for a fool.”

You’re surprised by how firm your voice is, all the training kicking in without you even thinking about it; he laughs, a deep, rich sound that reverberates through you.

“I’m coming for you, soulmate.” He says, his voice calm, his tone final and sure. “If you can find me.” “I always know where you are.”

You force yourself to wake up, body sweaty and aroused under the soft cotton of your own sheets; you’re ashamed by the desire that burns your body, and by the fact that you have to bury your fingers in your wet cunt, forcing yourself to come again and again, biting your pillow to stifle the desperate moans of his name: Feyd.

To leave both your biological and adopted family is the only solution you have, not when you have to tell your mothers and fathers that Feyd coming for you is not an ‘If’ anymore, but a ‘When’.

“It is too slim a chance that he will not come after you, in the end.” Your mentat father repeats you in the vain hope to stop you. “I’d rather seize that, than wait like a sitting duck!” “You can’t run forever.” Your adoptive father puts his big hands on your shoulders, stopping you from packing. “You’re safer here, where guards are.”

You stare at him, your trained eye sees the stunted micro expressions and the way he’s trying to hide his anxiety from you.

“I’m not sacrificing our people’s on his blade, he will stop once he’ll realize that I have no interest in him and that he can’t reach me; Harkonnen care more about power than anything else. And then I will be able to come home.”

You have to keep yourself awake, swallowing pills after pills, using all your training to force your exhausted body to endure the never ending trip to the furthest limit of the Imperium, jumping from a smuggler vessel to another, hiding your true path from Feyd by trying to use the bond to manipulate him into going on a wild goose chase.

Sometimes you can hear the low rumble of his voice like an echo in your mind, his fleeting image randomly appears in your mirror, his dark eyes pools of desire that have you tremble in the deepest recess of your core; you're so tired now that you don’t know if it’s the bond becoming stronger, or your exhausted brain running on fumes that makes you feel the fleeting warmth of his touch on your skin or his presence by your side. It is torture not to follow what your body wants: just let yourself become one with your soulmate, and rest in the safety of his presence. You are too stubborn to surrender yourself to biology, and to Feyd, so you soldier on, blocking him out as much as you can as the bond erodes the last, frayed, defenses you have left.

Hidden under a false name you wait to set sail to the last leg of your journey and you have to bundle yourself into thick layers of clothes to survive the frigid weather of this small planet, as you force yourself get a breath of fresh air whenever the walls of your rented room seem to become smaller and smaller. It’s paranoia, yet you seem to feel the eyes of the owner of the inn scan you every time you go out, weighting you against the other patrons and finding you too different to truly blend in: when is the vessel coming? You ask yourself again and again, as you navigate the crowded market, vibrating with the need to simply go and finish this demented trip.

You walk aimlessly, pressed in the crowd that protects and smothers you at the same time, trying to interest yourself in the trinkets sold while you study your surroundings, feeling the power you have on the simulflow slip: as much as the Bene Gesserit have total and utter control on their body and its functions, there’s still a limit, and you know you are reaching it at full force.

When you see him, for a second you think that’s your brain playing tricks on you: he can’t be here, not without you feeling him through the bond. Have you finally lost your mind? You can’t truly analyze what’s happening that your body seizes, torn between the extreme stress you’ve put it under for weeks, and feeling the bond finally snap and settle; you faint on the cobbled road, all your muscles trembling violently, your head banging against the pavement as the people make room around you, your ears deaf to their horrified screams, or to Feyd calling your name.

Finally you can rest.

You open your eyes to a dull ache in the back of your head, your eyes focusing slowly on the rustic woodwork of the ceiling above you as you feel your mind assess your memories, and block Feyd from knowing you’re awake, out of sheer instinct, knowing full well this is going to work partially: you will need to face the man, not now though, you’re not ready. You want to assess the bond, understand it: what you haven’t done in your entire life. Escaping is not in the cards anymore, now that Feyd knows where you are, you just need some more time, before you can face him. You’re still surprised he’s been apt enough to manipulate the bond to this extent: you thought he was wasting time in a wide goose chase! This level of deviousness leaves you speechless and, if the circumstances were different, you’d be happy to take Feyd as your lawfully wedded husband; but you can’t.

You have no idea how long you’ve been out, probably long enough to feel your strength and clarity being restored, albeit partially. Quick and silent you bundle yourself up in your warmest clothes and throw the survival kits you have in the backpack, before opening the window and use your mentat training to assess the best route to escape the village, using the roofs as your route. Feyd will realize soon enough that you’re gone again and you need to cover as much ground as you can manage. This planet is so backward, even compared to the standards of this side of the galaxy, that the only mode of transportation is on horseback; for a split second you consider stealing one form one of the stables of the inn, but that would bring too much attention to yourself, and you don’t need that.

Feyd reaches you when you’ve arrived at the high cliffs, the only known feature of this small planet. You knew he’d be on your tracks as soon as he’d realize you weren’t asleep anymore, the block on the bond only partially shielding you from his awareness: you have to confront him, finally, but on your own terms, not his.

“Stay where you are!” You shout over the howling of the wind, as soon as he dismounts from the horse. “If you come any closer I’m chucking myself off this cliff!”

You see Feyd stop on his tracks immediately, and you know he knows, through the bond, that you’re not lying.

“This is the moment you turn around and go back to your home planet!” You shout. “You know I can't do that.” “No one is forcing your hand!”

Your foot slips a little but you manage to regain your balance; a shot of pure, unadulterated fear courses through the bond: it's Feyd’s and it takes your breath away.

“Come closer!” He shouts over the violent wind. “I don't trust you, Harkonnen!”

Frustration, anger, sadness all explode through the bond and you know he's forcing himself not to jump at you and drag you off the cliff, kicking and screaming, even risking you jumping backwards; with the bond having settled, the connection is unavoidable, thus keeping him out completely will never work, there will always be a part of him linked to your soul.

“I'm not going to hurt you!” “You’d never be able to! Not even in a million years!”

Frustration again, and a hint of amusement: he believes his swordsmanship to be better than yours. You fight back, focusing all your anger on him, the strength of it pushing him backwards.

“You can try to best me!” He shouts.

He's positively amused now, despite the situation, he finds you amusing! You're so incensed you’d carve his eyes out! And you’d do so, if fat drops of rain didn't start pelting the two of you, drenching the two of you to the bone in seconds. The sky has turned black and the wind is so violent that you have to abandon your perch on the cliff and get closer to Feyd.

“There's…” You try to make yourself heard over the brutal howling. “Caves!” You shout, pointing to the point where the cliffs fall directly into the ocean. “Go back!” He shouts back. “Too far!”

The crack of a too close thunder scares the horse. The animal rears violently on his hind legs, forcing you and Feyd to move aside before it runs away, mad with fear. You elect to ignore that Feyd has put himself between you and the scared horse.

“We need to go!” You shout, pulling the hood tighter over your head.

You're drenched to the bone and so cold that it's only thanks to the prana-bindu training that you're not trembling like a leaf. Feyd doesn't look any better than you do: his black clothes have absorbed all the water possible and are sticking to his long body; it's the light shade of blue of his lips that’s concerning: without the horse, going back to the village is impossible in this weather: you two need to find refuge as soon as possible!

You don't need to tell him, you simply start walking, trying to orient yourself under the wall of rain that's still pouring over you two to find the cave system you know exists in the cliff that slopes into the ocean.

The wind makes walking a feat, you have to bend forward and push against the violence of the element. Through the bond you feel Feyd and the strain his own body is put under to follow your path, how cold he feels; and it’s affecting you as well. A full grown bond between soulmates it’s not that different from the Other Memory, yet it’s deeper. It’s not simply sharing one’s ego, it’s fusing two cores, while maintaining one’s consciousness: the most deep connection of two people’s experiences, lives and feelings, the biological need to help and protect the other side of the bond. What you’re desperately trying to fight. On a genetic level you want to share your prana-bindu control over to Feyd, to protect him from the chill in his bones, your rational mind stops you from doing so and you’re torn between those two needs battling in your chest.

You two stumble inside the first opening you see and keep walking until you two are away enough from the draft coming from the mouth of the cave; you two quickly scope it, and you finally let your back rest against the cold stones when it is apparent that there’s only one way in and out.

“What is this place?” Feyd’s voice is even lower, raspy with tiredness. “Bandit’s cove. The ruling House of this constellation has eliminated the threat years ago and never went through the hassle of emptying the whole cave system. Some reports say that no planetologist ever studied it as a whole.”

All around the two of you lay broken pieces of furniture and even older equipment, perhaps you two can even find some dry blankets to add to what you have in your survival kits.

The slap of Feyd’s over layers of clothes being thrown on the floor snaps you out of your thoughts: another side effect of being in the presence of one’s soulmate is the instinctual fall of every self-protection response, and you didn’t even realize it’s happening to you!

“We need to start a fire.” Feyd tells you.

You force yourself to ignore the way the remaining layers of wet clothes cling to his long body, enhancing the strong muscles as he moves around to break the furniture into smaller pieces; you know he knows you’re watching, and he likes it. Hurriedly you open your backpack, looking for matchsticks, hoping they are all still dry in the deepest pocket of the survival kit, electing to ignore his smugness again: you don’t know what will happen between you two, one thing is certain, you will slap that smirk off his face, probably sooner than later.

“You shouldn’t threaten me with the promise of a good time, if you’re not going to deliver.” He drawls, and you feel warmth explode in your body.

You throw the matchsticks at him, who grabs it blindly, too focused on creating a small pile of wood to look towards you; despite the shaking of his hands he manages to start the fire. You get closer to the small flames and let your palms hover for a moment, knowing full well you have to change into the dry clothes in your pack; Feyd doesn't seem to care that you're there, he simply removes the remaining layers covering his torso, before rummaging through his own backpack. You can't help yourself, you stare, almost transfixed, at the way his muscles move and play under his white skin, the tight control he has on his movements scream of the training he had subjected himself to: he is so powerful and a part of you wonders how sheathing him within yourself would feel, how would your body manage the feat; you turn around as quickly as you can when he stares at you, embarrassed by having let your mind wonder.

“Are we still playing this game?”

Again, amusement floods from his side of the bond, surprising you.

“It's common decency.” “Was it when you were ogling me?” “I wasn't. I was thinking and you were in the way. Now will you turn around?” “You are weird.” He says, cocking his head to the side.

He talks! You think. Has he ever looked at himself in a mirror? Do they even have mirrors on Giedi Prime?

“We do have mirrors. It would surprise you how common those are back home.”

You jump at his answer, not being used to having someone else camping in your head.

“Stay out of my mind!” “Easier to say than to do.”

He's right and you know it. You know he's not watching as you undress and unpack the dry clothes from their protective layers, yet you feel his presence, his warmth, as if he were touching you; you shiver, you can't help it, the deeper, the baser triggers of your biology taking over a lifetime of training. It is strange, having to manage the rapidly growth of his soul inside of you, find a balance between yourself and him: you can alter your body functions all you want, yet you can't stop yourself from feeling what Feyd does, his tiredness, the warmth seeping back in his bones, his hunger and not only for food.

Now you understand why the Bene Gesserit are so wary of marked sisters.

You try to focus on your body, the flow of your breath and the movements of every single muscle as you change clothes and then eat. You had thought you could have simply shelved the bond in one of the planes of the simulflow, but it encompasses everything and slithers in your every thought. You are not sure how you're supposed to be still yourself and house Feyd inside of you, manage his presence and the layers of your being: is this tiredness in your bones yours? A leftover from having abused pills for too long, or is it him?

“I’ll stand guard, you sleep.” He tells you after you both have finished eating. “I'm not sleeping with you awake.” “Afraid I might steal you away?” “Would you?” “I don't know. Would I?”

His eyes focus on yours as you feel him poke you through the bond.

“How come you're so apt at this?” You ask, needing to change the subject and fishing for information. “I reckon one of us has to, after you blocked me out. It came handy in the long run.” His full lips twist in a smirk and you can see he hasn't the black pain on his teeth; isn’t the na Baron supposed to wear that? “Both of us sleeping is dangerous. If I truly wanted to take you, I would have done so when you fainted in the middle of the street.” “This planet is safe, all the reports say so.” You retort back. “And you know because you’ve read all of them.” He answers, sarcasm tinging his voice.

So he doesn't know, you realize. Even though he knows how to manipulate the bond better than you do, what you are hasn't seeped through, yet.

He will, though, soon enough.

“If you're tired, I am tired. It's irritating.”

It's more than that, it fucks with both your rogue mentat and Bene Gesserit training: it’s harder to understand how to live with another’s soul inside of yours when you feel like you’re battling running on fumes. You know he knows you're not telling the truth, not the whole of it, but the sharing between you two is still happening: you two aren't completely barren to one another.

“We sleep with our backs to the stone and I am laying in front of you. That's not negotiable.” “Don't tell me an Harkonnen has developed the ability to care.” You bark. “I trust my knives more than any report.” He answers.

He's not lying, you realize, he’s not being a gentleman, he simply believes more in his swordsmanship, than he does anything else.

You huff and busy yourself with creating an insulation layer, by putting on the stone floor the ancient blankets stored in one of the trunks Feyd used to feed the fire, before opening your sleeping bag.

Before laying down, you hang all your wet clothes on a small trunk, as close to the fire as possible, hoping they will dry through the night. Feyd does the same and you can't help but notice the stark difference between your earthly tones and his solid black. He then lays the blankets from your survival packs, and his, over the sleeping bags, hoping to ward the cold and humidity away; it’s not ideal but it’s just for one night, back home he’ll shower you will the comforts that come with being his spouse, because you’re going back to Geidi Prime with him.

Uneasy you slither inside your sleeping bag. Hiding a small dagger under the pillow you turn to face Feyd, who is lying on his back; you’d rather sleep on your other side, but you still don’t trust him.

Despite all odds, you fall asleep, a deep, dreamless slumber that envelops you in darkness and quiet; beside you Feyd sleeps the sleep of the hunter, light and ready to be awoken by the gentlest of sounds. He has to force himself not to follow you into the deep sea of unconsciousness, has to fight the natural soulmate instinct to lose all survival instinct, because one’s other half is finally by their side.

The sudden stop of the rainfall is what awakens him. In the darkness he can make out your features, slackened with the relaxation of sleep. A stray lock of hair has escaped the loose plait you braided to help dry them; he longs to move it out of your face, feel the actual texture and not the phantom he does through the bond, but then you would wake and he just wants to observe you. You are beautiful to him in the way nothing is permitted to be on Giedi Prime, you’re also a headache and a half, trying to send him on a wild goose chase and still rejecting him. It would have almost worked, if he hadn’t gone through the pains of learning the ways of the bond, while you had been rejecting it ever since you two were children. He had to be devious about it, hiding from his uncle, pretending to ignore it to not incur in his wrath again and he had to do it all on his own, alone and abandoned by you, who never visited him again. He’ll know soon enough if your family had punished you for having a soulmate, for wearing his words on your skin, the way his uncle did when he first saw the words hidden in the crease of his right thigh.

You become restless in your sleep at this thought, and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do.

The long years you left him alone in navigating the bond, he had hated that you left him to his own devices, had imagined to hurt you as punishment for the wall you had built between you two, had longed for you and punished himself for it. When he saw you again, in that too short dream, he felt like he had received a personality transplant: all his rage gone, substituted by this array of feelings foreign to him, that he couldn’t name, and lust for your body. There’s no love, nor gentleness on Giedi Prime, or in the Harkonnen family, yet all he could think was that his daggers existed to protect you, that he would never raise his hand in anger against you. Even on that cliff, where he was ready to just drag you by the hair away from danger, it wasn’t because he wanted to hurt you, just protect you; and you’re making everything so difficult, stubborn little thing that you are.

“Is it always going to be like this?” Your voice is a light murmur, your eyes stubbornly closed. “You think while I am asleep, thus waking me up, Feyd?”

It’s the first time you’ve used his name, still emerging from your slumber your defenses are lowered, or so you like to think.

“You’ll learn.” He says. “You could have had a head start.” “You’re such an asshole.” You growl back, opening your eyes.

His face is not fully turned towards you, mindful of the distant opening of the cave, and you can only observe his profile. He’s as handsome, his features only enhanced by the lack of hair, as much as he’s devious and smart: of course he hits all the targets with you, the universe shaped him for you, if only…

Before you let your thoughts wander anymore, you stand up abruptly and start collecting your belongings.

“And you are making this harder than it should!”

You can feel his rage through the bond, it hurts you, yet you know this is the only course of action.

“Why can’t you understand there’s no other way? I’m not coming to Giedi Prime with you, and I am not bringing you home with me!”

Now it’s his turn to stand up, his massive hand curls around your arm and even through the layers of clothing you can feel his warmth, his words on your skin burning.

“I’m not some stray puppy you found at the side of the road!” He bites back.

Before you can answer, from the darkness, countless knives fall upon you two.

The cave you two have camped in must have had another entrance, hidden, because there’s men pouring in from everywhere. Before you and Feyd can go back to back, you two are separated, forced to parry and dodge the hail of stabbing and blows. The more people you two wound and kill, the more appear; they seem to focus mainly on Feyd, who is fighting brutally, cutting through the wall of men that’s, inexorably, closing upon him, in the vain attempt to reach you and the exit from the cave. You’re backed against a wall, desperately trying to carve your way out, but more men jump you and you know you’ve been wounded.

Feyd is one of the finest fighters of the whole Imperium, fast and cunning, but he’s just one man against a never ending sea and as much strength and speed you can infuse your movements, you two outnumbered, you realize, assessing the situation with the inward calm you have been lacking these past few weeks. Knowing that there’s only one solution doesn’t scare you, perhaps it’s the key to solve this entire issue. You focus on the four men blocking you against the stone wall: you forget the daggers in your hands, forget the pain coursing through you body and simply concentrate all your energies on your vocal cords.

“Kill all your companions!” You order, knowing full well how hard it is to use the Voice on a group of people.

The four stop their advance and stare at you, confused, as if assessing your words, before turning around and attacking their own friends. The ensuing chaos is what you and Feyd need to gain the upper hand and cut through the whole host of enemies, now too stunned to pose a threat anymore, until only the four you used the Voice on are still standing.

Another person would be horrified by the look in their eyes at the realization that they have help massacre their own people, you can’t find it in your heart to care.

“Finish the job!” You bark, too busy to assess your internal damages to observe the ensuing bloodbath.

You let your body fall onto the ground, you know you have some broken ligaments in you ankle and a gaping wound on your side; and your cells proliferating hurts more than being stabbed.

You feel, more than hear, Feyd kneel by your side.

“You’re one of the witches.”

Surprise courses through the bond, a sneer tinges his deep voice; perhaps this is the way to convince him to let you go.

“My birth mother was, still is in a way. She’s just given me renegade training, ah!”

Your body tenses when a fractured rib snaps back into place.

“No Bene Gesserit can be marked by soul words.”

“That’s what they want everyone to believe.” You open your eyes and fix your gaze upon him. “Marked sisters exists, like my mother. They are a minority and are not fully trusted to follow whatever is the Bene Gesserit end goal.”

A cursory check of your injuries shows you that you’re left with minor scrapes.

“Feyd, you don’t want to associate yourself with the mess that’s my family. And I can’t let the Baron have any control over my training.”

The training your birth parents forced upon you as protection against your soulmate, the training that makes you accepting the bonding so dangerous. Idiots, all of them! And you as well!

You let your head fall back against the stone, in your mind eye you can see yourself the way Feyd does, still bloodied and covered in perspiration, the most beautiful thing he’s seen in his entire life.

“You’d really think I would let my uncle play you like a puppet on a string?” “You know you’re a pawn in his game. Everyone in your family is, and I can’t risk him using me to gain even more power.”

Sadness fills the bond, it comes from you in waves; you’re not telling him the whole truth, though, he realizes, this is but one of the reasons why you’ve been avoiding your shared destiny.

“That is not a problem anymore.”

Your eyes snap open and land on his white teeth, again.

Why isn’t he wearing the black paint? He’s the na Baron, he’s supposed to! You finally let yourself analyze this change in him. The only reason why he’s stopped…

“Yes.” The low drawl of his voice halts your rambling thoughts. “I had to follow you around the Imperium, right after my beloved uncle passed away, unexpectedly. A shame I couldn't mourn him properly.”

Flashes explode through the bond: the Emperor’s Truthsayer, the body of the old Baron on the floor, his neck broken. Feyd says ‘beloved’ but you can detect no love towards the old man.

“You passed the test. You couldn’t be accused of anything.” “Accidents happen, soulmate. Some are happier than others.” He deadpans.

Another flash: child Feyd, why is he naked? Why is his uncle there with him? You feel his pain, his shame, your words on his body. Pain! You feel like you can’t breathe when you see though his child eyes the blade, and his mother's lovely eyes. Great Mother protect us! Hate, respect, greed, hate so much of it, having to scheme every single second, knowing death and only death.

You lose control of your feelings and thoughts, flooding the bond with hate, and the images of what you would have done to the old man, for what he had put Feyd through.

“I’m glad he’s passed, I wouldn’t have been able to wait for an accident to happen.” You say. “And I wouldn’t have passed the test.”

Pride comes from him, and relief, like a warm embrace and it would be so easy to surrender to him, to your destiny.

“Why are you still trying to run?”

Feyd’s voice is so low, you feel his words more than hear them, warm they settle in your lower belly and you want nothing more than to let yourself go.

“Because having a soulmate is a curse, don’t you understand?”.

Gently you take his hand. His palm is so big and warm, with your fingers you trace the callouses his training left behind; you don’t trust yourself to share this memory without skin on skin contact.

Now it’s Feyd’s turn to see through your eyes and, at the same time, from the outside, like a spectator, you as a child of one year old and two women fussing around you, he knows it’s your mothers, one biological, the other adopted. He feels your panic when your biological one brushes your hair and sees the newly formed words hidden by your thick locks, the wail that leaves the two women’s mouths: what have you done wrong?

“My Bene Gesserit mother had a goal, all of them do.” You say, your hand still holding his. “She wanted to show the sisterhood she could be trusted, even with the soul words on her skin, that a marked sister could be as trustworthy as an unmarked one. Then she met my father.” “The heir to his House.” “His mentat.” You smile at his surprise. “I told you my family is a mess. They forgot their training, their loyalties, only their bond existed. It was only the sheer respect my adoptive parents held for my father, that saved them. They couldn’t even raise me as their own, and I have to believe having a soulmate is a blessing?” “It is not. But I’d rather work with it, than against it. Think of what we could achieve together.”

Oh, his cunning brain. You were bought up reciting the Litany Against Fear, but he had been the one truly growing up following it and you have been acting like a fool for your entire life: you can’t inherit your adoptive father’s dukedom, you will have to take a husband to share the power, as the laws of the Imperium force you to. Would you rather marry a stranger, maybe stupid and short sighted, or someone as cunning and ruthless as Feyd is? Why did your whole family never thought of this? Your adopted parents were terrible at their jobs, they were so painfully short sighted, thus crippling you!

“Enjoy this moment because I will never say this again: you’re right.”

Feyd grimaces at your words and his pain takes hold of the bond, he can’t keep it under control anymore.

Your hands cup his face and you push your forehead against his: you’re not sure you’re doing this right, not without feeling him under your palms.

“What are you doing?” He manages to say. “I’m trying to assess your internal damages, shut up.”

Your nails embed themselves in the soft skin covering his skull as you feel every cell of his body as if they were yours: strained muscles and ligaments, one shoulder hurts and edema is forming, what else? You pinpoint the stray point of a broken rib that has ruptured his spleen: he’s bleeding on the inside!

“This is going to hurt, I’m sorry.”

Your lips connect with his to force his body to heal, his muscles to move the stray point of the rib back where it is supposed to be and mold itself to the stump, his spleen to close the wound and reabsorb the non clotted blood. Under your hands his body twists and you have to use your prana-bindu strength to keep him in place, until you’re done and every injury has healed.

“What was that?” He asks against your lips, his breath coming out harsh and fast. “A witch never explains their tricks.”

Amidst the dead bodies and the blood, Feyd kisses you, his tongue in your mouth eager, your soft breasts against the solid planes of his chest: you taste better than anything he’s ever eaten, the metallic tang of your own blood only enhances his need to absorb you within himself. You straddle him and you feel his cock, hard and thick, you can’t help but grind against him, reveling in the pleasure and the pain he feels: battling the bond and your desire towards him is impossible now.

“Not here.” You manage to moan when he releases your mouth. “Dangerous.” “Still bossing me around.” He groans when you don’t stop grinding against his erection. “I thought you liked it.”

Disengaging from one another is hard, it’s a miracle you two manage, drunk as the two of you are on post-fight adrenaline, murder and lust.

“No bandits, eradicated.”

You feel his eyes on your body, the heath behind his words: he’s not mad at you, he’s hungry. He’d have you in this mass grave, if he knew no more assailant would come.

“Who would have come and check? No one cares about this planet.” You answer.

You two make a quick work of all your belongings and head back to the village you came from.

The sky is still dark, covered by clouds that promise rain, the thick forest that surrounds the path looms on you and Feyd; perhaps there’s more enemies hidden and ready to attack. Through the bond you feel Feyd’s readiness for a fight, he’s also ashamed of having almost lost in front of you. What should you do? How does one comfort a Giedi Prime native? Would he even accept your words?

You jump out of your skin when the horse appears from the forest. The poor animal looks worse for wear, having hidden from the storm somewhere, yet it lets you grab the reins and caress his mane, before it allows you and Feyd to mount his back and rush back to the village.

You hug Feyd from behind, your arms as tight as possible around the bloody backpack and his torso as wind and rain whip your face. Despite the awkwardness of your temporary position, you feel lust grow in your belly, now that you’re not fighting the bond. You know that a part of it comes from Feyd, from having wanted you for years, from having tried to quench his thirst in the arena and with concubines who, he imagined, looked like you. The rest is all you. No lover you had ever managed to satisfy you: none of them was truly built for you the way he is and now that your know what he tastes like, you know you’re hooked and lost forever. How stupid you had been in letting the fears of your family dictate your actions, depriving yourself of him and chipping at your own strength: so much time lost!

The horse almost collapses in front of the inn, tired and foaming at the mouth it drinks from the waterhole in front of the building and ignores you and Feyd dismounting.

The owner of the inn pales when he sees you two, you can only imagine the ways Feyd might have threaten him, while you were out of commission; you don’t feel sorry though, you will, but not now, all you care is climb back to your room and fuck your soulmate until you both collapse. You feel Feyd’s eyes burn holes in your back, his lust for you clouding his senses; it spills trough the bond and you almost choke on your own saliva with the force of it. In your entire life you’ve never wanted someone as bad as you do Feyd right now, only decency stops you from taking him on the creaky stairs.

The door locking behind is final: you have nowhere else to run and hide.

You throw your backpack on the floor and turn around to truly observe your soulmate. He’s imposing in the small room, impossibly tall and hulking, he blocks your way out; only now you notice the freckles scattered on his cheekbones and you think how out of character that is: he’s Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the psychotic Baron of Giedi Prime, his name puts the fear of the Gods, old and new in the hearts of men, and he has freckles so light you can barely see them.

Slowly you walk towards him and lift the tip of your finger to trace them, creating constellations on his skin; Feyd lets a low groan of pleasure escape his lips at your soft touch. One day your words on his skin will stop pulsating when you touch him, his cock will not stand into attention immediately, just because he’s got a sniff of your smell; one day, in the distant future, now he moves his head to capture your fingers with his lips, sucking the digits in with a low moan. Your mouth finds his pulse point and latches there, your teeth worry the soft skin, your tongue licks his heady taste: you want to devour this man, mark him as yours for everyone to see.

“I might need a quick shower.” You murmur in his ear.

Fast, faster than what you would have expected, one of his hands grabs your hair (God the way he groans at the touch), the other lands possessively on your hip.

“You’re not going anywhere.” He growls, menacingly.

You find yourself slammed against the wall, unceremoniously, his hand the only protection for your head. You feel the recoil in your whole body, you want to cuss him, but his mouth is on yours, hungry, his teeth ready to draw blood from your lower lip. You plaster yourself against him, grab at his back with desperate hands as you reciprocate the kiss, blindly following his taste, deaf to the sound of your teeth clumsily clashing against his: you’ve kissed many, but no one had felt like him, tasted the way he does.

You try to push the two of you away from the wall and towards the bed, but your strength liquefies when Feyd simply stands his ground and plasters himself better against your writhing body.

“I should let you hang like this as punishment, soulmate. Tease you until you cry.”

You let your eyes roll for a moment at the heath in his words, then your teeth snap again on the soft skin of his neck and the moan that leaves his lips tells you that there’s more to this man, than his harsh exterior and his reputation.

You pull at the soft skin with jerky movements, clenching your teeth with as much strength as you dare use; Feyd snaps his hips against your clothed core: you can feel his raging erection through the layers of clothes you two are wearing, his lust flashes through the bond and you think you’re going to come by the sheer strength of it. When you taste blood, Feyd knows and moans, a rich, deep sound of pleasure that shakes you: no other lover has accepted your need for pain and violence the way Feyd is doing right now.

He kisses you savagely when he sees his own blood on your lips and you moan at his pleasure, your hands fly to his shoulders to brace yourself against the onslaught of his teeth on your mouth, of his tongue seeking his own taste inside of you; you don’t even realize you can, yet you’re chanting his name through the bond, your lust only enhancing his. He needs to be inside of you, yet he can’t stop kissing you, feeling your needs meld in the bond: it’s heady and better than any sex he’s ever had in his entire life.

“Bed.” You moan when he releases your lips, only to bite your neck like an animal. “Make me.” He growls back.

You have to center yourself against the pleasure and the torment he’s giving you, his hands mold themselves around your breasts, only to squeeze your tender flesh to the point of pain, his hips jackhammer against yours and you know the right angle will make you come like a horny teenager; desperate you focus inward, on your muscles and nerves, willing the pleasure to fade in the background of your conscience and your attention to be on your body, to move you two away from the wall.

Not feeling Feyd through the bond is almost worse: pulling the broadcasting of his pleasure in the background makes you hear his moans and groans even better. He’s unabashed in his lust and knowing that’s you causing all of this makes breathing difficult, yet you manage to push against his bigger frame, forcing him to walk backwards a few steps, before you let one leg fall on the floor and propel the two of you more; he digs his heels against you, effectively stopping the two of you from moving.

“Seems like we are not going anywhere.” He drawls and you feel the amusement through the bond. “And there I thought you wanted to taste me.” You murmur in his ear. “I was told I am delicious.”

A flare of jealousy courses through the bond, his hands grab at your body with such a strength you know you’ll wear his marks for days. Unceremoniously he throws you on the bed, his hands on your knees stop you from closing your legs.

“Who are those who have already taste you?” “Many.” You shrug. “I couldn’t always be good and proper, could I?”

The growl his dangerous and you can’t find in your heart to be afraid: you want him charged up, want to feel the full force of his passion; you laugh in his face as he cuts and rips the clothes away from your body, until you’re naked and ready, your own hidden weapons fallen and forgotten on the floor. The dagger he’s used to cut your clothes, now travels from your neck to your torso, the sharp edge almost touching your skin, but not really.

“Taste my blood, Feyd.” You moan. “It’s something else I’m thirsty for, soulmate.” It’s his dark answer.

He drives the knife through the mattress, next where your head is in a show of dominance that has your hole clench around nothing.

Feyd dives between your legs, he leaves you no chance to speak when his lips curl around your clit and suck, harsh and fast, with filthy moans of pleasure that reverberate through your whole being. Your hips try to push up, stopped by his big hands, your tights clench around his head as you try to escape the pleasure, escape him, pitiful whines flow from your lips as he pushes you higher and higher, until you come with a scream. Dazed by pleasure you expected Feyd to stop, to give you respite; his tongue in your hole forces your body in overdrive, his nose is pure torture against your puffy clit. With horror you realize that you have no purchase against his onslaught, no way to control his movements, but with the clenching of your legs around his head. You try to leverage against his body and his hands shoot out to grab yours, the risk of you snapping his neck enhances his lust, the lack of oxygen only spurs him on to fuck you faster, harder with his long tongue until you explode, breathless and desperate.

“Feyd! Feyd! Let go!”

A harsh bite on your thigh is your only answer, followed by a low growl, like a rabid animal that's finally found food. Through the bond you can feel his pleasure, his hunger, his lust: everything enhances your own reactions, your own blind need for his body. You’re panting now, almost no oxygen enters your lungs, because Feyd’s long tongue is licking you, with clockwise motions he explores your wet heath, only to nibble at your clit, forcing your body to squirm under his weight; the kick of your heels against his back only spurs him on: he can feel how overstimulated you are and it only amps up his own libido, the pain you’re causing him blanks his mind and he almost comes untouched in his trousers when your pleasure becomes painful and your body is shaking wildly under his.

One of his arms falls on your tummy to block you, three fingers of his other hand are already inside of you seek that spongy part that has you jump under him when he finally finds it. You start crying when his lips suck your abused clit: there’s no mercy in the way he’s handling you, just a mindless focus on pleasure. He’s canting his hips against nothing, needing your taste and, at the same time, to be buried inside of you; the way you’re trying to escape spurs him on, his fingers fuck you faster, rougher they scissor your clenching muscles as you kick and scream wildly, almost as if possessed when his soft lips suck following the rough rhythm of his fingers inside of you. You tense under him and arch, the tears falling from your eyes blind you, wail like moans choke in your throat as you feel your body reaching your end, your nerves burn where he’s pleasuring you, so much pleasure, too much! You squirt all over his face, and almost pass out when his fingers don’t stop fucking you a his tongue leisurely licks your essence with obscene moans of appreciation at your taste.

“You truly taste delicious.” He murmurs against one of the bruise on your tight. “Too bad I will have to hunt down every single person who’s had you.”

You can’t answer immediately, your brain is still tying to come down from the barrage of orgasms he forced you to go through, your skin feels oversensitive to the soft touch of his lips.

“Who are those people?” You ask, breathless. “I only remember you.”

Through the bond he knows you’re telling the truth: your past lovers, however many they were, don’t exist anymore, in your mind there’s only him and all the pleasure he’s given you.

You try to find purchase on his slick skin, until you reach the neckline of his jumper to use it to pull him up for a long kiss. You moan when you taste yourself on his lips, your taste and his mingle when his tongue massages yours slowly, his only goal is to savor you, until you are the only thing he can taste for the rest of his life.

“You’re overdressed.” You moan against his full lips.

You don’t leave him the chance to answer. As tired as you are, already, you grab a fistful of his thick jumper and pull upwards, forcing him to remove it, or be choked, leaving him with the other layers of thinner jumpers and thermal shirts. Through the bond you send the image of his knife slicing through his clothing, he laughs but undresses hastily, leaving clothing and weapons on the floor: he’s overheating and sweaty, moreover, why denying himself the feeling of your skin under his?

You’ve managed to push yourself backwards to enjoy the view of his powerful body being revealed: the thick cords of muscles and the pink nipples, his raging erection and the piercing running horizontally, through the shiny head of his cock.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, concerned. “Not anymore. It enhances everything.” He answers.

Slowly he lays on you, his weight strangely familiar as he kisses you again, slowly, feeling every inch of your body with his, savoring the way your full breasts cushion his sturdy chest and how your hips are the perfect cradle for his. He’s surprised to find himself on his back, when you use his distraction to switch your positions; not that he’s complaining, you’re towering over him, giving him a nice view of your full breasts and perky nipples, while his cock is cradled between your lips, warm and drenched. His eyes fixate on the patch of hair between your legs, focused as he was on tasting you to your core, his brain has bypassed everything else and now he’s fascinated by the soft, wet curls he can feel against his body.

“Is it strange?” You gently ask. “Everyone on Giedi Prime is hairless. It’s not bad, just peculiar.” He answers with a shrug.

His long fingers tentatively touch your lips and you shudder, still so sensitive, and you haven’t had his cock yet.

“I’m not shaving, anywhere.” “I didn’t ordered you to, and I will not let you bare yourself like that.”

You pinch his nipple as punishment for his answer and his cock swells under you.

“I don’t need your permission.” You growl back. “I wanted to ride you, now I have to postpone that, and it’s all you fault!” You add, with a wicked smile.

With as much speed your tired muscles let you, you turn around and hover your cunt over his face; you smirk at his satisfied growl and the way his hands go to your hips: it’s cute he believes you’re letting him have a taste again. You flick his reddened head when he tries to pull you down to his lips, he yelps in pain and you don’t miss the beads of precome that appear immediately: he’s truly made for you, and you only.

“You’ve had your taste, now it’s my turn.”

You ignore your hunger when you slowly lick his head and moan at the taste, heady and masculine on your tongue, and envelope his head in your lips, sucking gently, taking your time to have more until you hear his groans and his desperation through the bond, only then you take more, and more, ignoring the way his hips try to push upwards, simply blocking his movements using your prana-bindu strength, reveling in the curses and in the pain he feels. When his head hits the back of your throat he shudders, his muscles shake with the need to move and fuck your face; perhaps if he behaves you’ll let him, one day, but now he is to suffer. You relax your muscles and swallow him with a moan that reverberates through the whole of him, tortured by your lips and the sight of your hole clenching over his face. He desperately tries not to come when the velvety muscles of your throat start massaging his erection and your hand caresses his heavy balls; he arches with a howl of pain when you squeeze them cruelly, and pull at them viciously, until he comes, tears streaming down his cheeks.

You swallow what you can and lick what escapes your ravenous hunger, until it pools on your tongue and you can turn around to kiss him, making him swallow his own essence, his pleasure heady in the bond.

You abandon your body over his, feeling his satisfaction and the warmth of his body; you nuzzle his long neck, so smooth and marked by your teeth. You could almost fall asleep: you feel finally sated and happy after sex, like never before. Through the bond you feel Feyd purr his satisfaction, his big hand caresses your back, following the knobs of your spine leisurely.

“Don't fall asleep. I'm not done with you.” He growls. “Hmm, yes please.”

You feel his cock stir between your bodies and prop one leg over his hip, spreading yourself for him and letting his half hard member between your lower lips. You should feel embarrassed by the renewed wetness, all you can think of is sheathing Feyd's thick cock inside of you.

“You're coming to Geidi Prime with me.” He says, cupping your cheek. “I need to go home, lest fathers believe you’ve kidnapped me and are keeping me there against my will.” “As if.” “You forget this communication goes both ways. Drag me by my hair?” “From the cliff.” He rolls his eyes. “I had it under control!” “You almost fell, I felt it!” “Don't mention it. To my family, I mean.” “The cliff or the hair?”

You're surprised by how amused Feyd feels through the bond or that he has a sense of humor.

“We have that too, on Geidi Prime, as well as mirrors. Incredible, I know.”

You know you’ve dehumanized him in your head for all your life: he was your personal boogeyman, not a man, albeit volatile, not someone with feelings and needs, not your soulmate, but your nightmare. You shouldn't be surprised that he's more than the warrior, and the heir to his family's name: who has been the monster, between you two, for all this time?

You cuddle closer to his warmth, your eyes falling on your spidery handwriting almost hidden by the crease of his tight; you follow the words with the tip of your finger, and cringe at how ill behaved you had been from the start.

“I should have known you’d be hard to pin down, just from that.” “‘Are you sad because you have no hair?’ Great Mother, what a heinous bitch I was! You should have kept me at arm’s length!” “Show me my words.” He asks.

There's a heath in his voice you don't understand, but know it's not because you constantly moving means his cock gets stimulated into full hardness.

Gently you start parting your hair and he finishes the work from you. He enjoys the foreign feeling of your hair on his fingers, almost ticklish but not really, soft and rough at the end of the strands, strangely fascinating since none of his past lays had hair, he's not sure what he is supposed to do with yours.

“You can pull.” You say with a shudder when he touches his words on you. “You need to be gentle, though. You can caress and play with it, I can teach you how to braid, if you want.”.

Feyd’s hand finds home in the roots and pulls, tentatively at first, only to use more strength when you softly moan.

“I think I’ll stick to this.” He growls and you know he’s unlocked a new kink.

He uses his hold to pull you closer to his face and kiss you, his tongue languid in your mouth explores you, taking his time to commit your taste to memory; you scratch his neck in the attempt to gain control back, you liked having him at your mercy too much to let go and he simply tightens his hold on you, drinking down your moans of pleasure.

You straddle him, making sure your warm cunt envelopes his erection and start grinding slowly, letting him feel how wet you are, and ready for his cock; he turns you two, towering over you and you simply arch your back towards him, feeling his eyes on your breasts and perky nipples when you start massaging them, keening and moaning with need. His control snaps, his teeth find your soft flesh to nibble, his lips to suck marks as your legs curl around his frame to cradle him as close as possible to yourself, your nails stretching and raking down his long back in retaliation: the more you hurt him, the savager he becomes, in a cycle only enhanced by your shared brain.

“Now! Now!” You squeal after a particularly harsh bite, feeling your cunt clench painfully around nothing.

Feyd releases your breast with a pop, observing his handiwork with pride: you’re covered with his teeth marks and your cunt is so puffy and leaking sweet cream, only because he’s hurt you, and you him.

His hard cock is exquisite torture, so heavy between his legs he’s in agony when your hand starts jacking him, making sure he’s wet and beyond ready for your cunt, to the point he has to slap your hand away, or he’ll come all over your tummy; he can’t have that, not when your hole is clenching and wet and ready. You arch your back when he breaches you, his head is fat and the piercing only enhances the feeling of him against your wall; through the bond you feel his pleasure, how hard it is for him to control himself and not come, it all amplifies your own lust and need, your hips snapping upwards to take him faster and it’s the sweetest pain, being stretched too early, having your cunt pummeled open and molded to fit his thick cock, until he’s fully seated inside of you, with a long groan of pleasure.

Feyd has to keep his eyes closed, the thin thread of his control almost snapping with every breath he takes: he’s imagined this, he’s spilled in his own hands countless times to the fantasy of you sheathing him inside yourself, and reality can’t compare. Your insides are the softest velvet, your muscles the cruelest of vices around his cock that he can barely grind against you when you start whining. His strength deserts him and he falls on you, managing to catch his weight on his bent arm when your cunt tries to suck him; he can barely breathe your scent in, his body almost in overdrive with pleasure when your hands grab his buttocks to push him in deeper, desperate to feel him in every crevice of your body.

You lock your feet on his tailbone, forcing him to grind against your puffy clit, battered muscles as tight as possible around him in the desperate quest to fuse him with yourself, the piercing pure torture against your G spot. You scratch his back savagely when your orgasm starts to crest, your body squirms under him, clutches his tighter as the band in your belly tightens and tightens, your shared pleasure only enhancing his own need to lose himself inside of you. It hurts to grind against you, it hurts to wait for your pleasure to explode and he can barely contain himself when you sob your pleasure as if he’s hurting you, your nails stabbing him when you come, howling and crying, him following you with guttural, animal sounds he can barely suppress against your skin.

You caress his back and hug him as close as possible as he keeps coming inside of you, his orgasm almost never ending fills you to the brink with his thick cum, his whines of painful pleasure cause a smaller orgasm to rip through you torturing him even more, until all his strength is lost and he’s trembling in your arms, skin so sensitive your caresses feel like lashings.

You feel all of it through the bond, along with his unwillingness to stop touching you through the torment your skin is for him now. Awkwardly you try to send soothing feelings to him, helping him to calm down from the incredible high that the coupling had been for him. You know, because he remembers disjointed memories of his dreams of you, of him waking up hard and desperate and alone, needing your soft touch and having to settle for his own hand. He had hated you in those moments, his body shaken by those painful orgasms that tasted like ashes, that were never truly satisfactory. With a stab of jealousy you see the people he fucked, brutal and fast, imaging you in their stead, and even that wasn’t enough to sate his hunger, now? Now he’s in heaven, having felt pleasure like never before in his life.

You have to use all your prana-bindu strength to roll you two on the side, Feyd is basically dead weight in your arms, before you hug him as tight as possible, only wishing to have a knife at hand to protect you two in this unfamiliar environment, the one embedded on the bed has fallen and you can’t reach it.

“The owner would rather kill himself than dare disturb us.”

Feyd’s voice is tired and low, a rumble you feel in your whole body.

“What did you do?”

You can feel Feyd’s wicked smile against your throat.

“Nothing. Just exchanged a few friendly words after you fainted.” “I’m electing to ignore whatever has happened.” You say. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come around.” You add, awkwardly

You feel how tired he is, moving his head away from the crook of your neck is almost impossible for him.

“You have all the time to make up for it. Now sleep, you’re going to need it, that I can promise.”

You shiver against him. Neither of you are going home any time soon and there’s all the time in the world to negotiate the route back.

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x y/n #feyd rautha harkonnen x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen x y/n #feyd rautha #feyd rautha harkonnen

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bakubrattt · 17 days ago

Text

Getting Used to Forever

-Zayne x reader

A week after moving into Zayne’s house, a tipsy Friday night of making him dinner while he sets up your shared gaming corner turns charged with playful banter and unchecked desire. Somewhere between the laughter, the heat, and the way he worships you—you realize you’re not just getting used to the space, you’re building a life you could stay in forever.

genre/warnings: 18+ explicit content--no minors!--fluff, smut, tipsy reader, domestic as hell, living together, Zayne fucks you on the dining table

🩵AO3 link

The rich, savory aroma of braised beef drifted from the kitchen, wrapping the living room in a comforting warmth. Zayne sat cross-legged on the plush rug, his brow furrowed in concentration as he untangled a web of cables. The new gaming console, freshly retrieved from one of the labeled cardboard boxes lining the wall beside the couch, rested before him. Setting up the new system was a priority—a mutual decision made as you settled into his home together. You had pitched the idea, emphasizing its importance for unwinding after exhaustive days of unpacking. Beyond practicality, you were eager to see your envisioned gaming corner come to life—a cozy nook adorned with different gaming systems and the myriad of plushies collected over the past two years from countless arcade visits, each a testament to shared moments and victories.

Pausing his meticulous work, Zayne’s gaze wandered to the assembled plushies. Each one held a story: the quick triumphs where a single attempt secured a prize, and the hard-fought battles where repeated efforts led to exasperated sighs and playful pouts. He fondly recalled those instances when your frustration peaked, prompting him to return secretly and master the claw machine, later presenting you with the coveted toy as a surprise. Those plush companions now stood as tangible reminders of laughter-filled weekends and the sweet tradition of post-arcade ice cream runs.

His eyes then drifted to a particular corner of the entertainment system, where delicate ice figurines resided—miniature animals he had crafted using his Evol over the years. Among them, two seals held a place of honor. The first, a clumsy creation from your shared childhood, bore the innocent simplicity of youth. You had mistaken it for a snowball since you were kids—a mortifying revelation that prompted the creation of the next one Zayne made you as an adult, just before your romantic journey began a little over two years ago. These seals, side by side, symbolized the intricate weaving of your past, present, and the unwritten future—a silent narrative of a stoic boy’s enduring affection for a silly girl who evolved from childhood friend to patient, and ultimately, to the love of his life.

As he pleasantly got lost in this reflective reverie, Zayne’s fingers unconsciously shaped another ice sculpture between his palms; of everything he always compared your beauty to. It was only the familiar cadence of your voice gently pulled him back to the present.

“Zayne?”

He turned to find you leaning against the living room’s entryway, amusement dancing in your eyes as you observed him. The sight of you, clad in one of his oversized sweaters with its long sleeves rolled up to your elbows, sent a flutter through his stomach. The sweater’s hem grazed your bare knees, and a gentle flush from the kitchen’s warmth—or your wine—colored your cheeks—a vision of domestic intimacy that made his heart skip a beat. In that moment, his hands stilled, cradling the freshly formed ice sculpture as he basked in the simple, profound joy of sharing his space, his life, with you.

“Dinner’s ready, hun…” You called gently, your voice trailing into the living room like the scent of the food still simmering on the stove. You caught sight of something between his elegant hands and stepped forward, curiosity flickering in your eyes, “what did you just make?”

Zayne blinked as if coming back to himself, looking down at his palms like he’d only just realized he’d been sculpting anything at all.

“…A jasmine,” he said, his voice soft as he watched you pad across the wooden floor until the rug he sat on silenced your footsteps, “I thought it’d look nice next to our picture here.”

The picture in question was a tiny Polaroid, propped neatly in a minimalist black frame at the corner of the shelved entertainment system. It was a photo of the two of you, taken at his last med school alumni gathering. The memory hit all at once—your dress, his tie, the laughter, the music, the air electric with reunion chatter and shared glances across the room.

You watched him delicately place the crystallized flower beside it, the ice glinting faintly under the dim light, its petals intricate, fragile, beautiful. As you came to kneel beside him on the plush rug, you caught your breath. The memory of that night swelled in your chest, a quiet warmth blooming at the center of you. It filled your belly, deeper and more comforting than the wine you’d been sipping while cooking dinner.

“It does look pretty there…” You murmured, your voice a smile. You reached out, fingers barely grazing the cool, perfect edges of the little ice blossom, “you know…I can never look at that picture without blushing a little.”

“Why is that?” Zayne asked. But that knowing, subtle ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth said he already knew. Said he wanted you to say it anyway.

You leaned in closer, eyelashes fluttering up at him, your voice dipping low, soft, conspiratorial. Like you were sharing the world’s most scandalous secret, “well, between you and me…” Your hand slid over to grab his thigh, deliberate, “I totally thought you were gonna do me on the pool table that night…”

Zayne’s laugh came out quiet, breathy, the sound catching at the edges like he couldn’t quite believe you’d said that out loud. A faint pink dusted the tips of his ears, the flush creeping upward like a secret, “at an alumni gathering of all things?” He said, tilting his head, amusement tugging at his gentle voice, “you must take me for quite an unprofessional professional.”

“Oh no,” you purred, your fingers squeezing his thigh a little tighter now, slow and purposeful. That wine-glazed glimmer in your admiring eyes gave you away. You were tipsy. And teasing. And beautiful. And his, “your exclusive tutorial was super professional, Doctor Zayne,” you added, your tone sinfully sweet, “so professional, in fact, and thorough, that if I recall correctly, I was begging for you to continue tutoring me all night when we got home…”

A delicious shiver of desire coursed through him at the vivid memory of his gloved hands on your naked skin, a warmth pooling low in his belly, tightening with aching intensity between his legs. The tantalizing sensation was amplified by the teasing dance of your fingertips kneading gently yet provocatively up his inner thigh. You, his irresistible, playful temptress—inebriated yet fully aware of the sweet torment you inflicted upon him—held his attention effortlessly, ensnaring him entirely in your playful seduction.

“You’re the best student I could ever ask for,” Zayne murmured, a slow, affectionate smile curving his lips as he reached out, encircling your wrist tenderly. His touch was a feather-light claim, sliding smoothly upward along your delicate forearm as he gently drew you closer.

“Am I?” You responded, a soft, alluring giggle escaping you as your breath, warm and sweet from your indulgences, brushed enticingly across his parted lips, “and what makes you say that?”

His gaze lingered on the curve of your throat, pausing at the charming little smear of food on your jaw—an innocent oversight during your solo drinking session. You were captivatingly vibrant, endlessly endearing; your presence alone enough to steal the breath from his lungs and the rhythm from his heart as he stared.

“…You are,” he whispered, brushing the soft pad of his thumb across your lips, smiling as you instinctively pressed tender kisses against his palm, your heated cheek nestling comfortably into the coolness of his hand, “very attentive…Very passionate about demonstrating your many talents…”

He noted with satisfaction the way your breath caught, how your eyelids fluttered closed, your hand kneading up the muscles of his thigh—boldly, tantalizingly, inching dangerously close to the hardened arousal swelling beneath his sweats.

“A bit clumsy at times,” Zayne teased affectionately, gently pinching your chin to tilt your face aside, deliberately exposing the small droplet of savory sauce you never caught. Leaning in, he pressed slow, deliberate kisses to your jaw, savoring the warmth and sweetness of your skin far more than the taste of the lingering food, “but I enjoy your many surprises…”

His soft chuckle vibrated gently against the tender column of your throat, his warm breath sending a delightful shiver cascading through you. He captured your wrist with a low, indulgent sigh when your bold hand ventured toward the hardened mass he struggled valiantly to contain, conscious of the dinner waiting patiently for you both.

“And how could I possibly forget,” he whispered teasingly, emerald eyes twinkling with playful intent, “just how eager you always are to take in everything I have to give you?” His innuendo sent a fresh surge of desire through you, your free hand instinctively moving to grasp him again. Yet, Zayne anticipated your move perfectly, pulling back just enough to savor the desperate hunger flickering in your eyes, prompting a frustrated groan from you. With gentle amusement, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, gently binding your wrists together with one hand as his other lovingly tousled your hair, “however, perhaps you could stand to learn a bit more patience, my love. Good things come to those who wait.”

You let out a playful yet frustrated huff, frowning in response to his infuriatingly sweet smile, “yeah? Well, I don’t like waiting.”

“Who does?” Zayne conceded softly, releasing your wrists with a gentle squeeze and adjusting his clothing, subtly pulling the fabric of his sweats away from his body to ease his discomfort, “I certainly don’t, when it comes to you…I prefer indulgence, in that matter. But you’ve gone through so much trouble preparing a lovely dinner—we should enjoy it while it’s still hot.”

He was right, as always. You had dedicated the past couple of hours to creating a hearty, nourishing beef stew, carefully choosing ingredients that would replenish Zayne’s strength and energy. It was your way of caring for him, knowing how demanding his role as a cardiac surgeon was, compounded by sleepless nights filled with insomnia and haunting nightmares, not to mention the long evenings spent tirelessly helping you unpack following your recent move. You knew he recognized your efforts, felt deeply your gratitude and love through every thoughtful gesture.

“Fine,” you conceded reluctantly, rising unsteadily to your feet, “but only because I know you must be starving—Woah!”

Immediately, Zayne’s arms wrapped securely around your thighs, stabilizing you effortlessly before you could stumble in your intoxication. Your hands instinctively grasped at his silky hair and broad shoulder for support, clutching him tightly.

“Please, be careful,” he urged softly, lifting his gaze to yours, genuine concern evident in his emerald eyes beneath your clumsy grip, “are you alright? And I’m the supposed lightweight who can’t handle alcohol…”

“I had two whole glasses of wine, not a tiny piece of liquor-infused chocolate!” You griped, your cheeks warming with embarrassment as you suddenly became aware of how intimately close Zayne’s face was positioned near your core.

His large hands remained securely anchored to your bare thighs beneath the comforting shelter of the oversized sweater—his sweater—that you had slipped on, with nothing beneath but underwear. The warmth of his breath, the silken texture of his skin, and the quiet, protective strength radiating from him sent tantalizing shivers rippling through your body.

You released a soft whine, feeling the surge of frustration intensify at the sight of him gazing upward at you beneath those dark, thick lashes, his expression a familiar blend of stern caution and tender concern, “Zayne…”

“…Yes?” He raised an inquisitive brow, his grip loosening ever so slightly as he tenderly squeezed your thighs—part affectionate reassurance, part cautious assessment of your stability. He hesitated to rise too suddenly, ensuring you wouldn’t lose balance the moment he stood.

You whined softly again, gently pushing him away with the hand tangled affectionately in his hair as you reluctantly nudged his wrist, “you’re like two inches away from making me pin you down on the couch, you damn tease!”

You knew full well he hadn’t meant to fluster you, and that awareness made your desire burn even hotter. Zayne never really deliberately tried to drive you mad—it was simply his nature, effortlessly alluring. He didn’t try to seduce you. But as a man, he was a giver, a worshiper, a dutiful protector, a devoted lover who revered you as though you were a goddess, someone who’s way of loving you alone was the driving force that always made you so feral for him; eager to offer yourself up entirely to him without hesitation for him being so wonderful. Indeed, his green flags were what made you want to drop your panties more than anything else about him.

Zayne chuckled softly at your playful accusation as he rose carefully from the rug. Immediately, his hands found your hips, steadying you with gentle assurance. The way he towered over you sent another rush of warmth through your body, making your head spin deliciously as you took him in. God. That beautifully gentle giant. Your big snowman. Every detail about him seemed meticulously crafted to set your pulse racing. For a brief moment, you wondered if your tingling desire was amplified by the wine, or perhaps your body’s natural rhythm was to blame—whatever it was, it had you thoroughly intoxicated by him.

“Mm,” Zayne hummed with a barely suppressed smirk, amusement sparkling in his soft green eyes, “I’d like to see you try—”

He had barely uttered the words before you took them as an irresistible challenge. In the same instant, he realized his mistake, noticing the mischievous glint in your gaze as you quickly glanced over at the couch behind him. By the time a triumphant grin lit your flushed face, Zayne’s agile hands intercepted yours mid-air, stopping your playful attempt to seize his shoulders. Your delighted shriek filled the room as he effortlessly spun you off balance, gently yet decisively tackling you instead. You landed softly on the couch, bouncing lightly as your laughter rang out, wrists pinned securely above your head by his firm yet tender grip.

“Zayne!” You cackled, tickled by the fan of his laugh.

Your playful struggles gradually ceased under the gentle, soothing pressure of his lips pressing warmly against your heated cheek. The affectionate kiss, accompanied by his comforting smile, calmed you into sweet surrender underneath him.

“That was such a short show,” he whispered, his fingertip trailing languidly down the length of your inner forearm, leaving a deliciously ticklish path that sent shivers cascading through you. He rendered you breathless beneath his captivating gaze, “it happened so fast I’m afraid I missed your attempt entirely…Now, are you going to behave if I decide to let you go?”

“Oh, not at all in the slightest,” you laughed, playfully rolling your eyes and shaking your head in exaggerated defiance, “especially not when I have you all to myself at this angle…”

Before Zayne could form another playful retort, the moment his thumb brushed tenderly against your cheek, you suddenly captured it, drawing it into the suction of your warm mouth. His breath faltered, eyes widening slightly at the sensation of your plush lips wrapping gently yet firmly around his knuckle, your tongue swirling as your cheeks hollowed. Heat surged mercilessly through him, his self-restraint hanging precariously by a thread; even more so when you gazed up at him with that blissful expression of submission that melted his heart into a helpless puddle.

“…Calls me a tease,” Zayne finally managed to remark, feigning sternness as best he could, though his voice held an unmistakable tremor of desire betraying the composure he desperately tried to maintain, “proceeds to suck my entire thumb into her mouth…”

You grazed your teeth against his skin, releasing him with a mischievous giggle as he withdrew his hand, shaking his head in mock resignation, “what? It’s just your thumb…”

“Just my thumb, she says,” he pretended to chide, moving carefully off you before helping you sit upright. Despite his mask of composure, he couldn’t conceal the undeniable, prominent evidence of his arousal tenting his sweatpants. With an inward sigh, he silently cursed his choice of clothing around you at that moment, “as if it’s not a less than subtle hint alluding to what’s really going through her imaginative little mind…”

“Or yours, Doctor Zayne,” you teased with a lighthearted chuckle, leaning forward to plant a playful kiss against his temple as he crooned closer to help you rise.

“I have no idea what you’re implying, Y/n,” he answered smoothly, taking your hand in his own and guiding you carefully across the living room, avoiding any lingering boxes or misplaced cords, “my mind is as sterile as the OR. Yours, on the other hand, could use some terminal cleaning…”

You couldn’t decide what cracked you up you more—his bone-dry humor, the casual way he tossed out medical terminology about post-surgical sanitation, or the outright absurdity of his claim that his mind was even remotely pristine.

“yeah right, that’s bull!” You laughed brightly, playfully swatting his firm bicep before slipping your arm through his, your fingertips lightly tracing along the familiar, raised scars that marked his skin—evidence of his Evol’s cruelty, “what, did it remind you of something else in my mouth?”

Zayne opened his mouth, a witty retort poised on his tongue, but instead, a brief pause settled over him as you both stepped into the kitchen. A faint, contented smile blossomed across his lips at the sight of the simmering pot of stew, the delicious aroma intensifying, tantalizing his senses as he had patiently awaited for hours.

“It did, as a matter of fact…” He murmured thoughtfully.

“Oh yeah?” You pressed yourself affectionately against his side, intertwining your fingers with his while your other hand teasingly trailed up to caress his chest—his most sensitive erogenous zone, “what, exactly?”

Zayne halted before the stove, lifting the lid away from the steaming stew pot and carefully placing it down on the countertop beside your half-filled glass of wine you had indulged in while cooking. He took up the wooden spoon you’d thoughtfully left nearby, inhaling deeply as the rich aroma and inviting heat enveloped him in mouthwatering warmth. But before you could open your mouth to keep teasing him, Zayne outpaced you in your intoxicated state, swiftly guiding a spoonful of the savory stew past your lips. His other hand came prepared beneath your chin, ready to catch any stray droplets.

“Food,” he finally responded with a soft, amused smile, thoroughly entertained by your exaggerated expression of mock outrage, which quickly dissolved into laughter. You nearly spat the stew out amidst your giggles, your chin dropping gratefully into his waiting hand as you composed yourself enough to swallow as he wiped your lips for you.

“I’m gonna kill you,” you laughed softly, shaking your head with amused disbelief as your fingertips subconsciously traced his scars, a tender gesture filled with quiet affection.

Zayne gently cupped your face between his warm, sturdy hands, leaning down to press a tender kiss against your forehead. His lips lingered briefly, a soothing caress that sent gentle warmth radiating through you, “you’ll do no such thing, you silly woman…But you will have some water with your wine. Cold water.”

You peered up at him through your lashes, chuckling quietly as his imposing height shielded your sensitive eyes from the glaring warmth of the kitchen lights, making the scene before you softer, dreamlike in your tipsy state, “doctor’s orders?” You teased.

“Doctor’s orders,” he echoed, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he pinched your flushed cheeks with utmost tenderness.

You both moved in quiet harmony, filling your bowls and carrying them together into the intimate space of the dining room. Hunger clearly gnawed at you both, evident in your eagerness to savor the meal. Your heart swelled with warmth and satisfaction as you watched Zayne enjoy your cooking, his eyes closing briefly in appreciation, giving you a pleased, approving nod. The dining room felt subtly transformed now—no longer merely his space. It was yours as well. The knowledge that you were making a home together here, sharing every corner of this sanctuary, filled you with a delicate blend of excitement and disbelief. Though Zayne insisted with gentle conviction that everything here belonged equally to you both, you still felt the lingering shyness of adjustment. Whenever you’d teasingly remind him, “but we’re not even married,” he’d simply shrug, an affectionate certainty lighting his eyes as he’d respond softly with, “we will be one day.”

The idea of marrying Zayne lingered sweetly in your tipsy, pleasantly hazy thoughts as you gazed lovingly at him across the table, utterly captivated by the subtle charm he exuded even in such a simple act as eating dinner. He remained blissfully unaware of your silent admiration, completely immersed in savoring the rich flavors you’d cooked with care. You couldn’t suppress the soft laughter that bubbled up inside you as you took a slow sip of your unfinished glass of wine, causing Zayne to glance up curiously, suddenly aware of your amused scrutiny.

“What?” He asked, swallowing his food as his curious eyes met yours from across the table.

You shook your head, a tender smile playing at your lips, “nothing, nothing…”

“Tell me,” he urged softly, setting down his spoon and fixing you with an amused, inquisitive gaze, “something clearly has you entertained.”

Entertained—if only Zayne knew the truth. It wasn’t mere amusement that warmed your heart; it was an overwhelming, blissful love, so profound that at times it bubbled up into laughter at the simplest moments.

“…Do you think you could get used to this?” You asked, tracing your finger idly along the delicate stem of your wine glass, eyes lowered yet brimming with quiet affection, “living together…You come home after a long day of some crazy life-or-death heart surgery to my hopefully amazing cooking, I spend the night on the Switch in bed while you read next to me and play with my hair, you give me some lame excuse about how blue light is bad for my eyes and tell me to put the video games down, and then all of a sudden your book’s barely hanging on the edge of the nightstand with your glasses and you’re on top of me and I’m lightheaded in the best way possible…You think you can get used to it?”

Zayne chuckled softly, eyes sparkling with warmth and amusement at your vivid description. You laughed too, charmed by his endearing expression as you sipped your wine, watching him carefully dab at his lips with his napkin.

“Hmm,” he murmured thoughtfully, picking up another spoonful of stew and pretending to consider deeply, “well, I’d say it depends.”

“On?” You prompted, smiling as you propped your chin on your hand, thoroughly captivated by the gentle anticipation of his response.

Zayne reached over, his fingertips softly nudging your bowl closer, silently reminding you to keep eating. His gesture was tender, a subtle reassurance woven with quiet care, “a lot of things.”

“Liiike?” You giggled softly, lifting your spoon again, warmth bubbling within your chest as you awaited his explanation.

He paused thoughtfully, emerald eyes reflecting an affectionate warmth as he met your curious gaze, “…If you stare and smile at me the way you always do when you wait for me to take my first bite.”

“Huh?” Your laughter was light and flustered, tinged with playful embarrassment as warmth crept up your cheeks, “I don’t stare at you!”

“Yes you do,” Zayne replied softly, his lips curving into a subtle, knowing smile as he swallowed another bite of stew. His voice held an affectionate certainty, the gentle teasing only amplifying the intimacy of the moment, “it’ll also depend on you bringing the Switch to bed so that we can be near each other when we unwind, even if we’re not engaging in the same activity together.”

Realization dawned upon you, a tender understanding blooming in your chest. You knew then—Zayne wasn’t only speaking about shared routines; he was revealing how deeply he cherished every quiet, simple moment you shared together.

“And then of course,” he continued, reaching for his cup of water, eyes full of sincerity, “if I have to put my glasses on the nightstand because I know I won’t be picking my book back up until the following night.”

He was talking about love—about the comfort and certainty of a shared life.

“I could get used to it all,” he confessed quietly, his gaze soft and steady, a delicate tenderness warming every word, “not that I’d ever take any of it for granted, or have those expectations of us both without making sure you’re just as used to things as I am.”

A radiant warmth filled you, extending far beyond the fuzzy intoxication of the wine as you drained the last drops from your glass, “Mm…And how would you make sure that I’m still used to it, too?”

“…Reminding you to eat and get proper nutrition when you’re distracted by all else and need my help with staying on task,” he answered, his voice a velvety caress as he reached out once more to your bowl, tapping it lightly until your spoon resumed scooping the hearty stew, “spoiling you when you ask for five more minutes of scalp scratches while I read beside you…Paying close attention to your body’s signals when you need to catch your breath before I steal it again.”

Your pulse quickened, your skin erupting in a pleasant wave of goosebumps. Dear God, Zayne had a remarkable ability to turn simple, caring conversation into irresistibly sensual promises, his words making your heart swell with warmth even as desire stirred vividly within you. His genuine tenderness, the protective and nurturing nature underlying each carefully spoken word, somehow managed to make your heart feel full while simultaneously setting your senses aflame with longing. How did he always manage that? Even for a doctor—someone naturally skilled in attending to the needs of others—Zayne had an astonishing talent for seamlessly blending gentle caretaking with undeniable sensuality, making you feel perpetually desired, cherished, and utterly, passionately loved.

“So, get used to it,” Zayne teased gently, his fingertips squeezing your bare knee beneath the table, sending a pleasant shiver through your body, “you live here with me now, after all. You might as well see this as just the beginning of something you’ll eventually grow so accustomed to, that one day, you’ll find yourself in the middle of the vegetable isle at the grocery store wondering whose diabolical idea it was to add carrots to beef stew.”

You nearly choked on your stew, laughter bubbling uncontrollably as Zayne’s dry humor caught you entirely off guard. Your hand swiftly reached for the glass of water he thoughtfully pushed closer, relief washing over you as the cool liquid soothed your throat.

“Thank you,” he sighed softly, a relieved smile curving his lips, his eyes filled with quiet affection as he watched you recover, “for never adding carrots to your cooking. I love you dearly.”

Warmth blossomed in your chest, fueled by endearment, amusement, and the gentle intoxication from the wine, “I love you too, Zayne,” you managed between lingering chuckles, feeling delightfully flushed.

After dinner, the two of you moved in sync to clear the table, the simple act of cleaning together feeling natural and intimate. Domestic. Zayne watched you quietly from his position near the stove, hand still resting on the cool, digital surface as he paused his wiping to admire you. Unbeknownst to you, he studied you with quiet reverence, captivated by the way you stood there in your own little world on the kitchen mat, sleeves of his oversized sweater continually slipping down as you washed the dishes. You hummed softly, completely absorbed in your task, creating a serene atmosphere that he cherished.

Finding every excuse to draw closer, Zayne eventually stepped up quietly behind you, his warmth enveloping you before you even registered his presence. His hands reached around, gently pushing your sleeves higher up your arms, and he leaned down to pepper tender kisses on your head, “it’s a bit late for chores, isn’t it?” He whispered into your ear, his voice deep and inviting, “you should leave the rest for me tomorrow; we have the day off together. You’ve done enough today. Come relax with me, now.”

A knowing smile curved your lips as you felt the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressing insistently against your lower back, igniting a familiar heat deep inside you, “what’s the rush, huh?”

Zayne’s hand moved slowly down your arm, urging you to set aside the pan and allow the warm water to rinse the soap from your skin.

“In truth,” he murmured softly by your ear, his words almost inaudible yet clear by every consistent, his presence overwhelming as he reached past you to shut off the faucet, “it’s the order of things I’d like to prioritize finishing tonight, starting with the most important…”

“Oh, what’s first on your list?” You asked playfully, arching subtly against him, relishing how it made his fingers tighten reflexively around your wrist as you tilted your head back onto his shoulder.

Without warning, Zayne lifted your arm and ducked beneath it, scooping you up effortlessly into his arms. You gasped in delighted surprise, clutching instinctively at his sweater as he lifted and spun you away smoothly from the sink.

“What you started earlier,” he said with a warm smile, looking down at you tenderly as he walked confidently from the kitchen.

“Oh, right,” you murmured teasingly, drawing yourself closer and lightly tracing your finger along the collar of his sweater, your touch brushing provocatively close to his chest, “I was trying to get some playtime in, but somebody insisted on being responsible first…So tell me, oh responsible, sensible one,” you punctuated playfully, poking a finger against his cheek, “are you gonna be able to keep up with me?”

“You know I always leave myself plenty of room for dessert,” Zayne teased back, carrying you toward the large, inviting couch, “and as much as I’d prefer to eat at the table—”

“—Wait!” you exclaimed suddenly, a mischievous light flickering in your eyes, the clarity of your tipsy revelation surprising even yourself, “the table!”

He halted abruptly, confusion knitting his brows as he glanced toward the coffee table, “…What about it?”

“The dinner table,” you clarified urgently, gripping his sweater tighter as you leaned closer to whisper excitedly, “take me back there!”

“Why do you-…I thought you wanted me to—”

“—Zayne, hurry!” You urged impatiently, enthusiasm overtaking your voice, a fervent anticipation coloring your words.

Zayne listened despite his evident confusion, swiftly changing direction as he carried you toward the dining room, his strong arms cradling you securely against his chest, “…Alright. Just what are you up to, anyway? Is the wine getting to your brain?”

“You know it is,” you responded playfully, a mischievous smirk gracing your lips, “just trust me!”

He chuckled softly in surrender, moving obediently to your desired destination without further protest, “if you say so…Though, blind faith is a lot to ask for from a man when his girlfriend becomes such a spirited, intoxicated minx.”

“That’s okay,” you murmured teasingly, gaze fixed intently on the dining table as it grew nearer with each step, “you’re an ever-flowing fountain of faith with how devoted you are to certain things about me…”

Gently, Zayne lowered you onto the polished wooden floor, his hands lingering on your waist, steadying you as he gazed down at you with curiosity, his brow arching, “such as?”

You offered him a seductive, knowing smile—one that instantly set his heart racing—as you firmly grasped his hand, guiding him towards one of the dining chairs. Without hesitation, you gripped Zayne’s broad shoulders and decisively pushed him down, watching with satisfaction as he obediently sank into the chair. Poor, irresistibly vulnerable man.

“So aggressive,” he playfully reprimanded, “it’s a good thing I’m not your patient, with the way you enjoy handling me the moment you have a glass or two of alcohol in your system…”

“Shhhh,” you silenced him softly, placing a fingertip against his warm lips.

You swung one leg over him, standing over his seated form. Your fingertips cupped his chin, lifting his gaze to meet yours. You didn’t need to check for the tent between his legs to know how eagerly his body responded to your proximity; his green eyes, darkened with desire, revealed everything even before his hands slid reverently up your bare thighs, drawing the sweater higher to expose more of your smooth, enticing skin.

“The one time I’ve seen you drunk, the first time we had sex, you held me up against the wall in the kitchen whispering to me that it was because of me that everything was spiraling out of your precious control,” you whispered, voice rich with seductive nostalgia as your fingertips tenderly traced the contours of his handsome face.

Heat suffused your body at the vivid memory, relishing the intensity of his uninhibited passion. Your breath caught slightly as Zayne’s hands traveled higher, pulling you closer by the backs of your thighs, eyes roaming hungrily over your body. Slowly, you raised the sweater to your waist, allowing his gaze to settle shamelessly on the delicate, translucent, blue lace panties he had bought for you on Valentine’s Day, a symbol of his adoration and intimate desire. His thumbs pressed insistently into your thighs, a clear reflection of his escalating need. A surge of heat blossomed between your legs in response, igniting your own fervent desire as you watched his composure unravel entirely, savoring the exquisite power you held over him, the intoxicating knowledge of how deeply he revered and craved you.

“And if my memory is correct,” Zayne murmured as he traced the delicate lace, brushing against your most sensitive places, your fingertips sweeping back his dark hair to give yourself an unobstructed view of his expressive eyes, heavy with longing as he admired the enticing sight before him, “you enjoyed that side of me quite thoroughly that night…”

“God, I really did, honey,” you giggled softly at the memory, the warmth of it pooling low in your tummy.

Your fingers traced over the scars on his forearm, those familiar ridges of skin your hands knew by heart. He was pushing your sweater higher, slow and purposeful, until his face nuzzled just beneath your breasts. His skin was warm against yours. He pressed a few playful, ticklish kisses along the soft flesh, making you exhale a shaky breath somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. You cradled the back of his head, your fingers buried in the damp, soft strands of his hair, encouraging him. His lips were everywhere, scattered like devotion across your skin, and his hands…God, his hands were reverent—tracing over your feminine curves like you were sacred, like you were something to be worshipped, not touched.

“Like I was saying…” You tried to finish the thought, but the words were half-laughed, half-slurred with affection, “your devotion as a man is unmatched…”

He hummed into your skin, slow and indulgent, his nose pressing gently into your sternum. You felt your eyes threaten to roll back from the sheer intimacy of it, that unmistakable feeling of being adored.

“You always have this way of touching me…” You murmured, voice dropping to a whisper, low and aching, “loving me like it’s worship or something…”

The confession left your lips like a prayer. Honest. Unfiltered. His hands had moved again, slow and sure as they mapped the length of your spine, pushing your sweater up until you understood what he was asking. You didn’t hesitate. You peeled it off, flushed skin rising into the open air, sighing as it cooled your heat. You tossed the sweater blindly behind you—onto the dinner table, maybe. You didn’t care.

Your hands found his hair again, curling into it as you guided him. And the way he responded—burying his face into your breast, mouth open, lips parting around your nipple, tongue swirling with a slow, wet press that sent a bolt of heat through your core—you damn near moaned at the sound of it; the wet pull of his mouth, the low, husky sigh he gave as he sucked with care and focus, like this was the only thing he ever wanted.

“I know you asked me that night,” you whispered, your voice shaking as the memory unfurled like a ribbon in the sultry haze, “how I could pretend I was unaffected…”

You reached for him, found his wrist behind your back, and guided it between your bodies—between your legs. You lowered his hand, slowly, deliberately down your front, breath catching as you pressed his palm against the soft mound of heat between your thighs. A sharp, shaky sigh escaped you. His hand squished against you, his skin meeting the soaking fabric of lace that had long since failed to hide anything from him. The sound of it—wet, needy—was unmistakable.

“But I was affected,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “I was so, so affected…”

Your breath came faster now, your thoughts fogging, unraveling. Every time he kissed you. Every time he touched you. Every quiet moment where his love was too gentle to be noticed by anyone but you.

“I’m always affected,” you choked out, the words coming faster now, each one a piece of the storm building in your chest, “even when you’re doing something mundane—just setting up the gaming corner while I’m cooking us dinner—I’m always so damn affected by you, Zayne…”

And that was it. The moment the last of Zayne’s restraint snapped. He moaned—honest, desperate—as if your words physically undid him, his fingers tightening where they took an indulgent squeeze of your core, as if he couldn’t stand the barrier of lace anymore. Your body surged into his as his thumb hooked under the soaked fabric and pulled it aside, finally baring the heat he’d been aching to touch. He groaned into your breast, low and reverent, as his hand cupped your bare flesh and his middle finger slid into you with a slow, satisfying push. You whimpered at the depth, hips twitching as your walls clenched around him, fluttering, gripping his knuckle with raw need.

Your hand found his shoulder, clutching, practically clawing into the firm muscle under the heavy warmth of his sweater. The other hand tangled tighter into his black hair, pulling him closer as you arched into his embrace, wanting Zayne everywhere, wanting more. You could feel the heat of his breath, how wet his tongue was as it circled your nipple. The way he kept swallowing, like he couldn’t stop it, like your taste and your voice and the way you fell apart in his arms had made his mouth water, his body burn.

There was desperation in your hands, in your breath, in the trembling of your voice that said you needed him—needed his touch, needed to be worshipped the way only he knew how. He was undone completely by the way you craved him—by the way your touch pleaded for more without needing a single word. Zayne was dizzy from it. Dizzy from how easily you unraveled him. His breath hitched as he savored the squishy heat radiating through his palm. Nothing could hide the way you were completely undone by him, could silence the truth his fingers had known the moment he touched you—that you had been desperately craving him, already a needy mess for him.

“I know that by now,” he murmured, voice muffled by the indulgent smother of your breast.His lips never stopped moving, never stopped adoring you with reverent smacks pops of your sensitive nipple as he guided you backward, step by step.

He rose from the chair as you moved with him, still inside you, his finger never slipping free, cupping you the whole way as he coaxed you toward the edge of the dining table. You stumbled a little, your hand fumbling for something to brace yourself against. But Zayne was already there. His hand caught yours, steadying it, pressing it flat against the wood before guiding you down, coaxing you to lie back as he crowded your space, hovering over you with the cast of his shadow.

“I also know,” he added, voice lower now, tinged with something dark he looked down at you—so eager, so wrecked, so his, “that you’re as addicted to stepping out of line as I am.”

You were absolutely addicted to the intoxicating high of giving in—of relinquishing restraint, of letting go completely and letting yourself be seen , consumed, devoured by him. Especially on nights like this, where the excuse to indulge had come easily—a Friday, a glass or two of wine, the soft hum of domesticity between you. It didn’t take much. Not when it came to Zayne. Not when you were so deeply, helplessly, maddeningly drawn to him. Sometimes, your love for him felt like worship, too. A craving that burned hotter than mere affection. A hunger to merge, to lose yourself in the way he touched you, the way he held you, the way he drank in your pleasure like it was a need he could never fully satisfy.

Your head spun. Your eyes fluttered shut. Every inch of you melted. You felt him—his strong arm wrapping around your thighs, hugging them to him as he leaned in, his lips brushing over the slope of your calf, tenderly, intimately. Then came the shift—the hook of his finger curling into the strap of your underwear, the urgency in his movements humming like electricity against your skin. You sighed in pure relief as he pulled the soaked lace down your legs. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t pause. He drew them off your ankles with practiced ease, like it was natural to him now, like the act of undressing you had been engraved into his muscle memory.

When your eyes fluttered open to witness his passion, you found Zayne holding your underwear in one hand, lifting it to his face, inhaling deeply with his lashes low in indulgence, the expression on his face somewhere between reverence and something primal. And then—he discarded them with a casual flick to the side, as if they were nothing but a wrapper to something far more precious, his sweater following suit as he tossed it off his pale frame like an afterthought. Good Lord. Love wasn’t enough to describe what Zayne felt for you. It was beyond affection, beyond obsession—it was something deeper, something flooded with devotion, worship, hunger. The kind of love that made a man forget his name and remember only yours.

Your heart pounded, full and frantic, echoing through your chest and into your throat as you heard the chair scrape across the floor. The sound grounded you, startled you into the present. He hooked the leg of the chair around his ankle and yanked it forward, dragging it close as he took his seat like it was his throne for a feast. He reached for you, tender and certain, folding one of your knees aside, the soft bend of your thigh resting flat against the table. The other leg he lifted higher, guiding it over his shoulder, settling it there like it belonged. His palms were wide on your skin, possessive, spreading heat as they slid along your calves and thighs in one long, deliberate motion. He scooted forward, closer and closer—his breath warming the inside of your leg as he moved in, up to you. Up to your soaked, flushed, trembling core. Up to his dessert.

Oh God. That man was insatiable when it came to his sweet tooth—and he never once denied that his favorite indulgence wasn’t chocolate or cake or anything store-bought. It was you. Always you. You reached back, fumbling blindly for his discarded sweater, bunching it beneath your head and using it like a pillow to prop yourself up, just enough to see him. Blood rushed between your ears, pulsing loud, your body alive with an unbearable prickle of heat that lit every nerve aflame. And then—you watched him. Watched as he crooned down over you, his lips parting as he pressed soft, deliberate kisses along the inside of your thigh, slow and torturous, each one closer than the last. You could feel the warmth of his mouth, the faint trace of his breath skimming your skin, the reverence in every kiss as if he was preparing himself for something holy.

Your pulse was pounding between your legs, so strong it was almost audible. You felt it throb with each slow press of his mouth, felt it jump beneath his hands when he spread them up your thighs to hold you open. Then, the pause. That familiar stillness. That sacred, quiet moment you’d seen only in the most intimate seconds with him—when he took a beat to look. To truly see you. Not just with hunger, but with something aching in his eyes. Reverence. Desire. Love. The kind that quieted the whole world. He stared at your body like it was made just for him, like it was an exquisite feast and he was trying not to devour it too fast. His gaze traced over every inch of soft skin, every curve that still trembled for him. And Zayne—he didn’t just look. He witnessed.

You saw it in the way his breath hitched as he let his fingertips trail down the twitch of your abdomen, soft and slow, until they reached the center of you. With gentle pressure, he pressed your folds apart, holding you wide, open for himself, watching the way you glistened, slick and swollen, your body aching under his touch. He took it in—the proof of how you responded to him, how wrecked you were already. He let go of a deep breath, and then—one last glance up. His eyes met yours, pleading and glazed and full of love, and that was the final thread. He bowed, his brows knit, his mouth met you, and the first taste pulled a groan from his chest so low, so guttural, it made your thighs twitch.

You always watched him eat, whether your cooking or your body. You always waited to see if he liked it. You always searched for that subtle flicker of pleasure in his eyes, that hushed appreciation on his face. That quiet, sacred pause where he savored something just for him. And it was no different now. Because you watched this too. You couldn’t not watch. You needed to see the way his mouth opened, the way the flat of his tongue dragged through you, slow and hot and so intimate it made your vision blur. You watched the way he lingered, the way he buried his face between your thighs and let out a quiet, helpless sound when your clit met his tongue again, warmer this time, wetter, hungrier. The flick of it was indulgent, precise, so tender and possessive all at once.

Your eyes rolled back before you could stop them. Your spine arched off the table, body seizing with a high, unfiltered cry as your hand flew into his hair, yanking, anchoring him there. You held him like you were drowning. And Zayne—willing and eager—groaned into you, smothering his face into your heat like you were the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. Like he had no intention of coming up for air. Like he would eat forever if you let him.

“God, Zayne,” you breathed, voice broken and uneven as fireworks bloomed behind your fluttering eyelids. Your hips twitched beneath his mouth as another slow, devastating drag of his tongue rolled up your core, the heat of it lighting every nerve on fire, “honey, it’s so good…”

You trembled, your body jerking in a soft, uncontrollable spasm at the way his lips sealed around your clit. He sucked—not too hard, not too fast, but with that perfect, rhythmic pull that he knew would wreck you. The wet smack of his lips parted from your slick skin with a quiet pop that made your toes curl. Then he sighed, like he was drinking you in, like he’d never tasted anything better. That sound, that raw note of satisfaction—that ignited something deep in you.

You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt him again. His finger slid into you with a slow, easy glide, your walls welcoming him back with a desperate flutter as he moved with confidence, with certainty, already seeking out the spot he’d memorized by heart. He found it instantly. A moan tumbled out of you, loud and sweet, as your head tilted back and your free hand clutched his shoulder. The other was still tangled in his hair, tugging gently, encouraging him like he needed it—like he wasn’t already worshipping you like you were the center of his universe.

“R-right there…” You slurred, voice thick with pleasure. A lazy, delirious smile pulled at your lips, “yeah, right there…”

And then—another finger. Zayne slipped it in beside the first, curling both upward toward the swell inside you, and your entire body responded at once. Your jaw fell open, your breath hitched, your back arched off the table once more as a jolt of pleasure shot through your spine. His fingers moved expertly, massaging the sensitive spot with slow, circling pressure. His lips alternated, suctioning and releasing over your clit, applying firm, steady attention that made your thighs twitch and shake for him.

The air filled with the wet, obscene sound of your arousal, each squelch of his fingers met by the deliberate drag of his tongue. And Zayne—he was completely immersed. Eyes half-lidded, brow furrowed, breath pouring through his nose as he lapped at you with devotion so intense it felt like the rest of the world had gone still. A cry tore out of you as the pleasure surged, hot and blinding, flooding your body with electricity. Your hands gripped him tighter, buried in his hair as your voice pitched higher with each movement of his hand and mouth.

“Yes!” You gasped, “Zayne, I’m already so close…!”

He’d suspected as much. From the dew of your skin. From the tension in your thighs. From the wine earlier and how hydrated he knew you were, how your body was primed to burst for him. He took the cue immediately, adjusting your position with practiced ease—his arm curling around your thigh to tug you slightly closer to the edge, tilting you downward just enough. Your breath caught in your throat at the realization, that weightless moment just before impact, like the pause at the top of a rollercoaster.

Then—he began punching his fingertips into that swollen sensitive spot inside of you that sent your mind spinning. His wrist tensed, his grip locking around your thigh as his brows knit deeper with an intense need. His lips parted from you with a ragged, husky breath, and the next thing you knew—he was lapping at your clit in the open, expecting how much you would start to jolt and writhe soon enough. The rhythm of his fingers, the wet slap of his tongue—it was relentless. Your voice shattered into pieces, echoing through the dining room as fire rushed through your veins faster than you could ever hope to keep up with, voice rising in time with the furious pace of his movements.

“I’m gonna cum!” You cried out, helpless, frantic, your limbs trembling under the intensity of his effort, under that relentlessly building pressure each punch of his fingers threatened to burst, “oh my God, Zayne, don’t stop! Keep going, baby! Keep going! I’m-! I’m-…!”

Your whole body seized with an unbearable tension possessing your every limb, your spine locking up off the table as your pelvis tilted, your mind dissolving into blinding white. A scream tore through your throat, mouth wide, eyes squeezed shut as your vision exploded in color behind your lids. You gushed. It hit hard. Sharp. Immediate. A hot burst of liquid spilled from you, splashing over Zayne’s chin, his wrist, all over him, soaking his arm as he kept going, his tongue still lapping at you ceaselessly, riding you through every wave of euphoria. Your body convulsed under the weight of it, every muscle spasming as he held you down, unshaken, committed.

You writhed beneath him, knuckles shaking between fistfuls of his hair, your scream still echoing, breath stuttering between sobs of his name, “Zayne! Zayne! Oh God, Zayne!”

And still—his mouth didn’t stop. His fingers only slowed. He worshipped you through the aftershocks like you were the only thing that had ever mattered. And God, in that moment, to him—you were. For you, it was like falling from heaven—but instead of crashing, you were caught. Caught by the man you loved more than anyone, held in his reverence and blanketed in that tingling warmth that only Zayne ever made you feel. The kind of warmth that slowed your heart and sped it up all at once, that wrapped around you like soft light and pulled you gently, reverently, back down to earth. You were shaking. Gasping for breath. A wreck of breathless giggles as you melted beneath him, your fingers relaxing with a trembling tenderness into the roots of his damp hair. His mouth hadn’t left you—not really. Now, he was kissing you gently, lovingly, dotting slow smooches along your inner thigh, his tongue licking up the dripping aftermath of your euphoria, savoring the mess he’d made of you.

The ceiling spun above you as your eyes finally blinked open, lashes heavy, breath slowly catching up with you. You inhaled deep and let out a weak laugh, light and giddy, filled with a joy too big for words. Zayne didn’t move until you did—he never did. His devotion lived in the way he waited, the way he let you set your own pace, the way he respected that. But when you shifted, when you lifted just slightly onto one elbow, he stood. He rose from his chair in one fluid motion, pushing it back with a scrape of wood against wood. And that’s when you saw it—really saw him. His sweats were tenting, stretched and darkened where your orgasm had flowed off the table across the front, the wet patches blooming low on his abdomen. You watched, transfixed, as he curled his thumbs beneath the waistband, and in one swift, fluid movement, yanked them down his pale hips, letting them fall to the floor in a heap.

You forgot to breathe. The lean muscles along his torso shifted as he stood tall again before he brought a fist to his mouth and gave his chin a single, efficient wipe—cleaning the remnants of you from his lips. It shouldn’t have been so mesmerizing; but seeing Zayne absolutely drenched from you? It was everything. Your breath hitched again as your gaze dropped between his legs, heat sweeping over you in another full-body wave. His cock stood hard and flushed, the tip glistening with a bead of precum that gleamed in the soft, golden light.

He gripped himself, fngers curling tightly around his girth, giving himself a slow, needy squeeze like he had to. Like the intensity of his desire was too much to bear. Like he needed to hold on to something and ground himself before he could give himself to you. You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face, couldn’t stop the way your lips curled up in that blissed out, dazed expression you always wore when he looked like that.

He stepped closer and you welcomed him, lifting up your calf with a soft sigh, curling it over his shoulder. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watched him. Studied him. His face, his body, the way he watched you with the same kind of reverence. Your gazes fell in unison to the shrinking space between you, to the slow inevitability of your bodies joining again. He hugged your thigh tighter, leaned down, and pressed a kiss into the soft flesh like it was his way of thanking you for being there; for choosing him. For letting him in.

Then—he pushed. A slow, deliberate thrust, not rushed, not frantic. Just deep and purposeful. You watched, helpless, awestruck, as your body gave for him, your folds stretching open to accommodate the thick, perfect shape of him. The way the plush head of his cock parted you was almost too much, too intimate, too breathtaking. Your breath caught, eyes wide, and his did too. His brows furrowed, lashes fluttering down, cheeks flushed as his mouth fell open with a gasp. That first flutter of you wrapped around him, and it wrecked him. He held still, gripping your thigh like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

You reached for him, hand finding his waist, pulling. And he obeyed. He pressed in deeper, both of you sighing in perfect sync, the stretch, the heat, the pressure between you winding so tight it was impossible to tell where your pleasure ended and his began. Your fingertips dug into each other’s skin, your bodies locking together in a silence so charged, so intimate, it made your eyes burn. You were his. And Zayne—God help him—was utterly, completely yours.

He moved slow, each thrust deep and drawn out with the kind of indulgent patience that only made the tension worse. Worse, because every motion of his body said he wasn’t done worshiping you, not even close. Every time he pulled back, your body mourned the absence, your skin squelching quietly from the contact of his groin to your lips, the sticky sound echoing between you with every retreat of his chiseled hips. And then, he’d return again, sinking back into you with a thick, solid push that buried him so deep you swore you felt it in your lungs.

Each time Zayne filled you, you clenched down helplessly, your body holding him like it was terrified of letting him go. Like you needed to keep him inside you just to feel whole. You were already undone—tipsy on wine and him, already floating in the hazy pleasure of being so fully, so tightly wrapped around him. But watching him like this? That made it worse. You couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop your eyes from devouring the sight of him as he moved above you, his face flushed, lashes low, the corners of his mouth slack with open-mouthed pleasure. You traced a droplet of your own slick with your eyes, watching it glisten as it slid slowly down the tense dip of his abs—following the trail up, over his chest, where sweat from earlier still clung to the smooth skin of his throat. Your touch followed. You reached out, brushing that drop as it passed his stomach, and God, the way he shuddered at your touch made heat bloom behind your ribs.

His fingers tightened around the calf he held braced over his shoulder, squeezing like he needed something to ground himself. His other hand spanned wide over your torso, fingers grazing softly along your sternum, sweeping over your breasts—slow, reverent, indulgent. You reached for him as well, trembling fingers curling around his wrist, and with a firm tug, you brought his hand up to your face. You didn’t ask. You didn’t speak. You just parted your lips and took his thumb into your mouth.

The wet sound of the suction made Zayne inhale sharply, a sigh pouring from him, ragged and wanting. His hips reacted before he could rein them in, snapping forward with a gentle, but firm smack of his pelvis against yours. The sound of his groin meeting your splayed folds—wet and intimate—echoed louder in the stillness of the room. You gasped, the surge of heat coursing through you instantaneous, breath catching as your walls fluttered around him. Without thinking, your hand slid down between your bodies, your fingers finding your slippery, swollen clit and pressing into a soft, needy rub.

Zayne froze—just for a second. Then his breath shuddered. The sight of you—fingers on yourself, mouth wrapped around his thumb, eyes glazed and locked on him through hooded lashes—snapped something inside him. His hand tightened again around your calf, the grip firm and possessive, his hips rolling harder, the next thrust deeper, more urgent. Your mouth swirled your tongue around his thumb, and he groaned low in his throat, hips flexing with renewed intensity.

“H-harder,” you begged, the word broken and breathless around his thumb.

There was a glimmer of something unhinged in your gaze—lust, love, desperation—and you watched the way it wrecked Zayne. He was torn between watching your face—cheeks flushed and dewy, brows drawn in rapture—and the sight just below, where your own fingertips moved in frantic circles over your glistening clit. Each pass was faster than the last, slick and obscene, the sounds wet and intimate, and God, the sight alone made his pulse thrum in his ears.

“Harder…” You whimpered again, impatient, growing needier by the second, “Zayne, go harder already!”

That did it. He snapped. His hips slammed into you with a force that knocked a gasp straight out of your lungs. Your breasts jolted forcefully with the first thrust, bouncing from the sudden impact, and your body arched off the table like you couldn’t bear the pleasure of his divine zeal as he continued.

“Yes!” You cried out, voice ragged, your hand moving furiously between your legs now, matching his growing intensity, pushing yourself higher with every thrust, “mhmm, just like that! Yes! Just like—ohh!”

Zayne groaned, the sound guttural and strained as your walls fluttered wildly around him, tightening in sharp, uneven pulses. The sensation had his jaw clenching, sweat trickling down his temple, slipping past the tension in his vocal chords as he pistoned his hips faster, harder. He was addicted to this. To stepping out of line. To you. To the way you took him in, gripped him, held him like your body never wanted to let go. His hands were damp with sweat, the skin between your bodies slick and heated, sticking together with every powerful slap of his hips against you.

Zayne couldn’t look away. You were still sucking on his thumb, your lips flushed and glistening from drool, tongue flicking over the pad with slow, sultry pulls that made his head spin. Your other hand never stopped moving, fingers slick with arousal as you circled your clit faster, chasing release like it was life itself. He was watching you fall apart beneath him—for him—and God, it was too much.

“Say you’ll get used to this,” he panted huskily, voice cracking with the force of his thrusts.

His thumb pressed harder against your tongue, massaging the soft muscle as your eyes fluttered open just barely, gaze hazy and glazed with pleasure. He was staring down at you—starving for you—his expression dark, his pupils wide and burning with hunger. Your moan vibrated against the pad of his thumb, and he felt it in his bones. The rhythm of his hips faltered for a breath, then picked up again, harder, deeper, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the air between you, mixing with your desperate, breathy gasps and the wet squelch of your slick beneath his thrusts.

“Say it for me, Y/n,” he begged, voice sharp and desperate, almost unrecognizable, “I want to hear you say it…!”

God, that did it for you.

“I’ll—I’ll get used to this!” you slurred, voice cracking around the edge of a shout, your words muffled, wet around his thumb until they finally burst free.

Your chest heaved with ragged gasps, each breath sharper than the last as the pounding in your ears merged with the pulse of blazing heat curling tight in the pit of your stomach. It wasn’t just the feel of him—though heavens, that alone would’ve undone you. It wasn’t just the way he slammed into you with feverish, unrelenting rhythm, hips snapping against you in greedy, hungry thrusts that shook the table beneath your back. It wasn’t just the slap of skin meeting skin or the heat soaking every inch of your body. It was him. It was the way Zayne looked at you. The way his eyes, half-lidded and dark with awe, stared down at you like you were something holy, something sacred. The way his desire wasn’t just in his body—it was carved into his face, written in every shudder of his breath, in every twitch of his jaw, in the tension of his muscles as he tried, and failed, to keep himself from falling apart.

“I’ll get—so, so used to—God!!” You screamed, the words spilling from your lips in a flood of pure, unfiltered ecstasy as your hand flew to his forearm, gripping him, your fingers digging into his scars as if it was the only thing anchoring you to earth, to reality. His thumb slipped free from your mouth, and suddenly your words echoed—unmuffled, raw, every syllable ringing through the air between you, searing into his skin like brand marks, “I’ll get damn used to you pounding me completely senseless on every last surface of this—ahh! I’m cumming! Zayne, I’m—!”

“—Cum with me!” He broke, voice splintered, a ragged plea full of breathless desperation.

He grabbed your hand—found it, gripped it—his fingers interlacing with yours just as your bodies reached the edge together. Your eyes locked in the chaos, and there was nothing else. Just him. Just you. And the fire you were about to fall into, hand in hand. You both came undone in the same blinding moment. It was loud, helpless, a raw, visceral surrender to the tidal wave of euphoria that overtook you both, so all-consuming it rattled through your bones. Your bodies trembled, shook, legs trembling and hands gripping, desperate for something to hold onto as the euphoria hit, slamming through you in white-hot pulses that made your thoughts fracture apart like glass. Heat rushed through your veins, singing through your limbs as the final snap of tension detonated inside you. You cried out, hips twitching as you drenched him, your core slick and pulsing beneath your own touch while he bucked deep into your heat, his thrusts erratic, wrecked. Zayne spilled rope after thick rope deep inside you, your walls fluttering, sucking every drop from him with a hunger neither of you could ever seem to satisfy. It was earth-shattering. Soul-stripping. Blinding. There were no thoughts. Only him. Only this.

When the crashing waves of pleasure finally began to pull back, you both stilled, dazed and silent, as if you’d fallen from some celestial place, breathless from touching something beyond human. Zayne’s chest was flushed and heaving, glistening under the warm light, the air burning in his lungs as he slowly came down with you, his hand still gripping your thigh, trembling as he guided your calf down gently from his shoulder. You were jelly, twitching with leftover pulses of pleasure. He was soft and spent, the strength drained from him, every movement labored and delicate.

Zayne pulled out with a broken whimper, his jaw tightening as the friction of parting from your overstimulated body sent a final, shivery wave through him. The slick, heady mess between your thighs clung to him, but he didn’t look away—not from your body, not from your face. He leaned over you, folding down, and you wrapped your arms around him immediately. He pressed into you—hot, sweaty, real—his body collapsing over yours with a soft exhale against your neck. You held him there, lips meeting his before he even had the strength to find you first.

He kissed you like he needed to. Like you were the only thing tethering him to earth. And you returned it just as hungrily, your lips sticking to his with every breathless press. Again. And again. You could taste the faint salt of sweat on his upper lip. Feel the radiating heat of his skin against yours. Hear the ragged breaths that still shook in his chest as you clung to each other. You broke apart only when your eyes met—his half-lidded and heavy, yours glazed with affection—and the two of you laughed, soft and dizzy, over a few more lazy kisses. The laughter was quiet and intimate, like you’d just shared some sacred secret between your bodies.

Your legs gave a wobble the moment you tried to push yourself up, arms threatening to buckle under the aftershocks still humming in your limbs. The table had long since cooled beneath your thighs, but your body remained too warm, too loose, too thoroughly unraveled to stand on its own just yet. But Zayne was already there—of course he was. Ever the insistent gentleman, ever the protector even after wrecking you beyond coherence. He caught you before you could do more than shift, arms scooping around your waist as if it were nothing, as if you hadn’t just barely survived the way he’d loved you.

After cleaning you and himself off with his discarded sweater and fetching the one you donned earlier, he carried you with careful steps into the kitchen, his grip gentle but unyielding, before setting you down with all the delicacy of something fragile onto the cool surface of the counter. The cold marble met your thighs and made you shiver, and within seconds, he was pressing a chilled glass of water into your hand. You held it like an anchor, fingers curling around the condensation-slicked glass as you brought it to your lips with his help. He made you drink it all, giving you a moment before you nodded that you were done and set the glass aside.

“Here, you’ll catch a cold if you’re naked for long,” Zayne murmured, already moving to tug the sweater he fetched over your head.

You let him. You always did. He was so quietly stubborn in moments like this, so unshakably him. He guided your arms through the long sleeves with patient care, flipping your hair out from the collar and fixing it back, his fingers grazing along your nape like he couldn’t quite stop touching you.

“Just stay put, alright?” He said, voice soft but edged with that familiar firmness that made your chest flutter, “don’t exhaust yourself any further. Save your energy for a shower with me before we test out the new game console.”

Your breath caught a little on the laugh that followed, light and breathless, “okay, okay, fine…Thank you.”

Zayne only shook his head with that quiet, affectionate chuckle of his, lips twitching at the corners as he stepped back from you. You watched him as he strolled toward the fridge, the slow, grounded pace of his walk so casual, so domestic, it made your chest ache in a different way. He paused in front of the magnetic whiteboard, eyes scanning the surface before lifting a hand to thoughtfully rub his smooth-shaven chin. There were your seal doodles, drawn in a sleepy haze the night before. Silly, lopsided, you. Right beside them, the short list of reminders he’d left himself for next week—smog check, order contacts, change out air filter. He stared at the board for a moment longer, then grabbed a black marker and uncapped it with a soft click.

You tilted your head as you fixed your hair as much as you could, your curiosity rising slowly as you watched Zayne begin to jot down something new beneath his reminders. He was writing…Numbers?

Then he added words next to each.

1. Bed

2. Couch

3. Bathtub

4. Desk

5. Dining table

And without hesitation, he began to check them off. The marker squeaked slightly as it pressed into the surface, but your breath was louder—shallow, caught between a stunned laugh and the rush of warmth that spread down your spine. You couldn’t even bring yourself to speak. You just paused at a twirl of your messy hair and let the moment hang there, undeniably his.

“…Uh, Zayne?” You giggled, your voice soft and breathy as it broke the quiet hum of the fridge.There was still a slight rasp in your throat, a rawness from how loudly you’d screamed his name not long ago.

You caught the curl of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth—subtle, mischievous, utterly him—as he kept writing, pretending he didn’t hear the way you laced your words with curiosity. He didn’t look at you right away. Just kept his eyes on the board as he scribbled one last word with casual precision, the black ink catching under the warm lighting.

“What are you doing?” You finally asked.

“Making a list,” he replied simply, still so composed, so calm, as if he hadn’t just torn you apart on the dining table minutes earlier.

You tilted your head again, the arch of your brow quirking as your gaze flicked down to the last thing he’d written.

6. Kitchen counter

And it was…Unchecked.

“Of?” You prompted that cleverly humorous man you called yours, crossing your arms as the smirk tugged at your lips.

“Surfaces,” he turned his head then, giving you his full gaze. Calm. Steady. Smiling with just enough self-satisfaction to make your heart flutter and your stomach knot all over again. He capped the marker with a soft click, “you know,” he added, his tone smooth, his words so effortlessly dry it made your cheeks flush, “to help you get used to us living together.”

Heat tinged your face instantly. It rose up your neck and bloomed across your cheeks as you burst into another giggle, smacking your own forehead in disbelief at the audacity of this man—your man—and the deadpan honesty in the way he said things that left you breathless. Still floating, still only half-dressed in his oversized sweater, you carefully slid off the counter and slowly padded toward him, your bare feet nearly silent against the cool tile. Zayne didn’t move. He just watched you come closer with that infuriatingly calm composure of his, like he already knew you were going to meet him there. You reached for the marker in his hand, plucking it from his elegant fingers with a smirk that mirrored the one he tried—and failed—to hide from you.

“To the point that one day…” You began quoting him, lifting the marker to the board, uncapping it with a dramatic little flourish, “I’ll find myself in the middle of the vegetable aisle at the grocery store wondering whose diabolical idea it was to add carrots to beef stew…”

Zayne laughed. Really laughed—the low, quiet, genuine kind that warmed your chest. His gaze dropped to the little side-note you added beneath his unchecked “kitchen counter.”

While dinner’s cooking ;)

“Precisely,” he chuckled, pulling you into his bare chest with one easy motion, like your place was always meant to be there.

He kissed the top of your head, and you let yourself melt fully into him, breathing him in deep. You stood there for a long, peacefully silent moment, swaying gently together in the quiet hum of the kitchen. His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek, your fingertips affectionate as they mapped the breadth of his sweat-damp shoulders. Your mind drifted into unobstructed vulnerability, then, pleasantly tumbling into the sweetest, unguarded warmth. It was a feeling that reminded you of when you and Zayne were children, him the quiet boy who could always be found nose-deep in a book, you the lively girl who laughed the loudest and spun in your light up sneakers too fast—When you’d go knocking on his parents’ front door after school, asking if he was done with his homework so you could drag him out to play with you, to roll down that little hill behind his childhood home together, the one hidden just past a field of jasmines—until the sun would set and he’d insist on walking you back to your porch.

Maybe I’ll get used to a lot of things. Sharing a fridge. Filling his dresser drawers. Slow dancing in the middle of meal prep. Maybe I’ll even get used to the idea of marrying him one day. Maybe it wouldn’t be too crazy to be real. Maybe it’d be just perfect. Maybe I even deserve it. Maybe I’ll really marry him. Maybe he’d be the best girl dad. Maybe I’ll proudly brag to Tara and Jenna that my husband would never force our child to play an instrument or go to med school.

Yeah.

I think I’d like that.

I could get used to this.

I want to marry him. I want to marry Zayne.

You didn’t say it out loud. Not yet. But as you smiled peacefully into his chest, it was already there, warm and certain, tucked somewhere deep between your ribs where all the important truths liked to live.

#zayne #zayne x reader #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace zayne #lads zayne #love #domestic #domesticity #lnds zayne #lads #doctor zayne #fluffy #fluff #smut #zayne fanfic #love and deespace fanfic #li shen

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devdozes · 30 days ago

Note

Heyyy, how are you? Hope ur doing great.

I had an idea. Imagine spidey Phainon being alone in class bored ( he got there too early), sitting in his place, then he saw something interesting on his teachers desk and used his web trick to get the thing, but the moment he did that the reader walked in on him . Imagine ger getting a lil freaked out as she slammed the door shut and started running away from him in the halls pushing past people but ofc he can’t let the secret to spill out so he panics and starts chasing.

Take care and

Ty💍

Phainon sighed, slumping over his desk, absentmindedly tapping his fingers against the surface. He was way too early to class—again.

It wasn’t like he was trying to be an overachiever; being Spider-Man just meant he had an absolutely bonkers sleep schedule. One second he was web-slinging across the city, the next, he was forcing himself to attend an 8 AM class while running on nothing but sheer willpower and caffeine.

With a long sigh, he leaned back in his chair, staring at the empty classroom. It was eerily quiet. His professor wasn’t even here yet, which meant he was free to sit in boredom for who knows how long.

…Until something on the teacher’s desk caught his attention.

A tiny, shiny, cube-shaped thing, reflecting the light in a way that practically whispered, “Hey, take me.”

Curious, Phainon squinted at it. Was it candy? A fancy stapler? A weird piece of modern art? His curiosity got the best of him. His fingers twitched as instinct took over, and with a flick of his wrist—

Thwip!

His web shot forward, sticking perfectly onto the object. He gave a light tug, watching as the cube soared through the air toward him—

—and that was the exact moment you walked in.

The door swung open, and you stopped dead in your tracks, eyes locked onto the web still attached to Phainon’s fingers, the object mid-air.

There was a long, painfully awkward silence.

“…Oh.”

Your eye twitched. The door slammed shut as you turned on your heel and BOLTED down the hallway, pushing past students without hesitation.

“OH, COME ON!” Phainon yelped, his heart stopping for a solid second.

Crap. Crapcrapcrap. That was not how anyone was supposed to find out his secret! Panic set in as he shoved the cube into his pocket and dashed after you.

Students barely had time to react as you weaved through the hallways, knocking over someone’s textbooks, sidestepping a janitor, and nearly tripping over your own feet in your desperate attempt to escape.

Phainon wasn’t about to let you spill his secret, though. He dodged between students with ease, using his speed to catch up. “Hey, hey—WAIT!”

“NOPE! I SAW NOTHING! I’M LEAVING THE COUNTRY!!” you yelled over your shoulder.

Phainon groaned. You were fast, but he was faster. With one final push, he reached out, grabbed your wrist, and yanked you into an empty supply closet.

“WHA—”

Click.

The door shut behind you both, and you found yourself face-to-face with a very nervous, very out-of-breath Phainon.

He put a finger to his lips, eyes pleading. “Listen. We can talk about this, but first, deep breaths. You’re acting like I just committed a crime.”

“You LITERALLY shot a web like a dollar-store Spider-Man!” you whisper-yelled, eyes wide. “What even WAS that?!”

Phainon winced. “…Okay, first of all, rude. And second—uhhh, surprise?”

Your gaze flicked between him and his hand, which was still slightly coated in web residue.

“…So are you gonna eat me or something?”

“Oh my god—” Phainon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, let’s just—just let me explain, alright? Just don’t scream or run again.”

You stared at him for a long moment, still catching your breath, before crossing your arms. “Fine. But you better tell me everything, Web Boy.”

Phainon sighed in relief, though his lips twitched into a smirk. “Oh, trust me. You just signed up for a wild ride.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So what, you’re some kind of supervillain who steals office supplies?”

He rolled his eyes. “What—No! I’m Spider-Man!”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

You stared at him, blinking.

Phainon, realizing how stupid that sounded out loud, winced.

“YOU’RE SPIDER-MAN?!”

“Shhhh!” Phainon frantically clapped a hand over your mouth, looking around in a panic. “Do you WANT the entire school to hear?!”

You shoved his hand away. “YOU JUST CASUALLY DROP THAT ON ME AFTER CHASING ME THROUGH THE HALLS?!”

“Well, I panicked!” he shot back, looking incredibly stressed.

You took a deep breath. “Okay, okay. So. You’re Spider-Man.”

“Yes.”

“Like…the actual Spider-Man.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve just been chilling here, in high school, stealing staplers with your webs?”

“I WASN’T STEALING IT! I WAS JUST—I WAS BORED, OKAY?!”

You stared at him for a long moment before slowly reaching into your bag, pulling out a granola bar, unwrapping it, and taking a long, slow bite.

Phainon watched, confused. “What… are you doing?”

“Processing.” You chewed thoughtfully.

Another beat of silence passed.

“So,” you said, swallowing. “If you’re Spider-Man, does that mean you’ve, like…saved the city and stuff?”

“Uh…yeah. A few times.”

“Huh.” You took another bite. “That’s kinda hot.”

Phainon nearly choked on air. “WHAT?!”

You shrugged, looking completely unfazed. “I mean, mysterious guy, double life, swinging through the city, saving people—kinda cool. Kinda attractive.”

Phainon, the literal Spider-Man, was red-faced and malfunctioning. “You—THAT—” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “That is NOT the takeaway from this conversation!”

“Well, what did you expect? You just told me you’re a superhero. That’s, like, objectively cool.” You grinned. “Also, do you get free food for saving people? Like, do pizza places just hand you free slices?”

“I am genuinely questioning why I even told you this,” Phainon muttered, rubbing his temples.

You patted his shoulder. “Because you chased me down and I wasn’t gonna let you leave without an explanation.”

He groaned. “Just… promise me you won’t tell anyone?”

You gave him a mock salute. “Your secret’s safe with me, Spidey.”

Phainon sighed, muttering something under his breath as he turned away.

You, meanwhile, casually took out your phone and snapped a picture of his retreating figure.

Phainon turned back. “Wait, what did you just—”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, grinning. “Just making sure I have proof in case you ever deny this conversation.”

Phainon groaned again. “I’m gonna regret this.”

“Nah,” you said, pocketing your phone. “You’re gonna love it when I start demanding free web-slinging rides to school.”

Phainon paused. “...Wait.”

Your grin widened. “Oh yeah, you’re my personal Uber now.” He grins back at you. "Maybe I won't mind that :3"

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slowd1ving · 4 months ago

Text

[✦VI. FOR NONE SHED TEARS FOR THE FORSAKEN] SNIPPET • . DR RATIO

2770 words in... I'm on the first scene... it's not even finished yet... also quick note since the context comes before this snippet; heliaia is the supreme court of ancient athens and has been conveniently coopted for metis :3 idk if y'all can tell by the dialogue but I binged iwtv and armand's lines in particular stuck with me

LAMENT OF OUROBOROS MASTERLIST

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

“A fledgling court, a fledgling government…” A prodding, sardonic finger broke past the mirage of the map and the stars rippled. You could not help but feel this was rather apt. “...dealing with an organisation, possibly several, that have existed… for how long? Decades? Centuries? Surely someone benefited from this from the very beginning, and it can’t have been just this flimsy government.”

He exhaled. Once, twice, while you thought with glazed eyes to the brittle construction of this world. “Just yesterday, you were vehemently protesting any other involvement. A complex political web, far too easy to upset, I believe you said.”

His face, so delicately wrought beneath that mask he typically favoured, twisted—for a fleeting moment you thought back to the sculpture. Though, as quickly as it came, the thought dissipated and you rebuked yourself for the very notion.

“I will admit, the early stages must be done so discreetly that there is not a breath of it elsewhere save this room. There will be no room for error there,” he murmured. “The evidence found will unleash the hounds of the Court of Ouroboros, which will be far more scrupulous than the… fledgling… Heliaia that you so mistrust. It will be a careful balance of treading the line of the law, but once the criminal case is underway, they’ll scatter.”

“And who will round them up?” Carefully, a chalk blur was traced against the richly stained wood of your chair. “Us? You, who suddenly has a degree in international criminal law? The ‘hounds’? Sophos—all due respect—why are you pursuing this in the first place?”

Why are you pursuing this in the first place?

A thousand years. A millennium, for attempting to set free the binds his progenitor had enforced onto the people. That was the price he had paid, yet he achieved nothing. Dozens of lifetimes, gone; and here he was, parsing through every material possible to finish his work. There was no mockery in your tone, but still, he felt his mouth set into a grim line.

Why are you pursuing this in the first place?

Centuries of loneliness. With the absence of everything, anything—death, life. Each fickle sense, transfigured into cold, unyielding stone. His mind—subjected to the droning blather of a false dream.

Why are you pursuing this in the first place?

A frigid smile painted his features.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, coolly. “On that item, neither should you concern yourself with my motivations. Do pardon the mistrust.” We didn’t meet under the best circumstances. He didn’t say that. Rather, his finger trailed across the enlarged city where the stars formed dense galaxies and constellations, past the streets he trod in his youth, and settled on where the points converged into a singularity. An amorphous, wriggling mass of taverns and smoke-houses stared right back at him.

(The symposium of a young master. A youth weaves amidst the crowd, draped in intricate garb yet just a touch out of place. It’s not noticeable, not unless one has a rather distinguishing eye. Though the scholars sat around the table frequent lectures diurnally—and are considered some of the sharpest minds— when the suns dip beneath the gentle curve of the sea, the curtain falls over their eyes too.

The seventh prince sits, unnoticed.

There’s a peculiar scent on the air—of meat, wine, and the sinister odour of conspiracy and deceit. It cloys. Sticks to the skin so carefully perfumed with incense and oil. Honeyed wine does wonders for loosening lips, and the youth watches, entranced, as secrets flow freely.)

Your hard stare shattered the remnants of the memory, and his eyes refocused on where the ornate building used to be on the map.

“Fine.” Your fingers drummed on the backrest of the chair. “Belated apologies for touching a nerve. You won’t involve a third party yet, and neither will I. Matter resolved.”

His eyes narrowed, and you mentally sent a quick apology to Kakavasha. “What third party would you be involving?”

The drumming ceased, for the time it took a bowstring to be drawn, or a sharp inhale to occur. “My assistant,” you said, smoothly. “A disciple—apprentice, if you will—who has a keen grasp on information.” It was not a lie. Still, you’d rather he rest in the city, and you’d take care of the work of finding your statue and writing your paper, and this.

Ratio mulled the words over, and his red-stained lips formed a pensive line for a brief few seconds. “No third parties. Yet.”

A wry smile stretched your face as you exhaled. “Cool. Do you trust me?”

“No,” he uttered at once, with a smile of his own.

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qingyingpocketlirary · 2 months ago

Text

Silken History Part 1

This is a post that has Key information for my Snaphots and Tea Collection serises and also for information inportent to the back story for The Spider Web Story.

It also contains some HEAD CANNONS. Please take note they are head cannon's not Orginal to the Book JTTW or considered Cannon to the Lego Monkie Kid fandom while reading. Thank you!

Spider Demons are Matriarchal in nature. Meaning only the women would be considered heirs to the throne, not sons, but this does not mean sons are ill treated or unwanted, they are given the titles of Prince and treated as equal to their sisters, but never given the right to rule the Spiders, they instead are taught the ways of war and battle, how to hunt, prepare feasts, and become a Queen’s Guard if their sister became Queen.

If a Spider Prince sires a daughter of their own and that daughter becomes a Queen, they would be given the title of ‘Royal Father’, the closest rank to a King a Male Spider Demon can get, and a role that is highly respected amongst the males of Spider Demon culture because of its rarity.

The First Queen of the Spider Clan was given her title after earning it through combat. Her rule was long, and allowed the Spider Clan to establish both a stable and unshakable empire over Silk trade and wears, and a solid rule over all other spiders within her domain. After fully securing her place as a powerful force to be reckoned with, she took a mate and birthed twin daughters and one son.

The children grew well under her schooling, and when they came of age, the son requested permission to go and explore the world, seeking to learn new things and bring back new ideas and designs for the silk wears. The daughters asked to leave so that they might seek lessons from the silkworm clan and learn more about weaving, sewing and the ways of trading. The First Queen agreed and gave her blessing to them all.

After six years the daughters returned and with them, a letter from the Silkworm clan, asking if they might send their Princess, who wished to study under the Queen so that she might learn from her in return, to them in the coming weeks. A show of good faith and strong relations between the two sides so the silk trade. However shortly thereafter, news reached the First Queen of her son’s death via a handwritten letter, sent from a small village only two days' travel from their home.

The letter claimed that the son had been ambushed on the road home by a group of men, strangers to the land, eager to try and impress a young lady of the village with their kill, only to be immediately arrested and held for their crime. The Queen and her daughters grieved privately, and after four days, the Queen herself descended upon the village, finding offerings of all kinds at every door. Clearly, this village had known very well who this spider was and they feared her anger would be placed upon them without proper appeasement.

A further attempt to soothe her anger as she walked the empty streets towards the stocks where the guilty men were held, was that the body of her son had been placed within a coffin and covered with a silk blanket, and two guards of the Village stood close by, their heads low as she approached. When she’d asked why they were out so late in the chilled evening, one had explained that they had been chosen that night to protect the body of the Spider Prince from any scavengers that might come by.

From that day onwards, that village was considered a part of the Queen’s domain, and from it, the women folk were able to slowly learn the ways of silk weaving and earn more to better provide for their families.

The First Queen lived many years more, before passing on the Crown to her eldest daughters, who had slowly earnt their own reputations as the Crimson and Violet Queens, and passing of old age peacefully, surrounded by her children and clan.

For a time, things were peaceful.

Until Heaven, worried about the amount of influence and power the Queens held over the humans because of their control over the Silk Trade, came down and attempted to enforce its rule over the Spider clan, resulting in a short but brutal war. The war’s climax battle took the lives of the Crimson Queen, her four elder sons and her two daughters, but her youngest son was spared and taken in by the Violet Queen, who after the loss of her sister unleashed a powerful venom that turned many of the Heavenly soldiers into mindless puppets her her command.

To end the conflict, Heaven placed down a powerful array that kept the Spider Queen and her kin from leaving the area, from that day on, the area known marked on maps as Silk Web Hollow.

No one knows who fathered the daughters of the Violet Queen during her time as the sole ruler of the Spider clan, only that each daughter was powerful in their own ways and were able to establish their own rule within the Hollow. Despite the array keeping them within the Hollow, the Spider clan continued to thrive thanks to the help of the human villages within the array who continued to trade and work on the Spider’s behalf in exchange for protection from Heaven and other threats. Many attempts were made by Heaven to cut off the silk trade from the Hollow, none were successful, and during this time, the Spider Queen and her daughters continued to thrive and form new alliances with other powerful Demons.

Then came the Tang Monk and his faithful pilgrims.

The conflict was brief, only a few days at most, and yet, it was this meeting that seemed to spark the end of the Hollow, for only a week after the Tang Monk and his pilgrims escaped, the Hollow was assaulted.

No one, to this day, knows who did it, some say Heaven, others say humans, some whisper of it being another Demon, but one thing is sure.

The Emerald Queen, youngest of the seven heiresses and barely old enough to lay her first clutch of eggs became the sole ruler over all Spider Demons, and with the Hollow destroyed, she and the ruins of her clan fled into the underground to heal and recover.

The Silk trade survived, but no one has ever discovered how or who was controlling it, and over the years, Heaven has chosen to ignore the Spider Clan, feeling it will never again return to such a powerful state.

What neither Heaven, nor the Emerald Queen knew at the time, was that there was another who survived and fled.

Head Cannon and story Lore below!!!!

The events we see in the show happen, but for the sake of the story there is a gap between Syntax’s turning and New Years, at most a month and a half, and during that time;

~ Change begins to happen inside Syntax later than the external change, it's painful at worst and uncomfortable at best. The Queen, Goliath and Huntsman take this time to help him adjust and cope.

~ The Queen teached Syntax the history of the Spider Clan and their culture, while helping to explain what each change is and how it will affect him. She also makes him tonics to help sooth the internal pains of his changes.

~ Goliath is given the bulk of the task to help Syntax adjust to his new limbs and instincts, both because Syntax is completely at a loss on how to use his new limbs and his new abilities, and because teaching is something Goliath longs to do for little ones.

~ Syntax may be an adult in his own mind, but to the Spiders, he is about the age of a toddler and as such, Goliath and Huntsman make a habit of carrying him around when they need to move fast, and will continue to do so until Syntax can keep up with them on his own.

~ The Queen, Huntsman and Goliath call Syntax ‘kid/kiddo’. Syntax wasn’t sure about it at first, but after the Queen explains Goliath’s nature and his instincts to teach young ones, he allows it because it helps Goliath feel that he is being of better use to the Clan.

~ Huntsman makes adjustments to their meals to help Syntax’s stomach during the change, mixing animal and human meat into stews and coaxing him to eat with obvious word play, but it helps so he doesn’t argue.

~ Not all demons eat human flesh, however Spider Demons keep some in their diet, they are natural hunters, and humans make for a good challenge to hunt.

~ Huntsman and Syntax’s rivalry is pointless, they both know it but still play it up because it amuses the Queen, especially when at points where the ‘fighting’ gets ‘too much’ Goliath will just grab Huntsman and Syntax by the back of their necks and lift them both up like cats by the scruffs and just hold them up off the ground until they ‘run out of steam’.

~ Syntax has figured out that hanging limp when this happens means Goliath will put him down faster, but also means that he looks more like a helpless kitten.

~ Huntsman will fight, trying to squirm free, until the Queen 'scolds’ him for setting a bad example for Syntax, then he’ll stop and apologise.

~ They will be right back at it the next day.

During this time, the Queen is not aware of who the little girl is, as she is more focused on Syntax and the work he does to create the Spider Mech, more drones for the venom and so, she does not at first notice the chill around the lair because the quick construction and work on the mech and drones keeps the heat level up.

By the time New Years come around, Syntax is mostly past the worst of the changes, but still has moments and days when his body aches or he is bed ridden with hot/cold flashes that keep him from working. These days are rare but are difficult for him to cope with, as on these days not even the Queen’s tonics help soothe the pain away and he can only bear through it.

During New Years, Demon Bull King and the Monkey King speak (read as the Monkey King talks, Demon Bull King snaps and growls in response) and through the webbing, the Queen overhears talk of the Lady Bone Demon’s possession of the Demon Bull King being the reason he was so easily captured, and that while all trace of her was lost thanks to the Monkie Kid’s efforts to free him, there is always a chance that she might have escaped, as the Demon Bull King can still feel the faintest chills under his skin from her brief time controlling him. They agree (reluctantly on Demon Bull King’s part) that the Lady Bone Demon will be looking to gain power quickly and that she was a threat far greater than their squabble to be dealt with as soon as they were out of the Spider Queen’s hold.

After New Years, the mech is unable to produce heat due to its damage and that is when the chill becomes more noticeable and then unbearable for the Spiders, the Queen recalls the conversation she heard through the webbing between the captured Kings. She only realises that the Girl claiming to be a Human Seer wanting to aid her is the Lady Bone Demon after she notices two key facts about the girl.

First off, there are two heart beats within the girl’s chest. One is a slower, calm heart beat, the heartbeat of an old demon, and it is the loudest beat, easily heard and felt though the webs whenever the girl walks over them. But the second one is faster, more akin to a human’s heartbeat, and there are times when that heart moves faster, as if panicked and in pain. It is masked by the other heart beat so the Queen didn’t hear it often, but the fact that she could was a bad sign.

The second point that led to the Queen to realise who the girl was came when the Queen caught a look at the girl in the reflective surface of the furnace. The reflection doesn’t match.

The girl before the Queen was dressed in a modern style white and blue qixiong ruqun, her black hair styled so that the top layer was rolled up around a jade green bun holder that curved up into sharp tips on its ends. The reflection bore the same face and hair colour, but wore completely modern attire, a beige long-sleeved jacket over a white shirt and a pink skirt, her hair was not styled, but instead sporting a simple pink hairband.

Both these things tell the Queen that the girl is not a Seerer, but a possessed host, and the reflection is the true appearance. Meaning that the one in control of the girl is a Demon capable of possession and given all that she heard and what she remembers from the past, the Queen realised who she’s invited into her home and thus begins The Spider’s Web story.

Below is a brief summary of The Spider Queen’s relationship to her clansmen and minor Head Cannons about the group.

Syntax;

Formerly a strictly employer and employee relationship now a Queen and loyal servant relationship. She is fond of him, as despite the terrible start, Syntax does not resent her for turning him.

~ Syntax was turned into a half demon due to both the potency of the venom used, and because the first drone was affected by the potion used by the Lady Bone Demon. He should have been no more than a drone controlled zombie.

~ The drone’s programing, already a delicate mix of magic and technology, was corrupted by the potion, and so, after it injected Syntax, instead of remaining attached and acting as a conduit to the Queen’s will, it broke itself down through magic and jointed with him in a similar way to a parasite taking over a host.

~ It is due to the potent venom from the Queen that the magic of the potion was stopped and instead, Syntax became a half demon, the first to be turned in many years.

~ This is why the cure didn’t work on him. He’s changed, not controlled, he’d need a direct, continued and potent dose of the cure directly into his body to undo the change.

~ Syntax is hyper sensitive to temperature changes, this is just one of the side effects of his change that is permanent and means that Syntax is at risk of both hypothermia and hyperthermia. His wrist device helps him keep track of his own body temperature.

~ Syntax’s spider limbs can be ‘dead legged’ with a firm jab or knock to his spine where the limbs extend from. Huntsman uses this to his advantage in the story to make Syntax leave his work and eat something.

~ Syntax does have venom glands, but doesn’t yet have the fangs to properly inject it if he bites someone, so the venom is in his saliva.

~ Huntsman has taught him how to use his saliva to create venomous darts to use until his fangs grow in.

~ Goliath is trying to teach him how to walk upside down, but it's taking a while to get the hang of because Syntax isn’t used to being upside down for extended periods of time and gets dizzy.

Goliath;

Queen and warrior/servant relationship, Goliath will follow her leadership and has earnt her trust over the years he’d been with her, he is content in his role and enjoys things as they are, even if he does long for the days when children will be about the lair.

~ As a nursery guard, Goliath is very protective of children and little ones in general, he refuses to do harm to them and will instead web them up and place them in a location where they will not come to harm or be harmed by others.

~ Goliath is overjoyed at having Syntax around, because it helps him feel like he is actually of use to his Queen the way he should be, rather than just being the muscle of their clan.

~ Goliath does have human legs, but rarely uses them because he prefers his spider limbs and also because he feels more comfortable hanging from a web than standing upright.

~ This is partly because when guarding the nursery in the Hollow, he and other guards would hang down while the children and little ones would run about and play on the floor and partly because Goliath uses ambush tactics in battle and being high up gives him an advantage.

~ Goliath is naturally taller and bigger than the rest of the Clan, including the Queen, and so he deliberately slumps and slouches to make himself appear smaller.

~ He does have venom, but it is slow to take effect and not as potent as Huntsman’s or Syntax’s, because of this, Goliath tries to get a bite in early during any hunt or fight he gets into, so that his opponent speeds up the spread of the venom during the fight meaning the effect of the venom takes old faster.

SPOILERS FOR THE SPIDER’S WEB STORY BELOW!!! DO NOT READ THIS PART UNTIL AFTER YOU READ THE SPIDER’S WEB PART 4!!!!!!!!

Huntsman;

Siblings, brother and sister. Huntsman is the surviving son of the Crimson Queen, and being so much older than the daughters of the Violet Queen, they called him their older brother.

~ Huntsman is the fastest and most brutal of the male male spiders because he is technically a Spider Prince. Only he and the Queen know this.

~ He can inject a similar type of venom to the Queen’s into someone if he bites them with his fangs, and like the Queen he can control the potency and dosage.

~ A large dose will kill in moments, whereas a smaller dose will cause a painful temporary paralysis to a victim.

~ Anything between that will induce a bout of painful convulsions and nausea, rather than a turning as a Queen’s venom would, it's painful, but only sometimes fatal if the victim is not given quick treatment and assistance.

~ Huntsman’s hair is long because he was not old enough to begin his training when his mother and siblings were killed. Traditionally, his hair would have been cut by his mother in a small ritual to initiate him into his training. But because of her death, his hair was not cut and instead, the Violet Queen braided it into its signature style as a memory to how the Crimson Queen styled her own hair beneath her crown.

~ He doesn’t like human food very much, but as long as it fills him, he’ll eat almost anything. He prefers to hunt for his food, and while he doesn’t often show it, he has great respect for those who live off the land, and makes a point not to take livestock from smaller farms unless he absolutely has to.

~ He’s firm but fair when he’s trying to teach Syntax, but often forgets the Syntax’s mind is still human in nature and doesn’t use trick words and obvious lies. He’s not used to censoring himself, so sometimes unintentionally sets Syntax back a little in his progress.

~ He’s trying, and he knows Syntax is thankful for his attempts.

~ Huntsman is the only one in the clan who is permitted to use the Queen’s name, not just her title, but he only uses it when he is sure that the two are alone and won’t be overheard.

That’s all you get for now, the rest will come after there are a few less spoilers.

#lego monkie kid #lmk #lmk snapshots #lmk tea collection #lmk spider demons #lmk spider queen #lmk the spider's web #lmk sun wukong #lmk huntsman #lmk goliath

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bloodlessheirbyjacques · 2 months ago

Note

💙 and maybe also 💘 for Antor and Edrei? (I'm so curious about what you'll come up with)

teehee thank you for this!! Also adding @tryingtimi prompt since I just realized it fits lol Ty for the asks guys :3

💙 drunken kiss / tipsy 💘 fake relationship / mutual pining / dared to kiss

❤️ first kiss / realization from this ask game

Bloodless Heir Prequels | Antor & Queen Edrei | 1k

While guarding a ball, Queen Edrei pulls Antor into a balcony in hopes of sharing their first kiss.

Antor’s breath caught in his throat as he observed her. King Ilpherin was gone, at least for today, and the relief that washed over Queen Edrei was evident in her posture. Antor watched as she swayed between the partygoers, greeting some, thanking them for attending, and engaging in small political talks with others.

He stood stationed at a pillar of the ballroom, meant to keep watch for any intruders; he couldn’t afford to be distracted like this. Their relationship was a dangerous dance, a delicate balance between duty and desire, truth and deception. The court had been shocked when Astrea was born, a bastard of the Queen with her unknown foreign lover. The lie was mounting on Antor, his shoulders heavy with the weight of the consequences once Astrea found out the truth. But Edrei promised Astrea would understand one day, so he tried to focus on her present rather than her future— at least for now. So, he let himself get distracted in the temporary comfort of the lie.

He watched as Astrea, just about as tall as his knee, danced with her brother, Prince Percy, while Princess Elayna attempted to instruct them on the correct moves. Unfortunately, her instructions were incorrect, and they fumbled through the steps, laughing as they stumbled into one another.

Unfortunately, he and Edrei had grown closer over the years, and even worse, his feelings for her were becoming increasingly difficult to contain. It was, in all respects, a fabricated relationship, and yet… watching her move gracefully between tables, laugh and banter with friends, and then share a secret smile with him was weaving a web of conflicting emotions.

There was a part of him that longed to sway with her in the privacy of the moonlight and the stars, with only them to bear witness. But, the weight of their circumstance held him back.

The kingdom believed they had a bastard child together, but as he looked at her, the mere thought of holding Edrei in a tight dance-like embrace, let alone kissing her—

“Antor,” she spoke, jolting him from his stupor. Her light, pale cheeks glimmered under the chandeliers. Studying her was mesmerizing; with Oracean magic flowing through her, stars flashed on her cheeks in a cosmic array. “I have a favour to ask. May we speak privately?”

He nodded and allowed her to pull him to a nearby alcove— with a balcony overlooking the lake outside the Palace. The moonlight and stars reflected off the water in gentle waves. However, there was one aspect of these ballroom alcoves he despised—

“Antor,” she breathed out as if relieved to have escaped the ballroom. Her facade fell from her face, and he resisted the urge to lift his hands to her cheeks to hold her. She put a hand on his uniformed chest as she continued. “We’ve tried for years now to convince these people we’ve had a… history.”

Despite his best efforts to conceal his emotions, he knew he was no match for the emotional concealment of Oracean Royalty. He abhorred these alcoves because, despite the curtain to conceal them from the view of the ballroom, the curtain truly did not conceal anything. They were known to reveal silhouettes. And, he was sure they left a silhouette of the petite Queen and her towering guard.

“Before I ask this of you,” she said, the scent of wine evident in her breath. But she did not meet his eyes; instead, she toyed with the buttons of his uniform—the uniform of the captain of the Queen’s Guard. She continued, “I remind you, this is a ballroom filled with my closest allies. Trustworthy nobility.”

Antor couldn’t help but frown; he never believed those two words could exist in the same sentence.

“They want proof,” she said, finally meeting his eyes.

The more time they spent together, the more he could see beyond her facade. And despite her outward displays of shyness, he sensed… excitement, perhaps. But that couldn’t be right. She continued, gesturing to the curtain, “They want to see something now that Ilpherin is out.” Each time she spoke his name, she did so with increasing loathing.

“Proof?” he asked, the hint of something else in his question. He stared, cheeks flushed. She had never been this excited or this happy; it only revealed itself when Ilpherin was gone on one trip or another. It was intoxicating— contagious, even. Edrei seemed to try to maintain the illusion of their relationship through gentle touches and prolonged whispers. But, such simple efforts wouldn’t have worked for long and shouldn’t have worked for as long as they had. Perhaps it was time to show them more.

“Yes,” she said firmly, snaking her fingers to the back of his neck. “Is that– is that alright?”

He wasn’t sure when his fingers snaked to her waist, but the instant he felt the gentle silk beneath his callused fingers, he couldn’t help but release a raspy breath of her name. Her soft fingers behind his neck, playing with his hair, were enough to drop his head down to her. But he stopped himself, as he always did.

“Are you sure you—” He caught himself stuttering, “Do you truly want this?”

The stars lit up her cheeks as she smiled. “Yes.”

Despite her gentle pull on his neck, fuelled by the wine and delights of the evening, his gaze regretfully softened on her. “But, do you truly want to, or is it… for them?”

She tightened her grip on his hair and revealed a mischievous grin. “Are all Pyrian men so oblivious to a woman's advances?”

His hands grew warm on her waist, and his cheeks flushed despite himself.

“I’ve been looking for an excuse to do this for years, Antor.”

With that, Edrei rose onto her toes, pressing her lips to his in a rush of tipsy-fueled emotion. As they kissed, he felt her relax in his embrace, and he became confident that maybe she had been wanting to do this as much as he had.

#my writing #writeblr #original writing #fantasy #romance #first kiss #bloodless heir book 0 #wip: bloodless heir #it was fun to write these two again lol! albeit it was hard as hell after so long lolll #hope you like it!!<3 #havent posted new writing on here in so long???? damn

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skyholly · 11 months ago

Text

The best kept secret

Summary: What if Moiraine had a baby daughter she and Siuan were forced to leave to Anvaere to raise as her own?

moiraine/siuan

***************

Chapter 1. Guinevere

Ever since she was a young girl, Guinevere often found herself staring into the painting in the salon. It almost felt like looking into a mirror. The same brown hair, if anything a shade darker than her own, the same blue eyes, the same unreadable expression. She was lucky, her mother always told her, that she had taken after her aunt, for she had always been the more beautiful out of the two sisters. Yet Guinevere had no way of knowing if that was true, since she had seen her aunt but once in her nineteen years of life, and that encounter had happened so long ago they might as well be complete strangers. The only thing she held of hers was a small, sapphire stone that Moiraine had sent to Cairhien as a gift to her when she was born.

She was twelve years of age when her parents made the decision of sending her to Tár Valon, after years of showing channelling abilities. Little Guinevere had been so nervous about starting her training in the White Tower, leaving Cairhien, and her family behind.

“Do not worry sister,” her older brother, Barthanes, had told her in an attempt to calm her down, “Aunt Moiraine will be there. She’ll take care of you.”

Had Guinevere been any older, she would’ve been wise enough to doubt such promise, since her brother often found his judgement clouded by the love he held for a once present, loving aunt that was no more; but little naive Guinevere had grown up hearing his stories about their valiant, funny, immensely powerful aunt, so that unacquainted and mysterious figure she’d seen only in paintings that resembled her so much became her guardian during the years she spent within the Shining Walls, or so had Guinevere hoped. It would be an understatement to say she was disappointed.

Moiraine never set foot in the Tower during the years Guinevere spent training, as she clung to the little blue stone that reminded her she once had cared for her. Guinevere knew the Blues spent lots of time outside the Tower, gathering information and strengthening their webs, but she didn’t know of another Aes Sedai who walked the halls so infrequently as her aunt, and she never built up enough courage to ask her superiors about her.

It was by chance one day that she found out the older woman had in fact visited the Tower every couple of years, but had simply never bothered to look for her, to meet her. That revelation changed everything she used to believe about the older Aes Sedai. Guinevere didn’t allow herself to feel hurt, shut her pain away, choosing instead to match Moiraine’s indifference. She put any thoughts of her aunt aside, and focused on her studies at the White Tower. It soon became apparent she wasn’t as powerful as she was skillful and efficient, tremendously so, with an almost unmatched Talent for Healing, which managed to let her become a full Aes Sedai in under six years. By the time it came to choosing her Ajah, Moiraine was mostly out of her mind, and the only thing she looked forward to was coming back home to her family.

She didn’t feel upset when her aunt failed to show up when she predictably chose Yellow as the colour of her shawl, she expected it as much, for she had abandoned the idea of meeting her a long time ago. She spoke with the leader of her Ajah, the First Weaver, and due to her young age she was allowed to spend half the year pursuing her studies in Tár Valon and the other half in Cairhien, helping out in the Sanitarium, aiding anyone in need. That’s what she did during her first year as an Aes Sedai; and for the most of it, she was happy about it. As much as she enjoyed learning, studying the intricate weaves her superiors were able to channel, it always was a bittersweet feeling, leaving home with the prospect of spending six months within those Shining Walls, where everyone turned around for a second look at her, because they still couldn’t believe the uncanny resemblance she had to her aunt. Guinevere started to believe it was more of a curse than a blessing, as her mother wanted her to believe.

Guinevere was staring deeply into the portrait, all of her bags spread at her feet, when her mother walked into the room. The girl didn’t even hear the older woman entering the room, entranced as she was. She wasn’t staring completely in awe, as she once used to, but with a hint of resentment as well.

“The carriage is ready, darling.” Anvaere announced, stilling at the sight of the girl, who was aimlessly gazing at the painting in the wall. She ought to have gotten rid of that portrait long ago; it was too big a distraction, too big a risk for Guinevere. She should’ve threw it away the moment she started asking questions. Who is she? Why does she look so much like me? Where is she?

“I’ll be right there, mother.” Guinevere said, allowing herself one more second of staring before turning her gaze away from the picture and smiling at the woman in front of her, as Johnas picked up her bags and carried them outside. “I’ll miss you. And tell Barthanes I’ll miss him too. Dearly.”

“I’ll miss you too, dearest.” Her mother answered, embracing her, and leaving a kiss on the girl’s temple. On her daughter’s temple. That is what she had become the second Moiraine placed the whimpering baby in her arms, and that is what she would always be to her, no matter which secrets the Light forbade ever came out. Her daughter. “Don’t forget to write, regularly, alright?”

“Oh, I’ll send you so many letters you’ll get sick of them, I promise.” She giggled, stepping into the carriage. “You’ll need to get a second pair of eyes just to get through them all!”

Good weather and clear roads made for a swift and quiet travel and Guinevere found herself back in Tár Valon quicker than she would’ve imagined. She was received by Lowie, her best friend and an Aes Sedai from the Green Ajah, upon her arrival. She was a tall, charming girl with a carefree personality and eyes that exuded both braveness and kindness, and, most importantly, she was her same very young age. Some Aes Sedai found it weird, almost scandalous, that they were so close even though they were from different Ajahs, but being the two youngest ones training in the Tower had bonded them together tight enough to neglect the place’s principles.

“Winnie!” The red haired girl yelled, throwing herself onto her. Guinevere instantly stiffed at her touch, before easing into her embrace. “Hi Lowie,” she smiled back, “long time no see.”

“You have no idea of the things you’ve missed.” Lowie gasped, dramatically emphasising words, as she helped her friend carry her bags.

Guinevere held back a small smile as she followed the girl into her abandoned chambers. She didn’t really care much for the Tower’s politics and preferred to focus on her duties and studies, but she knew how much her friend loved to gossip. “Then please, fill me in,” she said with a grin, grabbing her friend’s arm and pulling her down onto the bed. A cloud of dust rose around them as they landed.

“Burn me, you really need to come here more often.”

With Lowie by her side and a thousand tasks a day to get done, Guinevere eased into her normal routine once again, and wearisome days became tedious weeks which became monotonous months. Everything was alright. That was until Lowie barged into her room one drowsy afternoon, eyes wide as plates and a hand resting on her agitated chest.

"What is it?" Guinevere asked, opening her eyes. She had a shift at the infirmary that night and was trying to get some rest, but she tensed at the sight of her friend, all the fatigue leaving her body. "Rowena?"

"They’re bringing the False Dragon into the city..." her friend said, breathing heavily.

Guinevere held back a bitter smile. “And?” She asked, about to get mad at her friend for disturbing her with such nonsense.

Lowie slowly walked towards her, and sat alongside her in the bed, placing a hand on her shoulder. “... Gwen, your aunt is here, she’s been called for an audience in the Hall.”

Guinevere’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of her aunt, but she didn’t let that show on her face. “I’m far too busy to care about any of those things, Lowie,” she remarked, with a pinch of resentment in her voice. The Light knew she had more important duties to attend to than some mad man and a woman she’s never seen in her life, “besides, I have twelve hours duties at the infirmary, starting tonight.”

Rowena stared at her friend, already used to her choosing indifference as her preferred shield against pain, but didn’t comment on it. The few times they discussed such topics, it had never ended well.

“Then at least let me accompany you to the infirmary,” Lowie begged, changing the subject, “maybe we’ll get to see Logain on our way there.”

“Fine,” Guinevere sighed, reluctantly standing up and putting on some clothes. A simple yellow dress and a comfortable, just the right amount of worn shoes. “I guess we can try that. Though I doubt we can even get a glimpse of him, the streets ought to be crammed.” But her complaints didn’t matter to Lowie, who grabbed her friend’s hand and led her outside the Tower into the busy streets of the city. Guinevere had seen the city in frenzies before, whether it was due to the Daughter-Heir visiting the tower or Queen Morgase herself, but she’d never seen the city bustling the way it did that day.

The two girls started pushing themselves toward the edge of the crowd so Lowie could get a good look at the False Dragon. “Winnie, there he is!” She squealed, but her voice got lost in a chorus of screams. Guinevere tried tiptoeing to get a better sight of him, but something else entirely caught her attention. Up there in one of the buildings facing the main street, two boys were sitting on the ledge of a window on the second floor, smiling down at all the commotion below them. They were both around her age, but it was the red-haired one who captured her eye. He seemed tall, had a lean build, and was wearing a blue shirt, with a heron-marked sword around his hips. He looked down to scan the streets and accidentally locked eyes with her.

Guinevere felt the air catch in her throat, and time seemed to stand still. Those blue eyes, the curve of his smile, the arch of his nose. She’d never met that boy, but somehow she knew him. It felt as if she’d always known him, impossible as it was. Like she had met him in a dream she’d never actually dreamt. She couldn’t draw her gaze away from him, hard as she tried, and neither could he; for a moment, it felt as if he were on the brink of jumping down to the street to get to her, and with that image alone, she felt compelled to run across the mob just to meet him. The intensity of such a thought scared her so much she turned around and hurried toward the infirmary, trying not to dwell on how the face of a stranger could somehow be so familiar to her.

The place was immersed in chaos, there were a dozen different patients in need of care, and very few yellow sisters to aid them.

“Guinevere.” She was commanded by a fellow sister, Myria, a quiet, reserved, and to the point kind of woman. “There are two who need your help, they’re in that room at the back, and be discreet about it. Come back as soon as you’re done with them, we’re expecting a particularly busy night. It’s a matter of time before all this celebration turns into trouble.”

“Discreet?” Guinevere thought, perplexed. “I will, sister.” She said nonetheless, and walked towards the almost hidden room across a series of sinuous hallways. She silently opened the door, and immediately understood the Aes Sedai’s orders. It was obvious to anyone’s eye that the two kids waiting in the room weren’t from Tár Valon, and with just a quick glance at their wounds, she could tell they had come across… an unusual kind of trouble. The girl, who she guessed was approximately her own age, had little more than bruises and some cuts around her face, but the man laying almost unconscious in the bed had some terrible lacerations all over his naked back.

“Hello, my name is Guinevere,” she introduced herself, making her way towards them, “I’ll be healing you both today. Could you tell me what happened?” She asked the girl, as she pointed with her head towards the boy.

“I-I’m Egwene,” the girl stuttered, “and this is Perrin. We had an unfortunate… encounter with some Whitecloaks I’m afraid.”

“I see.” Guinevere nodded, allowing herself to scan the girl one more time before turning her attention towards the man named Perrin, who had more urgent wounds to attend to. She kneeled beside the cot and delicately ran her fingers along his back, feeling the degree of mangling and tearing of the skin. It was the work of a blade that’d caused such abrasions. She closed her eyes and calmly filled her lungs with air, as she moved her hands in complex motions, pulling on intricate, twisting weaves that soon covered his body and began healing his injuries. The young man started grunting, his whole body shaking, as Healing could be a painful experience at times, and so Guinevere softly took him by the arm, closed her eyes, and drove his heart rate down enough so that he drifted into a peaceful, painless, slumber. That was a Talent of hers. At first everyone assumed it was Cardiac Arrest, but soon enough she found out she could not only stop a man’s heart, but manipulate heart rates up and down as she pleased.

“What did you do?!” Egwene asked, worried about her friend, and yet with a begrudging hint of curiosity in her voice, looking at her hands as if she were trying to decipher which particular movements had pulled on them.

“I just helped calm him down.” Guinevere replied, with a sober expression on her face. Using such Talent took a great deal of focus and serenity, for the consequences of using it hastily could have mortal consequences. “He’ll be alright,” she added, watching the weaves clear his back from any visible trauma, “but he’ll need lots of rest, and food, once he wakes up. Healing draws on a lot of energy.” She explained, feeling a bit lightheaded herself.

“Thank you,” the girl sighed, taking him by the hand, as if checking he was indeed away from harm, “I was so preoccupied.”

“I can imagine,” Guinevere said, finally drawing her attention towards her. There was something special about the girl, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “Do you want me to heal these?” She asked her, tenderly brushing her fingers against the bruises on her face. “They seem painful. And it won’t hurt as much as it hurt him.”

Egwene stared at her for a moment, and then slowly nodded, holding back tears. Damn those barbaric, fundamentalists Whitecloacks. Attacking her sisters was already unforgivable, but torturing townspeople as well? And the worse of it, they excused all of their actions with the facade of walking in the Light. Guinevere pursed her lips, and pulled on some simpler weaves to heal her. And then it became obvious. The way her body eased into the One Power, how easy she embraced her Healing, how fast her bruising disappeared, how painless it seemed for her. She was no regular townswoman.

“You can channel.” Guinevere suddenly found herself mumbling under her breath. “Why are you here? Who brought you two here?” She asked, and she knew it was incautious of her, and that she was neglecting direct orders, but she didn’t seem able to get a hold of her tongue.

Egwene shifted uncomfortably in her place, as if deciding on whether to tell her, whether she deemed her trustworthy or not. Finally, she opted for the first one. “We’re looking for Moiraine.” She said with boldness, as if talking about an old friend, before regaining awareness of who she was talking to. “T-That is, Moiraine Sedai, of course. Is she here, in the Tower?”

Had Guinevere felt surprised by the mention of the older Aes Sedai, she didn’t let it show on her face. Of course I was asked to be discreet, they’re Moiraine’s. She couldn’t help but to leapt into an activity she thought long forgotten: trying to make sense of her aunt’s absence from the Tower. “Is this what she’s been doing this whole time? Recruiting girls with the ability to channel?” But that wouldn’t explain the boy, or the fact that she hadn’t brought any girl in the years Guinevere spent training. “How do you know Moiraine?” She inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“We travelled all the way here with her,” Egwene was quick to answer, fearing the Yellow Sister didn’t believe their connection with the elusive Aes Sedai, “she seeked us. We got separated on the way here, but if Moiraine is here she should be expecting us, and rather keenly I believe. If there’s a way for you to let her know we are here, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Mmh.” Guinevere hummed, turning to face the door. Was that bitterness showing on her face? Jealousy, perhaps? “You’ll both be fine,” she said, over her shoulder, “other sisters should come up to check on you regularly, and make sure to eat, you’ll find lots of food in the cabinet to your left.”

“T-thank you.” Egwene said, but Guinevere was halfway through the door already. She spent the rest of the night getting on with her tasks as if nothing had happened, ignoring the pain on her chest, the feeling of nausea on her stomach.

That night, the nightmare found her in her sleep once again.

Guinevere seldomly dreamt, but whenever she did, it was always the same nightmare, ever since she could remember: three little kids screaming in agony, and she couldn’t save them. In the dream they were hers, and they kept on calling for her, for their mother, but Guinevere couldn’t save them. Never.

She woke up with a scream stuck in her throat, the children’s screeches still ringing in her ears, heart pounding as if it were about to break through her chest, and immediately brought a hand to her forehead, in a clinical motion. “No fever,” she thought, “just a nightmare.” Guinevere leaned down towards her pillow once again, closing her eyes while trying to fix her breathing. “Just a nightmare.” She wished she would have her little music box by her side, it always helped calm her down, but she had always been too afraid of taking it out of Caihrien, she couldn’t risk losing it since it didn’t even belong to her.

Those nightmares were the reason she eluded sleep so much, often preferring to have Lowie remove her fatigue so she could get on with her duties. She looked up towards the window, slightly flinching her eyes at the pale ray of sunshine that peaked through the glass, and decided that if she wouldn’t fall back asleep, she might as well get ready for the day. She put on some simple clothes, combed her hair into a practical bun, and left her room. She walked across the corridor that led into the Hall of the Tower, and by the amount of both Aes Sedai and Warders that were anxiously waiting just outside the enormous door she could only assume Logain’s trial was taking place inside. She stopped for a moment, meditating on whether she wanted to stick around for the outcome or not, but the unwavering stare of one of the Warders on her made her lean for the latter.

He was a tall, brooding man, holding a guarded stance, with his long hair pulled away from his face, held back by a leather headband. His deep brown eyes and stoic face were fixed on her, which made her feel unnerved. She subtly glanced at his swords, at his clothes, at his almost royal demeanour he so obviously tried to hide, and the pieces began to fall together. There was only one warder in the world who could master such a stance, who could claim the title of Lord of the Seven Towers, the uncrowned king of Malkier. Al’Lan Mandragoran. He was Moiraine’s Warder. Which meant her aunt was most probably in there as well. The thought of Moiraine being so close, yet still so distant, gnawed at her.

The doors suddenly opened, and a figure dressed in royal blue came rushing out of them. Guinevere didn’t need to look twice to know who it was, she felt it, like a weave of electric, yet gentle power reaching her side. She was torn between turning around and forcing her eyesight steady, finally looking at her, and running as far as she could from her. Suddenly, she felt another gaze fall upon her, a much too heavy one, and she winced on the spot, as she started backing away, leaving the Tower, absentmindedly bumping against random citizens on her way towards the infirmary.

She avoided sleep that night. In fact, she took every shift available, night and day, and it wasn’t until two full days after the audience had taken place that she returned to the Tower. By that time her aunt was gone, once again.

“She’s been exiled,” Lowie explained to her, theatrically placing a hand over her heart, as Guinevere plummeted into bed, “it was awful. I wasn’t inside the Hall, but even in the corridor we all had to turn our backs to her. I don’t think she’ll ever be able to return.”

“Mmh.” Guinevere hummed, forcing her eyes shut. She couldn’t truly bring herself not to care about that, but she tried her best. “One more month, and you can get home. One month. And you can reunite with your family, your pianoforte, your paintings. One more month.” And so she endured that month, trying not to panic at the whispers of Moiraine travelling with a male channeler, of Moiraine searching for the Dragon Reborn, of Moiraine being a Darkfriend, of Moiraine presumably having died at Fal Dara.

She had already finished packing her bags, and was ready to head home, when someone knocked at her door.

“Yes?” Guinevere asked, greeting whoever was outside. To her surprise, it was the girl she’d healed some time ago, the one who had been looking for Moiraine. “Egwene?” She asked, confused.

“Guinevere Sedai,” the girl saluted her, bowing her head. Guinevere tilted her head to get a better look at her, and was happy to see her on a plain, white dress.

“I see you’ve become a Novice,” she commented, a genuine smile on her face, “that’s good. I was expecting you’d join the Tower, eventually.”

“Yes, Guinevere Sedai—

“Please, just call me Gwen.”

“Alright… Gwen,” she added, still slightly unsure, “it's been almost a month since I’ve signed the books of Novices.”

“Oh.” Guinevere lowered her gaze to her feet, ashamed. “I’m sorry, I haven’t been paying that much attention to the events of the Tower.”

Egwene directed a sympathetic smile towards her, while anxiously fidgeting with the hem of her sleeves. “Yes, anyhow,” the girl shifted uncomfortably on her spot, “I was sent here to give you a message.”

“And what could that message be?” She asked, amused.

Egwene cleared her throat, placing her hands over her skirts and then pulling them back, as if she didn’t know what to do with them. “The Amyrlin is expecting you,” she finally exhaled, “in her chambers.”

“I see.” Guinevere replied, her smile pursing into a thin line, perplexed as she wondered what could the Amyrlin possibly want to discuss with her, only that it couldn’t be good. Most of the women in the Tower were probably already commenting on it. Egwene nodded reluctantly, and turned to walk away, but Guinevere stopped her.

“Wait,” she said, delicately touching the girl’s shoulder, turning her around, “I have a question for you, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Anything.”

“What happened to your friend? And why aren’t you with Moiraine anymore? I’ve heard some rumours about the Borderlands and problems there—

Egwene held her gaze, soft and apprehensive, before lowering her head. “I don’t think I can talk about it.”

“My last name is Damodred,” Guinevere rushed to confess, grabbing the blue stone attached to her necklace from below her shirt to show it to her, as if to prove her statement, “Moiraine is my aunt. Please, I’m just concerned.” Well, that’s not entirely a lie. I am concerned for her. I am simply more concerned about what she’s been up to all this time. “And I couldn’t lie, even if I wanted to.”

“Oh, I do believe you’re her niece,” Egwene said, studying her face, “you look just like her, just younger. But I- I really think I can’t talk about it, Moiraine was very clear about that.”

“Look, Egwene” Guinevere said, approaching the girl, tenderly grabbing the girl’s hands. Had Egwene been more trained in the One Power, she would’ve been able to notice the warmth that suddenly spread through her body, easing her into Guinevere’s touch, loosening her tongue. She’d promised to never use such Talent, she’d be expelled from the Tower if anyone ever found out she did, and she truly felt terrible about doing it to Egwene, but she really was desperate. “Whatever she’s said to you, whatever you’ve done with her, whatever… secret she’s asked you to keep, it’s safe with me. I’d never do anything that hurt her.”

Egwene placidly smiled at her, “it’s a long story,” she said, timidly giggling, her cheeks flushing, but still determined not to tell her. It seems I’ve underestimated how powerful she is.

“Then it’s a good thing the Amyrlin chambers are so far away, isn’t it?” Guinevere studied Egwene's face, seeing a flicker of hesitation cross her eyes. Guinevere tightened her grip on the girl’s hand, as she finally nodded, seemingly accepting Guinevere’s faux sincerity. She intertwined their arms, and together, they walked down the long corridors of the White Tower.

“It started in the Two Rivers,” Egwene began quietly, as they passed a group of novices practising their weaves. “Moiraine came to our village. She was looking for someone... someone who could be the Dragon Reborn. There were five of us who could channel or had some connection to the One Power. Trollocs and other monsters were following us, and she said we needed to get to Tár Valon; we had some troubles getting here, but then, when we finally arrived, something changed. I don’t know… she said an opportunity to defeat the Dark One had arisen, and suddenly she was taking us to Fal Dara, to the Eye of the World.”

Guinevere kept an impassive expression on her face, impossible as it felt, as the world seemed to shift beneath her feet. Finally, she’d gotten some answers. It made so much sense. All those years… Moiraine had been looking for the Dragon Reborn. But why? Why didn’t she look for me the few times she’d return to the Tower?

“You went through the Blight?” Guinevere asked, shocked. Egwene eagerly nodded at her. “And what happened there?”

“I-I don’t know.” The girl said, eyes full of tears too stubborn to actually fall through her cheeks. “We were all supposed to face the Eye of the World together, but… I don’t know. One morning Moiraine and one of the boys had left, and then she came back alone, and refused to talk to us about what had happened there. Moiraine was… different, somehow, I couldn’t tell you what. She ordered Nynaeve and me to come here to become novices, and I don’t know exactly what she told Perrin, but he stayed at Fal Dara. She accompanied us here halfway and then parted ways, and I haven’t heard from her or Lan ever since.”

“I’m so sorry about your friend.” Guinevere said, voice laced with genuine compassion.

“Thank you, Gwen.” Egwene had stopped in her tracks, fixing her gaze on her, brushing a tear off her face. Guinevere felt terrible. One more thing. One more thing and you let her go.

“Egwene,” she said, resuming their walk, “do you happen to know why Moiraine knew she had to look for all of you?”

Egwene had opened her mouth to respond, but a voice in front of them interrupted them. “Guinevere Sedai, the Amyrlin has been expecting you.” A thin, nearly as tall as a man, very beautiful woman was standing stiffly in front of a big, resplendent pair of doors. They’d reached the Amyrlin’s chambers.

“Of course, Leane Sedai.” Guinevere said, bowing her head, showing the Keeper of the Chronicles the respect she deserved. She swiftly turned towards Egwene, finally letting go of her arm, praying the superior in front of her didn’t notice the young girl’s body limping the slightest, and confusion taking over her expression.

“Thank you, Egwene, for accompanying me here. I’ll be gone for some months now, but I’ll make sure to help in anything I can once I get back. I wish you nothing but luck on your training.”

The girl clumsily bowed to her, “I need to go, the Mistress of Novices is most probably looking for me,” and continued with her walk, disoriented. It’ll pass. She’ll be back to normal before anyone notices it. It’ll be like it never happened. I had to do it. There are no rules that prevent an Aes Sedai from lying to herself.

Guinevere turned towards the stoic looking woman standing in front of her. “The Amyrlin will see you now.”

Guinevere carefully adjusted her dress, before stepping inside the room. There, sitting on a cream coloured sofa, before a small table, was the Amyrlin Seat.

“You summoned me, Mother?” Guinevere asked, bowing deeply. She then lifted her gaze, locking eyes with the older woman. With her luminous brown eyes, sharp as ever, yet laced with a subtle hint of weakness, and nostalgia.

“Yes, Guinevere. Please, sit.” She said, gesturing towards the armchair in front of her.

Guinevere complied, noting the uncharacteristic tension in Siuan’s posture. The Amyrlin was not known for her softness, but there was something different today, something personal.

The older woman stared at her expectantly, as if waiting for the young girl to confess first, but despite Guinevere’s distaste for credo, she knew how to play the game. Speak first, lose the high ground.

“You must be wondering why I called you in here.” Siuan finally said, her lips turning into a gentle smile.

“I am, Mother,” she said, hesitantly nodding.

“We can lose the honorifics, for today at least,” the woman commented, crossing one leg over the other, as she reclined into the armchair’s cushions, encouraging the girl to get comfortable as well. But Guinevere was far too anxious for that. She remained still, her back straight and hands rigidly intertwined over her lap. Why am I here? “I have a favour to ask of you, Guinevere.”

She gulped. What? What could the Amyrlin Seat, a tremendously powerful Aes Sedai, who was once Blue herself, need of her? A teenage girl that avoided secrets, rumours and Tower’s politics like the plague? “A- A favour, Mother?”

“Siuan.” The woman’s smile widened, as she drew closer to her.

Guinevere blinked, still puzzled at the whole situation. “Siuan,” she echoed the older woman, “what is it that you need from me?”

“It’s not really what I need from you,” the Amyrlin explained, her pacing slow, “but what I need from your last name. I gather you’re on your way home.”

“I am, I was about to leave the Tower when you called for me.”

“Cairhien, that’s right?”

“Yes.”

Siuan Sanche pursed her lips, staring intensely into her, and opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it, as if she wasn’t sure she actually wanted to ask such a question. “Have you heard from Moiraine this past month?” She then asked, bluntly.

Guinevere felt the temperature of the room drop, her eyes slightly narrowing at the mention of her aunt. “No.” She replied, dryly, as she lowered her gaze towards the rug.

Her sudden change in demeanour didn’t go unnoticed by the older woman, who studied Guinevere’s face intensely, searching for what lay underneath. “You are angry at her.” She commented, sadness suddenly pouring into her eyes.

Guinevere cleared her throat. “My feelings towards Moiraine Sedai are unbiased.”

“You shouldn’t resent your aunt for her absence, Guinevere.”

“And yet you exiled her for it.” How weird. She knew Siuan’s position as the Amyrlin grew weaker each day, but she couldn’t possibly imagine her feeling compelled into doing something she didn’t feel was right. She didn’t choose to exile Moiraine?. Maybe she was overrating her power. She was, after all, asking a teenage girl for help.

Siuan started blinking in rapid motions, awkwardly resting her back against the armchair’s splat. She knew when she had been led into a corner. She’s so much like her mother, the woman thought, not being able to stop her mouth from turning into a sly grin, stubborn, and modestly yet fiercely witty. “I have a task for you.”

“Whatever you need, Mother.”

“If you hear from Moiraine, let me know.”

Guinevere smirked back at the woman. “Shouldn’t Moiraine be the one expecting to hear from you?” She found her mouth saying, acting quicker than her brain, something that happened more often than she liked. The young girl knew she was crossing a line, she knew as much, but something told her the older woman wouldn’t reprimand her. As a matter of fact, she suspected she actually enjoyed it. But perhaps she had underestimated Siuan’s temper.

She drew her smile back, and pursed her lips into a thin line. “That’ll be all, Daughter.”

Guinevere hastily stood up, and bowed her head. “Mother.” She turned to leave, and as she was reaching for the doorknob, she heard the Amyrlin’s voice speak to her.

“Oh, and Guinevere? Trust no one else. No intermediates.”

A flicker of diversion crossed Guinevere’s eyes. Oh, did she have some puzzles to put together. “Of course, Mother.”

Guinevere let out a sigh of relief when Johnas opened the door to her, and finally she was back home. She shook the older man’s hand, as she made her way inside the house. “It’s good to have you back, little lady.”

“Gwen?” She heard a man’s voice come from across the hall. “Barthanes?” She asked, breaking into a run. She hastily opened the door to the dining room, and couldn’t help but to squeal in excitement. “Oh, it’s been so long, brother.” She smiled, as he embraced her.

“I’ve missed you too, little sister.” He agreed, with a laugh. “Would you care for some tea? I’m afraid I have some business to attend to, letters and whatnot, but I can manage them while getting on with you.” He said, sitting back down at the breakfast table. “I trust your journey was uneventful?”

“Uneventful and rapid,” Guinevere replied, taking a seat opposite him. She watched as he deftly opened a letter, his eyes scanning the contents before setting it aside. “How have things been here?”

“Quiet,” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Mother has been busy with her social circles, and the city remains as it always has—full of whispers.”

Guinevere nodded, her thoughts drifting back to the Tower, to the unfamiliar faces she had healed, and the fleeting encounters that had stirred something within her. “And what of the Sun Palace? Any news from the court?”

Barthanes paused, folding his hands over the table. “Rumors, mostly. There's talk of unrest in the Borderlands, and whispers of the Dragon Reborn.” At the mention of such a character, he sent a curious look her way. “Nothing you haven’t most probably heard of already within the Tower.”

She had indeed, but nonetheless the mention of the Dragon Reborn sent a shiver down her spine. The face of that boy she’d seen on Tár Valon suddenly popped into her mind. “Do you believe it?” she asked quietly, meeting her brother's gaze. “That the Dragon has been reborn?”

Her brother shifted uneasily on his seat, wetting his lips. “I truly don’t have time to dwell on such matters, sister.” He forced his lips into a stiff smile, as he started handling another envelope. “But what do you believe?” He inquired, with seeming indifference, but she could tell it was only a facade. She could sense his heart rate getting higher and higher. “What is it being said in the Tower anyway?” He added, shrugging his shoulders.

“I wouldn’t know,” she replied, rather dryly, uncomfortable with where the conversation had led them, “I don’t like involving myself in such talks. Besides, even if I did know something, I wouldn’t be allowed to talk to you about it.”

“Not even to your dear older brother?” He grinned, sending a charming smile her way, but she remained serious. “Anyway,” Barthanes stood up, picking up a stack of letters, “I’m afraid I must go, sister. Planning a wedding is much more work than you’d ever imagine.”

She directed her brother a little smile before he left the room, leaving her alone, a waterfall of thoughts pouring into her mind. That’s the thing about Cairhien. Hard as you might try to avoid them, whispers and rumours always find a way of getting to you.

Guinevere woke up early the next morning, had a quick breakfast, and ran towards the Sanatorium. She rushed through the Cairhien streets swiftly and with ease, her hometown’s display burned into her memory.

She entered the structure, joyfully greeting the guard standing before the door, and started making her way through the halls. That’s when she saw him.

The boy from Tár Valon.

His hair was as red as she remembered, but short almost to his scalp. He stood taller than she’d imagined, at least a foot taller than her. And his face… the same face that had both tormented and bewitched her ever since she saw him, months ago.

They locked gazes, eyes widening in surprise at finding each other, the same intense feeling flooding through their veins, but this time, no one ran away, quite the contrary. Guinevere started trotting towards him, and he did the same, until they were but inches away from each other.

“You’re the girl from Tár Valon,” he gasped, out of breath.

“I-I guess I am.” She stuttered, finding herself suddenly overwhelmed by his presence. It felt so weird, meeting someone you’ve somehow known all your life for the first time.

“I’m Rand.” He said, introducing himself, as he extended a hand towards her.

“I’m Guinevere.” She replied, carefully slipping her hand into his.

He gently closed his palm over hers, his skin warm and soft under his touch. “Hello, Guinevere.” He murmured, a tender smile on his face.

“Hello, Rand.” She replied, shyly returning his smile. They remained like that, hands locked into each other, until she stepped a foot back, clearing her throat.

“What are you doing here, if you don’t mind me asking?” Guinevere inquired, furrowing her brows. She’d never seen him in Cairhien before, she was sure of that.

“I work here.” He explained, letting his arms fall against his body. “It was a last-minute decision.”

“Oh.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve lived in Cairhien my whole life.” She replied, placing a hand against her chest.

He softly laughed at that. “I meant in the Sanatorium.”

“Ah,” she giggled, feeling her cheeks flush, “I work here as well. I mean, I help here,” she added, raising her left hand, where a ring with a small yellow stone rested in her middle finger, “I heal people. Or at least, I try my best.”

Slight and wary as it was, Guinevere noticed the hint of anger, and fright, that crossed the boy’s eyes at the sight of her ring. “You don’t like Aes Sedai?”

Rand hesitated. “I respect Aes Sedai.”

“That wasn’t my question.” She smiled.

“I’m just cautious of them.”

Guinevere stood straight, and folded her hands over her chest, as her smile turned into a grimace. “I’m afraid I’d be lying if I said you shouldn’t be.”

They spent the following weeks working in the same place, and everyday their bond both grew stronger, and a genuine, and amusing friendship started to flourish between the two. Guinevere always had a witty, lively response to all of his foolish, friendly banter. He’d made a habit out of walking her home every day after their duties were done, and the journey always fell short for their discussions, so much so that sometimes they walked straight past her house, and made some more rounds, just so they could keep on each other’s company. He always talked about his home, his family, his friends, but for some reason he never mentioned names.Still, she never commented on it. She talked about her hobbies in music and painting, and her job as a healer, her duty towards the Tower.

“I enjoy it, for the most of it.” She explained one day, as they made their way towards her house. “I love the healing part, at least, I like helping people. It’s all the current principles, and politics I despise— not that I think them inconsequential, it’s simply… out of my understanding. All this rivalry between the different Ajah, it makes no sense to me. I know they’re due to historical conflicts, but why do we let the past control us that much? I don’t know, I just think the Tower would work better without all the secrecy. To both our sisters and regular townsfolk, of course.”

“Most regular townsfolk despise the lot of you,” he commented, “Cairhien is like another world, too close to Tár Valon to notice it, but the farther you get from the city, the stronger the fear of Aes Sedai becomes.”

“And that’s terrible!” Guinevere explained, aggrieved. “We should be the servants of all. The ones who help the world become a better place, for everyone alike. And yet it seems that as of lately we serve no one but ourselves.” She sighed, as they reached her house. Guinevere stopped in front of the door, expectantly looking at him. Everyday he accompanied her home, and yet he always refused to stay for a cup of tea.

She knew he lived in the Foregate, and she knew firsthand how harsh it could get there, as she often liked to wander around it, aiding anyone who accepted her help, and so she had often offered Rand a warm bath, a warm meal, a warm bed, if he needed. But he had always refused all of it. That day he looked particularly shabby, and she could see traces of ash on parts of his skin and clothes.

“Well,” he said, pursing his lips into a thin smile, “have a good night, Gwen.”

“Wait!” She exclaimed, grabbing him from his arm before he could turn around. A splash of red started to paint her cheeks a burgundy colour, as she hadn’t planned on being so abrupt. She moved backwards, rising to his height as she settled on the first step of the stairs that led to her door. “Just… Why don’t you come in, for a cup of tea? I could lend you that book we were talking about.”

He hesitated, lowering his gaze, and yet not letting go of her arm. “I-I can’t, Gwen.”

“Why?” She breathed out. “If it’s my family you’re concerned about— they’re perfectly pleasant to be around. And my mother would be thrilled to have you over, maybe offer you a better place to stay—

“There’s someone else, Gwen.” He interrupted her, finally meeting her eyes, as sadness and regret took over his. “There’s this woman—

“Oh.” She couldn’t help but sigh, angry at her voice for betraying her by sounding so disappointed. Of course there’s another girl. She motioned to take her hand away, but that only caused to tighten his grip on hers. He took a step closer to her, mouths one breath away from one another.

“It’s not like that,” he muttered, cursing under his breath, “burn me, it’s difficult to explain, I-I just owe her so much, I-I can’t… you…

“It’s fine, Rand.” Guinevere murmured, as she softly caressed the palm of his hand. “I understand.”

“You do?” He asked, brows furrowing in confusion.

“Of course I do. Rand, I like being your friend,” she admitted, as a smile forced dimples into her cheeks, “and I’d still love for you to come one afternoon. I could show you our library and music room.”

He grimaced, a sad smile taking over his demeanour. “I’d like that,” he confessed, “very much indeed, but it’ll have to wait. I’ll be gone for a couple of days.”

“Gone where?” She asked, and the look on his face, of pain, shame, sadness, made her realise she shouldn’t have done so. “You can’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You needn't, Rand.” She said, offering the most genuine smile she could muster under the circumstances. “I’ll be happy to have you over once you come back.” She lightly tapped his hand, and he finally let her away from his gentle, yet firm grip. “I hope you have a nice trip, Rand.”

“Thank you, Gwen.” He replied, gloomily.

That night, the nightmare visited her again. It had done so every night since she had met Rand at the Sanatorium. Guinevere jerked upright in her bed, her whole body had broken into a sweat, and she felt feverish. It’d been a long time since a nightmare had affected her that much. She bolted towards her desk, and grabbed a little music box with a ballerina inside. She laid on her bed once again, and placed the music box in the nightstand beside her. She closed her eyes, her breathing steading, as the music lulled her back to sleep.

Next time she woke up, soft beams of sunshine were tickling her face. It’d be a sunny day. That always managed to get her out and about quickly. She jumped out of bed, put on some clothes, had a small breakfast, and made her bag for the day, a pouch sitting firmly over her hips.

Just as she was about to leave for the Sanitorium, she heard a knock on the door. She knew her mother would scold her for answering herself instead of having Johnas greet the guest, but she paid no mind to it, she already was on her way out after all.

Guinevere opened the door, and was greeted by a pair of weary, yet somehow sparkly, blue eyes. Her whole body went stiff, a gasp caught in her throat, heart pounding in her chest. The paintings didn’t do it justice. It truly was like looking into a mirror. A mirror that reflected a somehow older version of herself, once she wouldn’t have found in the paintings around her house, of course. The same midnight shade of blue on their eyes, where Guinevere’s were gleaming and doe-like, hers were sunken and hollow, surrounded by lines of weariness. The same cheeks, but where Guinevere’s were full and rosy, hers were angular and dull, skin sagging a little around them.

Guinevere saw the older woman match her own staggered expression for a moment, before composing herself, and clearing her throat. That managed to get the girl’s mind attached to the rest of her body once again.

“M-Moiraine,” she stuttered, still in shock, “I mean, Moiraine Sedai.” She added, with a slight tilt of her head, stepping aside as to let the older woman in.

“There’s no need for such formalities, child.” The Aes Sedai said, hastily getting inside and closing the door behind her. She got a quick glimpse at her, and then started scanning the room, her eyes as calculating and stern as she had imagined.

Guinevere remained still for a moment, before regaining awareness of herself, and the situation. Of course, she probably has no idea who I am. “I’m sorry, my name is—

“Guinevere, I know.” The woman said, finally setting her eyes on her. Guinevere looked at her, and was surprised to see her eyes gleaming, as if she were holding back tears, which managed to upset her. She was the one who should be sad, the one who deserved to feel neglected. “You’ve grown. Last time I saw you, you were as tall as this table.” She added, gesturing towards the furniture on her left. Guinevere tilted her head to meet the woman’s gaze, and noticed a flicker of sadness on them, the exact same one she’d seen on Siuan’s.

“I wouldn’t remember.”

“No,” she sighed, her lips almost quivering, unwillingly drawing her stare away from her, “I guess you wouldn’t.”

They remained in awkward silence, not knowing what else to say, until Johnas walked across the hall. He abruptly came to a halt, not believing his eyes. “Am I so very old I’ve started seeing double, or is that you, Lady Moiraine?”

Moiraine was about to respond, but Guinevere interrupted her. “Johnas, please tell my mother her sister is here. It’s still quite early, I’m afraid she ought to be in the painting room.”

“Of course, little lady.” The man bowed towards the both of them, and left the room.

Guinevere turned her gaze towards her aunt, and started to subtly examine her. She wasn’t the once-in a lifetime hero her brother had made her out to be. She seemed tired, weary, and overly aged for an Aes Sedai. And her power… if she was as powerful as everyone said, she couldn’t feel it. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t feel anything within her. She turned her face upwards, and noticed the older woman studying her just as she had been doing as well. Moiraine took one step closer to her, softly placing hand on Guinevere’s head and pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Guinevere, I—

“Little lady, my lady,” Johnas interrupted them, as he barged into the room, “your sister is waiting for you in the drawing room.”

Moiraine suddenly drew her hand to herself, casting a glance of guilt to the younger girl, as if she had been on the brink of doing something she’d later regret. She cleared her throat as she turned around, following the butler into the next room, and leaving Guinevere all by herself in the hall. I was wrong. If Moiraine wasn’t as powerful with the One Power, then how could she explain the electrifying, almost burning feeling that ran through her body when she’d touched her?

************

This was written so quickly and I still have yet to proofread it, so please, comment if you've enjoyed it and would like another part and if there's anything you'd like to see! Thank you for reading

Chapter 2 here!

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animelovelover123 · 1 year ago

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V's Yandere Alphabet v2.0

Synopsis: An updated and improved version of my original with more content. For those who have read the original, the big changes can be seen in entries L, P, Q, V, X, and Y.

Author's Note: I wrote the original during a troubling time and it resulted in the project taking 6 months and me hatting it by the end. However, after being encouraged by someone asking me if I would write for the other guys and my completionist side being bugged by how the original alphabet was not complete, I went back in and felt more motivated. I actually kind of want to write for the other guys now! Still no promises though.

The yandere alphabet I am using is an edited version of one made by no gender bee on tumblr. I added missing letters, changed some of the letters/descriptions, and altered some of the grammar (like using Canadian spelling).

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction for personal entertainment. If you are reading this, please understand that drawing/writing/reading/imagining things of this nature does NOT equate to desiring or supporting real-world assault.

Abuse = Could they ever hurt you physically or mentally? What would be the reason?

Physically? No. Mentally, kind of. He would not do it with the intent of causing harm, but some of V’s mental manipulation can hurt. He’ll pull at your heartstrings, saddle you with guilt, and talk in circles to get you to comply with his wishes all while using flowery language to mask the manipulative web he is weaving.

A big one, and the most common form of mental strain he gives you, is when he is desperate for attention and at the end of his rope. He will plead for it, reminding you that neither of you knows how long he has left to live and that he only wants to spend it with you. He does this to show you how much you mean to him, but he is also aware that he is inciting guilt in you. He does not realize how deeply and long it can affect you though until you tell/show him.

Both = You are a Yandere too, what’s their reaction?

V is intrigued and finds it amusing at first. His obsessive tendencies take longer to form, and he also does not believe he will live long so he sees your invasive and manipulative actions as entertaining with no fear of long-term repercussions. Even if you think you are being sneaky, he sees everything you are doing and he enjoys watching your reactions as he either plays along with your schemes or effortlessly evades them.

But once he finds himself falling for you in return, he gets rather depressed. He sees how desperately you want him, yet he knows, no matter how much he wants you as well, that all of your attempts to show your love will be in vain. He’ll try to pull away from you, but the more you chase, the more he wants you.

Then he finds out a way to live longer and his restraints are finally broken. You and he revel in your shared obsession, happily lavishing each other with love and attention. He sees your quirks and views them as romantic gestures. He finds out you have been stealing his things? How it warms his heart to know you want him close at all times even when home alone. Why don’t we move in together darling to save you the trouble? You’ve cancelled his plans with others behind his back? Well, why didn’t you tell him you wanted a night alone? He would love nothing more. You’ve killed a supposed love rival? Snuffing out another's life just because they threatened to take his love, though not necessary as you already have his heart, is such a beautiful display of adoration that he just has to give you a reward~

Crazy = How easy do they enter crazy mode? How do they act when they are in it?

It takes a lot for this man to snap. He is the essence of calm and collected, able to keep his composure in circumstances where most would panic and/or become angry. You could rage at him before walking out the door claiming you will never return, and though he will put up a bit of a fight, he knows deep down that you are just lashing out. After you have time to calm down you will be back in his arms soon enough. Whether by your own means or his, that was yet to be seen. This man could be in the middle of getting arrested and he would comply because he knows that this is not the end. He could easily escape prison and find his way back to you. The only true end is death, and that is what will cause him to snap.

Not his own death per se as that mental break will be directed and contained to himself. If his plan for extended life starts failing, he will fight tooth and nail to survive while rushing through the stages of grief. The most this will affect you is that he will disappear for a while as he tries to find a solution before returning when he realizes there is no hope for him and begs you to stay with him until his last breath.

The true snapping point would be a result of your life almost being lost, particularly if you try to take your own. Knowing or, worse, catching you trying to end your life flips a switch in him. He already had a lot of stress from trying to preserve his own life, but when he realizes that he could lose the primary reason he fought so hard to live all of that effort, panic, and stress gets funneled into caring for you. Now that he perceives a proverbial ticking clock for both of your lives, he will no longer allow a single second to go by without you. He will lock you up in his home and become your caretaker, tying you up so you can’t hurt yourself and taking care of all of your needs himself like feeding you and bathing you. You are his everything, and he will not let a second of both of your possibly short lives not be spent together. (see Kidnapped)

Difference = When can you notice a difference in behaviour in them? What are the first signs that their love for you is unhealthy?

At first V’s yandere tendencies were subdued and easily hidden. For the first couple months of knowing you he was under the belief that he was not long for this world. His body was actively deteriorating and soon he would have to return to Vergil.

But then he found a way that he could continue living as his own person. Maybe through killing and absorbing Urizen’s life force rather than merging with it or by somehow stealing it from others. Either way, there was a chance for him to survive and pursue a relationship with you. That is when he changed and that is when you start noticing his obsession with you.

He won't totally indulge in his attraction to you until he has proof that this lead is viable, but he will suddenly become more affectionate. Where he once kept any compliments and flirtatious remarks shrouded in flowery language so that you could not quite tell if he meant it that way became more direct and regular. The few feet he always put between you two was shorted as much as you would allow.

When he does gain evidence that his plan for a longer life is working, all restraints are off. He immediately goes to you and confesses his love. He may even tell you right then his true origins, why they resulted in him being distant at first, and how now that he has a long life ahead of him he is excited to spend it with you.

Enjoy = Do they enjoy what they’re doing to you, your life and the people around you? Do they show it?

V does worry about how some of his actions affect you. He is a bit of a philosopher type, often getting lost in thoughts or conversations about the deeper meanings and effects things have on people and the world as a whole. He is also introspective so he will occasionally worry himself over what he is doing. This line of thought doesn’t only trigger when you show hints of discomfort or hesitation. You could be perfectly happy, but he is privy to the manipulation and trickery of his that you are falling for. He considers and speculates on how his actions could warp your mind in the long run. And when he pictures the worst-case scenario, he might just guilt himself into admitting to, and apologizing for, a recent misconception he gave you.

He did not say those things with malicious intent, he just wanted to protect you from the cruel world and keep you loving him.

Force = What, if any, kinds of things will they force on you? Isolating from friends and family? Going on dates? Physical affection and/or sexual acts?

If you are a demon, to any extent, V will force you into a contract with him, assuming he is unsuccessful in his initial attempt at convincing you to join willingly. Depending on your battle prowess he will even call you to (relatively easy) fights along with his other familiars. Seeing you in battle is just as beautiful as seeing you dance to him so he will gladly do it as long as the risk of permanent harm is practically nonexistent. No matter how skilled you are in combat though, your primary duty as one of his demons is as a companion. With you being bound to him he can call you to him whenever he wishes to be with you, which is most of the time. He’ll try to offer you space and as much free will as he can, but the more obsessed he becomes the more he will abuse this power over you. One thing to note though is that he will not force you into romantic or sexual acts, even if he technically could through your contract. No matter how much he desired you, he would never hurt you in that way.

Alternatively, say you were a human. He would force you, again assuming you don’t fall for his flowery words, to take on a demon familiar. Not just any demon though. Specifically, he wants you to bond with one of his familiars. If you want more than that that is your prerogative, the more safety you have and empowerment you feel is only a boon, but being partially bonded to one of his familiars is his requirement. He tells you that he wants to keep you safe by giving you access to one, or more, of his demons for protection, and this is true. Though V is their primary master, V will willingly put himself at a disadvantage in battle by allowing you to call one of his familiars for protection. And if you don’t call them V will send them to you. He also advertises the practical benefits of having creatures at your beck and call. One aspect that he does not fully disclose though is how being bonded to a demon under his command also acts as a tracking device for when you try to run. (See Hide)

Gross = What is something they think is really romantic/sweet but is actually horrifying?

He writes letters and notes to you using his blood as ink. Sometimes it is just his signature coloured burgundy, and other times you find whole notes or poems scrawled in thin, inconsistently faded cursive which he delivers to your home or work with a bandaged arm.

He already puts his heart and soul into these letters. To him, offering part of his body with them shows you his complete devotion.

Hide = How easy is it to hide from them?

Depends on if he has bound you to one of his familiars yet.

First, let's assume he hasn't. Then, honestly, it’s pretty easy as he is but one man with not a lot of connections. He can send out his familiars to scan the area for you, but they can not go too far from V. That is only if he works alone though because the few connections he does have are with people who hunt down living creatures as their profession. Sure, hunting a demon is not quite the same as hunting a person down and his friends will initially question why you would run off, but V just has to string together a tail of how you are being influenced by a denizen of hell and that they must find you before it is too late. Sure enough, he will convince the morally just crew of demon hunters to find his love and now half a dozen people are calling in favours and travelling the country looking for you. And when they do find you, even if you try to tell them that you ran away from V willingly, V’s story has already cemented itself in their brains so they will drag you back anyway. A caveat to this plan is that the crew will get more and more suspicious if you run away multiple times and V keeps asking them for their help.

One of the benefits of binding you to one of his demons is that he won't have to risk growing doubt within his friends. With you bound to one of his demons (see Force), no matter where in the world you run V can track your location by getting his familiar to appear around you, scan the area to gather information, and relay it to him. And when he is close enough, the familiar can just pin you down and call out like a siren so V can easily find you.

Improve = Will they be willing to recover from this psychotic state for their lover?

Working off of E for Enjoy, V can find the conviction to be better for you. The problem is that he does not really know how to be better. He has only existed as his own entity for a relatively short time and has no experience with having a healthy relationship. He has only ever had you and the, sometimes maddening, urges to be with you. But because of his overwhelming love for you and the fear that his actions risk harming you, he will work towards being better.

He has to look to healthier relationships, like Nero and Kyrie’s and what little memories of Sparda and Eva’s he retains from Vergil, to understand what they look like and how he himself is failing. And if he can’t make the headway he wishes, being unable to stop himself from telling you subtle lies and trying to monopolize your attention, he will talk to someone about his feelings and urges. He understands that he does not yet really understand how to be human and is not above asking for aid in learning, for his own well-being yes, but mostly for yours.

Justification = Why are they acting like this? When and how did it start?

Upon being created, V knew that he did not have long to live. Soon he would join with Urizen and become Vergil once more. When he first started to fall for you, he knew it would not last due to his minuscule lifespan so would not pursue a romantic relationship. He could not, however, stay away from you. You were like a work of art, so utterly perfect that it was a miracle you even existed in such a cold and cruel world. He tried to accept the brief moments of connection you shared as enough to have him return to Vergil without regrets, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

His body was failing though, crumbling away. Perhaps when he becomes whole again Vergil will be able to be with you. But that would not be the same for you or V, and he knew that.

And then, he found a way to continue living as his own person (See Difference). Now he had a chance to have a life with you. But always lurking in the back of his mind is the fear that this means of sustaining his body and life will fail. He does not know when he will disappear or how quickly it could take him. This is why he needs to always be with you. He doesn’t know how much time he has left and he wants to spend as much of it with you as he can. You understand, don’t you darling?

Kidnap = Are they willing to kidnap you? If so, how will they do it? For how long will they keep you and where?

He will kidnap you if you make the drastic decision to try to end your own life (see Crazy). He has given you the freedom to do what you want, far more than most yanderes would, despite the dangers in the world because he trusted you and himself to keep you safe. But now that even you are a danger to yourself, that shattered any trust V had.

When he finds out what you were trying to do, whether it be through catching you in the act or finding out in the aftermath of a failed attempt, he will bring you to his home. He will tell you, and anyone else privy to your attempt, that he wanted to give you a safe place where you can be monitored, rest, and offer an ear to which you can discuss your feelings and thoughts without judgment. And with him being your partner, if other people knew of your attempt, they would trust him to watch over you and stop you from trying this again. And that was exactly what he would do.

So you spend the night with V in his home where he refuses to leave your side for more than a minute at a time. It was understandable though, right? He was just shaken from what you tried to do. But when you woke up you found your wrists belted together, as were your ankles, and were chained to the bed’s headboard and one of the bed’s end legs respectively.

“My love, you are awake.” V greets as he enters the room, a bowl of oatmeal in his hand. “How wonderful it is to see your beautiful eyes finally open.” You can ask him what is going on, but no matter if you question him in fear, anger, or confusion, he will smile sympathetically as he helps you sit up. “I know this may be a bit frightening my dear, but this is all for your safety. You have somehow come to the heartbreaking and erroneous belief that you should not live and have become a danger to yourself because of it. But worry not, for I love you unconditionally and will care for you in your stead. Now, open up~” He coos as he holds out a spoonful of oatmeal.

V keeps you bound for as long as it takes for him to trust you not to attack him. Still, whenever he leaves the house he chains you to the bed to make sure you don’t try anything. Soon enough he stops going out, instead spending every waking moment coddling you. He feeds you by hand, dresses you, bathes you, and loves you through any bout of emotions, be they positive or negative. You don’t get to step foot outside until after you are knocked out by drugs and discreetly transferred to a new home out in some forest. Once there he will be willing to take you on walks, if you can prove you can behave. Even if you do try to escape though, the forest is enchanted so any human without a demon guide will be lost to endlessly loop through the same areas.

After years of living like this and proving that you don’t intend to leave him or harm yourself, you may just be lucky enough to find out how V was able to keep you locked up and disappear without anyone coming to look for you. You see, your friends and family were devastated when they heard from V that you had killed yourself by running off into a demon nest and letting yourself be eaten. And then it was unfortunate but unsurprising when V, now without the love of his life, spiraled into depression, became a recluse, moved away from the city where he and his love spent their time together, and soon after joined you in the afterlife.

“What a tragic tale, isn’t it dear?” He asks you with a proud smile on his face as he feeds you your lunch.

Lonely = They are feeling lonely but you are busy with something else, what will they do?

V is a patient man. If you are busy with an activity or responsibility, he will wait patiently for you to finish. He has his limits though (See Non-Stop). Also, depending on how urgently the task must be done or the rules regarding it, V would like to get involved.

“What are you doing my songbird? Watching something? May I join you?” “What is that craft you are making? How fascinating… Would you do me the honour of teaching me how to do it?” “What are you so furiously researching love? I would so dearly like to hear all about it, and perhaps I can help you search.”

V wants to learn everything he can about you and be involved with your interests and hobbies. And even if you are doing something that he can not assist in, such as writing a paper for school or work, then he will still insert himself by delivering to you snacks, drinks, messages, or simply his silky voice reading out his poetry to calm you and act as white noise while you focus. As long as it does not harm you or put you in danger, then V wants to support you and uplift you in any way he can.

Moving On = If you die or escape, will they be able to move on? How easy will it be for them?

You are his light, his world, and the number one reason that he fought to stay alive. If you were to leave him, he would be devastated. With you gone so is his will to live, and so he will follow you into the beyond. However, one deciding factor for how he will come to his end is how you met yours. If it was some unforeseen tragedy then he would chase after you into the next world immediately. But if your death was in any way his doing, he would drag out his death. Whether it be through starvation or letting his body deteriorate, whichever was more painful and a fitter punishment for the sins he has committed.

Alternatively, if you were to escape and he could not find you, his will would slowly drain. He would spend more time and energy looking for you and despairing over not being able to find you, he would neglect what he needs to do to stay alive. Slowly his failing body would wither away or, if the option is still available, he may just make a last-ditch effort to become whole again. He knows that death would be an easier option than reforming, but his lingering feelings may unconsciously drive Vergil to keep looking for you and you wouldn’t hide from Vergil, right? Knowing you were at least alive would give V’s broken heart and soul some levity while it rotted away somewhere inside Vergil.

Non-Stop = How clingy will they be when you’re in a relationship? How possessive are they? And how much free space do they give you?

V will give you a great deal more space than most yandere’s. He is fine with you spending time with others, whether he is present or not. He will even allow you to go on multiple-day-long trips, like road trips or vacations, with others. Seeing you happy and hearing you excitedly recount your outings was a joy in it of itself for him. Hearing you talk with exuberance and seeing your radiant smile as you describe the event you attended, the activity you did, and the conversations you had was just enough to make missing you worth it. It also helps that he is an introvert so is more than okay with spending some time for himself.

There is a limit to this though. If you have a job or attend school then he can get by with having you in the morning and evening. He will encourage you and praise you for your hard work before and after each day while enjoying having you all to himself. But if, on top of this, you are going out with friends two or three days a week then he’ll get antsy. He won’t get in the way, but he will get a bit needy and clingy, doing things like wanting to walk you to and from places just to spend more time with you and inviting you on more dates and activities to offset how much you go out with others.

But if others try to take up more of your time than that, V will become a lot more proactive. Suddenly you start ‘forgetting’ your phone in the other room all the time, meaning you miss calls and texts. Your calendar and alarms start messing up more, giving you incorrect times and dates causing you to miss events. V seemingly becomes more worried about your well-being. Do you have a bit of a cough? Feeling warmer than usual? A bit of a headache? Well, then it is best if you stay home. Even if it seems small now, exserting yourself by going out could just make things worse. Besides, the weather report said it might rain. So just rest at home today, V will be there to care for you.

Other = Someone else speaks to or flirts with you, how will they react?

V is usually very confident and trusting of you to not betray him so does not mind when others speak to you. He doesn’t blame the person either because you are a truly fascinating person that V can’t get enough of, so others wanting to get to know you is only logical. Other’s flirting with you is usually a similar story, as he trusted you implicitly. But that does not mean he is always complicit. If you or the person give him a reason to worry, such as you seemingly reciprocating that flirtation or the person overstepping boundaries, then V will act.

It won’t be a full-on assault, physically or verbally, it will be a subtle, insidious poison that he seeps into the bothersome person. Through his words he will gracefully belittle and insult the person while showcasing his superior knowledge and sharp wit. Most of his comments don’t even immodestly register as insults, instead, they will weigh the person down bit by bit until their confidence is but dust in the wind and they realize that they have no chance in besting V in his control over your heart.

Persistent = You have rejected/ignored their first attempts at gaining your attention. How many more times will they try and how quickly will their actions ramp up in intensity?

Before discovering a means of sustaining himself, he will see your rejection or obliviousness to his signs of affection as signs and reminders to not pursue you as it will only end in heartbreak. However, if, after proving to himself that he can indeed survive his once-set expiration date and he confesses to you (See Difference), you somehow misunderstand his confession, perhaps as some kind of bout of manic joy from being able to extend his life, then he will take time to calm down so you know he is being serious and tell you honestly and blatantly. He has already waited for so long, suppressing the calling of his heart and soul, and he will not waste another moment of his life not cherishing and worshiping you as you so deserve.

Questioned = How do they react if someone catches on to their odd behaviour and questions them?

V is calm, composed, levelheaded, and a master at manipulation and the ways of the English language. If someone starts questioning his actions then he can easily lead, twist, loop, and end the conversation like a conductor to an orchestra with the other speaker left satisfied and a bit confused on the topic and point of the conversation.

Risk = How risky will they be with getting rid of rivals?

V has no intention of killing anyone. He loves you and, though you may not see it now, he knows you love him too. But if he really feels the need to dispose of someone, he has to be careful. Not so much because he fears the police or the friends and family of the victim. They could easily be tricked and manipulated into cooperating. It was his own family and friends that posed a problem. Dante, Nero, Kyrie, they would never understand. They don’t understand how deep his love is for you. If they found out he killed someone to protect his relationship with you, they would try to intervene or, worst of all, try to get you away from him. V can’t risk that.

So he carefully plans out his assassination. He can’t use his familiars because there is a chance that as soon as the police/family realize the murder was done by a demon they may call Lady or Dante’s businesses for help and they can spot Griffon, Shadow, and Nightmare’s work easily. And a physical altercation, even with the aid of weapons, would cause too much of a scene. So instead, V will kill with discreet methods, such as poison, or a disposable method, such as forming a contract with a demon, sending them out on their elimination mission, and then killing the new demon familiar so it could not be traced back to V.

Sweet = Even when they’re Yandere they can be sweet. What’s their sweet Yandere side?

You are his world, his everything, and he will tell you that often. Every day he tells you and shows you how much he appreciates you and all you do, for him and others. Being able to wake up beside you, spend time with you, and hold you at night is a blessing that he will always cherish, no matter how long you are together.

Type = What type of Yandere are they?

Going off of the Yandere Fandom Wiki’s list, V would mostly be a Manipulative Yandere (Focuses on working a series of situations to prevent losing their love.) with a bit of a Submissive Yandere (Only in love with one specific person and will carry out any task asked of them.).

V has a way with words and with his ability to stay calm and collected no matter the intricate lies he is weaving, he will subtly manipulate you into things like spending more time with him and fending off anyone who seriously threatens your relationship (See Other). He won’t just have you wrapped around his finger, as he will also make others question themselves or change their mind through his poetic, complex, cryptic wording. This can range from telling your family and friends that they should not make you go to some even, claiming things like how tired and stressed you are when in reality he just wants more time alone with you, to even beneficial things like convincing your teachers or boss to treat you better because you are such an amazing student/worker.

There is also little he wouldn’t do for you. He will of course do small things if you ask like taking you to and from appointments no matter the ungodly hour it is happening and taking you on dates to all the places you are interested in. But he will do so much more if only you ask it of him. For example, if you come to him for help, telling him about some person or group that is hurting you somehow, either directly or through association, and ask him to get rid of them, he will.

Unsure = How much trust do they have in you? What happens if you break it?

V trusts you a great deal, more than most yandere. Even when you make small mistakes he will quickly forgive you and assure you that he understands that you are doing your best and don’t truly mean any harm. If you do something drastic though, that is different. There is what will happen if you try to hurt yourself (See Kidnapping), but if you do something like cheat on him he will be devastated. He will blame himself for the most part, assuming he has failed to provide you with the love and affection you desire and is determined to be better. He will follow you without being too pushy, not quite a stalker but he will reappear in your life every couple of weeks to try to win your heart back. And between each meeting, he would work on improving himself in any way he thinks he is failing you, from physical to social to financial. At times he may even consider leaving you be, letting you go free, but he can’t help but be drawn to you. In the end, he would rather give up on life rather than give up on you.

Vexation = What is the one thing that you could do to piss them off or worry them the most?

V does not really get angry, being levelheaded enough to stay calm and give you and himself some space if he is getting frustrated. As for worrying him, the thing that will unsettle and worry him the most is if you suddenly, without plausible reason, start claiming that you love him and saying overly sweet things. If you were to say ‘I love you’ without complete sincerity he would see it as the complete opposite. You must be upset and/or unhappy in some way. Though he does not want to pry, if you keep forcing words of affection out it will eat away at him until he pleads for you to stop and instead tell him what it is that is driving you to hurt him like this.

Welcome = Let’s say they’re Yandere for you but you’ve not had your first meeting. How do they initiate it?

If you two have not officially met but you have caught V’s eye, he will avoid approaching you due to the belief that he will return to Vergil soon. He does not wish to hurt you by charming you and then disappearing, though that does have a romantic air to it. So perhaps he will allow himself to be seen once or twice if the situation requires. For example, if you are attacked by demons he will jump in to save you, maybe take a moment to let his mysterious and alluring aura seep in before disappearing like a masked hero, never truly known but leaving a sense of mysticism. At least this way, when the being known as V does disappear from this world, he will live on in you to a small extent.

If/when he knows that he can prolong his life, he will search for you right away. He’ll want to keep up his dark, mysterious, romantic aura as much as possible to make a good impression. This includes not giving you all the answers right away, slipping into the shadows and reappearing for the first few meets, and not letting you meet the blabbermouth Griffon or the horrific Nightmare, at least not at first. Shadow you may meet because he trusts her to not ruin the moment and may even add to his allure as he has a powerful jungle cat at his whim.

He has read countless poems and stories of romance, and he will use that to his advantage to make your introduction to him as perfect as possible.

Xeric = What is an innocuous thing you do that hits a nerve in their twisted mind and really turns them on?

Whether it is done casually during a time when you are relaxing and holding each other or if he is in the middle of something and your wandering mind leads you to do it, having you lightly trace the patterns of his tattoos sets his body and heart on fire faster then he is able to ask you why you are doing it. Having your fingers delicately glide along his skin has him twisting, arching, and bending into your touch, trembling slightly as soft gasps that sometimes sound more like moans, slip from his lips.

Yearning = They want you but you are already with someone else. How will they win you over/steal you from your current partner?

V will not even try. He is already hesitant to get close to you with his mission of becoming Vergil again. You being in a happy relationship with another offers him a melancholy peace as he knows that once he is gone you will be taken care of. In this circumstance, he will not even bother looking for a way to extend his life and simply complete the task he was created to do.

Zealot = If everything fails, will they be able to kill their partner? For the most part, no. Even if you fight, run, reject, and abandon him over and over he will never be pushed to kill you. The only circumstance in which he would take your life is if you have been irreparably damaged, physically or mentally. If, because of a demon attack, the cruelty of the world infecting you with an incurable disease, or you have lost your mind, if your life is nothing but suffering, he will mercy kill you. And he would follow you soon after, to be able to hold you in the afterlife and watch you be free of this pain.

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