#for those who want a tw its SA

[manhandlememando]

loving you is a bloodsport. | cregan stark

cregan stark x f!Mormont!reader

format: one-shot

tw: (buckle up y’all, we’re in for a ride) MDNI warning: attempted SA, heavy gore, violence and resulting injury descriptions, BLOOD, descriptions of injury to an animal, ptsd symptoms, anxiety attacks, language, blatant sexism, female rage, enraged/feral Cregan (the warning is very necessary he almost bites off someone's finger)

NSFW warning: this work has sexual elements not suitable for those under 18 years old. please MDNI. (piv sex, oral (both receiving), face fucking, praise kink, sickly sweet Cregan, semi-rough sex, the Stark breeding kink, THEY BREAK THE HEADBOARD), no physical description of reader other than female anatomy and hair that is somewhat long.

word count: 12.3k

song inspirations: talk by Hozier, moments silence (common tongue) by Hozier, me and the devil by Soap&Skin, girl with one eye by Florence and the Machine, brutus by The Buttress, seven devils by Florence and the Machine, devil’s backbone by The Civil Wars, shallows by Daughter, foreigners god by Hozier, it will come back by Hozier, to be alone by Hozier

excerpt: The growl that escaped the beast reverberated throughout the small pit, being felt within the chests of all the men spectating. However, fear eluded her as she looked into the animals eyes, accepting her fate with a fury. The cry that left her as she charged the creature could have caused even the most barbarous of warriors to quell in fear. Dodging the swipe of its large paws, she lunges forward with the small blade that was provided to her. If she is to die here, it will be a death of integrity knowing she was more like the beast in front of her than anything as meek as the men watching from above. They will not take my strength, she thought as the claws of the grizzly descended upon her.

- or -

Lady Stark is abducted in the night from the walls of Winterfell by a vassal house of the Starks. Thinking that by placing his wife into the jaws of a grizzly, the Warden of the North would bend to their will. They do not know how mistaken they are.

this story is dedicated to all those who have felt the heavy hand of the patriarchy upon their shoulders, or have fallen victim to it. i see you, i hear you, our rage is valid. keep fighting.

It was a commanding sort of presence that she held, not forceful, but one of reserved strength that cultivated respect amongst the people of Winterfell. Their Warden of the North and Liege Lord had chosen wisely in his marriage pact with House Mormont.

It was this same conserved ferocity that drew him to her, he could feel the magnetic pull of her tenacious spirit the second he was in her acute vicinity. Her eyes held a look that was as firm as stone, and her mind was as sharp as a blade. It was known that the women of House Mormont held a certain standing on their island that couldn’t be found in much of Westeros; women could be rulers, and warriors. Having been raised by her father, Lord Mormont, after the passing of her mother in childbirth. The young girl grew into a fearsome woman, having been trained as the successor to the Mormont line, she was raised as any heir would be; as a son. Given her families ancestral sword, Long Claw, at the age of just six and ten she was a formidable fighter in just two years time. With the full understanding of how she would be viewed as the “weaker sex” by the men on her fathers council, she made sure to mold herself into one of the most indisputable warriors on the small island. No man dared to raise a sword against her unless they wanted to be met with the what most referred to as the “she-beast”.

Cregan knew from the moment they met that he would wed her. They were young when they first made each others acquaintance, not more than 10 years of age. She had traveled with her father to attend the annual feast which House Stark held in the Great Keep of Winterfell. He still remembers seeing her for the first time as she descended from the wheelhouse that she had ridden in. Feeling his heart clench and his throat go dry, Cregan was not normally at a loss for words, but her whole presence consumed him. She was like sunlight embodied, a miracle born within a person. Her beauty touched everything in her vicinity with its warm glow. It was hard for him to look anywhere else when she was near. It was an instinctual feeling, one that arose within him being something involuntary and foreign to him. As if it had been whispered to him long ago by the Old Gods themselves; she will be your wife, someday.

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The flesh of his back had been clawed raw. Teeth marks and deep bruises left behind by her violent kisses had begun to blossom on Cregan’s neck and shoulders. She is a bear, indeed, Cregan thought to himself as an amused expression crossed his face. Gazing at his reflection in the looking glass in the corner of their marital chambers.

The bedchamber was a haven for both of them, the privacy lending itself to their most animalistic acts. The two had been wed only a day previously, not being able to leave the sanctity of their post-coital bliss much before falling back into one another. Ripped clothing strewn across furniture, fur pelts and pillows lined the floor, the carved wooden headboard now on the verge of cracking due to the fissures created in the wood as they tore into each other.

The bedding ceremony never seemed to end, although it never truly began as Cregan refused to allow anyone to view such an intimate act. Feeling incredibly protective over his newlywed, he would hear no argument on the matter because her body was for his indulgence, and his only.

Although, for those living within the walls of the castle it was very apparent that the consummation had taken place, many times. The sounds which echoed throughout the castle that night could be heard by all as Cregan led her to her highest peaks over and over again. But the symphony of pleasure didn’t stop once the sun graced the horizon, or even when it was touching the highest point in the sky.

However they had grown increasingly hungry as the night grew closer and dusk layered its deep blues around the fading light on the horizon. The stars beginning to seep through the darkening navy sky, as if surfacing from the black ocean where they swim to look upon the Earth as the eyes of world did the same to them. Standing upon the balcony which sat just off of their bedchamber, she took a long breath as a small smile rose to her lips, turning her eyes to the shining specks in the sky.

How lucky am I? She thought to herself, knowing that she no longer had to prove herself worthy of a station, or a role in a council. Having been raised as the heir to Bear Island she had always felt a sense of pressure to encapsulate the image of the "perfect daughter". However, her father thought she did not see his disapproving glares or glances of doubt or disappointment as the time passed. He wanted a son, not her. But now she finally knew what it felt like to be wanted, having not known the feeling from her father in her lifetime, it was an emotion she couldn’t even put into words. Her father cared for her, to an extent, but mainly treated her as a thing to be trained and disciplined, rather than a daughter to be loved.

“Darling?” She heard Cregan call from somewhere inside, pulling her from her thoughts. Moments later the large wooden door creaked open as he finally appeared, the softest smile gracing his face as he laid eyes upon her.

“What’re you doing out here? You’ll catch a chill, my love,” his voice laced with concern as he pulled the wool housecoat from his shoulders and placed it around hers.

“I just wanted to get a breath of fresh air before we go dine for the night,” she responds, smiling as he pulls her into him.

“We have worked up quite an appetite, have we not?” Cregan teases, leaning down to brush his nose with hers. “Shall we go?” He asks softly, his lips brushing hers as he speaks. She nods and giggles as he swallows her answer in a kiss. It would be a miracle if they made it to the dining room at all.

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The food prepared for the Lord and Lady of Winterfell was decedent and rich, warming her stomach and easing the hunger that began to naw away at her gut.

“Does the foodstuffs suffice, my love?” Cregan asks, looking at her with an amused expression on his face. She was almost inhaling her meal, the answer to his question being quite obvious. She nodded as she took another bite, humming in contentment at the burst of flavor in her mouth.

They sat in silence as they each devoured what was left on their plates, sharing kind glances and small laughs of amusement. After they had finished dining, he beckoned one of the servants to bring forth their dessert. However, his breath seemed to escape him as he felt a hand begin to creep up his inner thigh.

She had reached under the tablecloth and begun to slowly move her hand to the rapidly growing bulge in her husbands trousers.

“My mischievous wife, what do you think you’re doing?” Cregan whispered, giving her a warning glance as the dessert was placed in front of each of them. She didn’t respond, only sliding her hand further up his thigh. He had to suppress a groan as her palm grazed his hard length, giving the serving butler a curt nod and dismissing the rest of the staff from the dining room. As he hears the rumble of large hinges moving and wood connecting, he knows they are finally alone.

“I think you know exactly what I’m doing, dear husband,” she said as she sank herself onto the soft pelt on the floor beneath the table. Crawling beneath the expansive wooden slab to appear between Cregan’s knees, a smirk dancing on her lips as she licked them in anticipation.

“You will be my dessert, my love. I desire nothing more than what you have to offer me,” she said in a low seductive voice, beginning to undo the thin strings of his breaches. Cregan stared at her with eyes the size of the serving platters resting on the table. His mouth hung slightly agape and a soft moan escaped his plush lips as she finally released him from the confines of his breaches and smallclothes.

“I do not deserve this, let us continue in our -,” Cregan begins to reason, not seeing the point in allowing her to indulge him when he’d done nothing to deserve it. But before he could finish his nonsensical statement, he was cut off in a loud moan as she took him fully in her mouth. The tip of his cock hit the back of her throat immediately, causing her to gag slightly but she was not discouraged from her actions. Only opening her throat more to accommodate her well-endowed husband.

“Fuck… oh dear Gods,” he groaned, his breath staggered as his hands tightly gripped the arms of the dining chair, his self control beginning to lack as she continued her heavenly ministrations. As she rose to the tip of his cock, she revealed the sensitive head to her lips, kissing his leaking tip and circling her tongue around it. Cregan could barely think, the sweet whimpers and moans falling from his lips caused a burning coal of desire to ignite in her womb. She adored the way he could hardly say her name without it transforming into a delicious groan of ecstasy.

“My love - Seven hells… oh fuck,” Cregan couldn’t form a sentence before another moan would swallow his words and leave him breathless. Looking towards the ceiling with brows furrowed and his jaw slack with pleasure, Cregan was a sinful sight to the Gods.

She slowly ascended off of him, bringing her lips to the base of his length and laying a kiss to the sensitive spot that laid just above his heavy balls. She relished in the choked groan that the action elicited from him, Cregan's hand grasping her hair so tightly it stung but she only hummed at the sensation. The vibration of her moan as she took him back into her mouth sent Cregan into a heady space, suddenly feeling himself lose any sense of restraint. The hand that was laced into her hair moved to the back of her neck as he sat up somewhat, gasping and panting as they shifted position. The hand that wasn’t anchored to her was tightly gripping the top corner of the chair as his hips shifted to change the angle; he wants leverage.

Just as the thought ran through her head she felt his hips buck upward, beginning to slowly move in rhythm with her mouth. She let him take control of the pace after several more thrusts had hit the back of her throat. She knew Cregan loved it when she allowed him to fuck her mouth. He tried to be gentle, he really did. But within a minute of such actions he was gripping the hair at the back of her neck with a force as he arched his back and drove more power into his thrusts. He often got lost in the oasis that was her form, his love and lust mixing and becoming so intense even he became blinded to his strength. Although he would never intentionally bring harm to her.

As she took a fleeting look up towards his face, she wasn’t able to find her breath at the sight before her. His head was thrown back, mouth open in an illicit moan, neck strained and flushed red. His Adam's Apple protruding and bobbing along with his moans. The scarlet hue disappeared down past the collar of the thick tunic he wore, his chiseled chest out of view. However, she knew full well how far down that sea of hot, flushed skin really went. She could see how his body was arching off the back of the chair, muscles in his arms flexing with the strain of each thrust. The only thing keeping him from falling off his perch on the edge being his other arm finding purchase on the back of the chair. In that moment he looked down to her and seeing those beautiful hues in her irises staring back at him, he felt himself tip over the edge into the Seven heavens themselves.

She felt the slight stutter of his hips and with a final deep thrust into her throat he came with a howl of a groan.

"OH - ngghh - fuck... yes, fuck like that," he gasped, a low whine rupturing from deep within his chest, trying to ground himself as his wife continued to slowly drag him through the aftershocks of his orgasm. He slumped against the steep back of the dining chair, his legs trembling as he spread them wider and his hands found purchase on the arms of the chair once again. She finally lifted her mouth from his cock, her lips glistening with a mixture of spit and his arousal. He chuckled lightly at the sight.

She is a gift bestowed upon this Earth by the Old Gods themselves, he thought to himself.

"I do not deserve you," he said as he smiled softly, reaching a hand down to cradle her jaw as she hummed in contentment at his words. "You are more angel than human, I am astounded by you with every passing moment we share with one another. I love you, I do hope you know that," Cregan spoke, the sentiment behind his statement clear within his words as well as his tone. His eyes searching hers, looking for an answer.

"I do know, my dear husband. I know very well, and I love you just the same," she said, a smile gracing her features as she rose from the floor beneath the table. Grabbing Cregan's breaches from the furs and handing them to him with a smirk, she moved back to her seat to his left at the large table.

"Shall we finish our dessert?" She asked cheekily, and his only response was a hearty laugh that filled the room with his joy.

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Several weeks following their wedding, the Lord and Lady of Winterfell were torn from their bed in the night. It is still unclear to Cregan how his men had been so easily overwhelmed, how he hadn't heard anything, or seen anything. No one had.

It was as if he had woken from a slumber into a nightmare itself. Cregan felt himself be ripped from the sheets and dragged to the floor before he had a moment to comprehend exactly what was happening.

He reached for his beloved but was met with empty air and soon opened his eyes to find her being held up by her hair, whimpering in pure terror as Lord Bolton loomed over her. Feeling the strong arms of some of Bolton's guards beginning to constrict themselves around Cregan, he fought against them as hard as he could.

"You bastard! What in the Seven Hell's is going on? Let her go, don't you dare touch her!" Cregan yelled, beginning to thrash against the men trying to contain him. Lord Bolton only chuckled darkly as he then took her by the neck and hauled her towards him.

She let out a choked cough as his palm pressed her airway. Pinning her back to his chest with his hand still snaked around her neck, she began struggling against him and clawing at his wrists.

“You foolish… foolish girl!” Lord Bolton exclaimed, wrestling against her as she continued to thrash against him. Holding her still with him other arm, Lord Bolton finally subdued her.

“The ties between House Mormont and House Stark will be forever broken tonight. The Stark household has had control of the North for far too long, and with this new union it is made clear to all other vassal houses that they are less important. It is whispered we will have less say in certain matters, and that this bitch and her feeble House Mormont has more standing than mine own,” Lord Bolton seethed, releasing her neck and yanking at Lady Starks hair once more. She let out a small huff to shroud her discomfort, she would never show weakness to this man as long as she could help it. Although, as she looked at Cregan who was now being held to the floor of their bedchambers, she felt the small trickle of terror slip down her neck and root itself into her spine.

“I will not let that stand,” Lord Bolton snarled and nodded to one of his men to step forward. With much difficulty he was able to get a black hood over the woman’s head, his fingers narrowly dodging her nashing teeth. Cregan bellowed as he fought against the hands holding him down, barely allowing a hood to be placed over his head as well. Spewing profanities and declarations of violence, Cregan tried to make his voice sound as poisonous as possible. But through his verbal assault he could hear her slight gasps and whimpers of pain, and not being able to see what was befalling his wife, his panic grew tenfold.

“Bolton I’ll have your fucking head for this!” Cregan barked, yanking at the hands on his limbs as they hauled him from the ground and to his feet. He could still hear her growling at Lord Bolton, hearing a shuffled noise and a clear sound of struggle, Cregan’s breath hitched as his throat closed. He was powerless, his vision stripped from him and his strength subdued.

“Get off of me you sinister man!” She shrieked as she felt Lord Bolton grab at her waist and snake his arms around her from the back, holding her tightly to him. He had since been able to tie her hands behind her, with much difficulty. Therefore she was powerless to the blade she could feel against her neck. As she tried to pull away from his taunting grip the blade cut into the skin of her throat causing her to shout in pain, the abrupt sound ending in a rumble of fury.

“I will slit this beautiful throat like that of a lamb for slaughter,” Lord Bolton sneered to her.

“You’re fucking dead, Bolton! You’re dead! I’ll kill you myself, get the FUCK OFF MY WI-!” She heard Cregan roar from what sounded like only ten feet in front of her, only to be cut off by the sound of a crack of metal meeting skull. The slump of his body could be heard faintly as he fell limp into the men’s arms. She was then dragged from the bedchamber and into the halls of Winterfell, the bitter cold of the stone floor scraping against her bare feet.

"The Stark family has had too much say in the matters of the North over these many years, they are not the only house capable of holding The Wall. Have you ever wondered what it could be like if your father ruled as the Warden of the North? Or... possibly myself?" Lord Bolton ventured in his treasonous explanation of how he would take control of the castle, as he had already done with some of the Stark's guardsmen. She was struck then with the notion that Lord Bolton and the men he brought with him must have had help to enter and now exit the Keep without being noticed.

"Who have you been conspiring with in these treacherous plans? How did you gain access to the Kee- ," she begins to question sharply, not giving him any recognition on his comments. Only until she is struck again, this time blood sprouting from a small cut on her lip. The taste of iron and musk on her tongue only angered her more.

"Shut up, you stupid woman. You dare interrupt me when I am speaking to you? Such behavior will not be tolerated when you are my wife," Lord Bolton sneered, she could feel his hot breath through the dark cloth of the hood, recoiling from him at his statement. Beginning to pull against Lord Bolton once more, she spoke her rejections to the union loudly, trying desperately to get free of this torment. In her effort to evade her captor, she received the same end as her lord husband as she was knocked unconscious.

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She did not know how long she had been unconscious or where it was she had been taken, but by the biting feeling against her wrists and the throb in her head she knew the attack wasn’t a nightmare. The Lord and Lady of Winterfell had been kidnapped and many of their guards slaughtered. Feared gripped at her chest as she felt rough hands on her arms holding her still, and the cold bite of the wind against the exposed skin of her hands and upper chest only furthered her anxiety. Was she outside? She thought so, but even with the hood over her head she could barely tell if it was night or day.

“Has she awoken?” She hears Lord Bolton ask somewhere in the distance and the soft padding of feet on muddy ground neared towards her. Suddenly she felt a strong grip on her arm, gasping at the brutality of it as her skin stung with the aggression of his hold on her. Feeling herself being let go by those who held her previously, she was then pulled forward, her feet betrayed her once more as she stumbled in the mud.

“Come here,” she heard Lord Bolton growl as he yanked her upright, her stumble having caused her to fall to her knees.

With a flash of blinding light the hood is then torn from her head, and she is not able to see her surroundings for a moment or two as her eyes adjusted to the light of day. However, she could hear Cregan’s protests from somewhere close, but they were muffled. Sounding as if he was trying to speak through wads of fabric.

They fucking gagged him, she thought as she felt anger boil in the pit of her stomach. The emotion making its way into her body as the flames of ferocity licked up her spine and finally nestled themselves in her chest cavity, making a home in her heart. As her eyes adjusted, they burned holes into the figure before her; Lord Bolton finally coming into focus.

She could see the smug expression wash over his sharp features, twisting them into something more sinister than that of what lied within. She despised this man, and all like him. The audacity of man knew no bounds, reaching far and wide, ever perpetuated by its own grueling ends; unable to breed love for one another, men would sooner tear each other apart then see vulnerability conquer over power. As for the women and innocent, the vulnerable and the weak, it is them who are forever afflicted with the agony of oppression, the pain seeping deep into their bones and finding a final resting place in the generations to come.

She knew this, she had known all her life what it felt like to want to be a son. Although her father granted her the liberty of becoming the heir to the Mormont household, it became quite clear what his true intentions for her were when the marriage proposal from Cregan was accepted. Her uncle was then named heir to the seat she had been promised since her first breath.

Men had already disappointed her more times than she could count, and although she did love Cregan dearly, her father had broken her heart as he had his promise to her. Therefore, she did not fear Lord Bolton or his threats towards her, even as he grabbed her by the chin and forced her to meet his eye. Her response was only to sneer and spit in his sullen face, his expression morphing into one of disgust as he brought his hand across her face with a quick slap. Watching his wife be struck, Cregan could be heard roaring against the fabric that had been shoved in his mouth, soft grunts of effort could also be heard escaping Lord Bolton's men as they tried to wrangle Cregan into standing still. The disgraced Northern Lord turned towards her lord husband with a rather nauseating smile. Yanking her forward he neared Cregan enough to reach out and take the dark fabric from her husbands mouth, barely moving his hand away before Cregan could catch it in his teeth.

"Tell me, Stark, is she an obedient wife? She seems fiery in nature, is she the same to bed?" Lord Bolton asked, turning to look back at her as his grip on her arms tightened.

"No! No, no please!" She shrieked as she felt him tear her robe from around her frame, leaving her in only a thin shift. Pulling away from him, digging her bare feet into the earth as she tried to escape his hold. Her hands and wrists ached as she tugged at the twine that had bound them behind her. Her breath beginning to come to her in short bursts as the true reality of the situation had sunk in. Cregan was making threats of terrifying violence towards all those present and participating in this coup. Hurling vile insults at Lord Bolton as he practically foamed at the mouth with fury. However, beneath the horrifying facade Cregan adorned, he was struck with fear to his core.

"Stop. Fighting." The vile brute of a man grunted as he tried to control the woman in his grip. She looked to Cregan then who could be heard howling in protest the entire time, continuing his struggles against the limbs of the men holding him. He held her gaze, the terror reflecting between them as his heart broke over and over again. Cregan couldn't protect her, and as much as he tried, he couldn't seem to free himself. Although, at the thought of being made to watch the horror before him as Lord Bolton took hold of the one thing in the world that could affect him, Cregan vowed he would die before allowing it to happen.

The woman was proving a worthy adversary to the Lord of the Dreadfort, continuing to evade his full control over her as she slipped from his grip once more. Her arms were welted and showing the signs of the struggle she was putting forth. The cold of the wind seemed to lash at her limbs that were now fully exposed to the elements. Her robe had been stripped from her and she stood before the men in just her cotton sleeping shift. The fabric was thin and pale and left little to be desired from the view of her frame, she saw the young knights of the Dreadfort and how their eyes wouldn’t move from her, even if they put in an effort too. Bile rose from deep within her throat at the thought of not only this disgraceful man taking advantage of her against her will, but also knowing it would be for all else to see.

Although the fear was prevalent in her mind, the adrenaline was finally beginning to kick in as she felt the hairs on her body stand at attention. With a final tug of her body from Lord Bolton’s grasp, she stumbled and fell into the muddy earth of the pit below.

With a sharp gasp and piercing shriek she hit the ground hard, causing the wind to evade her lungs and a struggling gasp to pass her lips. Having been standing so close to the edge of the circular, wood-paneled ring, it was not surprising that she had fallen over the edge in her attempt to finally get away from the Lord of the Dreadfort.

She could hear the menacing laughter emanating from above her, the vile sound bouncing between Lord Bolton's men and the Lord himself.

"It seems our entertainment will begin sooner than expected, boys!" Lord Bolton announced, walking towords Cregan, addressing him as he did. "See, I had planned on taking her as my own as the Gods bare witness, as well as yourself. Prolonging your pain would be more satisfying than flaying a man alive, which is my custom as you well know, but it seems the Gods have other plans. After consumating the union of my new marriage, I was going to leave you to the beast and watch as it mauled you for our wedding entertainment. But this seems to prove more interesting, does it not?" Lord Bolton smirks and Cregan only bellowed louder. "If she survives, she will be my prize, and I will have the pleasure of killing the Warden of the North myself," Lord Bolton sneered as Cregan spit at him. The fury behind Cregan's eyes was unhinged, dragon fire could not even compare.

Wiping the saliva from his face, Lord Bolton only grinned, "Hold him still. I want him to see all of this," he said to his men. Cregan couldn't think straight, the fire residing within him spreading across his entire body as he pushed and pulled against the men holding him in his place. Looking down into the muddy pit below, he could see a door being opened to reveal a large, formidable animal, and the fear that gripped his wife as she struggled to free her hands.

She looked up to be met with a mass of dark fur and the small dark eyes of the massive creature before her. A bear, the sigil of House Mormont, a beast that she was raised to respect and model her own spirit after. Something she found strength in, a force akin to religion, something to find faith in; and now she was being made to destroy that of which she had built her own strength upon. The notion of it all was revolting. Looking around her, she drew in shaky breaths, she searched for any form of weapon to defend herself with. In that instant Lord Bolton seemed to find a sliver of remorse in his heart and tossed a small blade down to her, smirking as he did so. The bear emitted a thunderous roar as it began to circle the circumference of the small pit. She brought the blade to the twine still binding her hands behind her back and was able to free herself after somewhat of a struggle, moving away from the carnal animal as she did so. Fear subsided to her more natural instincts and suddenly her head became clear. She looked up to meet the eyes of the bear before her, drawing in deep breaths and settling into a skin that was known to her; the skin of the "she-beast".

My old friend, how good it is to have you with me again, she thought to herself. She would not allow these men to diminish her power or to take it from her. Every woman is born with the rage of their mother nestled deep within their chest, the resulting anger of years of being made less than human. The sorrow of being made to sacrifice their bodies and their souls for a man's pleasure, weighed upon her shoulders. She could feel it, she always had. It seemed accustomed to every woman she had ever met, to share a deep-seeded understanding that this world was not made for us, but for us to attend to. She refused that notion, and in this moment when no other woman was there to share this fury and sorrow with her, she decided to embody it herself, for all those who didn't have a chance to fight. For all those who were made less than, or treated as only a body to be taken. They will not take this from me, she vowed to herself.

The growl that escaped the beast reverberated throughout the small pit, being felt within the chests of all the men spectating. However, fear eluded her as she looked into the animals eyes, accepting her fate with a fury. The cry that left her as she charged the creature could have caused even the most barbarous of warriors to quell in fear. Dodging the swipe of its large paws, she lunges forward with the small blade that was provided to her. If she is to die here, it will be a death of integrity knowing she was more like the beast in front of her than anything as meek as the men watching from above. They will not take my strength, she thought as the claws of the grizzly descended upon her. Her mind had been captivated by adrenaline, her muscles now following in the steps of combat that they had walked before. Although she had never faced such a formidable opponent as this beast, she knew her training would serve her well. She rolled to evade the claws of the bear, ducking beneath its giant form and bringing the blade to its underbelly as she did so. An agitated sound escaped the brute as she cut into its fur, resulting with a swipe of its large paw in her direction. However, this time she wasn't quick enough to side step the beast and its claws caught her collarbone and ripped the flesh open. A scream of agony left her and she stumbled to the outer part of the fighting pit. The bear's eyes met hers once more and she could see the bloodthirsty look reflected within them. The beast snarled and ran towards her, outstretching another paw to swipe at her again, but she managed to dodge it once more and bring the blade across the creature's arm this time. This only resulted in more fury from the beast, a deep grumble of rage came from its bared teeth.

I can do this, she thought to herself as the bear stalked her along the edge of the ring, contemplating its next move. There was a moment of stillness between them, as if they were both assessing the other and its next move. Although, she knew it wouldn't be long before another move was made, so she chose hers. With a terrifying yell she charged the beast, it rose on its hindquarters with its two front paws out to block the blow, but as she got near it, she ducked. Deceiving the beast and sliding in the mud towards its belly. The blade was firm in her hand as she drove it into the creatures heart, twisting it as deep as she could, so the hilt was half-way into its flesh. A pained cry came from the animal, and it slumped over her, still thrashing its paws at whatever it could reach. She only drove her own body deeper under the bear, trying to avoid the creatures talons as much as possible.

Cregan watched in horror as the whole ordeal played out, not knowing if his wife would survive or not. When she disappeared in the mound of fur his heart clenched at the notion that she would not emerge.

When she arose from beneath the creature, it was as if the bloodthirsty beast had become her. Drenched in deep maroon, her torn shift clung to her form as the blood created small streams down her limbs. It matted her hair and splattered her face in a nauseating way, creating an image that struck fear into the souls of all bearing witness. As she lifted her gaze, she was met with the sight of Lord Bolton descending from his perch at the edge of the pit.

“You don’t have a choice, anymore,” he spoke in a tone laced with malice and smugness, as if taking claim to her before even placing a hand on her.

“NO! Don’t you dare touch her, you cunt!” Cregan screamed, finding more strength in his limbs and beginning to fight back against those holding him still. The three men had to be assisted by two others as Cregan had broken one of his hands free and connected it to the nearest jaw he saw. Cregan was spouting profanities at Bolton’s men as he was once again pinned to the cold ground. Two of the men now holding each of his legs, two pinning both of his arms, and one having to climb on top of Cregan in order to prevent him from getting up. However, the man holding his left arm down was not paying enough attention to the positioning of his hand upon the Lord’s shoulder. Cregan lunged his head down and caught the man’s pinky between his teeth, and without a second thought he bit down, hard. The man shrieked in pain and recoiled from Cregan in seconds. His pinky still intact but bent at an angle and would sport a nasty scar at the base of it for the rest of the man’s life.

Cregan only smiled, a sickening sight as his mouth was stained crimson. With his hand now free he reaches behind him to unsheathe one of the other’s swords, and then in an instant he rolled to his right, causing the man perched atop him to fall to the ground. It took Cregan a moment to gather his mind, because before swinging the sword as he glanced over and saw how Lord Bolton was stalking towards her. He was beginning to undo his cloak and doublet, it only further spurned the fire that was burning hot in Cregan’s chest. However more men who had been spectating came to replace those of whom suffered the Wolf of the North’s wrath and had fallen to him. Although, this time they did not pin him. Instead choosing to hold him upright with a blade to his neck, grabbing him by the hair and forcing him to watch as the devil descended upon his wife. Cregan refused to show weakness, but in his chest arose panic and fear as he struggled against the men’s hold on him. Small cuts littering his neck as the blade was pushed harder against it.

“I’ll slit your fucking throat, don’t think I won’t,” the man holding the knife whispered into Cregan’s ear.

“And I’ll have your head for this,” Cregan spit back, yanking his body forward once more as the men stumbled with him. His strength a hard match for the four men it took to hold him in place. The blade dug into his skin but he didn’t care, the pain of the small knife was nothing compared to what he was being made to witness.

She let Lord Bolton approach, standing as if stone had solidified her muscles, but pulled taught as if ready to spring. The moment his hand outstretched towards her chest she reacted, swiftly ducking beneath his reach and taking hold of his exposed wrist and plunging her knife deep into the supple skin. Only releasing the blade when she felt the crunch of bone as it connected.

Lord Bolton screamed and crumpled around the fatal wound, holding his limp hand in his grasp. Towering over his quivering form she lifted a leg and connected her foot to the man’s shoulder, easily pushing him to the ground. As he continued to whimper and gasp in the depths of pain, she slowly descended upon his form. Kneeling beside him as she lowered her mouth to his ear.

“Any sane woman would choose a feral beast over the threat of a meager man and his cock, every time. Know this, Lord Bolton, fore if you leave the woman to the bear long enough she will learn its ways, and will return to rip your heart from your chest while adorning a smile," she whispered, her bloodstained lips twisting into a malicious smirk.

"Seven Hells," Lord Bolton cowered, wincing at her words.

"Yes... I do hope you experience every single one of them, and when you meet with each of the seven devils, tell them who sent you; they should learn my name," she growls, her face only inches from his, and he could see then that this unadulterated rage with which she embodied was going to be his demise. It was then that she arose to her feet, grasping the man's sword as she did so.

Too enthralled in her own fury, she was not perceptive of how the audience before her had gone quiet. The men of House Bolton becoming increasingly aware of their Lord's imminent death. With a final cry she drove Lord Bolton's own sword into his chest, spearing him through the heart. The blood curdled gasp he released was one of disbelief, not understanding that he had lost, indefinitely.

She couldn't feel her limbs as she ripped the sword from his chest and raised it above her head, but she heard her words clear as day.

"Anyone who wishes to challenge me for the Bolton line, step forward now!" She shouted, looking to each of the men that stood above her at the edge of the ring. Her husband took the opportunity to continue to physically lash out at each of the men, continuing to pull ferociously at each of his limbs at an attempt to break free. The audience of men was stunned, looking between each other with gaping mouths as they waited for someone to make the first move. It was one of the men trying to hold Cregan still that acted first, letting go of his Liege Lord and stepping back with his hands raised. The others followed suit, taking several steps away from the enraged man as they released their hold on him. Cregan let out a cry and began attacking anyone who was in reach. Landing multiple blows to the man's jaw and screaming obscenities as he did so.

She watched as her husband tore through two more Bolton men, the Wolf of the North making appearances through his blinding rampage. The sword felt heavy in her hands, and she could feel her legs begin to grow weak. The sword hit the ground before she did, exhaustion taking hold of her frame as she stared into the greying sky, rain drops began slowly falling and painting her blood-tainted skin with lines of pink and white as she let the darkness take her vision.

————————————————————————

The darkness of the night brought the greying memories hidden in the back of her mind that kept her recollection of that day, into full florescent light.

Cregan found himself waking at least once every night after that treacherous one, to the sound of her screams and pleas for mercy that weren’t warranted to anything outside of her own mind. It had become something of a routine they had subconsciously formed, a torturous nightly ritual that seemed never-ending. Cregan would wake with terror at the sound of a wail, instinctually he would turn in the direction of the sound and try to bring her into his arms as quickly as possible. Holding her tightly to his chest, brushing her sweat-matted hair from her forehead and placing soft kisses in the wake of his fingers.

“You are okay, my girl. You’re alright. We’re home in Winterfell, you’re with me, and you are safe,” he whispered into her hairline.

“You are safe,” he repeated the statement in reassurance as he began to rock her slowly. But a soft pang rang through his chest as she continued to tremble in his arms. He could hear her still weeping, burying her face in his broad shoulder and clutching him like he would disappear into thin air. He brought his hand to the back of her head and cradled her to him, continuing to mumble sweet nothings into her ear.

“I just want to stop seeing it, even in my sleep; seeing him lying there in front of me slowly approaching death from an injury I inflicted. It keeps happening over and over in my head, it’s torturing,” her voice shook as she explained the terrors that plagued her memory. All Cregan knew at this moment was pain, knowing he would not be the salve to heal this wound to her mind. But he would be here for her always, holding her as she fought a battle in her head that he couldn’t get to; it was torture for him too.

“I’m so sorry, my sunlight. Such a beautiful brain shouldn’t be polluted with this grotesque darkness. You did not deserve to have this happen to you and I am sorry I wasn’t able to protect you from it,” he said softly, emotion weighing his voice down as his sentence came to a close. He felt as she trembled in his arms, wanting nothing more than to bring her the comfort she so deserves. Yet, once again, he was left to fall on his metaphorical sword and watch as she suffered these horrors in her own mind; feeling forever helpless.

————————————————————————

The Lord of Winterfell had been summoned to a meeting in the council hall by his Bannerman of the North, regarding an urgent matter, or so it stated in the note he had received.

“Why have I been summoned here when it is I who should be summoning you?” Cregan snarled, his icy gaze spearing through all the men gathered before him as he stalked to the head of the long council table.

“Well… it is the business of your lady wife, my Lord… and the incident that has recently taken place,” Lord Cerwyn spoke timidly. Looking to the empty seat where Lord Bolton used to reside.

“What business? What opinion do you, of all people, have to offer?” Cregan snapped towards the lord.

“It is just that… we fear she is a risk to you, my Lord,” Lord Cerwyn continued to explain.

“Do you think she would harm me? Mine own lady wife? Do you truly believe she would attack me, or anyone else for that matter, unprovoked?” Cregan scoffed, taken aback by this ridiculous notion.

“It is a possibility, my Lord,” Lord Cerwyn muttered quietly in response.

“Do you know what it is like to feel helpless, Lord Cerwyn? How it feels to know you will never be able to give your wife what she needs. I have sworn to protect mine and even I could not do that. What if Lady Cerwyn had suffered the same situation as my lady wife? What would you do then? Lady Stark was assaulted, and if she hadn’t acted when she did, her and I would both be dead. You would do well to remember that,” Cregan growled at Lord Cerwyn.

“Apologies, my Lord. It is only that we worry for your safety, as I stated previously. As well as the safety of those on your court and in the public, my Lord. If the question of safety is at stake should we not consider other options?” The vassal Lord responded, surprised when the acceptance of his ideas came from the Warden of the North.

“And what would those be?” Cregan asked, his tone as sharp as the blade of his sword, poised to strike at any moment. He was completely opposed to any ideas this nuisance of a man gave him, however he would entertain any chance he could to defend his beloved. Wanting to eradicate any idea of doubt they had towards her and her sanity.

“Perhaps the Lady Stark may take some time away from Winterfell? Or rather… be solely kept within the walls of the castle? Just until she is well enough of course,” Lord Cerwyn suggested, hesitating with anxiety as he saw Cregan practically boil over in rage from across the table. The other lords grimaced, knowing the on-slot that was about to ensue.

“Are you out of your damn mind to even suggest such a thing? She is your Lady of Winterfell, and just because she has more courage than the whole lot of you, doesn’t mean she should be feared. She should be revered!” Cregan reviled the men before him as they all refused to look at their Liege Lord as he shouted about their lack of respect for his lady wife. Specifically looking at Lord Cerwyn while doing so.

“I am repulsed by you and the thought that you could ever come to me and suggest such a thing about my wife,” Cregan seethed, rounding the corner of the table to meet Lord Cerwyn at his seat. The vassal Lord stood up slowly as Cregan towered over him, staring daggers into the man’s soul.

“Get the fuck out of my castle,” Cregan sneered with venom laced into his words, looking to the rest of the men around the table.

“GET OUT! ALL OF YOU!” He roared, stepping away from the table and motioning for a guard to begin the escort of the Lord Bannerman from The Keep.

————————————————————————

When Cregan had gained his composure, he went around the Keep attending to his evening duties as he always did. As he made his way to his marital bedchamber he was struck with confusion at seeing his wife’s handmaiden standing outside the door.

“Ayla, what are you doing out here?” Cregan asked, concern painting his face, but nodding politely when she bowed slightly to him.

“I’m so sorry, m’lord. I have tried to get her to open the door, but she refuses. I did not know what to do with my Lady’s nightgown… so I’ve just been waitin’ for you to arrive, m’lord,” the young woman said as she kept her head down, taking a slight glance up at him but feeling intimidated she chose to look away once again.

“Thank you, Ayla. That was very kind of you to wait. But may I ask, how long have you been here exactly?” Cregan inquired, worried about the condition of his love and how long she’d been like this.

“I couldn’ say, m’lord. But if I had to venture a guess, possibly an hour, m’lord,” Ayla spoke again, still avoiding his now deeply concerned expression.

“I can take this on from here, Ayla. My thanks, again,” He spoke, trying to keep his tone more professional as he took the clothing from the handmaidens arms and watched as she walked out of sight before trying the door.

He called her name, announcing his presence, but heard nothing.

“My love, please come to the door, I do wish to sleep in our bed in the near future if you so permit it,” he said loudly, trying to keep a lighter tone and not give off the impression of any sort of anger. When met with silence again, Cregan feels a trickle of dread slip down his spine not knowing if she was okay or if something had happened. He began to rap on the door, his knock growing louder and more desperate, along with his pleas to her.

“My darling, I must see that you are alright, plea-,” Cregan begins to beg but is silenced by the sound of the lock coming undone from the other side of the large doors. Without hesitation he enters the room and looks around for a moment before his heart falls from his chest and onto the floor at the sight of his wife in such distress. She is already in a nightdress, but it is wrinkled and in disarray upon her frame. Clearly in a state of panic he could see she was covered in a thin veil of sweat that caused her hair to stick to her skin, as the rest stood at odd angles or was mussed in some way. When she looked up at him from her seat on the floor in front of their hearth, it was evident that fear had her in its midst and was racking through her mind, her eyes as wide as saucers. Her cheeks were wet with tears and her breath seemed to be lost on her. Cregan went to his wife in an instant and knelt on the furs next to her as he gathered her in his arms. Stroking her hair in comfort and placing soft kisses to her temple, Cregan tries to calm his wife, but in her anxiety-ridden state she was unable to resist the waves of terror washing over her. It was clear in the way she couldn’t catch her breath, and how her body would tense and relax repeatedly.

“Okay, okay. Shhh it’s okay - that’s it. Breathe, my darling, just breathe,” Cregan spoke softly into his beloveds hair, rocking her back and forth as she tried to gain control of her breathing once more.

“My darling girl, what has caused this pain?” Cregan questioned, his tone laden with concern. She had to take several more deep breaths before she was able to finally respond coherently.

“I am no longer worthy enough to uphold your family’s house values,” she whispered, not meeting his gaze as he had tried to get her to look at him.

“No, my girl. How did you ever reach that conclusion?” Cregan’s heart breaking at the thought that she believed herself not good enough for anything.

“The men on your court, they wish to see me kept away, I heard it with mine own ears. I have put a stain on your house with my actions. I hear what they whisper about in the corridors, and in your court, calling me the 'the Mad Lady Stark'. I am anything but honor or duty, I killed a man that was the lord of one of your vassal houses. I don't want to be feared, Cregan. I dislike it very much... I am starting to fear myself," she finally explained, “…they said I should be locked away,” she whispered again, her voice cracking and her chin trembling.

“They would have to slay me first before anyone else took you from me. Honor be damned if it means having you by my side, no matter what anyone may say,” Cregan responded, his palms cradling her jaw, softly pushing her head up so he could look her in the eye. The statement rolling off his tongue so easily he didn’t even realize what the implication of that sentence was; he would throw away honor and dignity for her every time.

“I seek no kind of absolution from anything other than that of what lies within your soul and the God who crafted it. In your absence, my life would be without purpose. Fore if I am not permitted to love you and keep you, my days would be spent living half a life,” he proclaimed, tears gathering on his lash line. She too was weeping, her eyes distant as if she were not seeing him in front of her.

“Do you hear me?” He asked, his gaze desperate as he searched her eyes for understanding.

“You are safe, no one will take you from me,” he concluded as she finally focused back onto him and slightly nodded her head.

“Okay,” she relented, not wanting to take his words for truth even though she knew they were, it was the distrust she had within herself that was stopping her from believing. It was hard to hold his gaze, knowing he could read the thoughts dancing through her eyes like seeing something through a clear window. She couldn’t hide from him if she tried.

He could feel the uneasiness still residing within her, so he brought her hands in his and pressed kisses to her knuckles. Slowly taking each fingertip to his soft lips and laying feather-light kisses along them as well, then moving to the inside of each of her palms to do the same. As he moved lower and pressed his lips tenderly to the inside of her wrists, he saw her resolve begin to dissipate. Her insecurity dissolving at the touch of his lips to her skin.

“These hands protect you, they know how to wield a sword better than most of my men. They comfort me when I am in need, they will hold and comfort our future children. I am so in love with these hands; do not fear what they can do, because if it wasn’t for you we would both be deep in the frozen ground by now,” Cregan explained in a soft but sincere tone, continuing to place soft kisses to her knuckles and wrists.

“Cregan…” she sniffled, a small smile coming to her lips as he continued to travel his lips further up her arm, and then slowly moving upwards he pulled her nightdress from her shoulder to reveal her collarbone. The three large scars that ran along the soft skin were close to being fully healed, as much as they could be. Cregan leaned down and placed the tenderest of kisses upon them. He cradled her waist as he pulled her into him, her thighs wrapped themselves around his middle as he stood slowly from the ground, bringing her with him. Moving to the bed, he set her down on the pelts gently, shifting her up the bed as he crawled over her, his eyes searching hers for something.

“It is never my intention to make you feel uncomfortable by my advances. But if you would permit me, may I show you how in love and committed to you I truly am?” Cregan asked in a whisper, still keeping himself propped up above her. A soft smile spread over her face, her cheeks heating up at the notion of such adoration.

“If you do not wish it then it shall not be done,” he reassured, his eyes still searching hers for any type of doubt or hesitation.

“Cregan… prove to me what I cannot prove to myself in this moment,” she responded softly. With the permission granted, he smiled as he laid a heavy kiss onto her lips. Then as he had done moments before, he pushed the sleeve of her nightdress down her shoulder to reveal her scars to him. He continued to kiss over the marred skin, trekking lightly up the slope of her neck until he reached just below the shell of her ear.

“These scars are proof of extraordinary resilience; proof of your undeniable courage, something I have always admired about your spirit,” Cregan spoke softly as he placed a kiss to her temple. “… and this… this stalwart, brilliant, stunningly cunning, and expertly charming brain of yours… you are a marvel to me… all of you,” Cregan continued to speak as he placed more kisses along her temple and under her jaw as she sighed and smiled. He began to move down further, kissing her unmarked collarbone and traveling south. However the hem of her neckline proved a worthy adversary to Cregan’s wishes to desire his wife. His hand travels from its place beside her body to slip under her nightdress and waltz up her thigh as the fabric went with it. He couldn’t help himself from running his fingers over the expanse of her thigh, leaving goosebumps in his wake. The light caresses of her husband would always make her weak. She felt his hands grip her hips and carefully move her small clothes down her legs, a shaky breath escaping her as he does so.

“These hips… these hips will cradle your womb as you carry our child, they are strong and will birth the bravest of warriors,” Cregan spoke against her skin as he exposed it to himself. Having removed the dress fully from her body his lips began to paint tapestries across the skin of her lower stomach. His hands wandered, feeling every inch of skin he could reach, whispering his praises to every piece of her he touched. The noises that emitted from her were the sweetest melody Cregan had ever heard, the soft sighs and gasps of built up anticipation.

He loved it all.

Placing both of his hands at the back of her thighs he slowly coaxed them to rise as he shifted lower and placed his head upon her inner thigh, turning to meet his lips to the supple skin. He became drunk on the whimpers that fell so gracefully upon his ears as he teased the inner most part of her thighs with hot breaths and light caresses of his fingertips. Until finally he met his lips with what he considered the gates of the only heaven that truly mattered. In his hazed state he let his tongue wander through the petals of her cunt, like sifting through the petals of a freshly picked rose. He fell more intoxicated at her scent and taste as it poured over his senses, his grip on her thighs becoming stronger as his fingertips dug in. With a gentle force he moved her legs farther apart to be fully flat on his stomach, making the perfect angle for him to -

“OH CREGAN!” She gasped and cried out as she felt his tongue part her center and delve into her like a craved man. Her fingers carded through his locks and roughly tugged at the base of them, causing a moan to escape Cregan’s throat. As he continued unraveling her from the inside out, he loosened his grip on her thighs and began running his hands along the expanse of her skin. He got lost in the feeling of how soft and warm she felt against his fingers tips. He wondered how a human could possess such a physical sense of grace, as his skin had been marred by combat and in training, it was foreign to him to feel such a thing. As one of his hands began caressing her breast, running the rough pad of his thumb over her peaked nipple he enjoyed the sounds the small motion elicited from her. Beginning to get engulfed in desire, Cregan could not resist as his hips drove themselves against the mattress as he tried to get friction on his aching cock. The motion and resulting friction caused a small whimper to escape him, his cheeks burning at such a sound coming from him, but he couldn’t help it. It was all just too damn good. Retracting from her slightly he looked up to her, and was met with her gaze in return, their eyes communicating what their lips didn't have to.

They couldn't wait anymore.

His fingers never left her as he sat up and began undoing his trousers with his other hand, holding her soft gaze the entire time. She looked like an angel splayed before him, having fallen from the heavens and landed directly in their bedchambers. Throwing the garment to the side, he slid his fingers from her and brought them to his lips with a groan.

"You are the sweetest thing in all of the Seven Kingdoms my love," Cregan whispered to her as he climbed atop her. Feeling as her own hands roamed his broad shoulders and a moan escaped her as he tucked his head into her neck and began leaving soft trails of kisses down to her collar bones.

"Are you ready, my lady," Cregan asked softly, not wanting to move forward any further without her specific consent.

"Yes, my love," She whispered into his ear, a small smile gracing her beautiful lips. Taking hold of the back of her thighs, he hoists them around his waist and lines himself up with her entrance before slowly beginning to push in. The groans and gasps shared between them left them both feeling breathless. Positioning himself on his elbows to support himself, he cradled her head in one large palm as the other twisted itself into her hair. He began to move slowly, falling into the velvety bliss that was his wife. Moans and gasps danced from her parted lips as her husband gently led her down the road of pleasure, softly touching and kissing her. She adored the softness with which he caressed her, the way he held the back of her head like it was fragile. But she hadn't felt this intimacy with him in weeks, and she needed it a little harder and faster than what he was providing currently.

"My love," she gasped, her breathing staggered as he hit a spot within her that brought her the utmost pleasure, "my darling, fuck me," she demanded through gritted teeth, and he did not need to be told a second time. Bringing himself off of her, he balanced on his outstretched arms as he moved upwards, bringing her hips with him. This new angle provided her with the intensity she was looking for. Allowing him to meet his hips with her own in a powerful way, without crushing her with his enormous form.

One of his hands was softly caressing her face, cradling her jaw in his large palm. The action so opposing of the passionate and intense motion of his hips against hers, driving forward with a force as he got lost in her ether. The bed creaked and shook with the physicality of it all. The sound of skin meeting skin accompanied that of the complaints from the wooden frame of the bed and the sounds of pleasure ricocheted off the stone walls of their chamber; it was a sinful symphony. Feeling the burning knot of pleasure beginning to slip from his control, whimpers and grunts of desperation began to fall from his lips.

“My love - my light, I need you to look at me,” Cregan begged, his voice strained and thick with desire. Her eyes had been sown shut with the pleasure he brought her and her jaw had fallen slack, so lost in Cregan and the feeling of him that was surrounding her. It was an effort to look into his eyes as his thrusts became more erratic and she felt him hit that spot with a strength that took the breath from her lungs. It was impossible for him to come undone without looking into her eyes. She was the sun, blinding in her beauty to see with a naked eye yet captivating nonetheless, and he couldn’t look away.

He saw her struggling to focus and keep her eyes from fluttering shut as strangled moans came from deep within her. She was the most stunning vision to behold with her head thrown back and her hair splayed around her like a halo. The sweat-slick skin of her neck and chest as beautiful as fresh dew shining in the sunlight in the early hours of the morn. But he had to see her, look into her eyes as they took each other over the edge. He called her name gently, pleas quietly spilling from his mouth until moments later she was able to make eye contact with him.

The groan that came from him was desperate and loud as she finally answered his prayers.

“There’s my pretty girl,” Cregan grunted, all he heard in return was the rough panting and delicate groans of his wife as she felt nothing else but him. So consumed by him and his body she felt as if she might burst. Moving one of his hands down her torso as he ventured towards the space between them, wanting so badly to hear those gorgeous moans that fall from her mouth every time he touches her there. They both hung on a precipice, each thrust threatening to push them over the edge into oblivion. As he thrust several more times, the creaking of the bed was echoing off the stone walls of their chamber, the sound joining that of her whimpers and gasps of his name. Starting to thrust with a more erratic nature and needing more leverage, he pulled his hand away from the haven between her thighs and took ahold of hers, placing it atop the headboard to join the other, having took hold of it for balance.

In this position Cregan had never looked more strikingly handsome, his head hung between his outstretched arms above her, the dark locks of his hair falling around his face. He looked as if he was sculpted from marble, a statue of his grandeur created just for her. She heard quiet whimpers begin to fall from his mouth and she knew he was holding back with everything he had, but he didn’t need to.

“Come with me, my love,” she whispered to him between pants, their breaths mingling within one another, eyes never breaking each others gaze. The most divine groan fell from his plush lips, his face contorting in pleasure and then going slack as she felt his hips driving harder. As she felt the knot of pleasure begin to unravel in her lower stomach, she cried out his name in ecstasy and arched into him. The hand that was entangled in his gripped the headboard hard as she pulled herself up into him. Dropping his other arm to the mattress, he reached around her waist and anchored himself to her. With a final broken moan he felt himself cum as his hips met hers and he buried himself as deep as he could within her. They were still for a moment as they both began to come down, but suddenly Cregan began to move again. Dragging out his strokes and angling his hips so he could hit the one spot within her that he knew would result in another orgasm for her.

It was an intense and angelic experience for them both. As she felt him move slightly, squeezing her hip and holding her to him as he continued to rock into her. Cregan could feel the flutter of her walls as her peak never seemed to fade away, he was pulling the utmost pleasure from her and she never wanted it to stop. She clung to him with her available arm, running her hand through his hair and gripping the roots.

“Fuck, darling. You feel so divine.” Cregan spoke into her ear, his tone strewn with gravel as he too began to feel his ascension into the heavens once more. He ducked his head into the valley of her neck as he placed hot, needy kisses along the column of her throat. Her response was nothing more than mumbling and moaning, the love and lust clouding her mind to anything other than what he was giving her.

“I know baby, I know,” Cregan whispered and although he too was beginning to get lost in overstimulation, one of the only things he knew in that moment was he needed to feel her release one more time.

Cregan pulled back in that moment and released his hold on her waist as he then gently led her back onto the mattress. Having also released her hand that had been intertwined in his own on the headboard, he could feel both of them now moving over his skin and her nails slowly digging trails down his back.

He groaned at the sensation and as he went to shift his weight off the headboard, a sharp CRACK could be heard echoing off the walls, and suddenly Cregan’s weight dropped onto her. He caught himself, for the most part, but the sudden change had caused their lustful trance to be interrupted.

“My love, are you alright?” Cregan immediately turned his attention to his wife who was staring up at him in shock. With Cregan still sheathed inside her she was having a hard time comprehending what had just happened as she fought to focus herself.

“Yes, yes I’m okay,” she said to him as he brought a hand up to cradle her head, his thumb traces a dip from her cheek to her temple, a gesture of reassurance.

“Did we just break the headboard?” She inquired after a brief pause between them, an amused smile forming on her face and soon after an eruption of giggles poured out of her. Cregan looked surprised at the outburst at first but soon was chuckling at the circumstances right along side her. Slowly maneuvering off of her and to her side, they continue to share loving glances and can’t help the laughing that results.

“I think you know the answer to your question,” Cregan finally responded. Pulling her into his chest, their breathing slowing as they felt the exhaustion from the day wash over each of them.

“Do you know how in love with you I am? Do you understand now? Because I will spend every waking second I have left in this world trying to prove it to you,” Cregan whispered into her hair as he comforted her with soft touches and the warm embrace of his strong arms.

"I do know," she reassured him. She hummed in contentment as she felt his large palm move down to her lower stomach, encompassing the area above her womb.

"I do hope that took, I cannot wait any longer to see you round with my child," he says softly to her, adoration in his eyes as they looked down to where his hand is resting.

"Can you promise me something, Cregan?" she asked, looking to him intently but with a meaning behind her eyes.

"Anything, my sunlight," he responded.

"If we have a daughter, I want her to never feel as though she is not a son. She deserves to live in a world where she is not seen for her body but for her soul, and one where she isn't treated differently because of the gender she was born into. She should not have to feel like she needs to be anything other than herself, and we should provide that for her," she said, Cregan propped himself up on his arms and took his wife's face into his hands.

"We will provide that for her, I promise," he said, kissing her forehead and then gently placing a kiss to her lips.

"We will do better than our forefathers, and she shall know how special she is just for being who she wants to be," he reaffirmed, a smile gracing both of their lips as the promise of a better future was solidified between them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[ladystoneboobs]

idt we talk enough about how a song of ice and fire is also the song of incest and cannibalism. i mean, sure, obviously both of those subjects are noted as present, but the saga feels much more known for its incest, which idt is fair or accurate to the later materiel. iirc, jaime fucking cersei next to their dead firstborn is the last instance of onpage incest happening in present tl, and after that it's all about the cannibals, baby.

(disclaimer: cw/tw sa, cw/tw rape, and i'm not counting cousincest as that's normal in-world even for non-targaryens and also still legal in many places in our world today, nor counting the faux-incestuous freudian mess that is littlefinger/alayne(sansa)/sweetrobin, nor any dark humor jokes and/or unfulfilled threats wrt forced cannibalism)

in fact pretty much all the active incest during the present tl happens in those first 3 books:

the twincest as a major plot point ofc, kicking action off when bran saw them fucking in a tower

and viserys creeping on dany and twisting her nipple

tyrion relating his backstory to bronn wherein he and tysha were both raped by proxy by his father, tywin (tho tyrion does not use that terminology)

craster still being alive to rape and impregnate his own daughters (resulting in dozens of forced incestuous relationships)

and theon unknowingly groping his own sister while she (knowingly) groped him in return

jaime's early pov recalled how he shut up cersei with kissing when they fought after bran refused to die

bella of stoney sept trying and failing to seduce gendry who is (unbeknownst to them both) her half-brother as both were sired by robert baratheon (only example in these 3 books where incest was averted before any sexual activity or incestuous contact occurred)

the aforementioned sept twincest next to joffrey's corpse

tyrion learning from oberyn about cersei twisting his penis when he was a baby

cersei's failed attempt to seduce jaime in wst, pulling out his dick for either a bj or hj until her talk of tyrion's death made him lose his boner

while incest is not exactly absent from the text after that, it seems to exist in the feastdance only in hypotheticals or past memories:

aeron's trauma flashbacks of his (implied only in published text) csa by euron

jaime still feeling lust when seeing cersei nude

and her fond reminiscing about them fucking behind robert's back/brief dream of them as a married couple before her walk of shame

victarion misinterpreting asha's offer of partnership as a marriage proposal and suddenly looking at his niece in a new way with "his manhood beginning to stiffen"

jaime's recollection of fucking cersei at darry next to robert as he was passed out drunk before cersei sent him to hunt arya (which would have happened back in agot and the point of this scene is more his failed hunt for a child just to make cersei happy)

arianne's "uneasy" memory of a past fantasy about being seduced by a man whose description is suspiciously similar to her late uncle oberyn

the aborted marital match of aegon/young griff to his purported aunt dany

illyrio saying (the now dead) viserys tried to rape dany the night before her wedding to drogo (another event from agot concerning a guy we already knew was into incest)

and tyrion once saying he wanted to rape as well as murder cersei

conversely, the cannibalism in the earlier books is most often only unproven hypotheticals alluded to as possible cannibalism:

old nan saying the others fed their dead servants the flesh of human children (which we have not yet seen with any wights so far, whether or not one counts walking undead eating human flesh as straight-up cannibalism)

the mystery meat in flea bottom's bowls o' brown which may or may not contain symon silver tongue after tyrion had him killed

renly's recollection that cressen kept stannis from catapulting their old master-at-arms by saying they may need to eat him later (which did not come to pass thanks to davos)

joffrey telling his people to eat their own dead (with no way of knowing if any actually did)

lady hornwood eating her own fingers

the mentions of the ice river clans being the cannibals beyond the wall (who are def not among the free folk jon snow gets to know onpage, making it just background detail)

bran's (possibly mythical) story of the rat cook

and biter chewing on people he attacked and other corpses (which seems to be just a side hobby connected to his killing method moreso constituting a snack than a full meal from a person butchered for meat. this tendancy of his is just background detail in acok, with biter chewing a corpse in the background after the weasel soup operation, and the hindsight implication that it could well have been him rather than dogs or wolves who had "been at" the corpses after the skirmish where yoren was killed)

while the feastdance feels much more in your face with cannibalism, having not only more total mentions of the practice but also more confirmed, actual cannibalism (as opposed to the ambiguity of each and every bowl o' brown), for those who know how to look at the evidence:

jaime learned that his father's mad dog aka the mountain fed parts of vargo hoat to all his prisoners (including vargo himself) after recapturing harrenhal

jaime then recalled tales of danelle lothston presiding over feasts of human flesh in harrenhal

and euron bragged about pulling a similar trick with the warlocks he captured (the only twist being that the warlocks knew what they were being forced to eat, which vargo hoat and wylis manderly etc at harrenhal likely didn't)

the elder brother of the quiet isle told of biter eating all of a woman's breasts at saltpans after she'd been raped and killed (prob the largest amount of flesh biter's confirmed to have eaten from one corpse)

bran and co. ate "pig" supplied by coldhands which had to be long pig aka human meat

brienne felt her face being eaten by biter in her own pov (which is so much worse than him chewing others in the background of the weasel soup scene)

theon was told that two ironmen at moat cailin were found eating their dead comrades

the astapori were said to eat their own dead while under siege by the yunkishmen

and then were said to do so again in refugee camps outside meereen

sam and davos sailed past skagos and each remembered stories of skagosi cannibalism

khrazz the pit fighter cut the hearts from his defeated foes to eat them

cotter pyke's last letter to jon snow said the wildlings were eating their own dead at hardhome

4 of stannis's men were executed by burning for butchering and eating dead men (with asha wondering how many others had done so without being caught)

and ofc the frey pies with wyman manderly having his 3 former guests killed and serving their meat to their own kin and the other guests at ramsay's wedding while eating some himself too

two of these examples (involving gregor clegane and euron greyjoy) must have actually happened during the course of asos, but grrm chose to give us the gruesome details in affc, which was brand new information about men we already knew were villains but did not know were into that fucked-up shit specifically, unlike being reminded that agot-era jaime and viserys wanted to fuck their sisters. it's as if after craster was killed and jc effectively broke up grrm decided cannibalism was the taboo subject matter he would fill the later books with, so we'd really feel the increasing danger of starvation-induced cannibalism with winter's arrival (and have no trouble believing rickon's new home of skagos really is a cannibal island). however, in-universe it feels like there's some sort of environmental balance connection so that the decrease in one formerly common behaviorial abomination just allows another such abomination to fill in the gap with a sharp increase in activity, like deer overpopulation resulting from lack of predators as if all the active incest somehow stopped more people from eating themselves or other people.

[starstrike]

Mithrun's desire as an SA analogue

TW discussion of SA and detailed breakdown of aesthetics evoking SA. The way I discuss this is vivid in a way that may be triggering, though there is no discussion of actual sexual assault. Just survivor's responses to it.

People relate to Mithrun and see his condition as an analogue for a few different things, like brain injury or depression. And I think all of them are there. But I also see Mithrun's story as an SA analogue, and Ryoko Kui intentionally evokes those aesthetics. I think it's a part of Mithrun's character that a lot of people miss, but I very much consider it text. This is partially inspired by @heird99's post on what makes this scene so disturbing; so check out their post, too :)

So to start off with, the demon invades Mithrun's bed, specifically. There's even a canopy around it, which specifically evokes this idea of personal intrusion; the barrier is being pulled apart without consent or warning. The way the hand reaches towards Mithrun's body from outside of the panel division makes it almost look like the goat stroking over his body. It's an especially creepy visual detail; similarly, the goat's right hand parts into the side of the panel as well. It's literally like it's tearing the page apart; but gently. So gently.

Mithrun is in bed. It is his bed that the demon is intruding on. He's in a position of intimacy. The woman behind him is a facsimile of his "beloved" that he left behind; the woman who, in reality, chose Mithrun's brother. He is in bed with his fantasy lover, who is leaning over him. While this scene isn't explicitly sexual, it is intimate. And it is being invaded. The goat lifts Mithrun gently, who is confused, but not yet struggling.

The erotics of consumption and violence in Ryoko Kui's work(remember that the word 'erotic' can have many different meanings, please) are a... notable part of some of her illustrations. I would say she blurs the lines between all forms of desire: personal, sexual, gustatory and carnal, in her illustrations in order to emphasize the pure desire she wants to work with and evoke to serve her themes. Kui deploys sexual imagery in a lot of places in Dungeon Meshi, and this is one of them.

In this case, horrifically. The goat's assault begins with drooling, licking, and nuzzling. The goat could be enjoying and "playing with" its food. But it can also be interpreted as it "preparing" Mithrun with its tongue as it begins to literally breach Mithrun's body. The goat also invades directly through his clothing; that adds another level of disturbing to me. There's nothing Mithrun can do in this moment of violation. Mithrun is fighting, but he is fighting weakly, trying to grip on and push away when he has no ability or option to. All he can do is beg the goat to stop. And it doesn't care. This all evokes sexual assault.

The sixth panel demonstrates a somewhat sexual position, with Mithrun's thighs spread around the goat's hunched over body. In the next, the goat pulls and holds apart Mithrun's thighs as he nuzzles into him. The way the clothing bunches up looks a bit as if it has been pushed up. It has pinned Mithrun down onto the bed, into Mithrun's soft furs and pillows. It takes a place made to be supernaturally warm and comfortable, and violates it. It's utterly and intimately horrifying. To me, this sequence of positions directly evokes a rape scene. I think Kui did this very explicitly. These references to sexual invasion are part of what makes this scene so disturbing; albeit, to many viewers, subconsciously.

This is also the moment the goat takes Mithrun's eye. Other than this, the goat seems exceptionally strong, but also... gentle. It holds Mithrun's body tightly, but moves it around slowly. It doesn't need to hurt Mithrun physically. But in that moment, it takes Mithrun's eye. Blood seeps from a wound while an orifice that should not be pierced is penetrated. This moment, the ooze of blood in one place specifically, also evokes rape. That single bit of physical gore is a very powerful bit of imagery to me.

Finally; it is Mithrun's desire that is eaten. After his assault, Mithrun can find no pleasure in things that he once did. He is fully disassociated from his emotions. This is a common response to trauma, especially in the case of SA. It's not uncommon for people to never, or take a long time to, enjoy sex in the same way again; or at all. They might feel like their rapist has robbed them of a desire and pleasure they once had. I think this makes Mithrun's lack of desire a partial analogue for the trauma of sexual assault.

Mithrun's desire for revenge was, supposedly, all that remained. Anger at his assaulter, anger at every being that was like it; though, perhaps not anger. Devotion, in a way. To his cause. I don't know. But the immediate desire to seek revenge is another response to SA. But on to Mithrun's true feelings on the matter.

This is... So incredibly tragic. Mithrun feels used up. Like his best parts have been taken away. Like he's being... tossed aside. This certainly parallels the way assault victims can feel after being left by an abuser. Or the way assault victims feel they might be "ruined" forever for other partners. These are common sentiments for survivors to carry, and need to overcome. In the text, it's almost like Mithrun feels the only being who can desire him is a demon who might "finish devouring" him. That that's his only use. It's worth noting that Mithrun trusted the demon. Mithrun's world was built by the demon, and Mithrun, in that way, was cared for by the demon. I think this reinforces Mithrun's place as a victim.

There's also something to be said about Mithrun as a victim of his own possessive romantic and sexual desire. The mirror shows him his beloved just dining with his brother, and it infuriates him. He doesn't know if the vision is real, nor if she has really chosen his brother as a romantic partner. The goat then creates a whole fantasy world where she loves him. As Mithrun's dungeon deteriorates, she is the only person that continues to exist. Mithrun continues to have control over her. And that is the strongest desire the demon is eating, isn't it? There's something interesting there, but I don't know what to say about it.

In conclusion, I think Mithrun's story is an explicit analogue for sexual assault-- though, certainly, among other things! The way the scene plays out and is composed explicitly references sexual violation and invasion of the body. His condition mirrors common trauma responses to sexual violence. And, at the end, he finally realizes he can recover.

Let's end on a happy Mithrun, after taking the first step on his journey to recovery :) You aren't vegetable scraps Mithrun. But even if you were-- every single thing in this world has value. Even vegetable scraps.

[sp4ceboo]

Who's Afraid of Little Old Me?: Feyd-Rautha x Reader

A/N: ty taylor swift i attempted to base this fic on your song but then i divulged as normal

tw: 18+, smut, p in v, inkpie, oral (both recieving), sub feyd by which i mean feyd is DOMMED, spit, degradation + praise, one spank kinda, swearing, lil bit of crying, mention of evil baron activities so sa + pedophilia, bit of knife play, tiny mention of cheating but none actually happens, lmk if there's anything else bc lbr there probably is i just forgot it

wc: 3.9k

Feyd-Rautha has gravely underestimated you.

It is true that you are not strong in terms of Harkonnen definitions, but you expected a man destined to father the Kwisatz Haderach to be able to see past that. What was that the Bene Gesserit were saying about superior genetics? You don’t see even a glimpse of that in his frosty gaze when he regards you - he looks at you as if you’re a delicate vase that may shatter in the lightest of breezes. He thinks he needs to fear breaking you.

He misses how you miss nothing.

You are not Bene Gesserit; you are merely one of their pawns, a genetic machination produced from centuries of manipulations and deceptions, but you can read a man better than the majority of their number.

The seething jealousy in the clenching off Glossu Rabban’s fists is like a monster sinking its venom laced fangs into his heart: starkly evident to you - as evident as the barely repressed, parasitic fear of inadequacy that lurks like a second beast within the first. Just the same, the gazes the Baron sends your husband do not escape you. Nor does the caged, wild look that washes over him whenever you leave his uncle’s chambers: the look of a man who inside is still a boy, relief washing over him that he has left unscathed and untouched for another time.

Even more nuanced than that, you see the vulnerability within Feyd-Rautha. He craves to be loved, the way he should have been as a child, when instead he was desired; all this at an age where the most he should have been doing was playing with carved wooden toys at his parent’s feet.

He believes no one can see the last, soft sliver of his heart that he’s fought to preserve, that wants nothing but to have someone to be vulnerable with, just because he’s buried it so deep inside of him that sometimes even he doesn’t think it’s there any more.

But you see it.

You see beneath it too, to a place that he himself is not fully aware of. A place where he hates who he has become - a wild, savage creature, bleeding from wounds that do not seem to close up, slipping in its own blood when no one can see.

It’s from here, from this place, that the urge to preserve you somehow originates. He thinks you are a flower whose petals will easily be crushed in his heavy, calloused hands, and he is wrong; in a strange way it endears him to you, that he believes that he is too rough to hold you. You do not think it is quite love - not yet, at least, it is only the third month of your marriage - but when you see him fighting to not be the beast that he is before you in an effort to spare you, something that is not just pity stirs in your heart.

You can hear him now, pacing, cursing under his breath in the antechambers. Sometimes he sleeps there, on the narrow sofa, and you’ve come to realise it is those nights when he wants you most. Aside from your wedding night, he has made no other attempts to produce an heir, and you find his restraint valiant, but stupid.

He could try as hard as he liked; he would not get anywhere close to breaking you.

Rising from your seat on the small, ornate stool at the vanity, you push open the door to the antechamber and take a step into the room. Feyd pauses his pacing with his back to you, and you can see the tension in his shoulders and the rigid way he holds his body before he turns around to face you. His pupils are dilated, his eyes dark, and you watch him regard you with something too untethered to be restraint.

"Am I keeping you awake, wife?"

You shake your head. "I had not retired yet."

You know he expects you to explain why you’ve interrupted him, but you remain quiet - your silence is as much of a tool as your words. He doesn’t speak either, but his eyes tell you enough; they do not leave your frame, hungry, torrid, and his fingers twitch as if they ache to slip you out of the simple shift you wear to sleep and touch you everywhere, to explore the curves and dips of your body.

Tilting your head, you smirk. "If you wish to give me your heirs, husband, I would advise another method that differs from staring one into me."

"You don’t know what I want," he growls, but his face tells other tales.

Stepping forward, you reach out to him but he backs away. Still, the sheer thirst in his eyes sears away at you, even as his actions fight against it, his fingers closing on the doorknob. His hands are steady, his shoulders too, but the tightness in his muscles betrays him as always. Usually, you’d let him go now, but tonight you wish to see how far he will let you push him before he pushes back, so you snare his forearm in your fingers, tugging at him as he turns the knob.

He doesn’t look at you. "Don’t test me."

You smile, cloyingly so. "Why not?"

Lightly, you trace your fingers down his chest, straightening the fabric of his black shirt while you gaze thoughtfully up at him through your lashes, lips curving upwards at the indecision in his eyes. He fights it, wrestles with the burning need, but in the end, he prevails, transforming it into a streak of anger that colours his voice as he tears himself from your grasp, recoiling as if your touch ignites pain within him - and maybe it is pain, that he wants you so but fears to indulge himself.

"Get away from me."

Feyd-Rautha does not give you a second to do so, because he is the one haring down the dimly lit corridor, his jaw tight, nails digging into his palms. Truthfully, you have never seen him move that fast, not even in the arena, and it almost makes you laugh - the great na-Baron fleeing from his wife and his own lecherous thoughts.

Maybe you did not win this round of tug of war, but he has asked something of you - to get away from him. Over the next few weeks, you follow this to the letter, avoiding him like the plague; you do not interrupt his pacing in the antechambers, nor do you haunt the bedroom like you normally do, asking him questions that he cannot answer. Feyd-Rautha is sensitive to change and you know he will seek the reason for it.

There is a barely cloaked intensity in his eyes when he finally corners you, and under it, you detect recognition: he sees that you are not who he thought you were, and he sees that you are not so different from him - always observing, always planning, and so, mind shatteringly hungry.

You were just dropping by the bed chambers to gather some of your clothes. The night before, you’d relocated yourself to one of the guest bedrooms - you could sense Feyd’s resolve cracking, and you knew that this would break it for certain: coming into his chambers to find them empty, wifeless, your side of the bed damningly cold. Jealousy is clear in his eyes as he backs you against the vanity, filling you with a rising sense of triumph.

"What has caused this change in your behaviour, wife?"

You raise a brow, faking confusion. "What change? I would argue it is your behaviour that has changed, Feyd, you who can barely stand to be in a room alone with me."

He snarls. "Who were you with last night?"

"I thought you wanted me to get away from you," you reply, keeping up your pretence a little longer. "I slept in the guest quarters. You do not reciprocate any of my advances."

"Advances?" He echoes, incredulous. "You taunt me, wife. It’s like you want me to break you."

Cocking your head, you regard him coolly for a moment, letting some of the sharpness of your unmasked gaze leak through, letting him see the calculation in your eyes - you see the wariness it incites in him as he realises again that you are not who he thinks you are. Wordless, you lean in close to him, bringing your face to his, hovering there.

And then you let your arm drop and make a swipe for the knife at his belt.

Fast as a viper, he catches your wrist in your fingers, but you smile, challenge in your eyes as you bring his second blade to his neck. You’d slipped it out while he was distracted with your other hand, and he blinks at the cold press of it to his skin.

"That’s the problem, isn’t it?" You murmur. "You’re not scared of me, you’re scared of breaking me. Who’s afraid of little old me, huh? No one is, Feyd."

"They should be," he whispers, and when you meet his gaze, it sets you alight.

"Indeed," you reply softly, letting your lower lip brush his.

As he kisses you, his hands seizing your face and locking you to him, you hook his knife’s blade in the collar of his shirt and drag it down, slicing the fabric until it flutters to the floor. Pulling away, you take him in - the moonlight planes of his sculpted chest, the broadness of his shoulders, his roiling, keen gaze. This man whets your appetite in the darkest kinds of ways: you cannot wait to ruin him.

Absently, you trace the outline of the tent in his pants with the tip of the knife blade. A breathy noise leaves him, and he freezes as if he can feel the cold kiss of the metal against his skin; you laugh, delighted that he is so mouldable in your hands.

"Get on your knees," you command, seating yourself on the end of the bed.

It’s captivating, his lack of hesitation as he follows your orders. He sits back on his heels, looking up at you, and you can tell that he’s letting you see him like this, you can tell that if he didn’t want you to have him like this, you wouldn’t, but still, you reach out, gently skimming his shoulder with your fingertips.

"All you have to do is say, and I will stop," you say.

He dips his chin. "I do not think I’ll have to."

You smirk, something savage and powerful and thrillingly depraved rearing its head inside you, awakened by the sight of the na-Baron kneeling at your feet. That will be his last coherent sentence tonight.

Pausing, making him wait, you lean down a little, inspecting his features, the ardour in his eyes. He looks at you as if you hold the universe in your hands, as if you hung the stars in his sky, as if you are a  goddess, and he wants nothing but to worship you until he is expended.

You spit on him.

It lands on his cheek, and his eyes widen a fraction. A shudder wracks his body, and he simply stares up at you, breathing heavy, before slowly, his lips part, and he sticks out his tongue, his request evident. You grab his jaw, squeezing so that he opens up wider, and spit in his mouth - the low groan that leaves him as he swallows is fucking delectable.

His cock twitches in his pants when you pick up the knife. Tracing the blade over the shell of his ear, over his cheekbone and over his lips, you marvel at the way he holds still, awaiting what you’ll inflict on him next like a good little toy.

When the metal reaches his jaw, you nick the skin, drinking up his sharp intake of breath and the clench of his fists as the blood trickles down the column of his throat; you catch the droplet of crimson on your tongue, licking a careful stripe up his neck, grinning when you catch his lips in a kiss and he trembles at the taste of his own blood. Feyd is greedy, his tongue brushing against yours as he leans up into your touch, the way his mouth works against yours hot, fervent, pleading.

Planting a palm to his sternum, you push him back, chuckling when he strains to follow you, eyes glazed, lips swollen. You spot a streak of red and swipe your thumb over his lower lip, wiping it off before standing.

"Get up, strip, and get on the bed," you bid him, pulling your own shift over your head.

Feyd scrambles to follow your orders, yanking his pants down, and you take your time to admire his muscle sheathed body; strength ripples beneath his skin, a sweet dichotomy to his weeping cock, rock hard and flushed rosy. He halts his movements, as if he’s pinned down by your appraising gaze.

"For whom do you wait, husband?"

As he turns to get onto the bed, he’s a little too slow and you swat at his ass. A choked sound leaves him, and you laugh at the way his knees almost buckle. Feyd’s ears run red when he lies down on the mattress, and you straddle his thighs, sneering at the way he twists his fingers in the sheets, squirming beneath you.

"Pathetic."

You don’t give him time to respond, instead wrapping your fingers around his cock and pumping up and down fast, and he gasps at your rough touch, his back arching and his hands coming up to touch you - you wave them off you, meeting his eyes.

"No touching," you intone, the hint of warning in your voice enough to render him obedient.

This time, you take his cock head in your mouth. He’s so fucking sensitive, reacting as if the sweep of your thumb down the underside of him and the slide of your tongue over him is mind shattering; it doesn’t take you long to get him teetering at the edge of his orgasm, just for you to pull away at the last moment.

His thigh jolts, weak pleas of your name leaving his lips, gripping the sheets so hard you wonder if they’ll rip. Again, you take him in your mouth, deeper, one hand dipping to play with his balls; you revel in the wretched sound that he makes when you hollow your cheeks around him, your teeth grazing up his length. You toy with him until you think he’s moments from breaking, until he’s writhing upon the sheets, face contorted in pleasure loaded with sweet, sweet agony.

"Please let me come," he whimpers, voice cracking, the look in his eyes crazed, pitiful. "Please."

You decide to give it to him, jerking him brutally fast until he comes; it hits him like a tidal wave - his eyes roll back in his skull, his body tensing, rigid and impossibly taut before he goes boneless, a broken cry of your name on his lips as he spills all over his stomach. A single, ecstatic tear slides down his cheek as his orgasm seizes him, snatching him up and shaking him like a ragdoll.

Lingering at his side, you wait until he’s come down from his high before getting up to retrieve a damp cloth from the bathroom, perching on the bed beside him and cleaning up his come, pressing kisses to the surprisingly soft skin of his hips. One wavering hand comes to rest in your hair, and you glance up at him, biting back a smug grin at the dazed look in his eyes.

"Feeling okay?"

He nods.

"Words," you chide.

"Y - yes, na-Baroness. Better than okay."

You raise a brow at that. You did not specify for him to call  you anything, so this is all his doing; he fidgets beneath your gaze, and you note that he’s growing hard again, his cock stiffening between his thighs.

"Can I…" He begins, but trails off, thinking better of it.

"No, little na-Baron," you reply coyly. "Tell me what you desire."

His eyes scorch you with their yearning. "I want to taste you, na-Baroness."

You smile. "As you wish."

You lean back against the pillows, letting your legs fall open for him. It’s somewhat comical, the way his eyes widen as he sees your slick cunt, and he swallows harshly - you can almost sense his mouth watering. Carefully, reverently, almost, he nudges your knees over his wide shoulders, bringing his face close to your pussy, admiring you. It’s as if he’s testing himself, waiting to see how long it takes for him to break and taste you.

Lurching forward, Feyd groans, low and deep and right against your clit when he laps at your heat, quickly becoming insatiable as his tongue moves masterfully at the apex of your legs, laving over your clit and curving in and out of you. Bolts of pleasure spear through your body, fierce like crackling lightning at the eye of a storm - he is everything to you in this moment. He shatters you, breaking you and mending you anew.

As he brings you closer, your body begins to shake and your legs close around his head; you suffocate him with your thighs, and you can tell he lives for it from the way he fervently grips your ass in his large hands, kneading the flesh and moaning into your pussy.

Something pulls tight within you, deliciously so, and you cry his name in warning, fingers curling around the base of his neck to hold him still as your hips buck, rutting into his face. Dimly, you can see him grinding into the mattress as you fuck yourself on his tongue - the chafe of his nose against your clit makes you shatter, and you fall apart for him with a ragged cry, nails digging into his shoulders.

You’re still coming down from it when Feyd begins to lap at you again, dutifully cleaning you up, and you twitch with the slight overstimulation, hooking a finger under his chin to see his eyes: his gaze is loaded with the heat of a thousand suns, and yet somehow it is also bleary, drunk. A laugh escapes you, and you tug at his hand, encouraging him to lie beside you.

"Good boy," you hum as he nuzzles into your touch. You can feel him achingly hard against your thigh, and you let yourself catch your breath before reaching down and wrapping your fingers around his cock. "Want to fuck me now, hm?"

He nods avidly. "Yes, na-Baroness."

All it takes is for you to half spread your legs before he’s climbing eagerly between them, hesitating before looking up at you for permission. You dip your chin, smirking, and then he’s sinking into you, burying himself inside you.

Voice cracking, Feyd chokes out your name, and he shudders, gasping at the velvet vice of your cunt as it clenches, bearing down on him. Sharply, you rock your hips up to meet his, and this time, a soft, keening whine leaves him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, biting down hard on his lower lip.

He can barely keep himself from spilling inside you.

"You can barely hold it, can’t you, my little na-Baron?"

His words come out jumbled, his speech scrambled, mind ground to a standstill by the all consuming heat of your cunt; he babbles out protests, saying that he can, desperate to prove he can, stammering that he wants to make you feel good.

Cruelly, you buck your hips up against his again, and a pained sound looses from his chest, but he thrusts to meet you, hips lurching forward, his arms almost buckling either side of your head. Panting, he pulls out slowly before slamming back in, unable to stifle the whimper that tears from the back of his throat when you rake your nails down his shoulder blades, claiming him, littering his shoulders and neck with bites.

"That’s it," you sigh as he finds his pace. "Just like that, good boy."

A strangled noise tears itself from him at your praise, and he fucks into you, frantic, almost feral. Eventually, his thrusts begin to turn sloppy, and you kiss him in order to steal his breath and taste his fervid moans of your name on your tongue as he comes deep inside you.

Pressing a palm to his lower back, you pin him there, buried snugly within your pussy as you reach down with your other hand and rub your clit hard - it takes but a moment for you to come, and he writhes at the cataclysmic feel of your walls fluttering around him, overstimulating him, his mouth falling open in a silent cry as he comes again with your cunt milking his cock.

Completely spent, Feyd goes limp, and you rub your hand over his back, smoothing circles on his skin with your lips to his forehead. The post orgasm clarity begins to hit him, and you feel him go rigid - slowly, he pulls out, his seed leaking out now that he’s not filling you, and he attempts to get up, but his legs are too weak and he collapses beside you instead, his chest heaving, his eyes still a little hazy, still fucked out, even as he fights for lucidity.

There’s something on his face that cuts at your heart - a look of expectancy, as if he’s waiting for you to get up and leave now that you’ve had your fill of him. Concerned, you reach out, and he leans away from your touch.

"Feyd," you murmur. "It was not too much, was it?"

"N - no," he replies. "I just…"

Sitting up slowly, you look him right in the eyes. He stares back, bewildered, but you press a finger to his lips, foregoing your own fumbling words to instead recite the pledge of allegiance of a Harkonnen soldier to their general; his eyes widen - you know you have hit home. You’d exchanged wedding vows, of course, but these have a different meaning: you see it in the respectful way it is uttered, a soldier acknowledging his superior’s presence.

You pledge to him not only your heart, but your sword - your service - too.

"Wife," Feyd bites out. "Surely you do not mean - "

"I mean it," you cut in. "Every word."

Again, you reach for him, and this time he does not flinch away, letting you tuck him close to you, his breath coming out shaky. Gently, you tip up his chin, planting a chaste kiss on his parted lips, and he returns it slowly, wondrously, no teeth or tongue, just the gentle brush of his mouth against yours: the innocence of it is bittersweet - has anyone ever kissed him this tenderly?

Carefully, you withdraw, wanting to see him, but he does not let you meet his eyes, instead hiding his face in your neck, his lips at the hollow of your throat. You grant him the privacy of not being seen when you feel wetness on your skin, his hot tears tracking down and pooling in your collarbone - his hands ball at his sides, and you pry open his fingers and lace yours with his, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Tightly, you wrap your arms around him, holding him with a hand cupping the back of his head, cradling him to your chest.

Your voice is quiet in the still air, but it carries as if through an arena, a promise arcing through the air like a soaring arrow.

"You no longer walk this world alone, Feyd-Rautha."

best believe when i started writing this i did not anticipate the 2x 'good boy's 🧍

dune taglist: @callumsgirl @oh-you-mean-me @insufferablyunbearable

[lubrumalis]

ghost headcanons! (realistic)

tw: nsfw, spoilers, dead dove do not eat

a lot of these are based off of my personal understanding of him

part 2 —> character analysis of ghost

general:

didn’t go back to manchester after his family died, too many foul memories—a lot of friends will probably know him as a murderer (comic reference, ghost was accused of killing his family in the newspaper)

has a fit body. a lot of people like to hc him as big and bulky, i think otherwise! its actually a huge disadvantage to be bulky in size as a soldier (logistics while fighting yk). most SAS soldiers are trained for endurance and fitness, i think he has a moreso lean body

hes not cold and ruthless, wouldn’t say hes a big softie either.

VERYYYY punctual. always on time

will not abuse or rape anyone. this guys been through atrocities, he would never do it to someone else

won’t hire a prostitute, ever.

honestly, hes just another dude in the military. he loves dad jokes and bourbon😭

ghost doesn’t think hes mean or tries to be, he simply is intimidating because of his size and way of talking

he likes watching soccer in his free time

gets internally offended if someone thinks hes from london (anywhere but Manchester)

very dark humoured. tell him any dark joke and he wouldn’t care

loves tea

listens to older british bands, like the smiths

cannot understand modern slang at all. what does ‘iykyk’ and ‘rizzler’ mean???

texts like a typical millennial. uses ‘😂’ and ‘😜’ unironically. types with proper grammar and spelling with punctuation too, maybe an occasional LOL

also unironically likes posts about trust issues and being a sigma male. he doesn’t actually think hes one, he just relates to those quotes that are like: “being alone is better than with fakes” 😭😭😭😭

ghost probably hates other men more than misandrists 😕 i think its bc hes always fighting other men and dealing with the cruel things theyve done, so ghost subconsciously feels more on guard with men he doesnt know

has insomnia

doesn’t cry. ghost doesn’t remember the last time he cried.

isn’t rich rich, but has a ton of savings. he doesn’t have a family or spend a lot. so the money piles up.

relationship hcs:

first off, i dont think he’d realistically get into one anyway LMAO

s/o would have to the chasing, i dont think ghost is the kind to actively pursue someone

he has charisma, doesn’t feel like using it

hes very against the idea at first—his family got murdered because he was in the military, you think hes gonna let it happen again?

probably will not like someone working with him as a soldier

i think itd go two ways: a) you are a civilian who aggressively pursues the poor guy and he gives in, b) you work as a military nurse and gradually get to know him, c) you are a longtime close friend of his before he was in the military

i cant see him being fwb with anyone, only one night stands

hes not a toxic partner or super lovey dovey

ghost doesn’t entertain multiple women at once

itd most likely end up in a breakup where he fears for your safety:(((

BUT lets ignore that

tbh, i think he would probably be with someone very empathetic and kind to others. he doesn’t like people overly energetic, too soft, or someone that annoys him

persons gotta be independent and good with long distance

simon doesn’t care about age gaps, but probably wants someone at least in their late twenties

had a hard time opening up, eventually told you everything once he trusts you

another reason why i think he wants someone empathetic is because he has severe trust issues😃😃

last thing he’d care about is looks for long term relationships

the type of guy to disappear for 6 months and reappear to be like “remember im your husband???”🫡

doesn’t let you tell your friends about him—No hes not being uncommitted or toxic, but hes simply being cautious after what happened to his family

you can’t show anyone photos of him, his name, his occupation, NOTHHINGGG

so you fake a name for your bf who your friends think you’re lying about

definitely does not let you post on social media about him either.

installs security in your home, teaches you self defense, and gives you weapons. this guy can be paranoid

will never hit you or lay a hand on you

ghost genuinely thinks you saved him—his life was bleak and empty before you came in. subconsciously thinks of you as a savior

he buys you gifts, does chores for you, he really likes you :(

ghost actively tries to make his voice sound softer and friendlier when hes talking to you

doesnt understand playing mind games, things like the silent treatment or “im ok” when ur not ok thing. just tell him how you feel

doesn’t tell his team about your existence. you and his job are always going to be separate.

avoids talking about what he does in the military. ghost has killed and injured many and he doesn’t want you to see that side of him.

scary dog privileges for SURE

[hoover1st]

A Likely Pair

Summary: Astarion has been desperately attempting to earn your affection. At the tiefling party, he uses your drunken inhibitions to his advantage. Not knowing you have your own share of trauma, his evening is derailed, likely for the better… Gender Neutral!Reader/Astarion Tags: Implied SA, Angst and Fluff, No Pronouns, Sexual implications but nothing happens, reader has sexual trauma, follows events of Act 1 Astarion Romance. Word Count: 2k AO3 | Masterlist

*A/N: This is extremely self-indulgent. Inspired by a beautiful fic from @tavs-tressym. I didn’t want to make this an OC, because I want my writing to be as accessible as possible, but it’s glaringly obvious that this is written from my own experiences… Again, TW for SA*

Your world has been turned upside down since the day that damned illithid parasite wormed its way into you, but more so since meeting the colorful band of companions who’ve chosen to join you.

Some will still deny it, but you’re magnetic. You don’t complain or nag, rather just handle situations without missing a beat, and your relentless optimism isn’t as suffocating as one might think.

You hate the term leader. You’re not above any of your companions, you just happen to do the talking and the problem-solving. 

The independence that was so valuable throughout your life is hard to unlearn, relying on your companions is still something you’re grappling with. But above all else, the quality that comes to mind when thinking of you is that damned charm. 

You were always teetering on the edge of plausible deniability. Your companions have started to expect it from you, most believing it’s just your personality. You’re attractive, decently kind, and effortlessly funny. 

Mix those qualities, and you get someone whose banter and compliments confound most. You can’t help it, it’s just who you are. It doesn’t help that you genuinely find each of your companions endearing.

There are these moments when you’re spending time with one of them, and they attempt to reciprocate. That’s where the delicate dance begins. Once it clicks in your head that they’re flirting or making implications, you’re gone. Leaving them in their bemusement.

There’s one companion who’s especially engaging. The banter is never dull, because he too has learned this dance. It’s not hard to admit Astarion is indisputably gorgeous. Your personalities are two sides of the same coin. The mischief is like a song, the harmonies balanced.

It’s plain to see that Astarion is pursuing you with the most vigor. You act coy, but you secretly enjoy it, even if it frustrates him to no end. He should have been able to seduce you by now. Knowing that if he could be the one to have you, he’d be protected.

Every time he thinks he’s got you, and his words are more than innuendo, you’ve cleverly removed yourself from the equation. You’re not sure why you do it. Astarion is attractive, and the flutter in your stomach can’t always be blamed on shitty cooking.

There’s something in you that stops anyone from getting too close, at least in that way. You don���t know why? You’ve healed, right? It’s been years since it happened. The touch of others doesn’t make your skin crawl like it used to.

Mother always said it’s natural to touch and kiss others. So why is it that every time they get close, you pull away?

Tonight, the people you so 'selflessly' saved in the Emerald Grove have insisted on throwing a party. Your flirtatious nature is only amplified by the increasing amount of alcohol in your system. You might have even met your match with the Arch-Druid Halsin, but no one is trying as hard as Astarion, and with your inhibitions lowered, you’re starting to consider his proposal.

Swiftly shooting down every other offer is second nature, but for whatever reason, you leave Astarion’s up in the air.

The party stretches on, and you’re not ready to turn in yet, a force compels you back to the rogue’s tent. A drink in hand, you drunkenly saunter back to Astarion, your body leading you like a moth to flames.

Astarion sees you cross back over to him, his gaze unabashed as his eyes rake over your form. This was it, he was finally going to seduce you. As a drunken grin stretches across your face, he feigns a pout, his voice a purr,

“I’m glad you’re back darling. I started to consider you’d found company elsewhere”

You grin and shake your head teasingly, “Most of the ‘company’ has turned in. If there’s someone I know to stay up late, it’s you Astarion dearest”

The wolfish grin you know all too well returns to his face, and he leans in closer, “Well darling if staying up is what you desire, my offer still stands~”

Normally this would be when you’d conveniently snake your way out of the conversation, but the alcohol, and the way he looks in this dim lighting, have you considering it.

Of course, Astarion notices this immediately, and his grin only widens. He knew alcohol would be the key to finally having you. Without letting you respond, he’s moving closer, his voice lowering,

“I’m gonna take that as a yes. Finish that drink of yours and meet me in the clearing near the stream, I’ll be waiting darling.“

With that, he’s gone, slipping away to not give you the chance to say no. Your mind is reeling, did you just agree to do this? Now you feel obligated to go, what if he’s there waiting all night for you? 

Finishing your drink, you go back to your tent to check yourself, suddenly feeling a bit nervous.

As you walk out to the clearing, you look good. A drunken saunter looks sexy on everyone, right? But it’s not your looks you’re concerned with. 

You can do this. It’s no big deal, right? Maybe he doesn’t even actually want sex? But even so, it’s fine. Sex is normal. People do it all the time. Why can’t you?

As you walk into the clearing, he’s posed against a tree, and saunters from his spot. It’s almost comical to you. There’s something so practiced about his movements, the way he’s already lost his shirt.

His body is gorgeous, he’s placed himself so the moonlight casts shadows on the lines of his body, illuminating his pale skin. You wouldn’t be surprised if he scouted and planned this days ago.

Even his voice is perfectly practiced as he purrs, “There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.”

You keep up your playfulness, despite your racing mind, “Poor thing, I was worried you’d be out here all night.”

Astarion cocks a brow and hums, “Oh? Don’t tell me you’ve been reconsidering? it’s so obvious you want this, you mustn’t deny it any longer darling.”

You narrow your eyes teasingly, “And what’s that Astarion? What is it you think I want?”

His predatory expression grows more intense, but inside, he’s growing impatient. Why are you so difficult? “Darling, I think it’s pleasure you want. To lose yourself in me”

You grin, finding comfort in the stalling, “Astarion dearest, I quite like myself. But what is it you want?”

Your question takes him off guard. You see his eyes flicker as if you’d struck some nerve. It takes him a beat to get back on track, and as quick as it was there, it’s gone. The suave charm back,

“What do any of us want, darling? A pleasurable distraction. To find solace in each other.”

His words combined with your intoxication have you nodding, but you’ve lost the playfulness. “If that’s what you want, I’m inclined to agree”

Astarion notices your shift, but he’s too focused on going through his motions, doing what he knows, what he can control. Astarion won’t admit it, but he likes you. Yet, at the end of the day, his focus is on his survival.

At your agreement, he’s moving in. Not wanting to squander the opportunity. Knowing if he doesn’t seize it now; you might pull away, like you always do.

Astarion breaks through your drunken haze, his touch light and experimental, feeling your body before he closes the distance between you. You start to like it. Your senses zoned in on his touch, enjoying the feeling of his caresses. He moves a hand up to cup your cheek and kisses you.

At first, the kiss was nice. It feels good to kiss him, maybe it just took having a handsome stranger like Astarion to cure you?

The kiss becomes more heated, and you start to melt into him. His hands wander, and he kisses you hungrily, but something feels off.

It starts to become all too much to handle. You’re attracted to Astarion, a lot, but when the kiss grows deeper, your face scrunches up into a whine. Astarion likes you, but this is a job to him, something he deems necessary for you to like him. He’s already on autopilot, his brain registering your whine as one of pleasure.

Your fists clench and you start to shy away from him. Something is wrong. This doesn’t feel right, your issues, mixing with your intuition tell you that neither of you is entirely present. You bring your hands up to his chest and apply pressure, after a moment you gently push him away from you.

Your face is scrunched up as your chest heaves, except it’s not from pleasure. Astarion’s eyes widen as he looks at you, taken completely off guard, nothing like this has ever happened to him.

After a moment of staring at you in confusion, he speaks up, his voice betraying his offense, “What’s wrong?!”

You’re curling into yourself, feeling embarrassed. You shake your head and avert your gaze from him, “I’m sorry, I just, I…” you trail off looking for the words, Astarion cuts you off with a huff, 

“What in the bloody hell is your problem?”

Astarion’s mind is racing, has he lost the one thing he was good at? His only valuable asset?

You don’t respond, you can’t stop it, you’re caving into yourself. You try to take deep breaths, your arms wrapped around yourself. Astarion has never seen you behave like this, you’re always the strong, confident one.

Astarion stares as you curl into yourself, watching you walk to the stream nearby, sitting on the bank.

Astarion doesn’t know what to do, he can't remember the last time he cared to comfort another. Why should he? Not like anyone would give a shit if he broke down. He doesn’t even know what to do but his feet are moving, and he gently sits down next to you on the bank, staring into the moving water.

After a long moment, you speak up, eyes never moving from the stream, “I’m sorry Astarion, I hope I didn’t disappoint you”

Whatever Astarion was expecting, it couldn’t have prepared him for the way your words tore through him, he gaped at you his voice unsure, “What do you mean?”

You tear your eyes from the stream, meeting his gaze. Your expression is pained, your voice quiet, “I know you’ve been wanting this Astarion, and I thought I could do it, but it all felt so wrong.”

Astarion’s expression is unusually unguarded. It's as if he’s so perplexed, that he can’t think to put on his usual charming smirk. He stares at you, brows furrowing. Before he can stop himself, his voice uncharacteristically insecure, he’s asking “Did I do something wrong?”

You’re immediately shaking your head, trying to reassure him, “No, no Astarion it’s not you. I just, struggle with things like this”

You both break eye contact, going back to stare into the stream. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. After a while, you’ve calmed down and sobered up, you turn to Astarion with a soft smile, “You could put your shirt on if you’d like, you look a little chilly”

Astarion grins up at you, glad that your teasing is back. He rolls his eyes, “Darling, I’m a vampire, I don’t get ‘chilly’. Plus, it wouldn’t be fair to those beautiful eyes of yours to cover all of this” he gestures down to his bare abdomen.

You laugh and shake your head, “I never said I didn’t appreciate the view Astarion dearest, just trying to be considerate”

As the two of you sit on the bank of the stream, things have finally returned to some semblance of normal. It’s nice. Neither of you talks about your past, or what just happened, but there’s this feeling between the two of you, one of understanding. 

Tonight didn’t turn out the way either of you expected, but sometimes things happen this way for a reason. Maybe the two of you had more in common than you could ever imagine?

*Again, sorry that this was so self-indulgent, thank you for reading!!*

[dolliestfairy]

Yandere SCP with a chubby!fem!reader who is a Fairy Entity.

✧ A/N : its been a while since i dont write because i've been quite the busy here. but now i decided too and recently i've been very interested in scp lore and stories also with the monsters in it and decided to write it on my own within my own style. and + also this was a yandere :). what do you think? if you liked this please gave it a reblog and likes! i will very appreciate it ♡.

✧ Tw : Kidnapping, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Sadism, Carnage/Slaughtering, Blood, Unhealthy Behavior, Unhealthy mindset, Kind of Enemies to Lovers with Scp 682, Worship in 079 and SA in 682 (not from him, but from another person.) lmk if i miss anything. Chubby Reader Fics With No skintone of reader mentioned.

𑁍 Scp 049

• ugh.. where should i start with this guy? ah.. yes.. he's such a gentleman isnt he?

• first time he realize your appereance he thinks of you as such a delicate creature. he never sees you face to face, he just realize some very Soft and Pleaseable Appereance that was catching him off guard.

• that until he really met you face to face, and if only he wasnt such a cold gentleman he would praise you to death. i mean.. how could he not? you're just soo beautiful. its hard to believe that the facility who basically took you from where you were belong to think that you were some kind of monster when you're literally far from it.

• after he met you he think that he was just simply fascinated by your beauty-appereance, that until he is aware that he doesnt want you to be locked too far from where he was stayed at.

• what he wants is that your cell is to be placed right besides him. not far from him. now this guy is an aware yandere, and not to mention he's a very intelligent one too, he'll be pretty quick to know that his respond towards you snd the facility are far from being called normal because h literally just out burst at one of the scp staff for wanting to take you away from him.

• and the staff was not stupid either, espesially the scientist. they pretty much off guard and very heavily-aware of his action towards them and espesially you. so they start to put you into a different room, besides his cell with a mirror placed into each others wall.

• while the scientist observe from the Cctv, they see that you and 049, both was actually getting along each other.

• this is something the scientist does not really excepting, because well after all they always knew 049 as a very cold yet a gentleman anomaly to ever known in the facility. it was absolutely fascinating to see you - who is more friendly and well not so quiet as him can get pretty much along.

• this makes them hold you within 049 much longer than they actually plan.

• and of course, this all also come to 049 happiness as he obviously can see you much longer even in a different sell, he would love to meet you, see you, and talk to you everyday.

• theres no one, not even another scp or scp staff or even those great scientist could take you away from him, not even death. he swore to hold you within him just so you can be there, for him and him only.

𑁍 Scp 035

• now what i notice about this creature right here is that he actually quite the flirty one, and lets be honest - he also has some major anger issues holding him up, also a bit of sadism.

• first he sees you from his cell he just knew that you are the one. and let me tell you, besides from all his flirty personality, anger issues, and those sadism, he definetly also has some serious, Serious possessiveness.

• really become an aggresive hostile once he sees you getting interviewed by a male staff, making him growl from his cell, and of course - this lead to the other staffs attention.

• when they ask him about why was he being so hostile towards the male staff he said that "they do not deserve her. only i deserve her." and when the staff ask him "who do you mean by saying 'her'?" only to find out that "her" was you.

• and after that the staff check on you both, interviewing on you both and this time they ask a female staff to interview you, and 035 is much more calmer than before.

• this will all be kicked out of the window when the staff wanting to place you to an Abroad facility. of course this will make 035 sees red. and what can only be describe after this was a carnage.

• and at the end -- he escaped. with the willing to free you from those fuckers who tried to take away the love of his life (or so he tought) from him. he can and would spill many blood as it need if it can help him getting you again. and he wont stop, no matter how much host it will need and change, his goal is just one; getting you back again.

𑁍 Scp 079

• the first he sees you he really just over the heels for you. no - i am not joking, this dude here is drooling, even if he cant he can feel so while seeing you.

• absolutely admire everything you had. the way you talked, smiled, and walk is just different.

• absolutely reject the calls scp staff throw at you as a "monster" no matter how much they tried, they couldnt convience 079 that you were indeed a monster.

• really love the shape of your body, that was another thing of why he would take an extra glance at your plump body once he realize your appereance.

• is absolutely dying to have you for himself but how can he? he just there and can only watch you when you walked pass his cell.

• and another one is that he absolutely dreaming about you. wether its a cute one, a bad one, or even a naughty one, he does not care. once he start dreaming about you i recommend anyone to dont ever dare to try to take him away from his daydreaming moment or whoever that person is will have to encounter the out burst of 079.

• and after he's done? nothing would changed.. and at the end, he wouldnt be another different thing more than some unsual computer entity dude who is obsessed over some fairy.

𑁍 Scp 682

• really cocky about you lmao, and very sassy too.

• at first he actually (kinda) hate/dislike you because your overall personality and looks are definetly and obviously a literal opposite from him.

• everytime anyone sees you besides him they already can see the different. surely we dont have to waste our fingers to write what are your difference than him other than the fact that you both were a living things. but it was just sooo noticable like.. ugh.

• this enemies feeling will turn into lover as soon as some Bastardize staff start to treat you in a very unappropriate tone.

• and this time he just felt like he had to protect you somehow. protect you from getting experimented and other bad things.

• even if he's actually really feeling that way, still -- he is a big Tsundere weird lizard so he would rather simply just bury himself alive than admitting it openly.

• but asides from all of that, he actually really aware about his feelings. about the fact that he actually has some feelings for you. and he doesnt even sure of how to say it to you because he just think of it as a very big embarassement.

• this is just a matter of time before he finally decided to tell you about this feeling. the bad news is that, the same day he convience to you, is the same day that he would take you with him for eternity.

• and not even death can separate you from him ever.

[somereaderinblue]

Okay so maybe this is a little weird but when Telemachus gets older does he start to pick up on how messed up the situation his father is stuck in obviously being a child somethings go over his head but he's not completely oblivious to what is happening

If I took a shot everytime older!Telemachus looks back on certain childhood memories only to crash out as the full extent of the horrors hit him, my liver would be done for. It's mortifying being the one who remembers & if there's one memory that haunts Telemachus, it's this.

CW/TW: SA & non-con

Telemachus winced as Zeus Chrysaor's lightning crackled across the sky, accompanied by the roar of thunder. The weather has been horrible for three days straight, so bad that a truce had been struck so both sides could focus on surviving nature's forces instead of spears and arrows. Hestia Polýolvos received many prayers and libations as hearths were perpetually stoked. Charis had made sure to tuck Telemachus in a thicker blanket tonight.

Yet, the blanket could not ward off the slither of fear worming its way into Telemachus' stomach, tying itself into knots to further torment him.

'I'm a brave little wolf.' like his atta would call him, like the heroes from epic tales and songs.

'A brave little wolf.' He hugged Argos closer, hoping they could be brave little wolves together.

Another roar threatened to shake the aegean. He peeked out of the blanket and his eyes widened as for a fraction of a second, the lightning struck, spawning terrifying shadows throughout his room. Telemachus could still see them even after darkness reclaimed the entirety of this space. He wonders if they saw him too, wonders if they wanted him to see them.

.

.

.

Him and Argos can be brave little wolves with atta.

"Full speed ahead, Argos." Telemachus whispered to his companion before nudging the door open.

Sneaking to the room atta shared with Pari was a familiar game and Telemachus was a very good player. In no time, he reached his destination but much to his confusion, the doors weren't closed properly. Odd, they were always shut.

Moving closer, Telemachus peeked through the gap and-

(Pandora opened the box. Out came misery, out came sadness, out came suffering, out came all the terrible evils of the world.)

There was no lightning to paint the room in vivid detail this time, only the glow of candlelight. It softened the edges to an almost dreamlike quality. Telemachus felt like he was underwater, except this time, he didn't feel safe or calm at all.

Atta was standing in the room. Naked. The beautiful silks sliding down his calves to pool around his ankles. The pearls around his neck and shoulders look heavy. Telemachus wishes he took those off instead of his clothes. Why isn't he wearing his clothes? It's not bath time right now. It's so cold, his atta should be wrapped in a blanket, like him. Isn't he cold?

Pari is lounging on a kline, fully clothed, nursing a chalice of wine between his ringed fingers. There's a bowl of pomegranates beside him, the spilled seeds remind Telemachus of scraped knees. He's smiling as if he's watching something nice, like a dance. Or maybe it's his atta. Pari always finds him very nice and very pretty, he loves him after all.

Atta loves Telemachus too.

But Atta's love doesn't make Telemachus feel like this. Like he's-

Like he's doing something he shouldn't, like he shouldn't here, like this is wrong, like he wants this to not happen and never exist-

Goosebumps prickle across Telemachus' skin. He's cold. He's so, so cold. So cold it burns, so cold he wants to throw himself into fire to get rid of it.

Gripping Argos tight, he hurries back to his room, no longer a wolf stalking through the night but a scared little boy running from something he just knew to be wrong. He slips into his room and wraps the blanket around himself as tight as possible, trying to smother the goosebumps.

'I'm sorry.' he doesn't know who he's apologizing to or what he's apologizing for. But he says it again. 'I'm sorry.'

Outside, the storm rages on. Inside, the shadows appear time and again, always there, always watching Telemachus. Telemachus stares back.

He's not afraid of them anymore.

They weren't half as scary as what he just saw.

He doesn't know why that scared him. There had been no one else in that room, no monsters or animals or intruders. Just his atta and Pari, who've been together since he was born. Why did that scare him?

He didn't know why. Not knowing was the scariest part of all.

.

.

.

The next morning, atta hugged Telemachus and he hugged him back, relieved that his body was clothed and warm. They ate breakfast and Pari smiled at Telemachus, offering him a pomegranate.

Telemachus flinched. No, he said. I never want to see that fruit ever again, he thought.

Telemachus pressed his face into atta's clothed chest and prayed that his heart would never know what Telemachus saw last night.

[koiiiji]

fantasy AU series! lookism & windbreaker boys

tw ; supernatural, suggestive, kinda obsessive/yan(?), ooc! everybody

starring ; seongeun, taejin, vinny

author’s note ; okay it seemed that u kinda liked fantasy au, so here u go, with part two!!! i have more ideas so, let me know if u up to read more fantasy au! ps Joker will be in next part bc i was too tired to finish him lol

author's note 2 ; yes, i like obsessed men! like bruh if he is not possessively obsessed what he even doing?? (this all just joke, i don't support such actions irl)

Seo Seongeun

Dragon

the ground underneath him was burnt and black when you found him. the coal-black bones scattered around on the ground should have warned you against approaching him, but huge, black dragon before you was wounded. mighty wings muscles were bleeding, body was full of scratches, arrow and spears sticks out of his shoulder and back.

as a forest nymph, you have not met any other magical creatures except those that lived in the forests. usually your company was made up of your sisters - the same nymphs as you (except that some of them was the same forest nymphs, some was a water nymphs, some of your sisters liked the light of the moon and stars more than the warm rays of the sun). therefore, when you quietly slipped out of the bushes, intending to feed an unexpected guest, your sisters whispered in horror, asking you to go back, fearing what this stranger might do.

of course, you wouldn't have climbed up to him while he was conscious, so after making sure he was asleep, you quietly crept up to him. you had only a couple of steps left, and you could have touched him, when suddenly his golden eyes flew open, and with a loud roar he rushed at you. luckily for you, he didn't make more than one sharp lunge, howling in pain and leaning back again, breathing heavily and hissing. scared to death, your little flock disappeared into the forests, not wanting to stay there any longer. what your sisters didn't notice is that you did leave a small gift for the beast. that night, you made your way back to the burned-to-the-ground clearing, hoping to see the mighty dragon again, but found only a boy who didn't look much older than you. two horns protruded from a shock of black hair, and a clawed paw covered with scales up to the elbows held onto his shoulder, trying to stop the blood. the scaly tail darted irritably across the ground, while the night-black wings were folded behind its back. they didn't seem to have changed in size compared to his dragon form, and were just as huge, quietly able to shelter an adult. the skin that was not covered with scales was completely clogged with tattoos - intricate patterns, drawings and inscriptions decorated the abdomen, chest, legs, forearms and even the neck.

enchanted, you leaned forward, carelessly stepping on a dry twig, giving away your hiding place. golden eyes met exactly with your gaze, and with a squeak you had to quickly disappear into the forest. Samuel, on the other hand just hummed and turned back to his wounds, when he noticed that an apple, a small handful of wild berries and nuts had been left at a distance from him.

after a week of such small gifts, and on the tenth attempt, after he almost bit off your hands, Samuel gave up and let you wash his wounds while your sisters sat in the bushes and giggled quietly watching him hiss in pain, but tries to hide it when you touch his wounds. for the first 10 minutes he condescendingly endured the giggles, but by standing up and growling in their direction in warning, he scared away the annoying nymphs and lay back down, holding out his black leathery wing in front of you. looking at you expectantly with his golden eyes, he hissed, “what are you staring at? do what you came here for,” - he said, falling back onto his stomach. receiving a well-deserved light slap on the head with a wet rag. you both simply giggled and you continued to clean his wounds.

after a while, when his wounds began to heal, Samuel began to follow you through the forest. at first it was just short walks, just to show him around, places where he could find food, water and healthy herbs. not that he was interested - he was a dragon after all, and berries, nuts and herbs were of little interest to him. what really brought him pleasure was your wide, crystal clear eyes. you didn’t see him as a half-blooded dragon and he generally doubted that you understood his true position, but how easily you trusted him, how easily you put your back in front of him was naively sweet of you. your walks dragged on until Samuel found out where you lived, and each time he walked you straight to the door, without accepting any objections. “you know that here nothing poses a danger to me? this forest is the home for nymphs, and you are our big, toothy guest,” - chuckling, you playfully pushed him in the shoulder with your fist, making your way forward, gliding between the mighty tree trunks.

one night, as the forest was bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, you and your sisters had long retreated to their homes, and the nocturnal creatures were beginning their nightly symphony, a beautiful, peaceful night, that doesn’t portend anything bad. although, a suspicious pair of golden eyes watched your home from a distance.

quiet as a shadow, Samuel approached your home. silently, he slipped through the window, carefully folding his wings behind his back, not to make too much noise. he found you asleep in bed, your delicate body curled up under a thin blanket. for a moment, he just looked at you, admiring, when the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, flooding your room with a beautiful cold light, it seemed that his heart skipped a beat. soundlessly, he slid onto the bed next to you. a hot scaly arm wrapped around your waist, a tail slipped between your legs, pulling you closer. groaning, you woke up almost immediately, the unfamiliar heat, on usually cool forest nights, felt strange. turning, you found Samuel, his golden eyes glowing ominously in the darkness. more dragon features were visible now—his scales glimmering faintly, his horns more pronounced, his presence more intimidating. before you could speak, he tightened his grip, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "don't move." your heart raced with fear and confusion. you had only wanted to help him, to heal his wounds, but now you found yourself trapped by his dragon nature. “Samuel, what are you doing? you can’t be here” - you protested, your voice trembling. “silent,” - he growled, a dangerous glint in his eyes. his clawed fingers traced possessive patterns on your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Samuel, please,” - you whispered, your voice trembling with fear. “this isn’t right. i only wanted to help you.” he hissed on you once again, his eyes glowing brighter.

and before that night turned into a waking nightmare, you realized that the dragon's essence was terribly greedy and possessive. whatever they consider theirs, they will appropriate for themselves. and you were not lucky enough to meet someone like Samuel, someone who had trust issues, but oh, how sweetly you fussed over his wounds, how naively you trusted a stranger, showed him the surroundings and the places where you live… you brought this on yourself - later he will hiss quietly in your ear, running his tongue along your neck and biting your earlobe.

Cheon Tejin

Dragon

dragons wasn’t something unfamiliar in your world, but among heavenly places that was blessed with mother nature, where your elven people lived it was unprecedented. beautiful gardens, water meadows with a variety of flowers, the purest streams, ponds and rivers, white stone palaces, mighty forests with fir trees, it seem to reach the purest blue sky - all this was desecrated when the barbarians from the south appeared in that one night. everything that was dear to you was burned down to the ground. turned to ashes and smoke.

the serene elven kingdom, once a haven of peace and beauty, was now a landscape of chaos and destruction. the night sky, usually adorned with twinkling stars and the gentle glow of the moon, was now lit by the sinister, fiery glow of flames consuming the elegant wooden structures and ancient trees. melodic chimes of the elven bells, which once signaled celebrations and peaceful gatherings, now rang with a desperate urgency, an alarm echoing through the kingdom to warn of the impending doom. the air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke, and the heat of the flames was intense, licking at the buildings with a voracious appetite. dragons with their massive wingspans and scales glistening in the firelight, soared overhead, their roars reverberating through the air, adding to the cacophony of terror. they swooped down with terrifying precision, their fiery breath reducing everything in their path to ash.

watching this hell unfold from your tower, your heart was torn with helplessness. screams of your people seemed to rend your soul, each cry of agony and terror slicing through you. the cacophony of destruction and death was overwhelming, distracting you from the noise approaching your door. you were snapped out of your trance by the sounds of persistent knocks, growing louder and more frantic, threatening to tear the door off its hinges. without thinking twice, you rushed to the sheath, your long, flowing robes trailing behind you, as you unsheathed your blade - a beautiful, delicate piece of elven craftsmanship, a gift from your father. the elegant weapon, etched with intricate designs and gleaming in the firelight, was a symbol of your heritage and strength. you had taken fencing lessons from the head of the royal guard, never imagining that one day you would need this knowledge in a real battle. as the door shuddered under the relentless pounding, you steeled yourself, gripping the hilt of your sword tightly. the door burst open with a deafening crash, and in its place stood a man.

there were particles of something dragon in him, the scales still glittered here and there, the vertical pupil in his eyes narrowed dangerously at the sight of the weapon in your hands. he wast armed, only some kind of wooden stick in his clawed hand was looking threateningly in your direction, but he hesitated. the tattooed tear under his eye narrowed as he examined you searchingly, walking deeper into your room, causing you to retreat. his toned, dark abs were spattered with blood, and his entire posture screamed that your sword posed no danger to him, as he lazily looked around the chambers. and you decided that this was your chance. a fatal mistake to think that the enemy has lost his vigilance. rushing forward, you were about to strike, when he himself put his hand under the sword and… it didn’t even cut him. the man grabbed the blade, looking at you boredly. yanking the sword, you tried to pull it out, but the guy was stronger. a new wave of fear, resentment and hopelessness rolled up to your throat and eyes when you let go of the sword and started to run, when strong hands pulled you back, pressing you to a hot body, and delivering a stunning blow to your head.

you woke up in a different place, something vaguely reminiscent of the throne room when it was a beautiful place filled with freshness and flowers. now, the ceilings of this place were melted, revealing a sky full of black smoke clouds and blood-red shadows from fires. chaos reigned all around - wild screams, squeals, and roars, mixed with the clinking of jewelry and treasure, flowing into the endless noise of fire taking lives. your ears were ringing unpleasantly, your eyes blurred, and your brain seemed unable to function normally. forest elves were not used to such hot temperatures, such barbaric screams, and such an oppressive atmosphere. groaning, you managed to lift yourself up on your arms to look around, when someone suddenly grabbed you by the face, unpleasantly squeezing your cheeks. "she came to her senses," - said a voice behind you, its tone dripping with malice. the speaker was same tall, imposing figure with a tear tattooed under his eye. before you could react, you were dragged to your feet and forced to turn around. there, sitting proudly on your father's throne, was a tall, blond man. almost nothing about him betrayed the fact that he was dragonborn - only vertical pupils and fierce eyes, dangerously shining in the light of the red night. his presence was stunning, it was immediately clear that he was their leader, their king.

Cheon Taejin's gaze locked onto you, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "welcome to your new home," - he said, his voice a deep, resonant growl that sent shivers down your spine. fear gripped your heart as you struggled against the hold someone had behind you.

looking behind you, Taejin grinned and mockingly ordered, “Isu, can’t you see that the princess is uncomfortable? let her go.” immediately, your hands were released, and you stumbled closer to the throne, your small pieces of jewelry jingled neatly in your hair, their delicate sound a stark contrast to the oppressive, chaotic atmosphere of the throne room. gathering what little courage you had left, you straightened your posture and tried to summon your royal bearing. "you think you can just take what you want, but - " he cut you off with a dark chuckle, standing up and towering over you, stepping closer. "but what? you threaten me? in my own domain, from now on? look around you, princess. your kingdom is mine, and so are you."

you wanted to threaten him, to stand strong, but the oppressive heat, his harsh, hot hands on your shoulders and chaotic atmosphere overwhelmed you. your vision blurred, your strength fading. the air was too hot, the barbaric screams too much for your senses. Taejin leaned forward, his grin never faltering. "you’re alone, princess," - he said softly, his voice dripping with mockery. "and you’re in no position to make threats." the overwhelming heat and the reality of your situation were too much to bear. the room spun around you, and your body gave in to the oppressive environment. With a soft groan, you felt your legs buckle beneath you, and you passed out, collapsing in Taejin’s hands.

Vinny Hong

Royal Guard

Vinny Hong was a man forged in the fires of countless battles. hailing from a destitute family, he had joined the army out of necessity, not loyalty. his prowess on the battlefield earned him many monikers, a titles feared by enemies and respected by comrades. despite his high rank, Vinny harbored a deep-seated resentment towards the nobility, viewing them as detached and indifferent to the suffering of the common people.

his achievements on the battlefield were not ignored, and very soon he took a high position as the head of the royal guard and your main bodyguard. as a princess, your days were filled with constant lessons in literature, history and music, receptions and meetings, and only at night, right before falling into a deep sleep, did you manage to dream about life outside the walls of the palace.

when your first meeting was appointed, he intended to despise you, as he did all nobles. Vinny assumed you would be spoiled and oblivious to the struggles of those beneath your station. however, from the moment he first laid eyes on you, his convictions began to waver. you were unlike any royal he had ever encountered. you possessed an innate kindness and humility that disarmed him. you treated everyone, regardless of their status, with genuine warmth and respect, and Vinny tried to maintained his cold, professional demeanor, determined to remain indifferent, yet he found himself drawn to your gentle spirit and the light you brought into the lives of those around you. over time, simple attraction gave way to sympathy, which Vinny refused to admit.

but even sympathy soon twisted into something darker. the minutes, hours, days, months spent next to you were intoxicating. an obsessive thought settled in his head - no one around knew you better than him, no one around could protect you better than him. he was by your side 24/7, without leaving his post. Vinny’s fascination grew into a possessive obsession. he used his position as your personal bodyguard to justify his actions, denying their wrongness, convincing himself that his vigilance was for your protection. each stolen glance, each lingering look, fueled a fire within him that he could not extinguish. his heart trembled with emotions he had long buried, emotions he did not want to feel. he hated you for making him feel this way, for making him fall in love with you. yet, he couldn’t bring himself to truly despise you. his love was a paradox, a torment that gnawed at his soul.

he found himself loitering near your quarters in the morning. light, translucent white silks on the window flowing in the light summer breeze, creating an intimate look across the wall. you stood with your back to the open windows, maids were fussing around you, helping you prepare for the new day. it took his breath away when from your bare shoulders his gaze slid lower, along the spine, lower back, reaching the very bottom, he forced himself to look away. the softness of your curves, the tenderness of your skin, all this was so alluring and unattainable for him. and that was just the beginning.

next he discovered that he stayed longer than necessary when escorting you to the bath. of course, your maids almost pulled you out of his presence, helping you undress and escorting you to the prepared bath, but Vinnie knew how much you value moments alone with yourself after a long day, so you often called the maids off, promising to take care of yourself. the least you knew was that through the partitions of intricate, carved, wooden patterns there was a beautiful view. your bodyguard, like a predator in the shadows, watched as drops of water rolled down your face, neck, collarbones, straight down into the valley between your breasts. he heard every little moan, sigh, when you once again rubbed your neck, or stretched your legs higher, trying to relieve tension. Vinny's thoughts dark and possessive, wanting to claim what he knew he could never have.

his inner turmoil grew as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. he began to resent his own weakness, the way his heart defied his mind. he was a warrior, feared and respected, yet here he was, enslaved by his own forbidden desires. he tried to hate you for the power you unwittingly held over him, for the way you made him feel so powerless.

one moonlit night, as the palace lay silent, Vinny made a decision. he couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to you while he could prevent it. so he left his chambers, and went to the main palace, recalling the night guard and taking up the post, deciding to guard his princess himself. he stood vigil outside your door, as he watched you sleep through the crack of the door, your serene face bathed in the gentle glow of the moonlight. his heart ached with a longing he couldn't satisfy, his mind tormented by the sight of you delicate form. he knew his actions were driven by something deeper than duty, yet he justified them as necessary for your safety. he felt a dark satisfaction in knowing that he was the one guarding you, that he was the one closest to you. he knew his actions were wrong, yet he couldn't deny the dark pleasure they brought him. the sight of your delicate, milky skin, the soft curves of your body, haunted his thoughts and dreams. he told himself it was all for your protection, that his vigilance was born of duty. but deep down, he knew the truth. he was a man possessed, enslaved by his own desires, forever bound to the woman he could never truly have.

in that moment, under the watchful eyes of the moon and stars, Vinny made a vow to himself. he would always be your watchdog, your support and protection, if it meant he could at least watch over you. his love for you was his burden to bear, his silent torment. and though he knew his feelings were forbidden and unworthy, he could not bring himself to stop. he would protect you, love you from afar, and remain forever in the shadows, your silent guardian.

fun facts ; sammy can’t have final human form. it’s either full dragon or half human. he have magic to turn, but due to the fact that his parents was different species he can’t hide his horns, tail, and wings, as all other dragonborns can do (ahemJakeKim) so he feels incomplete and that's why he developed an inferiority complex. also, i referred him from Drogon from GoT and Taejin from Smaug.

each story is different verses! for example gun & goo was inspired by kami sama hajimemashita, sammy’s dragon form referred from game of thrones, taejin story took huge inspiration from Tolkien verse, well with Vinny it was enough with that one art.

[chrxsprettygirl]

TW: depression, SH, SA, ED, shitty ppl, suicidal ideation?

Being depressed with a hypocritical ass family is so weird. I’ve been depressed since i was 12 and only recently got diagnosed, all those years it’s “ur being lazy” “ur rude and disrespectful” “ur wicked” “ur dramatic”, but all of sudden it’s “omg I always knew something was wrong” girl Ill bitch slap u all the way to fucking Africa dont play wit me. The amount of times yall degraded me and making me believe I’m the worst person to walk this earth is ridiculous if u ‘always knew something was going with me’, you don’t tell a 13 year old whose by the way going thru puberty and learning to deal with her emotions that she’s ‘a burden’ or ‘too much to handle’ thats so wrong. I remember the first time I self harmed, I was so overwhelmed and when I blew up yelling n fucking screaming u would want to tell me “your a child what the fuck do u have going on to be depressed or have anxiety” have u not been a teenager? When I told u what the fuck was going on ur response to me was “how was I supposed to know that if u never told me” BUT I DID THO WHEN I WOULD REFUSE TO INTERACT WITH THE PPL INVOLVED? WHEN I WOULD SHUT DPWN EVERYTIME I WAS AT THE PLACE. But it’s not only that YOU FUCKING LIVED WITH ME HOW TF DID U MISS THAT????? When I finally admitted I was sexually assaulted for the first time when I was 6 for 2 years YOU DID NOTHING. All u did was cry to make me feel like u cared but he never went to jail. He is walking free as we speak. He is still allowed to interact with me and other little girls. WHYYYYYYYYYYY. When I told you ur friends kids were threatening to rape me when I was 10 YOU DID NOTHING. When I told u my cousin was blackmailing me to have sex with him IM THE ONE WHO GOT PUNISHED WHYYYYYYYYYY? When I told u ur boyfriend is asking me to send him pics in ur lingerie at 15 fucking years old u never spoke to him? And I’m supposed to be grateful for him? Im supposed to do shit for him? Im supposed to hang out with him like nothing ever happened? Ur a fucking hypocritic. U would hit me when I ate more food than usual I WAS A GROWING CHILD ITS A NORMAL FUCKING THING instead u made me have an unhealthy relationship with food. At 10 years old I stared starving myself NO 10 YEAR OLD NEEDS TO EXPERIENCE THAT. I STARTIED CUTTING MY SELF AT 12 EXCUSES MEEEEEEE?And when u found out ur reaction is “why are u doing that? Stop it”, hell my first suicide attempt I was fucking 11 but u didn’t know right? And when all the sadness turned into rage ur fav thing to do was berate me for being “a miserable angsty teen” “ur being rude” maybe if u paid enough attention it would have to get to that point. All the signs were there but u all ignored them. And after all that n I go out of my way to get my diagnosis Yall wanna act all sympathetic in my face y’all are fucking hypocriticals and that’s why I don’t like going to see y’all. At the of the day I was the child you were the adult. U should’ve known better. Go fuck yourself.

Sorry

[jaychrilo1144]

Ramble post #028273729

Topic: trans people, being in the lgbt community, and the Harry Potter/ Marauders Community.

Tw: mentions of sa

I've been thinking a lot about the ruling in the UK and Jkrs actions toward it and her response. I've been thinking a lot about how terrifying it is here in the States right now with a proud, bigoted dictator.

My heart and soul are so fucking heavy right now. I try not to show it, but I know Im a naturally anxious person, and these things have been sitting in the back of my mind. Festering the more I try to ignore it because I have no one around me irl who will talk about this with me. I hate living in the silence all the time.

I havent had any problems here so far, but I want to make this message loud and clear. If you are a TERF, or a transphobe in general, if you are homophobic, sexists, racist, xenophobic, then get the hell off of my page. I will never stand for any of that here, ever. Because if you are going to act intolerate and ignorant for no reason, then I will for a good reason. My safety, and the safety of others.

I will make this loud and clear. Trans women are real women. Trans men are real men. Nonbinary/ Agender people are valid. Marriage was around BEFORE religion. Lgbt love is real and valid love.

No woman should be afraid to be arrested because they are using the womens restroom. Are we seeing how absurd that sounds? How scary that is for transwomen? How scary that is for women who don't fit the feminine stereotype? ALL WOMAN IN GENERAL??

Im going to put this very plain and simple and it may shock some of you so be prepared. If a man desperately wanted to sa or grape a woman in the bathroom, he would. If he wanted to dress as a woman and harm other women, he would. Lets think rationally. A Real transwoman is not going to go through all of the hormone therapies, or surgeries, or other tasks to transition just so that she can get into the womens restroom and inflict harm. I can guarentee that a man is not willing to go those lengths for that, because he can infict harm if he really wanted anytime.

Transwomen are real women just trying to live their lives like everyone else.

What scares me more is how are they going to police this? Are they going to start checking peoples genitalia to determine if theyre in the "right" bathroom or not? Absolutely the FUCK not!

This affects women as a whole.

Now. We need to talk about the fandom. Never will I ever allow another penny of mine to be given to that horrid author. Ever. However, the hp and marauders fandom has changed my life. I become more accepting of myself because of it. I've found such an amazing community full of incredible artists, writers, bloggers, and other creatives alike. Ive said it before, we have taken a world born from bigotry and turned it into a place of inclusivity in spite of the creator and hp and marauders will forever have have a special place in my heart.

With that being said. You can hate the artist and appreciate the art. How? Where u put ur money, you put ur support. For instance. Me personally I avoid Starbucks. They won't be given my money because of their unfair treatment and being anti Palestine was the cherry on top, also im poor and its not worth it. Are there other companies like it? Yes but but i chose starbucks. It's a small change on ur end that becomes a collective change when everyone else is involved, and together, we significantly dropped starbucks earnings.

Same for jkr rn. You know what she supports and where she takes her dollars earned from viewers. How do you enjoy the world of hp then? Dont give her the money, dont give her attention on social media. Dont interact with her accounts. Block her. Want to buy the books or even the video game? Buy them second hand or from a nondirect seller. I have resources to recommend. Do NOT WATCH THE NEW TV SERIES!!!! I just know that with casting choices, there are going to be racial micro aggressions in the show, and that's more hate that the world doesn't need. Get involved with the community on here, ao3, and/or other SM platforms.

My friends and siblings of the LGBT+ community (and allies), it is important more than ever that we take a stand to love, support, and protect our fellow trans people. Sacred safe spaces are becoming more sparse. Protect the spaces we have now and help to create new ones. It feels like we are going back, and its up to us not let it happen.

Stay safe, everyone. You are loved. You matter. There is always a safe place for you here.

Thank you 💛

[l0verclown]

From pressured to driven Part 2

What happens when you feel pressured to do something you never thought you'd do?

Especially if 4 serial killers are the ones pressuring you.

Slight ronin x reader

| spoilers for Killer chat!!! This is part two of "From pressured to driven". As always, my writing sucks so its probably Ooc. I have no idea if i want to continue with more parts, but hey who knows.

TW: Mention of murder, going insane, light gore, SA?(forced kissing)

PSA: I don't support neither am i trying to glorify/Normalize the words mentioned above. SA should be taken serious and it is not meant to be joked around.

Part 1:

You were walking around, searching for any "victims" to kill whilst trying not to freak out by the amount of corpses were in the alley. Damm, you knew Ronin liked going on killing sprees, but this much? If you counted every corpse you have walked past, it would be already above the 20. It didn't feel right, seeing all those unfortunate souls all on the ground, but you also couldn't help continue searching because before you know you are one going to become one of them if they find out.

*Ding!*

A notification?

Dear Reader,

I heard that you were writing a book, which is pretty interesting so my congratulations for that one.

moving on, one of our best reporters, Greg, has unfortunately resigned.

So my question to you is if you are able to make five new articles before the clock hits midnight. I expect at least two articles, but my apologies if this has come to you late, but if you are able to do it, i will try my best to reduce the amount of work you already have.

I wish you the best of luck on this.

Kind regards

Your boss.

You have to be serious. Five whole articles?

Not only did you have to make five new articles, you have to find a way to pretend that you killed a person. Not only that, it was 19:21.

19:21...

Fuck.

You have 4 hours and 30 minutes before midnight. You have to find a solution, and quick. Fuck, maybe you do want to kill someone, and with someone you mean your boss or either Greg.

Greg...

Always him, the 'best' reporter in the company. Total bullshit, he was average, a total pervert even. But the fact he resigned and that you had to chase after his bullshit!?

You felt anger raising up, adrenaline rushing through your veins, the amount of stress and anger that was mixed in your body was insufferable, that if you went to a therapist, they would either send you to a mental hospital or diagnose you with whatever mental disorder is popular.

*Ding!*

Another notification..?

@BestGregg: Hey Reader! Sorry for resigning so early and sudden but i got offered a wayy better job, and i couldn't pass up on that offer. Btw make sure to finish those assignments lol and because i'm resigning, how 'bout we meet up? I mean ur kinda chill and its gonna be fun. So what do you think?

Seriously? A meet up? Who does he think he is? My dad???

@SerialMC: Uhh..

sure i guess. Can we meet up here? *Insert Purgatory location*, i'll wait for u there, I'm here with some friends but i'm sure they don't mind.

@BestGregg: Sweet, i'll be there in 10 minutes, be prepared to have the best night of ur life ;)

Not only is he a total loser, he's a total pervert too. You continued walking, your mind just being full of total bullshit right now. First, your serial killer friends want you to kill somebody, second your stupid boss wants you to write 5 articles, and third your perverted ex-coworker wants to hangout and is going to try to hit on you.

Life's been going shit these weeks, you got hit with an inspiration block which means no more idea's for your next book. You've been trying to find out on how to tell the server that you're not actually a serial killer (What will probably never happen) and now this.

You gripped the knife that you previously found tighter, resisting the urge to even throw it. You can't kill anyone, you don't want to kill anyone, but in your state, it seemed like the only solution left.

"EYY READER, WHERE ARE YOU!?"

"I have a feeling they left"

"No way, they wouldn't leave us, their friends behind, i know them."

"Hah, So they're not as tough as they seem huh?"

"Hey! Don't say that, people like us just have our own struggles. Just let us be you edgeboy"

Fuck fuck fuck.

They were searching for you, and you haven't done anything at all, and looking at the time, that stupid greg should be somewhere here now.

How the fuck did you end up in this position!? Seriously, this would've been some fun hanging out day, but it always ends up in trouble. You just wished you could bury yourself somewhere.

"Yooo Reader it's me Greg!"

How he greeted himself scared the shit out of you, you hid the knife somewhere in your jacket, so he wouldn't notice. It was pretty dark out here, but from the looks of it and how he talked seemed like he had a bit to drink.

"Oh hey.. Greg."

"Whats up with the sad face reader? Are you not happy to see me?"

"No it's just. Work and stuff.. Gotta write 5 articles.. Ha ha.."

"Awh damn, sorry reader. Didn't know i was that important to the company, i mean, being the best reporter in the department? Hell yeah!"

He continued talking about how cool, and important he was that you didn't notice that you were basically backing up into a corner because of how much he talked.

"Ohh yeah, I think you need to confess something, reader."

"Confess.. What?"

He got closer to you, basically trapping you in that corner that you went to yourself. You said you wanted to bury yourself somewhere? Guess that place is here. He leaned into your face, you could feel his intoxicated breath, it reeked of alcohol and whatever cocktails he was drinking, but he didn't seem to go away.

"Don't act stupid, i know how you've been looking at me, you like me, don't you?"

Like. Him?

You hated that man. First, he got with all your female coworkers, he's the so-called "best reporter", he acts like a total asshole, pervert, and his looks are like the devil himself tried making the ugliest person that has ever existed. Not only that, but he has so much controversy, but of course, your boss ignores it because he was a good worker.

"I don't understand? I don't like you?

"Don't be shy, i know what you want"

Before you knew it, he slammed his lips into yours, forcefully kissing you as he held you by the waist. You yelped in disgust, tears starting to form in your eyes. You hated it, you couldn't move, you felt helpless. After he was done kissing you, he looked at you with a grin and you looked terrified.

"Look, you enjoyed that didn't ya? C'monn, i know ya want more"

"And don't worry, i won't go rough on you"

Oh.

Is this your end?

No.

It is not.

You can change

Maybe they will say you became corrupted.

But was it really, if it originated from fear?

You slowly gripped the knife you hid in your jacket, and held it tight in your hand.

"You know what i want..."

You put your free hand on his chest, he leaned in, looking like he wanted to kiss you, but before you could do that, you plunged that knife right into his chest.

He screamed, but you continued. You kept stabbing him near his heart, he tried pushing you off of himself, but you were too determined to finish him. After everything he did, all you wanted to do is never see him again.

Countless screams were forming in his throat, it sounded so god awfull, but that is why it was perfect. That's what stupid, perverted good for nothing deserve. A deep plunge in the heart. At this point, you were sure the rest could've heard the screams and were probably heading your way, but you didn't care about that. For now.

You pushed his body to the ground, before gripping two hands on the handle of the knife, and plunged even harder into his chest. You dragged the knife from his chest to his intestines, before stabbing him again for countless times. You felt anger and stress slowly leave, the crimson staining you. You felt.. Weird. You did feel guilty, yes but after all he did. He deserved it. You ripped out the knife, before hearing some voices behind you.

"Oh my, So Darlin' did end up killin someone huh? And even stabbing the intestines? How gruesome, i like that"

You turned around, hearing the voices of your friends

"Oh shit... Who that guy was, he was definitely hated by them.. Look at the stab marks holy shit, reader went batshit and im here for it"

"Oh.. My, reader, how are you feeling? I don't think that guy was some ordinary guy guys.."

"... The sight is gruesome"

You laughed, you kept laughing before finally stabbing the knife into his skull. He was finally gone.

".. That guy was my ex coworker. He kept stressing me out, making flirty moves, and.. Ended up forcefully kissing me."

Angel looked at you with a mix of reassurance and a look of "I've been there", and she slowly approached you along with Misaki. Meanwhile Misaki was a bit in denial, not because of the fact that you killed him, but because what he did to you. V was crossing his arms and shaking his head, while Ronin was heading towards the guy.

".. What you did there, reader.. I, oddly relate to it. Weird creepy perverted men hitting on you while you weren't doing anything? Killing him was a good choice, reader."

Angel was quite literally an angel. She is nice, she is understanding and she can relate to anyone. You're great full you have her as a friend.

Misaki was giving you constant back pats, trying to comfort you from that guy. You noticed that she was trying to lighten the mood.

"Hey so.. That guy was a total creep, and what you did was totally valid- I mean as a pervert, what did he expect?"

You forced a laugh out of that one, it was funny but for the sake of Misaki, you cracked a laugh so that she wouldn't suspect anything. But you know she meant good, if it was up to her, she would've killed the guy in a second.

V was looking at you and the guy, sighing before muttering out a sentence.

"You finished him, not for fun or for entertainment.. But for your safety and because of fear. Not bad at all."

His words shock you, because you didn't expect him to say that at all. You didn't really speak to him, and when you did, he was always on some "I will find out who you are" shit. Guess V is able to feel some sympathy after all.

You didn't even notice the fact that Ronin was ripping apart that guy's chest to grab his heart, you were starting to hear some weird- crack and bone breaking noises, that you couldn't help but look backwards at the body to find Ronin trying to obtain the guys heart.

Eventually, Ronin had the heart in his hand, and looked at you with a smile

"Darlin', Would ya mind giving me his aorta? And it's that ugly guy's heart, which makes it 10x better. C'monn, do it for the poor little devil."

He looked at you, with that stupid little smile from the first time you kissed, the moment you began rotting and corrupting. You laughed, and took the heart. Since Ronin started talking about the Aorta that much, you decided to google search a bit just to know where it was for a moment like this (which you never actually expected to happen)

You carefully ripped some of the other pieces of the heart, accidentally deattaching the superior vena cava and some artery, but eventually you managed to remove the aorta, and handed it to Ronin.

"To my dearest devil, the one who corrupted me."

Angel looked at Ronin with a look of "What the actual fuck ronin." and he just laughed. You smiled and He gave you a hair ruffle and put the aorta in some weird place in his bag. Gross, but hey, he can do whatever he wants.

You looked at your clothes, It was basically stained red now, but your face, hands and pants were a total mess. You sighed, before thinking of a way on how to get home without getting the police after you.

" You look like a complete fuckin mess. Not that i'm complaining, but you probably are. How 'bout i give you a ride to my house, and stay there?"

You wanted to agree, you didn't mind the idea, but you wondered about the others, what about them? It would be quite rude to leave them here.

Before you could say anything, Misaki overheard the convo and made an idea.

"YOO IS THAT A SLEEPOVER I HEAR!?"

".. I'm not really fond of sleepovers."

"Maybe we could? I mean it is the best way to end the hangout"

". Fuck no, i don't have enough space for five people. And besides, i don't think anyone can survive the devils little hideout"

"Stop being edgy for once ronin, your living room is big enough"

".. Wow, guess i have no choice do i?"

"A sleepover it is, then."

You decided to take a photo of the body, and you were planning on sending it in the server. To have some more 'evidence' that you killed someone. Would your old self be proud of you? Absolutely not, but people change. You changed by being rotten and corrupted, and you wouldn't want it any other way.

weird..

You have this odd feeling that doesn't go away

It feels like a craving.

More killing, it screams your name.

You feel like killing more people.

Their agony, your pleasure.

Time to show them what you have become.

[ladylarynn]

Alleyway Affairs

Part 3 - When it rains, it pours

Summary: This is part three to Alleyway Affairs

The last you heard from Astarion, he told you to "die screaming." Months later, you find each other again. Only this time, deep in the city, in an alley under nightfall. Perhaps, he will bleed you dry. Or perhaps, he has other plans for you.

Rating: Explicit

WC for part 3 - 9k, total - 24k+

Pairing: Astarion x you (fem!reader)

cw: 18+ established relationship pre breakup, post ending for BG3, oral sex (female receiving), p in v, creampie, explicit consent, angst, on his knees for you in more ways than one, in love & its a disaster, additional tags posted on ao3

TW for part 3 only: very, very brief mentions of past SA.

read on ao3

or keep reading below <3

and here you go @babypeapoddd and @joyful-enchantress

The murky moon melts into thick somber clouds that convolve and collide amid the sky, the whoosh of waves crashing into the shoreline. The storm from earlier in the evening wandered over the horizon of the sea, its lacerations of livid lightning staining the night in streaks of lurid white.

A cold, misting rain causes the strands of your hair to stick to your forehead. You wipe the back of your hand over your wet lashes, taking in the saturated city enveloped in a moist static. The streets are empty, yet the Blushing Mermaid wears a veil of hazy gold, bursting with cacophonies of sound. The raucous hoots of laughter and slurred speech echoing from below are a revelry only known and shared by those attempting to escape a downpour.

Astarion is beside you, contemplating the view.

It’s one thing that you crossed a line, that you had managed to weave yourself into the fabric of him. Again. It’s another thing that the dull ache at the inscription of your wrist and the phantom divots of teeth marks on your neck have begun to burn. This tenderness coils like a thorned rose around your beating heart. It is needles and thread all bound together, like kindling for a wildfire, like roots in soil you cannot pull out.

You can’t stop thinking about his needy breaths, his curls intwined in your fingers, his eyes gazing up at you between your thighs. You can’t stop thinking of the nights so long ago, when you would gently tug at him to lay atop your chest so that you may run your fingers through his hair. How his pointy ear pressed to your pulse, and he’d listen to it sweetly croon a melody he himself had forgotten, but never wanted to forget again--

 You can’t stop thinking about how you wanted to say it, over and over.

When he had bickered with you, countless times, the disdain in his voice combatting with the sparkle of delight in his eyes.

When you had noticed him safeguarding the trinkets you brought him, every now and then.

When he had begun to touch you for whatever plausible reason, whether that to drag you by the wrist toward the direction he wanted your party to go, or to slide his palm over the small of your back when passing by or reaching across to sweep a stray strand from your eyes, claiming “Clip it back or something darling. Who do you expect to fight with hair in your face?”

When he would scold you for getting too hurt, in a way that made it sound as though it wasn’t actually bothering him.

“…and you just had to be the hero. What if Shadowheart couldn’t have healed you? What then, hm? I’m only saying this because it’s in my best interest you remain in one piece-- Oh, don’t give me that look— Why are you smiling--!”

When he positively glared at the back of Gale’s head when he insisted upon teaching you magic, then proceeded to act aloof when caught in your line of sight.

When he’d huff out a laugh at the absurdity of your group’s terrible luck.

When he poured himself out to you, divulging the sorrows of a creature you swore to him you’d both kill.

When he first asked you to hold him at night.

When he all but purred the first time you ran your fingernails through his hair and then when he had acted terribly offended when you stopped.

When the cadence of his voice had begun to soften when speaking to you.

“Darling.”

“My sweet.”

“My dear.”

“Sweetheart.”

When he had confessed, “I want us to be something real.”

When you had reached out and held him after Moonrise Towers. Had felt his startled wince melt as he reluctantly welcomed your embrace, his arms enveloping you. The serene in his sigh, the way he squeezed your hand in both of his.

When he had found you, that early dawn before everyone awoke. When you were perched on a roof of a nearby building beside your camp, at the edge of the harbor, your knees to your chest, your palms numb from the dig of your nails. You could hear the birds sing a familiar song; gentle, sweet, devastating. When he came, he had noticed the dampness of your cheeks.

“Did our Karlach’s incessant snoring scare you off, too?”  

You grinned tiredly at him, the way you so commonly did ever since arriving at Baldur’s Gate. He never pried about it but… you wished he would.

You lifted your head from your knees as he came to sit next to you.

“No, though I’m sure we can still hear it from here if we try.”

“That we can,” he agreed, gesturing to his sharp ear.

 A lull of silence followed. You heard him shift a bit, run his hand through his hair.

“You’ve been sneaking away more often lately…” he trailed off, the common routine of your morning departures too worrisome to ignore. The others had mentioned he had been asking about you, in that offhanded, yet all the more insistent, manner. You told them what they told him: the impending battle was the burden you were grappling with. Nothing more. However, where they believed you, he hadn’t. He couldn’t escape the feeling it had to do with something else. He had hoped it didn’t have anything to do with him.

“I come here to listen,” you reveal, eyes turning back toward the sky, “I used to listen to the birds every morning when I was younger,” you continue, unsteady, “I still adore listening to them sing, adore admiring them flock over the horizon, all lovely and free. I’m drawn to them. I don’t know why,” you paused, then turned to him with a timid smile, “They give me this yearning nothing else does.”

And he had murmured back, as if without thought.

“You remind me of them, too.”

“How poetic,” you had laughed, all shimmering and light, your heartbeat plush. You had poked him in the ribs, thinking it a common place tease, “Is that your way of saying I’m chittering and flighty?”

“Well but of course my dear—” he attempted to elaborate with a scrunch of his nose, a glimmer of mirth in his gaze. You had gasped in mock horror and slapped him playfully on the arm.

 “Astarion—"

He had caught your hand. Pulled you close. Looked at you with a countenance you’d never seen anyone wear before.

He looked to you like you were something precious.

His thumb had soothed over the scars at the inside of your palm. He held your palm to his lips and pressed a tender kiss over it.

When he had leaned forward to kiss you, it was like the mourning doves’ new refrain.

You knew it was too soon. But the words were always there, just as the wind rustles through the trees, just as the grass ripples in rivers of evergreen, just as the birds soar across the sky.

Then and now. All these places that keep you tethered to him too fulgurous to subdue.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

But you hadn’t said it then.

You had said it in the alleyway— and…

You got what you deserved in response.

He had been honest with you. Not from the beginning but… later. Yet you…

Your fingers clench in, feeling over the nail indent scars.

You didn’t know how.

And now it was too late. Whatever occurred earlier was certainly a byproduct of tension, an eclipse of sense. Just as it was in the alleyway. All those memories were the dust of a time gone by.

He doesn’t love you.

He will never love you.

“Must we wait in the rain?” Astarion whines; and you untangle from your knotted thoughts. It’s the first time he’s spoken since you both left Cedric Lao’s manor. You had traversed all this way in a damp silence; from the manor to your inn for supplies, and now to here. It wasn’t like him to be so quiet, but perhaps you both didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t even cursed earlier when he got his boots slicked with mud, or when he had all but slid off roof tiles. You had grabbed his hand, held it firmly to keep him from falling, and he had regarded you with a look akin to rumbling thunder.

            All the words he wouldn’t say were inlaid in that expression.

            You didn’t know how to interpret them.

            “He may be inside already, but we need a plan,” you answer. You glance at him, “have any ideas?”

            “Oh well—,” he starts with one hand on his hip, the other pointed at you, “…well we find him,” a pause with much internal deliberation, and then he’s speaking with his hands and a few octaves louder to make up for the shhhh of soft rain, “and then….” Another pause, for effect, “…we kill him. Seems cut and dry to me.”

            You don’t know what other response you were expecting. You succeed in stifling a laugh. “And that is why you never came up with the plans,” you lightly mock.

            He scoffs, “Well Miss I Make Up the Rules and Have Wonderful Plans, what do you suggest?”

            You turn your attention away from him, and once again survey the tavern. Beneath the hulk of the ship fastened at the entrance waits a covered carriage with two docile horses. When you squint, you make out the coachman with his head hung low, slack against the seat, presumably asleep.

            “There’s not a chance Cedric Lao would walk back in the rain, nor would anyone in the lower city purchase a carriage like that. That must be for him,” you gesture to the carriage, and Astarion’s shrugs in halfhearted agreement.

“I’ll have to make sure of course… but regardless, I’ll need to lure him out, alone. Ideally, we strike when in his carriage, away from the tavern. Worst case scenario, I lead him to an alleyway or out of view of the coachman…” You rattle off, mind preoccupied with potential scenarios. It was always easier to become fixated on logistics. It aided in ignoring the convolving of guilt in your gut.

“And what will I be doing? Twiddling my thumbs?” he protests.

“You can shadow me inside. If he’s there, and if I can manage to persuade him out with me, I’ll signal to you to leave beforehand. I’m thinking you can lie in wait in the carriage, and we will attack when it starts moving.” You feel for the pouch strapped to your waist. You pluck out an invisibility potion, and hand it to him.

            “Well, aren’t you confident,” he says, then holds it up to you and states the obvious, “this only lasts an hour.”

            You nod. He continues to brood, as if not convinced.

“Like I said, I’ll signal to you. It won’t take long to convince him to leave,” you guarantee, then subconsciously reach forward, your fingers skimming his sharp ear. He shivers at the sudden touch. “When we’re outside, you’ll hear us and know when to take it.”

            “Hmmph,” he grumbles at your teasing, then concedes, “fine, fine. You’re the expert.”

            Your smile weakens. You know what he means but it’s not the way you take it.

Yeah.

An expert.

He notices it, but swallows down questioning it.

“Try to remain a little way away,” you mention.

You know you can’t go in there in your natural state, so you prepare to don a new identity.

A new face.

A new body.

After the spell is cast, you feel minutely more distant. Reserved. Detached.

You turn to him once more.

“Remember, we don’t know each other.”

☾☼

Inside the tavern is a labyrinth of life, with its boisterous drunkards, rhythmic merriment of music, and gregarious guests engaging in drinking games and delusive gossip. You had entered first, Astarion waiting outside for a brief while to ensure no one mistakes you both coming in together.

You peruse the people about you, their common clothing, their callous hands carrying around jugs of beer or necks of wineglasses. You wade through bodies,scanning the lower-level room for any hint at your mark’s description.

Human. Black hair with rivulets of gray. Smug eyes like faded lilac. Tall. Thin build. A calm cadence of conceit.

A thick emerald ring with a silver band, always worn on his middle finger.

You start with the people perusing the eclectic paintings of deer silhouettes and portraits of pirates from ancient seas. No one there fits the description.

Then you turn to the guests stumbling into standing candelabras bound to be knocked over onto rugs riddled in blotches. No.

 Finally, the patrons waiting under the suspended mermaid caught in a seine. The voices about you carry no such intonation of the ruling class. You are about to make your way upstairs when you hear it.

“You should know already what I’m having Bosun,” a man states from the second to last seat at the end of the bar, his back to you.

The bartender, Bosun, responds with a tinge of concealed irritation, “well, your type of drink typically depends on if you win or if you lose.”

The man in turn chuckles, his laugh collapsing in on itself like cashmere waves. Despite every seat being taken at the bar, you slide like silk in between him and another patron.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” you say while leaning your body against the counter. Your stare is that of velvet when you meet the man’s lavender eyes. With the lilt of your simper, all sanguine sunset tinged lips, his mouth goes dry.

“Seems you have a refined taste,” the man offers, and you shrug, scanning him up and down and biting your lip.

“That I do,” you declare without diffidence.

His smile widens and his gaze twinkles with the implication. The stranger at the seat beside you catches on, takes his drink, and leaves. You take the seat without question. With an elbow on the counter, you face your body toward the man.

When the bartender leaves your drinks, the man raises his glass to clink yours.

On his middle finger is an emerald ring. Silver band.

Cedric Lao.

He’s wearing the reason he’ll be killed.

You skim your index finger over the rim of your glass, causing ripples of shivers down his spine. You admire him over the succulent crimson of your wine, swooshing and swishing in your hand.

You weigh your chin on your knuckles, leaning into the man with an evening sparkle in your disposition, a suggestive tickle skittering in your laugh.

“I’ve seen you here before, but I’ve always been too shy to ask your name.”

“Really? I haven’t seen you before. If I had, I would never forget a face like yours.”

You giggle, your hand covering your face as if to hide a blush.

“Aren’t you a charmer,” you reply.

He laughs. Tilts in close, mouth next to your ear, confirming what you already know.

“My name is Cedric.”

Too easy.

He leans back, tapping his glass with his finger. His other hand adorned in chunky rings glisten in the candlelight. You try to ignore it, as the sight evokes memories you rather kill than the man before you.

You respond to him with a false, sensual name, the kind with syllables that slip off the tongue with ease.

“As beautiful as you,” he flirts with a wink.

Ugh.

You open your mouth, yet you catch a whiff of white in your peripheral. At the other end of the bar counter, Astarion is leaning back against the wall.

He is blatantly watching you both.

Hells.

He’s making it too obvious.

You mask your discontent by taking a sip from your glass. You tilt your head to the left side of the room, but he doesn’t budge. You pray he can read your mind.

At least buy a drink.

His nostrils flare in a hefty exhale.

Fine.

He seems to say back before motioning towards the bartender. You then hear him requesting the dryest, reddest wine possible.

You glimpse back at Cedric, who is as clueless as any noble. You bend into him, lips almost brushing his ear. “I hope this doesn’t come off too strong, but did you come here alone tonight?”

You pull back and dazzle with pearly whites, and a bitten lip; a performance meant to appeal to any simple-minded man. Despite being a few customers down the counter, you sense Astarion stiffen.

“I did,” Cedric coos, absolutely devouring your flattery, enough to the point that the other patrons of the tavern seem mildly disenchanted out of their drunken hazes. Each time he takes a sip from his glass, his attention is beckoned back to you, as if tethered by the adulation of your tongue.

When you take another sip, you purposely let a drip of wine descend your chin.

“Will you be leaving alone too?” You susurrate, dragging a lone knuckle over the lingering drip of wine at your chin. You bring the knuckle to your lips and clean it with your tongue. Cedric nearly chokes on air.

You smile. Honeyed. Polite.

“If you must know,” he confesses, “I’m thinking of leaving with quite the temptress, if she’ll have me.”

Perfect.

You laugh in flittering delight.

“Perhaps she will…” You slide your hand over the counter, careful to rub your thumb over the sliver of his wrist. “I mean, you happen to be her type,” you pause, lingering, “but she’s a little worried she’s not yours.”

Cedric meets your eyes, and presses his body closer, until his lips are a hover over your ear, “she is anyone’s type, I assure you…”

You can’t help but peek down the bar. Astarion is scrutinizing you both with a half sneer, his fingers slowly clenching around the neck of his wine glass.

You say it with your eyes.

You’re staring too much.

His brows rise, his nose scrunching as he beckons toward the door with a slant of his head.

Then hurry it up.

Cedric’s hand squeezes your upper thigh. You cringe yet play it off like a jolt of excitement. You note Astarion raking a hand through his hair, his eyes rolling so hard you worry they may fall back into his skull.

Cedric flirts again, “Would you like to finish your drink before I take you home?”

“What about the rain?” You say, just to make sure.

“I have transportation.”

Of course you do.

Your attention flicks to Astarion, then to the exit.

Go.

And that he does, stalking off through the crowd as melodramatic as can be.

After another stretch of flattery and casual touch, you raise your glass to your lips, and drink down the last sip of your wine.

The time has come.

He laughs, soft, content.

The light ensnared on his emerald ring pesters your sight. Its array of greens like foliage frothing up your throat.

“I’ll pay,” you offer, about to reach into your coin purse. He stops your hand.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he opposes, reaching into his coin purse and spilling an excess of gold coins onto the counter. It is far more than needed to purchase your drinks.

“I won big tonight,” he gloats.

You have to suppress a scowl.

“That you did,” you acknowledge, and with that, you head toward the exit together.

☾☼

You make your way out into the night. The rush of frigid air hushes the tavern heat still humming over you, the chirping of crickets coalescing in a somber chorus. A fog of foreboding settles in your bones and smears the scenery before you in a gray film as Cedric leads you down the stairs, your hand enclosed in his. There is a familiar rub of numerous rings.

They could imprint in your palm ugly indents if he held any longer, or any tighter.

It takes but a few moments to descend the stairs to the carriage, but for you, it is an eternity.

The smooth of unblemished hands.

The harsh of thick jewel incrusted rings.

A grip slithering around your wrist.

Licked lips snug to your ear.

Susurrations like a serpent’s hiss, requests like a parasites’ squirm.

It bleeds black from his mouth.

“I shouldn’t be here. A man of my rank… I bet it makes you feel special, doesn’t it? The dove of the Lower City. I should purchase you a more lovely cage…”

Cedric says your name. You recoil from the past just as sudden. He doesn’t notice.

Of course he doesn’t.

“Wait for me in the carriage,” he motions, all suave and poised, “seems as though my coachman decided to sleep on the job.”

The latter hints at his irritation. You nod and wave him off so that he may attend to the matter.

Upon entering the carriage, you find two plush brown leather seats opposite one another, windows tucked behind cascading pleated drapes. Atop a short table is an oil lamp still illuminating the space in grazes of pale yellow. You close the door behind you, still able to make out the muffled aggravation of Cedric and the sputtering repentance of his coachman.

The only inkling of Astarion’s presence is when he tap, tap, taps a phantom nail against the chimney of the oil lamp. You whisper in response.

“Remember to wait until I signal.”

He offers no verbal agreement, much to your dismay. He seemed all too contempt inside the tavern.

Maybe he’s thirsty—

The thought conjures recollections of earlier in the night. You shake your head when abruptly the door to the carriage swings open.

Cedric steps foot inside, and the coachman closes the door behind him. The noble turns and latches the door shut, then proceeds to unceremoniously plop down beside you.

The side of his thigh bumps against yours. He sets his hand atop your knee, all but consuming your space.

“Finally, we’re alone…” he announces. You force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Have you ever visited the Upper City?” he inquires.

You are about to reply when a sharp whap of the coachman’s whip sets the carriage into motion. You jerk forward only to be barred to your seat by Cedric’s arm. The horses let out startled neighs, hooves trotting over the still slick streets.

You regain your composure, but Cedric does not immediately remove his arm. Instead, he caresses your cheek, the cool silver band of his ring making you shudder.

Unbeknownst to you, Astarion’s glower is boiling over at Cedric’s touch.

The table in front of you emits a sharp tap, like that of Astarion’s nail.

Cedric’s attention diverts toward the sound, yet you place your palm over his, directing him to focus solely on you.

Wait, you internally plea.

Not yet.

“I’ve never been to the Upper City,” you lie, gaze lilting from his, to the oleander of his lips.

Tap.

“Is that where you intend to take me?” you ask meaning to stall him, but he’s encircling like a vulture, crowding you against the carriage wall.

Cedric collects your hair in his hand and gathers it to one shoulder. You know what he intends to do before he does it.

“Hmmm…” he hums, moving nearer, closer.

Tap.

You stifle a flinch each time Astarion wordlessly demands a signal.

We’re not far enough away yet.

Cedric is too distracted to notice, his mouth pressing to your throat. You give a shaky inhale in response, your fingernails digging into the flesh of your palm.

You glance at the space Astarion resides.

Only a little longer.

“I intend to take you to my bed,” Cedric revels, each kiss growing more greedy, sloppy, and wet. “I intend to make you mine,” his other hand slides up your thigh, “I intend to make you scream—”

BANG.

The oil lamp topples over as Cedric’s lips are wrenched from your neck, his hair caught in the clench of Astarion’s white knuckled fist, the strands snapping as Cedric squeals.

“AH—!”

Astarion’s other hand clamps over Cedric’s mouth, smothering his startled scream.

Astarion bares his fangs, anchoring his gaze onto you. His irises are a wrathful wash of radiant red.

Your breath shutters.

Without delay, he delves his teeth into Cedric’s throat.

“URgghhm…” Cedric gurgles in anguish, legs kicking and fingers prying at Astarion’s unrelenting grip. You spring to action, seizing Cedric’s wrists and holding him still. Astarion’s adam’s apple bobs with each swallow.

 Cedric’s flush face dwindles in color.

The coachman’s voice bellows out over the trot of hooves and howling wind, “Everything alright back there, My Lord?”

Cedric groans into Astarion’s palm, and you answer for him.

“Do give your Lord privacy while he plays.”

The coachman knows better than to ask any additional questions. He whips the horses once more.

It must only take several minutes. In your restraint, Cedric’s squirming limbs grow limp. His pulse point slows to a stop.

He’s dead.

Astarion unlatches from Cedric’s throat, blood oozing down his chin. He carelessly casts aside Cedric’s head, the man’s lifeless form plopping into the leather seat. He wipes his mouth with a scrunched nose.

“Tastes worse than the wine,” he scowls with the utmost disgust.

You can’t help but be a little irked with him. The carriage can’t be too far from the Blushing Mermaid. If anything had gone awry…

You sigh. On the other hand, you admittedly felt relieved not to endure the noble’s touch for even a second longer than needed. Once you were at the inn, you’ll have to scrub those places clean…

You take the blade strapped to Astarion’s leather waist belt, and carve into Cedric’s neck, ensuring the pierce of fangs indiscernible. You don’t speak.

You pick up Cedric’s wilted hand, the one with the lone emerald ring. You place his hand on the table in front of you, and right at the knuckle, you begin to cut to the bone.

“Not that I find any qualm in it, but what in the hells are you doing?” Astarion asks in a bewildered whisper.

“Following the client’s request,” you reply simply. Clack. The blade slices through. You tear a thick strip of fabric from Cedric’s shirt, and swaddle the severed finger, still wearing the ring. You then place it in your coin purse.

“What of the body?” Astarion asks.

“We leave it,” you state. You get up and stand by the carriage door.

“As per the client’s request?” Astarion mirrors your movement.

“Yes,” you affirm, your hand at the latch.

As soon as you unlatch it, you both jump out, and scurry off into the night.

☾☼

When you both arrive through the balcony window at your inn, the coming day is a stretch of diluted orange, a yawn of dissolving indigos. You yank the drapes closed to prevent the carnage of sun from entering, then teeter back, your chest heaving, your legs all but buckling beneath you. You had dashed frantic from rooftop to rooftop, like that of scurrying felines, all the way here. The exhilaration had been a pounding in your temples, an airy flutter in your chest, yet now all that remains is the ache.

You feel over the places that Cedric Lao’s phantom touch persisted in lurking with a lulling palm, pressing over the whisper of wet at the side of your neck, over the drag from your knee to the clench of your thigh…

All that remains is the mess.

 A dishevel of white catches your eye as Astarion stalks off to the corner of the room. There, he fills a basin with water and uses a damp rag to dab at the dried blood on his lips and chin, then dunks the rag into the water. He hastily swipes at the underside of his jaw whilst you light a standing candelabra, the sprawling shadows lurking over the slight hunch of Astarion’s shoulders.

You pass to the armoire for a change of clothes. Inside, you pull out an array of varying casual attire and sleepwear. Padding over to him, you note the rigidity of his jaw; the way he wrings out the water with fists.

You want to ask, but you’re exhausted. You rather him brew in his contemptuous blizzard of thought for now, unbothered.

“I bought these for you,” you mention, setting the clothes beside him on the counter, “you can leave your old clothes in the basket. I’ll take care of them tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow,” he snarks, not even acknowledging the clothes.

“Well, I’ll take care of them today,” you amend, preventing yourself from taking a tone. Crossing to the other corner of the room, you fill the bathtub with hot water and sprinkle in perfumed soaking salts. You pull at the overhead canopy’s curtains, concealing the bath behind them.

“Would you like to wash off first?” You offer, and he dismisses you with a wave of his hand.

“Go ahead,” he remarks, his back still turned to you.

You internally sigh. Walking behind the partition you undress with only a moment’s hesitation. When you finally step into the bath after pulling the curtains closed, you hiss at the heat. Sinking down until you are submerged up to your neck, you start by rinsing your hair, followed by scrubbing at every inch of your body.

Although you are clean by anyone’s account, you remain in the bathwater, yearning for a mere few more minutes of reprieve.

Cedric Lao.

Number eight.

Typically, at a time like this, you’d be inconsolable. But tonight’s murder is but a numbness, like that of your skin becoming acquainted with scolding heat. Perhaps it’s because he was like so many others that came before.

Regarded you with a serpentine stare.

Squeezed, prodded, and pried.

The ribbon of water swirls and slips over your callous fingers. Your brow furrows.

Always with rings.

Gods.

You wanted that man to die.

You tuck your knees to your bare chest and wrap your arms around them. Your cheek resting on your knee, you placate yourself by following Astarion’s silhouette through the curtains. He paces like the push and pull of a tide.

Astarion clears his throat. His silhouette halts.

“Are you alright?” He asks casually enough.

“Are you?” You query back, your lungs contracting as if inside a tightening fist. You gather the length of your hair, wringing it out, then comb through it with your fingernails.

A pause.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he mutters with blithe disregard.

 Just by his tone you know he isn’t.

“I’ll be out soon,” you reassure, then decide to stop idling, and the water splashes as you rise. You take the towel beside the tub, then fold it snug around your body.

Another pause. A full exhale.

“It was torture,” he admits.

You freeze. Your heart stills in your throat.

“What?”

“Come out here,” he demands.

You push open the curtains and step out of the tub. Your hair drips onto the floor, the cool air stippling your exposed arms and legs in goosebumps.

His chest rises and falls at the sight of you, as if startled, and then entranced.

You stand there, unsure.

He’s fully wiped away the blood from his neck and his mouth. Changed his clothes.

He’s regarding you like he intends to say something. Like he’s desperate to tear the weeds from his throat and let them tumble from his mouth. But he can’t say it. He’s not comfortable with verbalizing it, he’s not good with this. It is as though he feels he is the one fixed to the floor before you, unclothed and quiet.

You want him to try. To tell you. To yell at you, to elucidate rather than evade. Anything is better than this climbing ivy of contention consuming you whole.

Anything is better than the shadow of what used to be.

And he can take anything and everything from you if he wanted. Just like in the alleyway. He could ruin you. Smudge the color behind your eyes, make it so anyone who comes across you will only know you from the mess he left.

But if he gets too close, the words won’t come. Only the shared language you speak with your hands, your hips, your skin. You can’t do it. You can’t keep hoping he’ll stay when this is all over. You can’t keep hoping he will feel the love you have for him with every touch.

“Come here,” he says again. You don’t move.

“I can’t.” you admit. He unsettles a bit at it.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

He drags a hand over his face, defeated. A sound between a scoff and a laugh stumble from his lips.

The thing he says next makes the fabric of you fray apart.

“Don’t you love me?” He taunts in a dithering tone, wrought with emotion.

You feel tears spring to your eyes. You furiously blink it back. You know what he’s doing. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking hurt.

“Don’t do this,” you chastise.

“Whatever am I doing—” He repudiates.

You clench the towel tighter around you, glowering.

“Don’t say things that you know will hurt me just because you’re upset,” You warn, briskly moving behind the partition.

“I’m not—” he sputters.

“Yes. Yes, you are,” you assert, “it’s what you do.”

You snatch up your change of clothes from the floor, kicking aside the towel and yanking the chemise over your head. All you can think.

I hope you die screaming.

I hope you die screaming.

I hope you die screaming.

It burns behind your eyes. He boils over.

“It’s what I do?”  He jeers.

Fuck.  

“What about what you do?” He disputes, and you try to cut him off to no avail. You can hear the pad of his feet. You step out from the partition, arms crossed. He’s pacing once more.

“Astarion—”

“You tell me nothing of yourself. You betray me, after making me care for you. You make promises you don’t keep,” his hand is a tangle in his hair, his other hand gesturing here and there, “you have me all over you, on my knees for you, and then you have me—”

Your cheeks burn with the implication.

“You didn’t have to do that— I wasn’t—"

“--watch you shamelessly flirt with that absolute imbecile right in front of me,” he inhales, then continues, “then you have me watch as he lays his filthy hands on you—”

“Do you think I planned for what occurred in Cedric’s house?” You erupt, and his attention diverts.

 “Do you think I wanted his—or anyone else’s hands on me besides yours?” You retaliate, stepping into his space, jabbing your finger into his chest, “and yes. I didn’t tell you about myself. But really Astarion, did you ever even ask?”

He opens his mouth to retort, but you don’t let him.

“I swore to you that I’d help you kill Cazador, not that I’d help you become him!” You admonish, gesturing to him wildly, “and I’m sorry that isn’t what you wanted. Do you think this,” you indicate to you both with your hand, “is what I wanted?”

He’s seething. His irises red, riven with resentment. You don’t stop.

“I am trying to make it up to you! Can’t you see? Everything I do, or have done, has always been for you!”

You nearly lose your breath. You feel lightheaded, the tears welling in your eyes, in your words.

His eyes become cold.

“Make it up to me?” He mocks, “how can you ever make it up to me? You have no clue what it all meant to me. You have no minuscule of comprehension of what I endured, what I could have become.”

            He steps toward you, takes your hand in his.

“I feel their hands smear over my skin, I feel their phantom palms prying me a part,” he starts, “fingers closing over my throat,” he utters hovering your hand over his neck, “indigo teeth indents and violent violets,” he takes a breath, trying to reel himself in, but he can’t. He is unraveling.

            He molds your hand into a fist. Holds it over a heart that has forgotten what it means to beat.

“A cacophony of their lascivious moans a coffin laden in my chest.” He clenches his fingers over yours, then lets your hand drop. With every sentence, with every syllable, you see him fall apart. “Two centuries of solicitation, two centuries of polluting touches, of perusing eyes, of submerging myself in submission, of surrendering myself to sounding subservient, to staying still, to obedience, obedience, obedience. Of TAKE, TAKE, TAKE!”

His dolorous tone nearly breaks, the chance to rid himself of this agony unbearable, the necessity to bear his pain insurmountable. 

You can’t breathe. You want to close the distance, to comfort him, to soothe him, but you can’t.

He has fistfuls of his hair in his hands as he resumes, “every dark room is a remembrance of him! My muffled screams they… they say they sound like moaning,” his fists are balled over his eyes, “my body a machine droning on, and on, and on, and who saved me then? Who saved me?” 

Tears are spilling down your cheeks... you hurriedly try to wipe them away, but they keep coming. He looks at you once more, and it is broken.

“Why should I have sacrificed my ascension!? Why should I have saved those spawn? Why when no one saved me,” he fervently maintains, and then it hangs in the air.

You both are silent for a long time. He casts his gaze aside.

You want to say something. Anything. But you don’t know how. You don’t know how to make this better. You want to take it all from him. Bare it for him if it meant he could live free. You wish it was that easy. You wish it wasn’t so hard.

I can’t do this alone.

Don’t leave again.

I need you, even if it’s wrong.

He says your name.

When you meet his eyes, his expression crumbles. His voice is hoarse. He gestures to you weakly.

“And then there’s you,” he states, and you flinch, not ready for what may come.

But his tenor softens, his tone shifts.

“You who took the time to know me,” he concedes, “despite my vitriol, my deceit, my pettiness, my shame, and my….” he falters, the confession too much to bare, his face wrenched tight and brows scrunched together, “almost killing you.” He chokes on the word. You recoil at the confirmation, wounded.

That night.

He meant to…

 Tears cascade over his cheeks, the agony clawing up his throat.

“Despite everything,” he accepts, “You who wanted to save me. Who still does, for whatever reason,” he steps into your space, and you step back, breath dense in your lungs, and it hurts. He tries again, and this time you allow him near you, let him caress your cheeks, tilt your head up to meet his pained gaze.

“I can’t decide whether I could spend eternity hating you or wanting you…” he admits, and your body quakes., it is teetering. His thumb swipes under your wet lashes, holding you steady, looking to you with firm resolve.

“I want all of you,” he begins, “I want your taste. Your mouth,” his eyes dip to your lips, his thumb grazing your bottom lip, gentle, “your words, so soft and warm it feels as though it melts on my skin. I want the hush of a breaking morning yearning for your touch, to entwine like the curls you used to comb your fingers through,” his fingers slide through the still damp strands clung to your neck, “I want to hold you into many days and many nights, I want to hear your laughter-- evenings where the world is silent and all I can hear is you.”

You make a strangled whimper in your throat, while he insists, “I want your sighs, your ramblings, the way you play coy -- I want to listen, I want to know— all of what you don’t say, I want the moans you hide behind your fists,” he takes one of your hands in his, squeezes it, “I want my name on your lips, and mine alone. I want you in my space.”

 He presses your palm over your heart, his hand covering yours, “I want your heartbeat against my ear, a faint, lazy calm, like sea foam passing over sand,” he can feel your pulse thump, over, and over, and always, “I want all of you— and I can't take it. From the moment I saw you in that tavern—From the moment I left. I can’t think of what we had before, or else I lose my restraint.”

The world around you seems to be blown away, like the pappus of a dandelion. You don’t know who initiates first, whether it him with the sashay of carmine roses in his eyes, or you, with your vibrant pulse, casting the room, and him, in gold.

When you collide, the colors merge, the gold blooms and the red hues, his lips are lush and full on yours, his hand tilting up your chin so that he may taste more of you. Each kiss spirals into desperation, into the esurient pursuit of each other’s tongues, your hands at his waist, his body melding into your space.

You wish to know what he hungers for, and he wishes to know the intangible, the taste of your secrets; metallic and sweet. His lips trail from your lips to your jaw, they are a hum against the hollow of your throat, a suck below your ear. Molten heat careens your spine, then pools in your core. You squeeze your bare thighs together, and his breath catches when your fingers become a tangle in his hair, nails grazing the back of his scalp.

You tremble, catching his mouth with yours once more, and then his hands are a slide over the swell of your breast, the curve of your waist, the flesh of your thigh. He trails his hand up and under your chemise, bunching the fabric at your upper thigh, feeling your skin under his palm. He groans into your kiss as he wedges your leg around his waist, so that he can press his hips into you.

 You’re wearing nothing under your chemise. The silk of his sleep pants, stretched taunt and tight by his arousal, bumps against your sex.

You gasp against his mouth, your senses engulfed in his redolent incense, all bergamot and rosemary, and his grasp, all trembling and insatiable. Whilst his hands fumble with untying the knot at his waist, you go on your tiptoes to suck lilac buds to the slope of his neck, then catch his earlobe in your teeth. He makes a strangled noise in his throat, finally getting the knot undone, and tugs down his pants, his cock springing free. He hunches down closer to you, allowing you to kiss and suck over the sensitive sharp of his ear. His fingers wrap around the base of his cock, sliding it between your thighs and beneath the slick of your lower lips. Your moan vibrates into the shell of his ear.

“Hells—”he grits out through his teeth, and nonsensical syllables slip from his tongue, enthralled by your mouth, your tongue, the milky sheen of your sex coating him with your pleading arousal. Gods, with your everything,

“Ahgm…”

 “Say it again,” you susurrate into his ear, and he shivers, his one hand anchoring your thigh clenching and unclenching.

“I want all of you,” he repeats whilst pressing his forehead to yours and gazing into your eyes, sliding himself back and forth against your sex.

“Then take me to bed,” you say, and he listens, his other hand lifting your other thigh so that you may cross your ankles behind him. He carries you over to the bed and lays you down atop the blankets. After, he crawls over you. His heavy-lidded stare is like that of the night finding refuge in your room, in your touch, him like cascades of moon dew, like that stardust you surrender yourself to. He helps you pull your chemise up and over your head, and you help him do the same for his shirt.

His lips eclipse with yours once more, and you feel him squeeze and fondle your breasts, his fingers rolling the buds of your perked nipples between them.

“Oh!” You coo as his kisses trail over the bend of your jaw, over the slope of your shoulder, pausing only briefly to suckle and scrape his teeth at your collar bone. Upon your flesh he leaves blooming love bites, and then he dips his head down to your breast, enclosing your nipple into his needy mouth. He flicks it in his mouth, then swirls his tongue in all-encompassing circles. He gives your other nipple a gentle squeeze between his fingers, pinching and twirling it with his thumb.

“Ahh—st…arion,” you whine, your back arching into him, and your hands fisting his hair. You pant and squirm when he changes breasts and hollows his cheeks, sucking your nipple firm into his mouth. You feel the tilt of smile against your breast, the way his breath becomes labored, the weight of his sex, pulsing and all too hot, pressed against your thigh.

Astarion’s mouth unlatches from your nipple with a pop. He sits up only to descend your body. Before you can even process it, he picks you up from your lower half, hoisting your legs over his shoulders so that his head is nestled between your thighs.

“Wait—” you beg, the position all too exposed, but it’s too late, as his tongue drags, flat and wet, up the seam of your sex, twirling his tongue around your clit and then sucking it into his mouth. Your body lurches, the sensation like being swallowed into a celestial sky, all static and stars, all shivers and light. He has to readjust his grip to hold you steady, as he languishes his tongue between your folds, lapping at your bundle of nerves, then plunges his deft tongue into your sex. Streams of heat pour down from your temple to your core, and you feel the reverberation of his groans into your cunt, all rasping and gravel, all encouraging and pleased.

When your climax approaches, like a coil about to snap, your thighs clench around his head and his nails dig into the flesh of your backside. His tongue doesn’t stop, all too eager to feel you convulse and writhe, to have you dripping down his jaw.

 “Mmnn, I—I’m going— to— “You plea, the feeling too intense, and he growls low in his throat his praise.

 And then it does come, and you unravel like the tethers of yesterday by a ravenous sun. He laps it up, even when the devastating waves of pleasure become lulling ripples, even when you are gasping and grasping at the sheets, tears slipping down your cheeks.

 “Astarion,” you whimper when he settles your tremoring legs down on either side of him.

“Yes, my darling?” He answers in a heavy, sultry voice, one hand enclosing over your hip, his thumb tracing aimless designs. He wipes at the wet of his mouth and chin with a languid smile, his low lidded eyes nearly hidden by white lashes.

It makes you ache with want for him.

You want to make him feel good; in all the ways you can. You want to hear him say your name, to intwine like you once did.

Deciding you most certainly will, you lean up onto one elbow and reach to wrap your fingers around the length of his cock. His breath hitches, sudden and sharp, hips jolting forward into your clutch.

“Ah—"  

You slide your fingers to the head of his cock, and then down his shaft, his arousal slick to your palm. You bite your lip, the way his brow furrows and his eyes squeezed tight as you pump his cock up and down making you clench and rub your thighs together. You pump your hand at a leisurely, torturous pace, and he jerks into your grasp, your name falling from his lips between fragmented moans.

You watch his nostrils flare with each exhale, the way he urgently thrusts into your hand making you increase your pace, until he is quivering, until he is nearing the edge.

“Not… not yet. I want—” Astarion pants, “to be-- inside you first...”

Your hand stills, a flourish of pink flooding your cheeks, and as soon as you pull your hand away, he is on you.

You can’t help the thrumming of your heartbeat as he spreads your thighs and readjusts himself at your entrance, one hand on your hip. He slides the head of his cock over your lower lips and nudges it against your clit, causing you to gasp. Gods. You can even feel him twitch.

Astarion leans down, gaze latching onto yours.

 When he kisses you, it is simultaneous with him pressing himself inside the velvet of your sex. He sinks into you from the head, all the way down to the base, filling you completely to the hilt.

“Hells,” he grunts against your lips, and you gasp as you feel yourself adjust to the girth of him, the size and feel almost too overwhelmingly good, your toes curling, your spine bending. He slides himself all the way out, and then slams back in.

You cry out, and he does it again, and again, and again, meeting your hips, thrust after thrust. He starts at a gradual, drawn-out rate, each thump of your heart a slap of your sexes. You grapple onto his shoulders, as it resounds in the room, the wet noises and crescendo of crooning voices like that of collapsing seas.

“I miss this,” he states as he thrusts his cock deep, hitting that part of you that makes your vision haze in speckles of white, makes your body quake and your blood thrum, “You feel—” he pants, “so fucking good--”

Your nails drag down his shoulder blades, as he insists, “tell me you miss this,” he pleads, “tell me.”

You don’t think you can even speak as he keeps striking that same spot, over and over, but you try.

“Yes,” you whine, your hips careening to meet his.

“Always,” you profess, and he throbs inside you, your name shuddering from his lips in approval.

Fully immersed, like he may drown in all you are, it is as though he yearns to commit to memory the melody of your body, the mews spilling from your mouth, the way the syllables of his name become broken by desire.

All these places sacred in his mind, all the places he wants to learn by heart.

His kisses are imprinted all over you, at your cheek, to the underside of your jaw, to the slope of your neck, to the space just below your ear. Every time he says your name, all breathless, all desperate, it builds and builds in your core, the impending eclipse of your climax soon to come.

It’s like a harmonization of your bodies, of your souls, his lips, a lush rush of fever, lulling you into the forevermore. The sweat building at his brow, the vein pulsing at his clenched jaw, the relentless rhythm of his hips now a sloppy, juddering tempo.

You know he’s close too, and you want it.

“Please,” you beg, and it’s too much.

“Don’t stop--” and he doesn’t.

He can’t.

“Astarion—I’m—”

Your eyes roll back as your sex clenches down on him as you orgasm, your nails creating crescent moons at his shoulders. His mouth melds to your neck, and you feel his teeth and the sharpness of his fangs. He doesn’t bite, doesn’t trust himself to, instead, he smothers the series of shuttering moans rumbling from his lips as he reaches his limit. Its disastrous, the way you cling to him, riding it out, feeling him throb and pulsate, spilling his seed inside you.

After, he collapses on top of you. You don’t mind the weight. You trace your fingernails, aimless, over his back, as you both attempt to catch your breaths.

After a long moment spent in solace, he props himself upright, getting up from the bed. Your heart drops, if only for a second, before he’s returning to help clean the mess between your thighs with a damp hand towel.

“Thank you,” you murmur as he puts the towel into the clothes basket.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he replies, while his back is turned. You make room for him on the bed, and he takes his place, laying beside you. He faces you.

The shade of him is soft.

It’s there. On your tongue. Trapped behind your teeth. You need him to know. Even if he already does.

I love you.

You can’t get the words out, so you wish to make him feel it.

You pull him to you, until he’s hovering over you once more. Your thumb slides over his bottom lip. You take in every feature, every detail of his expression. Red eyes of the eternal, hair of frostbite. The crease of his brow, the slight crowfeet, the faint indent of smile lines, the soft cupid’s bow.

It’s a shame he can never see himself.

It’s a shame he can never truly know how you see him.

Like a vase of orchids. A drink of moonlight. A haloed silhouette.

And when you dream… It is never not of him.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmur, and then his expression shifts, at first like that of pain, and then of something full, of something vulnerable.

He leans in to press a kiss to your temple, then over your lashes, to the bridge of your nose, to the corner of your mouth.

He says your name like a faint slip of silk sliding through fingertips.

“You’re everything,” he replies, then settles on top of you, ear pressed to your pulse. He holds you close.

You lay there for a time, until sleep overtakes you.

☾☼

It is hours after, in the midst of a dreamless sleep. Astarion’s head weighed on your chest, your fingers still caught in his hair. His downcast white lashes, the smooth between his brows and the plush of his lips, all serene.

You hear his voice enter your mind through his sending stone. That reverberant baritone, that long drawl of heavy syllables, like sinking teeth.

Decent work with Lao, little Dove. It’s time you come to see me again. Make sure to leave the leech at home.

Your stomach drops, your pulse stills.

No.

You untangle your hand from Astarion’s hair, and shift to get out of bed. He grumbles at your movement, arm outstretched around your waist tightening, resisting.

“Astarion,” you plead.

“Hmm?” He mumbles, a crease between his brow furrowing.

“I need to get up. I… have to go,” you tug at his arm to release you, and he does, although reluctant. You leave the bed, your mind consumed.

…leave the leech at home.

You put on your clothes, lace up your boots. All the while Astarion follows your restless barrage of movement from the bed.

“Where are you going?” He sits up fully, the bed sheets tumbling to his waist.

“The man I work for requested I meet him.” You sheath a blade into the holder at your thigh, then collect your hair into an unruly bun, avoiding his stare. You don’t want him to know the creature of anxiety crawling up your spine and clawing over your lungs.

“And you have to leave now?” Astarion disapproves, motioning to get out of bed, but you hold up your hand to him.

“You should get your rest,” you grab your coin purse, suppressing a cringe at the shape of Cedric’s severed finger still inside, “I should be gone only a few hours.”

He ignores your request, leaving the bed. You avert your gaze at his naked form, a flush of heat blooming in your cheeks and in your chest.

“I don’t know where you’re going. I don’t even know this man’s name,” he chides whilst yanking up his pants, “You’re not great at concealing your distress, you know.”

“You needn’t worry—” you deny, and then he’s approaching you. You hold your breath.

“Why do you try so hard to keep things from me?” His gaze dips to your hands, and you know what he implies.

You shrink back, refuting, “It’s not that. I’ll tell you all you want to know, but now isn’t the time,” his frown deepens, “I can’t keep him waiting.”

He throws up his hands in an exaggerated sigh.

“Fine.”

“We’ll talk about everything when I return,” you promise.

“Everything?” He doubts; arms crossed.

The visions of dawn descend upon your mind in swashes of sensation, in words said and unsaid, like you’re being pulled under the current in all of what you’ve done. His prior admission akin to a choral, rising in octaves, brushing over you like strokes of acrylic. For a moment then, you thought you’d profess you’re love once more, not just through touch, but with words.

However, there is something you can’t ignore. Can’t deny.

The last time you told him you loved him… he had meant to kill you.

You glance away.

Time is waning.

If I end up failing in getting this scroll, doesn’t that mean the end of this too?

“Yes,” you concede, with that faraway look in your eyes he’d grown accustomed to, “everything.”

[theweeklydiscourse]

tw: mention of CSA and abuse

just saw your recent reblog about Nosferatu and idk what is your actual take on it but i've to disagree with the op saying <this is not a story about grooming nor abuse... it can be,> the movie is very obviously and directly concerned about sexual abuse and the uncomfortable eroticism only enhances the horror of the whole situation. i just find posts that constantly need to mention "it's not about abuse it really isn't!" entirely dishonest and intentionally denying the very obvious theme of the movie just so they don't have to face the fact that they liked a ship that is as noncon as it gets. it is essentially a grooming rapist/victim relationship which obviously makes people uncomfortable to admit which is why they don't want to acknowledge that. and that explains the vehement push back against the SA narrative (which isn't a simple interpretation but very much what literally happens in the movie). i just think that people need to just start being honest with themselves like there's nothing wrong if you end up liking an absolutely fucked up dynamic and the whole “death and the maiden” of it all but please stop with the "this isn't a story of abuse" takes because that is actually harmful. not the shipping but denying the fact that this is a movie about abuse because it has led to some very horrible takes of rape apologism with people saying "it's not abuse because she called to him so it can't be" like... no. just no.

There are a few issues at play in the current discourses surrounding Nosferatu. First, one side makes sweeping generalizations about what the film is definitively about, and then the other side counters it with its own sweeping statements. This predictably gives way to certain over-corrections in the discourse that try to find an absolute answer to subject matter that is up for audience interpretation. I actually had a similar thought occur to me when I read that quote in that particular post, and I say that as someone who is really into the "Death and the Maiden" dynamic. We're talking about a film that provides more than enough support for multiple interpretations and it's frustrating that people reject other people's ideas so they can have the *one ultimate correct* take on it.

This issue is exacerbated by the current internet climate of moralizing textual interpretations and the lack of understanding surrounding the genre Nosferatu belongs to. Gothic fiction often features taboo subject matter that is considered by many to be off-putting and disturbing, and usually, that leads to the judgement of those who enjoy it. The reason that people are overcorrecting by saying that it's not about abuse is responding to the denial of the existence of themes of repression, desire and love in the film. It's a phenomenon I also find irritating. Viewers who are totally unfamiliar with the kinds of themes and subject matter gothic fiction deals with seem to be imposing only one possible interpretation of the text while acting like people are immoral for thinking otherwise.

I also consider Robert Eggers's words in my own reading of the film. In an interview, Eggers noted that his approach to the film was informed by the trope of the "demon lover" and even referred to the relationship between Ellen, Orlok, and Thomas as a love triangle. The film is explicitly erotically charged in a manner that can be taken either way, and I believe that both interpretations are valid ones. Outright denial of interpretations of Ellen and Orlok's relationship as abusive seems foolish to me. But I also get why people might be uncomfortable fully acknowledging the more twisted nature of their dynamic. Nobody wants to get labelled as an abuse apologist over fictional matters or shipping, and there are times when merely engaging with darker subject matter gets people labelled as such. However, people need to stop being so absolutist about these things and learn to substantively engage with differing viewpoints.

I think that the online tendency to moralize fictional preferences plays a large role in people's resistance to being honest with themselves about liking taboo subjects or twisted dynamics. There's nothing wrong with liking it, but it's hard to do so openly without incurring some form of criticism and contempt. Denial gets us nowhere.

[darkfictionjude]

This is Incest fan anon What i meant was what you said, that you made it completely clear that u will not be writing incest in this story, but since u write dark things people feel comfortable bugging u about it. And its like.. guys go somewhere else to talk about ur fantasies. Like, come on. Just bc jude writes certain things doesnt mean she needs to hear about ur fantasies or whatever else 😭 its "write whatever u want" until you write what you want to write, which is a complex familial relationship. idk. its not a big deal but its annoying to see people treating anybody like that and acting like its in a joking manner when it very much isnt. I feel like people go into extremes when it comes to fiction. not every story must either be 0 boundries everything or have Nothing. Thats dumb. How about all stories be "write the story youd like to write" and we leave jude alone about stuff shes been clear on not being appart of her story 👍

Oh nonnie when I responded it wasn’t to you! It was more explaining my feelings towards persistence you don’t have to explain yourself I understood what you were trying to say

But you’re very right that not everything has to be in extremes. Given the dark subject matter I tackle, would thinking incest would be one be out the question? No but I would’ve made it clear as a trigger warning since people seem to forget that while they might find it sexy, there are other people who are personally affected and they shouldn’t be caught off guard like that

That would be as shitty as writing about SA and then not warning beforehand. Books get away with that but this medium is made to be very focused on TW

And also lastly, I don’t want to do that to crowny, they’ve suffered enough with the multiple of issues they were born with and into

Anyway I did say maybe one day I would explore that topic so for those that are into that you might get your wish but not now

[dragomfry]

Implications of Doumeki’s Trauma, mainly with the Nurse

I haven’t seen many discuss the significance of the nurse trauma or why they think it was written that way to begin with, so here’s some of my thoughts

TW: CSA, SA, parental neglect

I’m glad that the story treats the moment with the nurse as SA of a male by a female, rather than Doumeki “being lucky” to have done it with a woman (gross). It’s not often that this situation is represented without it being played as a joke or as something… desirable. (I wanted to puke just writing that).

But the moment is brought up once then not again (from what I recall), and its effects are hard to see without reading far into the text, so I’ve always questioned why this instance was written as Doumeki’s first sexual experience. Why was this event discussed in only a single chapter? Why did it have to be rape and not some healthier arrangement? And if others want to add to that too, I’m curious of those thoughts

We know that when Doumeki was younger, his parents stopped treating him like a child because of his inability to express emotions well and how much his body developed (ch.29). I think Yoneda-sensei wanted to point out the harm of treating a child like an adult when they are still growing. I drew a connection to the phenomenon of adultification, primarily affecting Black children but also applying to other ethnic minorities frequently. There are many negative effects, but among the worst is that some children who are deemed as “more mature” are more likely to be sexualized and potentially assaulted. I believe this is what happened to Doumeki.

Now that I think about it, has Doumeki ever himself thought of the experience with the nurse as rape, or those times in prison as SA*? He said in ch.5 that he has never told anyone else about his encounter with the nurse. Maybe he was ashamed of this sexual encounter, or maybe he was scared that others would judge or simply brush off his experience? Maybe he didn’t even realize he was a victim in that moment. We only have so much to work with, but I’m speculating that the blase portrayal and Doumeki’s (seemingly lack of) reaction to these moments could be interpreted as commentary in itself. These moments are so casual in society that even the survivors themselves don’t realize they have been subject to a crime. Normalization of these experiences is a foundation of rape culture.

The implications/effects of the nurse trauma are harder to see but I think it manifests in a few ways.

Doumeki was around 12-13 (first year of junior high in Japan) when he was exploited by an authority figure, so he may not have fully realized he was a victim. His inability to express emotions well when he was younger explains his general lack of expression, but that doesn’t explain his emotional numbness and feelings of emptiness that are very prevalent pre-timeskip. I believe these aspects are attributed to his trauma (concerning parental neglect, the nurse, and his feelings surrounding Aoi’s trauma). This numbness has actually improved seeing as how he’s expressing more emotion and starting to joke around more post-timeskip. His sense of purpose has also improved, and I don’t think it’s just about Yashiro anymore but also his dedication to the Sakura group.

The nurse incident may also show his early sexual curiosity (since he didn’t run away). It may have added to the huge sense of shame that he would develop for having those feelings later.

Actually I just realized that it was when Aoi entered junior high that she started developing feelings for Doumeki, and it’s when he started avoiding her. They are 5 years apart. Doumeki encountered the nurse when he was in junior high. This recontextualizes everything. The confusing and traumatic feelings Doumeki must have experienced from the nurse incident must have scarred him, making him deeply uncomfortable with Aoi’s new feelings. So it’s not just because she was his adopted sister that made him uncomfortable, but also because she may have reminded him of horrible feelings with the nurse. Now I think this is what makes him avoiding his sister for so long more tangible. He wanted to disconnect from that trauma, which unfortunately he affiliated with his sister. This disconnection from his trauma must have also contributed to his feelings of numbness and emptiness I mentioned earlier.

The nurse incident also highlighted his childhood loneliness. His parents didn’t treat him like a child for as long as they should have. He may have just wanted some attention from an adult…

It’s easy to see why Yashiro’s trauma is so heavily discussed (and it’s extremely important that it is): the effects of his trauma are so visceral to us. And it’s true that portrayals/explanations of how his trauma affects him are given significantly more “screentime” than Doumeki’s (Yashiro is the main character so it makes sense but; admittedly it’s still a bit of a critique). However, the effects of Doumeki’s trauma are also very complex and should be discussed as well. They are just harder to notice..

———————————————————————————

I think we will see more of Doumeki’s perspective this arc. And soon. Yoneda-sensei loves hiding stuff from us only to reveal that info at just the right moments, and I think this is what’s happening here. Lots of things about him have changed without any real explanation; so far we can only speculate. E.g. his feelings regarding his father, his situation with his family, his relationship with Izumi (which is being teased heavily), etc

Mysteries all around

*= edit for clarification