#gnawing at his metal arms

[t104b]

Gnawing at my pillow rn GUIBWGWHBWR

Need more yes man headcanons and content and perchance yes man x reader i MIGHT just do it myself yes yes that's a good idea cheesypie hmmmm you are wise yes muehehehehe rubs hands devilishly together (send requests cuz i want to contribute whilst i'm all over this robo blorbo)

[anemonet]

has anyone here concidered listening to whisper by jack staubers micropop on loop

[strawberrymochin]

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐚' 𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐬!

synopsis- dared by nobara, Yuji decides to pull a prank on their physics professor— gojo satoru, infamous for his wickedly handsome face and his notorious mouth. He spikes gojo’s coffee with a few pills of viagra, suppressing the jolts of illegal excitement bubbling up his veins— which soon dies when gojo offers the cup of coffee to you instead.

warnings- college!au, SMUT, physics professor gojo with huge d, you having a hopeless crush on gojo, nobamaki as your sidekick, age gap(6yrs), use of APHRODISIACS, oral male receiving, mutual masturbation, SQUIRTING, CHOKING, unprotected sex(sort of), VOYEURISM, I feel sorry for Yuji, cursing, dirty talk, some great latin words.

w.c- 4.8k

a/n's note- Yuji will always be remembered as my brave soldier! Next will be nanami in the series!! i hope you like it. comments and reblogs are much appreciated!! Taglist is open!

“Professor gojo is always a hot topic for the girls” nobara stated blandly to her senior maki, sitting opposite to her at their regular corner cafeteria table. 

Maki rolls her eyes at the statement, unable to pinpoint what exactly girls like about their professor. Even you— her best friend has an insatiable crush on him. She unwrapped her chicken cheese burger taking a huge bite before muffling “yeah, nothing new…”.

Gojo Satoru, your physics professor, has been a topic of constant gossip ever since he joined the university. He was surprisingly young, menacingly handsome and had a notorious way with his tongue. His carefree attitude and indelible impression caused students to mark him as the— infamous professor among the trio of young havocs. 

Girls swarmed around him sprawling new tattles each day. And another one that randomly popped out at the chatter page of your university was— professor gojo having an extremely high sex drive. 

An anon posted it in the forum and disappeared and it blew up overnight. People agreed over online, some simping, some getting disgusted or jealous(mainly boys), and some concocting new scandals having seen him going out with two different women in one day. 

Today was no different. The chatter forums have been buzzing with news and rumors and among them the trending one was professor gojo’s libido discussions. 

Nobara dragged her finger down the screen of her phone, refreshing the page hoping to see something new. “I can't believe they don't have any better discussions other than this.” Her disappointment was clearly visible as ‘gojolibido’ thingy still remained at its position on the top. 

she placed her phone down on the table, sipping up the last of her drink. 

Yuji leaned back in his armchair, his head resting against the cool metal frame, his body partially slouched. His crumpled paper wraps of sandwich sat messy on the table, “come to think of it, professor gojo never declines any of the stuff…” 

The college rumors spread like gasoline set ablaze. There was little to no chance of him not being aware of the sizzling situation. 

Maki dropped her half eaten burger, placing her elbows on the table top leaning in a bit. “He probably enjoys it.” 

And maybe he does. There are sure subtle hints. The slight curve of the corner of his lips when students gawk at him as he walks past them, hearing them fawning over him. Or the smug side eye he gives to his male students— almost satirical. Or the infamous way of his wicked tongue, it's as if he was mocking them. 

No one can say for sure. 

“If that's the case I'm sure he wouldn't mind some pranks too…” Yuji straightens up half joking. “What do you mean?” asks maki. 

“Like some pulling up a bold act…” he suggested, stretching his arms out before letting them fall on his thighs, rubbing his palms over the rough fabric.

“Woah!” Nobara almost jumped up in excitement, looking at Yuji as if he finally had some sense knocked in his head, “And here I thought Itadori never grew a brain,” she sprinted her head to maki who was gnawing on her burger. 

“How ‘bout we get y/n pull something on gojo sensei?” 

“Bruh—” maki leaned back in her seat, narrowing her eyes as a little smirk crawled up her face. 

You've had a crush on professor gojo. And this was no secret from your friend group. Plus they already had enough of you sighing dramatically at the mere sight of him. They can only wonder how you even manage to behave normal when you're assigned to help him sort out some paperwork after class. 

“This is gonna be awful. And fun to watch.” Maki turned her head to spot you in the cafeteria line, currently buying lunch for yuta and inumaki. 

They have a paper due the next day so they requested you to buy them lunch to save time. 

As you leave the cafeteria with lunch boxes in your hand, heading towards the classroom yuta and inumaki might be stressing over work, maki, nobara and Yuji join you. 

“Done buying the idiots lunch?” Maki came up wrapping a hand over your shoulder. “Woa— yeah! On my way delivering it as you can see…” 

“Sure thing.” Nobara said. 

“Well you know we're playing truth and dare.” Maki continues dragging out the ‘dare’ part. 

“Yeah lame shit…” 

“So, we’ve got a dare for you.” She announces outright. 

“Bitch i wasn't even playin—” 

“Yuji wants to pass his dare to you.” Yuji looked baffled at nobara, but decided to play along anyway. “Ah yeah y/n senior, can you please take the dare my stead.” 

Aww, you pitied the pink haired boy, one year junior than you. You nodded you head in sympathy, feeling sorry for what ridiculous of a dare maki and nobara might have imposed on him, not caring what they might impose on you. 

“It's really simple okay….” maki says comforting you with her grip on your shoulder. “You just need to go and pull up a bold act on professor gojo.” 

Your nodding halts as her word registers in your mind. You look up questionably at her with one eye twitching, face cringing.

“You want me to do what?” 

“Chill, I'm not asking you to get naked or edge play with him. Just a little flirting will do…” nobara nods aggressively at maki’s words, eyes sparkling to convince you. 

The lunch boxes stayed in your hand, before giving it away to the stressed duo who found it strange for maki, nobara and Yuji swarming around you, looking this excited considering your freaked out expression. You eventually agreed to them, unable to resist their sparkling eyes and it wouldn't be a lie to say you yourself were itching to try it out. 

You sort of had a head start when things came to professor gojo. Atleast that's what your friends thought, though you tried to convince yourself the opposite. You were just an average student. Not too good not too bad. 

It was a coincidence that he out of all the students ‘randomly’ chose you to sort out paperworks. 

You even wondered if he knew your name. Not once has he addressed you with your name from the previous two paperwork sessions. Not being able to ask, you decide for yourself that he doesn't. After all, why would he even try to remember you? Bet he doesn't even glance twice at your face. 

“Go!” Maki whispers at your ear, pushing you at your back, urging you. 

Professor Gojo was standing outside his office. A rare scene indeed, he seemed immersed in his phone screen typing something. 

You gulp once before looking back at your friends— whom you definitely cursed in your mind. Nobara pulled yuji’s collar down to her level, whispering something, which made him suppress his bubbling laugh. 

Your face twists bitterly, feeling a burn of anger, which soon dies as they push you off causing you to stumble mid corridor. 

Awkwardly you try regaining your balance as a string of curses slip past your mouth. You should have never agreed to this in the first place. Why did it matter anyway? You'd be graduating in a few months and will barely see the pink haired guy again. 

Gojo’s gaze shifts in your direction as you try to maintain a straight posture. Your best friend and the juniors hid themselves behind the small alcove, eavesdropping eagerly. 

“Yes?” Professor gojo stuffs his phone back in his pockets, one hand coming up to slide his rimmed sunglasses up his nose bridge. 

You suck in a sharp breath, suddenly aware of each hair in your body and every single sensation coursing through your body causing them to stand in attention. “Eh—”

Gojo eyes you up and down, a discreet smile tugging off his lips, as he comes forward closing the distance between you two. His towering body blocked the sun rays pooling over your body from the huge glass window. “Have a doubt about the previous lecture?” 

Maki and others sigh face palming themselves. Your frozen stance grows their doubt even stronger, questioning how you even manage to stay after class for the paper sorting sessions. 

“Yea— i mean I want to ask you something— ” you fiddled with your fingers, looking the other direction as gojo leans down to your level. A familiar embarrassing burn creeps up your cheeks, soon spreading up to your ears. 

“Um—” 

Gojo hums encouraging you to speak up, his sunglasses slipping down a bit as one sapphire eye peeks at you. 

You could feel maki and the other's gaze piercing through your back, suddenly wondering how come your professor hasn't noticed them gawking yet. 

Gojo looks at you expectantly. 

Okay, you've got this— you only need to pull a little bold stuff like flirting as nobara suggested. You can go with some pick up line, even related to physics for highlighting the pun intended, for example you can say ‘i know the spring constant of my mattress, wanna take some data?’

Okay, that was shit. What if you ask him to expand your polynomial? That's even more weird. 

“You oka—” 

“Cubitum eamus?” 

“ -what?” Gojo straightens up, scrunching his nose, resting one hand at his hip. 

Red spreads down to your collarbone, seemingly flushed yet relieved when gojo doesn't gets the hint. “Nothing.” You say before sprinting away downstairs, your friends following you down from the alcove. 

“Y/n wait-” maki huffs catching up to you, the juniors following behind huffed out. “What the heck did you say?” 

Her further inquiry made you even more flushed, eyes shutting as you take in another deep breath grabbing maki before shaking her by her shoulders. “I. Said. Nothing. You get it. NOTHING!!” 

Maki showed you a thumbs up, as Yuji halts your action, saving her spinning head from your ass. 

You calm yourself before making up and excuse and running away, still flustered, while the entire gang had no idea what the heck was wrong with you, coming to the conclusion that you were probably high. 

“Bruh what did she even say? A curse or something?” Nobara cracks up as Yuji was still trying to rescue maki from her brain shaken plight.

“I swear,” Yuji agrees holding a eye- spiralling maki from her arm, “i could have done better than her.”

“Better?” Nobara lends a hand to Yuji.

“Yeah…much better.” 

“Itadoriiii,” her eyes narrowed, a wicked grin blooming on her face, “I bet you're a man of your words.” 

And this is how Itadori Yuji, was dared-convinced that a he could ofcourse pull a better prank than his senior, such as spiking professor gojo’s coffee with aphrodisiacs. ‘i mean it wouldn't hurt to see him ache a bit.’— was what nobara had said yesterday. ‘We've got so many rumours about professor gojo atleast someone have to confirm them.’ she shrugged sliding the ziplock of crushed pills in his shirts pocket, before slamming on his back. 

Yuji checked once again at the front door of the office, his hands stirring the spoon on the hot coffee to let the powder dissolve. He somehow managed to sneak into gojo's office from the back door when professor geto called him out for a bit. The classes are over, and now would be the perfect time to get a look over the amusing scenario about to unfold. 

Yuji gets alert when he hears footsteps coming near, abandoning the cup before scurrying to the back door in order to slip out before anyone notices him. He intends to hide in the men's washroom before coming back near the back of the gojo’s office peeking from the small gap in the door he'd left open. 

As you enter professor gojo’s office with the bundle of written assignments the juniors had submitted, you see Yuji rushing out from the back door. 

Confused, you tilt your head. “What the heck was he doing here?” You mumble to yourself. The embarrassing moment of the last encounter you had with professor gojo flashed through your mind, face cringing red as you shook your head to forget those thoughts. 

Fortunately professor gojo didn't mention about the last encounter, he just asked you to collect the assignments from the juniors and bring it to his office. As usual he'd need your help evaluating the credits. 

You did feel a bit awkward after what you'd done but you tried to feign indifference, which didn't actually work, your palms were sweating wet. However you nodded as usual and went on with your work. 

You place the bundle of papers on his table, when your eyes travel to the cup of coffee, slow tendrils of warm stream rising upwards. However it was slightly displaced from its previous position, and— even the spoon in the coffee sat opposite from what you've seen before. There were slight sprinkles of white dust surrounding the saucer.

Your mouth forms a small astonished ‘o’, head turning back to look at the back door, with the small open gap. You weren't sure whoever you saw was Yuji or not, but you did spot a hint of pink. 

Your brows knitted together.

Did he spike the coffee? You thought.

But why would he do that? Yuji wouldn't go and do something like this. As you try to connect the dots with the situation, the creak of the door draws your attention back from it. 

Gojo entered back, his gaze briefly met yours, acknowledging you before turning back swiftly and sliding the door shut. 

He slipped back into his directorial chair, hand gesturing to the chair across his table. “Have a seat.”  

“—yes.” 

He ran a hand up his hair, getting hold of the first assignment among the bunch of papers, “take my laptop and register the credits.” He flipped through the pages, scrutinizing some parts longer than the others as you obeyed him. 

The excel sheet was already on screen as you opened his laptop, ready to type in the credits as he dictates. 

“Y/n,” you raise your head, eyes wide at him. This is the first time he said your name, even more shocked that he did remember it. 

“Yes.” 

“Have the coffee.” 

“—i'm sorry.” 

Minutes of silence pass, before gojo flips through the last page of the first assignment, separating it from the others. “I said. Have. The. Coffee.” 

You gulped at his persistent nature, did he spotted the white dust laying around? 

“I— I'm not very fond of it.” 

“Of coffee? Or of me?” you almost choked on your spit as he raised a cocky eyebrow, halting his hand midway from another assignment before picking up the metal spoon and stirring the lukewarm coffee once again. 

“Coffee. I m-mean.” 

“You seem nervous,” he placed both of his elbows on the table between you two, “I'm sure it will help you calm your nerves.” 

“T-thank you but I rea—” 

“You know you shouldn't reject your professor’s kindness.” your mouth felt dry, never have you ever seen professor gojo being this intimidating and hot, and if your brain already wasn't a freak, it was sort of turning you on. “Why are you adamant about it? Try it once.” he slid the saucer to you, as he let his face fall on the palm of his one hand, eyes watching your every movement with an orphic gleam. 

Unwillingly, you raised your hand, getting hold of the cup before bringing it to your lips. 

You gulped thickly not wanting to drink. You weren't sure if it was Yuji who spiked the drink or not, but it was sure spiked. You couldn't even bring yourself to tell gojo about it since you didn't want to blame Yuji for nothing but—

“drink.” 

You sip it. And— it tasted normal. Maybe you were just overthinking. 

Half an hour passed and you kept typing the credit scores on his laptop, as he continued checking the assignments. 

Everything was fine except you felt hot- like extremely hot. Your shirt stuck too tight to your skin and you wanted to take it off, your chest was heaving, sweat beads were forming on your temple even though the ac was on. 

“you okay?” gojo asks when you don't answer him. “Yes, I'm sorry, what was the score again?” 

“You seem to sweat awfully? Is something wrong?” Gojo rose from his seat, pushing the chair back slightly as he did so. He moved away from the table and approached you till he was in front of you. 

He extended one arm to you as his fingers touched your burning temple. You suck in a breath, his cold fingertips in contrast to your burning temple sent shivers down your spine. Heat pooled down your lower stomach as you felt the urge to clench around nothing. 

Was the coffee spiked with—

Gojo narrowed his gaze when you didn't answer him, retreating back to the almost finished cup of coffee, pouring out the rest of the remains into the saucer as the white powdery residue became visible. 

He swiped two fingers on it before rubbing and speculating it, sniffing it from his fingers. “tch, so you drugged it with aphrodisiacs.” 

“Huh?” you gawk at his accusation. 

“First you ask me to sleep with you, second you drug my coffee, do you really want me that bad?” 

You wanted to deny his accusations, you wanted to tell him that you didn't drugged his coffee but the way his words were laced with a hint of mockery, especially the fact the he knew what you said to him the last day, increased the dull ache of your core even more, thighs squeezing with each other to get some relief. 

You take a deep breath, calming your mind and open your mouth to deny him when he inserts his fingers in your mouth, the one with the white residue. 

“Suck.” your eyes widen once again, you shouldn't be doing this, you didn't drug his drink, so you should be telling him the truth. But what if you played along, what if you sucked his fingers as he said. 

What if—

Your tongue lapped the residue off his two fingers, sucking it clean, as he pulled his fingers out. He leaned down, hands on your arm rests caging you. 

“Such a good girl.” His breath tickled your burning skin, “I was going to wait till you graduate but since you're so impatient…strip.” 

It was an order. Unable to resist, you give in, if there was this mere possibility of him fucking you why not let it happen. You've had a crush on him since the very beginning and after all, this was the golden opportunity for you to confirm all the rumors about professor gojo you'd read in the forums. 

You let out a shaky breath, setting his laptop aside before hands come up to undo your shirt. Gojo straightens up, watching you shamelessly strip out of your shirt without blinking, gaze predatory even as if he wanted to devour you whole. 

You rise from your seat, letting your shirt fall on the chair you occupied before unzipping your skirt, its fabric pooling around your legs. 

You were now almost naked, only in your lace bras and your drenched panties. 

“Was the aphrodisiacs strong? You are pooling wet down there, it's almost dripping down your thighs.” And as if you weren't flushed enough, his mocking yet firm tone sent sparks dancing around your body. 

He didn't waste any more time before yanking you against his table and ripping off your panties. 

You hissed out a breath, which gojo swallowed with a bruising kiss. His one hand snaked his way to the hook of your bra while the other drifted down to your pulsating core. 

Oh god. He murmurs against your lips.

He barely even touched you and you're so achingly wet. Not that he expected any less with the uncertain amount of aphrodisiacs you swallowed. 

With one click, your bra loosened, before falling to the floor joining your torn laces. 

There you were completely naked, whimpering, withering mess under him as he kissed and suckled your lips. 

The infamous professor gojo satoru was kissing you, his hand down your pulsating core sent jolts circling the rough pad of his thumb on your red clit brutally.  

Gojo pulls away from the kiss, letting you feed chunks of oxygen to your lungs. A slim string of drool attaching both of your lips. “Open my shirt.” He says guiding your hand to his shirt, before latching onto your neck, marking you. 

You fumble with his shirt buttons hastily opening them before discarding his shirt on the floor. The way he was kissing his way down from your neck to your chest didn't allow you to take a look at his bare body, but you could feel it, muscles —defined, carved and chiseled. His hand reaches out, capturing yours, and he guides it across his chest, till it reaches the edge of his trousers. 

“Woa—” you gasp at his pent up fabric when gojo eased himself, grinding on your hands. 

A rumor confirmed: gojo had a big dick.

“Go on, do what you want with it.” He raised his head from your chest, now covered with red marks. He signals down with the corner of his lips curving sassily as he slips two of his fingers inside you. 

You suck in a breath. 

He draws back his free hand, cupping one of your breasts, caressing the neglected peaks of your arousal, while the other slowly fingers in and out of you, curling in so sweetly that it has your mind going dizzy. His fingers have you so full, that you feel you might just orgasm right now. The feeling of his rough fingers inside you was so different from yours, the way it pressed on different spots causing you to jolt of sensitivity, the way his thumb stimulated your clit, soothing the hot desire bubbling on your bunch of nerves, was otherworldly. You tried holding back your orgasm for this heaven to last longer, for him to lick on your nipples a little longer, for him to plunge his fingers in and out a little longer.

You heave out whimpers, trying to focus on something else other than your building hot white pleasure, unbuckling his belt as you unzip his trousers, letting it fall. 

His cock sprang out in full bloom as you pulled down his boxers, taking it in your grip causing him to hiss.

It was thick and angry, already leaking precum. Your breath came out in harsh raps as you started jerking him, trying to match his rhythm. “Mmhh fuck” he lets out a growl before withdrawing you of your pleasure, leaving you empty and dripping sticky. 

You suddenly regret holding back your orgasm. Will he stop? Will he say it's not right to do what you are doing now? Leave you unsatisfied, denied from your release, embarrassed and insulted. 

He pushed you down to your knees, as your grip on his cock loses which is soon replaced by his hand. Jerking rough and slow. 

“Open your mouth.” 

You couldn't react when his hand closed around your neck, squeezing it tighter and harder until darkness surrounds the edges of your vision and you gasp your mouth open barely managing to drag in a chunk of air when he shoved his cock in. 

“Yeah, now suck” he releases his hand from your neck only to tangle his fingers in your hair, forcing you down to gag on his thick cock. 

“Mphfh.” drool leaked from the corners of your lips and dripped down your chin.

Gojo tugged your head back until only the tip of his cock remained in your mouth as he looked down at your tear filled eyes. “isn’t this what you wanted?” He plunged back down your head again with a sharp thrust. His tip was touching the back of your throat that you could feel it twitching slowly in your mouth and if this wasn't too much, the urge to relieve your throbbing clit intensified. You slide a hand down to your core, rubbing circles as he pulls back your head again. “Tch. Tch. Y/n. You're so needy for me. Cubitum eamus?” he says gently wiping off a tear from your cheek.

Fuck. 

Before you could answer he starts fucking himself mercilessly into your mouth, his low grunts mixed with the obscene sound of your gagging caused another sensation of heat coiling down your stomach. This time he didn't even touch you yet you were this close to your orgasm. You were sure to release this time with his cock throbbing inside your mouth, fucking furiously, and tears clouding your gaze when he pulls out. 

“Mmhh—” your protests die down as quick as they arise when he pulls you up and lifts you to his table, jerking aside the bundle of papers you brought. 

He adjusted your hips, before spreading your legs wide open with his knees, yanking you closer, letting your back fall on his table, “so eager ain't ya’,” his voice was raspy with lust, as you pushed yourself up with your elbows to look at him when he thrusts himself in, nails digging on the plush of your hips. He slides in without much resistance as he grows a smile, “so horny that ya’ drugged ma’ coffee. Don't worry your professor’s gonna get you riling nuts.” He slides out before slamming in with one sharp thrust. Driving deep and hard with every single thrust. The table was shaking at the intensity of him pounding into you. 

You cried out, mind getting blank, unable to process any coherent thoughts other than the sensation of his skin sliding with yours. His veins became more prominent with each thrust, flush getting deeper and deeper as his cock buried into you inch by inch till it touched the hilt of your ecstasy, which came down so sudden and so erratic, spilling down his cock onto his table till it dripped down the floor. 

The table banged with each thrust yet you were too numb to even care for things to fall and shatter down on the floor as if the second wave of your ecstasy wasn't arriving, building up hot and raging along with the thrusts of your professor. 

You clamped hard around his cock taking it all in, being so good for him that he hissed out his moans, more ravenous than he'd ever been. Your pussy clenched and stretched so good that he felt his blood running erratic, thrust getting more sloppy as your second high crashed down, cunt rippling with juices over his cock drilling into you, incoherent chants of his name spilling out your mouth. His head fell back, mouth opening in a breathy moan, as his eyes roll back, he knew he was close and might cum inside you if he didn't suppress his clawing desire. 

With his muscles tensing each fucking second, he painfully let go of the warm sleeve of your cunt, the air feathering cool at his red cherry tip, before spurting out strings of cum on your stomach. 

You barely could get hold of your consciousness, fucked feral by gojo satoru, laying naked on his desk with your stream of orgasm dripping down and marks of his arousal sticky on your stomach. Your hair was messy, skin marked from his iron grip and you looked dumb, wincing from the sudden emptiness— yet you were the most beautiful sight to him.

Yuji stood behind the door peeking from the gap he left open, you— his senior lays fucked on the table, his grip over his aching cock had the white of his cum slicking down from his knuckles. Oh what a scene it was, to let you have the blame for his misconduct and see you getting bullied by their professor, and to jerk off watching the entire scene unfold. 

He felt bad for what he did, and yet he kept looking at the way you gagged around gojo’s cock, the way gojo sucked your nipples, and the way you squirted for him. He knows he shouldn't feel like this yet he was turned on, even though he came twice he was still turned on. 

You don't remember much of what happened later. You only heard the rustling of papers, fixing of chairs and the only blurry sight you can regain was papers collected next to you, the mess of both of your arousals clean and the slight press of his lips on your temple. 

Professor Gojo was fully dressed and calm. And you were in his car, wearing back your clothes except for your panties which were torn. You don't remember how you even got there. 

“Where are we going?” You manage to ask, your voice hoarse from all the shouting. 

“Home.”

Who knows you might be able to confirm the truth of the other rumors from the forums, however you were too spent to think any of that, slumping back into your slumber.

© strawberrymochin 24 | plagiarism won't be tolerated | taglist is open | tags: @secretfankoala @moonchhu

[rainrot4me]

Rain’s Kinktober 2024 - 07

Ticci Toby x Female Reader - Clothed Sex/Forced Proximity

SMUT WARNING MINORS DNI

TW: Clothed sex, dry humping, biting, blood, panic attacks, rutting, grinding, forced proximity, claustrophobia

Tag: #rainykinktober2024

Words: 2.4k

A/N: This is by no means an accurate depiction of what a panic attack is actually like. Please do not take what I describe/write out as realistic.

“Is now a buh- bad time to tell you I’m clau- claustrophobic…?”

Toby was jittering, nails scratching the side of his neck so hard the skin was rubbed raw and nearly bleeding. You were holding his arms- trying to, as he shook something awful cramped against you.

“Hey, hey, shhh. You’re okay, man.”

You had seen one too many times what it looked like when Toby wound himself into a panic attack, the brunette spiraling so bad EJ had to administer some sedatives just to get him to sit down. He was nearly there now, eyes so bloodshot you wondered if he had popped a vein. 

Jeff, as bright as he is, thought it would be funny to lock you both in the mansion’s basement storage closet after you refused to do his chores. The killer knew you liked Toby, knew you had trusted him with that, but found it so hilarious to punish you both. You had beat on the door, and called his name, yet he was long gone upstairs. 

At first, you were angry, seething at him for forcing you into this position. But when the brunette’s awkward laughs turned into panicked tremors, that anger slowly dissipated.

“Toby- You have got to breathe.”

“Can’t- M’c-can’t-” Toby couldn’t feel as his fingernails broke the skin on his neck, droplets of blood trickling onto his jacket. You panicked, shuffling against the piles of junk as your back pressed against the grimy brick wall. The only source of light was a single dusty lightbulb overhead, the electricity nearly shot as it flickered and whirred above you. But through his mask and goggles ruffled into his hair, you could see Toby’s expressions clearly as he teetered on the verge of passing out.

You reached for the old door handle, rattling the knob and cursing when it refused to budge. Toby whined above you, his chest heaving against yours and cramping your further into the dark corner, neck jerking and grunting. You called out, hollering for Jeff or anybody that would listen, but were met with nothing but the brunette’s panic.

“Toby- Listen, man. You’re gonna have to calm down-” Cramming your hands up, you gripped his wrists, forcefully tugging his nails off of his wilted neck. The boy panted, his mask nearly choking him now from the lack of clear air he was getting. It was musty and damp in the small room, so his quick breaths didn’t help.

Shoving his hands away from yours, he began to grip at his mask, trying so desperately to remove the clunky thing. His hair was matted to his face, sweat dripping and cheeks flushed darker than you could really see. “Off- Get it off-” He cried.

You understood, trying to contort your body against his to push your hands behind his head and unclip the mask, shoving his goggles off as well. It was difficult with him twitching and heaving like a madman, forcefully shoving his body back against the bricks so you could get a hold on him.

Finally, you unclipped the straps, the metal clanging to the ground as he shoved it off of his face. His panting was even louder now, unobstructed breathing fogging against you as he began to scratch at his neck again. You cursed, even without his mask he still couldn’t relax.

His hands moved up towards his mouth, a sharp inhale before he scratched at the bandaged limbs and began to gnaw on his palms. You watched fearfully as the cloth covering old wounds tore and blood began to trickle down, the brunette completely unaware of just how much damage he was causing. He couldn’t feel any of it.

“Hey! Toby-” You both were grappling, straining against each other as you tried to pry Toby’s blood-worn hands away from his mouth, droplets of blood dripping down his chin. He resisted, his shaky hands fidgeting against yours when you finally shoved his face away, clasping your hands tight around his.

“[Y/N]... Please…” His voice was raspy, throat sore from heaving so hard. You tried to doorknob again, the rattling making Toby jump when you tried to force it open, but still no luck. You groan, throwing your hands around his shoulders and hauling him down to your height, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. You had heard that panic attacks can be subsided if there’s a lack of stimulation- like forcing the brunette into the darkness of your forced hug.

What you didn’t expect was the lips that wrapped around the flesh of your neck and forcefully bit down. It wasn’t hard enough to draw blood, but his teeth digging into the muscles running up your throat felt less than comfortable. Your heartbeat thundering in surprise, a hand raising to push him off, but his arms were already circling around your middle and hauling you impossibly closer. Eyes fluttering closed, your hand fists his shirt, the other tangling into his messy hair. His breathing was still heavy, but the sporadic groans and whines had subsided.

You hissed, the blood from his lips smearing onto the crook of your neck and dribbling down your shirt. His hands fisted the back of your shirt, tugging the fabric and pressing you firmly against him. Lips searing against your skin, his eyes roll to the back of his head at your taste, so sweet and warm and comforting. 

You knew it wasn’t anything- just the shock from his panic attack shoving him into any comforting or relieving thing that he could get his hands on, it meant nothing. Until his breathing was steadying his shaking was evening out and his teeth let off to press warm kisses across the indented bite mark. You gasped, tightening your grasp on his hair as he moved down towards your shoulder, shoving the sleeve down to press another firm bite into the muscle. 

“Toby, stop-” But he wouldn’t- couldn’t now. It felt so good just being able to surround himself with your scent and warmth, blocking out just how manic he thought about the situation. He was terrified, but you wasted no time helping him, showing him you cared. He just couldn’t help himself. 

Mouth opening to bite down again, he drinks in your gasps as he slides his tongue across the mark. Your hands drag across his shoulders, bringing you closer to him in this godforsaken closet. It was dizzying- almost as if it hurt to detach himself, drawn by that unfamiliar sense of want he usually didn’t experience.

“[Y/N]...”

Lost in the heat of the moment, Toby’s hands wander the expanse of your body. Groping and squeezing every curve and dip, head practically spinning. Dragging you closer, you whine out when you feel his unknowing bulge press against your hip. Both of your cheeks are dark, sharp breathing and panting filling the quietness of the small room, the smallness becoming less and less prior.

At this point, Toby doesn’t know whether the pulse he feels is that of his heartbeat or his cock, throbbing and achingly needily. Pulling back, the boy admires your unfocused eyes and bruised neck, small hickeys and bite marks littering your flushed skin. Now, it’s no longer a need to relax himself- but a need to feel you. He had never really felt that way before with anyone, let alone you. But right now, eyes heavy and skin so deliciously coated with his taste- he doesn’t think he could resist.

Plunging himself back against your shoulder, he takes a hearty bite, snarling his teeth in. His fingers dig into your back, your whines so haphazard as you’re thrown around by his grasp, unable to actually resist even if you wanted to. Good thing you didn’t.

Because Toby was pushing his hands past your hips to hook under your thighs, lodging himself between your legs and holding you flush against that hard brick wall. The brunette can’t get enough of the way you sigh, and whine- the way you hum your approval like you can’t get enough. This is an indulgence that Toby never knew he really needed.

All fear of the cramped closed stiffened his panic flushes away, only the tantalizing feeling of his throbbing cock grinding desperately against your clothed cunt, riding himself against you. It pulls a deep groan from his throat, his teeth lodging on the opposite, less wilted, side of your neck and huffing his arousal against your skin. He bucks up into the warmth of your clit, your arousal snagging as he grinds against you.

“Fuck, Toby… Feels good… Mnn…” You tighten your legs around his hips, panting heavily as the heat of your bodies swirl, sweat building between you. Toby sucks your ear lobe and tickles a trail of soft, feather-light kisses down your neck. It makes your head fuzzy and body heavy, chills running all the way up your spine. Maybe you’re using this as an excuse to get closer to Toby, but when he pulls back as his lips are so swollen and cheeks are so red, you really can’t help yourself. Call it taking advantage of the situation, but you couldn’t really judge yourself when the boy was slowly grinding his cock against your clothed cunt.

You let your hands wrap tight around the back of his neck, holding him tight as he takes deep breaths against the underside of your jaw, moving his hips nice and slow. He ruffles your clothes, shoving your shirt up and pulling at your pants, the clothes becoming too much, but there’s really nothing he can do in a tight fit like this. 

So Toby huffs, lets off your neck, and forces his lips against yours- swallowing you in a heavy kiss. When you kiss, it’s deep, and it’s slow, but it’s hungry too. Your tongues chase each other alongside your hips; impossibly close and still too far apart. His whines are wonton and desperate as he bucks up against your heat, your cunt throbbing with every shove of his hips against yours. And he’s not the only one; your voice spills from deep in your throat with every roll of his hips, cunt swollen and practically dripping with arousal into your panties.

It’s so warm. You’re so warm- heat practically radiating from you. Pre leaks from Toby’s aching cock, chills running across his skin. His fingers press hard into the skin of your waist, thumbs digging into hip bones to keep that feeling close- like if he tries hard enough he can fuck you through the clothes.

“Hahh,” Toby pulls back to gasp, eyes closed, face pinched in pleasure. You can only stare, only pant tiredly as you watch him, tilt his head back, mouth dropped open on a moan, cock rutting up frantically. Your fingernails claw at the boy’s shoulders, and to him, it feels good, like a deep pressure without the pain. It feels like being wanted- being needed. It feels warm and good- and like he’s about to cum.

He squeezes your waist a little too hard, pushing you blunt against the nasty wall, desperate to be closer, hips bucking up and adding to the mess between you. Sweat drips from his nose, teeth gnashing so hard you’re afraid he’d chip a tooth if it weren’t for your shoulder going back between them. A deep pool of warmth and desire pools in your gut, hips angling slightly to catch just a little more of that sweet feeling.

He bites down hard, careless of the fact you squeal and writhe against him- it only feeds into the sensation of his hard length slotting so sloppily between your thighs. Blood trickles down your shoulder, staining your shirt terribly as your cunt aches, clit pulsing with desire for just a little more. He digs his fingers into your thighs, prying your legs further apart to give sharp thrusts up. You nearly drool as he huffs and groans against you, his strained voice singing beautifully how good he’s making you both feel.

“Need’a cum- go- gonna… Hah- [Y/N]-” Your hands tangle in Toby’s hair somewhere between his breath leaving his lungs and his eyes rolling back in his skull. They weave through damp curls and cradle his head in the crook of your neck, melting into a satiated, boneless tangle of limbs. It’s not another moment before the heavy pool in your gut crashes into you, hips jerking and strangled as Toby’s practically fuck up into the gush of your raw cunt. 

You gasp- and then you’re cumming hard- like you’ve never felt it in your life. Toby holds you tight, riding out his shaky high as his hips jerk and stutter and finally rest firm against yours. He cums in his boxers, staining the fabric as his cock swells and throbs against the constraint. It takes both of you a while to catch your breath, but Toby enjoys it. You find it hard to speak- or even recognize that you’ve both just nearly fucked each other. Only the two of you basking in the aftermath of your own pleasure.

Until you’re both jumping when you hear the doorknob shake and rattle, the door swinging open. Jeff stands with a disgusted face, mouth hanging open as he eyes you both pressed against each other, still heaving and riding out the trails of your arousal. He’s about to make some nasty remark and berate you both for the situation he put you in- and then Toby’s gripping the door handle and slamming it back shut, blocking Jeff out.

Back in the dusty, stale, closeness of the closet, Toby shoves his face back into your shoulder, kissing along the bruised skin. You want to apologize, to reprimand yourself for even letting this situation happen, but his hands are roaming again. Your feet wrap around his waist, holding him close as you feel his hips begin to move again, slow and steady, quiet hums vibrating against you.

Slowly, when your brains are a little less foggy, Toby shifts. He noses along your cheek and searches for your mouth until lips slot together once more, drinking up the other. This time, though, the noises you swallow are sweet, satisfied mewls of appreciation.

The brunette can’t think- won’t think about it. But something is gnawing at him at how easily you could settle him, how well you handled him.

He wants that again.

Now the closet isn’t suffocating anymore, the walls aren’t closing in on him, and driving him insane. Now- all he knows is that he wants to feel just how good you can make him feel again.

And again and again and again.

Thanks for reading!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated! 𐚁₊⊹

Thanks to my wonderful editors @h3llw1 and @solarbites!

[evilgwrl]

Alpha!Simon practically gnawing at the flesh on his arm, talons digging into muscled thighs as he gets a sniff of your scent, the sickly smell of honey glazed cherries.

You’re such a pretty mess, all whiny in his sheets later, slick coating your inner thigh as you moan out, sweat clinging to your skin. So impatient for him :(

He’s all over you, licking at your neck like a rapid dog, teeth grazing every artery as he inhales, cock rushing with blood.

“A-Alpha,” you whine, ass flush in the air, presenting to him, “I need you.”

His growl is feral, claws digging into your hips as he relentlessly pounds into you, walls gripping his cock as they clench in submission. You’re so complacent, so perfect for him.

His omega.

“Take this fucking knot baby, gonna pump you full of a litter. Gonna look so perfect all roun’ with my babies, ain’t you?”

Your moan was enough as your slick gushes down your pussy, cries gaping from wall to wall as your pulled back against Simon’s chest, hair thrown to the side as he sinks his teeth into your neck and sucks.

His thrusts get sloppy as he sucks in the metallic taste, knot forming as he cums, ropes of silk filling your tight hole up, ready to stick and give you kids.

His litter.

[yandere-wishes]

What would Capitano do if reader gets a very bad cold after they try to escape him?

⋆⁺₊❅. This reminds me of the scene where Belle tries to escape from the Beast in the snowstorm.

⋆꙳•❅• •❆ ₊⋆⋆꙳•❅• •❆ ₊⋆⋆꙳•❅• •❆ ₊⋆⋆꙳•❅• •❆ ₊⋆⋆꙳•❅• •❆ ₊⋆⋆꙳•❅•

✧ He drags you back indignantly, armor-clad fingers digging fervently into your forearm. He longs to sink his metal hands into your silky hair, to weave and pull and make you feel a fraction of his pain.

✧ He's slow to notice your sniffling and paling face. Too busy swallowing down his rage, snuffing out fires in favor of earning your love once more. It's only when you faint, falling tenderly into his arms like the first snowflake of winter. That he notices your condition. The deadly shade of rose blushing your swollen cheeks, the sheen of sweat glistening along your sweet face. He pulls you to his chest cradling your body all so gently fearing the worst. Pricking his tongue with patronymic orison to the Tsaritsa.

✧ He's quick to rush you to his chambers, laying you tentatively upon his velvety bed and tracing his icy gauntlet upon your temples in hopes of decelerating the pyrexia. The syllables of each word cut his throat as he barks out orders to the maids. Call upon Dottore, call upon aide...

✧ He blames himself, letting the guilt gnaw at his heart as he stares outside at the blizzard. He should have been more careful, should have kept you closer. His mission had ended early and upon his return he'd found you running through the snow. His castle a distant silhouette upon the dark horizon. He'd been so angry in the moment. So heartbroken that you would do such a treacherous thing in his absence that he'd pointed his sword at your neck and forced you to mount onto his horse. Looking back he should have noticed the dazed look in your eyes, noticed the way your body slumped against his during the ride home.

✧ Capitano loves you, utterly, wholly. But his heart shatters every time you do not reincorporate his desperate feelings.

✧ Why must love sting, greater than any cut from any weapon?

✧ When Dottore arrives and tends to you. Capitano stands in the background like a shroud. Eyes never once leave your fragile frame. He longs to reach out and touch you. To lay beside you and have you rest your weary head upon his chest. He wants you to hear his heartbeat, have it haunt your dreams in hopes you'll follow the rhyme back to him.

✧ Dottore instructs Capitano to feed you plenty of liquids and soups upon your awakening. You keep ice clothes at hand and make sure you don't strain yourself. Once the doctor leaves Capitano removes his helmet, slowly crawling next to you. Peppering your face with tender kisses.

✧ "Forgive me, my love"

✧ You revive during the ungodly hours, eyes parting to see the moon rays adorning your capturer's scared face. Perhaps it's the delirium. But you have to admit that he looks so gorgeous with this particular shade of desperation painted across his face. Your lips gently brush his lips as you cuddle closer to the man who stole your life away.

[yanderenightmare]

All For One

TW: nsfw, noncon, yandere, captive reader, mind deterioration

fem reader

All For One has a habit of subjugating you for his own pleasure. 

It’s a game he likes to play—quite like chess, only… you start off with a single pawn, and you don’t know any of the rules. And he’s been world champion ten years in a row. And he plays dirty.

Tonight, he’s dressed you up in a costume. Not any old Halloween costume, but a slutty one. Not a playboy bunny or a maid, nor a schoolgirl—this was worse—a sleazy rendition of your old hero uniform.

You’d barely recognized the faintly familiar design when he first laid it out on the bed for you. Silly and naïve, you thought his games of derision would end when you finally offered your submission, but that was a fool’s thought. What fun were you if not proof of his undying victory—a reminder, a trophy, a relic?

It’s beyond degrading. Tight and revealing. Less than an actual costume, it was more something one would wear in the bedroom, cosplaying for some fantasy starring an overly sexualized you. Only God knows where he’d gotten it from.

Your steel armor, once with the dignity of a knight, had instead been swapped out for a silly silver bikini—the shimmery fabric tacky and cheap, allowing your nipples to peak forth. Covering it was a top and a skirt made up of silver chains, which only further mocked the appearance of chainmail—looking more like the jewelry a stripper might wear.

He’d forgone your helmet, boots, and sword entirely. Truly, if it weren’t for the detailing of the pattern making the fabric vaguely resemble plated armor, it wouldn’t have been much different from any other set of lingerie.

And still, it’s just similar enough to make it sting.

“Look at you...” he jeers, his voice sodden with taunt—carmine stare faded and gleeful, thoroughly enjoying it. “What a sight for sore eyes.”

He stands behind you in the mirror, holding you delicately by the hips, intimately close, dressed in another one of his black suits, fully clothed in devastating contrast to you. His smile curls as he roams your ill-covered body, kissed with the flush of chagrin, leering at you in the reflection—his voice slithering right by your ear.

“Though I can’t say I remember it being quite so revealing, can you?” he jokes, running his hands up and down your waist, fiddling some with the intricacies—metal daintily clinking and clangoring. “No, there’s something else that’s different...”

You feel so humiliated, so small—as if he could hold you up by the scruff of your neck with ease. It isn’t just a feeling—you’re well aware that he most likely could.

“Why yes, of course…” he hums with delayed realization—you know he’s faking for anticipation, chittering while wrapping his thick arms around your tiny midsection, giving you a firm squeeze. “You’ve lost all muscle.”

It’s a painful truth. You don’t know how many months it’s been. Perhaps a year has passed already, maybe even more. He keeps you well aware of his triumph in the outside world, but time still eludes you.

You’d tried maintaining it in the beginning, even after he’d taken your quirk. You’d been vigilant, keeping up your workout regimens just as religiously as before. But you couldn’t pick what you ate, nor when—and he’d only feed you cake. It wasn’t long before all your hard-earned muscles had melted away like popsicle syrup off the stick, licked and lapped right up by the man holding you.

“Mmh, yes…” he murmurs gratingly while swaying you back against him, lips pressing against your ear. “And it’s left you oh-so-soft.”

His bulbous crotch slots against your upper ass, resting there as it grows fatter and warm—a sign of his enjoyment. The weight of him makes you feel all but paper-thin.

His voice rasps now. “If I were to give you your quirk back, I wager you wouldn’t even be able to use it anymore—it would sooner rip your poor limbs apart.”

It’s beyond cruel to suggest—as if disgracing your old costume wasn’t enough torment already. You bite your lip, gnaw it harshly—don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t let him see you cry.

“Isn’t that just fascinating?” He gives your earlobe a gentle bite, and the whimper in your throat springs free like prey out of hiding.

A sniffle shortly followed—along the dribble of the night’s very first tears. Your diminished spirit has made you all too prone to cry as if there’s nothing else for you to do but indulge in the small comfort it gives.

“Oh, sweetie—don’t weep over prowess long since lost. It was never enough to challenge me anyway,” he coos, as if consoling you—swaying your smaller brittle body back against his looming chest, a cage that seemed to swallow you whole.

Steering your jaw, he holds your face still before the mirror, unable to look away as the tears dribble down your sorry cheeks—he smears them further with a kiss.

“The world would chew you up as you are now, fragile like glass.” The grin curling his lips makes you resemble prey caught on a predator’s teeth—you can’t help but shiver at the sight of it. You wish he wouldn’t toy with you like food and just kill you already. “Mark my words, hero—the belly of the beast would not grant you as much comfort as I do.”

His other hand slips down to cup your mound—firmly, with a squeeze that has you curl yourself back against him as he presses two tough fingerpads into your clothed clit, rubbing it tightly enough to make your thighs shake.

“You’re better off like this,” he grunts, snickers at how your weak hands clutch the sleeve of his suit, curling the fabric in your palms until your knuckles whiten—watching the furrow further crease between your cinched brows as you try and bite back your pathetic little sounds even as more tears come tumbling down your swollen cheeks. “Mh, my pretty plaything.”

He makes you continue to look at yourself as he simply slides the panty to the side of your cunt. Encouraging you to place your hands flat against the mirror as he bends you forward, then to step back and stand atop his dress shoes.

“Don’t be shy now,” he makes sure to tell you. “You’re as light and negligible as a feather.”

He parts his feet and yours along with them, spreading your thighs enough to accommodate the fat heat he soon slides between them. Rigid and veiny, it competes with the size of your forearm—so thick that when he slaps it up against your slit, your knees buckle from the impact.

His chuckles rumble across your body like an earthquake. You only realize how much it makes you shake when he encloses your hip in his big hand, steadying you. Holding you still as he drags his engorged cockhead through your lips, catching your clit before resting on your entrance.

You’re so sore from prior nights—countless hours locked in this room with his visits the only thing keeping you company—everything has yet to forgive you for the wreckage those visits leave behind. Your sorry little puss rues and dreads another defeat now as he sinks inside the comfort of your battered walls, one unyielding inch at a time. 

You wince and tense, shoulders bracing, and yet he pushes deeper, sliding you down his shaft until you rest at the hilt of his base, kneading the tip into your gummy womb, giving it a deep kiss that bulges out from your poor belly.

The sight in the mirror is morbid, even more so than the feeling—the way he molds your insides to fit him, to cater and house his length and size. 

“Ah—just perfect, isn’t it, hero?” he purrs, chest resting heavily upon your spine while dwarfing both your hips in a firm grip, chin-stubble scraping along your neck as his voice comes out hot against your ear, “Obedience suits you so well, don’t you agree?”

Your knees buckle once he starts the heavy pace—slowly pounding into you from behind, dragging out and pushing deep in womb-robbing thrusts. You pant from the toll of it, feeling your muscles give—too tired and too broken to continue acting tough. He’s the only reason you’re left upright on your feet—keeping you standing with just his hold on your haunches. It seems like nothing to him, though it feels like the weight of the world to you.

“It’s only a shame it had to come with all these scars.” He clicks his tongue, eyes raking across your body as it takes him, resting on each mark disrupting the otherwise milk-smooth skin. “If only you’d accepted your place sooner.”

The ember burning within you is all but a piece of cooling charcoal now. You feel it diminish every day, leaving you even thinner than before.

“But then again, I quite enjoy you like this—littered with my battle scars from your toes up to your crown. It’s rather intimate, isn’t it?” he hums with a smile. “Proof of all the times I could’ve quashed you beneath my foot like a pitiful bug but decided to spare you. Teach you how to worship like the weak ought to.”

There was a time when you still humored the thought of killing him, even with your quirk taken from you. You thought, in your foolishness, that being this close to him must garner an opportunity, any, however slim, just enough for you to take advantage and finish what you vowed to end so long ago.

Now, you almost don’t care anymore. The world had moved on without you, and there was nothing more you could do about it.

You realize your promise had been as cheap as this outfit.

“The greater the fall, the sweeter the surrender, isn’t that right?” he states. “Doesn’t it feel good to finally accept your place in the world, hero?”

You can only nod your head and agree.

♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist

[ventismacchiato]

15 stuck with you — call me by your name !

scaramouche x gender neutral reader

YOUR POINT OF VIEW

The universe had blessed you with great looks, being a well rounded idol, and a great personality. But you couldn’t have it all, which was why your inability to cook was a great target for your bandmates to bully you for. 

Which is why, of course, you found yourself in this stupid situation. You stood there partnered with Scara, attempting to make pizza. You’d both lost the clearly rigged game of flipping a coin, so you both were stuck making dinner whilst everyone else got to take a dip in the ocean. 

Scara, as usual, had already taken charge. His hands worked expertly as he kneaded the dough he prepared, as though he’d done this a thousand times before. You, on the other hand, stared at the array of ingredients in front of you, unsure where to even begin. You wanted to figure it out on your own, but the doubt gnawed at you. Asking Scara for help wasn’t exactly appealing.

You took a guess and reached for the cheese, only to feel a firm grip on your wrist.

“Make a sauce,” Scaramouche said, his voice flat as he moved your hands to the tomatoes. Without waiting for a response, he let go and turned back to the dough.

“Make a sauce…” you muttered under your breath, staring at the tomatoes in front of you. A knife. A tomato. You could do this, right?

Hesitantly, you picked up a tomato and a knife, trying to summon the courage to start. You glanced at Scara to see if you were on the right track, but he barely spared you a glance.

“Cut it. Season it. Mash it,” he listed, barely even pausing to look up.

You nodded to yourself, the motion almost robotic. You cut the tomato into halves, then quarters, feeling like you were somehow messing up. You caught yourself giving glances to Scara after doing every step, and with every insult that didn’t make its way out of his lips you knew you were on the right track.

There was a quiet rhythm settling between you two now, no arguing, no jabs, just the soft sound of knives against cutting boards and the occasional thump of dough being punched down. 

It’s been the most peaceful you two have been all week, or all year, really. You could see how focused he was on the dough, and that meant his brain was occupied with something other than thinking of new ways to mock you.

When you were done with the sauce and began spreading it on the dough, you glanced over at Scara, unsure of your technique. As you moved the spoon in circles, trying to make it look smooth, you caught him staring at you from the corner of your eye.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he muttered, his tone absent of any usual bite.

Your hand froze mid-motion, your chest tightening slightly. You braced for a snide comment or sarcastic remark, but instead, he simply pointed at the dough.

“Don’t spread it so thin. You’ll burn the edges. Keep it thicker in the middle.” His voice was still flat, but there was no teasing, no mockery. Weird.

You swallowed the brief pang of annoyance that usually came with being corrected by him. Instead, you tried to follow his instructions, spreading the sauce a bit thicker in the center as he suggested.

As much as you hated to admit it, there was something oddly pleasant about this quiet exchange. You were cooking. Actually cooking. With him. Instead of your usual encounters with him where you were always trying to perform better, this felt strange. It didn’t feel like you were rivals right now.

You were just two people making pizza.

Just as you were about to start on the toppings, you reached for the oven door, but your hand brushed against the hot metal. A sharp pain shot up your arm, and you yanked your hand back with a hiss.

“Idiot,” Scaramouche muttered, but his voice didn’t have its usual venom. He turned to you, his eyes briefly flashing with something else. 

Before you could say anything, he grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand under the cold stream of water at the sink.

“You really are stupid,” he grumbled, the concern underlying his words more noticeable now, “How do you fuck up so easily?”

You winced as the cold water hit your skin, but the sting of the burn seemed to lessen a little, even though your face was heating up from his proximity.

“Let me do the cooking,” he muttered, still holding your wrist firmly, his gaze flicking over to the pizza dough. “You're too clumsy in the kitchen.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you just sighed, defeated, as you let him take over the pizzamaking process.

Once the pizza was finally in the oven, you hopped up to sit on the counter, feeling oddly tired from all the cooking, or lack thereof you’d done. Scaramouche, on the other hand, got started on setting up the teapot. You didn’t understand how he had the energy. 

“Should we call for the others while we wait?” you asked, looking at him. 

He didn’t even look up, sifting through the tea bags the kitchen had. “Nah,” he said, his voice calm. “It’ll ruin my peace.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned. You’d only asked out of politeness, expecting him to agree immediately. Normally, he couldn’t get away fast enough when you two were alone in a room. The idea of staying alone with you, let alone willingly, was something he seemed allergic to. But now, he seemed content as he pulled out two mugs for the tea.

“Want some?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder as he prepared your cup.

“Sure,” you hummed.

He slid your mug towards you, then leaned against the counter opposite yours. You carefully picked up your mug, blowing on the hot surface before taking a sip. You didn’t need to burn yourself again in front of your rival.

Scaramouche’s eyes followed you from where he stood, half-lidded as he took a sip of his own tea. The kitchen was small, he was only a few inches away from being able to reach out and touch your knees if he wanted to. Not that you wanted him to, but he could.

“Don’t leave the bag in there too long,” he said, his voice low. “It’ll taste bitter.”

You look over to him, surprised at how casual he was, “Will you take it out for me?” you asked without thinking.

The words came out flirtier than you intended. Maybe it was the dim kitchen lights, or the soft sound of waves crashing against the shore. But there it was. You felt a strange, subtle pull in the air between you.

He walked over, practically stepping between your legs as he reached across to remove the bag for you. “You prefer it sweet, don’t you?”

Your eyes locked, a heartbeat passing between you.

“Sometimes,” you answered, your voice quieter than you’d planned. “Maybe try something bitter once in a while,” he replied.

The kitchen fell silent for a moment. Your chest felt tight, like you were standing on the edge of something you didn’t fully understand. 

Then, as if the universe decided to intervene, Yae’s voice crackled over the speakers, breaking the tension. “What the hell are we talking about?”

The tension shattered. You both jumped slightly, and the oven dinged just in time. Scaramouche pulled back quickly, moving to retrieve the pizza. Meanwhile, you stared at the dregs of your tea, expecting them to give you an answer like in Harry Potter. Instead you sat there wondering what the fuck just happened.

//

SCARA’S POINT OF VIEW

“Scara~,” Yae’s voice singsongs over the speakers, breaking through the otherwise peaceful atmosphere. “You’re awfully nice today.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes as he points the knife in the direction of the speakers, though he’s pretty sure he’s way off. “Shut up,” he mutters, mostly to himself. Yae wasn’t here, but it felt good to direct the annoyance somewhere.

“You are so far off,” you comment from beside him, reaching over to help him cut the pizza toppings. Your fingers brush his briefly, and for a moment, he can’t quite place why that feels…different. Like it shouldn't feel like this, but it does.

He doesn’t say anything, just focusing on the task at hand, but his thoughts drift—just a little. When was the last time he felt okay with someone else in his space, without wanting to rush away? Usually, when you were close, he'd find any excuse to distance himself, but today? Today was different. He hated how soft it made him feel.

“You know, I never asked,” you murmur, voice suddenly quieter. “Why does your mom call you Kuni?”

Scaramouche freezes for a moment, the knife hovering above the pizza. He hadn’t expected that question, not from you. Of course, you’d be curious, everyone always was. But still, it felt strange to hear it out loud. 

Usually, he would’ve told you to mind your own business. But he finds himself answering.

“That’s my first name, Kunikuzushi” he says, trying to keep his tone casual, as if this wasn’t something only a few people knew, “I go by my middle name now.”

He’s sure you’ll leave it at that, like most people do. Most people weren’t interested in the reasons behind it. But you don't just let it go. Instead, you nod thoughtfully, your voice playful when you reply.

“A shame. Kuni’s a pretty name.”

Scaramouche doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn’t. His gaze shifts to you, catching your expression for a fleeting moment. You weren’t mocking him, not like everyone else. The way you said it, almost affectionate, it made something tighten in his chest.

He starts to walk past you, distracted by the sudden urge to leave. He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to think about his past, his mother, or the name that still stings in the back of his mind. He’s always been Scaramouche. Always.

But then, your voice calls after him.

“Scara,” you say, drawing his attention, “Should I cut these?”

He pauses, his heart thumping harder in his chest for no reason at all. The way you say his name sounds so…different. Not like a taunt. Not like the sharp jab he’s used to hearing from you. Just your voice, and his name, and something about that makes his mouth go dry.

“Call me Kuni,” he says suddenly, before his brain can stop him. His tone is lower, quieter than usual. He’s not sure what he’s expecting from you—maybe a laugh, maybe a teasing remark. But when he looks at you, you just blink, confused for a moment.

“What?” you ask, clearly surprised.

“Call me Kuni,” he repeats, and this time, there’s something softer in his eyes. “When it’s just us.”

Your expression shifts, and he feels something flicker in the air between you two. It’s not the same tension he’s used to, but it’s almost like the opposite. Warmer, maybe.

You finally nod, the corners of your mouth twitching up as you respond with a simple, “Okay, Kuni.”

He doesn’t know why it feels like his chest has just opened up, but hearing you say it, so easily, without hesitation…it makes his throat tighten. He almost wants to ask you to say it again, just to feel that warmth again. 

But he doesn’t. Instead, he looks away quickly, feeling the familiar sourness rise in his chest. The name, Kuni, used to make him think of nothing but anger. Of his mother’s voice, sharp and laced with disappointment. How she used to yell it at him when he messed up. 

It was a name filled with failure. So, eventually he stopped associating himself with it. He was nobody’s failure except his own. 

But when you said it, it sounded different. 

Softer. Warmer.

It felt like he was himself again.

He doesn’t know how to deal with that yet, and it’ll probably bite him in the ass later. He doesn’t know how to handle the way your words make the old wounds feel less jagged. 

But maybe he’ll let you call him Kuni a little longer. Just this once.

[00:00:15] COUPLE'S INTERVIEW TWO, TAKE TWO

YAE: Hi guys!

[XIAO NODS HIS HEAD IN GREETING]

[KAZUHA SMILES]

YAE: I'll skip past introductions and dive right into it. Xiao, Kazuha, is there something you want to tell us?

[JEAN AUDIBLY GROANS]

JEAN: Yae!

[YAE WAVES JEAN OFF BEHIND CAMERA]

XIAO: Tell you what?

YAE: You know.

[KAZUHA LOOKS AT YAE CONFUSED]

JEAN: Yae…

YAE: We know that you've been dating for years! Cat's out of the bag! Xiao's out of the closet!

JEAN, GASPING: Yae! Stop that!

XIAO: [EXHALES IN DEFEAT] No, it's okay, Jean. It was a little funny.

KAZUHA: [SMILES APOLOGETICALLY] How did you know?

YAE: I watched one too many conspiracy TikToks and it all started to make sense.

XIAO: You sound crazy.

YAE: But I was right!

KAZUHA: What now? Are we kicked off the show?

YAE: OMG, no! You're staying! Pretend to court each other again!

XIAO: Why?

YAE: Because! Wouldn't it be fun? Nice? Pretend to fall in love again and prank your friends? A deal you can't refuse!

[JEAN AUDIBLY SIGHS AGAIN]

[XIAO AND KAZUHA LOOK AT EACH OTHER]

KAZUHA: [SHRUGS] Could be fun?

XIAO, FONDLY: Could be fun.

[THE PAIR CONTINUE TO STARE AT EACH OTHER SMILING]

JEAN: Cut!

[00:00:00] TEA INTERVIEW ONE, TAKE ONE

YAE: So Scara. Or should I say…

SCARAMOUCHE: Don’t even.

YAE: [HIDES HER FACE BEHIND THE SCRIPT] SCARA. WE ALL HEARD IT. YOU LET YN CALL YOU KUNI.

SCARAMOUCHE: So?

YAE: So? SO?

SCARAMOUCHE: It’s just a nickname. Not a big deal.

YAE: If it’s not a big deal then can I call you Kuni?

SCARAMOUCHE: No.

YAE: Yeah, that’s what I thought. I didn’t know you had a soft side.

SCARAMOUCHE: [RAISES AN EYEBROW] I don’t.

YAE: [LAUGHS] Really? ‘Cause you just let someone call you by your first name—in front of cameras, no less. I think that counts as soft.

SCARAMOUCHE: [TONGUE IN CHEEK] Well, I don’t consider it soft.

YAE: [SMIRKS] Sure, sure. But if it’s just a name, why doesn’t anyone else get to use it?

SCARAMOUCHE: No comment.

YAE: Well I tried! CUT!

stuck with you!

masterlist — prev | next

btw since ppl keep asking when he says bitter he means himself…! he’s implying yn usually prefers ppl who r sweet,,come on guys walk with me and read between the lines </3

short chapter cus this was supposed to be the second half of the last chapter!!

also as usual any photos of yn don’t depict gender, race, or body type!! so pls don’t come for me it’s just for the pose

pls comment or send me an ask if u enjoyed i need motivation 🤗

comment on the MASTERLIST if i can use ur user as a fan in the au!

synopsis — after the disaster that was the live award show, where you and scaramouche got into an argument on stage after both of your groups got a tie for top artists, your guys' PR teams have been in shambles trying to scrape up your mess. that's when the idea to send you both off with some other idols to a remote location for a survival dating show to mend your public image comes up. before you know it your bags are packed and you’re on a plane to a remote island. the only obligation is you need to end up with scaramouche at the end of the show, whether you end up liking him or not doesn’t matter to your managers as long as the show’s ratings stay high. whatever you do in between to get there is up to you!

notes — keep it in ur pants guys daddy kai gave you two updates in a week 😊😊

taglist — @na1lea @cindywasneverhere @lunavixia @aestherin @mlaakai @camvrin @retiredmommylover @iheartpieck @cartierfiles @loveariel @silly-ez @mochipls @pomeiu @flowerypesky @creammpuff @boxdisappeared @kissingkzuha @webbywill @kazusboyfriend @s3xpistolss @bunns-wonderland @lordbugs @localgirlywithnolife @kosumos @danfelions @featuredtofu @pinxeajin @haeunoo @scaradooche @pglt19 @chemiru @childesbabygirl @simonisferal @shutingstar @ttalgi @esuz @tokkishouse @kitsuvil @scarasmood @ihearttori @nomurahayami @starringyau @androxphobic @reivelmin @animeobsessed56 @femaholicc @vi0let-writes @izayumi-chan @aloflapse @migorengeaterrr

[nebulousmoon3990]

GHOSTS OF THE PAST (Batfam x neglected hero reader)

II𓂃› POISON

Warning: Negligence (unintentional), Damian being Damian, violence, swearing, sensitive topics,bad things, spelling mistakes (English is not my first language) and reader has black hair and blue eyes (sorry), Fem reader!, use of (M/n) for his mother's name, I accept criticism but please don't be rude, everything is fictional!

Two weeks.It had been two weeks since you disappeared, two weeks in which Bruce did and still does everything he can to find you (as the millionaire Bruce Wayne or as Batman), two weeks in which he and possibly no one in the mansion slept properly, two weeks in which guilt gnawed at him in the worst possible way. But even so, Bruce is ashamed to say that in these two weeks he has only been going to his room now.

Could you blame him? Bruce didn't want to go to his room because that would be a way of saying that you died. He refuses to think that way, you are alive, he is sure of it, and he will find you.

However, Bruce's thesis was shattered by his anxiety.

That's why he goes to your room for the first time.

Bruce remembers going there only once, you must have been seven years old, what saddens him the most is that he only went there because there was a problem with the ceiling and that's why you had to change rooms. Your room was on the second floor, a little further away from the others, possibly the room closest to yours was Tim's.

Alfred had to show him where his room was, which made Bruce feel even worse. He didn't know where his own room was! Was he so negligent to that point?

Your room was at the end of the hallway, the only thing that identified it was a guitar sticker on the door, it was faded and dented, possibly having been there for years, wood splinters were visible on the door and the metals on it were very rusty.

Grabbing the doorknob, Bruce hesitated to open it, the logical part of his brain warning that you might feel uncomfortable with him invading your room like that, but his desire spoke louder, gathering courage Bruce opened the door slowly and faced the environment. He was greeted with a sweet smell that reminded him of artificial strawberries, coming from the entire room and Bruce thought that maybe this was the smell you had passed many times.

The first thing he noticed was the appearance of your room, it was smaller than most of the rooms in the mansion. Your bed was next to the window, giving you a view of the mansion's garden, next to the small bed was a nearly empty study table, on it papers and colored pencils were in the corner organized so as not to have a mess, a small swivel chair was there, there were tears and poorly washed stains, but it seemed like you used it a lot. Above the table on the wall were posters of bands and other things, but what caught Bruce's attention was not that, no, it wasn't.

There were trophies, certificates and awards on top of his shelves.

There were so many, so many, that Bruce thought it was his mind playing tricks on him, but it soon proved to be true when he approached the said shelves. There were trophies for gymnastics, literature, computing, swimming, there were awards for drawing, music, and even jiu-jitsu.

Each one was accompanied by a photo of you, photos that were supposed to be taken with your family but most of them were with your instructors, it was possible to see that with each photo that there was your face changed from false joy to not even bothering to smile.

The sight of you in the photos made Bruce's heart break, the worst one of all was one that looked like you were from gymnastics, but in this one you were really exhausted. Sweat was all over your forehead, making your hair stick to it, your eyes were a little red and there was a bruise on your arm, you tried to smile but it was noticeable that the smile was fake and to top it off, to break Bruce's heart? You were holding back tears, tears shining in the corners of your eyes so intensely, but you held it tight, so as not to cry in front of the camera.

Bruce felt horrible, really awful in fact.

He carefully picked up the photo and sat down on the chair, watching you. You must have been eight or nine years old? He didn't know, but you looked so young, so helpless, but you already looked so... broken. As if you knew the weight of the world, the weight that life brought.

He straightened up in the chair and looked at the room again, seeing the back of his room where the wardrobe was. Bruce noticed that next to the large piece of furniture there was a box, almost as worn as the sticker on the door, he got up from the chair leaving the photo on the table next to him, walking over to the box and picking it up with ease. Preferring to sit on the bed instead of the chair he opened the cardboard box to find a computer and a pen drive.

Bruce, so immersed in his thoughts, barely noticed that while he was turning on the old device, someone else was entering the room.

“Bruce?” The aforementioned looked up to see Dick. Looking at his son, he realized how worn out Dick was, whether it was the deep bags under his eyes or the messy hair from so much grabbing and pulling. “What are you doing here?”

“I…” came to see my daughter’s room? Came to try to feel less guilty? Came to try to comfort myself in my pain of not having protected my own daughter? Bruce didn’t know what to answer, fortunately, Dick understood this and decided to see for himself. Carefully, Grayson entered the room and observed with interest, his gaze stopping at the same shelves of trophies that Bruce was interested in, the small smile on Grayson’s face disappeared when he discovered the real reason for the trophies being there.

“W-wait, is that from gymnastics?” Dick looked closer, seeing on the table the same photo Bruce had taken, his anxious eyes roaming the entire shelf, observing his every victory in detail. “Is that all of…(name)?”

“Yeah, and all of hers, all the effort we never saw.” Bruce turned his focus back to the computer, the anguish in his words reminding him of his mistake, while Dick sank in guilt as Bruce himself decided to look at the computer’s contents.

It looked like it hadn't been used for a while, there was dust on the computer and the screen was broken, putting the pen drive in the device a folder appeared on the screen, Bruce clicked and the loading screen appeared on the screen, while it was loading Bruce felt his oldest son sitting next to him, watching the computer next to him and as soon as the loading was finished the two men came across photos.

Very, very old photos of you.

Photos of you as a baby at various points in your childhood outside the mansion, there was a photo of you walking while smiling at the camera, a photo of you sleeping on the couch drooling all over it, a photo of you drinking while wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, and many others.

Bruce heard Dick sigh when he saw you, he had to hold himself back from melting right there, you looked so cute with your chubby cheeks and bright eyes. He wished he could be there at that moment, seeing you so cute, taking care of you, being the father he never was.

But time has passed, you've grown up and are gone now.

Bruce shook off his thoughts when he saw a different photo, in it you had the corners of your mouth covered in what he assumed was chocolate, your hands were covered in the same candy, but what caught Bruce's attention wasn't that, but the woman behind you holding you while laughing at your lameness.

your mother

(M/n) (Last name)

He remembers the woman, kind and caring, a writer from outside Gotham, and although it is strange that she preferred Gotham to live in (with so many other cities more protected than it is), she reached her peak of fame, which made them meet. Just one night with her, nothing more, an affair that didn't go ahead and in which he thought he would forget about her, only for a year later she sends him a letter, talking about you, his daughter.

She didn't ask for anything, not even alimony for herself, she just asked him not to interfere in her daughter's life, although Bruce found the request strange he accepted, being too busy with work to care, he didn't give it due importance at the time.

That was until (M/n) died, her sudden death made him bring you to his house, he fought for custody of you with your aunt, but since he was the one best able to raise you, your custody was given to him.

That was many years ago, he doesn't remember you bringing this computer.

Oh.

Do you keep the computer to remember your mother?

The articles were old, wouldn't it be better to transfer the photos to your cell phone? Or didn't you want to? Maybe you would prefer to keep the computer to remember your memories.

Dick shifted beside him, looking again at the immense trophies on his shelf. “We had her here, and we just ignored her.”

“Dick—”

“We had a diamond in the rough, shining brightly for us, and we just ignored it, and now that she’s gone…” Bruce said nothing, there was nothing to say.

Dick was right.

They had lost a precious stone.

And there was no way to get her back.

Three months.

Nothing about you, no clues, no trails, nothing made it even more difficult because the bus you were on was burned, even if it was left there were no fingerprints, DNA or anything else that would lead them to you.

Dick had to go back to Blüdhaven, continuing his own investigation there. Bruce, knowing that he couldn't do it alone (not this time), put his pride aside and warned the members of the league about your disappearance.

Clark, in an effort to find you, published an article in the Daily Planet about your disappearance, but not even that helped in his search.

The members of the League were alert in each of their cities, looking for clues about you, but nothing came to them, not the organization that kidnapped you or your possible whereabouts.

It was as if you had disappeared from the earth.

Six months.

The police were getting sloppy, probably already giving up on the case. Bruce was still investigating, but how was he going to get deeper into the case if the clues that led to you had disappeared into the wind like dust on the ground?

All he had were your desperate calls for help, your messages, but they led nowhere, your device destroyed without its location.

The family had become more depressed, as if something was missing for everyone present, the immense loneliness in the mansion showing who was missing.

You.

One year.

The case was closed, with nothing to investigate, the Gotham police had more problems to deal with than a missing and possibly dead teenager.

There was… nothing. 

Nothing to say, nothing to do, nothing to look for.You were gone.

A long time ago.

What they didn't know was that you weren't gone, but you were there.

“Alright, alright, I think we’re done for today, right?”

The iron-tasting liquid once again rose up in her bile, making the blood in her throat gush out of her mouth, choking her.

The room they were in, previously white, was now stained crimson, clinging deep into the walls as it reflected the light from the lamp.

In the corner of the room stood you, chained up like a beast (which technically wasn’t a lie now). You lay still as the toxic green liquid entered your veins, the acidity still biting your skin.

Doctor Magnus was the one in front of you, the man with long black hair and golden eyes was watching you dangerously, the loving attitude that many could see as a father educating his son was nothing more than a facade of sadistic malice from the man.

He disgusted you.

They all did.

All of them, all of them, all of them, ALL OF THEM-

Magnus watched as the syringe that connected the tube in your neck finished injecting the toxin into your veins, with the process finished, Magnus approached you and pulled it from your neck.

With the brutality with which he pulled the syringe, you hissed in pain, your abnormally large fangs showing themselves to the doctor, the protective instinct emerging in your brain. Despite the offense, Magnus just smiled at you.

Stepping away from you, he lowered your restraints making you feel a little comfortable. With his fingerprint, the doctor opened the automatic door, before leaving he stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder, his gaze meeting yours.

“Get plenty of rest (Name)…” the man’s smirk widened, the evil coursing through him making her stomach churn with fear.

"Tomorrow your experiments will intensify.”

Okay, I'm a little disappointed (I was hoping to write one more, but I couldn't add anything without it affecting the next chapter), well I'll make up for it in the next chapter.

Here's the tag list \(•◡•)/:

@daiyanomochi - @amber-content - @wizzerreblogs - @foggyv-oid - @kore-of-the-underworld - @theunknowntravel3r - @space1crow - @shortnsweetsposts - @popursocks - @sugasweettea - @salfishers - @itachisank - @jsprien213 - @infirebaby - @yhin-gg -@h-ib

@bunbunboysworld - @h-ib - @sheep-from-rad - @tatsuri-zomushiki - @the-holy-pigeon - @geminis93

sorry for any mistakes.

Bye

[kkanabel]

co-pilot mischief ✫ curly concerns ✫ chapter uno

captain curly x teasing!reader

curly panics when he realizes he's attracted to his co-pilot. a mixture of professionalism and fear of making you uncomfortable are keeping him from pursuing his feelings. so, when you find out that he has a thing for you, you tease him to see how long it'll take for him to give up.

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

words: ~3.5k

t/w: sexual references but no actual yucky (yet), reader being lowkey sadistic, cute curly <3, gn!reader/pronouns but reader wears a bra

a/n: hi. been obsessed with this video game recently—well, especially with Curly (go figure. i like fictional men). i needed to make something self-indulgent bc i just like this man way too much. and because i just want to make a world where none of them have to suffer. enjoy~ 

~jambalaya does not exist in this world~

Planned Shipment Duration: 382 Days Elapsed Transit Time: 292 Days

It had been over nine months aboard this damned ship, and Curly was just short of going mad. Not the kind of madness that came with sleep deprivation—he’d conquered that particular beast long ago, his body numb to the restless nights. No, this madness was quieter, more insidious, burrowing into his mind and refusing to leave. It trailed him through the claustrophobic halls of the Tulpar, slipping into the smallest crevices of his day-to-day. The worst part was, he knew exactly what caused it.

Or rather, who.

His co-pilot. The bane of his existence. The source of his sanity slipping through his fingers like sand.

Curly groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands, his calloused palms dragging over stubble. The cockpit was bathed in the green glow of the ship’s display panels, casting long shadows over his hunched figure. For once, he was alone. His co-pilot was off—God knows where—and he was left to grapple with the gnawing frustration that never seemed to diminish. It wasn’t the kind of irritation that burned; it simmered, steady and unyielding, until it became part of the fabric of his thoughts, melting like wax into his very being.

He could see their handwriting on the little sticky notes scattered around the console, each one an infuriatingly sweet reminder to stretch, drink water, or take a break. He tried to ignore the way those notes made him feel a little lighter, even when he wanted to crumple them up out of spite. Then there were the meals—hot, fresh, and left beside him during the long hours he spent poring over ship diagnostics on days he’d forget to come to the main lobby for food. Like clockwork, they arrived, a silent reminder that someone out there cared. Too much, in fact.

It wasn’t the fact that they’d climbed the ranks with startling efficiency or that they were nipping at his heels for his own position. But the issue wasn’t their competence. Hell, he’d been the one to recommend them to the crew. No, the problem—the real problem—was that he didn’t mind the notes. Or the meals. Or the way their laugh lingered in his head long after the joke had ended.

That was the crux of it: he didn’t mind. He cared too much.

Curly growled under his breath and pushed himself out of his chair, dropping into a push-up position before the thought could take hold again. One. Two. Three. The strain burned through his biceps and shoulders, grounding him in something tangible. In the beginning, this ritual had worked. Twenty push-ups, and he’d feel clear-headed enough to get back to work. But now? He was well into quadrupling that number, and the haze in his mind hadn’t lifted.

“Damn it,” he muttered, shifting to one-armed push-ups. Sweat beaded on his brow, but his thoughts remained stubbornly fixed.

It was their fault. The way they lingered in his peripheral vision during late-night shifts, always a step ahead of him. The way their presence filled the cockpit, electric and steady, as if the entire ship ran on their quiet energy. He hated it. He needed it.

Curly collapsed onto the floor, the cool metal pressing against his flushed skin. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the dull ceiling, and exhaled sharply. But it wasn’t their fault. It was all his.

Because no matter how many push-ups he did or how hard he worked, he couldn’t seem to outrun the one truth he hated most: he was falling for his co-pilot, and there was no way to make it stop.

It all started so innocently.

A couple of months ago, when Curly’s sleep was deteriorating thanks to the unholy cocktail of chronic insomnia and the Pony Express directive of “only indulging in five hours of sleep a night,” the signs of wear were becoming impossible to hide. His dark circles deepened, hollowing out his features, and the number of minor piloting errors he made began creeping upward. He hated slipping up, especially in front of the crew. But you had been there, catching the mistakes before anyone else could notice, your tone warm and forgiving as you covered for him without a single reproach.

“How many hours of sleep did you get last night, Captain?” you asked, glancing at him with a knowing arch of your brow. The question was less accusatory and more concerned, which somehow made it worse.

The third time you caught him in the cockpit, chugging yet another cup of bitter instant coffee, you sighed with exasperation. He barely had time to process what you were doing before you nudged him toward the door with a bottle of melatonin clutched in your hand.

“Rest, Captain,” you said firmly, standing your ground in front of him with a tilt to your chin that tolerated no argument. “Don’t go abusing yourself—and caffeine—like that. Do me a favor and take one of these with some water. I’ve got the ship tied down.”

Before he could retort, you physically pushed him through the doorway and locked the cockpit door behind him. He stared at the bottle of melatonin in his hand, blinking in confusion, his mind too fogged with exhaustion to properly argue. He barely made it to his quarters without bumping into a wall. Still, he heeded your demand.

When he woke up hours later, groggy but undeniably more refreshed than he’d felt in weeks, he returned to the cockpit to find the door unlocked and you sitting in his chair, nursing a steaming cup of water between your hands.

The smile you gave him as he walked in—small, gentle—made something in his chest falter, like the ship had hit a pocket of turbulence. He ignored it, chalking the reaction up to gratitude. “Thanks,” he muttered before reclaiming his chair.

That should have been it. A one-off moment. But it wasn’t.

The next time was when you came bounding into the cockpit, an excited glint in your eyes, holding a bundle of old films scavenged from storage. “Look what I found!” you exclaimed, dropping them onto the console as if they were treasures unearthed from a sunken ship. The crew’s old stash of classic movies. You suggested a movie night, and by the weekend, everyone was gathered in the living area, dressed in mismatched pajamas as per your insistence.

The fake day-and-night screen in the living room had been converted into a movie screen (thanks to a favor from Swansea), and you’d somehow transformed the cramped space into a cozy theater. The crew was laughing, the air thick with the buttery aroma of popcorn—smuggled aboard in direct defiance of Pony Express regulations. Swansea lounged in a corner, throwing popcorn into his mouth with perfect aim, while Daisuke and Anya shared a bag of candy bars, their laughter ringing out during the film’s funniest moments.

And then there was you, looking at the rest of the crew, a relieved smile on your face from seeing them having fun and relaxing.

You’d curled up on the couch with bunny slippers, wearing an oversized t-shirt that reached down to your knees. Curly found himself staring at the way your legs curled up in front of you, the smooth skin catching the flickering light of the screen. He shook his head and willed himself to look back at the film, feeling an odd mix of discomfort and… something else.

It wasn’t just your legs that had caught his attention. He watched your shoulders relax as you looked at the others having a good time. From your shoulders, his eyes slowly trailed up to your neck,

There was the lace halter bralette peeking out from the neckline of your shirt, delicate and intricate, its strap circling your neck like a whisper of fabric. He’d overheard you mention it in passing to Anya once, saying how they were more comfortable than traditional bras. Cute, you’d said. Anya had agreed wholeheartedly, and the two of you had launched into an entire conversation about comfortable alternatives, leaving him both bewildered and hyper-aware of the intricacies of brassiers.

That night, you’d tied your hair up, sweeping it off your face and revealing the curve of your neck. He hated how his eyes kept trailing there, lingering too long on the strap of your bralette before snapping back to the screen.

What was wrong with him?

The laughter of the crew filled the room, but Curly’s focus was elsewhere. He watched the way your shoulders relaxed as you leaned back, your smile warm and unguarded as you looked at the others enjoying themselves. It had been a rough couple of weeks, but in that moment, you looked so at ease, like you were carrying everyone’s joy on your shoulders and doing it gladly.

His gaze drifted again, following the line of your neck up to your jaw and almost to your lips before he froze, his chest tightening with realization. He was staring. Stop it, you creep. His heart thudded in his chest, the weight of his guilt sinking in. The last thing he ever wanted was to make you uncomfortable, to let you see just how hopelessly he was starting to lose control of his own feelings.

And yet, even as he looked away, forcing his attention back to the film, the memory of your smile lingered in his mind, burning as brightly as a star in space.

Later that night, after the crew had dispersed to their quarters, Curly lingered in the living area. The faint smell of popcorn still hung in the air, and empty mugs cluttered the low table, remnants of the impromptu movie night.

He hadn’t planned to stay, but you were still there, stacking empty bowls with practiced efficiency. You hummed softly as you worked, the sound low and content.

“You don’t have to clean up,” he said, his voice startlingly loud in the quiet.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, an easy smile spreading across your face. “Neither do you, Captain. Yet here you are.”

Curly looked so charming, sweeping up the crumbs from the ground with a bashful smile. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Force of habit, I guess.”

He stepped forward and started gathering stray candy wrappers. You didn’t protest, and the two of you worked in companionable silence. The only sounds were the soft clink of mugs and the occasional hum from the ship’s systems.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter. He kept his eyes on the mug in his hand, turning it absently. “I think… the crew needed it.”

You paused, a little surprised. “Needed what?”

“A break. A reminder that things aren’t always so…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “Mechanical.”

You laughed softly, and the sound was warm enough to make his chest ache. “Even machines need downtime, Captain. And so do you.”

He glanced at you, his resolve faltering as you met his gaze head-on. Your eyes were steady, soft, and full of something he couldn’t quite name. For a moment, the ship felt too small, the air too thin.

“I guess I’ll work on that,” he said, forcing a crooked smile and dropping his gaze.

As the months passed, his little problem only got worse.

It started as little things.

The way Curly’s voice would soften when he said your name, like he was tasting it before letting it leave his mouth. How he always seemed to position himself between you and anything remotely dangerous during routine checks, even if the “danger” was just a loose panel or a slightly sparking wire. You noticed those things before, but they hadn’t meant much to you at the time.

But lately, you’ve started picking up on more.

Like how he fidgets whenever you lean over his chair to point something out on the cockpit screen. Or how his ears turn red if your hand brushes his when passing tools or data tablets. At first, you think it’s funny—how someone so competent and in control can get so flustered over little things. But then, there’s the moment in the Main Lobby.

You’re digging through one of the upper cabinets, on the hunt for something sweet, when you hear his boots scuff against the floor behind you.

“You’re always after the chocolate in the vending machine,” he says, leaning casually against the counter like he isn’t watching you a little too closely.

“And you’re always after the coffee,” you quip, holding up a ration bar triumphantly.

“Touché.” His lips twitch into a smile, and you can’t help but notice how his eyes linger on you just a moment too long before he turns to grab his mug from the shelf.

It’s not unusual—this kind of back-and-forth—but as you open the bar and break off a piece, you catch him glancing at you again, almost like he’s about to say something. He doesn’t, though, and the moment stretches long enough to feel... significant.

That’s when it starts clicking.

The lingering looks. The slight hesitation in his voice when he talks to you. The way he goes out of his way to make sure you’re comfortable, even when he doesn’t have to. The realization settles in your chest, warm and a little thrilling.

Does Curly like me?

Your mind starts replaying recent moments with a new lens. The way he always pulls you aside first to explain changes to the schedule. How he always offers to carry extra supplies during inspections, even when you insist you’re fine. That time he casually gave you his jacket when the living quarters were colder than usual, like it was no big deal.

“Earth to you,” Curly says, snapping you out of your thoughts. He’s holding out a water pouch, his brow slightly furrowed. “You zoned out there for a second. You okay?”

You take the pouch and give him a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

You tilt your head, studying him, and your smile widens when he shifts under your gaze. “Nothing important.”

It’s a lie, of course. You’re thinking about him—about how he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, about how he tries so hard to act unaffected when you’re around.

And for the first time, you feel a little wicked. If Curly likes you, why not have a little fun with it?

Curly knew something was off the moment you walked into the cockpit.

It wasn’t just the way you greeted him, your voice light and playful as always. It was the way your smile lingered, like you were holding onto a secret you couldn’t wait to let out.

“You’re up early,” you said, dropping into your seat beside him.

“Could say the same for you,” Curly muttered, keeping his eyes on the console. He was grateful for the excuse to look busy, though the screen in front of him was just a diagnostic report he’d already read three times.

“You’re always so serious, Captain.” Your tone was teasing, but there was something else beneath it, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He didn’t respond, didn’t trust himself to.

The silence stretched, and just when he thought you’d moved on, you leaned closer—close enough for him to catch the faint scent of whatever soap you used.

“Hey, Curly?”

His stomach flipped. “Yeah?”

You paused, drawing it out, like you were savoring his anticipation. Then, with a sly grin, you said, “You’re staring.”

“I’m not—” He froze, his heart skipping a beat. “What?”

“You are,” you insisted, your grin widening. “You’ve been staring at that same report for the last ten minutes. What’s so interesting about it?”

Curly’s mouth went dry. He scrambled for an answer, but his mind betrayed him, replaying every fleeting glance he’d stolen of you earlier that morning. How long had you noticed?

When he didn’t respond, you leaned back in your chair, smug satisfaction written all over your face. “Relax, Captain. I’m just messing with you.”

But you weren’t. Not entirely.

Because as you watched the tips of his ears turn pink and saw how his jaw tightened, you realized something. Something that made your pulse quicken and your lips curl into a wicked smile.

He likes me.

And now that you knew, you couldn’t help yourself.

Curly swore the ship’s cockpit had never felt this small before.

You were now hovering just over his shoulder, leaning in to inspect a blinking diagnostic alert on the screen. The proximity was maddening—he could feel the warmth radiating off you, the sleeve of your Pony Express jumpsuit brushing against his arm every time you moved.

“Hmm,” you mused, tilting your head. “Looks like a minor power fluctuation. Nothing to worry about, but we should log it for the next maintenance check.”

He nodded stiffly, trying to focus on your words instead of the fact that your hair was so close it tickled his cheek. “Right. I’ll, uh, take care of it.”

But when he reached for the keyboard, so did you. Your fingers grazed his, and you both froze.

“Sorry,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. A playful smile tugged at your lips, and he didn’t trust it for a second. “Didn’t mean to get in your way, Captain.”

“It’s fine,” he muttered, turning back to the screen. But his fingers trembled slightly as he typed, and he cursed himself for it.

“You know,” you said, leaning against the edge of the console, your voice deceptively casual. “You look good when you’re focused like that.”

He nearly choked. “What?”

“I said you look good when you’re focused.” You shrugged, like it was the most normal, casual thing in the world. “It’s kind of intimidating, actually. In a good way.”

His face burned, and he fought the urge to bury it in his hands. “I—uh—thanks, I guess...”

The smile you gave him was nothing short of devilish. “You’re welcome.”

You stayed there, watching him a little too closely, and he could feel his pulse thudding in his ears. Finally, he risked a glance at you, only to find you tilting your head with mock innocence.

“Everything okay, Captain?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, focusing hard on the screen. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Oh, no reason.” Your voice was light, teasing. “You just seem a little... tense.”

He stiffened, embarrassed and confused as to what you were doing but powerless to stop it.

“You know,” you continued, leaning a little closer again, “you really should loosen up. It’s not good for your health to be so serious all the time.”

“I’m not—” He cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

“Hmm.” You studied him for a moment, and then, with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you added, “If you ever need help relaxing, Captain, just let me know.”

He froze, his brain short-circuiting at the double meaning behind your words.

Before he could stammer out a response, you straightened up, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Don’t work too hard, okay?”

And just like that, you were gone, leaving him alone in the cockpit, his heart racing and his mind a chaotic mess.

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. He was doomed. Absolutely doomed.

From the moment you saw Curly’s ears turn red, his fate was sealed. You’d never imagined the stoic, dependable captain could be reduced to such an adorable mess, and now that you’d seen it, there was no going back. It was just too cute—the way his bravado would falter, his words stumbling over themselves as he tried and failed to maintain composure.

Normally, Curly was all broad shoulders and easy charm, his commanding presence impossible to ignore. But you’d discovered a crack in that armor, a secret button that turned him from the ever-confident leader into a flustered, helpless schoolboy. And oh, what a delightful button it was to press.

You’d always found him attractive—how could you not? He was responsible, dependable, and unfairly handsome. But for the longest time, you assumed he’d only ever see you as his co-pilot, someone to rely on professionally but never personally. Yet now, the way his gaze lingered a moment too long, the subtle flush on his cheeks whenever you got a little too close, told you a very different story.

It gave you a strange, heady sense of power, and you had absolutely no intention of letting it go to waste.

A small, wicked thrill ran through you whenever you imagined the possibilities. What if you teased him just enough to make that carefully controlled exterior crumble? What if you pushed him to the edge, until he couldn’t hold it in any longer? Your mind wandered to a particularly wonderful thought: Curly, unable to take it anymore, bending you over the console with a heated, desperate confession.

You shivered, the fantasy almost too delicious to bear.

And so, your mission began—not to reject him, but to push him. To tease and torment, to watch his resolve unravel thread by thread. You weren’t cruel, not really. You knew he’d crack eventually, and you planned to reward him handsomely when he did. But until then?

Until then, you’d savor every stolen glance, every stammered reply, every moment he tries and fails to hold himself together.

After all, what was a little mischief between co-pilots?

a/n: let me know what y'all think! biggest thank yous to those who have written curly x reader fics thus far, y'all fueled me lmfao.

oh yeah.. smut.. eventually...

taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just curly/mouthwashing characters or if you want the news on alll my fics... also might be accepting requests hehe! i can't guarantee that i can do em, but i'll accept ideas!

thanks for reading! <3

btw. not beta read, please let me know if there are any typos or inconsistencies stay safe & hydrated as always!

(and go to sleep if you're reading this super late. don't be a curly. take care of yourself! (i say, writing this at midnight))

crossposted on ao3

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

[blackenedsnow]

Can you write me a Shadow the Hedgehog x Female Reader, but movie Shadow version and the reader has DiGeorge Syndrome a rare medical disorder that I have, idk about any prompts or summary atm, anything will do :3

a heart’s shadow

WARNING: Mention of chronic illness and medical trauma, implied violence

PAIRING: Movie! Shadow the Hedgehog x Reader with DiGeorge Syndrome

NOTE: I may have gotten his personality completely wrong (let's hope not) but I hope you enjoy anyway! Sending you lots of love <333

SUMMARY: Shadow abducts you as part of a calculated plan but soon discovers your health struggles, which remind him of Maria. This realization shifts his cold purpose into something else.

The hum of machinery filled the darkened corridor. Shadow’s red-tinted eyes scanned the area, unyielding, calculating. Dr. Robotnik’s orders were simple: take a hostage to ensure leverage against Sonic. Anyone nearby would do.

He found you on a bench by a park, bundled against the chill, your breath coming in slow, deliberate measures. Shadow had no reason to think twice about you, but when he closed the distance, a brief hesitance stirred within him. There was something… different.

“You’ll do,” he muttered to himself, voice cold as he stepped forward. Before you had a chance to scream, the world became a blur of black and crimson.

When you came to, you were somewhere unfamiliar, an industrial space with harsh lights and the lingering scent of oil and metal. Panic clawed at your chest as you tried to sit up, but a sharp twinge in your side reminded you why that was a bad idea.

“Good, you’re awake,” a voice came from the shadows.

You turned toward the figure stepping into the light—small, black-furred, and with eyes that pierced right through you. Recognition struck. Shadow the Hedgehog.

“Why am I here? Why… why me?” Your voice trembled, but there was an underlying defiance.

His expression was unreadable. “You were convenient. That’s all.”

It wasn’t true. Not entirely. Shadow had noticed the slow way you’d been breathing, the way your hand pressed against your chest as if steadying something fragile. Something about it gnawed at the edges of his focus, but he dismissed it as irrelevant.

Hours turned into a day. Despite his original intention to keep you confined, Shadow had been uncharacteristically quiet and watchful, observing you from a distance.

When you tried to stand, the stumble in your step was enough to make him act. “Sit,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “You’ll hurt yourself further.”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, though your trembling hands betrayed you. “I’ve been through worse.”

Something flickered across his face—a rare softness. “Explain.”

You weren’t sure why you did, but the words poured out before you could stop them. The surgeries. The way your heart worked harder than it should. The moments when simple things—like standing too quickly—felt like scaling a mountain.

Shadow listened, his arms crossed but his eyes filled with something akin to recognition. When you finished, you expected him to dismiss you or make some cutting remark. Instead, he just nodded.

The days stretched on, and Shadow’s demeanor began to shift. Where there had been silence, there was now a steady rhythm of his presence—a glass of water set beside you when he thought you weren’t looking, the careful adjustment of the space to make it more comfortable.

“What changed?” you asked one evening as he handed you a blanket.

Shadow hesitated, his gaze fixed on the floor. “You’re not what I expected. You’re… stronger than you seem.”

“Strong?” You laughed bitterly. “I can barely make it through the day without—”

“Strength isn’t about perfection,” he interrupted, his tone firm. “It’s surviving despite everything trying to break you.”

It wasn’t just empty words. Shadow understood. You could see it in the way his jaw tightened when he spoke, the unspoken weight he carried.

One morning, you woke to find Shadow in a room—not the cold, sterile space you’d been confined to, but warm place. He had taken you somewhere safe.

“You’re not taking me back to Robotnik?” you asked cautiously.

“No,” he said simply.

“But why—”

“Because I don’t work for him anymore.”

He didn’t elaborate, but you didn’t need him to. The walls Shadow had so carefully built around himself had cracked, just enough for you to glimpse the truth. He hadn’t saved you out of pity or obligation. Somewhere along the way, you’d become important to him.

Life with Shadow wasn’t easy—he was blunt, stoic, and often distant. But he was also fiercely protective, learning the intricacies of your condition without complaint. He’d carry you when you were too weak to walk, stand vigil during your worst days, and remind you in his own quiet way that you were never alone.

“Why do you stay?” you asked him one night, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned to you, his gaze steady. “Because you remind me of her. Of Maria.”

You reached for his hand, resting yours over his. “I’m not her, Shadow. I’m not perfect.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you’re worth fighting for.”

[hisfavegirl]

The Rouge Prince - Daemon Targaryen x Reader.

summary : As the only daughter in your family, you are required to marry someone with dignity and honor, that's what your father thinks and when he heard that the king wanted to find a bride for his grandson, your father and mother did something that required you to sacrifice your future.

You sit in the carriage, your eyes fixed on your parents, who are deep in conversation. The rhythmic sound of the horses’ hooves on the road fills the air, but your mind is elsewhere. You glance at your father, his brow furrowed in thought, and your mother, her eyes scanning the horizon as if lost in her own plans.

“Why are we going to King’s Landing, Mother?” you ask again, trying to break through their focused discussion.

Your father, glances at you briefly before returning his attention to your mother. “You’ll find out when we arrive, child. It’s not something for you to worry about right now.”

“But I want to know now!” you protest, frustration bubbling up inside you. “Why do you keep talking in secrets? What are you planning?”

your mother, turns her head slightly toward you, her face calm but distant. “Enough questions, dear. It’s for your own good.”

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes in suspicion. You look out the window, trying to ignore their conversation, but curiosity gnaws at you. What are they planning? What could be so important that they won’t share with you?

“Mother,” you ask quietly, your tone softer now. “Please. I just want to understand.”

Your mother sighs, her gaze softening for a moment. “In time, you will, my love. But for now, you must trust that we are doing what is best.”

You turn back to the window, still not entirely convinced. The trees pass by in a blur as your mind races with possibilities. What is waiting for you in King’s Landing? What role do you play in this unknown plan?

The carriage rumbles to a stop, and the clatter of hooves fades into the bustling noise of the Red Keep’s courtyard. Your eyes scan the scene before you — guards marching in tight formations, their armor clinking with every step, and servants rushing about, their arms full of crates and baskets of food, wine, and decorations. The air hums with activity, the scent of fresh bread and sweet fruits mixing with the sharp tang of metal.

“Out,” your father’s voice cuts through the noise as he steps down from the carriage, offering a hand to your mother. You follow after them, your eyes darting around, taking in every detail.

“What’s all this for?” you ask, noticing the banners being unfurled from the high towers. The sigil of House Targaryen — the three-headed dragon — looms over the courtyard like a watchful beast.

“The feast,” your mother replies, her gaze sharp as she glances at a group of servants struggling with a large cask of wine. “There will be many important guests tonight. You will behave accordingly.” Her tone is gentle but firm, the kind that leaves little room for argument.

“A feast for whom?” you press, stepping closer to her. “What’s the occasion?”

A flicker of something — hesitation, perhaps — crosses her face. She looks at your father, who gives her a short nod. “The King has decided it is time to strengthen bonds between houses,” your mother says carefully. “There will be dancing, music, and… alliances to be made.”

“Alliances,” you mutter under your breath, frowning. The meaning behind that word is never as simple as it sounds.

The three of you walk into the Red Keep, and the warmth of the sun is quickly replaced by the cool, shadowed halls. The once-quiet corridors are now alive with movement. Servants hang garlands of flowers along the walls, and tables are being set with silver plates and goblets of polished gold. You have to step aside as a pair of kitchen boys hurry past, balancing platters of fruit and roasted meats.

“Stay close,” your father says, glancing back at you. “The halls are crowded, and I will not have you wandering off.”

You nod but your eyes remain on the scene before you. The smell of spiced wine drifts past your nose, and the distant sound of musicians tuning their instruments echoes through the stone corridors. Everywhere you look, people are moving with purpose, as if the whole keep is holding its breath for something grand to begin.

You glance up at your mother, your brow furrowed in suspicion. “Are you sure this is just a feast, Mother? It feels like something more.”

Your mother doesn’t answer immediately. Her gaze is fixed straight ahead, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Keep your eyes open tonight, my dear,” she finally says, her tone low but pointed. “There is more to see than what is being shown.”

Her words stay with you as you walk deeper into the Red Keep, the echoes of footsteps and distant music filling your ears. The air feels heavier now, like a storm about to break.

You walk through the grand corridors of the Red Keep, the distant hum of preparations for the feast slowly fading behind you. The air grows colder, heavier with the weight of expectation. The echo of footsteps bounces off the high stone walls, each step feeling louder than the last.

As you approach the large, looming doors of the throne room, two guards push them open with a low, rumbling creak. The chamber beyond is vast and dimly lit, the narrow beams of sunlight streaming through high windows casting sharp rays upon the stone floor.

At the far end of the room, atop the Iron Throne, sits King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, his presence as commanding as the throne itself. His silver hair gleams in the fractured light, and his sharp, thoughtful eyes watch every movement like a dragon surveying its domain. Beside him stands Prince Baelon Targaryen, his son, tall and broad-shouldered, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. His gaze is sharper, more direct, and it lingers on you just a moment too long.

“Lady Tyrell, Lord Tyrell,” King Jaehaerys’s voice echoes across the hall, steady but worn with age. His gaze shifts to you, eyes narrowing with faint curiosity. “And you have brought another with you.”

“This is my daughter,” your mother replies with a polite bow of her head. “She has come to learn, as all must in time.” Her voice is steady, but there is a careful calculation in her words, as if each syllable has been weighed before it was spoken.

“Ah, the young one,” Baelon says, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “She looks sharper than most. I wonder if she listens as well as she watches.” His eyes meet yours, a spark of challenge in them.

You lift your chin, refusing to look away. “I listen when there’s something worth hearing,” you reply, your voice cool but clear.

Baelon raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “A tongue as sharp as her gaze. She’ll need both if she means to walk these halls.”

Jaehaerys raises a hand, and the room falls silent. His eyes settle on you, more curious now than before. “Tell me, child,” he says slowly, his voice like distant thunder, “what do you see when you look upon this throne room?”

You glance around the room, your gaze moving from the cold stone walls to the guards stationed along the edges, to the light catching on the jagged edges of the Iron Throne. Your eyes linger on the throne itself — a twisted mass of blades, swords of conquered kings melted together. You feel a weight in the air, not just from the presence of those before you, but from the very history embedded in the metal.

“I see power,” you answer carefully, your voice unwavering. “But power that cuts as easily as it commands.”

For a moment, there is only silence. Jaehaerys’s eyes remain on you, and you can feel him weighing your words. Slowly, a faint smile touches his lips.

“Wise beyond your years,” he says, leaning back on the throne. “Perhaps too wise.” His gaze flicks to your father, then to your mother, his eyes sharp with meaning. “Keep her close, my child. Wisdom is both a gift and a danger in these halls.”

Your mother dips her head in acknowledgment. “She will be guided well, Your Grace.”

Baelon chuckles softly, his eyes still on you. “If she’s as clever as she seems, I doubt she’ll need much guidance.”

You glance at him again, your heart steady despite the weight of so many eyes upon you. The Iron Throne looms larger than ever, and in this moment, you realize that every gaze in this room carries its own weight of expectation. Something about this meeting feels heavier than it should.

As the king begins speaking with your mother and father, you remain silent, but your mind is far from still. What had your mother said before? “There is more to see than what is being shown.”

You watch them all — the king, the prince, the guards, even the way the light falls on the Iron Throne — and you wonder what lies beneath their words.

The heavy groan of the great doors behind you draws your attention. Slowly, they swing open, and for a moment, the light from the corridor frames the figure in the doorway like a portrait.

Prince Daemon Targaryen steps inside with the confidence of a man who has never questioned his place in the world. His silver hair, so much like his father’s and grandfather’s, falls just past his waist, but it is the sharpness in his eyes that catches your attention. Mischief and danger swirl in his gaze like fire and smoke. His lips curve into a crooked grin, as if he already knows something no one else does.

“The Rogue Prince arrives,” Baelon mutters, glancing toward his son with a mix of pride and exasperation. “Late, as usual.”

“Better to arrive late than to wait on others, Father,” Daemon replies smoothly, his voice rich with amusement. His boots echo as he strides forward, his cloak swishing behind him like a dragon’s tail. He spares a glance at his grandfather, King Jaehaerys, and gives a short, almost lazy bow. “Your Grace.”

“Daemon,” Jaehaerys says his name like a warning, though his gaze is steady. “You walk these halls like they belong to you.”

“Do they not, grandfather?” Daemon’s grin widens, his eyes flicking briefly to the Iron Throne. “One day, they will.”

A strained silence falls over the room, heavy as storm clouds. You glance at your mother, and see her eyes narrow, her lips pressed tightly together. Your father, shifts his stance, his gaze fixed on Daemon like a hawk watching prey.

“Ambition is a dangerous thing, nephew,” your mother says softly, her voice calm but pointed. “It burns hot but fades quickly if not tempered.”

Daemon’s eyes flick to her, his grin unfaltering. “Then it’s a good thing I prefer wildfire, my lady. Burns hotter, lasts longer.” His gaze moves to you next, his eyes sharp and assessing. “And who do we have here?”

You meet his stare without flinching, your eyes steady on his. “Someone who knows better than to be charmed by wildfire, Prince Daemon.”

Baelon barks a laugh, his eyes lighting up with surprise. “She has your tongue, Daemon. Careful, or she’ll cut you with it.”

Daemon’s grin only widens, his eyes gleaming with interest now. He takes a step closer, tilting his head as he examines you like one might examine a puzzle with missing pieces. “A sharp tongue, a sharp gaze. Dangerous tools for one so young.”

“And yet,” you reply smoothly, “dangerous tools tend to be the most useful.”

His eyes narrow, but there’s no malice in them — only curiosity and something else you can’t quite name. He chuckles softly, his eyes flicking to your mother. “This one’s yours, I take it?”

“She is mine,” your mother replies firmly, stepping slightly forward, as if to place herself between you and Daemon. Her tone leaves no room for doubt. “And she is not a tool for anyone to use.”

“Everyone’s a tool, my lady,” Daemon replies with mock sweetness, stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender. “Some just don’t know it yet.”

“That will be enough, Daemon,” King Jaehaerys’s voice cuts through the room like a blade, sharp and absolute. “We are here to prepare for the feast, not to play games of wit and pride.”

Daemon lowers his head slightly, his grin fading but not disappearing. “Of course, Your Grace.” He steps aside, letting his gaze linger on you for a moment longer before turning toward his father, Baelon.

You release a slow breath, realizing only then how tense you’d been. Your gaze flicks to your mother, who places a hand on your shoulder, her fingers firm but reassuring.

“Remember what I told you,” she says quietly, her eyes locked on Daemon as he walks away. “There is more to see than what is being shown.”

Her words echo in your mind as you watch the Rogue Prince disappear deeper into the throne room, his laughter still hanging in the air like smoke after a fire.

The king rises from his throne, and the room falls into a hushed silence. His presence alone commands attention, but as he begins to speak, the weight of his words settles over the room like a heavy fog.

“Now that Prince Daemon has arrived,” King Jaehaerys’s voice rings clear and firm, “I am pleased to announce the engagement of my grandson, Prince Daemon, to Lady Tyrell, the daughter of Lord and Lady Tyrell. The marriage will take place in one month’s time.”

The room seems to hold its breath. You feel your heart stop in your chest, and for a moment, the world around you seems to blur. Your eyes flick to your parents, and everything falls into place.

You had wondered why your father had so stubbornly rejected every suitor you had been offered, why he had pushed back against every potential match, no matter how prestigious. It wasn’t that they didn’t care for your happiness—no, it was something far more intricate, far more political. The realization strikes you like a thunderclap.

The match with Daemon. This is what your father had been maneuvering toward all along. A marriage that would tie your House to the Targaryens in a way that could not be undone. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? This is a power play—a way to gain influence in the court, to strengthen your family’s position, to secure your place among the highest powers in the realm.

You feel a cold shiver run down your spine as you look at Daemon. His eyes meet yours across the room, his expression unreadable, but there’s a glint of something in his gaze. Recognition? Amusement? Or something far more dangerous?

Daemon, the Rogue Prince—the one who had walked into the room with such defiance and charm. The one who had stirred the pot, who had pushed every boundary. And now, he is your fiancé. Your blood runs cold, and yet, you can’t tear your eyes away from him.

“Is this truly necessary?” you hear yourself ask, the words slipping from your mouth before you can stop them. Your voice rings out in the room, breaking the silence like glass shattering.

King Jaehaerys’s eyes flick to you, sharp and unyielding. “It is done, child. The decision has been made.”

Your mother, Lady Tyrell, steps forward, her expression neutral but tight with control. “It is for the good of House Tyrell,” she says, her voice calm but with an edge. “A union with House Targaryen will strengthen our position. We must all think beyond our desires, for the future of the realm.”

The weight of her words crashes down on you, and for a moment, you feel as if the room is closing in. You glance at your father, Lord Tyrell, who watches the exchange with a cold, calculating gaze.

“So this is why,” you say softly, more to yourself than to anyone else. “This was the reason behind all the rejections… All those men who came to court me, only to be sent away with little more than a polite refusal. You had this planned all along.”

Your father does not deny it. “Sometimes, the right choice is not the one that makes us happy,” he says quietly. “But it is the one that secures our future.”

Daemon’s voice cuts through the tension. “Don’t look so disappointed, Lady Tyrell. You may find our union more… thrilling than you think.” His grin is sly, but there’s something behind it that you can’t quite place.

You take a steadying breath. You don’t have to like this arrangement, but it seems you have little choice in the matter now. Daemon is your fiancé, and the course has already been set.

As the room shifts back into its previous rhythm, the whispers of the courtiers beginning again, you feel a chill settle in your bones. The power dynamics have shifted in ways you couldn’t have predicted, and now you are at the center of it all.

Your life, and your future, are no longer entirely your own.

You stand in the newly prepared chamber, its walls draped in fine silks and the soft glow of candlelight flickering across the polished stone floor. The room feels both grand and foreign to you, filled with the weight of the Targaryen legacy, yet it is still undeniably your own—at least for now. The heavy, regal scent of incense fills the air, and everything in the room seems meticulously arranged for your new life.

Your mother, Lady Tyrell, stands near the window, her gaze fixed on the far-off horizon, as if she is contemplating something far beyond the stone walls of this keep. The silence between you is thick with unspoken words, but you can feel her eyes shift toward you, sensing your presence without turning.

“Mother,” you begin, your voice steady but tinged with a mixture of confusion and something deeper. “You are part of House Targaryen by blood, yet now you’re asking me to bind myself to them through marriage. Is this truly the best course for our House?”

She finally turns to face you, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. For a moment, there’s a flicker of something, a vulnerability, before it is quickly masked.

“It is not just about bloodlines, my dear,” she says softly, her voice carrying the weight of experience. “The strength of our House is not in our name alone but in the alliances we forge. House Targaryen is the most powerful in the realm. A marriage to Daemon… well, it solidifies our position in ways that words alone cannot.”

You stare at her, trying to make sense of her cold pragmatism, yet beneath it, there is something you almost cannot place. She speaks with such certainty, such authority, as if her entire life has been leading up to this moment.

“But what of me?” you ask, a thread of frustration slipping into your tone. “What of my future? My happiness?”

Lady Tyrell steps closer to you, her gaze softening just slightly, though her resolve remains strong. “You are not the first woman to be wed for the good of her family. And you will not be the last. But remember this, child: House Tyrell will endure, and so will you. You are not just a pawn, but a queen in the making. Your sacrifices will carry our name far and wide, and that is something that will outlast any personal longing.”

You want to argue, to voice the doubts and fears that have been swirling in your mind ever since the announcement. But there’s something in her voice—something both comforting and chilling—that silences you.

You look down at the fine silks draped over the bed, the delicate embroidery woven with care, and for the first time, you realize the cost of this union. It’s not just about power. It’s about the future of House Tyrell. And you, whether you like it or not, have become its instrument.

“Will I ever truly have a choice in any of this?” you ask, the words barely escaping your lips before you can stop them.

Your mother steps forward and places a hand on your shoulder, her grip firm, almost too firm. “You always have a choice,” she says quietly. “But know this: sometimes the right choice isn’t the one that will bring you immediate joy. It’s the one that will ensure survival, legacy, and honor.”

You nod slowly, feeling the weight of her words settle into your bones. There is no turning back now. You are bound to this marriage, to Daemon, to a future that will not be of your choosing.

But as you meet your mother’s gaze, something inside you stirs—determination, perhaps, or the beginning of a plan of your own. This life might not be the one you imagined, but that doesn’t mean you have to accept it without shaping it in your own way.

And with that thought, you look at your mother one last time. “I will make sure House Tyrell does not just survive, but thrives,” you say, your voice quiet but resolute.

She gives you a nod, the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. “I know you will.”

Your words hang in the air, heavy with doubt and defiance. “Becoming a queen? Even Daemon is just the second son,” you say, your voice tinged with frustration. You didn’t mean to speak so openly, but the realization of your situation is too much to bear. How could you possibly be married to someone like Daemon, the second son of House Targaryen, whose ambitions and wild nature are known across the realm?

At the sound of your words, a sharp silence fills the room, and in an instant, you feel the change in the atmosphere. Your father, Lord Tyrell, who had been so composed, now stands rigid, his eyes narrowed with a cold, burning fury.

“Do not question my decisions,” he says, his voice low but firm, each word biting through the air like a blade. The heat of his anger is palpable, and his gaze hardens as he steps closer, his presence towering over you. “Daemon is not just any second son. He is a Targaryen. And his blood is powerful enough to change the course of this realm.”

You can feel your heart pounding in your chest as his words sink in. This is no longer a family discussion; it’s an assertion of power, of authority. Your father’s hand tightens into a fist, and you know that questioning him now is not a luxury you can afford.

“I have done what is necessary,” he continues, his voice steady, though there is an edge to it now. “House Tyrell’s future is secured by this union. It is not a matter of titles or birth order. It is a matter of survival, of influence. And you will marry Daemon, whether you like it or not.”

You swallow hard, the tension in the room thickening. The implications of his words are clear—there is no room for rebellion in this decision. Your personal desires, your future hopes, they mean nothing in the face of what your father believes is best for the family. You can see the finality in his eyes.

“But father,” you protest, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts to remain strong. “This is not the life I wanted. This is not the future I dreamed of.”

Your father’s expression softens only slightly, but there is no trace of remorse in his eyes. “Dreams are for children,” he replies, his tone hardening again. “The realm is ruled by power, not dreams. You will adapt. And in time, you will understand.”

Your mother, Lady Tyrell, steps forward now, her presence steady and calm as always, but her eyes meet yours with an expression that speaks volumes. She says nothing at first, allowing your father’s words to settle. Then, her gaze softens, and she places a hand gently on your arm, her touch warm but firm.

“I know this is difficult,” she says quietly, her voice carrying the weight of years of experience. “But your father is right. This is not just a marriage. It is the future of our House. And your role in this is not one to be taken lightly. You must think beyond yourself for the good of everyone you love.”

You want to fight back, to argue that your happiness should matter, but the reality of your situation presses in. This is the life you will have now—the life your parents have chosen for you.

With a heavy sigh, you turn away from them, facing the window, your eyes tracing the distant horizon, where the sun is setting. You are trapped in a life you didn’t choose, and for the first time, you feel the full weight of that reality.

You freeze as you hear the soft rustling of fabric and the faint sound of footsteps. Turning swiftly, you spot Daemon emerging from the shadows at the far end of your chamber, his presence as commanding as ever. He moves with a fluid grace, almost as if he’s accustomed to walking unnoticed, and before you can fully react, he’s already standing close, his piercing eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your heart race.

Daemon reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and you can feel the warmth of his touch, despite the coldness in the room. The gesture is unexpected, and for a moment, you’re caught off guard—unsure of whether to push him away or allow the contact.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” he asks, his voice low, his smirk barely concealed. There’s something almost mocking in the way he says it, as if the idea of you being alone, contemplating your future, amuses him. “You are not the first bride-to-be to feel lost in this place, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure you aren’t alone for long.”

You pull back slightly, trying to regain your composure. His presence fills the room in a way that’s both unsettling and undeniably magnetic. He seems to relish the power he holds over the situation, over you. It’s clear that he’s not here just for casual conversation.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” you say, your voice sharp despite the uncertainty creeping in. “This is my room, not a place for you to wander in whenever you please.”

Daemon’s smile widens, though there’s a darkness lurking beneath it. He leans closer, his breath warm against your skin. “Expectations can be… limiting,” he murmurs, his hand still lingering on your cheek. “I’m here because I want to be. And I’m not known for following the rules.”

The way he speaks, the confident, almost predatory manner in which he carries himself, unsettles you. Yet there’s an undeniable pull—his presence is commanding, and you can’t help but feel as though you’re caught in his web, whether you like it or not.

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice quieter now, more cautious. “Is this another game to you, Daemon?”

He tilts his head, studying you as if trying to read the very thoughts behind your eyes. “Games?” His voice is low, almost a whisper. “Perhaps. But I’m not a fool, and neither are you. We both know what this marriage is about. It’s not about love, or even companionship. It’s about power, survival, and what we can make of it.”

His fingers trace your jawline, sending a shiver through your body, but this time, you don’t flinch. “So, yes,” he continues, his voice a little softer, though the intensity still lingers. “It’s a game. But it’s also something more. And you… you have a role to play, whether you accept it or not.”

You stand still, caught between the impulse to push him away and the dawning realization that you must, somehow, find a way to navigate this union, this game, in a way that serves you. Daemon Targaryen may be a powerful figure, but that doesn’t mean you have to submit to him blindly.

“Don’t think you can control me,” you say, your voice firmer now, your eyes locking with his.

Daemon’s smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a flicker of approval in his eyes. “Control?” he repeats, as if savoring the word. “I never said anything about control. But don’t mistake me for a man who will be ignored, either.”

He steps back slightly, his hand falling from your face, but his gaze remains fixed on you—intense, unreadable, and as unpredictable as the storm clouds gathering in the distance. You can feel the tension thick in the air between you, the unspoken challenge hanging heavy.

“Remember,” Daemon adds softly, “this marriage may not be of your choosing, but it will be a union of power, of influence. And how you wield it will be up to you.”

With that, he turns, his cloak swirling behind him as he disappears back into the shadows from where he came, leaving you alone once more, the weight of his words settling in your mind.

You remain standing there for a long moment, your heart still racing, trying to make sense of the encounter. Daemon’s touch, his words, his presence—they all felt like a warning, a challenge, and a promise wrapped into one.

This marriage, this union… it will not be as simple as they want you to believe.

You watch as Daemon slowly fades into the shadows, his presence still lingering in the room, as if he has left behind more than just his physical form. A cold shiver runs down your spine, a mix of unease and something deeper—something you can’t quite name. You remain rooted in place for a long moment, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of his touch, his words, but they refuse to leave you.

With a deep, steadying breath, you turn away from the dark corner of the room, trying to collect your thoughts. You had expected your life to change, but not like this. Not with Daemon, not with the weight of House Targaryen looming over you. Yet, here you are, standing at the precipice of a future you never asked for, and there’s no turning back now.

Just as you’re lost in thought, the door creaks open, and several servants step inside, moving briskly toward you. They are efficient and polite, with no hint of judgment or curiosity in their eyes—just the practiced grace of those accustomed to serving in the Red Keep.

“My lady, it is time to prepare for the evening’s festivities,” one of them announces softly, her voice respectful but gentle. “your father requests that you be ready soon.”

You nod, taking a deep breath, and allow yourself to be guided toward the preparations. The weight of your thoughts shifts to the evening ahead. The grand dance, the ceremonial waltz of power and politics that you are now an integral part of. It’s strange to think of yourself as a player in this grand court, a mere pawn in a game that stretches far beyond your reach.

The servants begin to undress you with practiced care, replacing your simple clothes with the intricate, heavy gown that has been prepared for you. The fabric feels foreign against your skin—rich, cold, and undeniably royal. They twist your hair into an elegant updo, tucking every strand into place as if to remind you that tonight, you are not just yourself—you are a symbol of House Tyrell’s power, a future princess.

As they work, you find your mind drifting back to Daemon. His words replay in your head, his touch lingering on your skin. Despite everything, despite the storm of thoughts in your mind, you know one thing for certain: this night is only the beginning. The beginning of a journey you cannot avoid, no matter how hard you try.

Once they finish, the final touches are made, and you look at your reflection in the mirror. You are ready—at least, outwardly. Inside, the battle between your duty and your desires rages on. But there’s no time to dwell on that now. The evening awaits, and your role in it is clear.

As the final servant leaves, you take a deep breath and turn toward the door. Tonight, you will step into the world of the Targaryens, the world that Daemon has invited you into, and you will have to play the part. There will be no room for hesitation or doubt.

With one last glance at your reflection, you leave the room, walking toward the unknown that awaits you in the grand hall.

You gaze at your reflection in the mirror, the red gown clinging to your body in all the right places, the intricate design and fabric of the dress making you look like something both regal and untouchable. The deep crimson hue mirrors the fiery determination and turmoil churning inside you. Your hair is styled flawlessly, and you feel a strange mixture of power and vulnerability in the reflection staring back at you.

Just as you’re about to turn away, one of the servants steps forward, holding a small, velvet-lined box in her hands. She approaches quietly, her eyes respectful as she presents it to you. “My lady,” she says softly, “Prince Daemon has sent this for you to wear tonight.”

Your heart skips a beat at the mention of Daemon, and a wave of unease floods over you. The box is opened, revealing the most beautiful piece of jewelry you’ve ever seen. Nestled within the box is a stunning ruby necklace, its deep red color rich and intense, like the blood of kings. It glistens in the light, its intricate design made of gold and delicate filigree, catching the light in such a way that it almost seems to pulse with life.

“His Grace requested that you wear this tonight,” the servant continues, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she knows the weight this piece of jewelry carries. “It is a gift for the evening’s festivities.”

Your fingers hover over the necklace, and for a moment, you feel the weight of Daemon’s gaze upon you. His presence, his influence, it is all around you now—through his words, through his gift. The necklace, while beautiful, feels more like a symbol than an ornament. It feels like a chain, a reminder of the role you’re about to play in the world of Targaryen politics.

You take the necklace from the box, and the servant helps you place it around your neck, fastening the clasp with careful hands. The cool weight of the ruby against your skin sends a shiver through you, but you force yourself to remain still, to remain composed. You are no longer just a Tyrell. You are now something more, something that belongs to the Targaryens—whether you like it or not.

As the servant steps back, you take a deep breath and adjust the necklace, staring at your reflection once more. You look every bit the part of a princess, of someone who belongs in the Targaryen court. But inside, the questions still linger. What does Daemon want from you with this gift? What does it mean? Is this a sign of favor—or something more insidious?

With a final glance at the servant, you nod to yourself. This night is inevitable, and you will walk into it with your head held high, no matter what Daemon’s intentions may be. The game is on, and whether you like it or not, you are a player now.

You leave your chamber, stepping into the hallway where the sound of music and laughter grows louder, and you move toward your fate. The ruby around your neck feels heavier with each step, as if it carries the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

As you approach the grand doors of the throne room, your parents stand waiting, the regal elegance of their presence undeniable. Your father, Lord Tyrell, stands tall, his face a mask of calm authority, while your mother, Lady Tyrell, gazes at you with an expression of quiet admiration. Her eyes soften as they trace the delicate ruby necklace around your neck, and for a brief moment, you feel the weight of her approval. It’s a look that says so much more than words ever could, as if she understands the path you are being forced to walk, and yet, she is proud of how you carry yourself.

Your heart races as you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the moment ahead. This is it. This is the night where everything changes, and you step into a new world—a world of power, influence, and uncertainty. The weight of your new reality presses down on you like a mantle, but you hold your head high as you walk toward the doors.

The sound of the guards’ footsteps echoes in the hall, and as you reach the entrance, the heavy doors swing open. The loud voice of a herald announces your arrival.

“Presenting Lord and Lady Tyrell, and their daughter, Lady Tyrell, betrothed to Prince Daemon Targaryen!”

The words ring out across the vast chamber, and the eyes of everyone in the room fall on you. The grand hall of the Red Keep is filled with nobles, courtiers, and various dignitaries, all gathered for the night’s festivities. But it feels as if all eyes are on you now, studying you, measuring you. Your pulse quickens as you step forward, every movement deliberate and graceful, despite the storm of emotions swirling within.

The throne room is resplendent, with golden chandeliers casting a soft light over the gathered crowd. The walls are adorned with tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen, their dragons roaring and flying in intricate detail. The air is thick with the scent of fine wine, rich perfumes, and the soft murmurs of conversation. But in this moment, everything seems to slow down as you walk toward the center of the room, where the royal family awaits.

As you approach the royal table, your gaze meets King Jaehaerys, who is seated with an air of quiet power. His eyes flicker over you, an unreadable expression crossing his features before he nods in acknowledgment. Beside him, Prince Baelon stands with his usual stern demeanor, his gaze cool but respectful. And then, of course, there is Daemon. His eyes catch yours the moment you enter, and despite the crowd around him, it feels as though the rest of the world disappears for just a second. His lips curve into a knowing smile, one that sends a mix of unease and curiosity rippling through you.

The moment feels charged, as if everything is hanging in the balance. You are no longer just a Tyrell; you are now a part of the Targaryen story, and tonight will set the stage for everything that follows.

Your parents move to the side, and you step forward, your heart pounding in your chest. This is the moment you must embrace the future, no matter how uncertain it may be. You lower your gaze to the floor, curtsying in respect, before raising your head to meet the eyes of King Jaehaerys, Daemon, and the others.

The crowd watches in silence, the tension thick as the evening unfolds, and the weight of your decision, of this engagement, settles over you like a cloak you cannot cast off.

As you stand before the royal family, your eyes catch a glimpse of the serene and graceful figure of Princess Aemma, the wife of Prince Viserys. Her gentle smile is directed towards you, a silent acknowledgment that, despite everything, you are not alone in this court. Her delicate hand rests on her round belly, the life within her a reminder of the future of House Targaryen. You return her smile with a nod, feeling the weight of the moment settle over you like a heavy cloak.

But your attention is swiftly drawn back to Daemon as he rises from his seat, his movements fluid and confident. The eyes of the room seem to follow him, but he pays them no mind, his gaze fixed entirely on you. His presence is overwhelming, and for a brief moment, the air seems to thicken between you both, the tension palpable.

Daemon approaches you with that same predatory grace, and before you can react, he takes your hand in his. The coolness of his fingers against your skin sends an unexpected chill through you, but you don’t pull away. His touch is firm, commanding, as he raises your hand to his lips, brushing them against your skin in a manner both intimate and public.

The soft rustling of the crowd falls away, and his voice, low and almost a whisper, reaches your ear. “You wear it well,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “The ruby. You used it… just as I intended.”

You freeze for a moment, his words striking a chord deep within you. You hadn’t expected him to notice, to connect the necklace to something more than just a simple gift. But there is something in his voice—something that hints at a deeper understanding of the game you are now both playing.

Daemon pulls away slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a flicker of something unreadable. “The Targaryen blood runs thick, but your Tyrell strength… I can see it in you,” he says, his words both a compliment and a challenge. “Tonight, we show them who we are.”

Before you can fully process what he means, Daemon straightens up, his hand still lingering for just a moment before he releases yours. The world around you feels suddenly more real, the weight of this engagement, this court, this night—everything—is no longer just a distant concept. It is here, in this room, in this moment, and Daemon has just marked you in a way that you can’t ignore.

As he steps back, the music in the hall swells, and the courtiers begin to resume their conversations, the tension in the room slowly dissipating. But you are left with the echo of Daemon’s words in your mind, and the unsettling realization that this night is only the beginning of a journey you have little control over. You straighten your posture, your thoughts racing, but your gaze remains steady.

Daemon may have whispered those words, but you know that the game has just begun, and you will have to play it carefully, whether you’re ready or not.

The music swells, and Daemon steps closer, his gaze never leaving yours. The moment feels charged, the entire room seemingly holding its breath as he places a hand firmly on your waist. You can feel the warmth of his touch through the fabric of your gown, his fingers pressing gently but assertively. The dance has begun.

He leads you onto the floor with the grace of a man who has danced this many times before. His movements are confident, his body guiding you effortlessly through the steps. Despite the eyes of the entire room on you both, the closeness of your bodies feels intimate, almost private, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if anyone else can see the tension building between you and Daemon.

As you move in rhythm with the music, the world around you blurs, the noise of the court fading into the background. Your focus narrows to Daemon—his steady hand at your waist, the slight tension in his jaw, the way his gaze occasionally flickers to yours, as though testing you. The red ruby around your neck glints under the soft candlelight, and you can’t help but feel the weight of both the necklace and his gaze.

He leans in slightly, his lips just inches from your ear. “You dance beautifully,” he whispers, his voice a velvet caress against your skin, but there’s something dark behind the compliment. “But this… this is just the beginning.”

You meet his gaze, a mix of defiance and uncertainty bubbling inside you. “What do you mean?” you ask, the words slipping from your lips before you can stop them.

Daemon smiles, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Everything here is a dance, my dear. You’ve only just started learning the steps. But we will both master it in time.”

The sound of the courtiers around you begins to fade back in as they join the dance, filling the floor with elegant figures twirling in harmony. Your moment with Daemon becomes a shared performance—everyone around you moving, their eyes trained on you both as you sway together. The music is sweet and slow, but beneath the surface, there’s an undercurrent of something far more dangerous, something unspoken that pulses between you and him.

Your movements grow more synchronized as the dance continues, and soon, the entire room is swept up in the rhythm, the energy of the event building. You can feel the weight of the room’s attention on you, but your thoughts remain fixated on Daemon, his hand never leaving your waist, his presence never wavering.

The dance floor becomes a stage, and in this moment, you and Daemon are the stars of the show, bound by an invisible thread that neither of you can fully unravel.

You make your way toward the royal table, offering a polite but hurried excuse to the courtiers around you. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well,” you say, your voice laced with just enough feigned fatigue to seem believable. “The journey has left me rather drained.” Your gaze flickers to your parents, who, though surprised, offer a brief nod of understanding. The polite murmurs of the crowd fade as you slip away from the bustling celebration.

The corridors of the Red Keep are quieter now, a welcome contrast to the din of the ballroom. Your steps echo as you move through the familiar halls, each footfall a reminder of the weight on your shoulders, of the whispers and the secrets that hang heavy in the air.

You reach your room, the door creaking softly as you push it open. The room is dimly lit by the flickering glow of the candlelight, and the comforting solitude washes over you. You close the door behind you with a soft click, the world outside suddenly feeling distant and muted.

The weight of the evening’s events settles upon you like a physical burden. You approach the mirror, taking a deep breath. The reflection staring back at you seems foreign, like someone you barely recognize. Slowly, you begin to undo the intricate braids that hold your hair, the strands slipping free with each gentle tug. The weight of the ruby necklace feels heavier now, its once dazzling allure now a symbol of the very thing that has begun to change everything for you. You set it down on the vanity with a quiet finality.

Next, you begin to unlace the tight corset beneath your gown, the fabric finally loosening around your body, allowing you to breathe more freely. The delicate layers of your dress slip away, leaving you in the simpler, more comforting layers of your undergarments. You stand for a moment, letting your body relax, the tension of the evening melting away.

But as the final layer of your gown falls to the floor, leaving you standing in the solitude of your room, the silence feels oppressive. The weight of the words Daemon spoke earlier, the whispers of the court, the uncertainty of your future—all of it feels like a storm waiting to break.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, your mind racing. What had Daemon meant by his words? The future? Power? Survival? Did he truly see this marriage as a partnership, or was it merely another chess piece in a game neither of you had fully agreed to play?

The questions linger, unanswered, as you finally lean back against the pillows. The soft rustling of the fabric around you offers no comfort, no answer to the storm swirling inside you. With a deep breath, you close your eyes, knowing that the days ahead will only grow more complicated.

But for now, at least, you are alone with your thoughts. And that, for just this moment, is all you can bear.

The days have slipped by faster than you could have imagined. One moment, you were standing in the great hall, Daemon’s hand in yours, and now, it feels as though time has run away from you. Tomorrow marks the day that will change everything—the day you will marry Daemon. The realization is both exhilarating and terrifying, and as you sit in your room, your heart beats with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

You stand before a large mirror, the soft candlelight casting gentle shadows on your face. Your mother stands beside you, her hands gently smoothing the fabric of the wedding gown that rests over your body. The dress is a masterpiece, elegant and simple, with intricate lace and delicate pearls woven into the fabric, creating an aura of timeless beauty. The gown feels heavy, as if it carries the weight of the future with it.

“How does it feel, my dear?” your mother asks, her voice soft and warm. There’s a tenderness in her eyes, but also a flicker of something else—concern, perhaps, or fear. She’s seen the way you’ve carried yourself these past few days, the quiet distance in your eyes, the hesitation that lingers in your every movement. She knows how you’re feeling, even if you haven’t spoken the words aloud.

You take a deep breath, looking at your reflection. “It’s… beautiful,” you say, your voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. “But I can’t help but wonder if I’m ready for this.”

Your mother steps closer, her hands resting gently on your shoulders as she looks at you in the mirror. “You are more than ready, my darling. You’ve always been strong—just like your father, just like me. And tomorrow, you will take the next step in ensuring the future of our house. Daemon… he is a man of power. You know that.”

Her words hang in the air, a reminder of the path that you’ve been set upon. Your mind drifts to Daemon—his presence, his words, the way he made you feel both desired and distant. You still don’t fully understand what he wants from this marriage, or what your role will truly be. But one thing is certain: this union will define your future, for better or worse.

“You know, you don’t have to go through with this if you truly feel it’s not right,” your mother continues, her voice soft, as if sensing the turmoil inside you. “But remember, sometimes the choices we make are for the greater good. For our family. For our legacy.”

You look up at her then, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “I know,” you say quietly, the weight of her words sinking in. “I just wish I knew what I was getting myself into.”

Your mother smiles gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “No one ever truly knows what lies ahead. But you’re not alone in this. You have the strength of the Tyrells and the wisdom of the Targaryens in your blood. You will find your way.”

Her reassurance brings you a measure of comfort, but a knot of uncertainty still lingers in your chest. As you stand there in the gown, the future seems both distant and frighteningly close. Tomorrow, you will walk down the aisle, and your life with Daemon will begin.

You glance at your reflection once more, your heart heavy but resolute. No matter what comes next, you will face it with the strength and grace that your family expects of you. The time for hesitation is over. Tomorrow, you will step into your new life, whatever that may bring.

You freeze for a moment, the sudden sound of Daemon’s voice breaking the quiet of your room. You hadn’t heard him approach, but the smooth, confident tone of his voice tells you he’s been there for longer than you realize. A feeling of both surprise and tension rises in your chest as you glance toward the direction of the sound, your gaze following the faint rustling of the curtains.

Daemon steps into the soft moonlight, his presence as commanding as ever, even in the stillness of your chamber. In his hand, he holds a glass of wine, the ruby liquid catching the light as he approaches you. His gaze is steady, watching you with that same intensity that both unnerves and draws you in.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just stand there, silently observing each other. His eyes travel over you—the gown you wear, the way the moonlight seems to soften your features, but it’s hard to tell what’s in his mind. You can feel the weight of the unspoken words hanging in the air between you, a sense of anticipation that seems to fill the room.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Daemon finally says, his voice low, almost amused. “But I thought you might need something to help ease your nerves.” He holds out the glass toward you, the offering an unexpected gesture. The deep red wine glows softly in the dim light, tempting you with its warmth.

You study him for a moment, wondering why he’s here, why he’s come so late. Is it simply to check on you before tomorrow, or is there something more? A flicker of uncertainty tugs at your chest, but you quickly push it away. You’ve already made your choice.

You walk toward him, your steps quiet on the stone floor, and reach for the glass. His fingers brush yours briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through your body. His touch lingers for just a heartbeat longer than necessary before he releases the glass into your hand.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice a little softer than you intended, your eyes briefly meeting his. For a moment, you think you see a flash of something deeper in his gaze—an unreadable emotion that quickly disappears behind his usual guarded expression.

Daemon leans against the wall, his posture relaxed but his eyes never leaving you. “Tomorrow,” he begins, his voice now lower, “changes everything. You know that, don’t you?"

You nod, your fingers tightening around the stem of the glass as the weight of his words settles in. “I do,” you reply quietly, unsure of how much more to say.

“Good,” he murmurs, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Because it’s not just the kingdom that will change tomorrow. You will, too. And there’s no turning back.”

The finality of his words hangs in the air, a reminder that once you step into tomorrow, there is no going back to the life you once knew. You can feel the tension rising between you both, a complex mix of emotions that neither of you has fully expressed yet.

Daemon steps closer again, his presence filling the space between you. His voice drops to a whisper, just low enough that it feels like an intimate confession. “But I think you already know that. And perhaps… you’re ready for it.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, wondering what he truly means by that.

Your breath catches in your throat as you feel Daemon’s lips brush against yours. The kiss is brief but electric, sending a shiver through your entire body. It’s soft, almost tender, yet laced with an undeniable intensity. Before you can fully process what’s happening, Daemon pulls back, his lips curling into that familiar, enigmatic smile.

Without saying a word, he turns, his movements graceful and confident, and steps back into the shadows. The room seems to grow even quieter as he fades into the darkness, leaving you alone with a lingering warmth on your lips and a rush of confusion swirling in your chest.

You stand frozen for a moment, the kiss echoing in your mind, its meaning elusive. You lift a trembling hand to your lips, feeling the faint trace of his touch still there. What was that? What did it mean? And why did he leave without another word?

The silence in the room feels deafening now. The wine in your hand, once a source of comfort, suddenly feels heavy. You don’t know if you’re ready for the emotional storm that’s brewing inside you, the mixture of desire, fear, and uncertainty that Daemon has stirred within you with a single, fleeting kiss.

Your mind races, and for a long moment, you just stand there, trying to collect yourself. His words, his actions—they’re a mystery you don’t yet have the answers to. And as the last traces of his presence fade into the night, you’re left with more questions than before.

What do you truly want from this marriage? From him? And how much of yourself are you willing to give away in the pursuit of a future that is no longer entirely yours to shape?

The night feels heavier now, the weight of everything pressing down on you as you stand alone, still feeling the warmth of his touch on your lips.

The day has finally arrived. The weight of it presses down on you as you sit in front of the large mirror in your chamber. The room is alive with movement—your mother directing the servants, Aemma offering quiet words of encouragement, and your handmaidens working carefully to perfect every detail of your appearance.

Your wedding gown is a masterpiece. The fabric shimmers faintly with every movement, a blend of white and pale gold, symbolizing both your Tyrell roots and the union with House Targaryen. The lacework is intricate, delicate flowers and vines winding along the sleeves and bodice. Around your waist, a small belt of golden roses serves as a subtle nod to your house. The long, flowing train trails behind you like a river of silk, and the soft veil drapes over your head, light as air, yet it feels heavier with each passing second.

Your hair has been braided in the traditional Targaryen style, an acknowledgment of the house you will now be tied to. The braids are adorned with tiny pearl pins that catch the light as you move, and strands of your hair frame your face softly. One of your handmaidens carefully places the final flower—a pale blue lily—among the braids, a finishing touch that makes you look almost ethereal.

“Look at you,” your mother says, her voice filled with pride as she stands behind you. Her hands rest gently on your shoulders, and you see her reflection in the mirror. Her gaze is soft, though there’s something more in her eyes—a mixture of pride, sadness, and perhaps a hint of worry. “You look every bit the queen you were always meant to be.”

“Not a queen,” you reply softly, your gaze fixed on your reflection. “A princess, a wife.”

“A princess today,” Aemma interjects gently, stepping forward. She places a hand on your cheek, her smile kind and knowing. “But tomorrow, who knows what fate will bring? Queens are not born, child. They are made.” Her words linger, filling you with something you can’t quite name—hope, perhaps, or warning.

You take a slow breath, glancing at your reflection. For a moment, you barely recognize yourself. You look regal, untouchable, like one of the porcelain figures you used to play with as a child. But beneath all the silk, pearls, and flowers, it is still you—just a girl about to face something far greater than she ever imagined.

“Does it feel right?” Aemma asks, tilting her head as she studies you closely. “The gown, the flowers, all of it?”

You glance at your mother, who looks at you with quiet encouragement, and then back at Aemma. “It feels… heavier than I expected,” you admit, your fingers brushing the fabric of your dress. “But I suppose that’s how it’s meant to be, isn’t it? Every choice we make feels heavier when it becomes permanent.”

“Wise words,” Aemma says with a soft smile. “But know this—you may feel bound by duty, by house and family, but you are not without power. Do not forget that.”

Her words offer you a brief sense of reassurance, though they also stir something deeper inside you. Power. It is a word that has followed you like a shadow ever since your betrothal was announced.

The servants step back, their work complete. One of them hands you your bouquet—a carefully arranged bundle of white roses, blue lilies, and soft green leaves. The floral scent is fresh, clean, and grounding.

“Take one last look,” your mother says as she steps aside. “Because the next time you see yourself like this, you’ll be walking down that aisle.”

You glance once more at your reflection, taking in every detail. The girl you see is no longer the same person she was yesterday. She is poised, elegant, and strong. But beneath it all, she is still you.

With a deep breath, you rise from your seat, the weight of the gown settling around you like armor. Your mother adjusts your veil one last time, letting it fall perfectly behind you. Aemma offers you a reassuring smile, her gaze firm and steady.

“It’s time,” your mother says softly, her voice filled with emotion she tries to hide. “Are you ready?”

Your heart beats steadily in your chest, a steady rhythm that echoes through your entire being. You grip the bouquet tightly, feeling its thorns pressing faintly against your fingers.

“I am,” you say, your voice clear and certain. “I’m ready.”

With that, you turn toward the door, your veil trailing behind you like a river of light. The world outside awaits—the noble houses, the court, and Daemon himself. Each step you take will lead you closer to a future you can no longer escape, but one that, perhaps, you can still shape.

The rhythmic creaking of the carriage wheels fills the air as you sit beside your mother and father, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your chest. Your fingers twist anxiously around the fabric of your gown, the silk smooth and cool beneath your fingertips. Despite the grandeur of the occasion, your heart beats loudly in your ears, drowning out the soft murmurs of your parents.

Your mother notices your fidgeting and places a gentle hand over yours. Her touch is warm, grounding you as she gazes at you with that calm, steady look she always gives you in moments of doubt. “Breathe, sweetling,” she says softly, her voice barely audible over the clatter of the carriage. “You look perfect. Every eye will be on you, but they will see only your grace and beauty.”

Her words are meant to reassure you, but they only make the weight in your chest feel heavier. Every eye will be on you. Not as yourself, but as a symbol of something greater — a marriage that would bind House Tyrell and House Targaryen forever.

Your father sits across from you, his hands resting on the head of his cane, his gaze fixed firmly out the window. He has been unusually quiet since you left the Red Keep, his expression unreadable. His sharp eyes flicker toward you for a brief moment, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You’re doing what’s expected of you,” he says suddenly, his tone firm but not unkind. “This marriage is your duty, and you will fulfill it with dignity and strength.” His words are as sharp as ever, but there is a strange sort of pride beneath them. He has always spoken to you this way, as if molding you into something unbreakable. Today is no different.

You nod, though his words leave a hollow ache in your chest. Duty. Dignity. Strength. You’ve heard them all your life. They have guided you, shaped you, and now, they are about to define you.

The light filtering through the carriage window shifts as the carriage begins to slow. You glance out and feel your breath catch in your throat. The Great Sept of Baelor rises before you, its grand domes and stained glass windows glistening in the morning sun like a crown of jewels. People line the streets, their voices a mixture of cheers, gasps, and murmured prayers. Flowers are scattered on the ground, a soft path of white petals leading to the steps of the Sept.

The sight is breathtaking — and overwhelming. You feel the full weight of every gaze upon you. They are here for the spectacle, to witness history in the making. They do not see you. They see a bride, a symbol, a promise of power and legacy.

The carriage comes to a slow stop, the clattering of wheels replaced by the distant hum of the crowd. Your heart beats faster. This is it. No turning back. No running away.

“Stand tall,” your father says as he steps down from the carriage first, offering his hand to help you descend. “Show them who you are.”

Your mother exits next, giving you one last glance filled with quiet encouragement. Her eyes glisten, though she blinks away whatever emotion threatens to show.

Finally, it is your turn. The carriage door swings open, and the soft breeze of the open air greets you. Your eyes catch the first glimmers of sunlight reflecting off the stained glass of the Sept, casting colors of blue, red, and green across the stone steps. You take a breath, slow and steady, letting it fill your lungs. Show them who you are.

You place your hand in your father’s, his grip strong and steady, and step out of the carriage. The crowd erupts into cheers. The air is filled with the scent of flowers and incense, the warmth of the sun on your skin making everything feel surreal. Every eye is on you. Just as your mother said.

Your gaze remains forward as you ascend the steps, the long train of your gown flowing behind you like a river of silk and lace. The Great Sept’s bells ring in the distance, their deep, resounding chimes echoing across King’s Landing. It is a sound that makes the air feel heavier, more sacred.

At the top of the steps, waiting for you at the grand entrance, is Daemon. His silver hair gleams like molten silver in the sun, his armor polished to perfection, but it’s his eyes that catch you. He is watching you with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. His gaze is not like the crowd’s. It is sharper, more deliberate, like he sees you and no one else.

He stands tall in his Targaryen armor, the three-headed dragon emblazoned on his chest. There is no crown on his head, but he looks every bit a prince. His smirk is subtle, barely there, but you see it. That quiet confidence, that knowing look that tells you he is fully aware of the spectacle before him — and he enjoys it.

As you approach, his eyes remain on you, unwavering, unreadable. The steps seem longer than they should be, each one a reminder of how far you’ve come. Finally, you reach him, and for a brief moment, it is just the two of you. The world fades away — the crowd, the bells, the weight of duty — and all that remains is him.

Daemon steps forward, his gaze never leaving yours. He extends a hand to you, and for a heartbeat, you hesitate. Is this truly what you want? you wonder. But then you remember Aemma’s words. Queens are not born. They are made.

With steady resolve, you place your hand in his. His fingers curl around yours, firm and warm. He leans in, close enough that only you can hear him.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his voice laced with amusement. “Nervous, little flower?”

You lift your head slightly, meeting his gaze with all the strength you can summon. “No,” you reply firmly, though your heart betrays you with its quickened pace. “I am simply ready.”

His smirk widens just a fraction, a glimmer of something playful, perhaps even impressed. He turns, leading you inside the Great Sept. The light from the stained glass windows paints the stone floor in brilliant hues of red, blue, and green. Each step echoes softly as you walk together, hand in hand, toward the altar where the High Septon awaits.

The nobles of Westeros line the aisles, all eyes on you once more. You see familiar faces among them—lords and ladies from noble houses, your family, and even Aemma, watching you with quiet pride. Whispers follow your every move, but you do not falter.

As you approach the altar, the High Septon raises his hands, calling for silence. The Sept grows still. You can hear every breath, every faint shift of cloth. Daemon stands beside you, his hand still holding yours. You glance at him briefly, and for the first time, he is not looking at the crowd, the Septon, or the nobles. He is looking at you.

“Let us begin,” the High Septon declares, his voice echoing through the hall.

The ceremony is a blur of words, oaths, and promises. You speak them all clearly, every vow falling from your lips with certainty. Daemon’s voice is steady as he repeats the words, his eyes never leaving yours. The world feels smaller now, like it’s only the two of you standing there.

When it is done, the High Septon raises his hands. “By the light of the Seven, I declare them husband and wife. May their union be strong, their line unbroken, and their love enduring.”

The Sept erupts in applause. The sound crashes over you like a wave, and for a moment, you are breathless. The High Septon turns to Daemon with a nod.

“You may kiss your bride, Prince Daemon.”

Daemon steps closer, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, wicked way. Slowly, he lifts your veil, his fingers brushing your cheek as he pushes it back. The crowd fades once more, the sound of their cheers dull and distant.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes locked on yours, as if daring you to look away. But you don’t. You meet his gaze, unwavering, unafraid.

“Here we are,” he murmurs, his voice just for you.

“Here we are,” you reply, and before you can say anything more, his lips are on yours.

The kiss is firm, claiming, and yet somehow soft. The world seems to hold its breath as Daemon Targaryen, your husband, pulls you closer. His hand rests at the small of your back, grounding you, anchoring you to this moment. The cheers of the crowd grow louder, but you hardly hear them.

The cheers of the crowd still echo in your ears as you sit beside Daemon in the carriage. The air is thick with the sweet scent of flowers from the Great Sept, and the faint clattering of hooves on cobblestone fills the silence between you. Your gown feels heavier than it did before, the weight of everything — the vows, the kiss, the future — pressing down on you.

Daemon sits beside you, one leg crossed over the other, his arm draped casually along the edge of the seat. His silver hair catches the faint glow of sunlight that seeps through the window, making him look like something out of legend. He tilts his head toward you, his eyes sharp, watchful, and filled with something you can’t quite name.

“You’re quiet,” he says, his voice smooth as silk. His gaze flickers to your hands, which rest neatly in your lap, fingers still clutching the edge of your gown. “Nervous, little flower?”

You turn your head to meet his gaze, your expression calm despite the storm of thoughts in your mind. “I have no reason to be,” you reply, your voice steady, though a hint of weariness slips through. “I did as was expected of me. And now, so have you.”

His eyes narrow, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Expected of me?” He shifts, leaning forward, his face closer to yours now. His voice drops to a low murmur, carrying the weight of something more dangerous. “You think I wed you out of duty alone?”

You hold his gaze, refusing to look away. “Isn’t that what marriage is for people like us? Duty and power. Nothing more.”

There is a pause — a flicker of something that could be surprise or intrigue in his eyes. Then, he lets out a soft, short laugh, leaning back into his seat. “Perhaps. But power comes in many forms, little wife. And duty… well, it tastes sweeter when shared with someone clever.”

His words linger in the air like smoke, curling around your thoughts. You glance at him, studying his face for any sign of sincerity or mockery, but, as always, he is impossible to read.

“You sound as though you plan to enjoy it,” you say cautiously, tilting your head ever so slightly.

His grin widens, wicked and knowing. “I always enjoy what is mine.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, though you do not show it. What is mine. There it is again — that sense of possession, of control. You are his now, by law, by faith, and by the eyes of every noble in Westeros. But just as he has claimed you, you have claimed him.

The carriage jostles slightly as it moves over uneven ground, and the sound of the crowd begins to fade into the distance. Your gaze shifts to the window, watching as the familiar towers of the Red Keep draw closer. The sun glints off the red stone walls, and you feel a strange mix of relief and dread.

The feast awaits. Another spectacle, another performance. More eyes, more whispers, more judgment. It would not end, not today, not ever.

“Are you afraid of them?” Daemon asks suddenly, his eyes still fixed on you. “The nobles. The lords and ladies who will watch your every move tonight.”

You glance at him, your brows furrowing just slightly. “Should I be?”

He hums thoughtfully, his eyes dancing with mischief. “No. They are like hounds, sniffing for weakness. But if you show them none, they will kneel.” He leans closer, his voice soft but sharp as a blade. “Show them the rose, but never the thorn. That is how you win.”

His words echo something your father once told you. It is a lesson you have heard all your life, but hearing it from Daemon makes it feel different. He is not like your father. He is wild flame, not tempered steel.

“Wise words, husband,” you reply, turning to face him fully. Your eyes meet his, unwavering. “But I am not just a rose. I have thorns, and I know when to use them.”

His eyes darken with something you can’t name. Amusement? Respect? Perhaps both. He leans back once more, his grin widening as he taps a finger against his knee.

“Good,” he says, his voice like a purr. “I would hate to have a boring wife.”

Silence settles over the carriage once more, but it is different now. The tension is still there, but it has shifted — no longer suffocating, but sharp and aware. You feel it in the way Daemon watches you, like a cat watching a bird just out of reach. He is testing you, just as you are testing him.

The gates of the Red Keep loom ahead. The sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The clatter of the carriage wheels begins to slow, the gentle pull of momentum drawing to a stop. Outside, you hear the distant calls of guards and the sound of footsteps.

Your heart tightens for a moment, knowing what comes next. Another performance, another step toward a future you cannot escape.

Daemon is already on his feet before the carriage door is even opened. The guards outside pull it wide, and the light spills in, illuminating his figure as he steps out first, his black and red cloak sweeping behind him like wings. He turns back, his hand outstretched toward you.

You hesitate, but only for a heartbeat. With a deep breath, you place your hand in his, letting him guide you down from the carriage. The crowd within the Red Keep courtyard is smaller but no less watchful. Nobles, servants, and guards alike pause in their tasks to turn and watch. You feel their stares like pinpricks on your skin.

Daemon’s grip on your hand tightens just slightly as you walk together, side by side. His head is held high, his posture that of a dragon who knows he is feared. You mirror him, lifting your chin as you walk with steady grace, every step measured, deliberate, queenly.

The nobles bow as you pass, some low, some shallow, but all respectful. Whispers follow you like the rustle of leaves in the wind. You catch snatches of their words — “beautiful,” “Tyrell,” “Targaryen bride.” The names of houses swirl around you like a storm, but you do not react. You are stone, unyielding, unbreakable.

As you approach the entrance to the Keep, Daemon leans in, his voice low and teasing by your ear. “They’ll be watching you all night, little flower. Waiting to see if you wilt.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Then let them watch. A rose does not wilt in the eyes of lesser flowers.”

Daemon laughs, a genuine, full laugh that echoes off the stone walls. The sound draws more stares, but neither of you care. His eyes gleam with something dangerous and delighted as he gazes at you, his bride, his wife.

“I knew it would be you,” he says softly, just for you. “From the moment I saw you in the Sept. No one else would have suited me.”

You glance up at him, brow raised. “I wonder, husband, if that is meant as a compliment or a warning.”

“Both,” he says, his grin sharp as a blade.

He guides you inside the Red Keep, where the torches burn brighter than the sun outside. The air is filled with the distant hum of music, the clinking of goblets, and the scent of roasted meat and sweetwine. The wedding feast awaits. Lords and ladies will gather, faces hidden behind smiles and masks of courtesy. There will be toasts, jests, and glances filled with envy and doubt.

But you are not afraid.

Daemon’s words echo in your mind. Show them the rose, but never the thorn.

No. You will show them both.

With each step deeper into the Red Keep, you feel the weight of your new role settle on your shoulders. You glance once more at Daemon, his eyes forward, his confidence as unshakable as the stones of Dragonstone itself.

Your grip on his hand tightens.

He glances down at you, eyes sharp and curious.

“You and I,” you murmur, low and certain, “will be more than they ever expected.”

Daemon tilts his head, his eyes narrowing with interest, his smirk returning in full force. “Yes,” he says, his voice filled with dangerous promise. “We will.”

And as you enter the grand hall where your wedding feast awaits, you feel it — the power in every glance, every step, every breath. This is your night. Your house may have offered you up as a rose, but you will bloom as something far more dangerous.

They will see your beauty.

But soon, they will know your thorns.

The grand doors to the throne room swing open with a low, resonating creak. The light of a hundred flickering torches dances on the polished stone floor, illuminating the space with a warm, golden glow. The cold, commanding aura of the Iron Throne is softened by the vibrant colors of the decorations. Rich red and gold banners hang from the high ceilings, sigils of House Targaryen and House Tyrell displayed side by side. Flower arrangements — red roses for your house, and dragonfire lilies for his — fill the room with a heady, sweet fragrance.

Daemon’s hand rests firmly on yours as he guides you inside, his grip steady and possessive. Your gown sweeps behind you like a river of white and gold, the delicate embroidery shimmering with every step. The room is filled with nobles from every corner of Westeros, their eyes fixed on you. Lords and ladies bow their heads as you pass, their gazes sharp with curiosity, envy, and judgment.

“All eyes on us, little flower,” Daemon murmurs lowly, his voice laced with amusement. “They’ll be watching to see if the rose wilts under the weight of the dragon.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, tilting your head slightly as you whisper back, “Let them watch. I’ll show them how a rose blooms under fire.”

His grin widens, sharp and wolfish, and his grip on your hand tightens for a moment in approval.

At the far end of the hall, King Jaehaerys sits on the Iron Throne, regal as ever despite his years. His white beard flows down his chest, and his eyes, though kind, are watchful. At his side stands Prince Baelon, his posture straight and proud, and next to him is Princess Alyssa, who offers you a warm smile. Beside them, Prince Viserys stands with his pregnant wife, Aemma, her hands gently cradling her growing belly.

As you and Daemon approach the royal table, the herald steps forward, his voice booming across the hall.

“Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Tyrell, now husband and wife!”

Applause erupts from the crowd, a sea of clapping hands and murmurs of approval. You feel the weight of the moment settle on your shoulders, but you do not falter. With your head held high, you meet the gaze of every noble brave enough to stare for too long.

Daemon leads you to the head table, where two seats have been prepared beside the king. The chair feels larger than it should, its grandeur meant to emphasize the significance of the place you now hold. Daemon sits beside you, his posture relaxed, as though this is where he was always meant to be. He leans back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over the crowd like a dragon surveying its domain.

King Jaehaerys rises from his seat, his golden cloak draped heavily over his shoulders. The room falls silent at once. All eyes turn to the king, and even the faintest whisper dies in the air. He raises a hand, his voice clear and commanding despite his age.

“Today, we bear witness to a union of fire and bloom,” he proclaims, his voice echoing through the hall. “House Targaryen and House Tyrell, bound together in strength, in unity, and in purpose.” He turns his gaze to you and Daemon, his eyes filled with wisdom and authority. “May this marriage be as enduring as the roots of Highgarden and as unyielding as the flames of our dragons.”

Another round of applause fills the hall, and you bow your head in respect. Jaehaerys raises his goblet, and the hall follows, their goblets raised high in the air. “To Prince Daemon and his bride!” he declares.

“To Prince Daemon and his bride!” the crowd echoes, their voices like a chorus of thunder.

Daemon raises his own goblet, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. He leans toward you, his eyes flickering with mischief as he murmurs, “Drink, little flower. They’re watching.”

You glance at him, your eyes narrowing slightly in defiance, but you do as he says. Lifting your goblet, you meet his gaze as you drink, letting the sweet tang of wine linger on your tongue. He watches you closely, his eyes never leaving yours, and for a moment, it feels as though there are only the two of you in the hall, locked in a silent battle of wills.

The music begins to play, the gentle strumming of lutes and the deep hum of drums filling the air. All eyes shift toward the center of the room, where the space has been cleared for the first dance. Daemon rises from his chair, offering his hand to you once more.

“Shall we, wife?” he says with a teasing grin, tilting his head just slightly.

You glance at his hand, then meet his gaze with quiet resolve. Slowly, you place your hand in his, letting him pull you to your feet. The hall watches with anticipation as you step onto the dance floor together. The music shifts, growing louder and more rhythmic, the steady beat of the drums like the thundering of a heartbeat.

Daemon’s hand rests lightly on your waist, his fingers curling ever so slightly as he draws you closer. His other hand takes yours, his grip firm but not forceful. Your free hand settles on his shoulder, fingers lightly grazing the fabric of his tunic. For a moment, the world narrows down to the space between you and him. His eyes lock onto yours, sharp as Valyrian steel, and you feel the hum of energy between you.

“Don’t look down,” he says softly, his voice so close to your ear that it sends a shiver down your spine. “They’re watching.”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a faint smile. “Then let them watch.”

The dance begins.

The two of you move with the music, each step practiced but not without grace. Your movements are precise, every turn and spin guided by his hands. The room blurs around you, faces melding into indistinct shapes as you focus on Daemon — on his eyes, his smirk, the way he moves with the confidence of a man who has never doubted himself.

He twirls you, and your gown flares out like petals in bloom. Gasps and murmurs of admiration rise from the crowd. When he pulls you back to him, his hand presses firmly against your back, his eyes dark with something more intense than pride.

“You’re doing well,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth. “But I expected no less from you.”

“Careful, husband,” you reply, your breath even despite the pace of the dance. “Compliments from you sound dangerously close to affection.”

His grin is quick, wicked. “Perhaps I’m feeling generous tonight.”

The final note of the music echoes through the hall, and the two of you come to a stop. You’re so close that you can see every flicker of firelight reflected in his violet eyes. Your heart pounds in your chest, but not from the dance alone. His gaze holds you in place, unrelenting and unwavering.

The room erupts into applause, loud and thunderous. Lords and ladies rise from their seats, clapping and cheering. Daemon releases you slowly, his fingers trailing down your arm as if reluctant to let you go. His eyes linger on you for just a moment longer before he turns to the crowd, his grin sharper than ever.

He raises a hand, silencing the applause. “Eat, drink, and be merry,” he calls out, his voice cutting through the noise. “For tonight, we celebrate not just a union, but a conquest.” His eyes flick to you, his grin curling into something more dangerous. “A victory for us both.”

The lords cheer, raising their goblets high, and the servants begin to bring forth trays of food and pitchers of wine. The hall fills with music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets.

Daemon turns back to you, offering his arm. “Shall we, little flower?”

You place your hand on his arm, your gaze steady, your chin lifted high. “Yes, husband,” you say softly, your voice carrying all the quiet power you’ve kept hidden. “Let them see what victory looks like.”

The two of you return to your place at the head table, side by side, facing the hall of nobles and onlookers. You feel the weight of their stares, their whispers, but none of it matters. Not tonight.

Daemon sits with the ease of a man born to rule, his hand idly resting on the arm of his chair. You sit beside him, as regal and steady as the roots of Highgarden.

The feast continues, but you know one thing for certain.

They may call you a rose, but tonight, they will see your thorns.

As the feast continues, the lively clamor of laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets fills the grand hall. Despite the noise, your world feels quieter as you turn to face Daemon. His gaze is sharp as ever, his features carved with the confidence of a man who knows his worth. Yet, tonight, you notice something different — a subtle shift in his eyes when he looks at you, something softer than the sharp edge he shows the world.

You sip your wine, letting the warmth settle in your chest before speaking. “You’re not what I expected, Daemon.”

He raises a brow, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “And what did you expect, little flower? A monster with sharp teeth and claws?”

“Perhaps,” you reply, tilting your head as you study him. “They call you the Rogue Prince, after all. A man ruled by impulse, driven by chaos and ambition.”

He chuckles, low and rich like a purr. “Ah, titles are like cloaks. Useful when worn, but beneath them, we’re all just flesh and bone.” He leans in slightly, his violet eyes fixed on yours. “Tell me, do you think I’m a monster?”

You meet his gaze, unflinching. “No. Monsters don’t get nervous.”

His grin falters for just a heartbeat — so quick that most would miss it. But you see it. His eyes flicker briefly, a crack in the mask he wears so well. He leans back in his chair, swirling the wine in his goblet as if to distract himself.

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” he admits, his eyes still on the wine.

“You’re better at hiding it than most,” you reply, a small smile playing on your lips. “But not from me.”

He glances at you then, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Silence stretches between you for a moment, comfortable but charged with unspoken meaning. Finally, you decide to ask the question that has lingered in your mind since the day you learned of the betrothal.

“Why did you agree to this marriage, Daemon?” you ask, your voice quiet but firm. “You could have refused. You have always been known to defy expectations.”

He goes still, his fingers pausing on the stem of his goblet. His eyes shift to yours, and for a moment, he seems to weigh his answer. His smirk is gone, replaced by something far more genuine — something raw.

“I agreed,” he says slowly, his voice quieter now, “because I wanted it.” His eyes hold yours, steady and unwavering. “Years ago, when I accompanied my grandfather to Highgarden, I saw you in the gardens.” He exhales through his nose, his gaze distant as if seeing the memory play out before him. “You were surrounded by roses, and you were laughing with your maids. You had dirt on your hands from planting flowers, but you didn’t care. You looked… free.”

You blink, surprise washing over you like a sudden breeze. “You remember that?”

“Of course, I do,” he replies, his voice steady but his eyes carrying a weight of something long kept hidden. “I stood there longer than I should have, watching you laugh. It was the first time I’d seen something so simple yet so… whole.” He breathes deeply and turns to you, his eyes piercing. “I told myself then that if I ever had to marry, I would marry you.”

His words hit you harder than you expect. You feel the warmth rise to your cheeks, but you keep your composure. “And yet, you said nothing until now,” you say softly, tilting your head. “Why not speak of it before?”

“Because I’m a fool,” he admits, his grin returning, but it’s smaller, softer. “Or maybe because I didn’t think fate would be so kind to me.” His gaze shifts, watching you closely. “And now here you are, seated beside me, not as a dream, but as my wife.”

You don’t look away, and for the first time, the weight of the feast, the eyes of the lords and ladies, and the whispers of onlookers all seem to fade into nothing. The only thing that matters is this moment.

“I suppose fate can be cruel,” you murmur, lips curling into a knowing smile, “but tonight, it seems she has been kind.”

Daemon’s gaze narrows slightly, his grin returning in full force. “Careful, little flower. Say too many sweet things, and I might think you’ve fallen for me.”

You arch a brow, lifting your goblet to your lips as you take a slow, deliberate sip of wine. “Maybe I have,” you say lightly, setting the goblet down and looking at him from beneath your lashes. “But I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”

His eyes darken with that familiar fire, and his grin becomes something more — a promise of trouble and devotion all at once. “I can be patient, wife,” he says, his voice low and rough like a storm brewing on the horizon. “But not for too long.”

The music shifts, another lively tune filling the hall, but the two of you remain still, locked in a silent understanding that words could never fully capture.

Tonight, fate has been kind indeed.

You laugh softly at Daemon’s story, his wit sharper than any blade. But your laughter fades as the sound of approaching footsteps echoes behind you. You glance over your shoulder and see Otto Hightower, your father’s kin and the Hand of the King. His face is as composed as ever, a mask of politeness with eyes that see far too much.

“Congratulations on your union,” Otto says smoothly, his voice calm yet purposeful. His gaze shifts between you and Daemon, lingering on your husband for a moment too long. “A fine match, one that will no doubt strengthen the ties between our houses.”

You nod politely, offering a small smile. “Thank you, Lord Hightower. Your words are most kind.”

But you can feel the shift in the air. Daemon stiffens beside you, his grip tightening ever so slightly on his goblet. His eyes narrow, fixed on Otto like a predator watching prey. The playful warmth he had while speaking with you is gone, replaced by a sharp, simmering edge.

“How gracious of you to offer your blessing, Otto,” Daemon drawls, his tone dripping with mockery. He tilts his head, his smile sharp like the edge of a dagger. “Though I wonder if it pains you to see me gain something you could not control.”

Otto’s jaw tightens, but his smile remains. “I only seek the prosperity of the realm, Prince Daemon. Your marriage serves that purpose well enough.” His gaze flickers to you for the briefest moment. “It is always wise to guide wild flames before they burn out of control.”

Daemon lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Careful, Otto. You speak as though you’ve forgotten who commands fire in this realm.” His voice drops lower, more dangerous. “And who is merely ash beneath it.”

The tension coils tight between them, sharp and ready to snap. You place a hand lightly on Daemon’s arm, feeling the taut muscle beneath his sleeve. He glances at you, his hard gaze softening just enough to acknowledge your presence.

“Perhaps tonight is not the time for old rivalries,” you say firmly, looking between them both. “It is a night of celebration, not division.”

Otto’s eyes meet yours, calculating and assessing. For a moment, he says nothing, then bows his head. “Of course, Lady Tyrell. Forgive me. I meant no offense.”

You can feel the tension between them, as sharp and volatile as wildfire. For a moment, it seems as though Otto might push back, but he only tilts his head in mock understanding. “She is no longer ‘Lady Tyrell’ to you.”

Otto’s brows lift just a fraction, his eyes flicking briefly to you before settling back on Daemon. “My apologies, Prince Daemon,” he says, his tone polite but firm. “Old habits, you understand.”

Daemon’s lips curve into a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Old habits can be broken,” he replies coldly, his eyes narrowing. He gestures toward you with a sweeping motion, his gaze never leaving Otto. “She is Princess now. Best you remember it, lest your tongue slip again.”

“Of course,” Otto says slowly, folding his hands behind his back. His eyes meet yours for a brief moment, calculating and watchful. “Princess,” he adds with an exaggerated formality, bowing just enough to follow decorum but not a step further.

Daemon’s eyes follow him like a hawk tracking prey. His jaw is set, his fingers tapping the rim of his goblet with restless precision. “That man poisons every room he enters,” he mutters, his eyes still locked on Otto.

You lean in just a little, tilting your head toward him. “Then let him choke on his own venom, husband,” you whisper, your voice laced with quiet defiance.

Daemon blinks, then slowly turns his gaze back to you. A grin spreads across his face, wild and dangerous, but there’s pride in it too. He raises his goblet toward you in a silent toast. “To clever wives,” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“And to husbands who know when to listen,” you reply, clinking your goblet lightly against his.

The fire in his eyes burns brighter. “You and I, little flower,” he says softly, his voice low like a secret shared in the dark, “will burn this world brighter than they can ever imagine.”

The joyful hum of music and clinking goblets fills the hall, but all you can hear is the rapid beat of your heart. The bedding ceremony. The very mention of it had lingered in your mind all night, and now, as the hour draws near, a subtle unease creeps in.

Your gaze flickers to Daemon, who is seated beside you. His posture is as relaxed as ever, leaning back in his chair like a king on his throne. His sharp eyes scan the room, half-lidded with boredom, but there’s a flicker of awareness in them. He knows. He always knows.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of your goblet, your knuckles pale beneath the soft glow of the firelight. You feel your mother’s gaze on you, steady and supportive, but even she cannot help you now. Tradition is tradition, and the eyes of the realm are watching.

A loud voice echoes through the hall — one of the lords, his cheeks flushed from too much wine. “It is time for the bedding!” he shouts, his voice met with a chorus of drunken laughter and cheers. The call is picked up by others, nobles and knights alike, their voices chanting in unison.

“To the bedding! To the bedding!”

You glance at Daemon, unsure of what to expect. He turns to you, his gaze steady and unyielding. Slowly, he reaches for your hand, his touch firm and warm. His thumb brushes lightly against your knuckles, a silent reassurance.

“They will not touch you,” he says softly, his voice low enough that only you can hear. His eyes, sharp as dragonfire, meet yours with unwavering certainty. “Not if I am standing here.”

Your breath catches in your chest, surprise flickering in your eyes. It is a small promise, but it feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from your shoulders.

The chants continue, louder now, as the guests begin to rise from their seats, some already moving toward you. Daemon stands first, his presence commanding enough to make even the most brazen of lords hesitate. He extends a hand toward you, his expression one of quiet defiance.

“Shall we, wife?” he asks, his lips curving into a sly, knowing smile.

You take his hand, your heart still racing, but the panic that once clawed at you has dulled. You rise with him, head held high, and the crowd erupts into a sea of laughter, cheers, and jeering calls. Lords and ladies step forward, but before any of them can reach you, Daemon’s gaze turns to them — hard as dragonstone, sharp as steel.

“Touch her,” Daemon says coldly, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “And I’ll take your hand as payment.”

The hall stills. The drunken grins falter, the more sensible lords stepping back as if scalded. The boldest of them mutter curses under their breath but make no further move.

“That’s what I thought,” Daemon mutters, his grin returning, sharp and predatory. With his hand on the small of your back, he guides you toward the doors leading to your chambers. The crowd follows, but from a distance now, the earlier fervor tempered by Daemon’s words.

Your steps are slow but steady, each one more certain than the last. You are not alone. Your hand is held firmly in Daemon’s grasp, his presence at your side a shield stronger than any wall.

When you finally reach the heavy wooden doors of your chamber, the crowd begins to cheer again, but none dare approach. Daemon opens the door himself, holding it for you like a king for his queen.

“Inside, Princess,” he says, his voice softer now, meant only for you.

You step in, glancing over your shoulder at the crowd one last time. Their eyes are filled with expectation, mischief, and far too much wine. But none of them matter now. The door closes behind you with a resounding thud, silencing the world beyond.

The chamber is warm, lit by the soft glow of the hearth. The distant sounds of revelry echo faintly through the stone walls, but here, it is quiet. Your heart is still racing, but it is not from fear.

Daemon turns to face you, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His smirk is gone, replaced by something far more honest. He steps toward you slowly, his movements deliberate, giving you time to step back if you choose. But you don’t.

“You handled that well,” he says, his gaze flickering with approval. “They expected you to shrink. But you didn’t.”

“Should I have?” you ask, your voice quiet but steady.

Daemon tilts his head, his eyes filled with something akin to admiration. “Never.”

Silence hangs between you, but it is not uncomfortable. Slowly, he reaches for you, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His touch is careful, deliberate — nothing like the wild prince the songs describe.

“If you wish to rest,” he says quietly, his eyes never leaving yours, “then rest. I’ll stay if you want me to, or I’ll leave if you don’t.”

For a moment, you are stunned. All the stories, all the rumors of Daemon Targaryen — bold, brash, uncontrollable — and here he is, offering you control in a world that rarely grants it.

“What do you want, Daemon?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

He smiles at that, a slow, wolfish grin. “I want what’s already mine,” he says, his eyes dark but steady. “But I am not so foolish as to take it by force. A king can command fear, but only a fool ignores respect.”

His words linger in the air, carrying more weight than any vow spoken at the sept. You search his face, looking for deception, but all you find is truth — a truth that you had not expected.

“You think me wise enough to be respected, then?” you ask, one brow raised.

“I think you’re wise enough to be feared,” he replies, stepping closer until there is only a breath between you. His eyes lower to your lips, but he doesn’t move, letting you decide. “And that, wife, is far more dangerous.”

The choice is yours now. In a world where choice is often stolen, he offers it freely. No songs will be sung of this moment. No maester will write it down. But this moment is yours.

The warmth of the firelight flickers softly against the stone walls of your chamber, casting long, shifting shadows. The air is thick with unspoken tension—not the kind born of fear, but of expectation. The weight of tradition presses down on you like an invisible cloak, suffocating in its silence.

Daemon stands before you, his violet eyes sharp but calm, as if this moment is nothing more than another game he’s mastered. His fingers reach for the intricate braids woven into your hair, undoing them with slow, deliberate care. He works in silence, never rushing, never fumbling. His fingertips brush against your scalp, and the warmth of his touch is startling in its tenderness.

You feel the weight of your hair slowly falling free, the braids unraveling strand by strand, until your hair spills over your shoulders like a golden cascade. Daemon steps back for a moment, his eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. There is no mockery in his gaze. No jest or smirk. Only focus.

“Still with me, Princess?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, your throat too dry to answer aloud. His lips twitch into the faintest smile before he steps closer once more. His fingers move to the clasps at your shoulders, the ones holding the delicate fabric of your wedding gown in place. For a moment, he hesitates, his fingers brushing against the embroidered flowers that line the edge of the fabric.

“You are beautiful,” he says suddenly, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. There is something raw in his voice — not a compliment to charm you, but a statement of fact.

“Flattery, husband?” you reply softly, your eyes narrowing in playful suspicion.

He chuckles under his breath, his gaze never leaving yours. “No, just truth. I may lie to kings and councils, but not to you.”

His hands resume their task, and slowly, he unclasps the gown, letting it loosen around your shoulders. The fabric slips, slow as silk, pooling at your feet in a sea of red and white. You stand before him, vulnerable but unafraid.

But then — a sound.

A rustle. A shift of fabric behind the heavy curtain at the far end of the room. You freeze, your eyes darting toward it. The faintest outline of movement is visible through the dim light. Your heart tightens in your chest, heat rising to your face.

“They’re watching, aren’t they?” you murmur, your voice laced with unease.

Daemon doesn’t even glance at the curtain. His gaze remains fixed on you. “Yes,” he replies bluntly, his tone neither ashamed nor apologetic. “The king. The council. They’ll want to see it done properly.” His eyes flicker with a glint of something darker. “Fools with nothing better to do than spy on a husband and wife.”

You clench your jaw, your hands balling into fists at your sides. “It’s humiliating,” you mutter, your eyes narrowing at the veil of fabric separating you from them.

“It is tradition,” he replies, his tone sharp but not unkind. He steps closer, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. His voice softens, the fire in him dimming to embers. “But they are only men, little flower. Let them watch.” He tilts your chin up with a single finger, his gaze hard but reassuring. “Let them see that you belong to no one but me.”

His words linger in the air like a spark set to kindling. The fire of it spreads, steady and slow, filling the hollow space that doubt had left behind. Daemon is not afraid. He stands as if he is untouchable, unbothered by their eyes, and for a moment, you think perhaps you can do the same.

“Do they always watch like this?” you ask, your voice quieter now, but steadier.

“Not always,” he replies with a small grin. “But sometimes. They call it ‘assurance of consummation.’ As if it matters to the realm what happens between husband and wife.” He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “If it bothers you, I can send them away.”

You glance at him, your eyes searching his for any sign of deceit. But he looks at you like you are his equal, his partner in all things. Not a pawn to be used. Not a flower to be plucked.

“You would?” you ask, testing him.

He nods slowly. “One word from you, and they’ll leave. I promise you that.” His hand rests lightly on your waist, his touch grounding you, steady as stone. “But if you wish to see this through, I will make it quick.”

The choice is yours. His words echo in your mind, and you think of all the choices you’ve never been allowed to make before this. But this one is yours.

You take a slow, steady breath, glancing at the curtain once more. You see them there, shadows behind fabric. Fools. Spies. Men who think they have power. But none of them are in this room with you. None of them are Daemon.

You turn back to him, lifting your chin. “Let them watch,” you say, your voice sharp as a blade. Your heart still races, but there is a new resolve in it now. “If they want proof, they’ll have it.”

Daemon’s eyes widen just slightly, his grin returning in full force. He laughs softly, the sound like the low rumble of thunder. “That’s my wife,” he says, his voice filled with pride and something far more dangerous — affection.

“Then let’s give them something to remember.”

He reaches for the laces of his tunic, pulling them loose with practiced ease. His eyes remain on yours the entire time, a silent promise in his gaze. No mockery. No cruelty. Only certainty.

The fabric of his tunic falls away, revealing the pale expanse of his chest, littered with faint scars like constellations across his skin. His silver hair gleams faintly in the firelight, a halo of shadow and flame.

You take a step forward, your breath steady now. The weight of their eyes no longer feels so heavy. Let them watch, you think. Let them see that you are not afraid.

Daemon sees it too. He sees the shift in you. A dragon recognizing another dragon. His grin fades into something more solemn, more reverent. His hand cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing the curve of your cheek.

“You are more than they deserve to see,” he says quietly, his voice so soft that it feels like a secret. His eyes lower to your lips, then back up to your eyes. “But let them see you anyway.”

And so you do.

The air grows warmer as the fire crackles behind you. Daemon moves with purpose, each gesture slow but sure, as if you are something sacred. There is no rush, no frenzy. Only patience. Only reverence.

The sounds of the council behind the curtain fade from your mind. You barely hear them anymore. It is only you and him now.

Daemon’s hands move over you, each touch as careful as a man handling dragon eggs. The weight of tradition still hangs in the air, but it no longer feels suffocating. You have claimed it. Turned it into something of your own making.

Daemon led you towards the bed and laid you down there, you stared at his face as he started to climb on top of you. "Are you ready little flower?" you just nodded and that's when he started kissing you, his kiss was very gentle and also demanding.

Your hands moved to his neck, you played with his long hair and heard him moan softly in between your kisses. he then started kissing your neck. You heard the voice behind the curtain again, "don't mind them, just focus on me" the daemon whispered in your neck, you moan softly as a result.

Daemon's hands didn't stay still, he traced the curves of your body which made you close your eyes. when his fingers touched your core which was starting to get wet you moaned. He started by inserting one finger and looking at you, your body started to heat up. he then added another finger and his rhythm became faster, you moaned because of his treatment. "i have to prepare you first little flower"

After Daemon felt enough, Daemon started to take off his pants. He looked back at you and kissed your forehead, "This might hurt."

You looked at his face and smiled, "i'll hold it in" he smiled and started kissing you. you felt his cock start to enter your core slowly. You squeezed his hair as you felt him start to enter and fill you, you both moaned and after that daemon slammed his cock hard which made you scream in pain in the kiss.

You could feel your blood rushing out, he growled softly as he felt you squeeze him tightly. He wiped away the tears that were in the corner of your eyes, he didn't move yet to make sure you were enjoying and accepting his size.

"Are you comfortable?" he whispered and stroked your cheek gently, you nodded and that's when he started to move his hips slowly. The pain you felt begore slowly turned into a pleasure you had never felt before.

"like that, oh god. you're so tight" he growled and started to speed up the rhythm of his hips. you could only moan under him,

He doesn’t hold back, his hand found yours and he intertwined his fingers with yours. Something hot and heavy settles on the pit of your guts then rises from every thrust of Daemon’ hips, a spark flowing down from the top of your head to toes. Back arches up when the head of his member prods against your sensitive spot.

“You take me so well, sweetling.” You let go of his grip and pulled his face to kiss him again, your legs automatically wrapped around his waist making him go deeper inside you.

Daemons can go crazy because the way your walls are clenching tightly around his length. He then splays his palm on one of your boobs and squeezes the flesh there, keenly studying as the skin turns pink. he broke the kiss and pressed your foreheads together, your breaths mingled and he continued to growl.

"Daemon please g-go faster, please.." you mumbled. He smirked, before going fast and hard. You gasped at the sudden change of pace, holding down at the bed to get some sort of grounding. You threw your head back as he kept on pounding into her.

You shut your eyes as the knot inside your stomach grew tighter, signaling that you was about to come. he chuckled. "Is my little flower about to come?" He teased. you nodded. "P-please let me come..." you rasped. He groaned, he was near his orgasm too. "Shit love, I'm close too.." He said. He thrusted a few more times before finally coming inside you, filling you with his seed, he growled softly before kissing you and lying down next to you.

And when it is done — when the silence behind the curtain is replaced by the rustle of cloaks and the soft, satisfied murmurs of councilmen walking away — you do not feel shame. You do not feel small.

Daemon lies beside you, his eyes on the ceiling for a moment, his breathing steady. Then he turns his head to look at you, his silver hair tangled, his expression calm but sharp with awareness.

“You did well,” he says softly, his eyes watching you with quiet pride. “They’ll remember this night, but not for the reason they think.”

You glance at him, raising a brow. “And what reason will they remember it for?”

Daemon’s eyes narrow slightly, a glint of mischief in them as he tilts his head to look at you fully. “Because they’ll realize they made the mistake of thinking you could be broken.”

His words hit you harder than any vow spoken before the sept. You breathe in deeply, letting them settle in your chest like a flame that will never burn out.

“Let them remember,” you say, your voice stronger than it has ever been. “Let them remember I am not so easily broken.”

Daemon’s grin widens, his eyes glowing like embers in the dark. “No, you are not.”

The warmth of the fire has dimmed to a soft glow, shadows dancing gently across the chamber walls. The weight of exhaustion presses down on you, your limbs heavy and your breathing slow. Without thinking, you turn toward Daemon, seeking the warmth of another presence.

You rest your head against his chest, your arms wrapping around him. His skin is warm, the slow rise and fall of his breath lulling you into calm. For a moment, everything feels still. The noise of the world outside — the lords, the council, the weight of duty — fades into the background.

Daemon doesn’t move at first, his body tense like he isn’t used to this kind of closeness. But then, slowly, you feel his arms come around you, his hands settling on your back. One hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair.

His chin rests lightly atop your head, and you hear him sigh — a long, quiet breath as if releasing something he’d been holding for too long. His lips press softly against your forehead, warm and deliberate. No words are spoken, but the meaning is clear. You feel it in the tenderness of his touch, the weight of his hand holding you steady.

Your eyes grow heavier with each heartbeat, the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear a rhythm you cannot resist. Your breathing evens out, matching his, and before long, sleep pulls you under. Your last thought is that, for the first time in a long while, you feel safe.

Daemon tilts his head slightly, gazing down at you. His sharp eyes, so often filled with mischief or calculation, have softened into something quieter, something unguarded. He watches you in silence, as if memorizing every line of your face. His thumb traces a small circle against your back, a motion so subtle it might as well be instinct.

He watches you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly as if puzzled by the depth of his own thoughts. Then, with a quiet huff of breath — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh — he rests his head back on the pillow. His eyes remain on you until, slowly, his lashes lower, and sleep takes him too.

In the quiet of the chamber, there is no crown, no council, no eyes watching. Only two people, entwined in warmth and stillness, finding peace in the comfort of each other.

tag list : @danytar @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @julessworldd

[last-dropsevi]

Sparks and Screws

Mechanic Sevika x Reader

Synopsis: Stranded with a broken car in Zaun, you find yourself at Sevika’s garage, where her confident, magnetic presence instantly draws you in. Over time, your visits become less about car repairs and more about the growing tension between you.

Possesive behavior and Sexual tension.

In the heart of Zaun, tucked amidst the steel skeletons of industry and the shimmering neon haze, stood Sevika's garage. It was a haven for the grease-stained and the speed-obsessed—a place where the hum of engines and the faint melody of a half-tuned radio replaced the city's endless noise. The scent of oil and metal lingered thickly, a scent so constant it was almost a signature of the shop.

The first time you walked through the doors wasn’t planned. It was pure necessity. Your car had decided to stage a protest in the middle of Zaun traffic, coughing up smoke as you barely managed to roll it to the curb. Stranded and flustered, you’d scanned your surroundings until the glowing sign for “Zuan Auto Repeat” appeared like a beacon of salvation.

Inside, the space was a symphony of movement. Mechanics bustled about, tools clinking and tires screeching as they were dragged across the concrete. A group of men, all grease-slicked hands and cocky smirks, eyed you as you hesitantly stepped in. One of them, tall and confident, was the first to approach.

“Lost, sweetheart?” he asked, leaning just a bit too close.

Your awkward laugh and sheepish explanation about the state of your car only seemed to encourage him. “I can take a look for you,” he offered, his grin widening. “No charge for someone as pretty as you.”

Before you could respond, a commanding voice cut through the air. “I’ve got it.” You turned just in time to see her. Sevika. She stepped forward, wiping her hands on a rag, her mechanical arm catching the fluorescent light as it shifted with a faint whir. Dressed in a grease-streaked tank top and well-worn jeans, she exuded an effortless confidence that was both intimidating and magnetic. Her sharp gaze flicked from the man back to you, softening just slightly when she caught your nervous expression.

That feeling gnawed at her, especially when she watched the way they hesitated. Her instincts told her this one wasn’t like the others who stumbled in here—this was someone worth keeping an eye on. She adjusted her grip on the rag and moved forward, a touch of both desire and care flickering in her chest.

“You want it fixed right, don’t you?” she asked, her voice low and rough, though not unkind.

You nodded quickly, your face flushing as the other mechanic muttered something under his breath and walked off.

“Come on,” Sevika said, gesturing for you to follow.

The hood of your car was open within minutes, and you stood awkwardly to the side, watching as Sevika inspected the engine with practiced ease. You couldn’t help but notice the way her muscles flexed as she worked, the contrast between her weathered hands and the careful precision of her movements. Something about that look in her eyes—sharp, but with a hint of warmth—made my pulse race faster than I’d like to admit.

“So, what’s the damage?” you ventured, trying to fill the silence.

She looked up, arching a brow. “The damage is you’ve been neglecting this thing for way too long.”

You blinked. “I didn’t know cars needed that much attention.”

Her lips twitched in amusement. “Yeah, sweetheart, they do. You’re lucky this thing hasn’t fallen apart on you yet.”

Her teasing wasn’t cruel, but it still made you squirm. You watched as she wiped her hands on her rag, her smirk softening when she noticed your embarrassed fidgeting.

“It’s fixable,” she said. “But you’ve gotta take better care of it—or find someone who can.”

Over the next week, you returned a few times, more out of obligation than excitement. Each visit was met with the same dynamic: the men lingering a little too long as you walked in, and Sevika cutting through their attention with a glare that left no room for argument.

On your second visit, Sevika caught you glancing nervously at one of the mechanics who had been staring. “Ignore them,” she said, her tone laced with irritation. “They’re idiots.”

“Seems like they’re just curious,” you replied lightly, though your flushed face betrayed how uncomfortable it made you.

“They don’t need to be curious about you,” Sevika muttered, her eyes narrowing briefly before she refocused on your car.

It wasn’t until your brakes started squealing—loudly—that you found yourself back in her garage for the third time. You explained the issue, your face heating as Sevika leaned over the hood once again, her movements as fluid and deliberate as ever.

When she straightened up, her expression was a mix of disbelief and amusement. “You never changed your brake pads.”

“That’s… something you’re supposed to do?” you asked, tilting your head.

Her laughter filled the garage, drawing the attention of the others. But unlike their lingering stares, Sevika’s laugh warmed you.

“You’re a menace,” she said, shaking her head. “Alright. Here’s the deal. Bring it in every two weeks, and I’ll check it over for you. Make sure nothing else falls apart.”

“Every two weeks?” you repeated, frowning. “That sounds excessive.”

“For someone like you? It’s not,” she said with a smirk, her eyes locking onto mine for a beat longer than necessary. “And since you’re cute, I’ll even give you a discount.”

The moment the words left her mouth, you felt a flush rise to my cheeks, warmth spreading across my skin as her gaze lingered on me. your heart skipped; my mind short-circuiting as you tried to process what she’d said. Did she just call me cute? The thought lingered, making it even harder to focus on anything else. Her voice, so smooth and confident.

you gave a nervous laugh, your lips curling into a smile that felt way too goofy for the situation. You nodded, trying—and failing—to play it cool. “Deal,” you managed

And so, every two weeks, you found yourself back in Sevika’s garage. The checkups became less about the car and more about the two of you. You brought her coffee one day, then donuts the next, claiming it was a “thank you” for all her help.

“You keep this up, and I might actually start liking you,” Sevika teased, though the fondness in her tone made your chest flutter.

“You’d be lucky,” you shot back, grinning.

The tension between you grew with each visit—lingering glances, subtle brushes of hands as she handed you a wrench to “help” (not that you ever really knew what you were doing), and the way her smirk would soften into something more genuine when you laughed at her dry humor.

You noticed how her eyes would sometimes linger just a little longer than necessary, like she couldn’t help but admire the deep V-neck shirt you were wearing. The way it accentuated your chest didn’t go unnoticed by her, though she never said anything out loud. But the way her gaze would flicker there, before quickly returning to your face, made your heart race.

By the fourth visit, Sevika had stopped charging you altogether. When you realized, you confronted her, guilt weighing heavily on your words. “Sevika, this isn’t fair. I can’t just keep coming here for free.”

She shrugged, leaning against the counter, her gaze lingering on you just a little too long. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me,” you insisted. “Let me pay you back.”

Her brow quirked, a faint smirk playing at her lips. “How?”

You hesitated for only a moment before blurting, “I’ll take you out.”

That caught her off guard. She stared at you, her expression unreadable, before a slow, teasing grin spread across her face. “Dinner and drinks? You trying to bribe me?”

“Maybe,” you said, crossing your arms. “Is it working?”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Alright, sweetheart. You’re on.”

As you left the garage that evening, your heart raced with the promise of something more. And for once, Sevika allowed herself to look forward to the unknown.

Masterlist and PART 2

But yeah guys sorry I haven’t posted in a while Tehe. ALSO HAPPY NEW YEARSSS MWAH

[pepperyduck]

“in the car” with shiu kong

this is part two of my kinktober event!

word count: 1.1k

warnings: nsfw, car sex, unprotected, public sex, getting caught/interrupted. (18+ mdni!)

notes: gnawing at my enclosure…save me shiu please

kinktober masterlist | masterlist

“i’m ready to get outta here, doll.” shiu grumbles into your ear.

you slap his chest with the back of your hand, a motion you always did whenever your husband would pipe up with nonsense. shiu frowned and pulled out his phone, seemingly scrolling on something as you listened to the person presenting. your phone vibrates, letting you know you received a message.

shiu <3: that skirt looks so good on you, going to rip it off in the car.

you roll your eyes at his message. shiu smirks at your reaction, giggling on the inside as your fingers type to respond.

my wife: shut the fuck up. and pay attention. u could get this job if you PAID ATTENTION.

shiu <3: sorry not sorry, you look too good to be in here with all these fuckers. lets go out to the car, i’ll be quick.

you roll your eyes again at his eagerness and turn your phone off. but after a few minutes of talking from some old guy, you contemplated what the little devil on your shoulder was offering until you gave in.

my wife: fine. you go first.

within a quick few minutes, shiu was leading you out the building and into the back of his car, his hand not leaving your ass the entire time. you easily found yourself straddling your mischievous husband, in a heated make-out session. going at it in the back of his car wasn’t new, of course, he had his windows tinted just for times like this – but doing such a thing at his job felt even dirtier. that only made you hornier, though.

“fuck, baby—,” shiu groans against your lips when you grind down into him. you could already feel the straining bulge in his slacks, the real expensive ones you bought him for your anniversary. warm fingers trail under the pretty blouse you wore, coming up to give your left tit a squeeze – god, shiu loved how your chest looked in that blouse.

shiu was insatiable, truly.

even more so when you eagerly try to unbuckle his belt, failing terribly because of your lack of vision. he nearly moans at the sight of his pretty wife trying to hard to shed him of his clothes. shiu was amazing at his poker face until it came to you. he crumbled like an avalanche at your very touch, every rub up against his arm or backhand to his chest. and especially now, when you were trying your hardest to have your way with him.

“y’er strugglin’, dolly,” shiu states, watching you through almost-closed eyelids.

“then help me,” you whine in return, dramatically pulling your hands away from the belt buckle.

his hands are jellified as he unbuckles his belt, the clattering metal taking up the space of silence in the car. shiu intently bites his bottom lip when you stand on your knees and tug down his slacks, just enough to get what you wanted. he takes the opening between the two of you to reach a hand down in between your thighs, fingers finding the right place in a second. he rubs you through your panties, delicately tracing the outline of your most sensitive area, before tugging your undergarments to the side at the same time you slide his boxers down.

“shiiit,”

shiu lets out a downright pornographic groan when he sees you grab his cock, quickly lining the sensitive, reddened tip up with your entrance. another long grunt forces out his throat when you sink down, burying his length into you until your clit is rubbing against pubic bone. you sigh heavily at the feeling of being so full of your husband. you stay just as you are for a few minutes, every so often clenching around shiu, in turn driving him crazy.

“you gotta move, doll,” shiu tries to demand, throwing his head back against the headrest.

“say please,” you tease him, leaning forward to place a peck on his jawline.

“please.”

although it’s not begging to most, shiu was never the kind of man to say please. not unless you made him say it. and that you did.

just as promised, you slowly begin to grind back and forth on shiu’s lap, giving the ever-so-slight friction shiu needed. he gives you a terrible, wounded groan at the feeling, head still thrown back in utter bliss. you lean forward again, peppering his jawline once more with your sweet kisses, feeling the smallest bit of stubble underneath your lips. shiu’s big, warm hands come to grip your hips, trying so hard to restrain from bruising you.

“fuuuck,”

shiu can’t stop himself from cursing when you begin to bounce just a little bit, sliding his cock out of you the tiniest bit and seemingly slamming yourself back onto him. his brain was effectively turned off, all feelings and thoughts went directly to his cock, throbbing painfully and pleasurably all in one. you giggled a little at seeing him so pathetic, only a state you could get him in.

“you need’ta keep up with me, old man.” you tease him again, and shiu’s head perks up straight to look at you.

perfect. right where you wanted him.

“yeah?” he dares, almost, the grip on your hips somehow tightening, “need to keep up? huh?”

his hands begin to lift your hips up on their own, forcing you back down on him as he rhythmically bucks his hips up to meet you. it’s a slow, mean, slap! every time your hole takes him all the way in. you nod your head fiercely, communicating you want him to make you “keep up”.

“shiu—wait!” you squeal as your husband instantly turns you over, backing you into the corner of the seat and pressing your knees into your chest. you’re smiling at the new position, until shiu drags his hips back and snaps them back into you.

your eyes roll all the way back, and shiu doesn’t stop. he pounds at you furiously, keeping you folded in half, on perfect display for him. his only focus is how pretty his wife looks, fucked out expression written across your face, in total euphoria because of how deep he hits you. his tip never fails to hit that spot, the one so deep and sensitive.  

tap-tap-tap

shiu’s movements still in a second and your head turns in terror when someone taps on the window you were pressed against. you struggle to push your husband off of you, but he goes nowhere, only devilishly grinning to the man that was locked out of the car, standing there awkwardly, watching the two of you go at it like animals.

fucking toji.

[d-z20]

Saved from the Dark

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: You get kidnapped and tortured by witch hunters, but luckily Agatha has a soft spot for you and will not rest until you are safe in her arms again.

-OR-

Agatha is a bad bitch on a mission to save you (and then play nursemaid)

Warnings: dark fic, violence, kidnap, torture, death, hurt, comfort

Words: 2.2k

A/N: The witch hunter's magic is more of a Dr Strange type beat in this if you get me. Read the request that inspired this :)

AO3 | Masterlist

You hadn’t seen it coming. You never expected them to be so efficient and precise in their attack. One moment, you were gathering herbs in the quiet part of the city, lost in the tranquillity of the night, and the next, you were surrounded. The witch hunters had been tracking you for weeks, and now they were closing in. Before you could react, they were upon you, using both magic and technology to bind you. Their enchanted restraints sapped your energy, stripping you of your powers and leaving you vulnerable. No amount of magical strength could help you now. They overpowered you with force, shoving you into a van, and darkness swallowed you whole.

Agatha Harkness had always lived in the shadows, watching the world unfold from a distance. Her magic was vast, her knowledge unparalleled, but she preferred to remain hidden. She had her reasons—trust wasn’t something she gave lightly, especially not in a world that feared and hunted witches. But then there was you. You were different. You had a kindness about you, an openness that Agatha couldn’t help but be drawn to. Despite her usual detachment, she found herself watching over you, protecting you in subtle ways. You and your magic were the complete opposite of her: gentle and compassionate. Agatha could never let anyone harm you.

When the witch hunters began to make their presence known, Agatha was wary but confident in her own ability to stay undetected. She had lived too long and become too powerful to be caught. But when you failed to come back after your usual late-night walk through the city, Agatha felt a strange sense of unease gnawing at her. Her instinct was always right. Something was wrong.

—

The first thing you become aware of is the sharp, aching pain in your head. It feels as if the world is spinning, though you can’t tell if it’s your body or the room itself that’s unsteady. You’re lying on a cold, metal floor, your arms chained to the wall. The weight of the cuffs around your wrists makes it hard to move, the magical inhibitors in them pulling away your ability to summon even the smallest spark of power. You breathe through the nausea, forcing yourself to focus on one thought: Agatha will find you. Agatha always finds you.

But the darkness around you presses in, suffocating and endless, until a voice cuts through it.

“You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?” A man sneers. His voice is cruel, heavy with derision. “Running around with your magic like you’re something special. But look at you now—trapped. Helpless. Powerless.”

His words sting, but you don’t respond. You can’t. You feel his footsteps approach, his presence looming over you like a stormcloud.

The first blow comes without warning. A punch lands squarely on your face, making your head snap back. The jarring sound of a chair scraping against the concrete floor grates in your ears as another figure steps closer.

“Tell us what we want to know,” someone else demands, their tone sharp and impatient.

You grit your teeth, ignoring the sharp sting spreading across your cheek. I won’t tell them anything. You repeat the thought like a mantra, clinging to it as they strike you again, this time a vicious kick to your ribs. The pain ripples through your body, but you refuse to cry out.

Then they escalate. Rough hands grab you, their grip bruising, and a sharp needle pierces your skin. Icy pain radiates from the injection site, making you shudder as the potion floods your veins. It burns, cruel and unrelenting, designed to strip you of strength and magic while forcing you to remain awake and aware.

“Let’s see how long you last,” one of them jeers.

—

They force you to stand for hours, your legs trembling, the chains biting into your wrists. Every muscle screams for relief, but you refuse to give them the satisfaction of your screams. When they press a glowing sigil in front of your face, its blinding light sears your vision, disorienting you and leaving your thoughts muddled. 

Each hour blurs into the next. The pain is unpredictable and deliberate. They are methodical, breaking you piece by piece. They demand names and locations—anything that could give them power over the witch community—but you remain silent. The only thing keeping you going is the thought of Agatha.

When you still refuse to answer, they change tactics.

They drag you to a machine humming faintly with unnatural energy. The cold metal is laced with glowing runes and wires that pulse like a heartbeat. You try to pull away, but they force your hands into place, clipping small, sparking devices onto your fingertips.

The moment the circuit completes, searing pain shoots through you. The machine vibrates, drawing the essence of your magic from your body. The sensation is unbearable—burning and crackling as if your veins themselves are being syphoned dry.

“You feel that?” one of the hunters taunts, his voice dripping with malice. “That’s your power. You’re nothing without it.”

They twist knobs and flick switches, each adjustment sending fresh waves of agony through your body. It’s more than pain; it feels like they’re tearing away a part of your soul, unravelling the very threads of your identity.

“You’re pathetic,” another spits. “All that power, and it can’t save you.”

The world becomes a fog of pain and confusion, but you cling to the hope that Agatha will come. She has to.

—

Agatha moves through the shadows with precision, her anger burning hotter with every step. She had been tracking the faint echoes of your magic for hours, each pulse weaker than the last. The hunters were clever, masking their trail with layers of enchantments and misdirection, but Agatha was older and far more powerful. She unravelled their spells one by one, her determination unrelenting. When she finally found the building—a run-down warehouse cloaked in wards meant to deter magical detection—she didn’t hesitate. The faint flicker of your magic inside made her breath hitch. I’ve got you, she thought. Hold on just a little longer.

Her entrance is swift and deadly. The first guard falls without a sound, a flash of purple light dissolving him into nothingness. Another tries to raise the alarm, but she silences him with a wave of her hand. There’s no room for hesitation, no space for mercy.

She finally reaches the room they’re keeping you in and stops in the doorway, her breath catching. You’re lying on the floor, still connected to the machine, your body slack, your face pale and lifeless. The wires pulse with what remains of your magic, twisting it into something unrecognisable. The sight sends a cold fury surging through her veins.

From the shadows behind you, the hunters emerge, their eyes gleaming with malice. “Well, well, if we’d known this was all it took to lure the great Agatha Harkness, we’d have done it years ago,” one of them sneers.

Agatha’s voice is low and dangerous. “You shouldn’t have touched Y/N.”

The fight is brutal. Agatha moves like a force of nature, her magic slamming into the hunters with a ferocity she rarely shows. One by one, they fall, her anger giving her no room for restraint. “You dared to hurt them?” she shouts, her voice echoing as she sends a hunter crashing into the wall. Another disintegrates in a flash of violet light as she hurls a spell with deadly precision. Her fury is as unstoppable as it is justified, every attack laced with her rage and anguish.

—

The room is quiet now, save for the hum of the machine still feeding on your magic. Agatha rushes to your side, her hands trembling as she frees you from the clips and chains. You slump into her arms, your body too weak to hold itself up.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” she murmurs, her voice soft but urgent. Her hands cup your face, brushing away strands of hair. Your eyes flutter open, hazy but still searching for hers.

“Agatha…” Your voice is faint, but it’s enough to break her.

She lifts you into her arms with ease, holding you close. “I’m so sorry, my love,” she whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I should have been here sooner.”

“It’s okay,” you rasp. “You found me. That’s enough.”

Agatha’s lips tremble as she smiles, her protective instincts taking over. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

—

The moment the two of you cross the threshold of your shared home, the adrenaline that has kept you upright vanishes. Your knees buckle, but Agatha is there, her strong arms catching you before you hit the floor. She doesn’t say a word, just holds you close, her cheek resting against the top of your head. After a moment, she whispers, “Come, darling. Let me take care of you.”

She leads you to the bathroom, her hand steady on the small of your back, guiding you as if you might drift away. The familiar space, once a refuge of routine, now feels foreign in your state of exhaustion. Agatha waves a hand, and the bathtub fills itself, the water shimmering faintly with a soft healing magic.

Agatha helps you sit on the edge of the tub, her movements slow and deliberate as she begins undressing you from your torn, bloodied clothing. You flinch when her fingers brush against a bruise on your arm, and she freezes, her eyes searching yours with worry. “I’m sorry, my love. I’ll be gentle,” she murmurs, her voice soft as a caress.

When you’re finally settled in the warm water, it takes a moment for your body to adjust. The heat seeps into your muscles, loosening the tension, though your heart still races from the memory of what you’ve endured. Agatha kneels beside the tub, dipping a soft cloth into the water before running it over your skin. Her touch is featherlight, avoiding every cut and bruise with care.

She works in silence at first, her focus entirely on you, but then she begins to hum—a soothing, lilting melody you’ve never heard before but feel as though it has always been a part of you. Her voice wraps around you like a blanket, grounding you as she gently cleans the grime and dried blood from your body. Every now and then, she whispers words of reassurance. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you. No one will hurt you again.”

As Agatha reaches your hands, brushing the cloth over the tender, raw skin where the chains had bitten into you, something inside you breaks. Tears well in your eyes, spilling over before you can stop them. Your shoulders begin to shake, and you let out a choked sob, burying your face in your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice thick with shame. “I should’ve been stronger, but I couldn’t—I just—”

“Shh, no,” Agatha interrupts gently, setting the cloth aside and leaning over the edge of the tub to pull you into her arms. The water soaks her sleeves, but she doesn’t seem to care. “You were strong,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against your temple. “You survived, sweetheart. That’s all that matters.”

You cling to her, your tears soaking into her shirt as sobs wrack your body. Every emotion you’ve bottled up—fear, pain, helplessness—pours out of you in a torrent. Agatha holds you through it all, her hands stroking your hair and trailing soothing patterns down your back.

“It’s over now,” she whispers. “You don’t have to hold it together anymore. I’m here, my love. I’ll always be here.”

Her words are an anchor, grounding you as the storm inside you begins to subside. The safety of her embrace makes the world feel bearable again, even if only for a moment.

—

After the bath, Agatha wraps you in the softest robe you own, bundling you up like she’s shielding you from the world. She carries you to your shared bedroom, settling you onto the bed as if you’re the most fragile thing in existence.

She climbs in beside you without hesitation, pulling you into her arms and tucking the blankets around both of you. Her warmth surrounds you, her heartbeat steady against your ear. “Close your eyes, darling,” she murmurs, her voice like honey. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You let yourself relax against her, the exhaustion finally catching up with you. Just as you begin to drift off, you hear her humming again, the same soothing melody from before. It wraps around you like a spell, lulling you further into sleep.

“I’ll keep you safe,” she whispers, her lips brushing against your forehead. “No one will ever hurt you again. You’re mine to protect.”

Her words stay with you as sleep pulls you under, the fear and pain replaced by the comfort of her love. Even as your consciousness fades, you feel her hand stroking your hair, her presence anchoring you to the safety of home.

[writememysticfalls]

Thirsty | Elijah Mikaelson

Summary: Elijah is cold and distant around you... until one night, you break down in front of him. Even Originals get thirsty.

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x vampire!reader

Genre: Suggestive, angsty, hot

Word Count: <1k

You were rummaging through the industrial freezer in the basement of the Mikaelson home.

You were elbow deep in ice chips, desperately searching for the only thing your body craved now you'd been turned into a vampire.

Blood.

"Where do they keep the fucking blood bags?" You kicked the freezer door so hard the metal crumpled under your boot.

"Need a hand?"

You spun around at the familiar voice.

Elijah was leaning against the door frame, watching you. He wore a pale cream shirt that was rolled up, exposing brown forearms.

Elijah always looked so put together, even when he had the blood of his enemies dripping down his chin, and congealed between his fingers.

You smoothed your unruly brown locks, feeling suddenly self conscious.

Elijah lifted up the lid of the freezer with one finger, peering inside.

"I'll have to make sure the maid restocks this more often."

He walked up to a portrait hanging on the wall. Pushing the frame to the side, he revealed a hidden safe. His fingers slid over the keys at vampire speed. The safe door clicked open and Elijah reached inside to pull out a heavy crystal bottle.

He poured a glass and handed it to you.

"Here, this should suffice."

You looked at the dark red liquid in the glass. The idea of drinking blood made you feel literally sick, but the gnawing at the base of your throat could only be eased by one thing. You knocked back the entire contents of the glass in one gulp.

"Thanks," you said, wiping your mouth.

Elijah gave you a tight smile.

"I've never seen you drink blood, Elijah. Hell, I've never even seen you eat." You crossed your arms. "Meanwhile I can't even go thirty minutes without thinking about where I'm going to get my next fix."

"You are a new vampire," Elijah said, sliding the portrait back in place. "Restraint takes time to master."

You tugged at your sallow cheeks. "I feel so... unnatural. I feel like my insides are rotting. It's all wrong. I'm all wrong!"

Elijah pressed his lips into a tight line.

You sank to your knees. You buried your head in your hands and started to sob.

"I should have died. What have I become?" you said, between sobs.

Elijah stood, awkwardly, watching you cry on the floor. His arms itched to hold you, but it no longer felt like his place to do so.

You wiped your tears with the back of your hand. Your eyes were glistening, and your nose was red. You stood up, face to face with Elijah.

"There was a time, once..." you said, sniffing. "That you would have held me, maybe even kissed me. Now you don't even talk to me, Elijah."

Your hard exterior had melted, leaving soft, brown skin and watery eyes. You suddenly looked so young.

Elijah sighed.

"Y/n, I..." but the words died on his lips. He moved forwards, silently, till he was inches away from you.

He leant his forehead against yours, eyes slipping shut. Your arms hung limply at your sides, fingers almost touching.

Suddenly, the sound of glass splattering echoed through the room. Both your and Elijah's heads shot up.

"Elijah!" Niklaus roared from upstairs. "The love of my life is at the bottom of this bottle, brother. Come and help me find her!"

Niklaus was drunk. Something which was becoming a daily occurrence.

You stepped away from Elijah.

"Go, run after your little brother like you always do," you snapped. The prickly expression had once again masked your beautiful features.

Elijah rolled down his shirtsleeves, and did up his cufflinks.

"Do not concern yourself with matters of my family," he said, sternly. "You should focus on your transition."

You scoffed. "You don't get to tell me what to do." You turned away and stormed towards the door.

Suddenly, you felt a hand grab your arm. Elijah yanked you back, using his full vampire force to turn you towards him.

You gasped. Elijah's eyes were red, and black veins pulsed under his eyes. He snarled.

You thought he was going to attack you. Your breath caught in your throat.

Suddenly, Elijah leant down and kissed you, hard, on the mouth.

Elijah wound one hand around your waist and pulled you to his chest as he continued to kiss you. You could hear his pulse racing in your ears, you could feel his eagerness for you against your thigh.

You kissed him back with equal force. This was an Elijah you didn't know well, the man behind the façade of elegance and nobility.

You reached up to stroke his soft hair. But suddenly, Elijah pulled away from you.

There was a soft woosh. Elijah was gone.

—

MAIN MASTERLIST

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