#greed has taken over it sucks

[strangecowplant]

so often now i see someone uploading their very first piece of cc like a recolour or tattoo and they have a patreon already

its like theres this idea that you HAVE to have a patreon and a preview style and link ur socials and make yourself into a Brand™ now right from the get go instead of just??? enjoying the game?? being part of the community?? making cc because you wanted it and maybe someone else would like it too??

so many paywall creators literally arent active in the community for anything but posting more cc to get that dosh pls dont use them as a template, enjoy the game and make cc for yourself dont make yourself a faceless brand there enough of that shit in and out of this community as is

[darlingofvalyria]

❝Will you forsake me, my love? And the babe I carry?❞

[ You had made a mistake. A slip up. You had overlooked the extent of Otto Hightower and his greed. Now you must make it right... or pay in fire and blood. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 5,504 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt-wife!reader (aegon's twin sister),

contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader— gets darkish but not yet dd:dne - targcest, angsty as fuck, pregnancy - nsfw: p & v sex, oral (male receiving) - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— i... actually dunno how i got here tbh. thankfully, this isn't dead dove quite yet, but you, yes you, as jace's manipulative targ wife, almost did, girl, jfc. ahahaha! comments, reblogs & like at will, mwa! 💝 + now that there is a second part, and a third part i'm plotting (uh huh), this is officially a series!! its v loosey goosey, but it'll have a masterlist so... it means it has a taglist! message me to be tagged 💝 & if there are any drabbles/blurbs you wanna see!! message me lmk!! i have so many thoughts about jacey & manipulative reader hehe + dividers by @danowh0re

The only warning you receive is the missive hastily made by your twin.

In his panic, Aegon's scrawl had been barely legible, but the cold sweat that shot through your spine at making sense of the text had you keening over; fingers over your mouth, a dangerous gurgle in your stomach.

The world tilts, the air sucks inward.

Fear... Cold, weightless fear, settles in your heart.

"Princess!" Your maid, Dyana, shrieks, hands grasping your elbows to prevent you from falling. She turns to the door. "Call the maestre back! Now!"

You shake your head rapidly. "No, no. No Ser Addam. I am alright."

"But princess—"

"No, Dyana, I am alright." But you are pale, and a thrum shakes through fingers, rattling your ribcage and trying to yank your heart out of your throat. You have to find your footing or all will be lost. You grab Dyanna's arms and she winces. "Tell me- the prince - where is he?"

"I'm not sure, princess, I can—"

"Quickly! We shan't lose precious more time."

You turn to Meera. You had invested in her from the early age you had taken her in from the orphanage. Loyalty, in its absolution, must be rewarded.

And ease for your own plans can be disguised as a reward.

She steps forward obediently, hands clasped behind her back like a soldier awaiting orders. She is nondescript with plain features, easily able to hide between other common folk; and no one, truly, looks at a maid.

"Go to the Sea Dragon Tower, wait on the Rookery for Johan. Only Johan, do you understand me? Keep the missive that I will dictate to you close to his heart, hidden, and he must depart immediately. Throw extra gold at the captain, I do not care. Meera, no other eyes must touch the paper I will send, tell him of the utter import such a thing. No other than another Spider. We cannot unravel further than this or we will start burning."

Meera's gaze darkens, her posture straightening. "Yes, your grace."

You grasp her hands, your mind whirring— so many plots, so many lies, in between them, he flashes in your mind; the dark hair, the warmth of his hand, the sweet, simpered smile and the flicker of rage that dances like a flame. In and out and calmed and wild.

Dutiful. A Perfect Son. A Beloved Prince. Your Lord Husband.

He flashes in between plans and unraveled lies. Along it, Aegon's missive, quickly written, panic seeping in every vowel.

Grandsire had gotten to Aemond's head. Went to Storm's End. Met Lucerys. They are calling him Kinslayer.

Your head is pounding. Kinslayer, Kinslayer, Kinslayer. It churns your stomach, dries your throat. Lucerys dead. Aemond beheaded. Jacaerys' rage. Rhaenyra's. Dark Sister in the Rogue Prince's hand. All your clever threads, your webs and tales, everything you have sacrificed to get here— they are unraveling, the lives you care about, your fondness and love — the fear has moulded and churned; the Stranger now haunting the skies, searching for names, trying to grasp for your neck.

Aemond, You, Aegon, Helaena, Alicent, Jaeheara, Jaehearys, Maelor—

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

Your baby brother. Marred and disfigured, dutiful and dedicated. Sarcastic and princely; dancing with you if you ask. Reading with him in the library. A flickering hearth, a kind eye, a protective arm.

Your baby brother, beheaded, gaping mouth and bloodred eye.

Justice spun and spun, but oh so corrupted when they had taken his eye and no name step forth to claim.

Disfigured, marred, and dead.

Focus, you think, your mouth moving, words spilling, plans stretching. Focus.

Otto Hightower must die. It is a pressing thought, digging into the centrefold of your mushy, wet brain. Pressing and pressing like a fever as words of instructions, orders, must be sent along one spider to another.

Your hand drifts to your stomach as Meera leaves, in her head the words that must reach King's Landing. That must pass only the cleverest of hands. Your hand curls, your fist tightens enough that blood clots and beads through crescent rings. Clever girl. Clever spider. You have to believe in Meera and the people under your hushed employ.

You have no choice. You have built your webs, you must trust your spiders.

Not when you can't even trust your own fucking blood.

It took a while to get your network going in Dragonstone. As soon as the smell of brimstone and dragon broached your nostrils, the plans for moving what you had started in Kings Landing became the forefront plan. There is only so much movement you can make in a board full of enemies; and with so many more things to do, you cannot be restrained.

People with stakes, with ambitions and wants of their own— be that money, a good future, a house with warmth and love — if you can provide it enough, dash it in enough kindness and care, people, like ants, could move mountains for you.

It took most of hyour life to have what you established in Kings Landing. Most of your free time— feiging afternoon teas, walks along the garden; young lady things that will not arouse suspicion, fit for a pious, devoted daughter of Alicent Hightower — was spent building and building webs.

Thankfully, as a Princess of the Realm— and as the future Heir's wife, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms (the title tingles and throbs, comes alive in gasps and winning hands) — you can have your pick of maids and lady in waitings here too. Connections are important, and Jacaerys did not bereaved you of choice.

In fact, he so encouraged you to make changes to Dragonstone as you so chose fit.

"You are my wife," he sighed, pressing kiss after kiss to the side of your head. When he was wrapped around you like this— arms around your torso, a finger, almost absentmindedly, rubbing just the underside of your breast, and the smell of him, boyish but smoky, like a fireplace and first kiss, swaying you to a rhythm he is fond of, absentminded almost — it reminded you of how Vermax oft like to wrap around small hills and large rocks. A dragon mimicking another dragon; a twin soul so connected.

He sighed again as you run your own fingers against the back of his palm, against the side of his head behind you. "You may do so as you wish," he finished, nuzzling further into you as if he wants no more than to become one with you, flesh and blood. An engorged monster of sorts.

"Just your wife?" you teased. The wedding had only been a few moons ago. The missive had been immediately sent to Kings Landing (under your orders, of course, your new husband none the wiser as he had preferred a few more days of just you), and before lunch, your hand on Jace's thigh, his eyes more than hungrily looking at your lips— Caraxes screech alongside Syrax' wing pattern shook the walls, demanding answers.

Jace had looked nervous for a second, not at all prepared to be facing his mother so soon, his Queen, and his stepfather... whose own daughter he was supposed to marry. Better prepared to face all of them in Kings Landing was his plan.

But you had grasped his hands, had mounted girlish excitement shining in your eyes (an expression so familiar to you to adopt that it so perfectly hides the sharp edges of your excitement; your smugness. It oft reminds you of Aemond)— and Jacaerys had melted.

"My Queen," he reimbursed. You turned as his hands cupped your face. Gentle, possessive in its own way. You sighed, eyes fluttering close with a small, satisfied smile on your lips. "My beautiful queen."

A Maiden in love is not a hard thing to emulate. And he does not make it hard to be.

On some days, you even think it will be easy to actually fall in love with him. You already do so feel his warmth for you permeate your own being. His attention is addicting for one; it is whole and preserving. He makes it known when he is looking at his lady mother, at Baela, his former betrothed (who had given you a meaningful eye when Rhaenyra and Daemon escorted you back to Kings Landing to face the rest of your consequences), and other ladies of the court versus when he is looking at you.

He does not hide his adoration. His so obvious desire.

When you reward him for his loyalty, for private little ticked boxes you keep for him— siding with you in arguments, defending you upon ugly whispers in the Keep, requesting from his mother, a more permanent residence of your own in Dragonstone, in the guise of newly wedded bliss to hide growing your connections far and wide (once Rhaenyra takes the throne, Jacaerys will be named Heir and Prince of Dragonstone; your spiders and people must reach each end of Westeros, and Dragonstone is the perfect central chatter) — you mount him and bask at the lust contorting his features, at his hands gripping your waist in a staccato rhythm of feeling and gasp, each harsh bounce of your hips sending you both to bliss. You feel him inside you so deeply, enjoy his eyes rolling back and exposing his neck for you to sink bruises on.

Most oft, he enjoys mounting you. And you like the alternative of his choice to be buried so deep you feel him in your throat; to hold you down and hold you close, telling you to keep your eyes open for him as you come undone again and again— time and practice can manage his newness to the act. His enthusiasm, both for the act and for you, definitely helps his case, and he is so fond of finding your pleasure, of leading you to the precipe, so addicted to your sounds and writhes.

"There? Is that it, little dragon?" he huffs against your mouth, so attentive as he held your wrist and watch as you gasp, your face twisting as he hits that point inside of you, that sweet, sweet spot of undeniable pleasure buried so deep within— that he laughs. Not meanly, but of pride as he pulls back and hits it again. More insistent. You mewl and scratch his back, your toes curling as you seek the pleasure he so enjoys insisting you into.

"I've found it again, didn't I?" Another snap of his hips, another cry of your lips. "I will fuck your sweetest spot until you- are- crying- my name in that sweet, sweet whine of yours, shall I?"

But it's not really a question privy to an answer, surely not by your own mouth but by your body, as he manhandles you easily and does not stop until you are a quivering, overstimulated mess against wet sheets.

Sometimes, when you can't help but reward him as soon as possible— so excited from his gallant display; the perfect King bowing to his wife — you drag him to shadowy corners and solemnly drop yourself on your knees, unlacing his breeches with deft precision. You place your hot mouth against his manhood, your eyes fluttering delicately, making him reach completion enough times that he is left with a dopey, simpleton of a smile afterward, a soft, chaste kiss against your your head, your nose, your lips. So tender to how he was fucking your mouth not but seconds ago.

"I love you," he whispers against hot skin and cool, salty air.

And it eases, every time he looks at you like that, holds like you that. His love is patient, sweet, kind, and devouring. It overflows and seeps into you that when you whisper back, just as soft, just as troublingly honest, "Avy jorrāelan, ñuha zaldrīzes, I love you, my dragon," the truth of them bleeds further and further into your heart.

Jacaerys.

A warm grief swells within you. Your hands twitch, flattening your grief beneath your chest, deep in your gut. Deep below. You fought hard to be here. You cannot lose him now.

Otto Hightower must die.

A cruel thought, a natural order. With your marriage to Jacaerys meant a relative peace, a truce. Moving to Dragonstone many moons was more than just to establish your position, your future. It was also for your darling sister to take better control of her position back in the centre of power, alongside her husband.

Aged well with a stronger alley who most would not dare defy— a vainglorious guard dog, really, one who isn't afraid to sic people with a mere nod from his master — more than evens out the playing field.

The Queen To Be is prospering. And in her prosper, meant your husband's position more than fulfilled. He was to be King, and with you as his Queen, his reign will want for not.

You should have known it would put Otto on defense, would panic and use your siblings and your poor, nervy mother, to move in unfeasible decisions.

Aegon had taken to calling him grandsire again. Aemond... Your spiders had told you that Lucerys was sent to Storm's End as no more than a casual reminder of Lord Borros' oath. Viserys was in no doubt in worse conditions than he had been the last time you or your husband had visited him. Rhaenyra was settling on her position, reminding the Great Houses which heir was meant to rise soon, so close to the changing of the guard.

And your little brother no doubt was moved in panic.

This was a slip up on your part. Once the King was dead, Otto Hightower would hold no cards; Rhaenyra would never take him as Lord Hand, and his daughter would no longer be a foreground of power. Rhaenyra has her heir. The winning hand is more than ensured on her part.

His only move would be an usurpation, and would ruin your chance at being Queen... it was a good move. Your twin was not made for duty whilst you craved it. He knows you better than you know yourself; you will not be played in his palm. You would be useless to him.

"I should have killed him," you murmur to yourself.

Yna, the last maid in your arsenal, steps forward. She is the youngest of your main three wards, and the newest. She is still learning her letters, but she is young and always eager to serve.

"My lady?"

"I am going to find the prince. Whatever happens, tell them Vermax must not leave with his rider. Make up any excuse you must. My husband must stay in Dragonstone until I say otherwise." You raise your chin, tone icy. "Anyone who dares to defy my orders will be beheaded."

"At once, princess."

Your steps are measured, your breath held between lie and tongue. So many pretty rings on your fingers, twisting and twisting at the idea of the confrontation plagues you.

But you raise your chin. You will not be defeated. All is not lost.

Dyanna had caught you at Aegon's Garden, windblow hair and wide, fearful eyes.

You had braced yourself. "The Prince?"

"The Stone Drum, my princess, he is..."

"Angry," you supplied. She nodded jerkily. "Tell me everything."

"The Prince was talking with Ser Robert, was about the missive sent from Kings Landing says Kevan, not soon after your own." Another spider, one that follows most of your husband's movements. Unassuming and quick on his feet. A good soldier. "Prince Lucerys is alive but badly maimed." The breath you had withheld between grit and fright unrolled, the world slamming back into the ground in a giant's fitful wake. "He still hasn't woken up, says Arrax took most of the damage— one wing torn but is awake. Dunno about recovery for dragons, 'specially against Vhagar. Mournin' the prince, Kevan says. Makin' loud, sad dragon noises."

"But he is alive?" you pressed. Aemond's life hung in its balance. Your sweet, vengeful baby brother who bore his tragedies between muted teeth and rage.

"Yes."

"And Aemond?"

"No word in the missive or between them." It made your throat tight, the convulsion restraining your neck once more.

"It's fine. As long as there no mention of his death. Then that's all I need."

"My lady, there's more. There might be a reason we haven't been getting much word from King's Landing. Or Oldtown. It seems to connect is all."

Your pulse jumped. "Tell me later. I have to see to the prince. No one is allowed in Stone Drum for the time being. Not unless absolutely necessary." You think and you think hard. "Ready to call in a maestre."

Dyanna had looked alarmed when you left her, but you only gave a pensive smile. A soldier's nod.

He is bent over the Painted Table, shoulders so hunched, reminding you of monsters and tall tales. A dragon, really. He may not have Velaryon blood, your husband, but you— nor others — could deny the thrum of fire in his blood. Roiling and boiling, so engulf in his rage, his voice is quiet at the approach of your footsteps.

"You have bound me to Dragonstone," he says calmly with all the quiet rage you can hear in your very soul. It makes you shiver, but you stand resolute.

He is still turned away, away from you, palms flat on the surface. The iron brazier is lit up, and so is the Painted Table itself.

"Can you honestly tell me you won't try and kill my brother if I let you, ñuha valzȳrys my husband?" you say softly. You plead. His refusal to turn to you spikes your madness in corners. The night reaches and you finger your rings as you try not to spill all over the floor; your own madness, your own fears, your quiet, quiet webs. "Aren't you at least satisfied at the thought of your stepfather excelling at planting Dark Sister to his neck? At least cheery at the idea of him suffering inside those dungeons?"

He spins then, rage—white hot and spilling — breathes as he bellows, "He has harmed my brother!"

You calmly met his gaze. "You do not know that for sure."

He laughs without mirth, arms wide and daring. Crazed anger outlandish and wild, while in response you tighten and become small.

But you do not cower. No truth cowers. And you are a princess. A dragon the same as he.

Lest all, he is a mere husband.

"What else could it be? Your brother has called us bastards our entire lives," he spits. "Neither of us are blind to his dark looks. Despite your family's attempted plots, his rage beholds him. His grudge is stronger. He attacked Lucerys, on fucking dragonback— Arrax, a dragon Luke has barely flown against your brother's war dragon — and that makes him a kinslayer."

Your blood leaps, and you cannot control your own fear, your own anger. "Do not throw that word around so carelessly, Jacaerys! My brother has killed no kin!"

"He has tried, " he hisses and it makes your eyes burn because he has never looked at you so before. At his thunderous footsteps to reach you, to aggravate you, you fight the urge to flinch. His anger spills and spoils you. You try not to curdle. You keep yourself braced. Kinslayer is so ugly said aloud. "That is enough of a brand to call him kinslayer."

Your jaw tightens, tears unleashed from your eyes and there's a glimmer there— a spark, of your Jace. Your husband. It is small and short, a comet so faint it is almost nothing, but it is there.

He does not like to see you cry, your Jace. Not if it isn't from pleasure.

You raise your chin. "My brother is no kinslayer. Lucerys is alive. Do not make Aemond what he is not."

He laughs humourlessly against your face, his hand reaching for your jaw, thumb over your chin, but the mock gentleness wounds you worse. "And who has alerted you of the news? Your twin usurper?"

"W-what?" Blood rushes to your head. Something is missing. He knows. He knows about grandsire's plans. Dyanna would have said. Dyanna didn't know. "Aegon is not an usurper," you whisper, faint but firm.

His thumb rubs against your bottom lip, his eyes tracing your face. "Is this the plan all along, then?" he says softly. "While your brother and grandsire plot to usurp the throne from my mother, and your younger brothers raise bannermen from Oldtown to Storm's End, and try to kill my own when they get the chance, I suppose your job is to warm my bed and to ensure I'm out of the fray before you kill me in my—"

His words stutter for you have slapped him. It is not the hardest move on your part, and he stops not from pain but from shock. Tears freely flow down your face now as you push him off you.

"I know nothing of these plots you speak of." That in much is true. These plots are half-assed. Made in panic and fear, and it makes you curse Otto Hightower to the depths of further Hell. "And you may bully me as you wish, husband, but I will not take it as if it does not hurt me. As if- as if I would take pleasure from your death."

He raises his chin, so defiant in his own anger that he clenches his jaw. "Are you telling me you took no part in your grandsire's plans?"

"We have been married for many moons now. I think, out of anyone on this island, amongst our family even, you would know me best. I have only ever truly bloomed in your presence," you say softly. Lies and truths are balanced so precariously; they spin and spin in a tantalising grip that even you don't know where fabrication meets honesty.

If your own lies befuddle you, why not your truths to him?

"If you are doubting me, then you are doubting our marriage, is it not?" You give a mirthless laugh of your own, chin wobbling as you brush your tears away. His eyes track your movements and his brows are furrowed. "Is it ease, that has turned you so from me? Has your doubt been seeded long before you took us to Dragonstone? To affirm your mother that you have wedded me? Yes, Aegon sent me a missive a mere hour ago. He says Aemond had been urged by our grandsire, no doubt played with as he had done so to our mother, as he tries with Aegon. With me."

Jacaerys' eyes darken. Bottomless pits of dark, dark eyes. You've grown to love them you realised.

"I will give you all the violet-eyed heirs you desire," you had purred once in your new marriage bed, having just christened (one to a few times) your new marital chambers in Dragonstone. "But I do so wish I get a babe with your eyes."

"They are hardly exemplary," Jace had said, snorting. His hand rested on your back while you rest on top of him. The air is acrid in sweat and sex, but neither of you mind. "They are not a show of Valyrian blood."

"Who cares?" You reached to dance your finger against his lashes. "A daughter with your eyes... I fear, I would spoil her rotten. She would be an absolute beauty."

"Are you calling me a beauty?" he teased, trying to hide his rosy cheeks.

"Your eyes, yes," you teased back.

"If I was such a pawn to him," you say now. "If I was using you as you so callously accused me of, why would I bother with a marriage with you? You are right, they have accused you of not being a trueborn Velaryon—" He flinches. "—So why would Otto decide marrying you was a good idea at all? Any babes I carry would be questioned, and it would serve no benefit at all if the main plot was Aegon usurping the throne. To keep you entertained? Hardly. It would serve him better, as was his earlier plan, if I had married Aegon myself."

He loses his stance, a grit in his teeth gives you way to a slow curl of possession. A renewed sense of anger. His fists clenched at his sides.

You found a thread. You don't just unspool, you decide, you will yank, and you will yank hard.

"Aegon is a firstborn male heir, even as twins. It made sense to anyone who understood Targaryen customs that marrying us would be the natural order. It did not matter any past transgressions he may have had, I keep him better. I am his tether to this world. It was obvious to anybody with eyes that if we were to marry, we would breed good Valyrian stock, our children—"

But he has lurched forward, grasping your face, seething, angry at an idea, at a diverted road.

"He wanted us to marry," you continue, a snake's hiss that it is. "But your mother sent a missive asking for Helaena's hand, and I had already told her I wanted someone else. I wanted you." You grasp his leather, pulling him to you in equal ferocity. Madness meeting a mirror. "From the very start, grandsire could not control me for my blood sung for you. I had done my very best to free my siblings from him, resigned myself to be their forever protector inside that Keep with no real power of my own, but when the Gods gave me the chance to have you, I had been selfish. I abandoned them for you. Because I wanted to be yours for a night, I was willing to have that, if it is the only moment you will grant me."

You are crying again, and lies are spinning with their truths, golden and bloodstained, but you are cracking him.

"But it was you, Jacaerys Velaryon, who had asked for my hand. You wanted to marry, whisk us away to Dragonstone, and I love you too much to blind myself to the idea of becoming your wife would not be a totally selfish act, for what act of ours would be considered selfish if it was borne out of love?" you sob hard, grasping and reaching against him, trying to shake and ruin him. "I thought you loved me, and yet here you are, accusing me of plotting? What? Usurping your mother? Killing you in your godsdamned sleep?"

"Wife, I—"

"No. I am sorry for what happened to Lucerys. But if it is vengeance that is truly what you seek, and in the morrow my brother," my choke out. "My brother would be announced d-dead, I would rather you kill me now for it seems I have not only failed them from my grandsire's clutches, I have also failed at being your wife."

Your hands reach in and pull his dagger out, and he is instinctive, a true swordsman, holding onto the dagger before your own. But you do not give up. You yank him forward so suddenly, the dagger now positioned over your heart.

You keep him there, defiant as you are. As no true dragon is afraid of metal. Metal melt in the face of dragonfire.

The tip of his dagger deepens against your skin as war rages in his own mind. Truths and lies spinning and spinning in his head, but your thread— your thread is Hightower green clung in blood and gold — and it's the brightest, twisting beneath his lids and rage. Rage and grief, the tethering madness is spilling, trying to break into the dragon's clutches—

But your Jace is strong. He holds it at bay with a fury.

It is love, it is love, it is love.

But you are not sure. And you have to be.

You have been betrayed already, your Jace cannot betray you. If you are to have a future with him as King, there must be no doubts.

You step forward, letting the blade sink against your skin. It draws blood. A few beads bloom and slide. Thick red in a string or two. It makes his jaw tighten, and you feel, almost impercibly, the strain in his hand give.

That flash of panic, panic bathed in love, in adoration, is all you need.

You grasp his hands in yours, blade nestled between two grips now, and he gasps, thinking you were going to push him away finally, but no. You hold on tight to his hands, nails digging into his skin, keeping the blade where it is before you push forward once more. The tip sinks into your flesh, blood gushes as pain explodes.

"What are you doing!? Let go!" he roars, but you stare at his eyes, brown, so pretty, framed in featherlight lashes, did he even know there are violet flecks in his eyes?

You will not harm me, you think. You realise. For you have given yourself to me body and soul. Even the Gods know.

"Will you forsake me, husband?" your voice is no higher than a whisper, than a wind's hum. It is hollow and cracking. A siren song. In the silence, it is a whip cracking against petty flesh. Against a beating heart thrumming for you. "And the babe I carry?"

Before the words register in his brain, you yank his hands again with every strength you can muster, the dagger, to hover over your stomach. Your Jace roars, pulling with his entire strength as complete fear in floods his beautiful, brown eyes. The strength propels your force of gravity, and you fall with a hard thud. The dagger is flung in the second as he reaches for you, cold-curdled terror ruining his face as he tries to make sense of where to touch you.

The fall is hard enough that you wince. And your instincts, new as it is, is to curl your hands protectively over your stomach.

"M-my heart? Does it hurt? I-I am so sorry, I-A MAESTRE, CALL A MAESTRE FOR THE PRINCESS NOW!"

Your child is strong, you have always known that in your heart.

The second you held suspicion, pressing against the tender flesh of your breast to the nausea that kicked in out of nowhere, before Maestre Gerardys had confirmed: you are with child. Your firstborn. The heir of heirs. You could not wait to meet him.

"I hope it is a boy," you murmur weakly into the darkened space of your chambers. You don't turn as Jacaerys' head snaps, his hands over your own, sat on a chair by your bedside. Relief, guilt, fear breaks and crashes in waves against him, trying to nudge you, but you don't look. You stare from your position on the bed; forward and into nothingness.

"My love," he breathes, hands against your own warm and tight. "I am so, so sorry. I shall call for a maestre—"

"No need." Your other hand moves to your stomach. An emotion glimmers in his gaze at the movement. "My babe is strong. Blood of the dragon that he is. I know him already in my blood. Call for my maid instead. Any of them. Tell them to move my things to a different room, perhaps the one above Aegon's Garden. By morn, I will fly to Kings Landing to be with my family."

Panic fills and breaks. His hold tightens. "I-If that is what you wish, we can go as soon as Maestre Gerardys says it is alright for you and the—"

You turn to him, finally, your eyes dead of emotion. "I will go for I do not think you would like your would-be murderer to sleep beside you, haunting you with a dagger. This way, I can take advice from my mother about births and the like, and you can sleep comfortably. Do not worry, I will not poison you to your child's mind. You may visit him as you would like. You might even take comfort in knowing your mother would look for him as if he were hers. She is so very motherly, I'm sure she would enjoy a grand..."

Your words drift off as he had fallen to his knees, tears soaking your hand as he presses it to his face. You feel like the Mother, looking down on a penitent. Or the Father. Or the Stranger. You feel complete, as his apologies fall in graceless, shaky exhales and sobs. The axe is in your hand. His neck is exposed.

"—I will do anything, a-anything for your f-forgiveness. Y-You can move rooms if it comforts you, I will not s-shadow your doorway, but please. Please. Do not leave me. Anything. I will do anything."

You, and you alone, is the owner of his absolution.

You smile, despite yourself.

Maybe you should reward your grandsire after all.

TAGGED (bold means I couldn't tag you: @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata

[phoward89]

Masterlist

WARNING ⚠️: Coryo is his own warning in and of himself. Delusional!Coryo, Soft!Dark!Coryo, Soft!Dom!Coryo, Reader has some survival instincts, Reader knows keeping Coryo happy keeps her alive and well, cussing, possession, obsession, slight manipulation, threats of harm, threats of rape, threats of violation, choking, murder threats

Chapter 7:

Coriolanus has been on Peacekeeper duty for the last 3 days. It sucks because Sejanus isn't with him. Instead he's doing his medic training at the infirmary with the Matron, leaving Coriolanus to do street patrols on his own.

But today he's on watch duty at the Peacekeeper Uniform Factory. His partner’s some grunt he’s barely even talked to. Honestly, he doesn't care to get to know the grunt since he's not sticking around much longer.

Coriolanus is taking his Elite Officer's Exam tomorrow; he knows he'll pass with flying colors. He can't wait to get you out of 8, to be able to claim you as his wife on legal documents and paperwork. Coriolanus sent a letter to Pluribus Bell about your father and one to Strabo Plinth as well, so he's hoping to receive some responses with some advice on how to move forward with inquiring about the asset law of Colonel Javanis Halvir for you.

Coriolanus grappled with the idea of writing to Dr. Gaul, but then decided against it. The woman, after all, was a bit crazy and had planned on killing all of the leftover tributes in the arena with her rainbow snakes; if he didn't cheat then there wouldn't have been a victor for the 10th Hunger Games. So, he decided not to contact Dr. Gaul. God forbid the woman wants you to return to the Capitol, to be rescued from your abandonment in the Districts for so long.

Yea…

Coriolanus isn't giving you up for anything. You're his wife; that makes you his responsibility. He's your protector since you're now Mrs. Snow. That gives him power; no one's going to take that away from him.

Coriolanus is dressed in his denim fatigues, his lanky frame leaning against the concrete wall as he keeps an eye on the women and teenagers that're working the loom machines. His icy blue eyes have been staring a hole into your once sister-in-law’s head, but that's mostly because she keeps giving him nasty looks. But that's fine with him; not like he cares what she thinks about him anyways.

In fact he hates Ashlie for abandoning you in a strange place; for being the cause of you to stoop down so low to stealing- to getting punished by the lash.

Yes!

Coryo has the audacity to shoulder the entire blame of your whipping onto your once sister-in-law. He refuses to take responsibility for it. He ‘loves’ you (more like he's head over heels obsessed with you) and refuses to believe that his greed and overwhelming need to impress his superiors hurt you in any way.

Plus you love him and married him. If he hurt you why would you have done that?

Yea…

Private Snow’s thick skull doesn't grasp that you latched onto him for pure survival- got somewhat of a Stockholm syndrome going on with him. Can't bite the hand that feeds you, eh?

Eh…Coriolanus feels like he's in for a long day. It's not even noon yet and he's already ready to take a break. And he can't help, but to wonder how your day’s going so far.

Ah, to be young, in love, and a newlywed.

You're making yourself a simple sandwich for lunch whenever a knock sounds at your door. You're not expecting anybody, so you're a little taken aback. Your husband's at work until the evening and you don't really have any friends in 8.

So, tentatively, you approach the door and open it. Standing before you is a postal worker, but not just any postal worker- one with a Peacekeeper postal uniform on. On the ground by their feet’s a large wooden crate.

What the?...

“I have a delivery for a Coriolanus Snow and a Y/N Snow? Are one of them present to sign for the package?” The postal worker asks, holding a clipboard with an attached pen.

You simply answer the postal worker with, “I'm Y/N Snow.”

Without a word, the Peacekeeper postal worker hands you the clipboard; which you take and sign your name on in the required spot before handing it back.

“Have a nice day, Ma’am.” The postal worker tips their hat at you before walking down the hall; leaving you alone with the crate.

You picked up the crate, which wasn't too heavy, and brought it into the house. Once you set it down, you read the return label. The name on it was The Plinths. You quickly realized that Sejanus' family sent Coriolanus something. You knew that they're friends from the Academy in the Capitol that joined the Peacekeepers together.

Well, it's nice that they sent your husband something.

But then you remember that the postal worker had said the package was for Coriolanus and Y/N Snow. Oh boy, so did they send you something in the crate too? And how did they know that Coriolanus got married? You've only been married for 3 days. Did they just assume or did Sejanus get a hold of his parents and tell them. How fast does Peacekeeper mail travel?

They say curiosity killed the cat, but it didn't kill you.

You opened the crate, with the help of a bottle opener that you used to pry the wooden lid off, and saw that inside of the crate was a few wrapped packages and a tin. Oh, so the Plinths sent Christmas presents. That's very nice of them.

You take the packages and the tin out, only to place them on them on the kitchen table. Then you realize that you don't have a Christmas tree to place the presents under. You'll have to talk to Your husband about it when Coryo gets home.

During the factory’s lunch break Coriolanus is stuck watching the workers gather in a breakroom while waiting for his relief to come. His partner's relief showed up, but not Private Snow's. Talk about shit luck.

So, Coriolanus stands up straight in the break room, watching over the factory workers with some scurvy looking Peacekeeper a few yards away from him.

Coriolanus narrows his icy eyes as he watches Ashlie shake her head at her co-worker and stand up from her lunch table. What's she up to?

“Why's she heading over here?” The scurvy Peacekeeper asked Coriolanus.

“She knows my wife.” Was Coriolanus’ curt answer.

“You got a wife?” The Peacekeeper by the platinum um blonde asked, his brow skewed up curiously.

“By District 8 rituals, yea.” Coriolanus nodded. “I got a wife.”

“You know that ain't allowed. Better keep it a secret.”

“You gonna tell on me?” Private Snow asked, his face stony, as he looked the scurvy guy next to him in the eye.

“No.” The Peacekeeper next to Coriolanus shook his head. “I don't care what you do, but there's some people that would sell that kind of information to further themselves.”

Little did the scurvy Peacekeeper know that Coriolanus is one of those people who'll sell out somebody for the upper hand; to get ahead.

“I need to talk to you.” Ashlie told Coriolanus as she came to a stop right in front of him. Looking between your husband and his fellow peacekeeper, she added in, “Privately.”

“Fine.” Coriolanus told her. “I'll be in the hall with her; I won't be long.” He told the peacekeeper before turning and leading your once sister-in-law out into the hallway.

Once in the hallway, he sneered, “What's so important that a whore like you had to seek me out for?”

“One of the girls says that she saw you in the market the other day buying supplies for a handfasting.” Ashlie's eyes welled up with sorrow as she begged, “Please, tell me you didn't marry my sister.”

“Y/N’s not your sister. Her dead brother was your meal ticket, but that doesn't make her your sister.” Coriolanus coldly told the factory worker. “In fact, she's shit to you since you abandoned her shortly after dragging her here.” Towering over Ashlie, like a predator tower's over their prey before they strike, he condescendingly said, “You're such a good ‘sister’ that my darling rose has to stoop so low to resort to stealing to feed herself. If I wasn't there to witness her whipping; to carry her home and tens to her then who knows what shape she'd be in right now.”

Ashlie’s eyes blazed hatefully as she looked up at Coriolanus. “I’m going to do anything I have to get Y/N to see the light and leave you. You filthy Capitol blooded peacekeeper.”

Shoving the thin brunette girl against the wall, Coriolanus wraps his large, calloused hand around her throat. Pressing his thumb, hard, into her windpipe he hatefully threatens in a snake like hiss, “You stay the fuck away from my wife, you ratty lil whore, or else I'll fuck that pussy of yours up and pass you around the barracks to let my squad take turns with you before snapping your neck and tossing you into that sludge filled river.” A managing look crossed over his face as he toyed with the girl who's life he literally had in his hand. “What's it called again? That's right, the Cuyahoga River.”

Ashlie couldn't breath, all she could do was let out high pitched wheezes. She frantically clawed at your husband's hand, desperate to breath since he was choking her.

“Stop your dramatics, you stupid whore.” Coriolanus commanded harshly before letting Ashlie's neck go.

She gasped desperately for air, her lungs aching for oxygen to give them their substance, as he knees buckled. Ashlie slid against the wall, watching as Private Snow- your cold and cruel husband- walked back into the factory's break room as if nothing has happened. As if he just didn't nearly kill her; threaten violent things against her.

Ashlie's off tomorrow and, even tho sh was threaten by Coriolanus, she's determined to get you to leave him. So, she's going to be paying you a visit.

A visit that'll prove to be her last once your husband hears about it.

Tags: @kuroosbby001 @purriteen @poppyflower-22 @meetmeatyourworst @whipwhoops @bxtchopolis @readingthingsonhere @savagenctzen @ryswritingrecord @erikasurfer @tulips2715 @universal-s1ut @thesmutconnoisseur @squidscottjeans @sudek4l @wearemadeofstardust0 @mashiromochi @gracieroxzy @belcalis9503 @shari-berri @aoi-targaryen @whiteoakoak @spear-bearing-bi-witch @gisellesprettylies @loverandqueenofdragons @qoopeeya @mfnqueen1 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @v-love @swiftieblyth @joyfulyouthlover @harvey-malfoy @chxrrybomb22 @marvel-hiddles-stark @xjinnix @devils-blackrose @zombicupcake3 @jacesvelaryons @tempt-ress

[darlingkikki]

omg, late to your ghoap post but au where you’re just crying asking if johnny doesn’t love you or take the relationship seriously because he kissed someone else while ghost is sitting there waiting for his kiss. thinks you’re so pretty hiccuping and crying but damn he wants that kiss already

Warnings: Manipulative Ghost, bitch boy Johnny (lmao but seriously), dubcon (mostly for the illusion of choice but the kiss is consensual)

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

I am in a writing funk but I forced myself to at least explore more of this because I so badly want to but my brain is mush :( (not edited so just focus on the vibes)

initial post linked here

Something dark and insatiable claws at the inside of Ghost’s skull. To repress it, his blunt nails bite into his palms. He watches Johnny’s hands cup your crestfallen face, his expression knotted with the heaviness of remorse. Above the sound of your hiccuping questions, he can just about pick up Johnny’s attempts to soothe your broken heart. 

“Course I love yeh. That hasn’t changed.” 

“Nah, dinnae say that. I did a dumb thing. I’m always doing dumb things. It’s nothin’ to do with yeh.”

“I pushed them away, just not quick enough. I didnae do anything more, I promise.” 

He’s unyielding in holding your gaze. His thumbs trace gentle, methodical circles on your cheeks, wiping away the moisture under your eyes. Selfishly, cruelly, Simon wishes you would stop sobbing already so he can take over. Johnny promised him a kiss from you, so a kiss is what he’ll be leaving with.

You seem to be a gentle, sweet thing so far, even with a pouty frown pulling the corners of your lips downwards. Sensitive too. (What other parts of you share that same description?). A few tears evade Johnny’s thumbs. They roll down the swell of your cheeks. Ghost licks his lips, imagining his tongue following the wet trails down to the collar of your shirt.

Fuck, he needs this kiss bad.

If Johnny is desperate enough for your forgiveness, maybe he can push this further with you. Convince him that a kiss isn’t enough. That you deserve—no, need something more. Johnny will be easy to sway. You, however, he’s still figuring out as Johnny calms you into soft sniffles. 

“There you go, now yer ready to meet my Lt.,” Johnny coos. He steps around you, putting his hands on either side of your face and angling you to look where Ghost has been standing this entire time. “Go on, give me hell Ghost.” 

Fucking finally. Ghost doesn’t respond. He can’t. Not when the sight of you has him sucking in a sharp breath. 

Christ, what a sight you are.

His body moves, driven by greed when you stare at him all confused and teary-eyed. His favorite combination.

“Good finally meetin’ you,” Ghost says. His footsteps are heavy against the wooden floor. He hasn’t even taken his boots off.

Johnny’s fingers tighten to keep you looking straight at Ghost. Like a puppeteer, though it’s clear who has the ultimate hold on the strings. 

“Why is he here?” You ask, trying and failing to turn your head towards Johnny. Nope, not yet. It’s Ghost’s turn now and Johnny bows out of the equation.

Their positions have switched seamlessly, like dancers performing around your body. Or soldiers following a meticulous plan only they are privy to. The smell of alcohol leaves your nostrils, replaced by mint and heady tobacco. It's sense whiplash and your confusion makes for an excellent distraction from your heartache. A distraction Ghost can use to worm his way in.

“I’m here to make it better,” Simon answers after a beat. His eyes are devilishly dark, indistinguishable from a starless night sky. Inky like pools of tar. He says your name with the familiarity of a lover. An undeniable hunger laces his voice and a shudder slithers down your spine. 

Oh yes, he thinks, smirking like a starving lion, you won’t need much convincing. Your reaction speaks volumes. Without waiting for your reply, he continues, “Your boyfriend's hurt you, yeah? You shouldn’t let him get away with it.”

He’s right, you know that. To forgive Johnny would only lead to a forever-repeating cycle of tears and heartache. But what choice did you have now? 

The luxury of choosing for yourself is a privilege these men have taken for themselves. 

Ghost leans in until his lips are just a hair’s breadth away. He’s dangling a carrot in front of your face—the answer to all your pain. 

Johnny's grip on your head loosens. Without it, you'd have forgotten entirely that he was still here, acting as the hard place Ghost urges you towards with a coaxing grasp on your hips, leaving you in his cage and Johnny a willful voyeur. 

He’s tied your neurons in knots, effectively cutting off any chance you have at making a less rash decision. He’s infiltrated your senses and made you his prey. No one could fault you for believing him when he tells you he’ll make it better. Let the warmth of his mouth be a band-aid for your pain and a knife in Johnny’s chest.

"Let me fix it," Ghost whispers, just before his lips are about to claim yours.

It's not a question.

[fullofbees]

Week 1: Mammon x GN!Reader + Sensory Deprivation

CW: Bondage (Blindfolds and Wrist Restraints)

Mammon was shocked when you agreed to test your newfound luck at the casino. But each win brought bigger and better prizes, so you were eager to see how far the magic could go.

He tried to whisper the rules to you, but it was hard to hear him over the excited chatter of the crowd. They all had watched eagerly to see if you called correctly, erupting into another round of awe when the worker announced your win. Mammon gave you a victory kiss, arm wrapped possessively around your waist as he pulled you against him. When his hand moves lower, fingers splayed against your lower stomach, you decided to call it a night.

Now, he sighs so sweetly against your skin, settled between your thighs as he has you fall apart on his tongue. The pleasure is overwhelming, your sight blocked by the silken tie wrapped around your head while his belt secured your hands to the headboard. His praise is muffled but no less reverent as he slips a finger into you.

You buck your hips into his hand, whining for him to go faster, wrists struggling against the restraints solely because you want to tug on his hair. Mammon pulls back to admire the view of a second finger sinking into your wetness.

"Fuck, treasure," the demon whispers in between teasing nips to your inner thigh, "You make me so hard."

Mammon pants, hot breath puffing against your skin; you imagine the sight of his hand trailing down his abdomen, palming his aching cock through his boxers. He'd bite his lip, fang piercing the flesh as he tries to control his relentless need to possess you. Fingers wrapped firmly around his pulsing shaft, he'd pump his cock in a desperate attempt to alleviate the pressure building in his core.

The thought makes your mouth water. There's no doubt that the demon feels you clench around him, a fact confirmed by his covetous laughter. "You like that, yeah?" Mammon purrs, greedily fitting a third finger into your dripping hole, "Like hearing how crazy you make me?"

All you do is nod, words a jumbled mess when you try to reply. He sinks his fingers down to the knuckle, stretching you open in preparation for his cock. Mammon's tongue teases you once more, sucking on swollen flesh until it is darkened with his territorial mark. The pace is frantic, fingers plunging into you mercilessly as he quickly ushers you to your peak.

"Mams... I'm-" Your warning is choked out.

The demon is quick, the mattress shifting below you as Mammon sits on his knees, finally sliding his cock in one thrust. The coil snaps, pleasure coursing through your body as wave after wave crashes, squeezing around Mammon's girth as you ride out the bliss.

He whimpers above you, the feeling of your body milking his cock, almost sending him over the edge. "Shitshitshit baby, you feel so good," Mammon praises, "So warm an tight an all for me."

You feel his greed swell, the magic seeping in through your pact. It's deceptively light, airy, and sweet like honeysuckle. It begs for him to open your bag, to pour your winnings all over the mattress, to be fucked surrounded by all that glittering grimm.

"M-Mams?" You shakily ask for his attention.

"I'm right here, baby," he responds, as he's never taken his attention away from you.

Gesturing towards where it sits on the hotel sofa, you shyly ask, "Grab my bag...?"

He laments having to remove his cock, especially when the image of his cum dripping out of you has already entered his mind. All is forgiven when he sees you undo the snaps of your overstuffed wallet.

-> Head to Masterlist

-> My Ko-fi!

[thevirtualvalentine]

pierced!tragalgar law x pierced!reader

content warning: oral sex, dry humping, heavy kissing, established relationship, essentially modern, reader has a new lip piercing and law indulges in a fantasy.

Law with an alt gf with piercings… Like I can picture the two of you now. Maybe when you started dating you didn’t have the collection you did now, you could have started with a simple nose hoop. One of his favorite things to do is compare your piercings side by side with your faces squished together in the mirror. Some of his favorite pictures of the two of you are from these shared moments.

He has to say though, this recent piercing of yours has him going insane. Every feature on your face feels so delicate to him. He loves the way your nose fits perfectly between your eyes and the soft curve of your cupids bow. However, what he didn’t expect was to be mesmerized by your vertical labret, the shiny metal glistening each time you speak, how it disappears and reappears from behind your teeth when you smile at him.

God it was so fucking alluring and it was driving him crazy. He could not wait to get his mouth on you, to tug your lips between his teeth again and to feel the metal on his tongue .. maybe other places too.

But he’d wait. He’s patient. Fairly pierced himself, Law wouldn’t compromise your healing process. Lip piercings are prone to migrating and need adequate time to heal. He is a doctor after all.

He abided his time with soft pecks for now, but you could feel his lingering desire tracing your lips each time he pulled away. His tongue softly glazing the cool surface of your new piercing. You wouldn’t lie, it set something ablaze in you, anticipating when your new addition would heal.

Two months have passed by now and you feel your new body modification is healed. You find Law sitting alone in his study nose deep in a medical textbook as his glasses rest carefully on the bridge of his nose. For some reason seeing him this stressed out makes you want to relieve him the best way you know how, with your mouth.

Making your way over to him your hands find his shoulders to which he audibly groans when you begin massaging him. “Baby you need a break, yeah?” He only hums, the tension in him begins to loosen. He’s truly putty in your hands.

Law grumbles when you pull his chair back from the desk, chair scraping against the floor as you ignore his protests. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let me do as I please,” you tell him while climbing into his lap.

It seems like all his protests leave him when he realizes you’re only clad in his t-shirt on top of him. Your hot pussy only covered by his own clothing. Then you’re kissing him. Metal gliding against his mouth as your hands find his hair. Your hips try to fall into a familiar rhythm on his dick but his hands stop you.

“Careful, you should be more delicate with that,” he’s not condescending but moreso concerned and for that you’re touched.

Your need for him only flourishes, a soft whine escaping you as you lunge for his lips. He doesn’t stop you, only meeting you back with equal passion.

You missed this, sitting in his lap as he grinds you into soft putty on his growing cock. It’s not long before his tongue starts exploring your lips, suckling on the bottom fat where your piercing resides. The slowness of it all has you writhing in his hold. He’s taken to sharp thrusts into your growing wetness as he slobbers all over you.

It’s thrilling but you can’t possibly take anymore of his teasing. You place your palms on his shoulders while breaking for air. His lips immediately find occupancy on the vacant skin of your neck, nibbling at the unmarked terrain. “Let me suck you off, I wanna know if it’ll feel any different,” you need more of him now, more than he’s giving you.

He can sense your greed, he’s empathetic to it. “Go on then.” Always so smug.

With one final hump into your cunt he lets you clamber off him, slinking to the floor on your knees. He loves those beady eyes and the metal that decorates your features, but most of all the silver in your lips makes his cock twitch within his pants.

Your hands couldn’t seemingly work any slower to unbutton his pants and pull out his aching dick, “wait wait—,” his breath heavy in his throat, “kiss it.”

Occasionally Law would surprise you with what he wanted, but it never disappointed you. You smile as you fist his member in one hand and kiss his tip with your plush lips.

He shivers from the contact, “you okay?” He swears you’re a vixen looking up at him like that from your knees speaking so softly to him, metal bouncing with the movement of your mouth.

“It feels good, keep going,” and at that you smile. Dragging the tip of your piercing up and down his shaft as you lubricate his dick with spit. Laws breath always betrays him, his nostrils flare as you take him deeper in your mouth. Either of your hands making sure to take care of what your warm wet mouth doesn’t.

He can’t stop watching as the shiny piece of silver appears and disappears as you suckle his dick like candy. It makes his balls ache with need as his grip on the arm of his chair tightens.

“You’re so pretty love, y’know that. Pretty mouth stuffed full of dick. Shit feels so good on my cock, you got no idea.” Somehow he makes you drip without even touching you.

To finish him off you place both hands on his shaft while making sure to drag your lips and tongue carefully near the slit. Not even a few seconds later he’s glazing your tongue with his hot load as he moans into his fist.

“Fuck fuck, sto- stop you’ll overstimulate me..” he huffs as he flicks your forehead. You won’t stop sucking on his tip trying to drain his big balls.

“Let me return the favor, yeah baby?” it’s then you catch a glimpse of a bright silver ball peaking just behind his teeth.

When did Law get a tongue piercing?

[eldritch-spouse]

lmao Vesper 😭😭😭

Ok wait for me I have new genius idea for crackass scapegoat!AU

Reader is the poor employee with a curse of being a magnet for Icons. They're trying their best, applying for the jobs in the most "human" spaces – but it's useless to try, it's only matter of time when they're meeting face to face with something very huge and demonic. They're not even trying, really. They're not even at some high position. They're just too unlucky to being the one who listens to all complaints and death threats... yet still very lucky to somehow remain alive after that.

After being kicked out from the theatre, their first honest job, they're totally broke. Underground casino? Yeah, yeah, shady. Sign them up!

Work is actually not so bad until some strange green giant scolds the shit out of them for "playing cheap" and almost brings them to that hot shithole– good thing he got distracted and the only thing poor employee lost are all their money and a job.

Damn, here we go again- Nothing could be wrong with working in a popular restaurant, yeah? Everyone gone through it-

Oh, how lucky they're to stay alive after that day when enormous snake woman decided to visit their modest establishment of a workplace. Their coworker, fellow waiter, is not so lucky tho. Poor Kenny.

With a generous amount of trauma, our scapegoat is escaping to something- something completely different, you know? They got a jackpot! Luck is TOTALLY on their side after all this suffering, how else you can explain that they got a job in that prestigious boutique?

... Well, let's say, they haven't break in tears only because of their lack of dignity at this point. That guy was marvelous, but he almost crashed them into the pulp with all his requirements- they're not even a designer, really....

Okay, maybe, they need to take a rest. Big rest. Take their stress out somewhere. Ikea, furniture store, bed section. Peace and love.

How it's even possible to be fired from a chill place like this? Oh, that's easy. Some buff dude built like a mountain just sorta appeared and fell asleep at the one of the biggest beds- and for some reason they fell asleep on their workplace while it happened. When they woke up tho, here was no one but a broken bed and complain in the customer's book.

That's it. That's a last nerve they had. They're escaping to the amusement park, to be the clown they are and being paid for it, as they deserve.

Only to be mocked by a guy with a fucking macaroni limbs. No, here was other people too, but he brought the greatest display of mockery and dishonour ever possible. Even their destroyed dignity somehow reanimated just to get beat down again.

...

Kalymir has zero idea why he woke up with a strong desire to go on the fucking "DOTA tournament" and tf it even means, but he already hyped up and ready to crush in-

After having to gamble at the same table as the Lord of Greed and nearly losing ownership of your soul.

After working at a restaurant good enough that the Queen of Gluttony unintentionally erotically fellated your entire body and made you feel like a twinkie.

After getting your department in IKEA utterly destroyed by the King of Sloth's insistence that he nap specifically in your section.

After having the King of Pride rip into you so viciously that you only wished you had been swallowed.

After having the King of Envy out-clown you.

And now, seeing what you can only guess is the King of Wrath well on his way to likely turn you into a stain on the wall...

You think of what could have been. Before this chain of horrid luck took over your life. In that one first job where you had to confront Vesper about his tendency for "group affections"-

Maybe you really should have just taken the deal and sucked him off.

[visceravalentines]

desperately asking dumbification w bo … “daddy’s braindead bitch” RAHHH IM MENTALLY ILL!!!

This has been sitting in my inbox forever just waiting for the spark well tadaaaaa

TW: drug use, dubcon??, daddy kink, degradation & dumbification (so many D's wtf)

He's been fucking you for what may as well be hours.

He got you high, so high, before he coaxed your clothes off. High enough that the curdled yellow wallpaper has taken on an ethereal golden hue. High enough your nerves just hum when he reaches around and fumbles at your clit.

"God, baby, you're so fuckin' wet."

You'll take his word for it. If you focus in you can hear the squelch of him pumping in and out of you. If you try a little harder you can feel the ridge around the head of his cock as it rubs back and forth inside you.

You almost cum again, feel the swell and squeeze of it, hear him groan and curse under his breath as he feels it too. But your senses are too dull to see it through and you're left gasping, unsatisfied yet so overwhelmed with bliss, the stretch of him inside you, his chest damp with sweat pressed against your back.

You keep doing that, keep almost cumming, can't quite make it over the finish line. It's reducing you to a tingling glittering nothing, less of a person and more of a sensation.

"This fuckin' pussy...." He laughs, breathless, determined to keep up his rhythm. "I could live in there, girl." He squeezes the meat of your ass. "Fuck you forever."

You wish he would. You remember he is. You're so high. He feels so good.

"Hey, y'alright there?" His thrusts falter as he leans forward to peer at your face. "You forget how to talk or somethin'?"

You respond, or you think you do. He taps your cheek with his fingers and you moan. You're drooling on the comforter, you realize.

"Goddamn," he chuckles. "Daddy's gone and fucked your brains right out, huh?" His fingertip worries at the plump swell of your lips and you open your mouth for him, suck obediently. "That's it," he smiles. "Nothin' but a hole, baby." He takes up thrusting again, the slap of his hips against your ass driving the pulse in your chest.

"Little slut," he groans. "Fuckin' needy. You need this, huh? 'S all you're good for, yeah?"

He's pounding you into the mattress, slowly pushing the bed off its frame inch by inch. Your cheek is wet. You remember you're drooling. He adjusts his angle and hits a new spot inside you and there it is again--the seize, the clutch, the almost-ecstasy that makes you whine with greed and bunch the sheets in your fist.

"Fuck," Bo snarls, his hands like a vice on your hips as you edge him on accident. "Goddamn tease."

It's not my fault, you'd like to say. It's not your fault his cock fits inside you like you were made for him. It's not your fault all your nerves are swimming, swaying, surfacing just long enough to give you a taste over and over again. You whimper.

There's a soft sugary heat creeping up your body from the place he fills inside you, creeping so slow through your blood. All your muscles want to clench at once. You can feel him in the cup of your hips, in your stomach, in your chest, and it's too much to hold in your meager body but it feels too good to let go.

"Wanna feel that pussy grippin' me, baby. Wanna fill you up...."

His fingers catch on your clit and he works them in frenzied circles. "Y'think you can cum for me, baby?" he coos. "Can you do that for Daddy?"

You let out a broken whine because you can feel it rushing up on you like a stormfront. You cling to the sheets, legs shaking, tiny pleas for mercy dropping wordless off your lips.

He fists the hair at the base of your skull and pulls hard. "Do as I say, girl, cum on this fuckin' cock."

A wavering cry bubbles from your throat. You buck against him as it starts to hit, as it washes over you and sucks you under and fills your lungs, fills your guts, fills that gaping, gasping mouth.

You come utterly undone. You are incapacitated, what little brain you had left cupped carefully in your skull now buzzing into vapor. Your body is throbbing, wracked with bliss, pleasure escaping its confines in strangled little moans against the mattress.

Bo yelps his release through gritted teeth as you milk his cock with incidental fervor. His nails rake across the soft flesh of your sides, marking you his. His head falls back and he chuckles, running his hand down your spine as you twitch below him.

"Yeah," he groans. "Yeah, that's my girl. That's my dumb fuckin' girl."

[evolutionsvoid]

There is no denying the violations that have been done to this world, how else can a land of plenty be stripped down to the bone? The ages of prosperity made it seem like the riches would never cease, that there was always more to be dug up or sucked from the earthen flesh. Temperance was preached, but never followed. And after decades of endless wealth, the wells have run dry, and the bountiful corpses of the buried past now are nothing more than empty husks. What riches were wasted in these good times, leaving only scraps to be fought over. Now as the war rages on and the people of the world struggle to get by, what little remains is still being ravaged and hoarded. Even the sea, in its endless bounties and offerings, seems emptier than usual, the journeys for blubber and oil going further and further to find the leviathans. We have devoured all that we can find in our own homes, and now raid others to feed our ceaseless hunger. After all we have taken from the deep, is it any surprise that some that ascend bear arms?

The armored fishy beings that dance through the shallows and slither upon the shore have gained the title of "Knights," what with their plated upper bodies and consistent use of weaponry. Like any denizen of below, they seem to appear without warning or fanfare, simply appearing from the water as if they had been there the whole time. But these fish folk do not come bearing words of wisdom or carvings of ambergris. Instead, they lurk in the waters or wait upon the sandy shores like silent guards, waiting for the signs of greed and violence. Fishermen with bulging nets or voracious traps have found their equipment shredded and their boats under attack. Whaling ships that have targeted any and every living beast in its path have witnessed these strange beasts climbing the hulls and assaulting the decks. Even those walking upon shore, raiding nests and sleeping colonies can discover spears of abyssal bone leaping for their flesh. Some of their reasons are obvious, clearly the Knights target those who would take everything the sea has to offer, and yet sometimes they lash out at seemingly random. Is there a reason that we do not understand, or have these individuals concluded that the people of the dry world are all guilty of this avarice?

Some have found these Knights with no aggression or judgment towards them. They may see them slip past their boats without a fuss, or basking in odd positions on the shores with no sign of anger. Have they found these few folk free of sin, or worthy of peace? Or do they see a kinship within some people, a part of our very essence that we still do not understand? We know that there are individuals who find themselves drawn to the sea, enamored with the abyss. Perhaps these Knights can see a fellow and know to stand down. Or maybe it is simply that many of these encounters mention a lack of weapons in the hands of the observer, causing the Knight to see they mean no harm. If that is the case, than one would think it easy to win their favor, simply divest yourself of your arms. But remember what world we live in now, and the dangers throughout. Walking without a weapon may save you from the Knights, but there are plenty of other horrid deaths eager to claim you in their place.

In recent years, the sightings of these Knights has increased, no doubt rising with the madness that consumes these lands. It is said that pods of them can be spotted in places where atrocities to the sea have occurred. Lingering warriors mourning over a great loss, and waiting to ensure that this affront never happens again. More boats have been attacked, more deaths upon the shores. There is a great peace found in the abyss, and many denizens exhibit mercy and compassion. Yet, as these Knights appear more and more, as well as other aggressors of the sea, one must wonder if we are stripping away this kindness as well? How patient can they be when faced with our endless war and stealing? When do they realize that many wise words fall upon deaf ears? Many pray that this day does not come, and they give offerings back to the sea to remind the ones below that goodness still remains on these shores. We can only hope that they see these gifts and hear our pleas, for the land has already forsaken us, and if we are to lose the sea as well, who else would take us?

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

"Knight of the Sea"

Hey look at that! Something more overtly mermaidy for mermay!

[kaija-rayne-author]

It's so sad. Bioware has been a staple, almost, of RPGs for a long time.

But them laying off so many people (it's 125ish over the past handful of months) really doesn't increase confidence in the company.

Even though DA:DW is in Alpha, it's going to affect how many people buy the game. Because they'll think that many layoffs will affect the quality of the game. Average people have little idea about how games are made. Alpha means it's in primary testing, meaning the game is mostly finished.

Could they have shot themselves in the foot better if they'd tried?

Fans are pissed and swearing they're done with Bioware.

A lot of fans.

And I have a Kassandra like feeling that DA:DW is Bioware's last chance as a company.

So, their behavior toward employees = loss of consumer confidence = fewer people buy Dreadwolf = Bioware sinks and we don't get any more Dragon Age after DA:DW.

Don't execs have business degrees and such?

If so, why is my ridiculous ass better at cause/effect for economics and business than they are? I've never even taken a business class.

What exactly do the execs do to earn those obscene paychecks?

Anyway, I really think it comes down to this; if we want more Dragon Age past Dreadwolf, we'll have to ignore Bioware's behavior and buy the game regardless.

And... I don't know how many people will do that. I don't even want to do that. I've boycotted companies for far less.

Edit Saturday Aug 26, '23

I need to add some thoughts to this.

Unfortunately, negative chatter will likely affect whether they release the game at all. Which sucks for people who do want it. (It's rhetorical, but it’s almost finished, why wouldn't they release it?)

I've read that Andromeda DLCs were canceled because of that. I won't be boycotting. I'm unhappy with bioware, but there's much more to consider.

For me, I've been thinking and reading what those laid off have said. It's them that are most affected, after all. It's not about bioware as much as it's about the people who no longer work there who poured years of time, love, and passion into Dreadwolf.

I don't like bioware, but at the same time, I refuse to shat on the creatives who loved and made Dreadwolf. I know, personally, how much of yourself you pour into a creative work. I'd be heartbroken if people boycotted something I'd worked on and truly loved. Even if I were no longer working at the company. I believe the devs can't even talk about it, unless/until it's released due to NDAs. Can you imagine putting years of your life and creativity into something only to have people boycott it?

And to use your status at the company as the excuse?

Kirby has said she hopes people love it as much as she does. She's one of the most affected and she's still hoping people play and love it.

And to be calmly realistic, Bioware isn't the main source of the issue. EA demanded a layoff of 800 people across all their holdings. Corporate greed. I doubt bioware would've made such awful choices without that pressure.

So even though my kneejerk reaction is to boycott, I'll buy it and play it for the creatives who poured everything into it.

Is it right? Hell no. There's no ethical consumption in a late stage capitalist nightmare world. But I'm also not going to punish the people who loved it enough to make it.

Y'all do you, but I wanted to share my more measured thoughts on the matter.

[katsona-the-katsequel]

Hey, I saw your persona map and found it very intriguing <3 I get the gist of it, but can you elaborate on it please 👀

Sure! I'm going to repost the map again as a reference:

The first level, the PHYSICAL WORLD, is the most basic of all. It's where all the normal, human stuff happens. Fun fact, SEES (except Minato/Minako) never ventured beyond this point until The Answer. It all took place in man-made Tartatus. Supernatural beings are blocked from ever reaching this level unless they find a door. The Dark Hour made the walls between the levels thinner, temporarily allowing shadows to cross, but being sucked back once it was over. Slurp.

Next, we have the VELVET ROOM. I should have made it overlap a bit with the Expanse, but what's done is done. Any sleeping person can gain glimpses of this place, but only those who have been invited can interact with it. Furthermore, it seems only guests can fully remember what happens there. Otherwise, you forget as soon as you leave it, just like a dream. Permanent residents of this level include Igor, Nameless, Belladonna, Theodore, Margaret, and Lavenza. Come-and-go residents include the Demon Painter, Elizabeth, and Marie. Casual visitors include Eriko Kirishima, the Velvet Room's guests, and the Velvet Room's creator: Philemon.

The real second level is the EXPANSE. This is where all the shadows, demons, gods, and supernatural beings reside. Anything that happens here has some degree of impact on the physical world, as long as the event was strong enough. It might not seem like it, but the Expanse is not entirely ruled by anarchy. Well, it is a little. But if one knows where to look, they will find that it is divided in five worlds (though the better word would be "regions"), each one dedicated to a Deadly Sin: Pride, Gluttony, Sloth, Greed, and Envy/Wrath. These worlds cover all the levels in the Expanse. Maybe Trish is in the world of Greed? As its name implies, the Expanse is huge, so we need to break it down into sub-levels.

In the Sub-Level One, we have UPPER MEMENTOS. Common shadows are found here. You know, your average joe. Not only are shadows found here, but also most Shadows. Notice the difference? The shadows with the lowercase "s" are the ones like Jack Frosts and Pixies. The ones with the capital "S" are the other selves of the sentient beings on Earth. The golden-eyed ones. The Shadows here mostly wander around, with no armies and posing little risk. They were created by small problems that could unmake and make them again in the blink of an eye. Even if you have a Shadow in this level, it is still possible for you to gain a Persona. You're just human. A little scuffle with Persona Users will temporarily dissolve all the negative feelings attached to your Shadow, giving you time to sort your issues. As for the other shadows, well, these will be found in every sub-level. The only known permanent resident is Jose. The Reaper can be found all over the Expanse, created after P2 (in my headcanon for Tatsuya-related reasons).

The next Sub-Level doesn't have a formal name, but the Investigation Team was kind enough to name it the TV WORLD. Shadows here have one main problem that has begun to define their human counterparts. Not everything can be solved with a quick fight and a pep-talk. No, the darker aspects of these Shadows attracted smaller shadows to them to help them create their Dungeons. These Shadows are going for the kill, but unlike the ones in the lower sub-level, their only real target is their other self. Anyone else is collateral damage. But even so, their end-goal isn't even to kill, but to be accepted. Since this isn't as deep as other parts of the Expanse, a little more action needs to be taken to properly eliminate a Shadow, having to drag down their human self down to accept it... or wait for them to solve everything on their own. There's still time. The only being to be known to have resided here is Teddie (whom I believe to have actually been part of another Shadow's Dungeon as a minor shadow before wandering off, thus explaining the thematic appearance).

A little bit deeper in the TV World you will find the Palaces. This is what happens when you let a specific Sin rule your way of life. The "Rulers" are Shadows with a bit more personal conscience and way more power than the ones living in Dungeons. No longer acting on primitive instincts, these Shadows want to live, and will eliminate anyone who gets in their way (possibly skipping over their human self, since this would spell their destruction). Rulers can even create cognitive versions of real people. Their twisted desire powers them. This deep in the Expanse is enough for smaller things to influence events in the physical level, so a chat post-battle with a Shadow can rework entire personalities.

Sub-Level Three has the DEPHTS OF MEMENTOS. Most of the World of Sloth is located here. This is also where the general Palace for all of humanity can be found. Anything done here has an effect on the entire population of Earth with varying degrees. Those with a Persona or with a bond to a Persona User are less susceptible to the machinations that take place in this sub-level. Since a Persona means you have a tight grip on your sense of self and aren't just following the crowd, I guess it makes sense. However if you're a being with enough power influencing this sub-level, even you can overpower the willpower of Persona Users. Power. Looking at you, Azathoth. Yaldy wishes he was you. Hey, at least Yaldy managed to chain the Velvet Room to this sub-level during his takeover.

The final Sub-Level, and the most dangerous one for the average human, is the one where XIBALBA / THE AMENO TORIFUNE ship is located. Like the TV World, it also doesn't have a proper name. Why is it dangerous? This sub-level is so close to the Sea of Souls, that just thinking about something makes it real in the moment it takes you to blink. Nyarly thinned the walls between this sub-level and Sumaru City to create the rumor system/curse. Xibalba is a nightmare for anyone with ADHD.

Overlaping with Xibalba and the Sea, is the KADATH MANDALA. In older times, it used to be referred to as the Dreamlands by Persona Users. Why? This is where sleeping would-be Wildcards meet Philemon! You could say this is his personal meeting room, except worse because everyone has to stand up. Only those with the potential for a Persona can recall their name in the Kadath Mandala. An easier way to reach it is by playing the Persona Game and getting knocked out by supernatural forces. Then its up to you to prove yourself to Philemon by recalling who you are this deep in the Expanse. If you can, then boom! You get a Persona for life with Wildcard abilities no contract required. Congrats. It's implied all Wildcards (yeah, even those post-P2) have visited Kadath Mandala in their dreams once before, since they still need to get the whole "remember my name" thing right to be offered a contract. However, even for the Wildcards in the old games its impossible to remember what happened in your dream unless Philemon specifically wants you to for reasons. Aside from Phil, only Igor and Nyarly have been known to be able to enter this place umprompted and summon humans there. Each star-point of Kadath Mandala points to a distant tower.

And so, we can finally advance to a deeper level: the SEA OF SOULS, babeyy. Every single living being (human, animal, plant, demon, god, etc) came from the Sea, and to the Sea they will one day return. Mix and match and a new soul is created to form new life. Chronos, one of the oldest beings in the Persona Universe, is in charge of overseeing that everything is running as it should in the Sea. He accompanies souls back and forth (and according to me, created the Reaper). Philemon and Nyarlathotep live here... somewhere. The only known entrances in the Physical World to the Sea is through an Alaya Shrine, which will lead to the metaphysical Alaya Cavern (possibly in the Expanse), and directly to the Sea. There might or not be a whale which might or not have white feathers, and you might or not be able to fuse with it, which might or not be a bad thing.

In the deepest part of the Sea one can find the GREAT SEAL, created from Minato/Minako to prevent Erebus from ever reaching Nyx' psyche / Nyx Avatar, like an eternal guardian of sorts. This is the deepest level a Velvet Room attendant can reach on their own. Nyx' psyche is still able to influence up to the physical world with "You crave death" vibes, but as long as you don't actually crave death, the Great Seal will remain strong.

That's all we know for now. Thanks for the ask!

[explicit-tae]

Envy

Envy; a feeling of discontented or resentful longing aroused by someone else's possessions, qualities, or luck. Upper level demon Taehyung - known as the deadly sin of Envy - makes his way up to Earth in time to witness what those who are envious are willing to achieve.

Lust - Wrath & Greed - Pride & Gluttony - Sloth

Warning: Demon Taehyung, oral (m receiving), creampie,

Word Count: 1,062

Alternate Universe

Taehyung pushes his head back, a wicked smirk on his lips. His fingers curl beneath your chin to encourage your mouth wider to take more of him. “You’re such a beauty to watch.”

Taehyung could smell you - the way your scent changed at his words and as you grew wetter. He understood you - the way you craved the attention from anyone willing to give it to you; someone to feed your ego.

Your tongue swirls around the tip of his cock, sucking with such want and need - almost greedily. Your fingernails are digging into his naked thighs when you take him into your throat fully.

Humans were weak creatures that craved the attentions of others - some more than most; like yourself. Your need to be seen as the better sibling from your sister grew from that of a younger sibling in the shadow of the elder sister to now - the younger sibling left in the shadow of the Queen.

You grew to despises the Queen and how everyone viewed her s a perfect person. The town’s people adored her and would flocked around the castle grounds for a mere glimpse of her. Though you are grateful your sister has taken you with her as she grew as Queen, you’re still envious at the fact that she deserved none of this.

Taehyung pushes himself away from you, a soft pop leaving your mouth as the tip of his cock springs out. “Such a beauty.” Taehyung hums. ‘It is you that should be Queen.”

Your heart flutters at his words and your eyes grow wide.

Your mind cannot think back to when you first met Taehyung - it was as if he entered your life and took it over completely. You met day by day and he listened to you speak of your life working beneath your sister who was the Queen. He never judged your feelings like most would and you’d even say he made you feel justified. As time grew, your feelings towards the Queen grew sour and everything she did made you seethe.

“I need you inside of me.” You murmur, licking your dry lips.

Taehyung hums; he knows you do by the way you smell. Your scent is sweet and ready for him - like always. As time passed, he notes you’re willingness to lay with him and loosing yourself in the process - unaware of how the envy inside of you would be your breaking point at any given moment.

Taehyung lifts you from your knees, hands gripping the fabric of your skirt. You aren’t wearing anything beneath and it’s an act Taehyung appreciates greatly. Your dripping when he centers his cock at your entrance.

Pushing you against the wall, Taehyung enters roughly - you could take him easily.

Taehyung’s hands clasps around your mouth as he snaps his hips inside of you. You’re tight and wet and he’s sure he’ll never be able to get enough of you - especially when you’re dragged to hell in the end of this.

“The Queen is selfish.” You hear Taehyung murmur into your ear, deep voice sending shivers straight to your core. “She doesn’t deserve everything she has.”

You moan in response, feeling his cock spring deeper inside of you. Wet noises are audible and you’re positive you’re leaking all over his thighs now - but neither of you care.

“That should be you.” Taehyung licks your earlobe, snapping his hips harder. He could sense you’’re about to cum around him and he too will be doing the same - inside of you like he always has to form the bond as sin and sinner. “But it’ll never be you.”

Your eyes snap shut, his words hurting your heart but your legs shake and prepare to give out.

“And if it can’t be you…” Taehyung roughly pounds into you, releasing your mouth to catch both hips into his large hands. You moan freely now, a gush of relief shooting from your core. “….why should it be her?” Taehyung grunts out, shooting an insane amount of cum inside of you - forming the bond no one could fight against - especially not a woman destined to sin.

Taehyung’s words got to you, ringing through your mind constantly throughout the week.

If it couldn’t be you then why should it be her? Your sister didn’t appreciate the amounts of servants and followers she had, nor the wealth that came from being the Queen. The amount of times you’ve endured listening to your sisters petty rants on how the King didn’t love nor appreciate her has grown tiresome. After all, she lived in a castle and didn’t need nor want for anything - how rough could life be?

“Your majesty!” You adorned a bright smile as your eyes caught your brother-in-law.

The guards offered space as you approached him. You give a short bow before he spoke. “Y’N, you don’t have to be formal any longer. You’re family.”

You shake your head. “But you are the King.” you offer you arm for him to take and he does. “The Queen is in her royal chambers. She awaits for your arrival.”

“You told her?” the King asks.

You shake your head. The King has insisted on keeping his arrival a secret from you. Arriving a day earlier so the both of you could spend it with one another was a thought you came up with, envy & spite running through your veins.

The two of you offer small talk as you make your way inside and through the castle. Your heart pumps outside your chest and you ponder if it’s a terrible decision to be happy about what you’re doing.

The King reaches closer to the royal chambers, puzzled look upon his face at unfamiliar sounds coming from within.

You and him exchange glances but you contain the mischievous smirk daring to form on your lips.

Taehyung stands behind you, unbeknownst to you and the King. His eyes scan your face - you could never fool him. You’re nearly jumping with hoy at the thought of your sister being caught in the act with Jimin. What envy could do to a person was dangerous - who knows what would come of your sister and yourself; yet you didn’t care.

Because after all, if you couldn’t have it why should she?

@juju-227592 @silversparkles11 @iheartsvt @seokjinkismet @bloodline1632

Next

[nightghoul381]

Silvio 3rd Anniversary Event

A Beast's Dream Realized by Beauty

Epilogue

Warning: Explicit Content | NSFW | MDNI

My first voyage and treasure hunt with Emma was an extraordinarily dark reminder of my childhood dreams.

If I could, I’d erase that treasure from my memory.

But that didn’t matter to Emma, who held the box with the worthless paper and stone as though it were a precious treasure.

…I even feel a little happy about it.

That night, when everyone was asleep—

I wrapped Emma, body chilled by the night wind, in my cloak and carried her straight to the bathroom.

(She used to scream with embarrassment every time I picked her up, but now she seems to be getting used to it.)

I put Emma down and she pulled the cloak more snugly around herself.

Silvio: “Look, we’re here. Take off your clothes and get in the hot water—”

Emma: “Did you think I was going to stay quiet the whole time?”

As if timed, Emma’s hands grabbed my clothes and started pulling them up.

Silvio: “Damn it, don’t do stupid stuff like ripping my clothes! Take your own clothes off, not mine.”

Emma: “I only did it so you would feel as embarrassed as me, Prince Silvio.”

(You’ve got guts, if that’s what you’re after…)

~~~~

Emma / Silvio: “……”

By the time we were soaking in the tub after stripping off each other’s clothes, we were both exhausted and remained silent for a while.

Emma turned in my arms, quietly looking up at me.

Emma: “…Please say something.”

Silvio: “…Ack.”

Emma: “That’s just a weird sound.”

Silvio: “After a scuffle, all you can do is make weird sounds.”

Emma: “Fufu, sure. A little while ago we were making more noise than children.”

Silvio: “I wonder what grown-ups would do.”

(Really, what are we doing. Adding to our fatigue, we’re idiots.)

Even though that’s what I think, I don’t mind doing stupid stuff with Emma.

Suddenly her beautiful back comes into view, and I lift her thin arms to look at it.

Emma: “Umm, is something wrong?”

Silvio: “For someone who was caught in so many traps, you don’t have a single scratch.”

Emma: “I was careful because I knew someone would be overly worried about even a small scratch.”

Silvio: “That’s a good attitude, but I don’t like the way you said it.”

Emma: “Hey…”

I suck hard on Emma’s neck, making her shiver and let out sweet noises.

Silvio: “I’m the only one who can leave marks on your skin.” 8823

Silvio: “If you want to go out to sea together in the future, be careful not to get any scratches.”

Emma: “I understand, ahh…ngh…”

(Hearing your sweet for just a second is all it takes.)

(My reason is blown away like an idiot.)

I kiss her again and again as if trying to steal her breath and I run my hands over her breasts.

The sight of her desperately trying to respond while letting out muffled whimpers is so erotic it’s dizzying.

Emma: “Oh God…!”

Her sensitive spots were so aroused that I could see them even in the hot water, and even just lightly brushing against her insides has her trembling.

(I’m sorry, but I’m already at my limit.)

Emma: “Ah, Prince Silvio… not yet, aahh…..!”

Embracing the exhausted and weak Emma, I lift her before slowly lowering her on my cock.

Her walls tightened as if to pull me deeper and I desperately try to endure being taken in all at once.

(It’s so satisfying, but it’s still not enough.)

(My desire for ‘more’ is growing, and I’m forgetting how to control it.)

(Emma tries to take it all in, which makes it even more…)

(Ha… I’m nothing but a lucky man.)

Emma smiles happily when our eyes meet, and my greed grows again.

(I can’t believe that now, I almost like to be pushed around a little bit.)

(I don’t get it, then I look at you and I don’t give a shit.) 8842

(You’re the only one who can give me the kind of weakness that comes with falling in love.)

A few days later—

(Ah…there.)

Emma had handed me a clearly handmade treasure map.

I headed to the location indicated on the map, checked the bushes, and found a wooden box with a few books in it.

(Did you really try to hide it? Even a kid would’ve thought it through a bit more.)

Or maybe this was the result of her desire that I find it.

(…well, you never know.)

The treasure hunt from a few days ago crossed my mind.

Incidentally, the stone from the treasure chest was on display in Emma’s room…

I was embarrassed and tried to pick it up, but I was threatened with ‘I won’t listen to you for a month’ so I had to comply.

(Jeez, a month. That’s torture.)

(Alright. So what’s in the box…paper?)

When I opened the box, I found only a small piece of paper, which for some reason said ‘turn around’.

(I don’t get it, is it some kinda riddle?)

Following the instructions, I turned around…

Emma: “Congratulations!!”

Silvio: “Uwaa, hey! Don’t hug someone while they’re turning around, their heart could stop!”

Emma: “It’s okay, Prince Silvio isn’t that weak.”

(This woman, calmly returning… hmm?)

A soft, sweet scent grazes my nose.

Silvio: “That bag in your hand, is it sweets?”

Emma: “Ah, you knew by the smell. This is the real treasure!”

Emma: “The theme is treasures of the world. I’ve made cookies for all of the treasures you’ve found so far.”

Silvio: “You get fired up over the strangest things.”

Emma: “I thought about that too, but it was already too late to turn back, so I kept going.”

Emma: “Look at this masterpiece.”

Silvio: “Did you purposely make it so elaborate?”

(This is at a level that could be turned into a sellable product.)

Emma: “Yes, Prince Silvio, say aah.”

Silvio: “I’ll eat it myself, give it to me.”

Emma: “…”

Silvio: “Aah shit, fine just feed it to me! Stop lookin’ so depressed.”

Shaking off my shame, I ate the cookie offered to me.

Emma: “Do you like it?”

Silvio: “Don’t bother askin’ what you don’t need to hear.”

Silvio: “…of course, it’s delicious.”

Emma: “Fufu, thank you.”

Emma looks at the box beside us.

Emma: “It makes me so happy to have people find the treasures I’ve prepared for them.”

Emma: “I think I understand a little how you felt at that moment, Prince Silvio.”

Emma: “If you get another chance, can I go out to sea with you to look for treasure?”

Silvio: “We don’t just take chances, we make them.”

Emma: “! I want to make it.”

Silvio: “Look forward to it.”

Since my childhood, my actions were always accompanied by the thought ‘to be king’.

So I didn’t realize I was yearning for the stupid, meaningless exchanges that are so normal for children.

(Now I’m able to have these stupid exchanges as I please.)

(I have someone by my side to keep me company.)

I could only get that with Emma.

(Seriously… How much more are you going to make me love you?)

With a smile as bright as the sun, I desperately try to keep my mouth shut.

From now on, I’ll go out to sea many times and find many treasures.

There's a chance that I’ll find a treasure worth an entire town.

(But I will never find a treasure greater than this.)

As if to be sure, I dropped a kiss on Emma, my treasure.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Premium End | Epilogue

[shatteredsoul1998]

The False Stars

Something I put together, would love feedback

These are spirits that were trapped inside Mario vessels, and have escaped or killed the being that trapped them, but are still stuck in the game. There are many, many of these souls throughout the entire expanding universe of horrorbrew, and anyone who escapes or kills their tormentor or leader becomes one. The main base is in Sarasaland of Ultra Ms world, as he is mostly focused on the Mushroom kingdom as well as lands that Mario visits in Odyssey. Despite having so many different people, there are 4 main leaders of the False Stars.

Micheal-

He takes the form of Luigi, he holds the Poltergeist 3000, being from the first Luigi's Mansion. Over the years, his clothes have worn down from constant fights, the colors faded and parts of it torn. He abandoned his hat a while ago, replacing it with a monochrome Mario cap that he took as a trophy from fighting and killing an unnamed horrorbrew that terrorized Maxine in one of his first expeditions. Over the years, Luigi's personality has particularly rubbed off on him, making him connect to people in the form of Mario easier than others, as well as giving him nerves that activate at bad times, but are normally buried away. In life, he was a ghost hunter who enjoined planning expeditions for his group of friends. He was sucked into Luigi's Mansion after playing a copy he found in an abandoned house he explored in early 2003.

Maxine-

She takes the form of Daisy from Mario Land, only upgraded throughout the years, keeping it's monochromatic and basic look. She has a torn dress and some bandages on different parts of her body where she has taken damage during fights. She is typically a messanger, due to being Daisy causing her the urge to sit and hide when a fight happens. She was freed from the horrorbrew that tormented her when Micheal found her and defeated the being possessing Mario. She was pulled in after being selected for a giveaway for a free Gameboy plus Mario Land, not knowing it was haunted. In life, she did track and field, being part of her track team. These skills transfer into the game, allowing her to run faster than most other characters. She is Michael's right hand.

Tristan-

He posseses a Wario from a Mario 64 DS cartridge. He is nearly identical to the normal Wario, except the fact he is not greedy or rude most the time. His overalls have a torn strap, and his mustache is not as angular as Warios. He escaped a Peach horrorbrew who created a maze of death traps inside the castle, being the only one of four souls able to charge through a certain wall and clip out of the game, but he vows to go back for the other ones. He is the muscle of the group due to Wario giving him the best strength. Normally tending to be quiet, he will sometimes have bursts of rage or greed due to being Wario. His Wario Bike is engineered to be faster and more durable than a standard Wario Bike, custom made by him. He was caught after booting up his new game. In life, he was a motorcycle engineer.

Ella-

She takes the form of Peach in the SMB3 game in All Stars. She was dragged in by a monster facading as Bowser who planned to kill her over and over again if the person taking form of Mario failed to get to them. After finding a leftover warp whistle, she disappeared to a void where she was eventually found by Micheal and taken back to base camp. Due to the ability to send letters with power ups, she can generate any power up found in a letter in SMB3, most notably, the P-Wing. She is very useful at base camp as a healer and power up provider, as well as helping run stock. She is very quiet and prefers to not be seen by most anyone, but is very important to how things run. She was a factory worker before being dragged into this mess.

Facts-

*Many horrorbrews have no idea that this group exists, including Ultra M and the horrorbrews that the people escape from. However, some do know about them, such as Game Master, MX, Me. Virtual and JB. Most ignore them unless the False Stars interfere with their plans, but some are friendly with these list souls, such as Game Master, who is more than happy to let them hide in the carnival as long as they indulge him in a game before they leave.

*Many of the False Stars offer their worlds as refuges, if they are safe. They are considered 'Mayors' and can make rules for their worlds, but still have to work under the core leaders.

*Once the False Stars break free, they lose parts of themselves in exchange for the characters they appear as, but nobody has ever completely lost themselves.

[sanguutrash]

Ichinose Guren and his character

I find that a lot of people hate Guren, and I'm honestly not gonna try to defend him; because like a lot of ONS characters, he messed up and is messed in the head but that doesn't mean he's still got a heart.

So, let's get into this.

Guren succumbed to the human emotion of selfishness and greed by reviving his friends for the price of the world's death. (Specifically, adults). Of course, it was inconsiderate, but he was also still a child like everyone else. It also kind of serves as a parallel between him and Yuu. (Yuu, choosing Mika over the world).

Guren also hid the fact that he destroyed the world, and got people traumatized for the sake of having new soldiers. Was it an asshole thing to do? Definitely. Because, none of those kids deserved it and we know it. But, what happened has happened.

Do I think he's a horrible person for doing this stuff? Nope. Like I mentioned in the start, he's got a heart. He has a reason for doing the things he had to do, even if he could've taken a morally right path; it just didn't occur to him or more, he just didn't consider it. Not an excuse, but it's something to think about.

Guren is very emotionally wounded, he went through a lot of shit in Cat16. Losing his friends, and Mahiru (who he was trying his best to bring back, so it would prevent her from causing her own end and the end of others). He lost his father too, the only person he had left that was you know, family.

And this was all because he was weak.

Not in the sense of power, but he was weak in the sense that he was too emotionally weak to hurt someone he cared about, even if their actions were questionable. Even if they caused harm to someone else.

Guren is still like this, it's obvious he hasn't changed very much. He acts cold, but truly isn't. No matter how cold he appears to anyone, he still cares. Otherwise, would he even talk to them and waste his time? Probably not.

Should he be hated? Objective. It depends on what you think of his actions. He did all/most of this sane, that I know for sure. In my opinion, no. I think he's extremely complex, and he did what he thought what had to be done at that time. His actions may be questionable, but I think he's still a good person at heart.

Oh, and side note: He too succumbs to Kagami's writing. Despite being a good character, he's kind of prone to being sideswept and you know...

Thanks for reading my trash. Shorter than usual, because my brain just won't function. As always, have a good day or night.

;;

Also, addressing my first post; I kind of poorly worded what I meant about ships that are problematic. Ship discourse is fucking dumb, but do not go out of your way to harass and attack them. Just, DNI with them. My intention was more that: People tend to give hate to ships that are not problematic in nature and disregard those that are. However, I did not mean to encourage harassment. Shortly after this is up, I'll be editing it to comply with my intentions. I suck at wording stuff, so I am sorry if it comes off wrong sometimes. I'm trying my best, haha.

[pseudowar-archived]

@lt-ghxst ; there was a kiss meme

43. ...Out Of Greed. ; SOAP for GHOST

Internalized homophobia is a funny thing. Even as a child, he'd known the things the adults at church was telling him weren't true, that that little bitter seed of hate in amongst all that love, it wasn't right. It made no sense to hate people for who they loved, and who they were loved by in return - if they were all made in God's image, out of his love, why could something like that be so wrong?

As he'd grown, he found himself splintering, shedding the bits of Jonathan MacTavish, Catholic Schoolboy from John MacTavish, a young man. All those teachings, those seemingly important things that had been imbedded into him from childhood slowly beginning to peel away - like skin healing from a bad sunburn. Layer by layer of What He'd Been Taught scraping off as life gave him new experiences, new interests, new knowledge.

But the seed, that bitter seed of hate, it had stayed there. Lodged in his chest and refusing to rot, even as time passed. Years, and then decades later. Still firmly there as he shed the skin that was John MacTavish, a young man and became Soap, a grown one. Someone that was comfortable enough in his skin to want to see the truth of others, someone that was funny and kind, and a little too energetic compared to most people in his career path (and a hell of a lot out of it) - someone that simply could not be beaten down.

That uncomfortable sharpness in his breast became a part of him, like the scars on his skin, and the tattoo underneath it - and truthfully, he barely noticed it by the time he'd enlisted. Too busy making busy with doing what was right, what he thought was right - and attracting the good kind of attention with it.

It's not until Las Almas that Soap notices it - not the sharpness, but the loneliness of it, of his life. The betrayal enough to knock him flat on his ass (more than once) and rattle his sense of self. Ghost's initial silence on the radio something that had - that had -

He'd been scared, then - not for himself. Maybe for himself. But for Ghost. For the Los Vaqueros. For Alejandro and Rudy and all the friends he'd made... All that sense of family he'd felt among their company, the way it chased away the sharp edge of loneliness he'd never taken notice of before, had never allowed himself the time to notice.

As Soap had sat there, in the cold rain, bleeding, listening to radio silence and gunshots echoing off buildings, that deep pit of despair tried to suck him down. He was alone. Alone in another country, with once friends trying to hunt him like an animal.

And then Ghost's voice rasped through the comms like tires on gravel, and suddenly he wasn't alone anymore. Warmth flooded him then, warmth and a sense of purpose. The heat of it getting him to his feet and -

It's not until later, as he's being driven away, tucked into the passenger seat of a truck with Ghost a long line of heat against his side that Soap notices the rest of it. The way his heart still thumps heavy in his chest, the way he still feels - like something is wrong with the way he feels so fucking -

Shite. Fuck. Is this a fucking crush? Dread rolls up his spine and clouds his vision. Hellfire and brimstone not quite taking over his thoughts - because he didn't believe in Hell, and he didn't believe in Heaven, he only believed in then and there - but that strange sense of fucked up guilt eating at him anyway - not akin to the first time he'd punched someone in the nose for being a jackass, a guilt that had no roots, no reason, but still lurked there none-the-less.

It's been far too fucking long since his last confession, and it's so fucking funny that that is the first coherent thought he has post his realization. That, and then - How many Hail Mary's was crushing on your superior? How many Our Fathers for it being a man? How many hours meditation and study to overcome the sin of crushing on a murderer? Would it be more, or less, than what he already owed penance for, with all the blood he'd spilled that night?

Rolling his eyes towards the cloudy sky, Soap squints at what most consider to the the Heavens, and wonders about forgiveness.

Then Ghost hits a pothole the size of his country, and Soap's only thoughts are about how fucking bad of a driver he was.

-

"Johnny." Ghost's voice is like - the exact fucking opposite of a siren's call when it comes down to it. It's deep, it's gravely, at times its more growl than proper vocals. But Soap's exactly two hours from his realization, and still a little too wound up about it, and the sound raises goosepimples on his arms, hairs rising to the occasion as the mountain of a man drops down beside him and offers him a chipped mug of - something murky and warm. Suspiciously smelling of burnt coffee.

He takes it anyway. Impulsively. Bare fingers brushed against gloved ones in contact that causes him to jolt in - Screamin' Jesus, was that gay panic? Bisexual panic? The thought clogs the circuits of his brain, makes him feel like his ears are smoking with how hot they've decided to become despite all the fucking blood loss.

"Thanks, LT." His usual bravo is muted by - by his stupid fucking not-panic, and Soap doesn't look over at the other man. Not even when Ghost offers up a noise that could be a You're Welcome as much as it could be a Go Fuck Yourself. Heart nearly jumping into his fucking throat as the practical Ghoul of a man spreads his thighs a little to get comfortable, and knocks his leg into Soap's. One long press from hip to thigh to knee of just - weight and heat.

Ghost's mask lights up different under the limited light of the clouded moon, the fading night and coming day, Soap notices as he glances at him out of the corner of his eye. Sipping the too-hot drink to keep himself from saying as much, from spouting out shit about the goddamn mask again like it was his fucking right to know what was beneath it.

It wasn't. But fuck him, did he wish it was. Fuck, did he wish he could see something other than too dark eyes and pale lashes. Soap was so fucking sure that Ghost was - was probably really good looking under all that material that it made him a little sick with it. Disgusted with himself.

He was so fucking desperate - How fucking strange it was, to have gone from nothing to everything all in the span of a night - Or maybe had it always been this way, and he'd just started to take notice... Near deaths did that to a person - and so did the hot heat of betrayal.

"Sun's comin' up." And it was, Soap could see the pinks of first early light on the hard shell of Ghost's mask. "Should get some rest while you can."

He should, Lord above he fucking should. Should crawl into the little sleeping back tucked amongst haystacks and get some rest before shit hits the fucking fan. Again. Three vs the whole fucking company - fuck him. Better odds at least then one against an entire city. Rest was needed, he could feel exhaustion in his bones. All that blood loss and adrenaline leaving him fucking knackered but -

"Yeah, I know." Soap's mouth doesn't fucking stop, accent made thicker by exhaustion - but no more inaudible than it had been hours earlier, when Ghost had been but a voice in his ear. Guidance and calm during what had to have been the worst night of his life. "Y'know I - I didnae mean nothin' by the mask comment." He did. He had. He'd been so fucking thirsty for any kind of bone Ghost could give him. Something he could hold as his own, and know he didn't have to share with the rest of the team. "Just - talkin'. Keepin' us awake."

And just like that, the spell of the moment is broken, and Soap's practically kicking himself as Ghost collects himself and gets to his feet. "Go to bed, Sergeant."

Soap does - and he dreams of Ghost's voice in his ear, telling him to give penance for his many unforgiveable sins.

-

(Soap 'meets' Simon hours later. He's not what he expected, and fucking yet the image is going to haunt him forever. Knowing what lays under the mask - it's worse than not knowing at all.)

(Ghost saves his ass, again and a-fucking-gain, and again. Soap blows up a fucking tank and tries not to preen under the proud gaze of his Lieutenant - until Gaz calls him a liar. Then they're bickering like children on the heli to Chicago, and no one is looking pleased about it.)

(Ghost saves him in Chicago too. His very own Guardian Angel of Death. He barely resists the urge to jokingly call him that, instead sinking into the ruined floor of the office building for a few moments of well-earned rest, only getting to his feet when he hears the Captain calling for him.)

-

By the end of it, by the time they collect themselves into an American Government issue SUV, Soap is so fucking tired he doesn't care about fighting Gaz seat rights. He immediately tucks himself into the middle spot of the backseat like the world's largest toddler. All uncoordinated limbs and barely open eyes. A thickly accented curse leaving his lips as Gaz teases him - accompanied by a middle finger that the other man swats away like it's a fly.

On his other side, a dressed down Ghost sighs at them both like he's considering if he has the energy to murder them. (Soap knows he doesn't. Grease paint aside, Ghost's eyes are heavily circled, and red rimmed. He's as tired as the rest of them - probably more because he doesn't think the man's slept this entire fucking time.)

Fifteen minutes later, Price is hitting what has to be the only fucking pothole in Chicago's outer limits and Soap is jolting somewhat awake. Grumbling at his Captain before settling back into where he'd been sleeping comfortably. Too tired to care that it's Ghost's shoulder, that the fabric feels awful on his skin, and that the angle of his neck is going to mean pain for at least a day.

He's comfortable. He's safe. They're all alive and safe. He's survived not only Las Almas and Chicago, but his own little gay panic over his stupid fucking crush and -

Soap squints tired eyes up at Ghost, catching the way pale lashes light up under street lights. Smirking as he notices the fact that the other man is asleep upright, with his goddamn arms crossed over his chest like some kind of too-cool action movie hero. Turning his head, he takes a chance, risks his fucking life, and presses his mouth to the ball of the other man's shoulder. A kiss that wasn't a kiss. A little secret thing that he doesn't deserve, but he takes anyway.

Because he's greedy, and what's one more sin among all the rest of them?

And then? He settles back in for the long ride to - somewhere, sleep taking him right back under.