#he’s haunted by his fathers constant presence

[emasstars]

broken glass

simon riley doubts his worthiness of having you | hurt/comfort(?)

sorry i was gone for so long. i haven’t felt motivated in a while. this is just an attempt to get back into writing. i’ve been working on various projects, abandoning them halfway through. was relatively proud of this, so i’ve decided to post it.

mentions of abuse. insecurities. i don’t know, tell me if i missed any.

He was born into a home of broken glass, every argument a shard, every silence a fracture.

Simon Riley had been born into chaos. His earliest memories were of screams that echoed through the halls of a crumbling home, the heavy thuds of fists against thin walls, the sound of a door slamming as his mother stumbled from the house, her face bruised and hollow. His father, always drunk, was a constant presence—a shadow, a monster—who only softened when his fists fell silent, usually in a moment of fleeting remorse, or more likely, when his anger was spent.

He was a man who was shattered like thin glass, a splinter that made you bleed and quickly pull your hand away like there was fire. He drew blood, his hands rough and calloused, a man too harsh to be loved. War was all he had, and all he’d known, even if he wanted to know better. He had so many questions, and yet he choked on the words as he tried to ask, instead opting to drown deeply in the cacophony of screams. He searched for peace, a man who’d never experienced such, echoes of gunshots ringing in his ears and never offering any silence. He was engineered by a system to survive, to endure, but never to heal.

Simon didn’t sleep anymore, or, if he did, it was never rest.

His whole life had been dedicated to violence, actively seeking it as much as he avoided it. He felt stained with the blood he drew, scars along his back only indicating the pain he endured rather than that which he caused. Simon was a man who was supposed to be dead, and yet, the cruel God which seemed to have cursed him refused to let such a thing occur. His soul cracked in ways he couldn't articulate, his body a crumpled map of all he'd been through. He’d gone through existence without ever living.

He sought for warmth and comfort, even though he knew he could never be worthy of such a thing. He was a man who stained the snow-lands a deep scarlet. He was a wreck of a man who broke everything with his touch, strangling flowers in his grasp.

Perhaps that was why he fell so hard for you. You were like a beacon of light, granting him some solace. Giving him sympathies which he didn’t deserve, yet he yearned for. His head rested on your chest as he listened to your heart beat, assuring him that you were real and you were here. Whispered confessions of love still left doubt in his twisted mind, convinced you’d find someone better than him. He was convinced you might leave, holding on tightly to you and treating you as best as a man like him knew how to.

He’d never had a proper role model for love, most of the things he knew having been learned from books he’d stumbled upon or movies he’d watched. He was a man with a wicked father, and no matter the care of his mother, that evilness he believed was deep inside him could never be cancelled out. Love was a foreign language to him.

After all, there was no escaping the ghosts that haunted him, for he was one himself.

And yet you made him believe it might be possible.

His harsh voice would whisper your name like a secret prayer, his hand with its scarred knuckles gripping your gentle hand tightly. Perhaps he was finally starting to believe you might not go anywhere.

One night, in the capture of the moonlight which snuck through the cracks of the pulled curtains, Simon asked, slightly more loudly than he intended to, “why do you love me?”

Fingers that were previously toying with his slowed to a stop, and you adjusted yourself to stare at him. “What do you mean?” you replied. Your brows were furrowed, confusion evident on your face, and yet Simon could swear you looked like a deity. A blessing, was what you were to him. Someone who managed to let him know that maybe he wasn’t as ill as he’d convinced himself he was, a carefully-crafted facade having broken down more as the months turned into years.

He sat up, not sure how to word it. He was a man of few of those, after all. He plainly answered, “exactly what I asked,” slightly shrugging.

You bit your lip, seemingly thinking for a moment. It felt like a stupid question. Why did anyone love anyone, after all? Why did he love you, you could even ask. You swallowed, deciding to softly say, “because you’re worth loving.”

And perhaps he might one day start to believe he is, especially of the love of yours. The moments of bared insecurity were rare, occurring in only the latest times of night, the moon the only other witness of the confessions. They were caused by exhaustion, barely recalled when the sun rose. Yet, each night it happened, as he let himself sometimes cry in your arms after a nightmare, or letting drops of pain drip out of his soul, he was slowly starting to believe your honesty when you said you would not leave.

When you said that you love him.

He was a man with a shattered ego which he’d tried to tape back together flimsily, yet you made new parts of him which were whole. Certain parts could never be filled, but as long as you were in his arms, the pains of his soul may slowly fade away into nothing but background noise, lullabies of your words drowning them out as delicate fingers ran themselves over his scarred and tortured body.

A hand rough from holding knives and guns could tend for flowers as well, he was slowly starting to learn.

[wellthebardsdead]

Genji: the hashimoto are a lot more capable then they may appear… they murdered our father… The elders told me he died in his sleep for a while but, uncle got drunk one evening and told me his body was actually so unrecognisable from what they did that, Anija didn’t want me to see it…

Hanzo: *looking uncomfortable* it was… a gruesome sight… we had to have a closed casket and no one from the public was allowed to see the burial…

Cole: Hanny?… you good you look, pale…

Hanzo: …

———

*What actually happened*

Sojiro: *laying on the ground holding a stab wound in shock, staring up at his oldest son in horror at what he’d created* H-Hanzo please-

Hanzo: *holding his sword over him* WHY DOES HE GET TO DO WHAT HE WANTS TO!

*STAB*

Sojiro: *blood splattering out of his mouth* Ha-an-

*STAB*

Hanzo: WHY DID HE GET TO BE A KID?! I WAS A CHILD TOO! WHY DIDNT I GET A CHILDHOOD!

*STAB*

Sojiro: *reaching up to him* nn-hhggzo

*STAB*

Hanzo: WHY DO YOU CARE MORE ABOUT HIM THAN ME! IM YOUR SON TOO!

*STAB*

Sojiro: s-son- *stares up through bloodied vision at the blade coming down to his face*

Hanzo: WHY DONT YOU LOVE ME TOO?!

*STAB!*

———

*Present*

Hanzo: just… remembering…

Genji: *hugs Hanzo gently* thank you for trying to protect me from it brother…

Hanzo: …mm…

[theinnerunderrain]

Flowers only bloom when the sun comes out [Yan! Prince x Fem! Maid-Reader]

Warnings: Yandere themes, child neglect, mentions of suggestive behaviors and lustful behaviors, manipulative thoughts, etc.

+

Miserable.

Prince Cassian would choose "miserable" as the precise term to depict his fragile existence. Born a prince into a mighty kingdom, his father ruled with an iron fist and unwavering will. Yet, despite his royal lineage, his life felt devoid of meaning, a constant struggle in the shadows of his father's reign. Maybe his father held Cassian accountable, at least in part, for the death of his beloved queen. Perhaps that's why he was abandoned to decay in the queen's once-grand residence, where dust settled like a shroud, paint flaked from the walls, and sinister spiders claimed every corner.

However, the king, perhaps out of lingering kindness or a trace of pity, permitted servants to attend to the prince. Yet, few were inclined to care for a forsaken prince; servants came and went as the boy matured into a young man. Initially, some felt sympathy for him, but they soon departed upon realizing there was no benefit. Others, driven by greed, chipped away at the scant jewelry and valuables left in the building before absconding to sell them in the market. His existence drifted aimlessly, filled with endless hours staring out his window or sipping the bitter tea his younger sister, kind but unaware of his plight, managed to sneak to him.

It all seemed so pointless.

Then, one day, you appeared. A young maid, your smile radiant and your enthusiasm palpable as you embarked on this new job. He couldn't help but feel sorry for you, knowing that your optimism would soon be crushed once you discovered the reality of serving a prince like him, someone you might deem unworthy of your efforts. Every day, he observed you closely, noting your tireless efforts and how your face, though marked by exhaustion from tasks meant for many, retained a composed and bright demeanor.

He found himself admiring your diligent work ethic, transforming his once bitter teatime into a sweeter experience as you mastered the art of brewing it just right. The clothes he wore now carried a scent of softness, feeling gentle against his skin, a stark contrast to the past when they often felt itchy and smelled of sweat. The garden flourished with the flowers you tended to, and his bedroom felt fresh and inviting, as if it were truly lived in. Your presence became a source of comfort for him. He enjoyed your greetings each morning, your smiles making him feel truly alive, reminding him of his own humanity.

He felt a growing desire to be near you, craving the comfort of your presence. He longed to bask in the warmth of your soft smile, to feel the gentle touch of your hand as you helped him dress. He treasured the moments when you enveloped him in warmth on cold, restless nights haunted by memories of his mother. Your gentle fingers combing through his hair brought a soothing calmness to his troubled mind. He delighted in teasing you during work hours, reveling in the sight of your face blushing a deep scarlet as his hands playfully found their way to your waist, causing you to momentarily lose your grip on the dustpan before scolding him.

He likes you.

Well, he didn't just like you. He was consumed by you, obsessed with every thought of you, you, you.

He yearned to be enveloped in your essence, to drown in your intoxicating fragrance, to be devoured whole by you. He craved for your lips to consume his, for your touch to consume his skin, for every part of him to be consumed by you. He was acutely aware that his thoughts about you would be deemed sinful by the church, yet he couldn't help but question God's justice in abandoning him for a crime he didn't commit. Considering your background as a commoner's daughter, burdened with constant toil, he doubted you had any prior experience with men, leading him to wonder if he might be your first.

He hoped you preferred younger men, despite his slight age difference. He vowed to bring you pleasure so intense that it would bring tears to your eyes. With your face flushed in red with his hands tracing over the curve of your body, admiring the plumpness of your swollen breast. The way your supple body would quiver and twitch with every flick of his tongue against your adorable clit, with your soft thighs grappling around his head much like soft pillows.

Ah, perhaps he shouldn't be thinking of such lustful matters.

Anyway, he was acutely aware that as a powerless and forgotten prince, his presence posed a constant danger to himself and those close to him. His older siblings, viewing him as a potential threat to the throne, could easily target him. He contemplated two options: either showing up at the King's castle, pleading with his father to take him back, or fleeing with you to another country. The idea of living as a commoner didn't seem so daunting, considering his current life despite his royal title. Yet, a third, more manipulative thought crept into his mind—perhaps he could exploit his younger sister's naivety to regain entry to the main palace, using her pity as a means to an end.

He believed that in the end, whatever sacrifices were necessary to attain the power to keep you would be worthwhile.

[zarameraki]

˖°🕷️ ࣪𖤐 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗽-𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼𝗷𝗶 ˖°🕷️𖤐

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 minors do not interact 𖥔 unprotected sex 𖥔 step-father x step-daughter 𖥔 porn with plot 𖥔 banter 𖥔 dom daddy and his little girl 𖥔 neck kissing 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 praise 𖥔 bj 𖥔 biting 𖥔 nipple play 𖥔 daddy issues 𖥔 dirty talking 𖥔 small pillow talk 𖥔 nsfw 𖥔 smut

: ̗̀➛ words: 4.0k

: ̗̀➛ notes: ok look, i was ovulating and i had to write this for some reason. i even wrote a nanami one (but he's your step-uncle). my mind was in the gutter and i wanted to challenge myself to something super taboo. if you have any requests, don’t hesitate to send them. pls follow, reblog, like, comment—whatever you want! okay love you and enjoy.

Here you were, standing on a worn-out welcome mat, staring at the door of your ex-stepfather’s house.

It’s surreal.

A month ago, when your mom dropped the bomb about their divorce, you felt like your world was crumbling. Part of you felt relieved, like you could finally breathe without suffocating under their constant tension. And the other part? Well, it felt like a piece of you was being ripped away.

Last week, when the papers were finalized, making it official that they were done, you locked yourself in your room. The silence was deafening, and you couldn’t shake off that nagging feeling of missing him. Missing Toji. It’s ridiculous, right? He’s not your step dad anymore. He’s just some guy now. Too old, too wrong, too different.

You should just turn around and leave, forget about all this.

But you couldn’t.

Not today.

Not when you’re clutching your hard-earned bachelor’s degree, wearing a stupid graduation gown that felt like a costume. He didn’t bother showing up for your biggest achievement, just like your mother. She was always occupied with her own life to care about you. You were just an accident, a spill on her pile of kitchen table bills. 

Toji, though, he was different. He actually paid attention, listened to you, cared about what you had to say. Maybe you’re being stupid for wanting to talk to him, to pour out everything that’s been eating you up for months. But you needed to do this, for yourself, even if it meant facing the reality that he’s not part of your life anymore.

So, you’d driven straight to his residence building, skipping the after parties with your friends. You were twenty-two for fuck’s sake. If you wanted to spend the night celebrating with your step-dad, then that’s exactly what you were going to do. 

Enough was enough. 

Your trembling finger hovered over the doorbell, each second feeling like an eternity. The sharp pricks of anxiety danced on your palms, and the weight on your shoulders threatened to crush you. But you couldn’t turn back now.

The ache in your chest demanded resolution, an answer to the haunting question that had plagued you since your mother first brought him into your life: Do I want to fuck my step-dad? 

Yes. Yes, you very much did. 

The clicks of the lock rattled and the door knob twisted clockwise. 

Toji stood in the doorway, his presence dominating the space as if he had devoured the entire door frame. His twelve abdomen muscles rippled, stark against his skin. Jet-black hair clung wetly to his forehead, partially obscuring his eyes. With sweatpants slung low on his hips, a tantalizing trail of hair led downward, drawing attention to the area you often found yourself fantasizing about.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, realization dawning. “It was today, wasn’t it?”

“You’re such an ass,” you spat out, your body trembling with a mix of emotions—his forgetfulness, his proximity to you, the sheer presence of him. But at this moment, all your focus was on the pain of him abandoning you after promising he’d be there. “I was completely alone, Toji. Do you even understand how embarrassing it was to stand there by myself while everyone else had their families?”

“Sweetheart—”

“No. No, you don’t get to call me that. You don’t—You made me a promise, Toji. You swore you’d be there for me.”

“I know,” he murmured, running his hand down his face. “I’m sorry, kid. Come here.” He grasped your wrist and drew you towards him, enveloping you in a tight embrace. His strong arms wrapped around your body, reminiscent of the times he used to challenge you by having you sit on his back during push-ups to prove you wrong about being too heavy for him. “Better?”

“No,” you grumbled, resting your cheek against his chest. He had the scent of spruce and cigarettes that you found strangely comforting. What you wouldn’t do to sleep on his chest for hours, days and weeks. “Toji, I . . . I want to talk to you about something.” 

“What is it?” he asked, stepping back. 

“Can we sit down first?” 

He grinned. “Of course, baby.” 

With a shy smile of your own, you took his hand, feeling the warmth of his touch as he led you towards the plush couch at the center of the room. Memories of previous visits with your mother flashed briefly in your mind, but they were quickly replaced by the present moment.

The apartment’s decor was simple yet masculine, with red-brick walls lending a rustic charm. A mounted television, a large couch, and a hanging boxing bag added character to the space. The kitchen, though small, was designed in an L-shape, showcasing Toji’s dedication to fitness with his assortment of protein powders and supplements neatly arranged.

As you both settled onto the couch, Toji relaxed back, spreading out his legs and placing his arms on the backrest. His gaze lingered on you as you gracefully removed your graduation gown and placed your degree on his coffee table. 

“Your mother allowed you to wear that?” His thumb traced the curve of his lower lip as his gaze roamed shamelessly over you.

The gown you had on was a sleek, satin creation with a daring thigh-high slit. Its fabric was delicate, featuring thin straps and a plunging cleavage that barely contained your breasts. It was no secret that you had chosen it with Toji in mind, especially since your mother had been “too busy” to accompany you on your shopping trip.

“She doesn’t control my wardrobe,” you replied, your voice laced with confidence as you settled beside him. One leg tucked beneath you, the other languidly extended, the slit in your dress showcasing the smoothness of your skin. Toji’s gaze followed the line of exposed flesh before meeting your eyes. “Besides, you shouldn’t be the one to talk.” 

His smirk widened when you pointed out his lack of a shirt. “My house, my rules.”

You changed the subject. “Care to explain why you missed my graduation?”

“Work,” he replied shortly.

“Is that so?”

“I got a last-minute call for a match. The prize money was going to cover the next three months’ rent.” Toji was a professional MMA fighter. You had once attended one of his matches for ten minutes before almost passing out from witnessing how brutally he defeated his opponent. His persona in the ring was a juxtaposition to the sarcastic yet caring man he was at home with you.

“Did you win?” you asked, absently twirling the bracelet he had given you for your twenty-first birthday.

“Yeah,” he replied, his tone carrying a hint of pride. “I won.”

“Good.” You lifted your gaze to meet his, only to find his eyes fixed on you. “Do you miss home?”

“I am home.”

“You know what I mean.”

He took a deep breath, gazing at the blank television screen. Tilting his head back towards you, he wore a lopsided grin. “I miss you. Does that count?”

Your insides turned to jelly at his words, but you refused to let yourself falter, refusing to become the shy, sweet girl you once were, despite the depraved and forbidden reel playing in your mind. 

You missed watching television with your head on his lap. You missed cooking together. You missed doing the dishes afterward. You missed joining him on walks and runs just to spend a little extra time together. You missed dragging him to malls with you and trying on clothes, posing as sexily as you could, but obviously, he didn’t understand the signals. He never did. Even if you’d spend more time with him than your own mother. 

Silence ensued around you, only the subtle sounds of your choppy breaths and his composed ones were heard. 

“Why are you here, kid?” Toji’s gruff voice cut through the air.

“To see you.” 

“Why are you here?” 

You held your breath tightly in your chest. “I wanted to talk.” 

“About?” He was quick with the question, as if he knew what you were about to say, but wanted to hear it from your lips. Lips that he couldn’t pull his eyes away from. “Talk to me.” 

“I—” You felt a knot form in your throat. “I wanted to check up—”

“Bullshit.” 

Yeah, bullshit. 

What were you scared of? This was the man who cut up fruits for you when you were mentally deprived from crunching for your exams. This was the man who put a blanket on you if you fell asleep reading, even giving a kiss to your crown. This was the man who treated you like you were his own daughter, when in reality, you never were. And he never outwardly called you his daughter, either. You didn’t know why you never saw him as a father figure, but rather, you called him a friend. A really good friend. A friend you’d fallen stupidly in love with over the course of six months. 

Toji snapped his fingers in front of your face. You blinked out of the whirlpool of your thoughts. “Where’d you go?” 

“To you.” 

He lifted a brow. “To me?” 

Now or never, Y/N. Now or fucking never. 

You knelt down and moved closer, settling yourself onto his lap. His eyes widened momentarily at your boldness. “Toji, I like you. Hell, I love you. I love every version of the man you’ve been in my life. I know—I know you love me, too. Probably not in the way I want you to, but a girl can hope.” Your words were directed at the dog tag hanging from his neck as you gently placed your hands on his chest. “I did come here to scold you for not attending my graduation, but I also wanted to . . . I wanted to be with you. In more ways than one.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talk—”

“I do,” you stated firmly. Your lashes lifted and found his narrowed scrutiny. Unconsciously, his hands rested on your waist, molding to your curves. “I’ve known for a while now. It didn’t click in until you moved out. I swear Toji, it was like I couldn’t breathe without you.” 

“Baby . . . ” 

“I want you,” you confessed in a hushed tone, your fingers tracing the lines of his broad shoulders, then up to the sturdy column of his neck where his pulsing veins hinted at his emotions. “I know I seem desperate, but I don’t care. You’re not hers anymore. You were never hers.” 

“Y/N—”

“Please, Toji. Please, just touch me.” You tilted your head to plant a tender kiss on the sharp angle of his jawline. His faint stubble grazed against your lips as you continued to pepper kisses, stopping just short of his mouth. “Forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest, they say.”

Toji tightly shut his eyes and took slow breaths through his nose, his inner turmoil evident in the way his head moved back and forth. Your lips traced gentle paths around his face, savoring the closeness and the rush of emotions it brought. Even if he rejected you, you would find solace in knowing you had expressed your love for the man who was once your stepfather. This night might mark the end of your time together, but it also freed you from the burden of hiding your feelings.. 

“Baby,” Toji whispered, gently caressing your cheek as he drew you closer. “You sure you want this?” 

“Yes.” 

“You know how risky this is, kid. We can’t just ignore the consequences.” 

“I know, Toji.” You leaned closer, your breath mingling with his. “But I can’t ignore how I feel about you either. I want this. I want you. I want all of you. You can do whatever you want to me. I promise I can take it.” 

Toji licked his lips and ran his fingers through his hair. “Fuck. Okay. Your mom—”

“She won’t know. I’m planning on moving out soon.” You dragged your hand up and down his soft, bare chest. “I should’ve moved out with you.” 

Toji took your hand in his and pressed a tender kiss to the center of your palm. “I don’t think I have any condoms on me.” 

“I’m on the pill.” 

His eyes narrowed on you. “You’ve been fucking around? Does your mom know?” 

“Hey, I had to have a little fun. Gain a little experience for this inevitable night.” Your infectious smile rubbed off on him and he enveloped you in his arms. 

“I fuck hard.” 

“Good.” 

“Last chance.” 

“Nope.” 

Toji rose on his feet, supporting your bottom with his hands as he took you to his bedroom. He laid you down on his bed, the soft mattress absorbing the weight with a slight bounce. “Fucking knew you had a little crush on me.” He clambered onto your body and held your jaw with his hand. “Tell me, sweetheart, did you touch yourself thinking of me?” 

“Every single night. Whether it’s in the shower or my bedroom,” you replied, feigning a pout and raising your hand. “I’m starting to think I’ve developed carpal tunnel from all of it.”

Toji laughed, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face with his calloused fingers. But as his laughter faded into a knowing smirk, his next words sent a jolt through you, leaving your legs weak and your heart racing. “Yeah. Me, too.” 

“Really?” 

He answered by colliding his lips against yours. It was a brutal kiss. Pain and pleasure mingled together in a heated embrace. His tongue shoved deep into your mouth, exploring the source of your daring words. 

Pulling away momentarily, he squeezed your cheeks and sucked on your tongue like it was a delicious treat. “Gonna spit in your mouth.” 

“Mm-hmm.” 

Toji’s cheeks sucked in as he gathered his spit and spat it right onto your tongue. “Swallow.” 

You did, moaning as his warm saliva traveled down your throat. “You taste minty.”

“I was just about to crash before your demanding ass showed up,” he teased.

“Well, you should thank me then.” You planted a quick kiss on his nose.

Toji leaned in and kissed you deeply, tugging on your bottom lip and trailing his moist lips down to your neck. “You smell so good, baby.” 

“I’m wearing the perfume you bought me.” 

“You better fucking be. Do you know how much I get off on spoiling you?” His teeth bit your delicate flesh and pulled, making you whimper from the stinging pain. He sucked and bit on different areas of your neck, marking you with his love bites. He then helped you out of the dress and pressed you back on the mattress. “Knew you weren’t wearing a bra.” 

“No,” you said sarcastically. 

“Yeah,” he said, missing the teasing in your voice, “your nipples were in my face when we were talking.” He rounded his tongue around your areola. Gathering your breasts in both hands, Toji switched between suckling at your nipples, biting the sensitive bud that sent jerks in your body, and licking the burning pain. “I saw you undressing once. You know that?” 

You lifted a brow. “Uh, when?” And why didn't he do anything about it?

“You left your bedroom a bit open. I came to call you for dinner and instead feasted on the sight of your perky ass and these sexy tits.” He left your nipples numb and discolored from his teeth’s abuse. “You think you’re the only one who got off in that house? No, baby. Not at all. I was in the room right next to you, jerking off to your voice, or your smell.” This time, he kissed you gently and then each of your shoulders. “I had it worse. I had it so much worse.” 

“Toji . . . ”

“But you’re here now, and so am I. I’m not fucking leaving. You got that? You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.” 

“Yours,” you whispered. “God, Toji, I’m yours. I’m yours.” 

Toji removed his sweatpants and boxers, giving you a glorious display of his long, thick cock, corded with veins, sprouted up and proud. You had him like that, and so you gave yourself a mental pat on the back. “Like what you see?” 

“Yes,” you said, chuckling in disbelief at the anatomy of him. A surge of confidence washed over you. You slipped off your panties and spread out your legs, shaking your hair back from your face. “Like what you see?” 

Toji gleamed at the wetness pooled between your legs, soaking his sheets underneath, sticky and hot. Something feral rattled inside him. He gripped your knees and pried them farther apart, sinking in between. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck! Toji—ah!” Your back arched in ecstasy, fingers gripping his scalp as he ruthlessly ate you out. His large palm held your hips in place, nibbling and sucking at your quivering, swollen clit. “Toji, yes, yes, fuck. Right there. Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

You grinded against him with full power, pushing your pussy closer to his mouth. He drank your leaking juices, drove his skilled tongue into your tight entrance, and discovered the sweet, cry-worthy spots inside you.

Soon, he replaced his tongue with three fingers, plunging them deep inside you with a rough and unrelenting pace that sent shivers down your spine. His deep growls were the icing on top. 

Tears streamed down your cheeks as the bed creaked beneath you. He was exorcising your damn soul out of your body with his holy tongue and his blessed fingers.

“Ah!” You came down like a fucking waterfall and Toji stood with an open mouth, drinking in your essence, lapping at your cunt like a starved dog, cleaning you as best as he could. 

You gasped for air, clutching your chest as you coughed or laughed or wheezed—hard to tell which. You felt weightless, incredibly sore, teetering on the edge of passing out.

“Toji . . . am I dead?”

His laughter echoed nearby, then drew nearer until his face came into focus through your haze. “Your pussy tastes just as delicious as your mouth, baby.” 

He kissed you and gave you a hint of your release. Toji was a moaner—a loud one—as he sucked on your tongue, pulling it into his mouth. Your eyes rolled to the back of your skull as he spit onto your tongue again, and ran his own coarse one over your palette.

You closed your mouth and pushed him back by his shoulders. “Let me touch you.” 

“Yeah? You want to suck me off, too?” 

“Yes, fuck. Please, Toji. Please let me suck your cock.” Your begging made him grunt as he got up on his knees. He moved closer, placing them firmly beside your hips. You sat up against the headboard, gripping his warm, aroused cock, while he entwined your hair around his hand, gaining control over your movements.

You looked up at his smirk and kissed his moist tip, savoring the salty taste. Goosebumps formed on your skin at the idea of taking him deeper into your mouth. It would definitely challenge your gag reflex, but if this was going to be a regular thing, you needed to practice.

“Part your lips for me, kid. Nice and wide. That’s it.”

“Yes, Daddy.” You winked at Toji’s alarmed expression. Oh, how you loved catching him off-guard by acting out of character. “You got a daddy kink, Toji?” You brushed your lips from the base to the head, swirling your tongue around the rim. “Since you love calling me kid, maybe I should start calling you daddy. Isn’t that what you were?” 

“You got a dirty mouth on you, kid.” 

“Learned it from my daddy.”  

Toji hissed through his teeth as you nibbled his tip. “Not dirty enough.” He gripped his length and forced it past your lips. Your nails plunged into his hips, gagging and shaking as he sunk past your uvula. “About time I fucked your smartass mouth with my cock, baby. Be a good girl and don’t tap out until I’ve come down your throat.” 

You closed your eyes briefly, gathering your resolve before meeting his gaze again with a playful glint. You weren’t entirely sure where this was going, but you were determined not to back down now. So, with a mischievous wink, you silently accepted the challenge.

Toji thrusted his hips back and forth, shoving his girth in and out without giving you space to breathe.

“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Fuck, you’re so good at sucking your daddy’s cock,” he groaned, his hands gently gripping your hair or caressing your cheek in a way that contrasted sharply with his dominant actions.

“My pretty whore.”

Thrust.

“My gorgeous girl.” 

Thrust.

“You belong to me, baby.” 

Thrust, thrust, thrust. 

He was a complete monster with you. 

Your face pressed against his pelvis, the brush of his happy trail tickling your nose. You knew from experience that most men came quicker if you fondled their balls. You squeezed his heavy, swollen sacs, making him hiss and violate your throat.

Toji couldn’t hold back. His release came with a roar, numbing your scalp from how tightly he was pulling on it. The thin ropes of his release and your saliva formed as he pulled out. You swallowed whatever was left around your mouth. To please him further, as if assaulting your throat wasn’t enough, you lapped at his tip like a devoted kitten. “You’re so good to me, baby.” 

That’s all you wanted to hear. 

“Turn around,” he commanded, and without hesitation, you dropped to your knees, arching your back to present yourself to him. “What a sight.” His hand glided over your left ass cheek tenderly before delivering a firm smack that made you jolt forward. Toji mirrored the action on your right cheek, preparing you while coating the tip of his cock with slickness from your own arousal. “Gonna put it in now, sweetheart.” 

“Finally, Jesus.” 

Toji spanked your ass which only elicited a giggle out of you. “Let’s see if you’ll be laughing soon, baby.” 

He pushed into you in one-quick go. 

You cried out and grabbed the top of the headboard with your sweaty palms. He pulled out just to the hilt then drove back in. The air smelled like your sweat and perfume and sex. Every nerve in your body was alive, your heart pounding fiercely as if trying to escape your chest. Your face flushed with heat, your blood singing with desire.

You moaned and cried and screamed his name, driving him to complete madness with the word “Daddy.” You begged him to go faster, push harder, to have you sore for weeks so you didn’t have to get out of his bed, out of his arms, out of his home. You wanted this to be your home. 

Toji spanked your ass repeatedly, skin slapping against skin, palming the back of your head so that your face was crushed on his pillow. It smelled like firewood. Smelled like him. You wanted to steal it, take it home, sleep with it, ride it while whispering his name. 

You both came together. 

Toji’s hot seed filled your stretched hole. He withdrew slowly, a teasing sensation that left you craving more. With deft fingers, he ensured not a drop was wasted. 

You collapsed onto your stomach, catching your breath before summoning the strength to turn and face him.

He exhaled heavily, laying beside you “Fuck, that was . . .” 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh, yeah.” 

“Best yeah.” You draped yourself onto his chest and kissed his chin. He massaged his fingers through your throbbing scalp, the other hand caressing your numb, bruised ass. 

Toji twirled a strand of your hair around his finger. “Does this make-up for missing your graduation?” 

You flicked his forehead. “I haven’t forgiven you for that.” 

“Maybe I should miss more of your events if this is the reward I’m gonna get.” 

You scowled. “I dare you to repeat that again.” 

Toji ironed out your scowl with his thumb. You kissed the pad of his rough finger, twice. “My cards are on the table for you, sweetheart.” 

Your lips met his, whispering, “I folded a while ago, Daddy.” 

“Fuck,” he breathed out. With a swift motion, he flipped you onto your back, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Round two, kid.” 

[its-avalon-08]

Can you write me something for Lando? Where his girlfriend is scared, he's going to leave her because everyone eventually does. (Like a bad home life and never had good relationships) And she's just waiting for Lando to dump her, but Lando resizes this and assures her that she is it for him and he would never abandon her.

i'm never giving up on you (ln4)

avaspeaks: at this point i'm just a lando norris fanclub, and i have no issue with it whatsoever

✦ pairing - lando norris x female!reader

✦ genre - angst, neglect, fears of abandonment, comfort

Y/N sat in the dimly lit living room of her small apartment, the shadows on the walls a stark contrast to the memories that haunted her. Her fingers traced the worn edges of a photo album she had found while cleaning earlier, each page a painful reminder of her past.

Growing up, Y/N's home life was far from stable. Her parents' relationship had been a volatile cocktail of arguments and broken promises, their voices often raised in anger rather than love. The air in their house had always felt thick with tension, a palpable force that suffocated any semblance of comfort or security.

Y/N flipped through the album, her eyes lingering on a picture of her younger self. She was smiling, but the smile didn't reach her eyes, even then. Her parents stood on either side of her, forced grins plastered on their faces for the camera. She remembered that day clearly—it had been one of the few times they had tried to act like a normal family, but the effort was short-lived.

As the years went by, the arguments escalated, and the once infrequent absences of her father turned into a permanent departure. Her mother, already struggling with her own demons, fell into a deep depression, leaving Y/N to fend for herself. She became a master of hiding her pain, putting on a brave face at school while silently dealing with the chaos at home.

Friendships came and went, most of them fleeting. Y/N had learned early on not to get too attached, as people seemed to drift away just when she started to rely on them. Her heart had been broken too many times, not by romantic relationships, but by the countless times she had opened up to someone, only for them to leave.

Closing the album with a sigh, Y/N glanced around her apartment. It was small but cozy, a space she had made her own. The walls were adorned with pictures of places she hoped to visit one day, a reminder of dreams she refused to let go of, despite everything. Yet, the emptiness of the apartment echoed the loneliness that had been her constant companion.

Meeting Lando had been a beacon of light in her otherwise dark world. His infectious energy and genuine kindness had drawn her in, and for the first time in a long time, she felt a glimmer of hope. But with that hope came fear—the fear that he, too, would eventually leave, just like everyone else.

The sound of the front door opening pulled Y/N from her thoughts. She quickly wiped away a tear that had escaped, not wanting Lando to see her like this. She loved him deeply, but the scars of her past were not easily forgotten.

Lando entered the room, his eyes immediately finding hers. He could sense something was wrong, the way she held herself, the distant look in her eyes. He walked over and sat beside her on the couch, his presence a comforting contrast to the turmoil in her mind.

"Hey," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Are you okay?"

Y/N took a deep breath, forcing a smile. "Yeah baby, I'm okay"

time skip

The tension in the apartment was palpable as Lando and Y/N stood facing each other in the living room. The argument had started innocuously enough—a simple conversation about their busy schedules—but it had quickly escalated into a heated exchange.

"I just don't understand why you can't make more time for us," Y/N said, her voice tinged with frustration. "You're always so busy with races, interviews, and events. I feel like we're barely together anymore."

Lando ran a hand through his hair, his patience wearing thin. "I have obligations, Y/N. This is my career we're talking about. I can't just drop everything whenever I want."

"I'm not asking you to drop everything," she retorted, her eyes flashing with anger. "I'm asking you to make an effort. I want to feel like a priority, not just another item on your to-do list."

"That's not fair," Lando shot back. "You know how demanding this job is. I can't control the schedule. And it's not like you don't have your own commitments."

Y/N crossed her arms, her voice rising. "But I still try to make time for us! You promised me that we'd find a balance, but it feels like I'm the only one trying."

Lando's frustration boiled over. "I’m doing the best I can! Why can't you see that?"

"Because it doesn't feel like it!" she shouted, tears of anger and hurt welling up in her eyes. "I'm tired of feeling like I'm the only one making an effort in this relationship."

A heavy silence fell between them, the weight of their words hanging in the air. Lando shook his head, his expression a mix of frustration and helplessness. "I'm driving around the bloody globe and this - Y/N I'm just- I need some air," he muttered, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.

Y/N watched him leave, her heart sinking. She stood there for a moment, her mind racing with thoughts of abandonment. This was it, she thought. This was when he would realize it wasn't worth the effort and leave her like everyone else had.

Y/N sat on the balcony, the cool night air brushing against her skin. The city lights flickered in the distance, but her mind was far away, lost in the painful memories that had shaped her.

She was six years old, hiding under the kitchen table as her parents screamed at each other. Her father’s voice was a thunderstorm, her mother’s a desperate plea. "I can’t take it anymore, Marie! I’m done!" Her father stormed out, slamming the door so hard it rattled the windows. He never came back.

Years later, her mother’s addiction had taken hold. Y/N would find her passed out on the couch, empty bottles and needles scattered around. "Mom, please," she would whisper, shaking her gently. "Wake up." But her mother’s eyes remained closed, her body unresponsive. Social services came and went, but nothing ever changed. The house felt emptier with each passing day.

Her first boyfriend seemed kind at first, but the facade quickly crumbled. "You’re too clingy," he said, pushing her away. "I need space." He left her in tears, feeling like a burden. The next relationship was worse—manipulation, emotional abuse, constant belittling. "You’re worthless," he sneered. "No wonder your family abandoned you." She believed him, internalizing every cruel word.

Y/N hugged her knees tighter to her chest, the tears slipping down her cheeks. The patterns of her past replayed in her mind, a cruel reminder of the pain she had endured.

Her best friend in high school promised they would be friends forever. But as soon as things got tough, she disappeared without a word, leaving Y/N to navigate the tumultuous teenage years alone. "I thought we were friends," Y/N had said, voice breaking. But there was no answer, just an empty silence.

Her college roommate had been kind, at first. They shared secrets and late-night talks until one day, without warning, she moved out, leaving a note saying she couldn’t handle Y/N’s “drama.” Another abandonment, another confirmation that Y/N was too much for anyone to handle.

She wiped her eyes, the heaviness in her chest a familiar ache. Lando was different, she knew that. He was kind, loving, and patient. But the fear that he would eventually leave her, just like everyone else, was always there, lurking in the back of her mind.

The balcony door slid open, and Y/N didn’t turn around. She felt Lando’s presence as he stepped outside, the silence stretching between them.

"I'm sorry my love," Lando finally said, his voice soft and weary. "I didn't mean to storm out like that."

Y/N took a deep breath, her voice trembling. "I just… I don't want to feel like this anymore, Lando. I don't want to keep waiting for you to leave. It's not your fault, it really is not. I'm just- my past. It has been hurting me so much even when I try for it not to."

He moved closer, sitting beside her on the balcony floor. "Y/N, I'm not going to leave you. I didn't realize how much this was affecting you. I thought we were okay but I need you to speak to me, to voice your conerns."

She shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. "I was scared to tell you how I really felt. I didn't want to seem needy or make you feel guilty."

Lando reached out, gently taking her hand in his. "You have every right to tell me how you feel. I need to know if something's wrong so we can fix it together."

She looked at him, her eyes filled with vulnerability. "But what if you get tired of always having to reassure me? What if you decide it's too much?"

He squeezed her hand, his gaze steady and sincere. "I won't. I'm here because I love you, Y/N. I want to be with you, and that means working through the tough times, too. I know I haven't been perfect, but I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make this work."

Y/N's heart ached with both fear and hope. "I want to believe you, Lando. I really do."

"Then let me prove it to you," he said softly. "We'll figure this out together. I promise."

She nodded, a small smile breaking through her tears. "Okay. I trust you." He could see the pain in her eyes, the scars left by a lifetime of abandonment and disappointment. He knew this was the moment to make her understand how much she meant to him.

"Y/N, look at me," he said softly, lifting her chin so their eyes met. "You are perfect for me in every way. I don’t just love you because you’re beautiful or because we have fun together. I love you because of who you are, inside and out."

She tried to look away, but he gently held her face, making sure she was listening. "You are the strongest person I know. Everything you've been through, everything you've survived—it hasn't broken you. It's made you who you are, and that person is incredible."

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn't say anything. Lando continued, his voice full of conviction. "You have this amazing heart, Y/N. You care so deeply about the people in your life, even when they don't deserve it. You give so much of yourself, and that’s something truly special."

He brushed a tear from her cheek. "You make me want to be a better person. Every day with you is a gift, and I don’t take that lightly. I see how you look after everyone, how you’re always there for others, even when you’re hurting. You inspire me."

Lando's voice grew more intense as he spoke. "You’re not a burden. You’re not too much. You are exactly what I need in my life. You’re my anchor, the one who keeps me grounded. Without you, none of this—racing, fame, everything—would matter. You’re my reason, Y/N."

She sniffled, her tears falling freely now, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. "I know you’re scared, and I get it. But I’m here to stay. I’m not going anywhere. I promise you that. We’re in this together, and I will never, ever leave you."

He pulled back slightly to look into her eyes again. "Please believe me when I say that you are my everything. I love you more than words can say, and I will spend every day proving it to you. You are my future, Y/N, and I’m not going to let anything take that away from us."

She clung to him, her sobs quieting as his words sank in. "I love you too, Lando," she whispered, her voice shaky but filled with hope.

"And I love you," he replied, kissing her forehead gently. "Always."

For the first time in a long while, she felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to make it work. And for now, that hope was enough.

[kokoch4n3l]

'•.¸♡BUY ME THE MOON࿐ྂ SANO "MIKEY" MANJIRO x f!READER

THREE — skeletons in the closet

chapter summary: like your father, manjiro becomes increasingly obsessed with keeping you hidden and begins tightening the already overwhelming security

chapter warnings: dark content 18+, inaccurate depiction of politics and political climate, loneliness, making out, kissing, rough sex, vaginal penetration, degradation, humiliation, spanking, fantasizing, creampie, no aftercare, cheating, infidelity, dom/sub undertones, slight choking, soft dom!mikey, guided masturbation, fingering(f), praise kink, (slight)voyeurism, aftercare

word count: 9848

masterlist | previous | chapter 4

You spend the month alone. You go to school, come home, eat, do your school work, sleep then do it all again. The routine was something you were used to but perhaps after that night with Manjiro, things kind of changed— unfortunately, it was for the worst. You've been feeling more lonely than usual. Manjiro doesn't come around but ever since then, you noticed the increase in guards outside the mansion in the woods and the hidden ones in the background(perhaps next time you see them, you should tell either your father or Manjiro that the hidden guards weren't so hidden).

The days blur together as you fall into the monotony of your routine. The loneliness you feel has deepened since that night with Manjiro, and his absence weighs heavily on you. You had hoped for more after the tenderness he showed, but instead, you're left with an emptiness that seems to grow with each passing day. You feel like a damn idiot.

Of course, you could call him. You could have but you have too much pride. He was the one who left you in your room after that whole fiasco in the back seat of his car(which you can't stop thinking about actually). After you fell asleep in the backseat with him, he probably carried you up to your room and left without leaving a note or even a text— so why should you call him first?

Days turn into weeks, and the ache of loneliness gnaws at you, a constant reminder of the void Manjiro's absence has left behind. You throw yourself into your schoolwork, trying to drown out the lingering thoughts of that night, but every quiet moment brings them rushing back. You can't shake the memory of his touch, the way he looked at you, the brief tenderness that seemed so out of character for him.

Your pride keeps you from reaching out. You tell yourself that if he wanted to see you, he would have found a way. Yet, every day without a word from him feels like a rejection, a confirmation that maybe you were just a fleeting distraction for him. After all, you were a part of an unnamed transaction between him and his father. Sano Manjiro spent a lot of money funding your father's election and having you out in the open now that your father is president is a risk. If people find out your father was a cheater and had a secret kid it wouldn't look good. 

The days continue to pass in a blur of sameness, each one bleeding into the next as you navigate the familiar corridors of your daily life. The loneliness gnaws at you, a persistent ache that refuses to be ignored. You miss the fleeting moments of connection you shared with Manjiro, the way he made you feel seen and cared for, even if only for a short time. But his absence speaks volumes, and the silence only amplifies your feelings of isolation.

Despite the guards and the watchful eyes that you now notice more keenly, your life remains eerily quiet. The increased security is a constant reminder of the world Manjiro operates in, a world you are only beginning to understand. It's as if his presence lingers in the shadows, a ghost that haunts your every step.

One evening, as you sit in your room, staring blankly at your homework, you find yourself wondering if you should swallow your pride and reach out to him. The thought is both tempting and infuriating. Why should you be the one to make the first move? He was the one who left you hanging, left you to fend for yourself in this lonely existence. Your phone sits on your desk, taunting you with its silence. You pick it up, scrolling through your contacts until you find his name. Your finger hovers over the call button, your heart pounding in your chest. But the fear of rejection, the fear of appearing desperate, holds you back. With a frustrated sigh, you toss the phone aside, resolving once again to bury your feelings and carry on.

That night, sleep eludes you. You toss and turn, your mind replaying every detail of that night with Manjiro. The feel of his hands, the sound of his voice, the intensity in his eyes—it all comes rushing back, refusing to let you rest.

A few more days pass after that and now it's 6 pm. You're sitting in the back seat of a Lexus with your usual driver in the front seat as he drives you back from university. Your tote back sits idle in the center seat and your phone is in your lap as you blast music from your headphones. Your fingers fiddle with the lace at the end of your skirt, head resting against the glass as the car speeds past trees and other things. 

As the car glides through the familiar streets, your thoughts drift back to Manjiro once again, his absence a constant ache in your heart. You find yourself staring out the window, lost in memories of that night, replaying every moment in your mind like a broken record. The music blaring in your headphones does little to drown out the noise of your thoughts, the lyrics blending together in a cacophony of sound. You feel restless, trapped in a cycle of longing and frustration that seems to have no end in sight.

The car turns into the clearing where your large mansion in the woods was located and the gate opens up. There are multiple cars in the front which means your father was here. You fiddle with the Viviene Westwood necklace Manjiro gifted you as your driver parks the car in front of the entrance and pause your music, removing your headphones . "looks like your father is here" Your driver says, looking at you through the rearview mirror

You don't say anything and just nod your head. You suddenly don't feel like seeing or talking to your dad even though you have been waiting for him to come home all month since he became president. Your driver opens the door for you, and you step out of the car, your movements slow unlike how you usually are when your father comes to visit. You practically drag yourself out of the car, tote bag in hand. Your heels click against the concrete as you make your way up the steps to the large front doors. Wearing heels to university would seem unnecessary and stupid to other people but you were a rich kid doing fashion design as a major. Everyone in your department dressed up all pretty even for early morning classes. It was fun. You liked dressing up. Where else are you going to wear all your expensive clothes? You were at home most of the time and wore pyjamas so you always went all out when you'd leave your mansion in the woods. "good afternoon, [y/n], how was school?" One of the maids asks as she opens the front door and takes your tote bag from your hands

"It was fine" You mutter as you step inside and immediately tug off your heels

Sure they were nice to wear but after wearing them for hours straight, your feet would start to hurt. You sigh in relief as your feet touch the cool marble floor, feeling a momentary sense of comfort. The familiar scent of the mansion fills your nostrils—lavender and sandalwood, with a hint of something floral. Despite the opulence surrounding you, the loneliness within feels overwhelming. The quiet hum of activity in the house, with maids bustling and guards stationed discreetly, only accentuates your solitude. "Your father is here with Ms. Kaya and a few other guests in his study" The maid informs

You just nod. You don't feel like going to see him right now. Not him or your stupid step-sister and certainly not whatever guests were here. You drag your feet up the grand staircase, the weight of your loneliness pressing down on you with each step. The mansion feels emptier than ever, despite the presence of staff and guards. You make your way to your room, seeking solace in the one place that feels somewhat like your own. Just as your hand touches the doorknob to your bedroom, a voice startles you "Hey, fairy princess"

You jump, turning around quickly and see the same pink-haired guy, Sanzu, from 1 month ago. He was the guy driving if you remember correctly. You would have been nice but right now you are annoyed and tired so you say "What are you doing in my house?"

Sanzu's grin widens at your reaction, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Relax, princess," he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just here on business."

You scowl, your patience wearing thin. "What kind of business?"

"Manjiro's kind," he replies cryptically, his grin never faltering.

At the mention of Manjiro's name, your heart skips a beat. You however don't want to make it seem to this clearly crazy motherfucker that you missed his boss. So, crossing your arms over your chest you ask "Why are you bothering me then?"

Sanzu simply shrugs and replies "'m bored and you look like fun"

You're about to say something but someone else shows up. "the idiot is right for once. You look do like fun"

This other guy, you remember from a month ago from the night of the election. He's got purple hair with a few black highlights, styled in a very similar way to Sanzu. This purple-haired guy had a hanafuda tattoo on the front of his throat. "oh fuck off Rindo" Sanzu says looking annoyed, rolling his sleeves up "I was here first"

You see a matching tattoo on Sanzu's right inner wrist. "shut up man, you know I hate the whole business bullshit" the purple-haired guy, Rindo, says to Sanzu

The exchange between the two men leaves you feeling more exhausted than before. You try to mask your irritation as you take a deep breath, your eyes narrowing slightly as you address both of them. "Well, whatever business you're here for, I'm not interested. I've had a long day, and I just want some peace and quiet."

Sanzu's grin only widens, clearly enjoying your frustration. "Oh, come on, princess. Don't be like that. We're just here to have a little fun."

You turn to enter your room and hope these idiots don't follow you inside. Unfortunately for you, they do. It was a little odd though. You've never had someone outright ignore your wishes. It was kind of... Exciting. "what are you, a fuckin' princess?" Rindo mutters as he looks around your room after closing the large door behind him

Your bedroom looked like something out of a princess movie. An unnecessarily large bed in an even more unnecessarily large room. Your sheets were cream-coloured and baby pink. Canopies were hung up around your bed and you had one too many pillows but you swear you needed all of them. You had fluffy white carpets, a vanity, a walk-in closet, your own attached bathroom and a balcony. "Yes" You answer Rindo's rhetorical question anyway

Sanzu chuckles as he watches you, clearly amused by your answer. He saunters over to your vanity, picking up one of your perfumes and inspecting it with a curious expression. "Nice place you got here, princess. Real fancy."

You frown, feeling your irritation grow. But you don't say anything and just sit on the edge of your bed, watching them look around your room in fascination. Rindo smirks, leaning against your dresser as he surveys the room. "You know, most people would kill for a setup like this," he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "But you? You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."

Sanzu, now fiddling with a decorative trinket on your vanity, chimes in. "Yeah, what's the matter, princess? All this luxury not enough to keep you entertained?"

You shoot them both a withering look. You don't wanna tell them that you're lonely. After all, it's a very embarrassing thing to admit. Instead, you say "I dunno... It's not that. Just never had anyone in my room before"

Your words hang in the air, creating a brief silence as both Sanzu and Rindo process what you just said. Rindo's smirk fades slightly, replaced by a more thoughtful expression. Sanzu, on the other hand, raises an eyebrow, his amusement giving way to curiosity. "Never had anyone in your room before, huh?" Sanzu repeats, his tone losing some of its teasing edge. 

He sets the trinket back down on your vanity, his gaze shifting back to you. "That's kind of hard to believe, princess."

Rindo pushes himself off your dresser and walks closer to you, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Is that why you looked so miserable earlier? All this luxury and no one to share it with?"

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of their scrutiny. You're not sure how to respond, but the truth is evident in your silence. They might be annoying, but they've hit a nerve you can't quite ignore. Sanzu takes a step closer, his playful demeanour giving way to something more sincere. "You know, if you're that lonely, you could always come hang out with us. We might not be your usual company, but we know how to have a good time."

Rindo nods in agreement, his earlier sarcasm replaced by a surprising note of camaraderie. "Yeah, who knows? You might even enjoy it."

You look between them, weighing their offer. It's tempting if only to break the monotony of your lonely existence. And as irritating as they might be, their presence is a welcome distraction from the endless silence of your mansion. "Alright," you say finally, your voice softer than before. "But if I get bored or annoyed, I'm kicking you both out."

Sanzu's grin returns in full force. "Deal, princess. We'll do our best to keep you entertained."

Rindo chuckles a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Don't worry, we'll make sure you have a night to remember."

The three of you settle into an uneasy truce, the tension in the room easing slightly. As Sanzu and Rindo continue to explore your room, their playful banter becomes less intrusive and more like a background hum, filling the empty spaces that once felt so suffocating. You find yourself laughing at their antics despite your initial irritation. Sanzu's mischievousness and Rindo's dry wit create a surprisingly dynamic duo. They might not be the company you expected, but they are, in their own way, a breath of fresh air.

You lose track of time. For the first time in weeks, you feel a sense of normalcy, of connection. It's not the same as what you felt with Manjiro, but it's something, and it's enough to lift your spirits, if only for a while. Eventually, the three of you end up sprawled out on your oversized bed, talking about everything and nothing. Sanzu tells outrageous stories that make you laugh until your sides hurt, and Rindo shares bits of his life that give you a glimpse into the world beyond your gilded cage.

As the night wears on, you feel a strange sense of contentment. You're not alone, not tonight. And for now, that's enough.

Manjiro sighs as the meeting with the president finally ends. He leaves the room without a word as usual. Sure Saimori Shinichi was president but at the end of the day, it was still Manjiro who had control ad not the stupid rich man. Manjiro had no reason to bow down to this man nor his shitty little daughter he was engaged to who is no doubt following him out of the room. His executives are still in the meeting room with Shinichi, Akashi Takeomi and Haitani Ran continuing to talk to Shinichi about whatever the fuck is going on lately or whatever old men talk about. Manjiro wasn't concerned with any of that. His mind was elsewhere, drifting to thoughts of you. He hadn't seen you in a month, and despite his best efforts to keep his distance, he found himself constantly thinking about that night in the backseat of his car. The way you looked at him, the way you felt in his arms—it haunted him. He told himself it was for the best, that keeping his distance was the only way to keep his goals in sight. As he walks down the corridor, his fiancée, Kaya, quickens her pace to catch up with him. "Manjiro, wait," she calls her voice a mix of irritation and desperation. 

He stops but doesn't turn to face her, his eyes fixed on the large windows overlooking the mansion grounds. Kaya reaches his side, her expression a mix of frustration and longing. "Why do you always walk away from me? We need to talk."

He finally looks at her, his face impassive. "There's nothing to talk about, Kaya. This arrangement is political, nothing more."

She rolls her eyes at his cold tone but stands her ground. "You could at least try to pretend you're interested. My father expects us to present a united front when we announce our engagement to the public."

Manjiro's eyes narrow, and for a moment, a flicker of anger crosses his features. "Your father can expect whatever he wants. I didn't agree to this for him or for you. It's a business deal, and that's all it will ever be."

Kaya's eyes flash with frustration, but she takes a deep breath, clearly trying to maintain her composure. "You might see it that way, but the public will see us differently. We need to at least appear to care for each other, Manjiro."

Manjiro's eye twitches and he walks up to her till their faces are mere centimetres apart. "Do you need something from me right now, Kaya?" 

Kaya stares up at him, her eyes seeming darker than usual, probably with arousal. A tense silence hangs in the air between them as Kaya's breath quickens. She meets Manjiro's intense gaze, her expression wavering between frustration and something more heated. She places a hand on his chest, fingers trembling slightly as she speaks. "Maybe I do need something, Manjiro. Maybe I need you to show me that you're not just a cold, unfeeling machine."

Manjiro's eyes narrow further, his jaw clenching. The space between them seems to crackle with a mix of anger and unresolved tension. "Kaya," he says, his voice low and dangerous, "this isn't about feelings. This is about control, power, and maintaining appearances. Don't mistake it for anything else."

But Kaya, undeterred, presses closer, her hand sliding up to his neck. "Is that really all it is to you? Because I see something different in your eyes right now."

Manjiro's control slips for just a moment, and he grabs her wrist, holding it tightly. The look he gives her is a warning, but she doesn't back down. Instead, she tilts her head, a sly smile playing at the corners of her lips. "You think you're so untouchable, don't you, Manjiro?"

Before he can respond, Kaya rises onto her tiptoes and presses her lips to his. The kiss is fierce, almost combative as if she's trying to prove a point. For a split second, Manjiro hesitates, the unexpectedness of her boldness catching him off guard. But then, as if a switch flips, he responds with equal intensity, his grip on her wrist tightening as he pulls her closer. Their kiss deepens, fueled by a mix of anger and unspoken desire. It's a battle for dominance, neither willing to back down. Manjiro's other hand tangles in Kaya's hair, pulling her head back hard to break the kiss and look into her eyes. They're both breathing hard, their faces flushed. "This is what you wanted, huh?" Manjiro's voice is rough, laced with disdain "To push me until I reacted?"

Kaya's eyes blaze with defiance. "I wanted to see if there's something more behind that mask you wear. And I think there is."

Manjiro's grip loosens slightly, his thumb brushing against her pulse point. "You're playing a dangerous game, Kaya."

She laughs, the sound almost breathless. "Maybe. But so are you."

That's how they end up in one of the many empty rooms in the mansion. Manjiro has Kaya bent over the edge of a bed, her skirt hiked up and panties pushed aside. His pants are unzipped and pulled down just enough to pull out his cock and pound into her from behind. "fuck" he groans, digging his nails into her hips "If you wanted to be fucked like a whore should've just told me instead of being annoying"

Kaya tries to lift her face off the mattress but he just puts a hand on the back of her neck, forcing her right back down. He doesn't want to hear her moan or whimper. From the last time he did this to her, Manjiro noticed the noises she made just gave him a damn headache. He'd rather not hear her at all. His pelvis smacks against her ass each time he thrusts in, making small pat pat pat noises. Oh god did he hate this stupid bitch. He knows exactly what she's doing, using him to raise her social status, to mark her place at the top because daddy doesn't love her enough. Manjiro could care less though. She was a pawn to be thrown away later and considering the amount of men she had on the side, it wouldn't be hard getting rid of her either. "See isn't this better?" Manjiro grunts, smacking his palm hard against her ass a few times "You're much much more bearable when you're quiet"

Kaya's fingers curl into the sheets and her hips jolt every time his palm makes contact with her rear, turning the pale skin a bright pink colour. Manjiro's mind drifts off to you. He wouldn't fuck you like this. Not the same way as he fucks Kaya. 

Oh, definitely not. 

Sweet girls like you deserved to be fucked just as sweetly. 

Manjiro wouldn't just hike up your pretty skirts like he usually does with Kaya. No, he'd take his time to undress you. He'd pull the pretty ribbons out of your hair, and press kisses to your cheeks. He'd take his time stretching out your tight little hole. After all, you were too sweet for him to just shove his cock into your little cunt like he does with Kaya. You'd probably take him so well too. Something tells Manjiro you might just cry so he'd fuck you on your back. He'd maybe change positions later, have you bent over with a pillow under your tummy for better support, and he'd rub your back and press kisses along your spine. 

Oh, he'd be so fucking sweet to you.

Manjiro wouldn't fuck you the same way he fucks your step-sister.

"f-fuckk" Kaya moans, her voice muffled thanks to him pressing her face into the mattress

He feels Kaya's thighs twitch and she convulsed as she comes on his cock. Manjiro keeps going, pistoning his hips faster, rougher into her. He thinks of you, all pictures he had of the men watching you in the background take of you— all the cute little outfits you wear to university and you from a month ago in the backseat of his car, your pretty moans, helpless whimpers and your tight little cunt he needed all his willpower to stop him from pulling out his cock and just sliding in. Finally, at the memory of you moaning his name, Manjiro cums, painting Kaya's insides white. "haa~ fuck" He groans and pulls out, not even waiting for himself to soften

He goes to the attached bathroom without a word and freshens himself up a bit, washing his hands and his face and wiping himself off. Manjiro straightens himself out and leaves the bathroom, then the room, not even bothering to look at Kaya who's fixing her skirt.

He had more important things to do. 

"wait so... You're number 2..." You say pointing at Sanzu while you sit behind Rindo twisting the purple strands of his hair into small braid "that other guy with the scar on his face, Kakucho, is number 3 and the rest of you are just executives?"

Sanzu smirks and nods, clearly amused by your curiosity. "That's right, princess. I'm number two. Kakucho is number three And the rest of us are executives, each with our own areas of expertise." He leans back against the headboard of your bed, watching you with a mixture of amusement and interest. "It's a hierarchy, just like any other organization."

Rindo chuckles, tilting his head to give you better access as you continue braiding his hair. "And we all answer to Manjiro. He's the one who keeps everything running smoothly, even if he can be a bit... intense."

You glance between the two of them, processing this information. It's strange to think of Manjiro, the person who left you feeling so vulnerable and confused, as the leader of such a powerful organization. But it also makes a certain amount of sense, given the aura of authority he carries with him. "And what exactly do you all do? I mean, besides hanging out in my room and causing trouble?"

Sanzu's grin widens, and he exchanges a look with Rindo before replying. "We handle a variety of things. Security, operations, negotiations. Anything that needs doing to keep the organization running smoothly."

Rindo nods in agreement. "Yeah, and sometimes that means dealing with problems in... unconventional ways."

You pause in your braiding, your fingers stilling as you consider their words. It's clear that their world is vastly different from yours, filled with danger and intrigue. But despite the risks, there's a certain allure to it all, a sense of excitement that you can't quite ignore. You've always been stuck behind these large walls and even larger gates. You can't deny how exciting it is that you finally get people to talk to and it was even better that they seemed so cool. Before you can dwell too much on it, the door to your room opens, and you all turn to see Manjiro standing in the doorway. His presence instantly commands attention, and the room falls silent. "Sanzu, Rindo," he says, his tone even but authoritative, "leave us."

Sanzu and Rindo exchange a quick glance before standing and making their way to the door. As they pass Manjiro, Sanzu gives you a quick wink, while Rindo offers a small nod. Then, they disappear into the hallway, leaving you alone with Manjiro. He closes the door behind him and takes a few steps into the room, his gaze fixed on you. You frown crossing your arms over your chest. "Can I help you?" You ask him

Of course, you were still mad. Radio silence for an entire month. Sure you could have texted or called him first but you weren't the one that initiated the 'spicy' moment in the back seat a month ago on the night of your birthday. Besides, you don't chase. Your ego and pride wouldn't let you. You don't want Sano Manjiro to think you're desperate for him even though deep down you are. You've never wanted someone so bad in your life. He reminds you of this pretty limited-edition doll you wanted as a kid. Of course, your dad bought it for you and yes, you still had it. 

As a child, you wanted the moon more than you wanted dolls. Sano Manjiro reminds you of your limited edition dolls but he also reminds you of the moon. 

Unreachable. 

You can't have him unless he wants you to.

"what's with the long face, sweetheart?" Manjiro asks and sits in front of you "and what's with the tone, hm?"

You just frown. "There is no tone" You reply sharply and turn away from him

That obviously doesn't last long as suddenly a hand wraps around your throat and you're forced to face him again. He was being kind of rough but not in a way to purposely hurt you. Manjiro's hand around your neck wasn't even squeezing or pressing down. He was simply holding you by the neck and— blood rushes to your face, warming your cheeks. "hm? Must be hallucinating then 'cause I'm hearing a tone"

Your breath catches as Manjiro's hand gently but firmly holds your neck, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. Despite his grip, you can feel there's no pressure, just his presence asserting itself. His eyes bore into yours with intensity, searching for something in your expression. You swallow hard, trying to maintain your composure even as your heart races. "Let go" you manage to say, your voice a whisper, a mixture of defiance and something else you can't quite name.

Manjiro's gaze doesn't waver. His thumb brushes lightly against your jawline, a gesture that's both possessive and oddly tender. "I don't think I will," he says softly, his tone low and intimate.

Your mind races, torn between anger at his audacity and the undeniable thrill of his proximity. You can feel his warmth seeping into you, eroding your resolve bit by bit and also unfortunately creating a small wet spot in your panties because you had no fucking idea you were into this shit. "This isn't funny" you retort, your voice trembling slightly despite your attempt to sound steady.

He leans in closer, his breath mingling with yours. "Who said anything about joking?" His words send a shiver down your spine, and you find yourself leaning into him involuntarily, drawn to the magnetic pull he exudes.

"I'm serious," you manage to say, even as your hands betray you by gripping his wrist lightly, not to push him away but to feel the solidity of his touch.

Manjiro's lips curl into a half-smile, the corners of his mouth quirking up in amusement when he realizes you weren't pushing him away. "So am I," he murmurs, his gaze never leaving yours. "I haven't been avoiding you, sweet girl. Just been busy"

His admission hangs heavy in the air, filling the room with an unspoken tension. You search his eyes, seeing a raw honesty that takes you aback. "Then what do you want right now?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

He releases your neck slowly, his hand trailing down your arm until he's holding your hand in his, his touch surprisingly gentle. "I want you," he says simply, his voice low and rough with desire. "I want all of you."

Your heart pounds in your chest, his words echoing in your mind. You've wanted him too, despite your pride and the barriers you've tried to erect. But now, faced with his confession, you find yourself unable to resist any longer. Without another word, you lean in, closing the distance between you. His lips meet yours in a hungry kiss, a collision of pent-up desire and longing. The kiss is fierce and passionate, a tumultuous exchange of heat and need. His hand moves to cup your cheek, his touch is reverent yet possessive. For a moment, everything else fades away. There's only the sensation of his lips on yours, the intoxicating scent of his cologne, the heat of his body pressed against yours. It's a whirlwind of emotions and sensations, overwhelming yet exhilarating. Oh you'd been thinking about the kiss you shared a month ago every night since then and this was probably even better than that. The number of times you've slipped your hand down your pyjamas at night thinking about Manjiro, the way he kissed you, touched you— oh man it almost wasn't fair to think about. When you finally break apart, breathless and dizzy with longing, Manjiro rests his forehead against yours. His eyes are dark with desire, his breathing ragged. "I've wanted to do that for so long," he admits, his voice husky with emotion.

You caress his cheek, your fingers trembling slightly. "Me too," you confess softly, unable to deny the depth of your feelings any longer.

He pulls you into his arms, holding you close as if afraid to let go. "I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs against your hair, his words a promise.

Manjiro pulls you even closer and now you're in his lap, making out all messy and eager. As you tangle your fingers in his white hair you hope you don't seem too desperate. It just feels so nice being with him, kissing him. Especially now that he wasn't treating you like a stain. Instead, Manjiro is sliding your white lace trim cardigan off your shoulders and throwing it somewhere. You're greedily about to slip your tongue into his mouth but he pulls away, making a whine slip from your lips at the loss of contact. You're pushed off his lap to fall against the pillows in a half-sitting half-laying position under him with your legs hooked over his thighs on either side of his hips. "You're quite greedy for someone that has everything" Manjiro says unbuttoning his suit jacket and throwing it in the same place he threw your cardigan

You're heart is beating too fast as you watch him undo the top few buttons of his black dress shirt and roll up the sleeves to his elbows. Sano Manjiro was unnecessarily hot but perhaps that's why you wanted him so bad. "you miss me that much, sweet girl?" He asks, a large calloused hand sliding down your left knee to your bare thigh and the other hand on your midriff keeping you down

Your breath hitches at Manjiro's touch, his hands igniting a fire under your skin. His words wash over you, their effect both thrilling and unsettling. There's no denying the intensity of your desire for him, even as you struggle to maintain your composure. "I..." you start to say, your voice barely a whisper, but he cuts you off with a finger against your lips.

"Shh," he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. "No need to explain. Actions speak louder than words."

With that, he leans down and captures your lips in another searing kiss, his mouth hungry and demanding. Your hands roam his back, feeling the strength of his muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt. He breaks the kiss only to trail hot kisses along your jawline, down your neck, eliciting soft gasps from you. Your mind is a whirlwind of sensations, each touch from him sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. His hands continue their exploration, sliding under the hem of your blouse, causing you to arch into his touch. He teases your skin with feather-light touches, his fingers tracing patterns that make you ache for more. "I missed you" you confess breathlessly, your voice filled with a mix of longing and urgency.

Manjiro's gaze darkens with desire as he looks at you, his fingers caressing your cheek tenderly. "I know," Manjiro murmurs, his voice thick with emotion as his fingers tug at the necklace he gifted you "How about you show me what you've been doing all this time, hm? What've you been doin' while thinkin' 'bout me"

"s-show you?" you repeat shakily

Your voice trembles with a mix of nerves and anticipation as Manjiro's gaze intensifies. He nods slowly, his fingers still gently tracing the contours of your cheek, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Yeah," he breathes, his voice a deep murmur that sends a shiver down your spine. "Show me."

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of his stare on you as you try to gather your thoughts. His proximity, the heat of his body against yours, makes it difficult to think straight. But deep down, you know what he's asking for—what you've yearned for in his absence. "show me baby" Manjiro croons, leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek "You touched yourself thinking of me didn't you?"

A shiver goes through you. You didn't want to admit to him that you did. You didn't want to admit you thought of the way his fingers caressed your most intimate parts and how he kissed you but he knew anyway. "show me how you did" He coaxes and before you know it, he hooks his thumb into your panties under your skirt and tugs them down your thighs

Your heart is beating fast. Way way too fast. "oh, would you look at these" Manjiro is pulling your white lacy panties off your ankles "These are pretty"

Your panties are white, with lace around the trim and a little white bow in the center. You couldn't even tell Manjiro you wore these for him because for one, you didn't know he'd be here and two, most of your panties are in the same style. They were cute and you liked wearing cute things. Thankfully, Manjiro doesn't ask if you wore them for him but instead "Think I'll keep these" and he stuffs them into his pocket

Your outfit itself was all lacy and cute. Cream-coloured skirt with little pink flowers, a pink ribbed cami top with a bow in the center and lace straps and trim. You were happy you hadn't dressed up in your typical depressed university student get-up like a month ago on your birthday. That had been a bit embarrassing to be seen by him in that outfit. However now that you think about it, this was only the 3rd time you met Manjiro and he's already got your panties off. But then again, the second time he had his hand shoved down your shorts. Maybe this was going too fast...

You liked him definitely but this was only the third time meeting him. Was it right to be doing this already? There are so many things to think about before doing this but the throb in the little space between your thighs stops any rational thought from truly making sense. So when Manjiro takes your hand and guides it between your thighs, you let him. "show me" he repeats as he flips your skirt up

Your movements are shaky and nervous as you scoop up your slick and spread it over your sensitive little bud. Your hips jolt at even the smallest touch and your eyes fall shut. This was embarrassing and the finger 8s you're drawing on your clit are shaky but when you open your eyes and see that Manjiro wasn't even looking at your cunt but rather your face with a softened gaze, a new rush of confidence goes through you. You let out a small shaky noise as your fingers hastily circle your nub, now a little too focused on just coming. "hey... a little slower" Manjiro whispers

Your fingers stop their pace and you look at him in confusion, eyes watery. Manjiro isn't smiling but his expression isn't cold. Rather it's soft. He looks endeared and the way he's looking at you causes this odd tugging feeling in your chest. "slower baby" Manjiro repeats and before you know it, his calloused fingers have replaced yours, lazily and slowly stroking your clit

A gasp leaves your lips and your other hand flies up to grasp at his bicep. It feels so much better than how you do it. So so good and you think you might as well just fall apart right then and there but Manjiro pulls his fingers away and guides your hand back down. "like that" he murmurs "'kay, pretty? You can do it like that for me right?"

The low tone of his voice makes your head feel fuzzy. You feel like you're drowning in his eyes and the dim lighting of your bedroom and the sun setting outside your window make this whole thing even better. It's almost romantic, even better than what you've fantasized about. 

Manjiro is even better than you've dreamed of. 

Even your dreams can't do the man above you any justice you think as you rub your clit in the same slow way he just did. His features are overall sharp but the slope of his nose is softer. His white hair is a bit messy now and his pink lips are a bit swollen. Everything about Manjiro is so pretty and it makes your head get even foggier. "there we go... doesn't it feel better when you go slower?" Manjiro asks, his thumb rubbing over the skin above your knee "one finger inside baby... take it slow"

He's being slow and coaxing and you feel yourself so easily complying, sliding your middle finger inside. A little whimper leaves your lips at the feeling. It doesn't feel as good as he did it. In fact, it hasn't been feeling as good since Manjiro touched you. Nothing else felt as good. Your fingers didn't feel as good as his did. "'Jiro..." You whimper

"Shh~" he hushes and kisses your cheek "add another"

You do just as he says, slowly thrusting two fingers in and out. It felt better but not as good as when he did it a month ago. "there we go, you're doing so well" Manjiro murmured and wrapped a hand around your throat again "Just wanna watch you make yourself feel good, baby"

He's once again not squeezing, just holding. It feels good. You like the feeling of his hands on you. "f-fuck~" Little whimpers and moans slip from your lips 

Your hips jolt and you grind your clit against the heel of your palm needily. You want more. You want him. You want it to be Manjiro's fingers inside you, not your own. "'Jiro" You whine

"Yeah baby?" he presses a kiss to your jaw "What does my sweet girl want?"

You shiver, whimpering out his name needily and your eyes turn glassy. "P-Please... want y-you to do it"

"hm? Want me to do it for you?" Manjiro presses a kiss to your forehead "Are your own fingers not enough for my sweet baby's little cunt?"

You grind your clit against your palm, so badly needing some kind of friction. "N-No it's not. they're not" You feel like you might cry

"awe my poor baby" he croons and kisses your cheek

Honestly speaking, you thought you'd need to beg or that he'd make you bed but perhaps Manjiro was feeling nice so he simply pulled your hand away from your needy cunt and replaced your fingers with his own. As soon as his thumb touches you sensitive nub your eyes roll back and lips part. Your hips jolt once his fingers start making scissoring movements and curling upwards. "there we go, good girl" Manjiro whispers and presses a kiss to your throat after you throw your head back "you just needed a little help didn't you?"

A string of whimpers leave your lips as his soft words of encouragement fill your ears and it has you falling apart in mere seconds. 

As the night draws on, you realize that maybe, just maybe, this unreachable moon might be within your grasp after all.

Kaya put a hand over her mouth as she shut the door of your bedroom she had opened a crack. She watched it all. Watched as Manjiro kissed and caressed you, watched as you came apart beneath him and he lifted you off your bed to carry you into your bathroom. She listened as he praised you and he encouraged you to keep going. Her heart pounded in her chest, a mixture of anger, jealousy, and something else—something more vulnerable—churning inside her. She had seen a side of Manjiro she had never witnessed before, a side that made her feel more isolated and unwanted than ever. Kaya knew this engagement was a business arrangement, but seeing him so tender and passionate with you stirred emotions she couldn't control.

Quietly, she turned away from your door and walked down the hallway, her mind racing. She needed to talk to her father, to tell him what she had seen. Perhaps there was still a way to salvage this, to make Manjiro see that she could be the one he desired.

Or wait. 

She stops in her tracks as a better idea crosses her mind. Kaya remembers her father was still yet to tell you about the engagement and she doubts Manjiro told you about it either. Perhaps... Perhaps she could use this to get back at you. Kaya smirked to herself as the plan began to take shape in her mind. She didn't need to run to her father just yet. Instead, she could leverage this secret engagement to her advantage, to twist the knife and regain some control over the situation. She continued down the hallway, her steps light with newfound resolve. There was more than one way to fight for what she wanted. "Dad" she bursts back into the meeting room as her father is still talking to Kokonoi Hajime, another Bonten executive, about their favourite poker games, the rest either smoking or in the midst of getting ready to leave

Her father sighs and Kaya's stomach twists uncomfortably at the irritated way her own father looks at her. "yes?"

Kaya clears her throat and eyed the annoying criminals in the room and they all roll their eyes and left, the pink-haired one with the scars on his mouth whose name she forgot, brushed a little too close past her. "anyways..." She mutters and sits next to her father "Have you told [y/n] about the engagement yet?"

"No, not yet. I was going to see her just now" Shinichi responds, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension

Kaya smiles and musters up the sweetest voice she possibly could. "Maybe for now don't tell her"

Shinichi raises an eyebrow, intrigued by his daughter's sudden interest in the matter especially something concerning you, his favourite. "And why shouldn't I?" he asks, his tone cautious.

Kaya leans in closer, her voice low and conspiratorial. "Because I have a plan. I've seen how Sano looks at her. You told me Dad, that we needed something to keep Bonten in check since they've been getting too bold. I saw two of them laughing and playing with her earlier—"

"Kaya I do not want to put [y/n] in any kind of danger, especially with those snakes. It was bad enough they already knew about her when I've been trying my best to hide her. I don't want to make things worse" Shinichi says rubbing his forehead

Kaya leans back slightly, considering her father's words. She knew he was protective of you, and rightly so. Bonten's world was dangerous, filled with rivalries and power struggles that could easily ensnare an innocent like you. But Kaya was driven by her own desires, fueled by the need to regain control over her crumbling world and jealously that once again you were getting love. Her father loved you more than her and now her fiancé, who for one sure she didn't like at all, but it still annoyed the hell out of her because Manjiro always treated her so cold and rough. “I understand your concern, Dad, but hear me out. We can use this to our advantage without putting [Y/N] in harm's way.”

Shinichi's expression remains skeptical, but he motions for her to continue. Kaya takes a deep breath, knowing she has to tread carefully. "If we keep it a secret, we can observe their interactions and understand what their true intentions are. We can use her as a... a way to gauge their loyalty and plans. If Manjiro is distracted by [y/n], he might make mistakes. We can use their attachment to her to our advantage. Manipulate the situation and you can win back your power and truly be president and not just a man sitting in a chair while a criminal takes control from the shadows."

Shinichi leans back in his chair, considering her words carefully. He knows Kaya is not to be underestimated when she sets her mind to something, but the thought of involving you in the dangerous dynamics of Bonten worries him deeply. "Kaya, this is risky. [Y/N] is not just a pawn in some game. She's..."

"Exactly, Dad," Kaya interrupts softly, her voice pleading now. "She's a leverage we can use and so far, three of them seem to like her"

Shinichi sighs heavily, torn between his protective instincts for you and the strategic considerations for Bonten. He rubs his temples, his expression tight with concern. "Kaya, I understand your point, but I can't risk [Y/N]'s safety just to gain an advantage over Bonten."

Kaya's jaw tightens, frustration simmering beneath the surface. She leans closer to her father, her voice urgent. "But Dad, we need something to keep them in check. They're getting bolder, and if we don't do something soon, they could undermine everything you've built."

Shinichi's gaze flickers with indecision, his mind racing through the implications of Kaya's proposal. He knows the precarious position Bonten is in, with internal tensions and external threats looming. And yet, involving you, his precious little girl, in their dangerous games is something he's always strived to avoid. In fact, he tried avoiding even letting you out of the mansion. You were his little secret, his illegitimate daughter, someone that wasn't supposed to exist— yet his first daughter was encouraging him to use you. "You want [y/n] to be our eyes and ears?" Shinichi confirms Kaya's words which do make sense as it was something you would agree to doing

Kaya nods eagerly, her eyes locking onto her father's with determination. "Yes, Dad. With [Y/N]'s connection to Manjiro and those two others, we can gain valuable insight into their plans and intentions. We can use her presence as a leverage point, without putting her directly in harm's way."

Shinichi's brow furrows deeply as he weighs the risks and potential benefits of Kaya's proposal. He knows Rindo and Sanzu, mostly the latter, are influential within Bonten, and any leverage over them could indeed strengthen his position. Yet, the thought of involving you in the dangerous world of Bonten is a bitter pill to swallow. You were his secret, his beloved daughter, sheltered from the brutal realities of the world. "Kaya, you know how I feel about this," Shinichi begins slowly, his voice tinged with reluctance. "I've kept [Y/N] out of the public eye for a reason and not just because of the backlash I'd get. She's not like us, not like you and me. She's innocent, untouched by our world."

Kaya internally rolls her eyes. Oh, she hated how her father couldn't see how much of a little bitch you were. She hates that you, the spoiled sheltered little brat with nothing to offer, is his favourite and not her. "I know, Dad. But she's already involved. Manjiro and those two are interested in her. We can use that to our advantage. She's not just an innocent girl anymore; she's a potential asset."

Shinichi rubs his temples wearily, grappling with the weight of his decision. "And what if things go wrong? What if they find out we're using her?"

"We'll be careful," Kaya insists, her voice earnest. "We won't put her directly in danger. We'll monitor the situation closely, and if it gets too risky, we'll pull her out. But right now, we need a way to keep Bonten in check. This could be our best chance."

Shinichi stares at his daughter, torn between his paternal instincts and his responsibilities as the president of Japan. He knows the risks, but he also understands the necessity of maintaining control over his new position as president of the country. Finally, he sighs heavily and meets Kaya's gaze with resignation. "Alright," he concedes reluctantly. "But we do this carefully. [Y/N]'s safety is non-negotiable. She's to be kept out of direct harm's way at all costs."

Kaya nods emphatically, relief washing over her features. "Of course, Dad. I'll make sure of it."

Shinichi gives her a stern look, his voice firm. "And Kaya, remember, [Y/N] is not just a pawn to be played in our game. She's family."

Kaya's expression softens, and she nods solemnly. "I know, Dad. I won't forget."

With a heavy heart, Shinichi rises from his chair, his mind already racing with plans and strategies. "Let's proceed cautiously, then. We'll keep the engagement a secret for now and observe the situation. But the moment I sense any danger to [Y/N], we pull the plug."

Kaya nods again, determined to prove herself and regain control over her fate. "Understood, Dad."

So they leave the study and down the hall see the snake— Bonten, standing around, seemingly talking about something. "Sano-san" Shinichi calls "I need to talk to you about something"

Manjiro is fixing his collar, his gaze cold as he looks at the president and his fiancée. "yes?"

The rest go quiet as well, waiting for Shinichi to speak. Kaya doesn't understand how you managed to get three out eight of the top members of Bonten wrapped around your finger when they're all so damn scary. She hates your guts but she sure applauds you for it. "about my other daughter..." Shinichi starts

Manjiro's expression remains stoic, his demeanour unreadable as Shinichi mentions you. Kaya observes him closely, noting the controlled way he holds himself, the mask of indifference he wears so well. It's a stark contrast to the passionate intensity she witnessed earlier in your bedroom, a side of him she hadn't imagined existed. "What about her?" Manjiro asks curtly, his voice devoid of emotion.

Shinichi hesitates briefly, exchanging a glance with Kaya before continuing. "I was planning to inform her about the engagement soon, but I think we hold off on it for now."

Manjiro's gaze flickers, a hint of curiosity betraying his outwardly composed demeanour. "Is that so?" he replies, his voice neutral.

Kaya watches him closely, trying to gauge his reaction. She wonders if he suspects anything if he knows about the plan she and her father have discussed. But Manjiro's expression remains inscrutable, giving nothing away. Shinichi clears his throat, his tone measured as he continues, "sibling rivalry and all. You know how it is with girls" 

Kaya can't help but narrow her eyes a little at her father's excuse. "Kaya, the adults are talking, how about you go see what's for dinner" Shinichi says to her

She bites her tongue and pretends to leave but listens to the rest of the conversation behind a wall. "[y/n] and Kaya have always had fights growing up and telling [y/n] might cause even more problems..." Shinichi says

Manjiro's gaze shifts between Shinichi and Kaya, his expression guarded. He's accustomed to navigating the murky waters of alliances and rivalries within Bonten, but the mention of sibling dynamics brings a flicker of interest to his eyes. "I see," Manjiro responds evenly, though there's a subtle tension in his posture that Kaya notices. 

She knows she's testing the waters here, trying to see how much Manjiro knows or suspects. Despite her envy and frustration, she's also intrigued by the depth of his composure. Shinichi nods, his tone deliberate. "Yes, I'd prefer to handle the situation delicately. Their relationship is... complicated."

Kaya watches Manjiro closely, searching for any sign that he might see through their facade. She knows her father is trying to buy time, to use you as a pawn without you being aware. But with Manjiro, she senses there's more at play—his intelligence and perceptiveness could be a challenge to their plans. "I understand," Manjiro replies, his voice betraying no hint of his thoughts. "Family matters can be sensitive."

Shinichi nods in agreement, his gaze steady on Manjiro. "Indeed. I trust you understand the importance of discretion in this matter."

Manjiro inclines his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgement. "Of course."

Kaya smiles and pulls her bottom lips between her teeth. She couldn't wait. But Kaya also knows she needs to bide her time. She can't reveal her cards too soon, not when you and Manjiro are still in the honeymoon phase of your blossoming relationship. She'll wait, she'll watch, and when the moment is ripe, she'll strike.

In the meantime, she'll play the role of the supportive sister, the innocent bystander caught in the complexities of family dynamics. She'll observe your interactions with Manjiro, noting every smile, every touch, and every whispered promise. And with each passing day, her resolve strengthens, fueled by jealousy and ambition.

It would tear you apart and she knows it will.

[END SCENE]

"hey sweetheart" You hear your dad's voice echo in your room as you lie in bed now showered and changed in your pyjamas

You sit up in bed, your heart warming at the sound of your father's voice after such a long time apart. Despite the complications and secrets swirling around you, his presence brings a sense of comfort and familiarity. "Hi Dad!" you exclaim with a bright smile, pushing aside the lingering thoughts of the evening's events. 

You notice the tiredness in his eyes, the weight of responsibility that seems to have settled on his shoulders more heavily than usual. Being president must definitely be hard. Shinichi steps into your room, a small smile tugging at his lips as he takes in your appearance. "You look well," he remarks softly, his gaze filled with paternal affection "my little girl barely looks a day over 10, I can't belive you're 20 now"

You pout as he sits down in front of you. "hey! I do not look 10"

Shinichi chuckles warmly, reaching out to playfully ruffle your hair. "Alright, maybe not 10. But you'll always be my little girl, no matter how old you get," he says fondly, his tone tinged with both pride and a hint of melancholy.

You lean into his touch, feeling a rush of warmth at his words. Despite the complexities of your family's situation and the secrets that seem to hover just beneath the surface, moments like these with your father are precious to you. "I missed you, Dad," you admit softly, your voice carrying the weight of the time you spent apart.

His expression softens, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "I missed you too, sweetheart," Shinichi replies sincerely, his gaze searching yours. "I'm sorry for being so distant lately. Things have been... complicated."

You nod understandingly, knowing all too well the pressures and responsibilities that come with his position. "It's okay, Dad," you assure him, reaching up to squeeze his hand gently. "I know you're doing your best."

Shinichi smiles gratefully, his eyes reflecting his gratitude for your understanding. "Thank you, [Y/N]," he says softly. "I appreciate that more than you know."

Silence settles between you for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. Finally, you decide to ask him "Why does Bonten know who I am?"

Shinichi sighs. It was time to let the skeletons out of the closet. 

notes: I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the smut was okay

likes, asks, comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡

taglist: @m-ilkiee @reiners-milkbiddies @short-cxke @brisssaaa009 @tenjikusstuff4

@asirensrage @fushiquro @iwasei @kiwixpi @mysouleaten @luminouslaybyrinth @merrymerrykiss

@maraya-007 @dolfiins-art @yuyu12mm @kodzubaby @zantetsuwu @hayatisyourlife @bachiraslvr @bontensbabygirl

[minhosbitterriver]

𑁍ࠬܓ 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ( stray kids )

❛ In which the members of Stray Kids navigate the world of fatherhood without you.

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬 + female reader ೯ ( 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) 4.4k

꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ This request was absolutely devastating to write, thank you! I hope you guys enjoy, reblogs and feedback are much appreciated! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Y/N has passed away, each member is a single father still in love with you, mentions of grief, some of the kids fall under the LGBTQ+ community.

( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 )

꒰ 🫙 ꒱ ミ Tip Jar!

방찬 ── BANG CHAN.

Chan's office was bathed in the soft, amber glow of the desk lamps, casting a warm yet somber light across the room. The gentle hum of the night time silence was broken only by the rhythmic, soothing breaths of his three-year-old daughter, who lay peacefully on the worn leather couch. Her tiny face, so serene in slumber, was a haunting mirror of your beautiful features, stirring a profound ache in Chan's heart.

As he watched her, tears began to silently trace their way down his cheeks, each drop carrying the weight of his sorrow and longing. He could still hear your final, trembling words: "Love her twice as much in my absence." The memory was a dagger, twisting with the relentless guilt and grief that had become his constant companions. The sight of his daughter's innocent face, so reminiscent of you, only deepened his anguish.

Today had been especially trying. Chan had promised his little girl a joyous outing to the park, a precious respite from his hectic work schedule. But the day took an unexpected turn when Changbin called in a panic, frantically searching for the nearly completed recording of their latest song. What Chan had hoped would be a swift resolution morphed into hours of desperate searching, only to end in the devastating realization that they would have to begin the recording anew.

All the while, his daughter’s patience wore thin. She had no toys, no distractions, just the suffocating boredom of waiting. Her disappointment was palpable, a silent reproach that cut deeper than any words could. Chan felt like he was failing her, failing in the promise he had made to you. Driven by the need to make amends, he gently woke his daughter. Her initial crankiness gave way to curiosity as he apologized for breaking his promise and proposed a sleepover at home. Movies, games, a fort, and endless cuddles — her eyes sparkled at the thought, and her frown dissolved into giggles.

At home, they transformed the living room into a magical fortress of pillows and blankets, a sanctuary just for them. They watched animated tales, played games, and reveled in the simple joy of being together. Wrapped in the cozy embrace of their fort, she eventually succumbed to sleep once more, nestled against him. Her hair, a tousled mess, and a small trail of drool on his shirt were endearing reminders of her tender age and boundless trust in him.

Chan held her close, his heart swelling with love and a bittersweet yearning. She was the living embodiment of his heart, and as he gazed at her, he whispered a vow into the stillness of the night. He promised to love her with all his might, carrying the weight of both his love and the part of you that would forever reside in their lives. In that quiet moment, amidst the echoes of his promises, he felt a fragile sense of peace, knowing that as long as he held her, he was keeping your memory alive.

이민호 ── LEE MINHO.

Minho lay in the dim, soft glow of his bedroom, shadows whispering across the walls as the twins slept peacefully beside him. Their tiny forms had claimed your side of the bed, filling the void where your presence once brought warmth and comfort. The night he returned home with the babies, he had attempted to sleep alone, but the emptiness was unbearable. He tossed and turned, haunted by the silence, until one of the babies began to cry, inevitably waking the other. In his desperation to soothe them, he gathered every pillow he could find, crafting a makeshift crib in his bed. Their delicate features softened in the calm of his presence, and they finally drifted off to sleep.

As Minho gazed at their angelic faces, hands entwined even in slumber, his heart ached with the weight of your absence. How could he begin to process this loss? You had spent almost ten months nurturing these little miracles, only to be taken away before you could revel in the beauty of their existence. Ten months of creating life, and you would never witness the serene way they held hands in their sleep. Ten months of dreams and hopes, and you would miss their first birthdays, graduations, weddings. It was unbearably cruel, and Minho’s soul was tormented by the thought.

You wouldn’t even be here to laugh about the pregnancy mix-up that had both of you convinced it would be a boy and a girl, only to welcome two beautiful baby girls into the world. His friends had offered to stay and help, but he had declined, needing the solitude to grapple with his grief. Now, in the stillness of the night, he questioned if he had made the right choice.

Tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks as the full weight of his new reality settled over him. He was to raise these precious little princesses on his own, and the responsibility felt crushing. Yet, as he watched their peaceful slumber, he knew he had to summon every ounce of strength for them. They were his world now, the living, breathing remnants of your love. He vowed to cherish them, to love them fiercely, and to guide them through life with unwavering dedication, for they were all he had left of you, and he was all they had.

In the hushed silence, he whispered promises into the night, pledging to be the best father he could be. He would ensure they knew how deeply you loved them, even if you couldn’t be there to tell them yourself. And as he held them close, feeling the rise and fall of their tiny chests, a fragile peace washed over him. He knew that in every laugh, every tear, and every milestone, you would be there in spirit, guiding him, loving them, always.

서창빈 ── SEO CHANGBIN.

The sun was setting, casting a warm, golden glow over the park as Changbin and his 13-year-old son sat on a weathered wooden bench, savoring their ice cream. The park buzzed with the laughter of children, their joy mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves in the summer breeze. Parents lounged on the grass, basking in the last light of day, while Changbin watched his son’s face light up with a blush as he received a message.

Changbin couldn’t resist teasing him. "Who’s got you smiling like that?" he asked, his voice laced with playful curiosity.

His son’s cheeks reddened further, and he looked away, trying to hide his smile. "Just a girl from school," he mumbled, glancing at his phone. "She texted to congratulate me on today’s soccer game."

Changbin’s interest was piqued. "A girl, huh? Do you like her?" he inquired gently, but his son just rolled his eyes, keeping his thoughts to himself.

After a while, his son broke the comfortable silence with a question that took Changbin by surprise. "Dad, how did you know Mom was the one for you?"

Changbin's heart swelled with a bittersweet mix of love and nostalgia. He took a deep breath, the memory washing over him like a tender wave. "Well," he began softly, "it was before you were born. Your mom and I had only been dating for a few months. One evening, we decided to take a ride on my motorcycle to grab some food. On the way back, she spotted a bookstore and got all excited. She tapped my shoulder and pointed it out, her eyes sparkling like a child's. I couldn't say no to that."

He smiled, lost in the memory. "We stopped, and I handed her my card, telling her to get whatever she wanted. She promised she’d come out empty-handed, but I knew better." He chuckled, remembering your sheepish yet triumphant expression as you emerged with a bag hidden behind your back. "She ended up buying two books and couldn’t stop talking about them, her excitement contagious. When I told her I was glad she found something, she did this little dance of joy before climbing back onto the bike. She had to hold the bag since her backpack was already stuffed with our food, but she was too happy to care."

Changbin’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. "That’s when I knew she was the one. It wasn’t some grand gesture; it was her pure joy in the little things, her passion for life. I wish you could have known her. She loved you so much, even before you were born."

His son’s eyes mirrored his own longing and admiration. "I wish I’d known her too," he said softly. "My goal in life is to find my soulmate, like you found Mom. I want to love someone as much as you loved her."

Changbin’s heart ached with pride and sorrow. "You deserve to have someone by your side for a long time," he said, his voice thick with emotion. Then, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he added, "Who knows, maybe this girl from school is your one."

His son groaned, a playful smile tugging at his lips as he nudged Changbin, causing his ice cream to topple onto the ground. Changbin laughed, a deep, hearty sound that echoed through the park. His own ice cream slipped from his grasp, joining his son’s on the pavement, and they both burst into laughter, the joy of the moment a soothing balm to their hearts.

In that golden hour, surrounded by the simple pleasures of ice cream and shared memories, Changbin felt a profound sense of peace. Despite the heartache and loss, he and his son would continue to find love and joy in the little things, just as you had taught him. And in those moments of laughter and connection, he felt your presence with them, a silent guardian watching over their journey, smiling at their shared happiness.

황현진 ── HWANG HYUNJIN.

Hyunjin sat alone in the dimly lit room, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting a warm, golden hue over the familiar surroundings. The air was thick with memories, each piece of furniture and every stroke of paint a testament to the love and labor he had shared with you. His heart ached with a bittersweet nostalgia as he looked around, his mind filled with the echoes of laughter and the whispers of cherished moments.

He remembered the countless hours spent building the furniture, the frustration and triumph mingling as he struggled with stubborn screws, while you sat nearby, reading the instructions with a patience that never failed to calm him. The nursery walls, painted in a tapestry of happy themes, bore the marks of your combined artistic talents, creating a sanctuary for the new life you both awaited with eager anticipation.

The night he returned home with the baby, your absence a gaping void beside him, was etched into his soul. He had sat in the rocking chair, the one he had bought especially for you, cradling the fragile bundle in his arms, paralyzed by the fear of being alone. Many nights, he had dozed off in that chair, too afraid to leave its comforting embrace, haunted by the silence that your departure had left behind.

A wistful smile tugged at his lips as he recalled the day he found your child drawing on the walls, their tiny hands busy creating a colorful mural over your delicate paintings. It had pained him to see your work altered, but the sight of their concentrated little face, so much like yours, had softened his heart. He had chosen to let them be creative, to express themselves freely, even if it meant sacrificing a piece of you.

He thought of the time his six-year-old had cried in his arms, their tiny body trembling with confusion and hurt because they didn't fit in with the boys or the girls. Hyunjin had held them close, whispering reassurances, his heart breaking at the familiar pain. It had been a long journey, but he had worked tirelessly to make their home a sanctuary of love and acceptance.

The memories came in a flood, each one a cherished gem: the summer in middle school when they returned home with bags of new clothes and put on a fashion show, proudly displaying their androgynous style; the pride parade, where he meticulously placed sticky rainbow gems on their face, their giddy excitement lighting up the day; and finally, the day they graduated and moved out, leaving behind an empty room filled with the ghosts of the past.

Tears rolled down Hyunjin’s face as he sat in the rocking chair, now old and creaky, thinking of all the moments he had cherished yet wished he could have shared with you. The weight of the memories pressed down on him, a heavy, inescapable burden.

Suddenly, his phone rang, startling him from his reverie. He hastily wiped his tears and saw it was a FaceTime call from his child. He answered, and their beaming face filled the screen, the excitement in their eyes mirrored by the twinkling fairy lights in their new apartment's bedroom.

“Hey, Dad! Look at my new room!” they exclaimed, panning the camera around to show off their new space, their voice bubbling with pride and joy.

Hyunjin’s heart swelled with pride and love. “It looks amazing, sweetheart,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

“I miss you,” they confessed, their eyes shining with unshed tears. “Can we spend the first night together, through the phone?”

Hyunjin chuckled softly, trying to mask his lingering sadness. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of moving out?”

They laughed, a sound that was pure and unfiltered joy. “Maybe, but I know you’re in my old room crying already.”

He laughed too, the heaviness lifting just a bit. “You got me there.”

They didn’t hang up, staying connected through the screen as the night deepened. Hyunjin lay back in the rocking chair, his child propped up in their new bed, both finding solace in the familiar presence of each other. As they talked and laughed, Hyunjin realized that though you weren’t physically there, your spirit lived on in these moments, in the love that continued to bind them together. And for now, that was enough.

한지성 ── HAN JISUNG.

Jisung found his seven-year-old child hidden within the treehouse that the three of you had built together. This small wooden sanctuary, once filled with laughter and joy, now bore the heavy weight of sorrow. They were still in their funeral attire, the black clothes contrasting sharply against the soft glow of the setting sun. The murmurs of the guests lingering in the backyard became a distant, indistinct hum as Jisung climbed into the treehouse, his heart burdened with grief and a simmering anger at the universe for taking you away so cruelly.

His son's youthful face was etched with a grief that seemed too profound for such a young soul. Jisung felt a surge of helplessness as he reached out, pulling his child close, wrapping him in an embrace meant to shield him from the cruel world outside. “I miss Mom,” came the soft, heart-wrenching whisper, each word a dagger to Jisung’s already shattered heart.

“I miss Mom too,” Jisung murmured, his voice thick with unshed tears. They sat together in silence, the weight of your absence pressing down on them like an insurmountable force.

It had been nearly a year since you had fallen ill, the sickness so severe that the doctors had given you only a few months at most. Yet, you had defied their grim prognosis, your spirit burning brightly despite the frailty of your body. Jisung remembered the countless nights spent by your side, swallowing his fears and anger as you spoke of your impending death with a calm acceptance that had always made him furious. To him, it felt as though you had given up, but he knew deep down that wasn’t the case. You hadn’t wanted to waste what little time you had left fighting an unwinnable battle. Perhaps if he had truly listened, if he had embraced those fleeting moments instead of railing against them, he might have cherished your final days more deeply.

His son, too young to fully grasp the concept of death, struggled with the finality of it all. He understood that you would never return, yet accepting it was a different matter entirely. Jisung’s heart broke anew each time he saw the confusion and sorrow in his child’s eyes, a mirror of his own torment.

Holding his son tighter, Jisung wished he could find the right words to ease the pain, to make sense of a world that had suddenly lost its light. But words failed him, crumbled under the weight of their shared grief. Instead, he let the silence speak, hoping the strength of his embrace could convey the love and comfort his words could not.

The treehouse, once a symbol of their shared joy, now held their sorrow. The walls, which had echoed with laughter and dreams, now seemed to absorb their pain, standing as silent witnesses to their loss. But within this small, sacred space, surrounded by the memories of happier times, Jisung hoped they could begin to heal. He would be there for his son, a steadfast presence in the storm of their grief, guiding him through the darkness with a love that, while tested, remained unbroken.

As the last light of day faded, Jisung held his son close, both finding a semblance of solace in each other’s presence. In the quiet, grief-stricken aftermath, they began to forge a new bond, one tempered by loss but strengthened by their enduring love. And in that silent communion, Jisung found a glimmer of hope that they would eventually find their way through the darkness together.

이용복 ── LEE YONGBOK.

In a home where the relentless energy of three young girls and their single father painted every day with hues of joyous chaos, peace was a fleeting visitor. The air thrummed with the symphony of exuberant laughter, the vibrant discord of simultaneous chatter, and the relentless rhythm of youthful exuberance. Yongbok would never trade this tempestuous world for anything, yet a hollow ache lingered for the presence of the one who had been the steady heartbeat of their lives.

Your sudden departure had cast a profound shadow over their once lively abode, transforming it into a quieter realm where your laughter’s echoes were replaced by an oppressive silence. As time wove its delicate fabric over the jagged edges of grief, the house gradually adjusted to a new cadence, yet the weight of your absence hung heavy in every corner.

Despite this, Yongbok discovered fragments of you embedded within the fabric of their daily lives. He saw your essence in the selfless nurturing of his eldest daughter, who had seamlessly stepped into the role of co-caregiver. Her quiet acts of love and responsibility were a poignant echo of the devotion you had always shown, a continuation of your spirit in her every gesture.

In the middle child’s vibrant monologues about obscure topics, Yongbok glimpsed your enduring influence. Her unquenchable thirst for knowledge mirrored the intellectual curiosity you had nurtured, each passionate explanation a living testament to your legacy.

The youngest, with her mischievous gleam and boundless spirit, kept Yongbok perpetually on his toes. Her playful antics and joyful mischief were a vivid reminder of the vivacity you had infused into their home, a living echo of the light you had brought into their lives.

In the quiet moments, Yongbok could still feel your presence. The post-it notes left in his lunch bag by his eldest daughter, each inscribed with a simple message of love, were imbued with your warmth. The tender strokes of his middle daughter’s fingers through his hair during their movie nights were a silent connection to you. And in the gentle inquiries of his youngest, her head peeking around the door to ensure he was alright, he felt the deep compassion you had instilled in her.

Though you were absent from the milestones and daily rhythms, your essence lived on through them. In the small, tender acts of affection and love, you continued to be a cherished part of their lives, an enduring presence in their hearts.

김승민 ── KIM SEUNGMIN.

Seungmin had been absent through the vast expanse of your pregnancy, the relentless demands of touring keeping him away. He returned just in time to witness the birth, only to be swallowed by the crushing weight of your absence. The pain of missing those precious moments with you, of not being there to share in the miracle of your last days, was a wound that never healed. This haunting regret followed him, a constant reminder of a future lost.

The day you passed, Seungmin left Stray Kids, unable to bear the weight of the stage without you by his side. He couldn’t find solace in the bright lights or the rhythms of his music. Instead, he focused on his two sons—an older one, now sixteen, and a younger one, now twelve. The older boy, once a vibrant spirit, had retreated into the shadows of his room, his once lively demeanor replaced by a sullen silence. The baseball games that had once bound them together now lay abandoned, and Seungmin, despite the storm within, knew he had to reach out.

Determined to bridge the chasm that had grown between them, Seungmin planned a day just for the two of them. He left the youngest with his closest friend, Jeongin, and took his older son out. The car ride was a quiet procession of unspoken thoughts, the weight of their shared grief hanging heavily between them. When they finally arrived at their destination, Seungmin braced himself, ready to face the tender fracture of their relationship.

It took patience, but eventually, the silence broke. The older boy revealed his feelings for a boy at school, emotions that he struggled to understand. Seungmin was taken aback, but he remained calm, his heart aching with a blend of surprise and concern. As his son’s tears fell freely, Seungmin pulled him into a tender embrace, his own heart aching with a mixture of empathy and love. He whispered reassurances into his son’s hair, promising acceptance and protection, vowing to stand by him no matter what.

The boy, still tearful but comforted, then showed Seungmin a small journal. Inside was a song he had penned, a poignant melody woven with the threads of his conflicted feelings for the boy at school. The song was hauntingly beautiful, a reflection of his son’s delicate soul and burgeoning talent. Seungmin’s heart swelled with pride and love as he listened, recognizing the echoes of his own musical spirit in his child’s creation.

As the day drew to a close, Seungmin received a snapshot from Jeongin—his youngest child, covered in dirt and beaming with the joy of a day spent playing baseball. The image was a burst of pure happiness, a vivid reminder that even amidst the sorrow, moments of light and joy persisted.

As the sun set, Seungmin felt a renewed connection with his older son, a fragile yet precious bond rekindled through their shared experiences and heartfelt conversation. Though the regret of not being there for you lingered, he found solace in the fact that he was striving to be the father you would have been proud of. In the quiet moments of the evening, he hoped, with all his heart, that wherever you were, you watched over them and felt a deep pride in the man he was becoming—a father striving to honor your memory through the love and strength he gave to your family.

양정인 ── YANG JEONGIN.

Jeongin’s youngest daughter was a restless spirit, her stubborn yet carefree nature a constant reminder of the love she once shared with you. Each burst of laughter, every defiant flicker of joy, was a living echo of your vibrant presence. In contrast, his oldest son was a mirror of Jeongin’s own meticulous nature, his life meticulously ordered, each ambition carefully planned.

Lately, Jeongin’s heart had been heavy with worry. His daughter, brimming with reckless exuberance, frequently dashed off to meet a boy Jeongin knew was unworthy. The thought of her entangled with someone without a future gnawed at him, leaving him adrift in a sea of concern. As he lay awake at night, the silence seemed to taunt him, and he often found himself wondering how you would have navigated these troubled waters if you had still been there to guide them.

One night, as the moonlight spilled softly through the window, Jeongin was wrenched from sleep by the unmistakable sound of muffled sobs. His heart raced as he followed the cries to his daughter’s room. He paused at the door, the murmur of his son’s voice cutting through the silence. The room, once a sanctuary of dreams, was now a cocoon of whispered regrets and stifled tears. His daughter’s voice wavered with the weight of her shame, confessing her feelings of foolishness for having trusted the boy. His son, with a soothing calmness that mirrored your gentle strength, reassured her that she wasn’t foolish, merely swept up in the exhilarating tide of young love. He told her she deserved better than a boy with no future, his words a soft balm to her wounded spirit.

Jeongin’s heart ached with a mixture of pride and sorrow as he heard his son’s comforting tones, the echoes of your nurturing spirit resonating in his voice. After a few moments, he gathered the courage to step into the room. His eyes were tender with understanding as he took in the scene: his daughter’s tear-streaked face, her hands buried in her lap. Her cries grew louder as she saw him, her embarrassment palpable as she shielded her face with her hands.

Jeongin knelt before her, his expression a blend of love and compassion. Gently, he reached for her hands, drawing them away from her face to hold them in his own. His touch was a lifeline, a silent promise of unwavering support.

“You told me so, I know,” she choked out, her voice a trembling whisper.

“I would never say that, my love,” Jeongin murmured, his voice rich with tenderness. He wrapped her in his arms, pulling her close against his chest. His gaze met his son’s, a shared understanding passing between them.

“I know it hurts,” Jeongin whispered into her hair, his voice a soothing melody against her ear, “but this isn’t the end.” His embrace was a warm cocoon, a sanctuary of love amidst the storm of her emotions. The night unfolded in a delicate tapestry of comfort and hope, a testament to the enduring love that bound them together, even in the quiet absence of your guiding presence.

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Permanent taglist: @agi-ppangx @sunnyrisee @jisunglyricist

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Post taglist: @bowsnbang @nothinginterestingtoshowhere

🍉 FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE! DAILY CLICKS! STAYBLR FUNDRAISER!

[ssa-dado]

14 - What Could Have Been

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, whump and alluded smut Summary: Hotch invited you to join the team for drinks, a rare gesture revealing how deeply your presence still affected him. As the night unfolded, the team noticed the undeniable connection between you two, despite the years of distance. Peter, unaware of the subtle dynamics, accidentally outed personal details about your past, igniting quiet rage in Hotch, who later confronted him. Meanwhile, Peter revealed plans for your future. Hotch, torn between happiness for you and regret over lost chances, masked his emotions, as usual. Warnings: alluded sex and outing Word Count: 7.9k Dado's Corner: I experimented stylistically with this chapter, it's all in one setting and paves the way for the future plot. It's very similar to chapter 8, this time with Hotch's POV. Ok now let's talk about the big elephant in the room: the part I decided to add was.. that. Yep. Hate me

masterlist

At the bar, Hotch sat directly across from you, it was an old habit neither of you ever discussed, but it mirrored the way your desks had been positioned all those years ago, facing one another.

It was Hotch who insisted you join the team for drinks while you were still in town, a rare invitation that had caught everyone off guard. For as long as the team could remember, Hotch had always been the first to leave after a case, racing home to spend whatever sliver of time he could with his family. There was always a hurriedness to him, a quiet desperation behind his tightly controlled exterior. His constant absence gnawed at him, feeding a guilt that never seemed to wane, as if each hour spent at work was a betrayal to the family waiting for him.

He feared, deeply and quietly, that he was becoming the very thing he swore he’d never be: his father.

Distant.

Cold.

The most irrational side of him believed, almost certainly, that once he became that, it would take barely a breath to not only become like his father, but to repeat his father’s deeds, most painfully, the ones done to him.

A man swallowed by work, only to offer scraps of himself to those who needed him most. He could already see the parallels, the way Haley’s eyes would dull when he missed dinner again, the way Jack’s laugh grew quieter in his absence. It haunted him - the thought of losing them, of being too late to realize he’d made the same mistakes.

So when Hotch suggested a night out with the team, everyone had been floored. It was so out of character for him to initiate something so casual, so personal. And when he casually mentioned that you would be joining, it became clear to the team that this night wasn’t just a rare opportunity to unwind, it was something more meaningful. This wasn’t just Hotch taking an evening off, it was him opening a window into a part of his life that had never fully let go of him.

That part was you.

As the night went on, the team exchanged subtle glances, silently acknowledging the shift in their normally reserved boss. You were someone who had shaped him, someone who still had an undeniable influence over him, even after all this time. There was a quiet gravity to the way Hotch looked at you, the rare ease in his demeanor. He wasn’t just their stern, disciplined unit chief tonight - there was something lighter in him, something almost playful.

Across the table, Hotch’s gaze lingered on you, drawn to every subtle movement, every quiet sound. Six years of distance had sharpened his awareness of you, as if time apart had made him need to memorize you all over again. The sound of your soft chuckle, the way you leaned in, eyes wide with surprise, became etched into his mind, each moment sacred.

"Wait - what do you mean you guys have a jet now?" you asked, incredulous, your disbelief pulling a rare smile from him, one he hadn’t felt in far too long, that immediately caught the team’s attention. It was an expression so unusual for him that it felt almost out of place, but in that moment, it suited him perfectly.

“Budget increases,” he said with a hint of dry humor. “I’d say we got lucky.”

You leaned back in your chair, rolling your eyes in playful exasperation. “I swear, I’m cursed,” you teased, your voice laced with disbelief. “Every time I leave something, it suddenly gets upgraded. I leave, and you guys get a jet? Come on!”

The team erupted in laughter, the easy camaraderie in the air making the night feel more intimate, more personal. Hotch’s smirk softened into something warmer, a smile that barely lifted the corners of his mouth but was genuine nonetheless. “It probably only happened because Rossi left,” he added, his voice lighter than usual, clearly enjoying the banter. “You know he used to complain every time he had to share a room with Gideon.”

The team watched in amazement, their eyes darting between you and Hotch as if they were witnessing something impossible. Hotch - stoic, unyielding Hotch - seemed lighter tonight, the weight he usually carried on his shoulders lifting, even if just for this fleeting moment. It was as though being in your presence allowed him to breathe a little easier, his usual armor cracking just enough to let something more human, more personal, shine through.

JJ, wide-eyed and still processing everything that had unfolded, couldn’t help but blurt out, “How often did you even have to share rooms?!” Her question came out more like an exclamation, half in disbelief. She didn’t expect a real answer, just like the rest of the team.

“Oh, trust me,” you began with a knowing smile, your voice carrying the weight of countless stories untold. “I’ve shared rooms more times than I can count.” You paused, letting the team absorb that, watching as their expressions shifted from curiosity to surprise.

And then, as if effortlessly peeling back yet another layer of mystery, you added the real kicker. “In fact, I was always stuck sharing with him.” You gestured toward Hotch with a casual nod, your grin widening as the team’s jaws collectively dropped.

The room fell silent for a beat, the air thick with disbelief. The team exchanged wide-eyed glances, struggling to process what they had just heard. Garcia, practically vibrating with shock, looked like she might burst. Reid’s brows furrowed in confusion, as if trying to calculate how this detail had somehow escaped him all these years. Prentis and JJ sat frozen, their mouth slightly open, while Morgan leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised, letting out a low whistle.

Hotch, for his part, remained quiet but noticeably more relaxed, as though your playful revelation brought back memories he'd long held close to the vest. He didn’t deny it, didn’t feel the need to clarify, simply allowing the moment to exist between you and the team.

Garcia, her mouth still dropped open, asked, leaning in eagerly, hanging on every word. “Wait - how long are you in town?”

You smiled, but there was a trace of melancholy beneath the warmth. “Just for the weekend,” you replied, your tone softening. “I’m off to Poland next week.”

As soon as the words left your lips, Hotch’s demeanor shifted. His expression, which had been open and relaxed just moments before, clouded over with something more complex - regret, perhaps, or an ache he didn’t allow himself to feel too often.

He wasn’t ready for you to leave, not again. He had barely begun to savor the brief time he had with you, and already he could feel it slipping away, the distance between you growing wider with every passing moment.

Next to you, Morgan leaned in feeling the behavioural shift of the Unit Chief, lowering his voice so only you could hear. "Think you can bribe Hotch into giving us a weekend off?" His tone was light, almost playful, but the faint glimmer of hope behind it was unmistakable.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the boldness of his request, but the smirk that tugged at your lips returned almost immediately. “Don’t tell me he doesn’t even give you weekends off?” you teased, eyebrow raised.

Morgan’s exasperated look said everything.

He wasn’t joking.

Your eyes flickered toward Hotch, who had been sitting quietly, focused on the almost emptied beer in front of him, his usual unreadable expression firmly in place. You caught his gaze, leaning in slightly, as if to coax him out of his stoic shell. “Aaron, don’t you and Haley come over for lunch tomorrow? Peter will be there, and I’d love to finally meet Jack.”

At the mention of his son, Hotch’s expression softened, just for a moment - a flicker of warmth breaking through his otherwise controlled demeanor. The team noticed too, their silent intrigue palpable. But the flicker was quickly extinguished as a sense of duty clouded his features. “I’d love to,” he replied, regret clear in his voice, “but we’ve got case files to wrap up. The Section Chief is breathing down my neck about last week’s reports, and we’re already behind.”

You leaned back slightly, watching him with careful eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you realized the negotiation had just begun. It was subtle, but the shift in the atmosphere was undeniable. Even the others at the table, long accustomed to Hotch’s unshakable authority, could sense that something had changed.

You sat up a little straighter, your voice calm but with a hint of persuasion. “Aaron,” you said again, more measured this time, “there’s no reason the reports have to be done in the office. Your team could work from home, and I guarantee they’d get it done faster. Studies have shown remote work boosts productivity. Less stress, fewer distractions.”

Hotch’s eyebrow arched, his skepticism evident. “Remote work? For a federal investigation?” His tone was as even as ever, but there was a sharp edge to it, as if he were already calculating the risk. “I need oversight, accountability. If something gets missed, it’s on me. And we both know how that plays out.”

You smiled, waiting for that exact response. Leaning forward slightly, you matched his tone. “Accountability doesn’t have to mean they’re sitting in an office under your nose, Aaron. Think about it. Immanuel Kant said that true moral and productive action comes from autonomy, from people governing themselves. There’s a very interesting quote of his that explains it all, ‘Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made.’ People work better when they’re trusted to do their jobs without someone breathing down their necks. Give them that freedom, and they’ll rise to the occasion.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed, though a faint trace of amusement flickered in his usually impassive gaze. “Quoting Kant now, are we?” His voice remained calm, but there was a challenge in it, one that only those who knew him well would recognize. “Philosophical arguments aren’t going to change the fact that these reports need to be done. I need them on my desk by Monday.”

You weren’t backing down. “I’m not just quoting Kant. Rousseau, too. He argued that ‘Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.’ If you let your team work from home, you’re giving them the freedom to do the work on their own terms, without the usual constraints. Studies show that productivity actually increases when people aren’t stuck in traffic on their way to work or dealing with office politics.”

Hotch crossed his arms over his chest, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “So now it’s Kant and Rousseau? What’s next, Nietzsche?” He leaned in slightly, his tone growing firmer. “I get what you’re doing. You’re trying to philosophically outmaneuver me, but that’s not going to work. I need those reports. Immaculate. Not just in by the deadline, but flawless.”

The air at the table became heavier, and you could feel the weight of the team’s anticipation. Garcia let out a barely audible gasp, her eyes wide as she watched the exchange unfold like a courtroom drama. Even Reid, usually quiet in such moments, leaned forward, intrigued by the battle of wits. You could feel Morgan’s eyes flick between you and Hotch, his posture tense, waiting for the outcome.

You leaned in further, your own smirk sharpening. “Flawless? That’s your condition?”

Hotch didn’t waver, his expression steady as stone. “That’s right. If they are going to stay at home, I need those reports in my inbox by 3 PM tomorrow. And they’d better be immaculate - no typos, no oversights, no errors. One mistake, and it’s not just overtime for next week, it’s the whole deal off.”

Morgan whispered under his breath, “This is getting intense.” His usually confident demeanor was momentarily rattled as he realized the stakes had just been raised.

You kept your gaze locked on Hotch, knowing this was the crucial moment. “Fine,” you said slowly, your voice calm but firm, “but if they get those reports in by 3 PM - perfect, flawless - then they get the entire weekend off. After the last case, they need it. You know burnout is real, Aaron. Aristotle talked about the importance of balance, the golden mean. If you push too hard without allowing for rest, people break. The mind needs downtime to function at its best.”

Hotch sighed, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Bringing Aristotle into it doesn’t change the fact that you’ve you’ve turned into exactly what you swore to destroy. A lawyer.”

You chuckled softly, your eyes sparkling as you locked gazes with Hotch. "What can I say? Sometimes you’ve got to fight fire with fire." you said, your voice light but knowing. “And you know I’m right. If you give them some breathing room, they’ll come back stronger. They respect you enough to deliver.”

Hotch remained silent for a long moment, his arms still crossed as he considered your words. You could feel the tension build at the table, the team watching closely, barely daring to breathe. Finally, Hotch exhaled slowly, his gaze sharp but thoughtful.

“Alright,” he said at last, his tone measured, “they can work from home tomorrow. But the reports need to be in by 3 PM. And I mean flawless. One mistake, and it’s overtime for everyone next week.”

You smiled, but your eyes stayed locked on his, knowing the weight of what you’d just achieved. “And if they meet the deadline, they get the whole weekend off?”

Hotch hesitated for a brief second, his expression softening slightly as he glanced around the table, seeing the exhaustion etched into the faces of his team. He nodded. “Yes. The weekend off. But only if everything is perfect.”

The room seemed to collectively exhale, the disbelief and relief spreading through the table like a ripple. Morgan let out a low whistle, shaking his head in amazement, he gave you a playful nudge. “Miracle worker... you sure they actually need you in Poland?”

Garcia clapped her hands to her chest dramatically, her eyes wide with delight. “This is like watching a legal thriller! I swear, next time I’m bringing popcorn.”

Reid’s eyes were wide, still processing the layers of philosophical argument and negotiation tactics, clearly fascinated. “That was… an impressive synthesis. You combined Kant’s moral autonomy with Rousseau’s ideas of freedom, and when you brought up Aristotle’s golden mean - well, that concept is actually about balancing between-”

Prentiss, sensing a Reid ramble incoming, quickly cut him off with a smile. “Reid, I think she’s got it.”

Hotch shook his head, locking eyes with you across the table, his expression a mix of disbelief and admiration. “Just don’t make a habit of this,” he said, his voice edged with familiar authority, but there was something softer beneath it.

You shrugged, the taste of victory still lingering, but a flicker of sadness crossed your face. “Don’t worry,” you said, voice quieter, “in less than 72 hours, it won’t be a table separating us, but an entire ocean. It won’t be as easy then.”

Hotch’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Then in your letters, leave Kant out of it.”

You chuckled, the emotion behind it harder to hide. “You got it, partner. But don’t be surprised if Nietzsche makes an appearance next time.”

The door to the bar swung open with a soft creak, drawing everyone’s attention: Peter walked in, his presence immediately noticeable. He cut through the low hum of the bar’s evening crowd, his tall frame moving with casual confidence.

Hotch was the first to spot him, his eyes narrowing slightly as Peter caught his gaze and raised a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. Peter was clearly planning something playful, and Hotch, though a bit apprehensive, respected the gesture and leaned back slightly in his chair.

Peter moved with purpose, his footsteps soft and calculated as he approached from behind you. You were still engaged in the conversation with the team, completely unaware of his presence. The warm glow of the dim lights bathed the table, casting soft shadows across your face as you laughed, oblivious to the fact that your fiancé was closing in.

In one swift movement, Peter leaned down, his body hovering close to yours as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders. The sudden pressure and warmth startled you, your eyes widening for a split second before recognition dawned.

Peter placed a quick kiss on the side of your neck, his lips brushing your skin lightly, just enough to send a ripple of surprise through you. His embrace was confident, bordering on possessive, and the scent of his familiar cologne filled the small space between you.

“Guess who?” he whispered playfully, his voice low and teasing, sending another shiver through you before you could fully react.

You tilted your head, looking up at him with a mix of surprise and fond exasperation. “Pete,” you breathed out, your voice laced with a smile despite the flush of embarrassment creeping into your cheeks. “You scared me!”

The team watched the scene unfold, their collective shock from moments before now shifting into amused smiles and curious glances.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, an eyebrow raised in playful approval. “Guess Pete likes to make an entrance,” he muttered under his breath, earning a chuckle from Garcia. Peter, meanwhile, didn’t seem to notice the eyes on him as he approached.

You had already begun to stand up, intending to grab a chair for him so he could join the table with the team. But before you could fully take a step, Peter caught you off guard, tightening his hold on you just enough to gently pull you off balance.

The suddenness of the movement made you pause, and before you could fully process it, he spun you around to face him. Without hesitation, Peter leaned in for a deeper, more intimate kiss.

The bar, the team, and everything around you seemed to blur into the background as his lips pressed against yours with unmistakable passion, momentarily stealing your focus from everything else.

The kiss was long enough for you to feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your body instinctively tensing. You loved Peter, there was no question about that, but you had always preferred your affections to be private, intimate, not something to be shared with the entire bar. When the kiss finally ended, you felt slightly breathless, and the weight of the team's eyes made you even more aware of the situation.

“Hi, princess,” Peter murmured, his lips still inches from yours as he spoke. His voice was soft but had an unmistakable edge of possessiveness. “I missed you. You could at least answer your phone once in a while, you know.”

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out a little shaky. “You know how bad I am at checking my phone,” you said, attempting to keep the conversation light, your eyes flicking toward the team, who were all trying to hide their laughs and amusement. “And didn’t we agree on dropping ‘princess’?.”

Peter’s hand, which had been resting lightly on your waist, now moved lower, sliding down your back until his fingers found the back pockets of your jeans. His touch was casual yet deliberate, his grip a clear display of ownership, almost as if he were marking his territory in front of everyone. His tone dropped slightly, becoming more suggestive. “You’ll find a way to convince me about that tonight.”

Hotch sat across from you, outwardly composed and focused, as he always was. To the team, he appeared calm, his usual stoic self, but inside, he was acutely attuned to every subtle change in your body language. He noticed how your posture had stiffened slightly, how the smile on your face didn’t quite reach your eyes. These were signs of discomfort he knew all too well, the kind you never had to explain to him.

For the longest time, Hotch had been genuinely happy for you, relieved even, that you had found someone like Peter. But now, watching your dynamic unfold for the first time, something didn’t sit right. Peter’s overly familiar gestures, his lack of awareness of your boundaries, gnawed at Hotch. How could Peter miss what was so clear to him? You never liked public displays of affection, Hotch knew that. You preferred quieter, more intimate gestures, the kind that carried deeper meaning.

But Peter, either unaware or choosing to ignore your discomfort, kept his arm securely around your waist. You shifted slightly, your eyes flickering to Hotch’s for just a brief moment. In that second, a silent understanding passed between the two of you. He saw how you felt - uncomfortable yet trying to keep the peace - and in return, you acknowledged his quiet presence, a grounding force amidst the whirlwind of Peter’s boldness.

As Peter finally stepped back, pulling out a chair for himself and sitting down next to you, the team exchanged quick  glances with one another. They were still processing the shift in energy, the unspoken dynamics they had just witnessed.

As Hotch watched, irritation flickered within him, slowly building into something more.

He had picked up on your discomfort immediately - why hadn’t Peter? And the more he observed, the more the realization crept in: maybe he didn’t like the two of you together as much as he’d thought. You, after all, were the type of person who believed that affection wasn’t measured in how loudly it was shown but in the care behind it. The way you would linger in a conversation, your touch light and careful, as if every gesture held meaning. The quiet moments, the unspoken words - those were what mattered to you.

You introduced Peter to the team as your fiancé, and they exchanged greetings, though the atmosphere remained tense. Only then Peter, in his usual charismatic way, greeted Hotch after six years as well. “Fatherhood looks good on you. Must be all those sleepless nights,” he teased.

Hotch smiled politely, though his thoughts were elsewhere. Peter, seated comfortably beside you, kept an arm draped around your shoulders, his thumb brushing against your arm absentmindedly. He turned his charm on the team, effortlessly engaging them in conversation. “Before she was Hotch’s partner and stole my desk - and my heart - I was his original desk mate,” he joked with a grin, leaning over to plant a light kiss on your cheek.

The team chuckled, clearly intrigued, their curiosity shifting to Hotch as they began peppering Peter with questions about their time together. Peter fielded them with ease but made it clear, “Oh, we were fine, but we didn’t click like he did with her. They were always in sync, like clockwork, it was terrifying. I used to call them ‘The Suits,’ because God forbid they ever showed up to work in anything other than matching attire.”

You laughed, nudging Peter playfully before teasing back. “At least I didn’t wear ties. My suits had some style and were timeless, unlike his. I still have nightmares about that tie with that weird triangular pattern.”

Peter squeezed your shoulder affectionately, offering a chuckle of his own, but Hotch, sitting across the table, raised an eyebrow in mock offense. "Coming from the only person who still wears vest suits?" Hotch quipped, his tone dry but playful. “Timeless, really.”

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “Better than a white eyelash,” you fired back, with a mischievous grin. The comment earned a round of laughter from the team, who had never seen Hotch teased so effortlessly.

But Hotch wasn’t done. He leaned forward slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Oh, right,” he said, voice laced with mock seriousness. “Because the height of fashion is wearing all-black, every day. It’s like working with an artfully dressed shadow.”

The team erupted into laughter, their eyes flicking between the two of you, you immediately bite back "Hey, black goes with everything, it’s called consistency."

“And monotony,” Hotch countered smoothly, not missing a beat, a small smile tugging at his lips as he reveled in the rare lightheartedness of the exchange

The conversations around the table continued, but for Hotch, they faded into the background. Laughter and voices became a distant hum, blurring into white noise as something else - a distant, barely audible melody - began to tug at his attention. At first, he didn’t even realize what was happening. It was just a faint pull, like a whisper at the edges of his mind, muffled beneath the chatter of the team. He wasn’t sure why his mind latched onto that sound, why his breath caught in his throat at the faint strains of music.

The room around him faded, and the melody became louder, clearer.

His heart stilled as the realization hit him - it was that song.

It’s All Coming Back to Me Now.

The soft notes carried him to another time, another life. His mind flashed back to that night, years ago, when you and he had rehearsed the choreography to this very song for an undercover operation. It had been the first time you’d been so physically close, your bodies moving together in perfect sync.

The chemistry had been palpable, undeniable, electric. He could still feel the warmth of your waist beneath his hands, the way your breath had mingled with his as you moved together, the quiet intensity of your gaze as it locked with his. After that final twirl, your forehead had rested against his, the space between you charged with something neither of you could quite name, but both of you had felt.

And later, back at his apartment, the air between you had become too heavy, too charged to ignore. It was as if every unsaid word, every stolen glance had built up, until the tension finally snapped. The space between you vanished in an instant, swallowed by something deeper, something primal. One moment, your voices were filled with the brittle edge of restraint, and the next, his hands were on you - urgent, trembling, like he had been holding back for far too long.

It wasn’t graceful; it was raw and unrefined, a blur of tangled limbs and breathless gasps. Your fingers clutched at his shirt as if to anchor yourself to him, pulling him closer, as though the distance between your bodies had always been too far.

His hands moved over you like he was memorizing you, fingertips tracing the lines of your skin, leaving behind a trail of heat. Your touch was just as desperate, each kiss full of unspoken longing, lips pressing harder, faster, as if you feared this moment might slip away, dissolving into something you could never get back.

He could still feel the way you had whispered his name - soft at first, tentative, as though testing the weight of it on your tongue.

But as your bodies gave in to the desire that had simmered between you for so long, the whisper turned into something louder, something hungrier. You cried his name out in the dark, your voice trembling with both need and fear. It had cut through him, that sound - like a confession you had both tried to suppress for years but could no longer deny. It echoed in his mind, haunting him, pulling him back to that night with an intensity that refused to fade.

There was something almost painful in how you touched him, like you were trying to carve the memory of your skin into his. Your nails raked softly down his back, your body arching into his as if the space between you wasn’t close enough, could never be close enough.

His hands roamed over you, slow but firm, tracing the delicate curve of your spine, the softness of your waist, the places he’d never dared to touch before. It was as if each movement was a conversation - every kiss, every breath shared between you was full of the things you’d never said aloud.

Your breath, hot against his neck, sent shivers down his spine, and the way your lips trembled as you kissed him, it felt like surrender. His forehead rested against yours, your breaths mingling, heavy and uneven, as your bodies moved together in a rhythm that felt both foreign and familiar, as though this was how it was always meant to be.

And yet, it was never just desire, it was something deeper, a release of everything you’d held back. The vulnerability of it all had scared him then, and it still did. In those moments, stripped bare of the walls you’d carefully built around yourselves, you had been real, more real than either of you had ever dared to be before.

He had tried to forget it, to push that night into the farthest corners of his mind, but now it clung to him like a shadow. He could still feel the way your fingers had trembled against his skin, the way your body had fit against his as though it belonged there. The memory of how you’d breathed his name into the dark, then screamed it when the tension finally broke, was etched into his soul. He could still taste the urgency of your kisses, the way your bodies collided in a mess of emotion and need.

It was a moment suspended in time, where everything between you had been laid bare, and now, no matter how much time had passed, that memory refused to fade. It lingered, haunting him with what might have been, with the things you could never say aloud but had spoken through your skin, your breath, your body pressed so desperately against his.

But now, you weren’t his.

You belonged to Peter. And he, to Haley.

The sound of the song was drowned beneath the chatter around him, but somehow, the melody still pulled at his attention, louder than the voices just feet away. He tried to focus on the present - the team’s banter, Peter’s charm - but the past was louder, heavier. His chest tightened as his eyes flicked to you, and for a brief moment, your gaze met his.

You looked at him, your brow furrowing slightly as though you could sense it - something was wrong. You were trying to place it, to figure out why his expression had suddenly grown distant.

Then, the recognition hit you too.

The distant melody reached your ears, and you understood.

Hotch could see it in your eyes, the way they widened just slightly in acknowledgment, the way your posture shifted. For the first time, you both understood that what you had felt back then - the chemistry, the pull - hadn’t been one-sided.

It was as if, for all these years, you had been silently carrying the same secret, both too afraid to say it out loud. And now, you both knew the truth: you had felt it too.

But it was too late.

The life you each had now stood in the way, separating you like an ocean that couldn’t be crossed.

Almost unconsciously, your fingers found your rings, the movement so subtle yet so heavy with meaning.

It was an old rhythm, a quiet, unspoken dance the two of you had always shared, the kind of synchronization that went unnoticed by the world but spoke volumes in its silence. The small gesture seemed insignificant to the others, but between you and Hotch, it was everything, an echo of what once was and what could never be.

Your fingers twisted the silver engagement band around your finger, its cold metal grounding you, reminding you of the promises made to someone else, a life you had chosen. But even as you did, your touch was restless, the movement betraying the calm exterior you wore. The ring spun slowly, like time itself, like the years between you and Hotch, like all the moments that had slipped through your grasp.

Across the table, Hotch’s hand absently turned his gold wedding band, the warm metal catching the dim light of the bar, casting a soft, golden glow. It was a faint reminder of a life lived for someone else, of duty, of commitments he could never break. The glow of the ring reflected in his dark eyes, hiding the flicker of something deeper - something that neither of you dared to acknowledge aloud. His thumb traced the edge of the band, slow and deliberate, as though the weight of it was both a comfort and a burden he couldn’t shake.

In that small, shared moment, your fidgeting hands told a story. The rings - the delicate silver on your finger, the steadfast gold on his - shone like symbols of everything you had chosen, but now felt also of everything you had lost.

They were promises made to others, and yet they were reminders of the things you could never speak of, the uncharted territory between you that still lingered, just out of reach. The space between your hands felt infinite, a distance marked by time, by choices, by vows you could never break.

The team, ever observant, exchanged quiet, knowing glances. They had no idea of the weight of what had just passed between you and Hotch, but they noticed the synchronicity, the way you both fiddled with your rings at the same moment, the invisible thread that seemed to connect you two even now.

As if to break the tension, Peter leaned in closer, oblivious to the undercurrents between you and Hotch. With a broad grin, he draped his arm around your shoulders and raised his voice, cutting through the fog of memory.

“You know, when I saw you two dancing to this song back then, I knew I couldn’t let her fall for him. That’s when I realized,” Peter said, his voice filled with affection, “I wanted to marry her. I couldn’t let her slip away.” He smiled, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.

Hotch’s stomach churned as Peter’s words sank in, the weight of them pressing down on him. He forced a polite smile, but inside, his thoughts spiraled. He glanced at you just as Peter kissed you, watching the way your face shifted into a quiet smile. You recovered quickly, as you always did, but Hotch saw behind the mask. He always had.

The atmosphere around the table grew heavier, the weight of unspoken tension thickening the air. The team, sensing something but unsure of what it was, shifted uneasily. Peter, still oblivious to the undercurrent between you and Hotch, tried to lighten the mood, chuckling as he added, “I’ll admit, at first I thought Hotch was a bit too old for her - sorry, Hotch,” he said with a laugh, clearly unaware of how his words were like salt on an open wound.

Hotch barely heard him. His mind was still trapped in the past, tangled in the memories the song had brought rushing back. He glanced down at his wedding band, the gold a reminder of everything that had changed, of the life he had built with Haley. And yet, across the table, he could feel the weight of what might have been, what he had never allowed himself to fully acknowledge.

Hotch forced a smirk. “Well, I’ll try not to take that too personally,” he replied, his tone light, drawing a wave of laughter from the table. But inside, his heart wasn’t in it. His mind was elsewhere, caught between the weight of the moment and the past that seemed to linger just beneath the surface.

Peter, emboldened by the laughter, leaned in with that easy charm of his and pushed further. “But I was even more surprised when she told me she dated that lawyer right after she moved overseas. How old was she again?”

The words hit like a sudden gust of cold wind, cutting through the warmth of the conversation.

Your expression shifted instantly, a quick, forced laugh escaping your lips as you scrambled to steer the moment away from the awkwardness that now hung between you all. “Forty-five,” you said, the number leaving your lips almost too quickly, like a reflex.

The room seemed to pause, the laughter dying out as the words settled heavily in the air. The only thing you could hear now were two words, echoing louder than anything else,

she and forty-five.

It was as if everything around you had gone quiet, the team's voices drowned out by the weight of what Peter had unintentionally revealed. The shift in the atmosphere was palpable, a sudden tension stretching across the table as the team sat in stunned silence, processing what they had just heard.

Hotch’s brow furrowed slightly, his curiosity and confusion clear. The silence that followed Peter’s comment only made his next word stand out more. His voice, calm but pointed, sliced through the stillness. “Lawyer?”

The single word seemed to hang in the air, heavier than everything else. Your heart raced. You opened your mouth to explain, to say something, but before you could find the words, Hotch’s familiar smirk reappeared, his eyes glinting with that familiar humor he always used to disarm tense situations.

“You always gave me so much grief about being a lawyer,” he said, the smirk deepening as his eyes locked onto yours, “claiming you couldn’t stand them. And now I find out you dated one? Hypocrisy, partner.”

His playful jab lightened the moment, and you felt a surge of relief. You rolled your eyes dramatically, grateful for the shift in tone. “She was the exception, I swear,” you replied, playing along. “And for the record, she was a force of nature, youngest senior partner at one of the biggest law firms in London.”

The tension broke as the team erupted into laughter, the awkwardness melting away, though a few lingering glances darted between them. Garcia, ever playful, fanned herself with exaggerated motions. “Oh, so the youngest senior partner cancels out the fact that she was, what, two decades older than you?”

Peter, oblivious to the shift in energy, leaned in and kissed the corner of your lips, adding with a grin, “Guess that means I’m too young for you, huh? I’ll have to step up my game.”

Hotch sat in quiet fury, his expression controlled, though anger churned inside him. Peter’s careless words echoed in his mind, louder than the laughter around them. He knew how fiercely you guarded your privacy, especially with people you’d just met, and Peter had exposed it all for the sake of a good story.

Watching you force a laugh, pretending it didn’t matter, only fueled his anger. His fists clenched under the table as he met your eyes briefly, seeing the discomfort you tried to mask. Peter had crossed a line, and Hotch felt it deeply.

To ground himself from the growing urge to snap, Hotch forced his focus away from Peter’s careless words and instead became hyper-aware of his surroundings. The almost empty glasses of the team caught his eye - Reid’s water was down to its last sip, Garcia’s cocktail was mostly melted ice, and even Morgan’s beer glass sat nearly drained.

It was a small distraction, but one that kept him from letting the anger boil over. Ever the composed leader, caring as always, Hotch cleared his throat, his voice steady but with a forced lightness.

"Anyone need a refill?" he asked, his tone casual but precise, offering a small smile to the group. He stood before anyone could answer, already signaling to the bartender. Taking control of the moment was his way of regaining composure, of keeping his emotions in check, even as the burn of Peter’s thoughtlessness lingered beneath the surface.

Garcia and Morgan exchanged mischievous looks before Morgan called out, “Tequila shots for us!”

“Noted,” Hotch replied with a smirk, already recalling everyone’s drinks without needing to ask again. You had always admired that about him, his ability to notice and remember the smallest details, always quietly looking out for the people he cared about.

Peter, as if sensing an opportunity to bond or perhaps clueless to Hotch's inner turmoil, quickly followed. “Need a hand with the drinks?” he offered, his voice light and easy.

Hotch gave a curt nod, though inwardly, he was grateful for the few steps of distance from the group - more importantly, from you. Peter fell in step beside him, blissfully unaware of the tension simmering just below the surface, the kind of tension that came from years of unspoken history. As they waited at the bar, the quiet between them grew thick, and for Hotch, it was impossible to ignore Peter's earlier thoughtlessness.

After a moment of charged silence, Hotch spoke, his voice low and firm, tinged with an edge he couldn’t quite suppress. “You know, what you said back there about her past... that wasn’t yours to share.”

Peter blinked, clearly caught off guard by the shift in tone. He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Oh, come on, Hotch. It was just a joke. I didn’t mean any harm.”

Hotch’s eyes darkened, locking onto Peter’s with a quiet but unmistakable intensity. “It’s not about harm, Peter. It’s about respect. That’s her story, not yours to tell. You don’t know the team like she does, and they didn’t need to hear it from you like that.”

Peter, clearly flustered by the sudden seriousness, let out a nervous chuckle. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. I mean, they’re her friends, right?”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, the flicker of anger just barely kept in check. “It is a big deal. You didn’t see the way she reacted. I did.”

Peter hesitated, the weight of Hotch’s words beginning to sink in as he glanced back at the table. His brow furrowed, suddenly seeing the moment through Hotch’s eyes, realizing, for the first time, the discomfort he had caused you. The easygoing confidence he had worn so naturally faltered.

Hotch’s voice dropped to a near whisper, the words laced with a subtle warning. “You’re supposed to protect her, not expose her. Remember that next time.”

Peter swallowed, his confidence shaken as he tried to brush it off with a weak smile. “Yeah… you’re right. I’ll watch it.”

While waiting for the drinks, you were left alone with the team, and for the first time that night, you felt truly exposed. It was like being caged in a zoo, observed from all angles, every subtle move you made dissected by the group around you. Prentiss, ever the one to stir the pot, leaned forward with a mischievous grin, breaking the silence that had settled like a thick fog.

“So… about sharing rooms with Hotch on all those field cases. Did you two ever, you know…?” she teased, her tone playful but pointed.

You laughed, trying to dispel the weight pressing down on you, the joke coming to your lips almost automatically. “Oh, absolutely. Every night. HR had to intervene because we were so unprofessional,” you said, your voice light, hoping humor would smooth over the moment. "We're talking about Hotch... and I'm not that different" But there was a tension beneath your words, something guarded, something you weren’t quite ready to let slip through.

The team chuckled, the moment seemingly passing, but JJ, always more perceptive, leaned in with a more serious, knowing look. “Did you ever think about… something outside of work? Something more?”

Her words cut deeper, and for a moment, the table fell silent. The laughter died away, replaced by an almost palpable stillness. You hesitated, your heart racing as your eyes flickered toward the bar, where Hotch stood talking to Peter. The unspoken question lingered between you and the team, hanging heavy in the air. “Honestly? What we had as partners was important to both of us,” you finally said, your voice soft but steady. “It wasn’t worth risking that for something that might not have worked out.”

Meanwhile, back at the bar, while still waiting for a portion of fries that Reid had begged them to order, Peter leaned in closer to Hotch. “There’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about, Hotch. The reason I was calling her earlier today… After that lecture at the academy, they offered her a full-time teaching position. They want her to take over Gideon’s old class.”

Hotch’s heart skipped a beat, though he kept his expression neutral. “At Quantico?” he asked, doing his best to mask the sudden surge of emotion rising in his chest.

Peter nodded, unaware of the internal storm brewing inside Hotch. “Yeah. It’s a big opportunity for her, and it means we’d finally settle down. No more crossing oceans every few months. We could start putting down roots.”

Hotch swallowed hard, the implications of Peter’s words sinking in with a weight that made it hard to breathe. You’d be back in Quantico, close by. The thought brought with it a mix of hope and dread.

He would see you again, be near you again, but it wouldn’t be the same. You had moved on, built a life that no longer revolved around him. The life you were building with Peter didn’t include him the way it once might have.

Peter, oblivious to the conflict raging inside Hotch, continued. “They also offered me a position, unit chief in the White Collar Crimes Division. We’d finally have normal hours, a more stable life. You know, time to build something together. Maybe start a family.”

Hotch felt a sharp pang of something he couldn’t quite name - regret, maybe, or longing, or something deeper that he’d never fully confronted. The idea of you starting a family with Peter gnawed at him in a way he hadn’t expected. He should be happy for you – he was happy for you - but the thought of you stepping into that future, a future he wasn’t part of, left a hollow ache in his chest.

He glanced back at the table, catching a glimpse of you laughing with the team, your face lighting up in that way it always did when you were at ease. In that moment, the weight of what could have been - and what would never be - hit him harder than he’d imagined. You were on the verge of stepping into a new chapter of your life, and he was stuck watching it unfold from the sidelines.

Peter’s voice broke through his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. “I just hope she says yes. It’s a big change, but it feels right, you know?”

Hotch forced a smile, nodding even as the ache in his chest deepened. “Yeah, I’m sure she’ll make the right decision,” he said, though the words felt hollow in his mouth.

As they gathered the drinks and returned to the table, Hotch’s mind raced, unable to stop thinking about the what-ifs. He couldn’t shake the memories of the past, of the closeness you’d once shared, or the realization that the future you were building with Peter was slipping further and further from him. But as he placed the drinks down in front of the team, his smile remained firmly in place, masking the turmoil inside him. He had mastered the art of hiding what he truly felt, after all.

You could be back, but at what cost?

[14thgalerie]

the one

• pairing: theodore nott x riddle!reader

• now playing: hayloft by mother mother / you that i want by divine

• word count: 1.7k

• genre: angst, fluff, hint of smut

— short one that i kept thinking of.

Theo slumped in his chair, fatigue weighing heavily on him. The clock on the wall opposite him ticked relentlessly, unforgiving of his sleepless state. He had long abandoned any hope of finding any rest. He hadn’t been able to since that fateful night when everything felt right in his life.

His mind wouldn’t grant him solace. Each time his weary eyelids dared to meet from the pure exhaustion of the stress of OWLS, the ongoing war, his brain kept feeding him images of you. You, who kept haunting him from the very forefront of his mind. 

The natural curve of your eyelashes. The way it fluttered against his cheeks as your lips made a blazing trail across his cheeks. Gentle whispers that drown him in sheer bliss still send shivers down his spine. 

His tie lay abandoned, discarded beside him, next to the pile of papers swept aside in his frustration earlier. The long, emerald fabric had felt too suffocating amidst the overwhelming thoughts of you.

He couldn’t help but wonder if you would also be writhing in bed, unable to fall asleep as he does. Would your dreams torment you with the brief time his hands tangled onto your hair, wayward? Does your dormant body spin cruel variations of that time, telling him tantalising tales of what could’ve occurred if only your insufferable blonde companion hadn’t so abruptly interrupted?

He had never loved you.

Not in the way you wanted.

This desire to fill the emptiness in your heart, to have somebody give you the time and day has obscured that truth. A part of you knew, from the very beginning, but this desperation forced you to turn yourself blind.

Draco was there, a constant presence in your life, a perfect match to have by your side. Born only 24 hours apart, and 10 years of your childhood spent solely with him.

In truth, you both used the other, a fact that you ignored. He relied on you for protection and status as your partner, while you clung to him to feel the fleeting sense of warmth. But the perpetual storm of reality always wearing you both down and, you were rapidly losing the strength to keep yourself afloat.

Unspoken words hung heavy in the air between the both of you as the year progressed and the inevitable return of your father neared. At first, you had both kept your feelings at bay, not wanting this to jeopardise your friendship altogether. But as time went on, it became a routine. Venom spit from raised voices, threats of abandonment and indifference to each other, reconciliation accompanied by hollow promises and sex.

“Are you a bloody fool? She is my best friend and yet again, Draco ‘can’t-keep-his-boxers-on’ Malfoy decided that didn’t matter!” You screamed in frustration, but it didn’t seem to matter when he didn’t even so much as falter at the volume. 

“We aren’t even together, so why should it?” He carelessly replies, an air of indifference surrounding him.

“We aren’t? You truly are an insufferable git, I spent two years committing myself to you, and you never thought to mention that little detail before?” You scoffed, incredulous at the idea. It was foolish and outrageous, and not at all like how the man you know would think. Despite your differences with one another, he would still treat you with at least the respect you give to a friend, but now…

“Oh please! Don’t act as if your mind has not been completely filled with that mindless buffoon.” 

“For Merlin’s sake, do not dare turn this on me…” You challenged him. 

“Or what? Threaten to have your father kill me? Well, surprise, darling, I’m no stranger to that already.” He humorlessly chuckles. “I’ve seen you. I’ve seen that god-awful lovesick look on your face at the mere sight of his back. I am not the complete bloody fool you think I am.”

It hurt, truly, despite the fact that this started as a hilarious excuse of a relationship. You cared for Draco and to see him constantly destroy everything and everyone in his path of destruction left you unable to conjure up any more excuses for him.

“I am done, Draco. We can stop whatever awful pretentious act we put ourselves to and live on our own as you seem to hardly care for even yourself anymore these days.” You laugh, defeat etched on your face.

He never gave you the love that you sought, the kind that Theo had laid bare in complete display for you in just under seven minutes in that tiny closet. 

“You came back to me.” He whispers, close enough for his lips to touch the corner of your lips but there’s just a stutter of breath. It makes you want to instinctively kneel and look up to him and beg religiously for mercy, the way he speaks.

“I did.” You reply. Unmoving, but your patience wears thin.

“Look at you,” He mutters, his hand tugging at your head by your hair, exposing your neck to him, and your knees nearly buckle at his breath that burns against your jaw. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet and you’re almost like putty in my hands already.”

“Shut it, Nott.” You quickly remark a decision you notably regret when you are left standing in the middle of the room all by yourself. The cold air from the ajar window left your skin tingling with an uncomfortable feeling akin to when Draco touched you in the past weeks.

You scoff, the sound more as if you were nearly pleading. “What are you doing?”

“You know I hate it when you act like a brat.” He inclined his head, and the movement leaves chills running through your spine for the action is almost similar to someone sinister. But weirdly, it makes you want to tease him even more.

“Oh please, Theo. I’m not blind, as if you don’t dream of it.” You slowly approach him, your fingers make a motion of dragging along the ends of the poster beds. “The way I see your eyes tremble when I contradict every single thing you say. I know you are depraved when your thoughts are only of my mouth…”

You hear a sharp intake of breath when you come near. “The way you would just love it if you could shut me up by having my lips wrapped around you. I know you, Theo.”

His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, he reaches almost mindlessly for your collar. His thumb barely touches the skin of your neck. “Yes, you do.”

His eyes are intense as they dart to your mouth. Your tongue unconsciously makes a sweep against your dry lips.

“I suppose Draco will show me exactly how.”

Taking a page of this man’s book is terrifying but you are tired of this game of tug that you keep playing.

“That would be wise. ”

He’s still looking at your lips.

“I’ll go then.” You try again, unwilling to make the move.

“Go on, you won’t hear a sound of protest from me.” But you remain standing in front of him, the will to move weak against the desire to have him.

“Really?”

“No.”

Theo grabs the back of your head, tangled his fingers in your hair, and made a mess of your mouth. With his lips attached to yours, you grab him by his shirt and the both of you kiss as if you were third years again. Your teeth clashed into each other time and time again and you couldn’t find it in you to slow down. 

The need to kiss him, to feel what you’ve been thinking of for several nights on end.  You push back at him, desperate to feel the same hunger and need in him, as he kisses you deeper and more profound than you ever thought possible.

The soft, selfish hands that you wished so badly to wipe clean off the bodies of other women move up from the bottom of your back to move you impossibly closer until you are almost one. His voice is ragged when he pulls away, a thin thread of saliva still connecting you.

He says against your cheek, “I love you. I’d die for you. Nobody can ever give you what I could make the pain go away like I could, not even that dense fuck who has a deeper sense of self-preservation than his parents.”

You swallow, agonised by the sudden slow pace that he moves. Not an ounce of energy dared to waste to defend your ex. “I will love you anywhere.”

You shiver at the raw and pure intensity that laced the declaration. You almost want to ask, to hear how. But you don’t think your mind could properly comprehend the ability to piece together the right words to ask.

His heart is pounding from beneath your fingers as you feel the pulse on his neck, almost leaping it out as if all it wants is for you to finally claim it as yours. Encase it in a glass case and put it on display for all else to see.

“In a bookstore, by the water fountain, the sidewalk, in the flames of your home.” His hands come down to your hips, his fingers digging in so harshly that by morning sunlight, purple will be painted on your skin but it feels so heavenly that you don’t push them away.

“I love you, not for the protection you provide and for your substantial looks, but for all the small things you do that bear your soul to me.” 

Your hands meet around the back of his neck as he carries you by your thighs towards his bed. Pulling at the fabric that keeps him away from you.

“I’ll love you even as you tell me you hate me. I love you enough that I will scour the face of this earth for a place where I can take you away from your nightmares.” 

“I-“ He sighs into your lips, completely delighted by the intimacy that only his mind could conjure up in the lone nights. “I love you.”

You move for the buttons of his polo, while he moves to pull your shirt from you. A race that leaves you both fumbling when you feel his hand carving a path against your waist and up to your chest. You are left scalding, tiny bounces of light flickering in your eyes.

“I will be at your string’s end.”

masterlist

[urdreamydoodles]

im assuming you're taking requests, so I will bring you Scott, Logan, Jean, Ororo, Charales, Erik with a young kid reader who has a very power mutation and is an omega level mutant, and is now at the mansion because they parents didn't want them

X-Men x Kid!Reader

Their relationship with you—a omega-level mutant

After being abandoned by your parents due to your dangerous omega-level mutation, you arrive at the Xavier Institute, where a X-Man take you under their wing. They help you navigate the overwhelming potential of your powers, becoming mentors and parental figures as they guide you toward self-acceptance and control.

Characters: Scott Summers, Logan Howlett, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Charles Xavier & Erik Lehnsherr

Of course I take requests, don't hesitate to ask again love ♡ And thanks for the idea, I hadn't planned on writing for a Kid!Reader soon but you motivated me to do it. — Love, Marie, your friendly marvel fangirl

Scott Summers (Cyclops)

When you first arrived at the mansion, Scott was the one who greeted you. As a leader, he had taken on the responsibility of welcoming new students, especially those who might be difficult to place. But when he learned that you, a young child, had been abandoned by your parents due to your dangerous mutation, something in him softened. He saw a reflection of his younger self in you—alone, scared, and confused about your powers. He was quiet at first, observing you as you sat in the mansion’s common room, staring out the window, your small form dwarfed by the large surroundings. You didn’t speak much either, afraid of being rejected again.

Scott had been through so much with his own powers, especially as someone whose mutation had caused harm in the past. He understood how overwhelming it could be, especially for a child. He approached you cautiously, always careful not to seem too intrusive. "Hey," he said softly, kneeling to be at eye level with you. "I know things are hard right now, but we’re here to help. You're safe here."

At first, you didn’t believe him. How could anyone help with something as destructive as your mutation? But Scott never pushed you, never forced you to talk about it until you were ready. Days turned into weeks, and little by little, Scott became the constant figure in your life. He would check on you every morning, sitting with you during meals when you felt too shy to sit with the other students. He’d take you to the Danger Room, not for training, but to show you that your powers didn’t define who you were.

As time passed, Scott began teaching you how to control your mutation, sharing his own struggles with his optic blasts and how Professor Xavier had helped him. He showed you that even though your mutation was powerful, it could be harnessed for good. The bond between the two of you grew, and Scott became a father figure in your life, guiding you through the complexities of being an omega-level mutant. Whenever you felt overwhelmed, Scott was always there, his calm and steady presence reassuring you that you were never alone.

The more time you spent together, the more you came to see Scott as not just a mentor but as someone who truly cared for you. He would bring you small gifts—a book he thought you’d like, or a new pair of shoes when he noticed yours were wearing out. He’d sit with you at night when nightmares of losing control over your powers haunted your sleep. Over time, Scott became the person you trusted most, the one who saw past your dangerous mutation and saw you as a person—someone worth loving and protecting.

Logan Howlett (Wolverine)

Logan wasn’t known for being a nurturing figure, but when Charles asked him to keep an eye on you, he couldn’t say no. When you arrived at the mansion, a young kid with a mutation that even the other mutants found intimidating, Logan saw the fear in your eyes. It reminded him of his own past—how he’d been treated like a monster because of his powers. But he didn’t approach you immediately. He watched from a distance at first, letting you get comfortable in your new environment.

You were quiet, withdrawn, and understandably scared of hurting someone with your powers. Your parents had abandoned you, and that kind of rejection left deep scars. But Logan understood that. He knew what it was like to be rejected for something you couldn’t control. Slowly, he began to approach you, always in his gruff, no-nonsense way. "Kid," he’d say, catching your attention one afternoon while you sat alone in the garden. "You hungry? Come get something to eat."

At first, you were hesitant around him. Logan’s rough exterior and gruff voice made him seem intimidating, but over time, you began to realize that beneath all of that was someone who genuinely cared. He didn’t coddle you, didn’t treat you like you were fragile. Instead, he treated you like a person, not just a child. He would take you with him on walks through the woods surrounding the mansion, teaching you survival skills and how to listen to the world around you. Logan wasn’t the type to sit down and talk about feelings, but in his own way, he helped you understand that your mutation didn’t define you.

As your bond grew, Logan became more protective of you. He’d take you out to train, showing you how to defend yourself—not just with your powers, but with your fists. He wanted you to be strong, to not rely solely on your mutation. "There’s more to you than just that," he’d tell you, his tone gruff but kind. "You’ve got a brain, kid. Use it."

Logan was never one for emotional speeches, but his actions spoke louder than words. He’d be there when you had nightmares, sitting silently by your side until you fell back asleep. He made sure you had everything you needed, even if that meant going out in the middle of the night to get you something. Over time, you began to see Logan as a father figure, someone who, despite his rough edges, loved you in his own way. He was the one who taught you that you were more than just your powers, and for that, you loved him back.

Jean Grey (Phoenix)

When Jean first saw you, she sensed the fear and confusion swirling around you like a storm. You were so young, yet your powers were immense, dangerous even, and you didn’t have the control to handle them yet. Jean understood what it was like to carry the weight of powers that felt too big for you. She’d been there once, and she knew how terrifying it could be. So, from the moment you stepped foot into the mansion, Jean made it her mission to help you.

Jean was gentle with you from the start, never pushing you to open up too soon. Instead, she made sure you knew she was always there, a comforting presence in the chaos of your new life. She’d sit with you during meals, smiling softly, encouraging you to try new foods or talk about your day. "You’re not alone in this," she’d say, her voice calm and reassuring. "We’ve all been where you are. It’s okay to be scared."

The first time your powers flared up, it was in the middle of the night. You had a nightmare, and your mutation spiraled out of control, shaking the entire mansion. Jean was there within seconds, her own powers calming the chaos around you. She sat beside you, her arms around your trembling form, whispering soothing words until the storm inside you calmed. "It’s okay," she’d murmur softly. "I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you."

Jean became the mother figure you had never known. She was patient, always understanding that your powers were tied to your emotions. She spent hours with you, teaching you how to meditate, how to center yourself, and how to control the overwhelming power you carried. She shared her own experiences with you, telling you about the times she had lost control of her abilities, and how she had learned to harness them with time and practice.

The more time you spent with Jean, the more you grew to trust her. She was the one you went to when you were scared, the one who held you when the weight of your mutation became too much. Jean was always there, offering comfort, guidance, and love. She never saw you as a danger, even when your powers flared up unexpectedly. Instead, she saw you as a young mutant who just needed a little help finding her way.

As your relationship deepened, Jean became more than just a mentor—she became the mother you had always needed. She was there for every milestone, every step of your journey to control your powers. And when you finally began to master them, it was Jean who stood beside you, her smile filled with pride and love. She had taken you under her wing, and in doing so, she had given you a family.

Ororo Munroe (Storm)

When you first arrived at the Xavier Institute, Ororo Munroe was one of the first faces you saw. There was something about her calm and regal presence that made you feel a little less overwhelmed by your new surroundings. You were still so young, and with your mutation threatening to spiral out of control at any moment, you were terrified. Your parents had made it clear they couldn’t handle the dangers your powers presented, and now you were here—alone, confused, and unsure of what to expect.

Ororo approached you gently, her voice soft but strong. "Welcome," she said with a warm smile. "You’re safe here. We’ll figure this out together." She could sense your unease, the way your powers hummed beneath your skin, ready to burst forth at the slightest emotional trigger. Ororo understood what it was like to have powers connected so deeply to one’s emotions. Her ability to control the weather had once been wild and untamed, just like you.

At first, you were hesitant. You didn’t trust easily, not after the way your parents had reacted to your mutation. But Ororo didn’t push. She gave you space when you needed it, but was always there when you felt ready to open up. She took you under her wing, teaching you how to connect with nature, how to calm your mind and body to prevent your powers from overwhelming you.

She would take you out into the gardens, her favorite place at the mansion, and together you would sit in the grass, surrounded by flowers and trees. Ororo showed you how to focus on the wind, the rustle of the leaves, the soft patter of rain—small, natural things that helped you feel grounded. "Your powers don’t control you," she’d say with quiet conviction. "You control them."

As time passed, Ororo became a mother figure to you. She was always patient, always understanding. She taught you discipline and control, but more than that, she taught you self-acceptance. She helped you see that your mutation was a part of who you were, but it didn’t define you. Whenever you had a rough day, Ororo would be there, offering comforting words and reminding you that you were stronger than you thought.

The bond you developed with Ororo was unbreakable. She was there through every challenge, every triumph, and every setback. With her guidance, you grew stronger, not just in your abilities, but in your confidence. And no matter how many times you stumbled, Ororo was always there to lift you back up, her gentle smile reminding you that you were never alone.

Charles Xavier (Professor X)

You hadn’t said much when you first arrived at the mansion, but Charles Xavier didn’t need words to understand the storm of emotions brewing inside you. The moment he saw you, he could sense your fear, your confusion, and the overwhelming power you were struggling to control. Your mutation was dangerous, unpredictable, and omega-level—something your parents couldn’t handle. They had sent you here, hoping Charles could help, but you felt abandoned, rejected.

Charles had seen it all before, in countless young mutants who had passed through the mansion’s doors. But something about your quiet demeanor, the way you held yourself as though you didn’t want to take up any space, tugged at his heart. He approached you with kindness, offering a gentle smile. "You’re not alone anymore," he said, his voice soft but reassuring. "This is your home now."

At first, you were skeptical. You had been told so many times that you were dangerous, that your mutation made you a threat. But Charles never treated you that way. He was patient, understanding, and always willing to listen. He never probed your mind without permission, respecting your boundaries even when he knew you were struggling.

He spent hours with you in his study, guiding you through meditation exercises, helping you learn to quiet the noise in your mind. "Your mutation is powerful," he’d tell you, "but it doesn’t have to define you. You are in control, not the other way around." His presence was calming, his belief in you unwavering. It was the first time in a long time that you felt like someone truly saw you—not as a threat, but as a person.

As the months passed, Charles became more than just a mentor to you. He was like a father, always there when you needed guidance or support. He encouraged you to push beyond your fears, to embrace your mutation as a part of who you were. With his help, you began to gain control over your powers, learning to harness them instead of being overwhelmed by them.

Charles never gave up on you, even on the days when you felt like giving up on yourself. He believed in you when no one else had, and that belief made all the difference. Over time, the bond between you grew stronger, and Charles became a pillar of strength in your life. You knew that no matter how difficult things got, he would always be there to guide you through it.

Erik Lehnsherr (Magneto)

When you were first brought to Erik Lehnsherr, you were terrified. Not just of your powers, but of him. You had heard stories—whispers about Magneto, the mutant who could control metal with just a flick of his hand, the one who had waged wars for mutantkind. But there was no one else who could understand what you were going through. Your mutation was out of control, destructive, and your parents had given up on you.

Erik didn’t approach you like the others at the mansion might have. He didn’t sugarcoat things or offer soothing words. Instead, he looked at you with a kind of intensity that made you feel like he was seeing straight through you. "You are powerful," he told you bluntly, his voice firm. "More powerful than you realize. And that power is something you must learn to control."

You weren’t sure what to make of him at first. He was intimidating, his presence almost overwhelming. But there was something in his words that resonated with you. He didn’t treat you like a fragile child. He didn’t look at you with fear or pity. Instead, he saw potential in you—potential that everyone else had overlooked.

Erik took you under his wing, and while his methods were harsh at times, they were effective. He pushed you harder than anyone else, refusing to let you be consumed by fear or self-doubt. "Fear is a weapon," he would say during training sessions. "And if you let it control you, you’ve already lost."

As the days turned into weeks, you began to see a different side of Erik. Beneath the hardened exterior, there was a deep well of care—especially for you. He had seen firsthand what it was like to be cast aside because of one’s powers, and he wasn’t going to let that happen to you. He believed in your strength, even when you didn’t, and he was determined to help you harness your abilities.

Erik was a complicated figure in your life. He wasn’t soft or gentle like the others, but he was there when you needed him most. He challenged you, pushed you to the brink, but always pulled you back when things became too much. And over time, you came to trust him, to see him as more than just a mentor. He was like a father to you, albeit one with a complicated history.

Under Erik’s guidance, you grew into your powers. He helped you understand that being powerful wasn’t something to fear—it was something to embrace. And though your relationship with him was often difficult, it was also one of the most important connections you had ever made. You knew that, despite everything, Erik cared for you in his own way. And that was enough.

[sapphiremusings]

THE GIFT OF VENGEANCE | aemond targaryen

summary: Aemond replayed this image on a loop, squirming in his seat every time he got to the part where her eyes popped out of her skull.

Two eyes for his one, and the eight years he went without his revenge.

8.5k

cw: female!lucerys velaryon, au-modern setting, explicit sexual content, dubcon, graphic depictions of violence, sadist!aemond, obsessive!aemond, dark!aemond, choking, p in v, oral sex (fem!receiving), blood kink, biting, mentions of childhood trauma, breeding kink, uncle/niece, kinda DD:DE? not that dead though… u might be able to eat…

He hears her first, that soft tittering which haunted his childhood, piercing straight into the marred socket of his left eye, down the monstrous scar she had left him with.

She sits behind him, planked between her brothers, the only daughter of his half-sister, and therefore the most beloved. Maybe Jacaerys had whispered a joke, his lips sticky against the shell of her ear, laughter bubbling up her throat at whatever inane quip he made. A part of him, the one that dominated his childhood, leaving him cowering along the sand and crying fat tears into his mothers skirts, thinks that maybe they’re whispering about him– their stoic, one-eyed uncle, whom they once taunted and teased as children. Her amusement echoes around the corners of his mind, running along every ridge of his spine and settling deep within him, into an endless pool of festering hatred.

It had been years since Aemond had seen his half-sister and her litter of bastards, but now that he has, he’s ready to never see them again. The rift between their families is slowly starting to mend, threads of green and black pulling together to stitch up the hole that was left after Laena’s funeral, and the taking of his eye. His mother, once reverent in her hatred for Rhaenyra, now holds onto her arm with a newfound longing, fingers rubbing circles along the long scar she had given her that same night, when she had demanded an eye for an eye. It was one of his fondest memories– Lucerys crying out in terror as Alicent rushed towards her holding a dagger, her darling face twisted in fear, hiding behind her mothers skirts. Even when his empty socket was throbbing with an intense pain that not even milk of the poppy could cure, he still relished in the sight.

His father had been slowly dying for years before he finally succumbed to his illness, something Aemond had anticipated every time he walked past his room, the sour stench of rot and sickness permeating through the shut doors, along with the constant beeping of medical machinery. The funeral had been just as droll as his last days, with Aegon slumped beside him, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, stinking of the bottle he had downed beforehand. Helaena was busy slouched over, peering down at the iridescent beetle that crawled around her fingers, muttering to herself, ignorant to the snorts Aegon would give and the shushing their mother hissed. And Daeron, the youngest of his siblings, was perched between mother and their grandfather, in which he had spent most of his childhood with, a good boy who listened steadfastly to the sermon. Behind him, the Velaryon siblings sat, from eldest to youngest, hands clasped together as they mourned in a way Aemond hadn’t.

Her presence seared into him, burning down to his bones, etching itself into the very marrow of him. The gods were feeling particularly cruel this day, and he listened to the sound of his niece’s sniffling, soft sobs leaving her lips in the place of the laughter he was once used to. He had wanted nothing more than to turn around, to peer upon her darling face, flushed a splotchy pink as tears streamed down her cheeks, the tip of her nose red and her brown eyes wide and watery, eyelashes clumped with tears. He imagined himself grabbing ahold of the chub of her cheeks, squashed beneath his fingers as he plunges his thumbs into her eye sockets, the white mush mixing with her crimson blood, a beautiful concoction made just for him. The thought dizzied him, and while speeches were given and prayers were sung, Aemond replayed this image on a loop, squirming in his seat every time he got to the part where her eyes popped out of her skull. Two eyes for his one, and the eight years he went without his revenge.

He remembers how those eyes, big and glimmering with a certain mischief, would peer at him with the curiosity of a doe, as if trying to figure out what made him tick. A brush of her fingers against the back of his hand, the warmth of her breath against his jaw, her gangly limbs stumbling over his own. These small tortures she’d inflict on him, only to turn and laugh in the wake of his trauma, when their older brothers would taunt and tease him incessantly. She’d trail after them, giggling at their antics with a small hand held over her mouth, the apples of her cheeks flushed red in mirth. He had hated her for it. Her ignorance hurt more than any push or shove Aegon or Jacaerys could bestow upon him.

“D’you think mum will notice if I leave?” Aegon slurs in his ear, spittle fanning across his jaw as he leans heavily against his shoulder, already in a drunken stupor. “She seems rather occupied, right?”

Aemond has to force himself not to sneer, eye twitching in annoyance as Aegon sways on his unsteady feet. His older brother has long been the family’s drunken embarrassment, but to see him act this way in front of their half-sister and her clan irritates him more than it usually would. Aegon’s beady eyes are glazed over, partly focused on their mother, who stands at Rhaenyra’s side like a leech, mouth twisted into a pitiful smile as she hangs onto every word that leaves the silver-haired bitch’s lips.

Aemond hums. “She’d notice eventually.”

He expects Aegon to stumble off, his clipped tone hinting to an end of the conversation, but instead, he chuckles. “Our little niece has grown into quite the woman, wouldn’t you say?”

The brothers watch as she chats with Daemon, their uncle and her stepfather, his towering figure dwarfing her smaller one. As Targaryen’s, hailed from Old Valyria and of an ancient bloodline, rumored to be connected to fantastical dragons, incestuous relations were once common within their family. After the turn of the century, their house which was once full of riches and immense power, halted in this practice. That is, until Rhaenyra whored herself out to her father’s brother at a young age. Despite this scandal, his half-sister steadily remained their father’s favorite, even after her marriage to Daemon and the birth of two sons.

“Come, brother. There’s no need to play shy,” Aegon snickers in Aemond’s silence, the alcoholic stench of his breath lingering under his nose. “We are Targaryen’s after all… surely you’ve thought about giving it to her. I know I have. Especially after the… incident.”

“I have no taste for such depravity.”

His brother groans, hand slipping off his shoulder as he wobbles off, unsatisfied with Aemond’s answer. Before he can leave, Aemond reaches out to stop him, leaning down to whisper in his ear. “You’re embarrassing us, lēkia.”

Aegon merely shrugs him off, stumbling over his feet as he walks out of the room, barely making it through the archway without tripping. The sight makes him grumble, jawbone tense as he grinds his teeth, returning his attention to the window, where a mess of dark curls now sits, face hidden from view. He has only glimpsed her once, when leaving the funeral, her eyes watery and nose tinted a shade of pink, tear tracks staining her cheeks. She had smiled at him. The image has been playing on a loop inside his head, a never ending reel of her pretty face and that ringing laugh, ever since he saw it.

Lucerys Velaryon has always been beautiful, he thinks. The features he has always hated in her brother– that stubby nose, the freckles along their cheeks, their dark hair and dark eyes– sneering down at him as he pushed him to the ground, were always devastating in her. As children, he had imagined she was the Maiden reincarnated, the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on, even when she’d laugh in his misery, carrying out her small tortures with every lingering look and every brush of her skin against his. After she took his eye, her face began to haunt him for different reasons, and his dreams of her becoming his bride turned into nightmares where her laugh would echo around his head while her blade cut into his flesh once again, this time taking his other eye as well. His hatred grew into a cruel thing, festering deep inside him until it started to rot through his bones, and every thought turned violent.

Rhaenyra would send their father pictures of her and her bastards, and he’d hang them around the house, in every hallway and on every fireplace mantle. Every year, they’d have a new picture, and as if to taunt him, Lucerys’ was always hung on the wall across from his bedroom door. He has always suspected Aegon of this pettiness, for his brother would often catch him glaring at the portrait from his doorway, eye tracing the curls of her hair and the curve of her jaw. Her eyes seemed to follow him as he walked, up until he would slam his door shut, locking her away from view. His hatred, still burning bright, had mixed with a different feeling that left a tight coil in his stomach, one which twisted more and more each time he saw that damned portrait.

Her face is etched along the inside of his eyelid, forced to see her every time he closes his eye. He has memorized every freckle, every curve and dip, even the milky scar that sits near her hairline from an accident when they were children, when Aegon had bumped into her, causing her to fall and hit her forehead against a jagged rock. The sight of her blood along the stones had nauseated him at the time, and so did her tears, fat as they dripped down her cheeks and into her wailing mouth. Now, he thinks he would quite like to see her blood again, to hear her cries as he inflicts the same pain she had once inflicted on him. His pants grow tighter at the thought, but he can’t find it in himself to be ashamed.

The air in the room grows thick, and he watches as Jacaerys stands above her, hand resting on the crown of her head, fingers slowly caressing the strands. She looks up with a small smile, eyes glowing in the midday sun that shines through the window next to her. His hands curl into fists, knuckles turning white as she laughs again, the sound ringing in his ears like a persistent bell. He quickly makes his way out of the stuffy room, shoulders tense as he passes by his mother and half-sister, neither of whom have looked away from one another since their reunion. The hallway is empty, and so is the looming staircase, which he climbs in stride, farther away from the center room and her lingering laugh. Beneath his eyepatch, his empty socket begins to throb, a searing pain shooting through the wound until his vision nearly goes white, and he’s left stumbling into his room, collapsing on the bed.

His curtains are still closed, shielding him away from the blazing sun, leaving his room dark with only slivers of light shining along the floor. He lays among rumpled sheets, tugging off the leather patch fastened around his head, bringing a shaky palm up to cover the aching hole. He is used to this pain, which plagues him more often than not, but within the presence of the one who created it, it seems to swell over him like a tidal wave. He barely hears the knock on his door, and when he doesn’t answer, a few seconds go by, until someone barges in.

Even in the dark he can still make out her wide eyes and the sheath of curls around her shoulders, her steps timid as she comes to a stop at the edge of his bed, fingers curled together in a nervous habit. “Are you alright, uncle?”

Her soft voice rouses him, his palm pressing deeper into his empty socket, while he looks up at her hovering figure. Her eyes dart over his face, lingering on his hand which covers his wound, and he wonders if she is remembering how he had covered his eye that night she had taken it, how he screamed and cried atop the sand, blood seeping through the cracks of his fingers, a perfect match to the blood dripping from the dagger in her small hands. When she quickly averts her gaze to a corner of his room, he feels a smug satisfaction rumbling in his chest.

“I… I’m sorry to bother you,” she murmurs, voice faltering slightly in his silence. “I was asked to come check on you.”

He hums. “By who?”

She’s quiet, eyes flicking back at him as if she is surprised by the sound of his voice. He merely stares back, palm growing sweaty in its position. Like a deer caught in headlights, her mouth opens and closes, before she finally speaks.

“Our mothers wish for our families to make amends. Given the death of Viserys.”

Aemond sits up at this, dropping his hand to his lap, stare hardening as her eyes dart to the now exposed scar, to the gaping hole where his eye once laid. She swallows, but makes no attempt to back away or close her eyes. Instead, Lucerys draws closer, head leaning over to get a better look at her work in the dim room. His stomach churns, fingers inching towards the eyepatch that sits beside him, yet he stops himself from grabbing it. No, he wants her to see what she did to him.

“You want to make amends?” he pushes, voice raspy from his dry throat. He sits up farther, leaning closer to her hovering frame. She nods. “And how do you plan on doing that, riñītsos?”

She looks at him in trepidation, lips tugging downwards and her brows furrowing above her dark eyes. The black dress she wears is short, hem stopping in the middle of her thighs, the material tight around her waist, and his eye snags on the motion of one of the straps falling off her shoulder, resting above a small freckle. She doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she just doesn’t care, her stare not wavering as she makes no move to fix it. There’s a look in her eyes he’s never seen before, something gleaming and intoxicating, drawing him into a pool of soft velvet. He wants to hold them, those delicate globes, in his hands, feel the warm slime of them like two marbles.

In a quick motion, spurred on by his vivid imagination, he grabs ahold of her jaw, tugging her face close to his. “Will you take out your eye, hm? Give me what’s been owed all these years?”

Lucerys surprises him. Instead of falling back in fear, she merely smiles. It’s sardonic in nature, and he watches in trepidation as her eyes flicker down to rest upon his lips. So quick, he barely registers it, yet the action shocks a bolt of lightning down his spine, and his grip on her jaw tightens in a mix of dubiety and fury. Her smile only seems to grow wider at this, as if she is aware of every thought crossing his mind, nestling their way into the mush of his brain.

“Is that what you want, uncle? My eye?”

It is, he thinks. And so much more. He wasn’t lying when he told Aegon he has no taste for depravity, always the dutiful son despite what has befell him. Aemond tries hard to wash away his vengeful urges, the stirring of his cock when he imagines his little niece writhing in pain, covered in bruises and bleeding cuts, her eyes wide and tearful as she squeals like a piglet, under the might of his fists and his knife. His thoughts have only grown darker, crueler than he cared to admit, with flashes of his suckling on her open wounds like his mothers tit when he was a babe, warm blood resting along his tongue instead of milk. Nothing would taste as sweet, he was sure of it.

With a tug, Lucerys topples over him, her body plush against his own, and he quickly flips them over, his knees up against her ribcage. Her face is flushed from exertion, her hands scrambling against his chest and shoulders, legs kicking out from under him, though her efforts are in vain as Aemond merely tightens his grip around her. Stubbornly, her lips pursed into a sour smile, she stops her struggling and stares up at him in defiance.

“Go ahead then,” she goads, raising her chin and bringing her hands up to rest against his back, fingernails digging through his shirt and into his skin. He hopes they leave marks. “I won’t scream. I won’t fight. I refuse to give you the satisfaction of my pain, uncle.”

A deep, twisted rage sits within him, rising in plumes of smoke like the molten lava from an exploding volcano, and as he glares down at his sweet niece, the image of their homeland flashes across his vision. Their ancestors once lived on the island of Valyria, a prosperous place that had been home to the largest mount, which erupted and destroyed the land, as well as all those who resided there. A few Targaryen’s were lucky to escape just a few years before, and he thinks about this luck now, bringing a hand up to wrap around the width of Lucerys’ neck. She keeps her word; she doesn’t fight back, doesn’t try to scream, even as his fingers tighten enough to bruise, cutting off her air circulation. Tears gather at the corners of her eyes, and Aemond finds himself groaning, arousal splashing over him like ice water.

He removes his hand. Lucerys gasps for air, nails no longer digging into his skin, hands now limp around his waist. Her gaze looks down, chest heaving as she slightly tilts her head, focusing on Aemond’s lap. With a flush, he realizes she’s staring at his erection, which is pushing against his trousers, its heaviness resting against her abdomen. Her eyes glimmer at the sight, pink lips tugging upwards into another smug smile, hands inching towards his thighs that are still wrapped around her. When her fingers press against his thighs, he jolts back.

She sits up with a small laugh. “I thought you wanted to put out my eye, Aem.”

The nickname, one he hasn’t heard since they were children, running along the beach together, toes nestling along the sand, salty waves lapping against their ankles. It makes his chest twinge, an ache forming under his ribs, and he quickly turns away, resting his hands on the wooden surface of his desk. “Get out.”

It’s quiet, with only the sound of their families downstairs, chatting and laughing, which does nothing to help the tension of the room. He hears her sigh, short legs twisting beneath her as she climbs off his bed, shoes hitting the floor softly. She lingers at the door, hand resting on the doorknob while her eyes burn holes into his back, willing him to say something, but he doesn’t. He merely waits in silence, solemn in the dark corner of his room, among his books and journals. It’s only when he hears the door open and shut, and the sound of her footsteps retreating down the hallway and onto the stairs, does he sit back on his bed, lowering himself down to press his nose against the spot where she once laid, the scent of her still fresh on his sheets.

*

She’s taunting him, eyes avoiding his own one-eyed stare, dark hair fanning over her face every time she turns to speak to her brother, as if she’s hiding from him. As if she hadn’t smiled as he sat atop her, hands around her neck, a threat on the tip of his tongue. Now, she sits across from him, at the far end of the long dining table, nothing but wood and various dishes separating them.

Perhaps he should’ve taken her eye when he had the chance, he thinks. In the moment, he had doubted she wouldn’t have screamed. He knows the pain of losing an eye all too well, searing and bone-deep. Despite her promises, Lucerys Velaryon would’ve cried out the minute his blade touched her skin, and their families would have rushed into the room and stopped him in his act of revenge. No, if he was to take her eye, he needed to do so in a secluded place, where no one could interrupt him.

Helaena, sitting beside him, mumbles something, her hand feather-light against his own. He looks over at her, and she merely lifts out her other palm, showing him the fuzzy caterpillar that slowly moves along her skin. He can’t help but smile, though his sister doesn’t notice as she keeps her lilac gaze on the small critter she holds, moving her hand from him to run a finger gently down its spine. Next to her, Aegon snorts in his cup, taking another swig before leaning back in his chair, a slimy grin on his face.

“Have you given any more thought to what I said earlier, little brother?”

His words are slurred, and Aemond decides to ignore him, lifting his own cup to his lips and taking a sip. In the middle, his mother sits beside Rhaenyra, their heads bent towards one another, lips pulled into wistful smiles, as if they are old friends, or perhaps lovers. Daemon had gone home, taking their three youngest with him, as well as his twin daughters, leaving his niece-wife and her two eldest in the hands of the woman they both once despised.

Aegon, never one for taking hints, continues. “If you don’t want her, I’ll be happy to show our dear niece a good time. I have hopes she’ll be… pure.”

Clenching his jaw, Aemond finally looks over at his drunken brother, giving him the attention he seemingly craves. Aegon smirks, head tipped forward as he leans over Helaena, who is still too busy with her caterpillar. From the corner of his eye, he can see their mother looking over at her eldest son cautiously, though when Rhaenyra whispers something in her ear, she looks away.

Aemond opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the sound of Lucerys’ laughter, and the breaking of glass. Him and Aegon advert their gazes to the opposite end of the table, where Jacaerys stands with reddened cheeks, holding the broken stem of a wine glass. Lucerys is hunched over, laughter bubbling out of her lips, tears dotting the corners of her eyes, reminding Aemond of when he had his hands around her throat only a few hours earlier. The thought makes him shift in his seat, a sliver of heat darting through his abdomen.

“Jace… oh my God,” she stutters out, still laughing, hand lifting up as she shows the table her palm, where a shard of glass sticks out, blood trickling down her wrist. Jace immediately darts forward, grabbing her arm, tilting her hand towards him so he can inspect the wound, eyebrows furrowed in worry. “It’s fine, brother. I’m okay!”

Rhaenyra also rounds the table, cradling her daughter's head against her chest, smoothing a hand down her curls. Lucerys continues to laugh, though it slowly starts to turn into giggles, which eventually die down until she’s left hiccupping, ruddy cheeks stained with tears from her outburst. His mother had run off, and now she returns, first aid kit in hand, which she gives to his half-sister, who puts her hand on Lucerys’ shoulder, pushing her to sit back in her chair. Aemond watches as her blood continues a path down her arm, before beginning to drip onto the surface of the table, leaving small dots of crimson.

She watches with watery eyes as her mother grabs a pair of tweezers, going for the glass jutting out her skin. “Shh, it’s okay, my darling girl.”

The shard is slowly pulled out, a bubbling of more blood rising to the surface, and Aemond watches with a hard cock. It’s placed on a napkin atop the table, next to the pool of blood that now seeps into the wood, yet no one moves to clean it up. Or maybe his mother does, her scabbed fingers wiping the liquid away with a cloth, always one for cleanliness. Aemond wouldn’t know, as his eye is trained on the cut along Lucerys’ palm, as her own mother tends to it. A wipe is swiped across, turning from white to red, and then comes the gauze, which is wrapped around continuously, until the blood ceases to seep through the material. The whole time, his little niece sits without flinching, eyes watching him as he watches her.

When she’s finished, the wound now covered, the room is quiet for just a moment, before a booming clap of thunder echoes against the walls, and the sound of pouring rain pings off the roof. Jace is on his knees beside his sister, hands holding her wrist, whispering apologies in her ear, ones which she doesn’t reply to as she continues to stare across the table. It isn’t until Jace follows her gaze that she replies, before picking up her fork and stabbing at a lone carrot that sits on her plate, bringing it up to her lips as she finally looks away, giving her older brother a smile.

Dinner continues as before, and by now, Aegon has slumped over his chair, fast asleep in his drunkenness. Their mother, surprisingly, pays him no mind, and neither does Helaena, who excuses herself to her room, eyes still focused on the crawling insect she holds. Rhaenyra continuously peeks over at Lucerys, face glossed in worry, but she merely listens to her brother talk, occasionally nodding her head or laughing softly at whatever it is he was droning on about. With nothing to distract him, Aemond is silent in his suffering as he watches her, eye flickering down to her wrapped palm every few minutes, as if willing it to peel off and show him that red slice once more.

The storm has gotten worse, lightning flashing through the closed windows nearly every second, the thunder becoming so loud that it interrupts his mother and half-sisters conversation, the both of them wondering aloud on whether it will pass or continue through the night. It is already dark out, the ticking clock reading nine o’clock, and it is his mother who proposes the idea.

“Please, Rhaenyra,” her fingers rub against her scar, eyes pleading. “Stay. It is too dangerous to leave now, in the dark while it’s storming so heavily. We have more than enough guest rooms for you, Luke, and Jace to stay in.”

His mothers use of Lucerys’ nickname jolts him. Beside him, Aegon lets out a snore.

Despite her wariness, Rhaenyra agrees to stay the night, and Aemond thinks he has never seen his mother so happy before. With a huff, he stands, and when his mother doesn’t even look at him, too busy staring at his whore half-sister with stars in her eyes, he takes that as his cue to leave. He glances over at Lucerys once more, both her and Jace now watching him, their matching eyes and noses making him want to sneer. Instead, he makes his way out of the dining room, his steps heavy as he trudges up the stairs, head throbbing in tune with the pattering rain.

*

He can barely sleep, his body restless as he tosses and turns among rumpled sheets, nose twitching against the scent of her that still lingers. Aemond swears he can feel her, even as she sleeps just down the hall, and his skin is slick with sweat, a pulse running through his swelling cock. He teases himself, brushing a hand between his thighs, coiling away when he only gets harder, silver hair sticking to his flushed face as he lays there with the heavy weight of shame bearing down on his chest. His only solace being the plip-plop of the rain against his window, the storm now passed, leaving only that soft sound in its wake, soothing along his headache.

Something wriggles beneath the skin of his chest, insistent as he sits up, looking around the dark room, a warning bell ringing within his ears. When he looks out the window, a flash of white crosses his vision, and for a moment, he thinks the storm has started again. It isn’t until he sees her curls, slightly damp and sticking to her shoulders, does he realize that it’s her, not the storm. She walks across the backyard, towards the small woods that sits behind their estate, clad in nothing but her nightgown. Without thinking, Aemond is slipping on a shirt and his shoes, his steps rushed as he sneaks down the stairs and out the backdoor, gaze trained on her retreating figure.

The rain is merely a drizzle now, yet it still dampens his clothes and hair, leaving raindrops along his skin, as he walks between trees, swiping at hanging branches and leaves, holding his breath as he stalks after her. She doesn’t seem to hear him, as she continues on, not faltering in her pace. The path she’s leading looks familiar to him, and he realizes that it’s the same path they used to trek as children. It leads to an old lake, full of tiny fish and swampy water, which they used to dare one another to jump in, all too afraid of what lurked below the muck. When they make it to the clearing, Lucerys doesn’t hesitate to walk up to the bank, standing along withered stones and tall weeds. The sight of the water stops Aemond in his tracks, a memory rushing to him like a vision.

It had been the hottest summer of their young lives that year, and they all spent it among the trees, lounging under the cool air the shade provided, playing trolls and goblins. When they had first discovered the lake, it was Aegon who pushed Aemond in. He had flailed within the dirty water, pale arms splashing through algae and brine as he gasped out for help, not yet knowing how to swim. Jace and Aegon had stood on the bank laughing, and to his horror, Lucerys had disappeared. It wasn’t until she rushed out from the trees, Uncle Daemon in tow, that Aemond was saved, laying along the grass and coughing up water and vomit, shivering under the stares of those around him, Daemon’s hand hard as it slapped his back. His mother had scolded Aegon, who swore he didn’t remember that his younger brother couldn’t swim, and he only became more cruel in his anger after she grounded him.

As he remembers the look on Lucerys’ young face, pinched in worry, cheeks flushed pink and bright eyes teary, he thinks perhaps he had just imagined that part. It was what he once dreamed most of; his niece caring for him. He knows this is far from the truth, as she spins around, arms held out in front of her, gaze locked on his lingering figure. Her lips curl into a sweet smile, and she wiggles her fingers, as if she is beckoning him over. Aemond finds that his rage has made another appearance, replacing his pondering with a rising fury as he makes his way towards her, swaying on her bare feet, her grin brighter than the full moon in the sky above them.

He reaches out for her, hands tight against her arms, and he watches with a curious gaze as her flesh pebbles beneath his touch, her damp skin dotted with raindrops and gooseflesh. Her head is heavy as she beams up at him, eyes hazy with sleep, her lashes fluttering under his stare. She whispers his name, lips plush around the word, dropping her head to rest against his thumping chest, nose nuzzling along the cotton of his shirt. For a moment, Aemond allows himself to revel in her warmth, his own nose resting within her hair, dark curls tickling his cheeks, and he inhales deeply, the smell of lavender and honey and rain intoxicating his senses. Lucerys presses herself closer, and as the minutes tick by, he realizes she has been sleepwalking.

Aemond has only heard tales about Lucerys’ supposed sleepwalking habit. Years ago, according to Rhaenyra, Lucerys had nearly walked out the top window in her room, her eyes open wide in an unwavering stare, bare feet pressed against the sill. It had taken Daemon picking her up and carrying her to her bed to get her to safety, and the next morning, when asked about what had happened the previous night, Lucerys hadn’t a clue what they were talking about. Daemon took to installing locks on all the windows around their home, and after that, Aemond hadn’t heard much else about his niece’s sleepwalking. He figured it was a thing of the past, something she has grown out of in the shedding of her adolescence.

Now, she stands slumped against his chest, breathing steady and her lips parted as soft sighs and snores escape her throat. The rain picks up, drizzling harder than before, and a rumbling of thunder is heard along the horizon, yet Lucerys looks peaceful in her slumber, even as Aemond’s grip on her becomes tighter. A twisted part of him thinks about how easy it would be to hurt her now, as she lays in the mercy of his hands, the same in which once easily wrapped around her throat and squeezed until her face was red. Another part of him, one much darker and persistent, wishes to slip the thin straps of her nightgown down her shoulders, to suckle on her pert nipples which press against the sheer satin, to dip a hand between her supple thighs and caress the hottest part of her.

Her neck is bare, and as he looks down, he realizes with sudden certainty that there is no one here to stop him. The moon is aglow, locusts buzzing within the grass, an occasional hoot from a lone owl, and they are in the middle of the woods, in a place unknown by anyone but them as children. She is pliant within his hold, lashes resting against her cheeks, heartbeat steady within her delicate chest. It is something he had once dreamed of, swathed in sweat-soaked sheets, cock spent along his taut stomach. And with a single dip of his chin, he is able to press his lips along the skin of her neck, right below her thrumming pulse.

She doesn’t stir, not even as his lips form a path down to her collarbones, the bones jutting out just enough for him to bite around, the feel of it between his teeth making him groan. His tongue slicks against the mark, dipping into each indent, before making its way up to her jaw, where he nibbles and sucks on the skin. His hands have moved to rest upon her hips, but as she starts to slip from his grasp, he wraps his arms around her waist, pressing her close to him once more, her breasts plush against his soaked shirt, nipples scratching between them.

He barely hears the gasp. “A-Aemond…?”

Her hands come up to his shoulders, pushing frantically as he bites down on the skin of her jaw, the sharp ache making her yelp. When he tastes blood, he finally softens, lips now wrapped around the skin, tongue lapping over the small wound. As Lucerys continues to squirm, fingernails now digging into his skin, he wrestles her to the ground, hands squelching in the mud beneath her as he holds himself above her, lips stained with a single drop of blood.

“Where are we? How did…” she trails off, realization clicking as she takes in the dark sky and the pajamas she still wears. Her eyes are glossy as she gazes up at him, the mark on her jaw shining like a beacon, encouraging him to press himself against her again. This time, she doesn’t struggle, still confused as she looks around the clearing, catching sight of the familiar lake.

His cock is pulsating as it rests between them, and he barely notices as he cants his hips to rub along her clothed cunt, white-hot pleasure shooting up his spine, making him close his eye and press his lips to her throat once again. Her breath hitches at his movements, her own legs unconsciously spreading wider, opening herself up for him to rut against her like a hound in heat. Shame twinges within his brain, yet Lucerys wraps an arm around his back, as if encouraging his ministrations, and he forces it to the back of his mind as he digs his fingers into the slick mud, hips rocking faster. She whines out, “Aem.”

In a frenzy, he brings a hand up to paw at her dress, tugging down the straps until he bares her breasts, mud staining the fabric and her skin. His lips are quick to wrap around them, going back and forth between the two, before slipping a pert nipple into his mouth, groaning at the taste of her. He imagines them swollen with milk, her stomach round with his child, her hands smoothing down his hair as he nurses from her, her sweet liquid warm as it pools in the pit of him. He grows harder at the thought, teeth nibbling at the bud, his body weight crashing atop her as he brings his other hand over to caress her other breast, fingers tweaking the lonely nipple. Her back seems to arch beneath him, her own hips matching the rhythm of his, her breath hot against his head.

“Please,” she whispers, tugging at the strands of his hair. When her pulling becomes harsher, he allows her to tug him up, her mouth agape as she tilts her chin, searching for his lips. She kisses him, wanton as she juts out her hips against his, hands frantic as they run down his shoulders and under his soaked shirt, nails scratching along his skin. Her tongue slips over his, and he thinks she tastes like the sweetest poison, of cherries and arsenic.

He pushes himself up once more, knees digging into the earth beneath him, and he doesn’t think as he rips off her dress, pulling it down her legs in one swipe. Her underwear is purple, a pretty shade of lilac that reminds him of his own eye, with a little rose in the middle, now stained with mud and grass as she writhes, trying to hide the patch of wetness that seeps through the dainty fabric. Aemond is quick to lean down, pressing his nose against her navel, the smell of rain and sleep tainting her flesh, and he gives her a small lick, from her belly button to the hem of her underwear. She whines, bare chest heaving as she looks down at him, eyes pleading underneath a cloud of wariness, brows furrowed as if she is fighting a battle within her mind. When he comes face to face with her clothed cunt, he doesn’t hesitate to press his tongue against the spot of her arousal, the cotton soft along his tongue as he laps at it, trying to taste her slickness.

“Iksan jāre naejot qogralbar ao,” he grits out over the rain, his cock aching as he lays flat against it, head still between her thighs. “Yn jaelan naejot sylutegon ao ēlī.” (I am going to fuck you. But I want to taste you first).

He doesn’t ponder over whether she knows High Valyrian, the language of their ancestors, but when she lets out a moan, her head nodding against the ground, a sense of pride settles within him. He pulls the last remaining piece of clothing off, bringing his hands to her thighs, which he pushes up so that her knees are pressed against her chest, leaving her wide open for him. A groan leaves him at the sight of her wet cunt, and when he lays his tongue flat against her pearl, he nearly creams his pajama pants at the pulsing of her and the taste of her arousal. Like a man starved, his tongue laps over the whole of her, licking and sucking as she writhes and moans, a flush starting from her chest to her hairline washing over her like a veil. His hips grind into the earth below him, his eye focused on her wet face, strands of her dark hair stuck to her cheeks and across her gaping lips. He thinks she might look even prettier like this than when she cries.

She’s wanton in her moans, head lolling back and forth, eyes squeezed shut as Aemond presses a finger into her wet cavern, his own eye fluttering shut at the tightness, a ring of soft muscles clenching down. His tongue focuses on her pearl, which throbs as he flicks and presses against it, engorged in its pleasure, and as he crooks a finger up inside her, her hips buck up in a spasm, though the grip he has on her legs, which still press up to her chest, stops her from moving. A loud whimper leaves her lips, and her peak comes quickly, her arousal gushing around his finger. When she finally calms down, going slack under him, he pulls his finger out and immediately licks her cream off it, before going back in to clean up her now sensitive cunt.

Her fingers tangle within his hair, tugging to pull him off her as she wriggles under his licks, and when he finally pulls away, her grip is strong as she whines before he gives in and rests his weight above her, lips hovering her own. Her tongue comes out to lap at them, small kitten licks that grow more greedy, until she’s slipping between them and pressing him close to her. She groans, perhaps at the taste of herself on his tongue, her hips already jutting back up against him, brushing over his aching cock, desperate for more like his own ravenous whore. His hands are quick as they push down his muddied pants, cock springing up against his soaked abdomen, bringing the head to rub along the seam of her. Lucerys seems to tense under him at the feeling, but he pays no mind as he presses the tip against her tight hole, still slick and warm even after her peak.

“Aem-“ she gasps out, hands against his shoulders, eyes wide in fear at the feeling of his cock pressing into her. “I…”

He slams his hips flush against her with a grunt, a yelp escaping her quivering mouth, fingernails digging deep into the cotton of his shirt. Tears immediately start to stream down her flushed cheeks in rivulets, soft sobs building up within her closed throat. Aemond has never felt such dizzying pleasure, white hot and shooting through every nerve in his body, until he feels like he’s aflame. He doesn’t falter as Lucerys cries, his pace fast and deep, pulling out until just the tip of him remains, before slamming back in, his sack slapping against her ass. When he looks down, he can see her blood on his cock, and the sight of it, as well as the confirmation of her virginity, makes him grow frenzier, tongue running along her salty cheeks, moaning at the taste of her tears. He wants to bite her, to draw blood, to taste the very marrow of her.

A growl leaves him as he bites down against her wet cheek, the chub of it soft between his teeth. Her hands are quick to shove at his chest, though her moans and the sounds of her slickness, sticky against him, makes him believe his sweet little niece likes it just as much as he does. When he pulls away, he revels in the sight of the marks he left, bright pink and sure to turn a purple-blue after. Her sobs slowly turn into hiccups, which turn into moans that she tries to hold back with a bite to her lips, but when Aemond wraps one hand around her throat, they turn into gasps. He squeezes hard, holding for just a few seconds, before slackening his grip, letting her breathe if only for a moment, hips digging painfully into the back of her thighs with every thrust.

“You’re h-hurting me, uncle,” Lucerys cries out, doe eyes red from her tears, peering up at his grunting face above her own flushed one. “Kostilus.” (Please).

“Mazemilā ziry hae se sȳz byka līve iksā,” he sneers, bringing his body down to rest against her shivering frame, arms wrapping around her back, slick along the mud. He presses her flush to him, and she is quick to hold onto him, legs curling below the crook of his arse. “Mirre ñuhon.” (You will take it like the good little whore you are. All mine).

Her moans are sticky against his neck, lips brushing along the damp skin every time she opens her mouth, the sounds ringing in his ears above the pittering of the rain and the grumbles of occasional thunder. His fingers scratch down her back, hips stuttering as her cunt squeezes around his cock, warm and slick and unwilling to let him go. When she pulls her head up from its spot against his neck, hands scrambling to rest along his jaw, bringing his face up to look at her, eyes zoning in on the empty socket where his left eye once sat, it is then that he realizes he didn’t put on his eyepatch. He nearly shrinks into himself, jerking his chin away from her grasp so he can sink his face back against her hair, but she doesn’t relent. Instead, her fingers trace along the jagged scar, lips open in awe as she admires the work of her own hand.

Lucerys presses her lips right below the gaping hole of his eye, tongue gentle as she licks up the length of his scar. With her mouth resting just above the dark cavern, she whispers the words he has always wanted to hear, “I’m sorry, Aem. Iksan vaoreznuni.” (I am sorry).

He pushes her down to the wet ground once more, head slamming into the slush below, and she lets out a squeal, hands scrambling to push herself up. His hips snap into hers, palms tight against her wrists as he holds her down, vision a red haze. It isn’t enough. Her apology means nothing to him now, all these years after. Years spent mourning the loss of his eye, ruminating in the humiliation and injustice of that night, listening to the whispers of his classmates as they pondered over what sight sat beneath his leather eyepatch. Years of sharp pain shooting through his empty socket, of headaches that never went away, of dreaming of the one who caused this agony, her pretty face and that ringing laughter. Nothing she can say will ever be enough.

Tears stream down her pink cheeks, repainting the tracks left previously, her moans now gasps of pain and pleasure. He sits on his knees, her ass across his thighs, hips lifted upwards as he fucks her pliant body, like his own little doll. Her hair is matted with a mix of rain and mud, lips quivering and her eyes squeezed shut, a flush of shame and arousal settling across her bare chest. She looks so beautiful, so much like that young girl who has haunted his dreams since they first met, when she was just a babe and he a little boy who couldn’t yet form a sentence.

One of his hands slides up her bruised wrist, to rest along the gauze-covered palm, drawn to the wound that will scar her. His fingers dig beneath the wrap, lifting it up until the cut is bared, and as he feels her clench around him again, a breathy moan leaving her lips as her release washes over her, he leans his head down to lick along the seam. Dried blood flakes away, and as he presses his wet muscle harder, the cut reopens, blood blossoming out of it like a stream of water, which he doesn’t hesitate to lap over. His own release hits him like a tidal wave, the taste of her blood intoxicating him as he presses into her with one final thrust, his other hand going to grab onto her waist, thumb brushing against the bulge of his cock in her abdomen. She lays motionless as he uses her, until only small dots of blood remain along the reopened wound, and his cock has softened inside her, his seed hot against her womb.

Aemond rolls off of her with a grunt, hissing as her spent cunt seems to grasp at him as he pulls out. Between her thighs is a mess of blood and semen, a mix of their essences wet along his cock, and he almost hardens at the sight. He brings his fingers up to gather the pooling of the liquid that seeps out from her hole, roughly pushing it back in with a groan, her whimper sending another wave of arousal down his spine. She twitches beneath him, and when he is confident that his seed has stuck, he removes himself from her, rolling over onto his back and gazing up at the full moon, no longer covered by storm clouds. Beside him, Lucerys is quiet, only an occasional sniffle, and it seems like they lay there for hours, not speaking, not moving. Just waiting, three eyes focused on the night sky above them.

When she finally gets up, he watches with a hazy eye as she pulls on what remains of her nightgown, now a tattered, muddied mess of silk. She starts to walk off on shaky legs, but she pauses, turning back to look down at him.

“It was an accident, you know,” her voice is raspy, throat sore from the moans and cries that left her lips that night. “We were kids… I thought you were gonna kill Jace. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, Aemond.”

He doesn’t say anything. She waits a few more moments, before finally walking off, her figure disappearing among the trees, leaving him alone by the still lake. He brings his fingers up to his lips, still wet from their mixed concoction of semen and blood, and takes his time licking them off. The taste is enough to slowly fill the gaping cavern in his chest, one full of rage and violence, images of his niece's body beneath him, naked in the moonlight, flushed from head to toe, racing through his mind in a kaleidoscope of memories.

Perhaps it was enough. Her apology, those saccharine words that dripped from her tongue like honey. He thinks maybe he can forgive her.

An eye for her innocence, for the blood that stains his cock and teeth.

*

a/n: this is crossposted to ao3 (user finalgrls)! kinda the darkest thing i’ve written so far, but it’s definitely the work im proudest of. i’d LOVE any feedback, even if it’s negative <3 i hope u enjoyed!

[angelsfat3]

ⓘㅤ 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄. ⠀⠀( 你是我的命运。)

͏𝒮ummary “ ✉. 𝖫𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗀𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝖽. 𝖭𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖽𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖧𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎.

⠀،،⠀𝒢𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒. ’ 𝖲𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗒, 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗅𝖾, smau.

( 𝒄/𝒘. )───𝖬𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 (𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖽), 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾.

＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿

In the shadowy corridors of the palace, where candlelight barely managed to tear through the veil of darkness, Sunghoon moved with the haunting grace of a prince carrying a destiny as heavy as the stone walls surrounding him. Each step echoed in the emptiness, his elegant, icy stride leaving a trail of silence and reverence, as if even the air feared to touch him.

Since his youth, Sunghoon had learned to wrap his soul in a box of ice, a perfect mask of arrogance that kept him distant, unreachable. The whispers in the hallways followed him like an echo in the twilight, murmuring with fear and envy, yet no one dared to cross the invisible line he imposed. However, there was one soul who managed to dissolve that barrier as effortlessly as starlight pierces the night’s darkness.

[…], the young servant whose presence seemed to draw sparks of life into the palace's cold, lifeless heart, was the only one capable of seeing the true Sunghoon. With him, in those hidden corners, far from watchful eyes, the unbreakable prince revealed his fragility, as if in the shelter of his presence he could shed his icy armor.

There, where the palace’s whispers faded and time itself seemed to pause, Sunghoon gazed at him with a devotion that bordered on celestial; with […], he was vulnerable and ardent, letting himself be consumed by a love that knew no bounds.

To him, […] was more than a lover; he was his anchor in an ocean of shadows, the only glimmer of warmth in his desolate existence. In […]’s eyes, he saw a world where he could be human, where every touch and every glance built a home.

Sunghoon knew that for […], he would sacrifice everything, even his own kingdom of shadows, because without him, the palace was nothing more than a glorious, cold tomb.

＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿

But in the cold and cruel reality, Sunghoon knew that his love for […] was his own damnation.

As a prince, he was trapped in an unyielding fate, bound to marry a woman to ensure the continuation of the dynasty. This responsibility was a poison that consumed him day and night, a constant reminder of the betrayal that his title imposed upon him.

The mere thought of being unfaithful to his beloved, even if only in appearance, tore at his soul. So he swore to himself, with the fervor of one who binds his life to a vow, that he would rather die than break the purity of his devotion. That promise became his greatest burden and, at the same time, the reason he kept moving forward.

The day of his wedding was one of the darkest moments in Sunghoon’s life. Amidst the opulence of the palace, surrounded by nobles and murmurs of approval, he spoke his vows, yet in his mind, every word was directed to […]. Every syllable, every oath, belonged to him, as if he could immortalize his secret love within the echo of those hollow promises.

His wife, a noblewoman with a kind heart, would never know love within their marriage. Sunghoon maintained an impeccable distance, fulfilling only the façade, ensuring that neither desire nor affection would ever cross that invisible threshold.

To fulfill the demands of the crown without tainting his vow, he discreetly hired a man to father the heirs expected of him, thus preserving the sanctity of his promise to […].

But fate, cruel and relentless, had other plans.

Upon learning of the engagement that would bind their lives in a pretense of loyalty, [...] felt something break within.

He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Sunghoon, of watching him live beside someone else, even if his love for him remained untouched. The torment of this prospect pushed him to the edge.

Days of silent despair and nights of loneliness piled up until they became unbearable.

The young servant, who had silently endured the weight of a forbidden love and the pain of an impossible future, finally broke. [...] knew that this sentence was a cruel imposition, that the weight of such an obligation would destroy Sunghoon, leaving him hollow, robbing him of his very soul.

Unable to endure the thought of becoming a constant reminder of that curse, and convinced that his love would never be more than a burden, he came to the conclusion that only death could free him and grant Sunghoon a peace he could never otherwise find.

In his final moments before making his decision, [...] summoned a courage tinged with sadness and wrote a letter. With trembling hands and tears staining the paper, he allowed his heart to speak in each word, letting his consuming pain and boundless love pour forth, transforming his suffering into a near-divine plea. Each sentence was a farewell, an echo of the devotion that could never die, even when he would leave this world.

“I cannot live without you, and I know that you cannot truly live with me under these circumstances. I would rather be your final breath than a weight you carry in your heart.”

That letter, steeped in love and tragedy, was the last thing [...] left behind, a ghost destined to haunt Sunghoon’s life forever.

When Sunghoon found [...], the world stopped spinning, and with it, all sense of reality vanished.

In an instant, every wall of self-control and coldness he had built over the years as an untouchable, distant prince crumbled, exposing a pain so profound it seemed to tear the air around him.

[...] lay on the floor of his private room, surrounded by a pool of blood that, to Sunghoon, seemed like the final sacrifice of a love that had given everything, down to its last breath.

The palace walls seemed to absorb his suffering, silent witnesses to the tragedy now engulfing the prince.

Shaking, Sunghoon knelt beside [...]’s lifeless body. His hands hesitated, almost fearing to touch his beloved and confirm that the warmth they once shared had vanished forever.

[...]’s face lay still, his skin cold as marble, pale as the moon on a starless night. The light that once shone in his eyes, that spark of love and hope that had sustained Sunghoon in his darkest moments, was now extinguished, leaving only a trace of dried tears on his cheeks.

His fingers still clutched a letter, crumpled and marked with the imprint of his desperation—a testament of eternal love and boundless sorrow.

With trembling hands, Sunghoon took the letter and read each word, feeling his own life slip away as he grasped [...]’s sacrifice.

It was as if the entire world was collapsing around him, and each farewell phrase echoed in his mind like the shattering of a promise, a vow of love he could never fulfill.

Collapsing, he held his beloved’s body against his chest, clinging to him as if that desperate embrace could merge them, blur the line between life and death, and bring him back. But brutal reality gripped him tightly.

In that moment, the weight of eternity without [...] became a real abyss, pulling him into an impossible void.

Then, a heart-wrenching scream escaped his lips, breaking the silence of the palace and echoing like a soul-tearing lament. That voice, once a symbol of authority and control, now shattered in a desperate plea, in an uncontrollable sob.

Sunghoon’s tears fell onto [...]’s motionless face as he murmured broken words of eternal love, shattered promises, and unanswered pleas, as if the pain in his heart could defy death itself.

Each tear, each whisper was a powerless cry, a fierce longing to challenge fate, a silent plea to a cruel universe that had taken away the only light ever to illuminate his shadows.

And there, in the dimness of that cold room, Sunghoon understood he had lost something irreplaceable, and in the silence that followed his weeping, only the eternal emptiness of a love that could never die remained.

From that moment on, Sunghoon was never the same; his eyes lost their spark, and his soul, consumed by guilt and sorrow, became a wandering shadow, seeking a solace that would never come.

For him, [...]’s death was the true end, and his own existence became an eternal punishment, a reminder of a love that survived even beyond death itself.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

In the present day, Sunghoon remained the cold, distant being he had learned to be, but those who truly knew him understood that this coldness concealed depths of emotion few could imagine.

He had perfected the art of indifference, projecting an impenetrable image that made those around him regard him with respect, fear, and, in many cases, admiration—just as in his days as an emperor.

To the world, he was the unattainable one, the quiet member of a popular group on the university campus, consisting of six other young immortals, each with a past as dark and enigmatic as his own.

These eternal companions were his allies, and together, they embodied a magnetic, mysterious presence that granted them an untouchable status.

No one dared to come too close, no one attempted to cross the invisible barrier that surrounded them. And this was precisely what Sunghoon had desired for centuries.

After the tragedy with [...], he had learned never to allow anyone to break that distance, which protected him from any further loss.

But everything changed one morning like any other.

Sunghoon was in class, listening to the professor’s words, lost in his usual icy calm, when a peculiar scent suddenly invaded his senses—a scent he had sworn he would never encounter again. It was a familiar and painfully intense aroma, the same one he had chased for centuries, filling his dreams and haunting his sleepless nights.

The classroom door opened, and a young man walked in, completely unaware of the turmoil he was about to unleash.

Sunghoon could barely control the surprise that crossed his usually impassive face. His dead heart seemed to beat once more as he looked at the newcomer, who radiated the same essence that had once belonged to [...]—the essence he had thought lost forever.

It was as if time had stopped, as if every second of his hellish life had been only a wait for this precise moment.

The young man, unknowingly, was enveloped in the same fragrance, in the same aura of warmth that had once been Sunghoon’s emotional home.

His features were so similar, so vivid, that the prince almost feared it was an illusion, a cruel manifestation of his own longing to see him again.

But it wasn’t.

That being, whoever he was, had the same gaze, the same face, the same essence as Sunghoon’s one true love.

The young man looked around, scanning the classroom with a carefree expression, until his eyes met Sunghoon's. In that instant, the entire world disappeared.

The hardness that had kept him whole over the centuries began to crack; the pain, the agony, the longing he had suppressed returned with a devastating force, hitting him with every second he held that gaze.

Sunghoon felt the love he had buried so deeply resurface, mixed with an unbearable agony that almost made him collapse in his seat.

He had to approach him, he had to speak to him, he had to know if perhaps... could it be possible that his love had returned? Could this young man be a reincarnation of [...], or just someone with his same appearance, destined to torment him for eternity?

But doubt tore at him.

What if it was only a cruel, vivid dream? What if this young man was nothing more than a coincidence, a stranger who shared none of the memories or feelings Sunghoon had held onto for centuries? What if he tried to speak to him and discovered that those eyes, so clearly reminiscent of [...], were empty of recognition?

Yet a deep, almost desperate need drove him.

It was an opportunity he had never imagined he would have again, and the thought of letting it slip away was as unbearable as the possibility that he was only a stranger.

The professor interrupted his thoughts by introducing the new student. "[...], you can sit next to Sunghoon; it looks like there’s an empty seat there."

The name echoed in Sunghoon’s mind like an endless refrain, a forgotten melody that suddenly returned, unearthing emotions he had buried deep within his soul.

Destiny? Coincidence? In that moment, it mattered little. He only felt that the entire world had compressed into the short distance [...] walked toward the empty seat beside him.

With each step the young man took toward him, Sunghoon felt the nonexistent beat of his heart like a frantic drum. The air seemed to thicken, and he had to fight to keep his expression calm.

His friends, silent and attentive, watched him discreetly, their eyes reflecting a tacit understanding. They knew the story, knew what [...] had been in his life and what his loss had meant.

Sunghoon maintained his composure, though inside, a storm of emotions tore through him. Pain, hope, the desperate urge to believe in the impossible—all of it swirled together, so intensely that he almost trembled.

Finally, [...] sat beside him, and Sunghoon closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself a brief second of peace.

After centuries of darkness, a light had returned to his life. But that light brought with it the shadow of his love—a love that had been his salvation, betrayal, and condemnation; a desire that had consumed him and now rekindled with a burning intensity.

Sunghoon opened his eyes and glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. There he was, so close that he could feel his breathing, the warmth of his body, the unmistakable essence he had desperately sought in every corner of time.

And in that instant, unnoticed by anyone, Sunghoon vowed that this time he would not lose him, no matter what eternity had in store.

But, at the same time, a doubt lingered in the depths of his being: what if this [...] was only a reflection, a different being who merely bore the appearance and soul of the one he still loved madly? What if, by getting too close, that perfect illusion would vanish, leaving only the emptiness of an eternal absence?

As the class continued, Sunghoon felt the weight of that uncertainty pulsing through his veins.

He knew he was risking more than his own peace, something deeper than the simple longing for a reunion.

And though the desire to speak to him consumed him, to search his eyes for a spark of recognition, he dared not move, not even to breathe.

Until, in a moment of apparent coincidence, [...] turned his head slightly, and their gazes met. In his eyes, Sunghoon thought he saw something—a fleeting connection, a barely perceptible glimmer, but enough to shake his foundations.

The young man smiled, a brief and enigmatic smile, as if they shared a secret the world had yet to understand.

It was such a subtle gesture that Sunghoon felt his cold heart waver once more, caught between hope and fear.

And for the first time in centuries, Sunghoon felt that eternity might be a place worth existing, worth living in.

＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ݁⠀⠀،،⠀⠀메모 ! ㅤ⸻ㅤ More than history, it's something that occurred to me while I was reading @petalsscribbles's smau.︐⠀📍⠀

⠀𝒊. ⠀─⠀ All credits to @angelsfat3 / @foschiamara⠀𝄒

. . . ₍⠀아이디어 !ㅤ⸻ㅤI'm very short of ideas lately, so feel free to leave me any requests! <⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>⠀₎⠀ ִֶָ

˖⠀⠀ ݁⠀©⠀،،⠀If you liked it you can like, follow me or reblog!!

[tima7fa]

Eyes Are The Gates To The Soul

Tf!Sukuna Ryomen x Concubine!Reader

Contents:some heavy themes, sukuna being an asshole, not really romantic, blood kiss?, slightly suggestive, sukuna calls reader "sweet lotus" and "darling", reader has a scar across the face, slight showing of obsession (sukuna), no use of y/n, I don't like this, character study but I'm really bad at it, sukuna kinda doesn't act like sukuna so forgive me folks, sukuna ryomen is his own warning tbh

___________________________________________

Hideous

That's the term that always accompanied your presence, due to the disfiguring scar that marred your mouth and cheek. The individual in question, Ryomen Sukuna, was well acquainted with your plight. The villagers had offered you as a sacrificial lamb, nothing more than a disposable offering.

He had the option to decline.

Yet, he chose not to.

The reasons behind his decision remain uncertain to him. You appeared delicate, a fragile woman, dwarfed in comparison to his own formidable stature. He understood that even the slightest touch from him could shatter your fragile bones to pieces. The evidence of constant mistreatment was evident in the way your skin clung to your skeletal frame. The garment you wore could hardly be classified as a kimono; it was a mere tattered cloth. Additionally, half of your face was obscured by a lotus-embroidered fabric secured by an upper lace, fashioned into a dainty bow behind your head.

You were a far cry from conventionally attractive.

That was the consensus among the villagers. He had the option to refuse and exact revenge on them for daring to disrespect him through this hideous creature. Yet, he did not. He should have. Perhaps it was those eyes that captivated him. They were the sole aspect he could focus on when he gazed at you. Your eyes were the only discernible feature.

Designating you as his concubine seemed not suitable, and many would agree. How could such a lowly being attain the position of the king's concubine? It was an outright display of disrespect. After all, he was not just anyone; he was the king of curses, the all-powerful Ryomen Sukuna. In comparison, you were insignificant, an unsightly and hideous entity. Some might have overlooked your ascension to concubine if you were not such an eyesore.

You did not desire to be sacrificed to protect those wretched individuals, the ones who had mistreated you since birth. Vague memories of your mother being burned alive haunted you. The stench of charred flesh and witnessing your mother's agonized screams were unbearable. Yet, not a single person showed her an ounce of compassion. You despised them. The way they treated you as if you were a bastard child, a product of adultery. You vividly recalled the torment inflicted upon you by your father, who began to yearn for your mother again after being the cause of her demise.

As your body gradually matured, your father's gaze transformed into a repugnant predatory glare. The scar he inflicted upon your face mimicked the one your mother bore. Every time he laid his hands on you, you felt an overwhelming urge to puke. His comments about your resemblance to your mother made you contemplate self-annihilation. Each time you bathed, you vigorously scrubbed your skin until it turned a burning red, even drawing blood in some areas. The revulsion you felt toward your own body was indescribable. The day that man perished brought a sense of liberation, and beneath the cloth concealing half your face, a hidden smile emerged.

Now, your fervent hope is that this village, filled with detestable inhabitants, meets the same fiery fate as your mother. They do not deserve to live, nor do they deserve the privilege of breathing and leading peaceful lives, devoid of care in the world.

___________________________________________

"Make her more presentable."

With that command, you were abruptly handed over to the maids who bowed anxiously, displaying their respect for their king. Yet, he paid them no heed, his four eyes locked onto your gaze. Remarkably, you refused to avert your eyes. Normally, in the presence of this man, one's gaze should naturally shift downward. However, you held your ground, never once diverting your gaze.

He huffed dismissively before turning away and striding off. Your eyes followed him, fixated on his receding figure as he grew smaller and smaller. The maids beside you sighed audibly, relieved that they no longer had to prostrate themselves. Their expressions twisted with disdain as they regarded you, a sight they were accustomed to. "Let's start by bathing her." one of them suggested.

The bath itself could accommodate twenty people, a testament to the luxuries of the wealthy. As you undressed, you gingerly dipped your feet into the water, mentally preparing for the expected chill. To your surprise, the water was warm, enveloping you in comfort. It felt almost inviting, coaxing you to drift off to sleep. The maids recoiled in horror when you removed the cloth concealing your face, for it was a scar that not even makeup could conceal. Nevertheless, they attended to you diligently, beginning with your unusually long hair, a result of never having the means to afford a pair of scissors. They proceeded to scrub your body, a canvas adorned with blue and purple bruises. Strangely, it did not elicit pain. At least, that's what you convinced yourself.

After the bath, the scent of roses clung to your skin, an aromatic residue from the bathwater. They applied oils to your body and hair, meticulously attending to every detail. They trimmed your nails and tidied your hair, leaving it neatly styled. You pondered why they didn't cut it shorter, but you didn't bother questioning them. Subsequently, they dressed you in a kimono, meticulously fastening the obi and obijime. Truly, the affluent are coddled. They need not lift a finger, as everything is handed to them on a silver platter. Not that you were complaining; it was a novel experience to enjoy such privileges.

As the maids styled your hair, you hummed contentedly, fixating your gaze on a spot on the wall, conjuring faces in your imagination. Once they finished, they presented you with a feast, a veritable abundance of food. It could easily satiate thirty people. Did Sukuna intend to fatten you up to savor a more substantial meal? You wondered as you began to eat, only to have the maids promptly correct your eating mannerisms. How infuriating. Why should you learn the "proper" way to consume food? For heaven's sake, it's simply nourishment, and you certainly weren't dining like an animal. Although, in their eyes, you were likely no more than a beast. They even went so far as to correct your sitting posture, deeming it unladylike.

Tonight, you drifted off to sleep on a plush futon, relishing the comfort afforded by the opulent surroundings. You had glimpsed a taste of the opulence enjoyed by the rich, and you were content. The thought of tomorrow, whether you would become his next meal, briefly crossed your mind. However, you swiftly dismissed it. After all, your wrists remained slender; Sukuna likely preferred his victims with a bit more flesh, not mere bones.

___________________________________________

Months elapsed, and your health steadily improved, resulting in a much more favorable appearance. However, you had yet to catch a glimpse of the man responsible for your newfound opulent lifestyle.

Today, you made the decision to venture outside into the garden for the first time. Until now, you had remained sequestered within the confines of your chamber. After all, there was little incentive to venture out when the maids attended to your every need and little was demanded of you—simply staying silent and breathing was sufficient. Nevertheless, today you yearned for a breath of fresh air. Even you could grow weary of the sight of the same chamber, furniture, and faces adorning the walls and ceiling.

The garden was a sight to behold, meticulously maintained, as one would expect. You pondered whether Sukuna had an appreciation for the beauty of nature. However, you found it difficult to imagine such a scenario—a rather amusing thought, nonetheless.

"The mouse has finally emerged from her hole?"

A familiar voice sounded beside you. You glanced to your side to find him standing there, arms crossed over his chest, while the other pair dangled loosely at his sides. His approach had gone unnoticed, highlighting just how vulnerable you must appear in his eyes. He wasn't looking directly at you; instead, his gaze remained fixed straight ahead. His voice had been a rarity in recent months, but it possessed a distinctive quality that had been etched into your memory. Raising one hand, you pulled up the sleeves of your kimono and began kneading the flesh on your wrist. This action seemed to pique his interest, as his lower pair of eyes fixated on your movement. "What are you doing?" he inquired.

From the beginning, you should have realized that the maids were preparing you as the next course for the King of Curses. It became apparent once they applied a different oil to your skin. Did he prefer the taste of flesh seasoned with rose oil? You had discreetly sampled it when the maids weren't looking, and it tasted awful. The only redeeming qualities were its color and scent. "Do you enjoy consuming women who lack substantial flesh?" you replied, countering his question with one of your own. "What?" His face now turned towards you, all four eyes focusing intently. "I possess very little flesh, so I doubt you would derive pleasure from devouring me," you added with a sigh. Everyone has their preferences. Well, at least the lavish life had been enjoyable while it lasted.

"What kind of consumption are we discussing here?" he huffed, appearing somewhat amused. You noticed a slight curl at the corner of his mouth. Did he find this situation entertaining? "Are there different types?" you inquired, furrowing your brows. He seemed to tense as he averted his gaze, fixing his attention straight ahead once more. "Forget it." he dismissed. "I am not here to consume anyone. I was not even aware that you would step out of your chamber." He scoffed, yet he seemed to take notice when you took a step away from him. "I said I'm not here to consume anyone."

"I am simply being cautious. You might change your mind." you replied, tugging at your sleeve to occupy yourself. You heard him sigh, perhaps out of annoyance, who knows. "I did not bring you here to devour you."

"Nevertheless, you might still change your mind." you argued, unwilling to take any risks. "I believe I might change my mind if you continue to be this irritating." he declared, his grip on his biceps tightening. It was becoming apparent that provoking the King of Curses was not a wise course of action. "You've just proven my point..." you groaned softly, realizing the futility of continuing the conversation.

For a while, silence hung between the two of you, initially carrying a certain tension that gradually dissipated over time. "Why do you keep me around? I had assumed you would dispose of me once you had your fill." you broke the silence, but he offered no response. He himself lacked an answer to that question, a rather absurd realization. He simply walked away, leaving you to ponder the matter on your own. You decided it was time to return indoors; you had experienced your share of fresh air, and that was enough.

___________________________________________

You found yourself inexplicably seated on the ground, hands planted firmly to support your upper body. Tilting your head upward, you locked eyes with the figure before you—Sukuna. He cast a fleeting glance your way before resuming his heavy, enraged strides. A shiver coursed down your spine, regret flooding over you. You should have remained hidden away in your room.

Sukuna was no ordinary individual. Known for his merciless killings, he was not one to simply "forgive and forget." How could you forget such a fact just because you had a seemingly harmless conversation in the garden? This man had the power to slice you into countless pieces, showing no mercy to anyone. And you, in truth, held no special significance. Your right arm throbbed from the impact of the accidental collision with him. You couldn't help but wonder how it would have felt if it had been intentional, rather than a mere accident.

Dusting off your kimono, you rose from the ground. If you wished to avoid a premature demise, you knew you should confine yourself to your room, remaining silent and simply breathing. Otherwise, you would be cutting short your insignificant, pitiful existence. Returning to your chamber, you berated yourself for getting ahead of your station. You were nothing more than a nobody, and if Sukuna decided to end your life, you would perish. No one would come to your defense. In the past year, you hadn't even bothered to establish connections, not even with the maids. Perhaps you should have, as it might prove beneficial in the future.

You had recently begun forming connections with the staff, finally making an effort to remember their names. Previously, you had dismissed such endeavors as futile, convinced that death was inevitable. However, you had recently come to the realization that you didn't want to die. You weren't ready to surrender just yet. It might seem foolish, but you were only human after all. Humans clung to life until the bitter end. Staying alive had become your primary mission. Be compliant, follow the rules, behave like a lady, stay silent, and speak only when spoken to. One thing you had learned about this cruel world was that women were merely objects of pleasure and vessels for bearing children.

Therefore, you mustn't overstep your boundaries. Remain silent and endure whatever comes your way. Despite bearing the title of a concubine, you were still a nobody. A year had passed since your arrival, and Sukuna had not once visited your chamber. You were nothing more than a useless, pitiable excuse for a person. Not a single day went by without the memory of his enraged expression haunting your thoughts. You had been fortunate once, but becoming arrogant would surely seal your fate. The next encounter would likely be your last.

___________________________________________

You were overcome with a profound sense of dread upon receiving the summons. The shattered remnants of the delicate teacup, from which you had been sipping moments ago, now lay scattered at your feet like a shattered mirror of your own fractured composure. Why had the formidable Lord Sukuna requested your presence to dine with him? For this was no mere request - Sukuna's words carried the inescapable weight of absolute command, regardless of how they were phrased.

For the past two years, you had carefully cultivated a life of deliberate obscurity, purposefully making yourself scarce and unnoticeable to all, even earning the unenviable title of "the forgotten concubine." Sukuna's other consorts did not even view you as a challenge, granting you the blessing of fading entirely from his consciousness. And yet, here you were, called to his presence once more after such a prolonged absence.

The temptation to take your own life crossed your mind, but you swiftly dismissed such a cowardly act as unworthy. "I understand. I shall attend His Grace forthwith." you replied solemnly to the servant, who swiftly departed to relay the message.

'His Grace' - how the honorific now dripped with ironic bitterness. There was a time, you recalled, when you had addressed Sukuna with the casual familiarity of a friend, narrowly escaping punishment for your irreverence. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you smoothed the delicate fabric, adorned with the embroidered lotuses, tying its lace into a small bow that got covered with your hair and made your way to the grand dining hall.

Sukuna was already present, elbow propped upon the table, chin resting contemplatively in his palm, exuding an air of bored indifference. The sumptuous feast laid out before him remained largely untouched. You bowed low in deferential obeisance. "Greetings, Your Grace." A muted hum of acknowledgment was his only response, granting you tacit permission to take your seat at the opposite end of the grand table. Your gaze studiously avoided meeting his, focused instead on the ornate tableware arranged before you.

"Your Grace, huh?" he muttered, a note of curiosity laced through his words. "I don't recall you ever addressing me so formally before. What changed?" Indeed, a great many things had shifted within you. You steeled yourself, replying. "My apologies for my previous rudeness and lack of proper decorum."

I am now more acutely aware of my station and position within these hallowed halls.

Your response, however, did not seem to satisfy him, for he scoffed dismissively before turning his attention to the sumptuous feast laid out before him. You wondered what it was he truly sought to hear from you, for he appeared decidedly unsettled by your courteous words.

"Why aren't you eating?" he questioned, an edge of impatience coloring his tone.

"I did not wish to presume to partake without your express permission, Your Grace." you replied demurely.

In truth, the very prospect of consuming food in his imposing presence filled you with a sense of profound unease, as if your stomach might rebel at any moment. Yet, you dared not voice such trepidation aloud.

"Don't wait for my permission to eat," he grumbled, his irritation palpable. "Begin when I do."

"As you wish, Your Grace." You grasped your chopsticks, your eyes falling upon the delicate rolls of futomaki. Raising the morsel to your lips, you hesitated, your ever-present veil of concealment still in place.

"The hell are you doing?" he growled, his brow furrowed in annoyance. "Just take that damn cloth off and eat like a normal person."

You swallowed thickly, your gaze averted. "The scar upon my face is rather unsightly, and I did not wish to disturb your meal with its unsightly presence."

His response caught you off guard, for he scoffed dismissively. "I've consumed human flesh thousands of times. A little scar is nothing I haven't seen before."

Was that his attempt at providing some semblance of comfort? If so, it had been a rather shitty effort. Yet, you dared not voice such an assessment, for you knew all too well the perilous consequences that could arise from such irreverence. Slowly, you removed the delicate cloth, placing it within easy reach upon the table, and resumed your meal, acutely aware of his unrelenting gaze upon you.

The sudden summons had taken you by surprise, leaving you to wonder at his motives. Had your chance encounter in the past provoked this unexpected audience? Yet, the passage of time since that incident made such a reaction seem oddly delayed. A myriad of questions threatened to spill forth, but you dared not give voice to them, fearful of overstepping the bounds of propriety.

Remaining silent and obedient, you knew, could risk boring the capricious Ryomen Sukuna, for he demanded constant entertainment. However, you were uncertain whether drawing his interest would be a prudent course of action. A life of peaceful obscurity was your fervent wish, though you harbored doubts as to whether such a fate was truly attainable.

To your astonishment, Sukuna seemed unbothered by the scar that marred your countenance. In truth, for a man, such a blemish was often viewed as a mark of honor and bravery – a notion that, in your current circumstance, seemed utterly incongruous. Yet, you dare not dwell upon such fanciful musings, for his very presence filled you with a profound sense of unease.

You continued your meal in silence, offering only the briefest of responses when he posed questions, effectively stifling any attempt at meaningful discourse. Sukuna, you sensed, grew increasingly vexed by your reserved demeanor, a stark contrast to the spirited disposition he had once witnessed.

Your repeated apologies, too, seemed to grate upon his nerves, and you had somehow managed to strike the delicate balance between captivating his interest and avoiding his wrath.

___________________________________________

You had inadvertently piqued the interest of Ryomen Sukuna himself.

You were not the only one to have discerned this fact, as his other concubines had also become acutely aware of the shift in his attention. At first, your increased frequency of shared meals with him had not seemed to elicit any particular reaction from the others. However, when Sukuna began to visit your personal quarters more often than before, the jealousy and resentment of his other companions began to simmer.

Soon, the insults and petty acts of harassment commenced, as the other concubines sought to undermine and humiliate you. Yet, you remained steadfast in your composure, recognizing that their outbursts were rooted in the delusion of a genuine, romantic connection with the capricious daimyo. In truth, you all were trapped in this gilded cage, bereft of familial or social ties that might offer the prospect of escape.

The lack of reaction from you seemed to gradually extinguish the interest of your tormentors, and you were able to return to the semblance of a peaceful existence, though the frequent visits from Sukuna himself continued to weigh heavily upon your mind.

Seeking refuge, you resorted to the ruse of claiming illness, sequestering yourself within the confines of your quarters. As you sat upon the zabuton, contemplating the best means of avoiding his unwanted attention, you carefully dried your damp hair, your thoughts consumed by the need to devise a plausible excuse to keep Sukuna at bay.

At that moment, the door suddenly slid open, and Sukuna himself stepped through the threshold. In the wake of his imposing presence, his attendants carried boxes tightly wrapped in intricate Furoshiki cloth.

"Ah, my sweet lotus has finally awoken. I was beginning to worry I might have to summon the imperial physician once more." he remarked, his voice laced with a palpable undercurrent of sarcasm. Advancing closer, his massive form cast a looming shadow over you, a vivid reminder of your chance encounter in the hallway.

"Your grace, you're here.." you murmured, your tone flat and devoid of any discernible emotion. A cursory glance at the boxes carried by the servants quickly dissipated your interest, as your eyes returned to meet his penetrating gaze.

"What? Not happy to see me, my sweet lotus?" Sukuna said, his voice tinged with amusement. He observed you in silence, his eyes intently fixed upon your every movement. "Perhaps you'd like to be carried back to bed?" He chuckled softly, his hand reaching up to gently brush a stray, damp lock of hair from your face. "I would hate for you to overexert yourself."

"I'm fine, thank you for your concern, my lord." you swiftly dismissed the suggestion, your hands continuing their work as you dried your hair. "I'm grateful for your visit."

Sukuna raised a single, skeptical eyebrow, his mouth curling into a sardonic smirk. "Are you? It seems to me that you have been actively avoiding my presence of late." His tone had grown low and serious, his eyes scanning your countenance with an intensity that belied his true intentions.

"Is there something amiss? Perhaps if you were to obtain a bit more rest, you would find yourself in a more amiable mood to converse." he mused, his voice tinged with a hint of feigned concern.

"I assure you, I am not avoiding you, my lord. I would never dream of such an act." you responded, your tone resolute.

"You're not?" Sukuna remarked, a subtle note of disbelief coloring his words. "Then why is it that you so often shrink away from my presence? I cannot help but suspect that this supposed illness of yours is nothing more than a convenient excuse to elude me." He took a measured step closer, his towering figure casting a looming shadow over your seated form.

"You would do well to be more forthright and transparent with me, my lotus," he said, his eyes filled with a palpable disdain. "I have little tolerance for liars, especially those who lack the decency to even fabricate their falsehoods to my face."

You knew he had seen through your deception. Lying to Sukuna was a perilous endeavor, yet you steeled your resolve. "I assure you, my lord, I am not being untruthful."

"Oh? So you're telling me that you are not, in fact, avoiding me, yet your actions suggest my very presence is unwelcome," he said, his gaze darkening as he reached out to cup your cheek, running a calloused thumb along the contours of your lips.

"You may well be able to deceive others with your falsehoods," he whispered, his voice laced with a palpable undercurrent of danger. "But when it comes to me, I see through your every attempt at obfuscation. I know when you are hiding something from me, my lotus."

"I merely required a respite," you sighed, resigning yourself to a degree of honesty. "Spending time in your company has incited jealousy among your other concubines, and they have taken to tormenting me. I sought refuge in my chambers to avoid such unpleasantness." It was not a complete lie, but rather a carefully constructed excuse that sounded plausible.

Sukuna's eyes narrowed perceptibly at the mention of the other concubines' actions. He fell silent for a moment, his gaze intently fixed upon you.

"Those concubines should know better than to provoke you," he said, his voice cold and unyielding. "And you, my lotus," he added with a scoff, "you should have come to me directly. Hiding away in your chambers is not the solution." Reaching out, he gently took hold of your chin, compelling you to meet his unwavering gaze. "This matter could have been resolved swiftly had you confided in me, instead of resorting to avoidance."

"Please, do not kill them," you requested, "but rather punish them accordingly." You did not wish for their lives to be forfeit, only for them to face appropriate consequences for their actions.

Sukuna's lips curled into a sardonic smirk, a gleam of dark amusement sparking in his eyes. "Oh? Are they truly worth the exertion of my time and energy to be punished?" he mused, his tone tinged with a hint of derision.

"Very well," he conceded, the corner of his mouth twisting into a cold, cruel smile. "Consider it done. I shall personally see to it that they are dealt with in a manner befitting their transgressions." Turning his gaze back to you, he added, "And as for you, you will accompany me for the remainder of the day."

___________________________________________

You found yourself the recipient of an increasing number of gifts, though you were unsure how to truly feel about this development. Silently, you accepted these offerings, allowing them to accumulate untouched within your chambers, left to rot without ever being utilized.

This apparent disregard for his generosity seemed to have caught Sukuna's attention. How dare you not make use of the gifts he had bestowed upon you? Your seeming ingratitude clearly annoyed him, stirring a rage within that threatened to consume his composure.

"My sweet lotus," he began, his words seemingly benign, yet his tone spoke of a simmering fury lurking beneath the surface. That familiar endearment, so often used to address you, now carried a palpable undercurrent of menace. "Are the gifts not to your liking?" he asked, stepping closer until his looming figure cast a shadow over your seated form.

You sat upon a zabuton, positioned atop the tatami floor, your hand pausing in the act of combing your hair as you caught his reflection in the mirror before you. "My lord, I assure you, I appreciate all that you have gifted me. They are truly lovely." you responded, your words ringing hollow even to your own ears. No matter the quality of the offerings, you could not bring yourself to feel genuine gratitude for them.

"Do you now?" he scoffed mockingly, leaning down until his breath caressed the shell of your ear, his eyes meeting yours through the mirror's surface. "Or are you merely saying what you believe I wish to hear?" A shiver ran down your spine at his words.

"My lord—" you began, only for him to cut you off. "Enough with the obedient act, my sweet lotus."

"I despise the vile creatures called humans," he trailed off, one of his hands reaching out to pluck the comb from your grasp, "but I loathe liars even more than I hate mankind, and i have a already made it clear before." The comb glided smoothly through your hair as you maintained unwavering eye contact with him through the mirror, your silence becoming a tacit acknowledgment of his accusation.

"If you value your life, I would advise you to speak the truth." Sukuna warned, his grip on your chin tightening, causing you to wince. Your gaze lowered reflexively, but he quickly rectified that, roughly guiding your eyes back to meet his through the mirror.

"Keep those pretty eyes focused on me, darling." he commanded, a grin replacing the frown that had previously marred his features.

Your hand reached up to grasp his wrist, your nails digging into his flesh as you felt the tightening of his fingers on your chin. His gaze fell to where your nails pierced his skin, and his grin widened with amusement. "Make me bleed. Go on." he chuckled, and you complied, watching as his blood tainted your nails and dripped down to stain your kimono. The metallic scent of the blood hit your nostrils.

"You've made a mess. Why don't you clean it up, darling?" he mused, releasing your chin and raising his arm slightly, positioning the bleeding wound before your mouth. You moved your head back, causing it to press against his chest. "Why are you so afraid? I can assure you, my blood tastes amazing." he said, pushing your head forward until your lips connected with his wrist, the crimson liquid staining them.

You kept your lips tightly sealed, and he withdrew his wrist, studying your face. "Red suits you, my sweet lotus." he murmured, his gaze focused on your lips, his thumb gliding across the plump of your lips smearing is blood, before he captured them in a rough, demanding kiss. You tried to pull away, but his hand held the back of your head in place, and his lower pair of hands snaked around your waist, anchoring you to him. His free hand caressed your cheek, a stark contrast to his forceful actions.

His tongue easily slipped past your lips as you opened them in a failed attempt to speak, and his eyes remained locked on yours, which you struggled to keep open amidst the overwhelming situation. Your hands gripped the fabric covering his chest tightly, and you felt tears forming in your eyes as you fought to draw breath.

Finally, he pulled away, but remained close, his breath caressing your skin. A thin strand of saliva connected your lips before it snapped, and you were left breathing heavily, striving to regain your composure. His laughter echoed in the room.

"What? Can't handle a simple kiss?" he taunted, his voice laced with amusement.

"There's a long way to go, darling."

[coterieofroses]

the bluebell wood

(Rivals) Rupert Campbell-Black x Taggie O'Hara Also available on AO3 18+ fanfic, pure smut really, semi-public, oral sex, praise kink, secret relationship 'The scent of freshly bloomed wildflowers being trampled and squished began to fill Taggie’s senses, nearly overwhelming as she felt Rupert’s searing gaze. “I need to taste you.” he rumbled, a betraying admission of his own.'

The Bluebell Wood

​​It was mid-April, the first April since Rupert Campbell-Black had acquired the Bluebell Wood from her father. Settling his debts in the early onset of their bid for the franchise had left the woods with a new air for Taggie as she passed through the fresh blossoms.

The woods were still the same, yet the air felt different. As if the land had taken on the form of the man who now owned it. Where once the air had been serene, calming even, there now lingered a faint trace of unease. Taggie felt it like a weight in the air, heavy and undeniable, as she walked beneath the canopy of budding trees.

Each step she took on her walk drew her further into the heart of the woods that had been her sanctuary since her father had moved the family west. But today, even the familiar smell of damp earth and fresh blossoms couldn’t calm the restless stirring in her chest.

Things had been left complicated between her and Rupert.

The memory of his touch lingered on her skin, the brand of heat where his fingers had brushed over her as they’d stood together in the kitchen, a moment that had felt like forever. She could still feel the pulse of it, as if his fingers had never left her, leaving a mark that refused to fade.

But it was her confession that truly haunted her, the words that traitorously spilled from her lips.

Far too late, she heard the crunch of gravel beneath boots behind her and stiffened, waking from her usual daydream to realize she was no longer alone with her thoughts. The sound had been too soft at first, drowned out by the rushing pulse of her heart, her wandering mind. But now, it was unmistakable.

Her breath hitched, and before she could even think of turning around, she already knew who it was.

Rupert Campbell-Black.

She could feel his presence before he spoke, the shift in the wood personified, embodied, and standing before her.

"Angel."

His voice was smooth, and low, with a subtle edge that sent a flicker of unease coursing at the sound of the pet name she hadn’t heard for weeks.

They hadn’t been alone together since the incident in her kitchen, the whirlwind of the bid consuming them both. Simultaneously dousing their flames, and pulling them back toward other companions.

The weeks since that moment had been a blur, meetings, negotiations, and social obligations. Each day bleeding into the next. Rupert had been a constant presence, but whenever their paths had crossed in the chaos of the bid—at dinners, in crowded rooms, there were far too many onlookers for them to have another chance.

“Rupert,” she answered. Her voice betrays her, and surprise and unease are evident in her tone.

Taggie could feel her heartbeat in her throat as she faced him, and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t know how to breathe. She had spent the last few weeks convincing herself that she was in control, that the chaos of the bid was more important than whatever unspoken connection had simmered between them for so long.

But now, with Rupert standing in front of her, there was no denying the pull. It was as if the universe had decided to make them confront it. He didn’t speak for a moment. His gaze held hers, the intensity of it cutting through the space between them, almost like a weight. A soft, charming smirk played on his lips after a brief moment.

“We shouldn’t…” she finally croaked out, unsure, her voice faltering. “Linger out here alone.”

“I know.” His voice was softer now, his dark fixing on her. Reflections of the bluebells beneath them gave a cool tint to his gaze she could see with his approach. “We can’t, but that doesn’t change what we feel, does it?”

Taggie took a step back, her mind racing. She had to get away, had to pull herself together. But the spring ground was slick and far more yielding than she had expected and she began to slip.

 Rupert reached out and grasped for her, his movements sure. His hand closed around her waist, pulling her toward him with a strength and precision that seemed to steady them both. The suddenness of it left Taggie breathless, her pulse racing as she collided with him, the heat of his body engulfing hers.

He was careful with her, but there was something in the way he held her that made her feel both protected and exposed all at once.

His breath was shallow now, but his eyes never left hers. There was something different in the way he was looking at her, something raw and unguarded. Their faces were so close that Taggie could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin.

“Taggie… just one moment,” he whispered, his voice carrying the weight of the words they both feared to speak.

“We shouldn’t…” she murmured up to him, but now, entrapped in his hold, she hardly could bring herself to pull away from his touch.

Rupert didn’t respond right away. His thumb brushed gently over the curve of her waist, a soft, almost tentative movement as if he were waiting for her to make the decision. But even as the tension pulled tighter, he didn’t lean in.

The stillness lingered, a moment feeling like an hour. The sound of their breaths and the soft breeze through the trees is the only thing an onlooker might catch. But for Taggie, all she could hear was her quickened pulse pounding in her ears.

“I…” she started, but the word came out like a wisp, dying on her lips.

Rupert’s hand moved then, sliding from her waist to gently cup her cheek. He leaned in and his lips brushed against hers softly. It was a whisper of a kiss, a question more than an answer.

Taggie’s heart, already racing, pounded harder in her chest. She answered him by leaning in, deepening the kiss, warm and gentle. She still held some reservations, but they began to melt away as they lost themselves in the moment. Lips locking with an increasingly frantic nature.

Rupert, a rake known for his many dalliances with women, was crumbling to youthful trappings in a way he hadn’t in many years. Frantic searching kisses that were more commonly exchanged between adolescents who were searching more due to lack of experience than a burning desire to quench a long pushed-off thirst were freely traded between himself and Taggie.

Taggie gasped softly into the kiss, breaking it only to catch her breath. Her hands moved to rest on Rupert’s chest, a gesture that caused him to pause. Their eyes locked and he wore a devilish smirk as they looked at each other. His thumb moved to idly trace over her kiss-swollen lips.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of Rupert's shirt, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away. The rational part of her screamed that they were treading on dangerous ground. Exposed in the woods, where anyone may wander across them.

"Taggie," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "Tell me to stop.” he offered softly, a broken plea that was pure evidence he’d like to do anything but.

“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered, her voice once again betraying her true feelings. Feather light and escaping before she could give them a second thought.

Without hesitation, Rupert pulled her closer and captured her again in a searing kiss. No gentleness or hesitation reserving him any longer. The months of pent-up longing poured into a single moment. Her hands slid up his chest, wrapping herself around his neck as she pressed her chest flush with his. Feeling his rapid heartbeat matching her own.

With a gentle but firm hand, he began to lower her into the soft bed of bluebells that carpeted the ground beside the gravel path they had been walking on. Eyes filled with an intense desire he seemed transfixed as he looked down to her as her hair spread out and haloed around her head.

The scent of freshly bloomed wildflowers being trampled and squished began to fill Taggie’s senses, nearly overwhelming as she felt Rupert’s searing gaze.

“I need to taste you.” he rumbled, a betraying admission of his own.

He chased such with action, however, unlike Taggie would. His lips pressed kisses over her freckled cheeks as he deftly moved to unbutton her trousers. Her sweater drifted to scrunch up over her stomach as she reclined, her hands grasping at the grass beneath her.

Rupert’s kisses drifted down her cheeks, over the crest of her jaw, the side of her throat, and dipped over the top of her breasts. Revealed to him by the v-neck cut of her sweater. Taggie was left breathless with his insatiable kisses, heaving breaths coming as her eyes drifted shut.

“Please, Taggie.” he sighed against her pale skin, tugging at the waistband of her trousers, now hovering to press soft kisses to the exposed skin of her stomach.

In answer, she arched her back and lifted her hips. For Rupert, that seemed to be all the answer needed to his plea. He swiftly tugged down her trousers and panties, revealing her slick petals to him.

The cool breeze through the woods caused her to shiver, and attempt to press her thighs together shut, something Taggie found impossible, as Rupert was both in the way and eager to hold her open to his lust-filled gaze.

“So beautiful, Angel,” he growled softly, eyes fixed on where her thighs were pulled apart. “Always such a good girl for me, aren’t you Tag?”

Taggie could feel the heat of Rupert’s breath on her sensitive flesh, a sensation that caused her to arch her back and let out a soft gasp of arousal. His teasing, however, was short-lived. A man so starved was eager to devour her whole.

He pressed several open-mouthed kisses to the swell of her slick core, a brief preamble before the muscle of his tongue found her clit and eagerly swirled around it.

“Rupert, what if...?” Taggie let out with a desperate, keening whine.

Rupert let out a soft snerk, a chuckle through his nose as he relented only to lean back onto his haunches slightly. His fingers move to part their way gently through her folds.

“I will feel no shame about being caught drinking from the fount of a forest nymph,” he replied, a smirk playing on his lips before he eased a few fingers slowly inside her eager walls.

A gasp left Taggie as her eyes squeezed shut and her back arched. Overwhelmed as his fingers gently began to pet at her inner walls, driving her through pleasure further and further.

His mouth returned to her folds, lips surrounding and suckling eagerly on her clit. Feasting and hardly easily sated, he drank from her until she was bounding toward her peak. His eyes fixed up toward her face as he attentively watched every quirk of her expression with rapt interest.

Feeling his gaze upon her, Taggie’s cheeks flushed red, and she draped an arm indelicately over her eyes. Hiding from the outpouring of whines and mewls of pleasure that spilled from her lips. If she could concentrate on any feeling but overwhelming pleasure she would feel the prickle of embarrassment at being pleasured so openly, only making its way in as Rupert’s mouth parted from her for a moment.

“Let me see you, Angel. Look at me and let me watch you fall apart.” he husked her, tone broken, and his pupils blown wide with lust.

A whine, petulant and greedy ripped from her. Loud enough any onlookers would certainly be clear about what was transpiring. Her growing need clearly ate away any hesitation as she pulled her arm from her face and her fists tightly grasped the grass again. The soft snapping of roots was heard as she squirmed in a desperate act to seek more friction mindlessly.

A smile, genuine and warm spread over Rupet’s face before he redoubled his efforts. Fingers, lips, and tongue greedily bring Taggie churning toward her climax. His eyes never left her.

In nearly no time at all she was brought through her peak. Waves of blissful ecstasy wracked her form as she cried out in pleasure. His fingers worked her through her climax, pushing through her inner walls as they clenched around him.

Only when he was satisfied did he part from her core, leaving Taggie gasping for her breath. A soft chuckle left Rupert as he pulled her panties and trousers back into place. Leaving them unbuttoned as she caught herself. 

“Beautiful, beautiful thing,” Rupert murmured, mostly to himself as he delicately used his still slick-covered hand to push some of her wild hair out of her face. Taggie reached out to grasp at his silky shirt, weak, as she clung to him for strength for a moment.

“We shouldn’t linger,” he warned, righting himself onto his feet, and save for the slick over his lips, and the grass stains on his knees, evidence of their tryst barely affecting him at all, whereas Taggie laid back in the bluebells, wrecked and dazed as he held his hand out to her from above.

[urdnotstxrm]

Pairing: Rhaenyra Targaryen & Reader

AU: The Targaryen family dynamics are a blend of political intrigue and personal emotions. Rhaenyra Targaryen, the strong-willed and fiery daughter of King Viserys, is caught in a dilemma. Her father has decreed that for her to secure the Iron Throne, she must marry your brother, a match designed to solidify alliances and secure her claim. Despite this, Rhaenyra's heart belongs to you.

Continuation from here

In the guest chamber provided by your family, Rhaenyra paces restlessly. The room, though opulent, feels like a gilded cage. She can still feel the warmth of your embrace, the comfort of your presence, and it contrasts sharply with the cold reality of her situation. Her father’s decree rings in her ears, a constant reminder of the price she must pay for the throne.Rhaenyra sits by the fireplace, staring into the flames, her thoughts consumed by you. She grapples with the unfairness of it all—the love she feels for you versus the duty imposed upon her. She contemplates her options, the rebellious spark within her urging her to defy her father, to claim her own destiny. But the repercussions of such defiance weigh heavily on her mind. She fears the chaos and bloodshed that might ensue if she were to follow her heart. She thinks of you, your noble sacrifice, and it fills her with both admiration and sorrow. She knows the burden you carry, the conflict between your honor and your love for her. She wonders if there is a way to change her father’s mind, to make him see that her happiness lies not in a strategic marriage but in a union of love. As the days pass, Rhaenyra’s resolve hardens. She is a dragon, after all, and dragons are not meant to be caged. She vows to find a way to be with you, no matter the cost. For now, she clings to the hope that love will prevail, even in the face of insurmountable odds.

In the solitude of your chamber, the nights seem longer and the days, more burdensome. You sit by the window, staring out at the moonlit landscape, replaying every moment with Rhaenyra in the stables. Her words, her touch, her desperation—they haunt you. The weight of your responsibilities presses down heavily. You recall your decision to yield your right to leadership, a choice made out of duty and honor, and now it feels like a chain binding you, preventing you from following your heart. You think of your younger brother, his strengths, and the trust you placed in him. You hope he can understand the depth of your sacrifice, even if he never learns the true reason behind it. Your mind drifts to Rhaenyra’s plea, her tear-filled eyes begging for a future you cannot promise. You wonder if there could ever be a way to reconcile duty with desire, a way to find happiness without shattering the delicate balance of your world. The sound of the festivities from the great hall below echoes faintly in your chamber, a reminder of the life you are expected to lead. But your heart remains in the stables, with Rhaenyra, in that fleeting moment of shared love and sorrow.

The night was quiet and cool, the moon casting a soft, silvery light over the landscape. Unable to sleep, you stared out of your window, thoughts of Rhaenyra filling your mind. Suddenly, you noticed a solitary figure slipping out of the house and making their way towards the river. It was Rhaenyra. Curiosity and concern took hold of you, and you quickly decided to follow her at a safe distance. You moved silently, making sure not to alert her of your presence. Rhaenyra walked with purpose, her cloak billowing slightly in the gentle breeze. She reached the riverbank and paused, glancing around to ensure she was alone. Satisfied, she stepped into the water, the moonlight reflecting off the rippling surface. You remained hidden, watching her from the shadows. She waded deeper into the lake, the water lapping around her, a serene look on her face as she sought solace in the cool embrace of the water. Your heart ached with longing, knowing she was so close yet unreachable.

As you watched from the shadows, the night air seemed to grow thicker, more charged. The sight of Rhaenyra's clothes being shed before she stepped into the lake played over and over in your mind, each piece of fabric falling away revealing her form. Your heart pounded harder, the quiet stillness of the night doing nothing to quiet the thoughts invading your mind. You tried to focus on her safety, on the purity of your concern for her well-being, but it was impossible to ignore the stirring of desire within you. The moonlight accentuated her every movement, casting a soft glow on her bare skin as she moved through the water. You imagined the feel of that skin, smooth and warm under your fingertips, and the thought sent a shiver down your spine. The ache of longing mixed with a deeper, more primal desire. You found yourself gripping the edge of the tree you were hiding behind, trying to ground yourself, but your mind was filled with images of her—her body, her touch, her breathless whispers in the dark.

As you watched Rhaenyra in the moonlit water, your thoughts shifted from longing to a burning sense of injustice. The idea of your brother, destined to have her, filled you with a rage that was difficult to contain. He would be the one to hold her, to be by her side, to share her life in ways you could only dream of. The thought of him touching her, loving her, and claiming her as his own made your blood boil. Your fists clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you struggled to maintain your composure. It felt profoundly unfair that duty and circumstance had placed your brother in a position to be with the woman you loved. Every fiber of your being rebelled against the idea, and the jealousy and anger gnawed at your resolve. Rhaenyra, oblivious to your inner turmoil, continued to move gracefully in the water, a picture of serenity that only intensified your anguish. You wanted to be the one beside her, to be the one she turned to, the one she loved openly and freely. The knowledge that you could not change your fate or hers filled you with a helpless fury.

As you watched Rhaenyra, the vision of her in the moonlit water became too much to bear. Despite your efforts to stay composed, your body betrayed you. You felt the growing hardness in your trousers, a physical manifestation of the desire that had been gnawing at you. You glanced around once more to ensure you were alone, and your hand drifted down almost of its own accord, coming to rest on your erection. The sensation was immediate and intense, and you rubbed slowly, your mind flooded with sinful thoughts of what it would be like to touch her, to feel her skin against yours. Every movement of her body in the water fueled your fantasies. You imagined her turning towards you, inviting you to join her, her lips whispering your name with desire. The thought of her hands on you, her body pressed against yours, drove you to rub yourself harder, the pleasure and the torment of it mingling in an almost unbearable way.

Each stroke brought you closer to the edge, and you had to bite your lip to stifle a groan. The need for her was overwhelming, a burning ache that seemed to consume every part of you. You knew it was wrong, that your thoughts were a betrayal of your duty and your honor, but in that moment, all you could think about was Rhaenyra and the forbidden desire that she ignited within you. Your hand moved faster, driven by the images in your mind, the sight of her bare skin, the imagined feel of her under your touch. The tension built and built, your breathing growing ragged as you approached the brink. Finally, with a stifled gasp, you reached your climax, your body shuddering with the release. As the waves of pleasure subsided, you were left with a profound sense of guilt and longing. The night air felt colder against your skin, and the reality of your situation came crashing back. Rhaenyra was still there, just out of reach, and you were once again left with nothing but your unfulfilled desire and the painful knowledge that she could never truly be yours.

[novaursa]

rhaegar targaryen redemption arc 🙏🏻🙏🏻 thank you for your work queen ♥️ (he was fr a villain in the books)

The Crown of Winter Roses (Redemption)

- Summary: Rhaegar starts the Rebellion by stealing his sister, you.

- Paring: sister!reader/Rhaegar Targaryen

- Note: I've blended in your request into this series, dear anon. I hope you don't mind. 🙂 And yeah, I as well blame Rhaegar for everything that happens in ASOIAF.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The years had weathered Rhaegar Targaryen, carving lines of age and regret into a once-youthful face. The sun was low in the sky, casting shadows across the courtyard of the modest estate they now called home. He stood at the edge of the training yard, watching the figures move before him: a young girl with silver-gold hair that glinted in the fading light, her sword flashing as she sparred with her teacher, her laughter ringing out clear and bright.

Daenerys. His daughter. His salvation.

She was everything he had hoped for, everything he had feared he would never deserve. Born in a time of chaos and loss, she had been the one light that had kept him from drowning in the darkness of his own guilt. He watched her now, so vibrant and full of life, a fierce joy burning in her eyes as she practiced the sword forms she had insisted on learning. It was not the way of the Targaryens to wield steel, but she had her mother’s stubborn spirit, and Rhaegar had not had the heart to deny her.

He glanced over at you, standing a little distance away, your gaze fixed on Daenerys with a look of quiet pride. You had forgiven him—gods knew why, but you had. Even after everything, after the lies, the betrayal, the war that had torn the realm apart, you had stood by him. It was your strength, your love, that had given him the courage to change, to try to atone for the past.

The rebellion had ended in blood and ruin. Robert Baratheon sat on the Iron Throne now, his rule uncontested. The Targaryens had been shattered, scattered like ashes in the wind. Rhaegar had fled with you, with Daenerys, to this distant corner of Essos, where no one cared about fallen kings or broken crowns. He had abandoned his claim to the throne, left behind the dream of prophecy and power that had once consumed him.

In the quiet years that followed, he had learned what it meant to truly live. It had not been easy. The weight of his sins was always there, a constant, silent companion. The faces of those he had lost, those he had failed, haunted his nights. He could still see Elia’s eyes, the terror in them as he left her behind, could still hear the cries of his children as they were torn from this world before they had even truly lived. 

But through it all, you had been there, your presence a balm to his wounded soul. You had been the one to pull him from the abyss, to remind him that there was still something worth fighting for, even if it was no longer a crown or a kingdom. And then there was Daenerys, the unexpected miracle that had brought him back to life. She had been born amidst the ashes of his old dreams, and in her eyes, he had found a new purpose, a new hope.

He watched as she parried a blow, her movements fluid, graceful. She was strong, not just in body but in spirit. She had inherited your fire, your fierce will, and every day he thanked whatever gods still listened that she had also inherited your heart. She did not carry the burden of prophecy, of expectation. She was free to be herself, to choose her own path. And that, more than anything, was his redemption.

Once, he had believed he was meant to be the savior of the realm, the hero of some grand destiny. Now he knew better. His role was not to save kingdoms or fulfill prophecies. It was to be a father, a husband, to protect and cherish the family that had somehow come to love him despite his failings.

Daenerys glanced over at him, her face flushed with exertion, her eyes bright. “Did you see that, Father?” she called, her voice full of pride and excitement.

Rhaegar smiled, the simple joy of that moment filling his heart. “I did, sweetling. You’re becoming quite the swordswoman.”

She grinned, a flash of white teeth, and then turned back to her training, her focus unwavering. He marveled at her resilience, at the strength she possessed. He had tried to shield her from the shadows of his past, from the darkness that had once consumed him, but she was wise beyond her years. She knew more than he wished she did, understood the burden he carried even if she did not fully grasp its weight.

As he watched her, he felt the familiar pang of regret, the ache of old wounds that had never truly healed. But it was different now. The regret did not consume him as it once had. He had found a way to live with it, to carry it without letting it destroy him. And that was because of you, because of Daenerys, because of the life you had built together here, far from the shadows of the Iron Throne.

He turned to you, his heart full as he looked into your eyes. “Thank you,” he said softly, the words carrying the weight of everything he felt, everything he could never truly express.

You smiled, that smile that had always been his sanctuary. “For what?”

“For this,” he gestured to the courtyard, to Daenerys, to the life that surrounded them. “For saving me. For giving me a reason to keep going.”

You stepped closer, your hand reaching out to clasp his. “You saved yourself, Rhaegar. I just reminded you that there was something worth saving.”

He pulled you into his arms, holding you close, the warmth of your body a comfort against the lingering chill of his memories. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice breaking with the intensity of his emotions. “I love you so much.”

You held him, your hand running through his hair, your touch gentle, soothing. “I love you too, Rhaegar. We’ve come so far, haven’t we?”

He nodded, his throat tight. “We have. And I will spend the rest of my life making sure that what we’ve built here, what we have, is never taken from us.”

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “You’ve already done that. You’ve given us a home, a family. You’ve given Daenerys a life free from the chains that once bound us.”

He kissed you then, a soft, lingering kiss that spoke of love and loss, of gratitude and hope. When he pulled back, you smiled, and he felt a sense of peace settle over him, a peace he had never thought he would find.

Daenerys ran over, her training session finished, her face flushed with triumph. “Did you see, Mother?” she asked eagerly. “Did you see how I beat Ser Jorah?”

You laughed, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “I did, my dragon. You were magnificent.”

She beamed, and Rhaegar felt his heart swell with pride. This, he thought, this is what it means to be redeemed. Not the grand gestures of kings or the fulfillment of prophecies, but the simple, everyday moments of love and laughter, of family and home.

He watched as you and Daenerys began to talk, your voices mingling in the quiet of the evening, and for the first time in so many years, he felt truly free. Free from the shadows of the past, free from the ghosts that had haunted him. He had found his redemption not in power or glory, but in the love of his family, in the laughter of his daughter, in the warmth of your embrace.

And as the sun set below the horizon, casting the world in hues of gold and crimson, he knew that whatever lay ahead, whatever trials the future might bring, he was ready. Because he had found his way back to the light. Because he had found his way back to you.