#her hands are clasped in prayer for her to come back :(

[tart-miano]

🩷 80s 🙉 2000s 🙊 90s 🙈 🩷

[kitten4sannie]

ateez and corruption kinks… that’s it I just had to let that out into the void

communion

pairing: priest! yunho x nun! reader (fem)

summary: priest jeong wishes to share another communion with the most beloved member of the monastery.

wc: 1.1k

warnings: for the love of god (lol) if sacrilegious smut isn’t your thing do NOT read this,, however if it IS wellll i got something good for you <3, wine drinking, but like, in an unconventional way lmao, nasty perverted dom! yuyu, subby cock hungry! reader (can we blame her tho?), implied sex slave training, oral (giving/receiving), deepthroating, finger sucking, cum eating, implied toy usage (the toy is um….well…a religious object…)

a/n: oh nonnie idt you realize what you’ve unleashed with that ask ^^ there’s nothing i love more than corruption 🖤 physical, emotional, psychological ughhhh,,, anyways writers block and some shitty real life stuff have been taking turns beating me up the past couple months so i thought this might be a good escape for me :3 i hope you enjoy <33

p.s: i’ll be posting two more fics with a corruption theme very soonnn,, one features perverted bsf wooyoung and the other involves frat boy sannie 🫶🏼

song rec: take me to church - hozier (i mean come on….)

No matter how dark the communal church grew in the late hours of the night, the bright light of the moon still shone through the fragmented mosaic glass, now casting a myriad of gleaming crosses across your face and body as you sat on your knees upon the altar. You raised your hands up to begin worshipping your Lord in the way you were taught by Father Jeong, gingerly opening his robes to unveil the point of your focus.

Yunho lifted up a ceremonial bell and rung it once, his robes pooling around his feet, watching as your thighs squeezed tightly together underneath your heavy garments, your shaky exhale fanning over his exposed, twitching cock, finding the unyielding look of pure lust inside your eyes to be so beautiful he could shed a tear. Over the many, many communions you’ve shared together, it seemed that the bell reminded you of your loyalty to him and to your shared savior, of the pleasure you shared all in the name of God.

He pushed your veil off to expose your hair, before he placed his large hands on either side of your head, his long, slender fingers wrapping securely around it. “And, what do we say now, Sister L/N?” he asked softly, as though he were testing you, dragging his tongue over his top set of teeth, letting out a few heavy breaths.

“O’ Lord, for which I am about to receive, is truly your most precious Body and your life-giving blood, which, I pray, makes me worthy to receive for the remission of all my sins and for everlasting life,” you recited your prayer like many times before, the wetness between your thighs everlasting, watching Father Jeong let go of your head for a second to pick up a chalice of wine from the ceremony table behind him.

Yunho held the gold chalice just above his waist, growing that much harder as the dark liquid began to pour down his long, curved length, spilling off of his sticky tip and dripping into your open mouth. “The Blood of Christ…” He watched you swallow it all down, like the obedient servant you were. Something this sinful simply had to be holy, didn’t it? He swallowed down the abundant saliva that filled his mouth. “Ahh?” he voiced, like he was waiting for you to say something.

“Amen,” you sighed out, licking the remnants of wine and pre-cum from your lips, your trembling fingers clasping around his bare hips.

“Amen.”

Yunho then thrusted forward until he hit the back of your parched throat, eagerly dragging you back and forth along his sizable cock, using you like the faithful cocksleeve you were, the repetitive sounds of squelching, gagging, and muffled moaning sending delightful shivers down his spine, much like the sacred hymns did to him every morning during mass. “Sister L/N, your throat has molded to the shape of my cock, has it not? Bonding with me all these long nights, over and over, it’s like you were made for me, and only me. Tell me, Sister, does taking the Body of Christ down your throat make you feel closer to God?”

You let out a stunted, pleased moan, blinking a few tears out of your dazed, half closed eyes, watching as a blurry version of Father Jeong brought his rosary up to his lips to kiss it. Due to being trained so consistently, you knew to relax your jaw and throat in order to take all of him without fail, your gag reflex nonexistent, simply drooling all over his long, heavy cock instead, much to Yunho’s delight.

“Oh, God, let His will be done….” He hunched over slightly, in order to pound himself into the back of your throat over and over, thick strands of pre-cum and saliva dripping from your chin and landing onto your previously pristine garments, his fingers closing in around your bulging throat to feel himself moving inside it. It was simply too much for the priest to handle. “So…nnngh–sovereign, so pure, this divinity…” Yunho expressed between heavy pants, suddenly pulling out until his twitching cockhead rested against your splayed out tongue. “Sister L/N, you must show me something heavenly so that I may fill you with the Holy Spirit. Be quick, for I am at my limit…”

Licking the beads of pre-cum from his slit, you began to lift up the layers of your tunic until your bare cunt glistened underneath the moonlight that was casted over you like a spotlight, the edges of your skin glowing as though you were a real life angel, one that was sent down from above to tempt Yunho, especially now that he could see you in your most vulnerable state. “Father Jeong, please see what I’ve done for you. I’ve kept myself full…so that I may take you inside properly…”

It was then that Father Jeong fell to his knees before you, looking up at the slick heaven in between your thighs, before leaning in to lap up the abundant wetness from your lips, his hot tongue practically melting against your cunt as he ate you out like a starved man, spreading your open with his ringed thumbs. Maintaining steady eye contact with you, he slowly pulled the hood of your clit back to expose your weak point, wrapping his plush lips around it as he began to suck and lick until he had you trembling above him, your nails digging into the dense wood of the pews. “Cum before me,” he commanded, dragging his tongue along your fluttering slit up to your throbbing clit until you let out a beautifully broken cry.

You spread your trembling thighs open just enough to allow what was filling you up the entire time to slowly come sliding out, both you and the priest letting out a similar gasp once it did. A thick, slick-covered silver cross landed inside Yunho’s open palm. He watched diligently as you lifted it up to his mouth, not even having to say anything as he sucked it clean. Without exchanging words, Yunho stood back and squeezed his throbbing cock, just as you lowered yourself back down onto your knees with a loving smile, watching with pride as he began to shudder, long spurts of his hot cum landing onto your tongue and disappearing down your throat.

“What a thing of beauty….” The priest swallowed hard, letting out a shaky breath. “You never fail to bring me close to our Savior, my dear,” he praised, reaching down to rub the remaining remnants of his seed over your swollen lips and onto your tongue with his thumb, pulling it away from your mouth and licking the last of his saltiness off of his digit himself.

“It’s all for the greater good,” you softly replied, slowly standing up and hiking up your now soiled garments, so that you could bend over the pew, spreading yourself wide, opening the gates of your heaven and giving Yunho access like every blissful night before. “Now, please allow me to bring you even closer.”

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© kitten4sannie, 2024.

[ventismacchiato]

1O stuck with you — sand in my ass !

scaramouche x gender neutral reader

As with most things involving Scaramouche, your day starts off on a disastrous note. The cramped quarters of the dorm building force all ten of you into a chaotic dance as you rush to get ready, dodging elbows and sidestepping misplaced shoes. Unfortunately, you seem to be magnetically drawn to Scaramouche, bumping into him no less than five times before breakfast. The microphones crackle with your manager’s impatient voices, urging everyone to hurry.

“You took that long just to come out looking like that?” Scaramouche’s voice greets you as you finally make it into the kitchen with the rest of the group. He doesn’t exactly wrinkle his nose in disgust, but it’s a very near thing.

You ignore him, your eyes instead raking over the counter filled with neatly stacked plates of pancakes. The scent of fresh fruit wafts up, and you instinctively reach over to grab a fistful of berries.

“Wow, who managed to make all this?” Lumine asks, marveling at the spread before piling an impressive stack onto her plate.

Kazuha, flipping a pancake with a practiced ease, jerks his thumb toward Scaramouche, who’s manning the stove like he's scared Kazuha is about to set it ablaze.

Your hand freezes mid-reach. Without a word, you drop the plate you picked up back onto the counter, your appetite vanishing.

“You are so petty, just eat it, Y/N,” Fischl murmurs, standing behind Scaramouche with an amused look. “Can you add chocolate to mine?”

“What are you, five?” Scaramouche grumbles, but he obliges, grabbing a handful of chocolate chips and sprinkling them over her pancake while simultaneously swatting Venti’s wandering hand away from the stove.

“You’re acting like he’s trying to poison you,” Yoimiya sighs, exasperated, as she takes her own plate and starts to serve herself.

“He probably is,” you mutter, poking at your untouched pancakes with a fork, still skeptical.

Scaramouche, not missing a beat, shoots you a glare. “I will cook bleach into your next meal.”

A loud, resounding "NO" echoes from the intercoms, reminding everyone that Jean, ever vigilant, is monitoring your every move.

Scaramouche, annoyed, looks into the ceiling where he thinks the camera is. “I WILL!” he shouts, voice dripping with defiance.

“Scara, baby, turn around. The camera’s behind you,” Childe says with a laugh.

Scaramouche swivels around, eyes locking onto the correct camera this time. “I WILL!”

“Wow, you sure showed them,” Aether chuckles, drizzling syrup over his and Lumine’s pancakes, clearly enjoying the idiocy.

You, on the other hand, can only sigh, clasping your hands together in mock prayer. “Please, get me out of here,” you whisper, hoping that someone, anyone, is listening.

“No,” Lisa laughs into your ear piece.

Anyone but Lisa.

The sun blazed overhead, casting long shadows on the sandy track laid out for the first challenge of this god forsaken fake dating show. The tension between you and Scaramouche was palpable as cameras buzzed around, capturing every strained glance you both sent one another.

“Could you both at least pretend to smile?” Lumine sighs, coming to stand in between you both.

“No,” you both say in unison.

"Alright, contestants!" Yae's voice rang out cheerfully over the loudspeaker as she sat a couple feet away from you all, "Our first challenge is a two-legged race! The winning pair gets to have a private date with a gourmet meal!”

“Now, obviously we want Scaramouche and Yn to win,” Yae admitted with a sigh, “But for this challenge we will actually play it to keep it a little realistic.” Yae claps her hands as she signals to the ropes on the ground.

“All of you can pair up, except for our lovebirds. Tie your ankles together and stand before that line. The course isn’t too long.” 

You glanced at Scaramouche, who was examining the ropes with a bored expression. "Just try not to trip us," you muttered, as Scara fastened the rope around your leg and his.

He rolled his eyes. "Don't worry. I'm not planning to win this anyway."

As the race began, it was immediately clear that Scaramouche was dragging his feet, literally and figuratively. He barely lifted his leg, forcing you to stumble and struggle to keep pace. The other pairs surged ahead while you and Scaramouche lurched forward in awkward, jerky movements.

"Can you at least pretend to try?" you hissed, frustration mounting with every step.

Scaramouche smirked. "Why should I? Do you really want to go on a date with me?"

“No, but I don’t want us to look like unathletic idiots on tv,” you huff.

“Don’t worry, you already look unathletic,” Scara adds unhelpfully.

Yae sighs from where she’s sitting as she watches you two barely make it past the starting line. 

"Scara, I know you're good at this!" Yae called out, her voice carrying over the sound of the other contestants' laughter. Lumine and Yoimiya had already crossed the finish line, untying themselves with triumphant grins. 

"Scaramouche, I swear if you don't—" you began, but he cut you off with a weary sigh.

"Fine, fine," he muttered, more to himself than to you. Scaramouche, still grumbling under his breath, wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him. With a sudden burst of athleticism, he finally matched your pace, and together, you both stumbled forward with more rhythm than before. You were no match for the other pairs who had long since finished, but at least you weren’t tripping over each other anymore. It was almost too natural, too comfortable, and for a split second, you forgot about the cameras and the show. But then reality crashed back in when he pinched your waist when you started slowing down.

"Finally, almost done," you muttered, trying to ignore the warmth of his hand on your waist and focusing on not tripping over the sand.

"Yeah, yeah, just don't mess this up," Scaramouche replied, but there was no real bite in his words that time. 

Finally, you both crossed the finish line, far behind everyone else. Yae clapped her hands together, a mischievous smile on her lips. "And our final pair has arrived! Congratulations, you two. You were... spectacularly last."

Scaramouche immediately let go of you, stepping back as if the contact had burned him as he slipped out of the rope binding you two. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his dramatics, but before you could respond, Yae continued.

“Of course, for the sake of the show, we’ll just pretend you two got first place. After all, what kind of dating show would this be if the main couple lost that badly? Miya and Lumine, you both can have a gourmet meal too but just off camera.”

“So rigged,” Aether sighs.

“In the other games we’ll play fairly, it’s just for the first episode,” Yae giggles.

The other members were already lounging on the sand, enjoying their downtime as you’d both taken forever to get going. Venti and Fischl had even started a sandcastle, which was somehow more elaborate than anything you’d ever seen. 

Venti waved at you with a playful grin. “You two sure took your time! Must’ve been having too much fun, huh?”

You and Scaramouche simultaneously scoffed at that, and you could hear the others chuckling at your synchronized reaction.

“You guys are stupid,” you huff, kicking sand towards your nearest victim. Poor Childe.

“I agree,” Scara says, but his voice was quieter, almost contemplative. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Then just fuck on camera so we can all go home!”

“Venti, move over. I’m going to kick down your castle.”

“NO WAIT!”

You dig your toes into the sand, letting the cool grains slip between them as you wait outside the kitchens for Scaramouche. The sun is setting, casting a warm orange glow over the beach, and Yae's words about a "romantic walk" still make you want to gag. She had told you the meals would be set up away from everyone else so you both could enjoy a romantic walk towards your date. The last thing you want is to spend more time with Scara pretending to be enamored with each other, especially after the disaster that was the race.

“Aww, look how cute Y/N is, waiting for their date,” Yoimiya teases, a grin spreading across her face as she takes another bite of the crab she and Lumine had won.

“If he doesn’t show up in ten seconds, I’m leaving without him,” you grumble, crossing your arms in frustration.

“No, you won’t!” Lisa’s voice blares from the intercoms, making you jump a little. “Remember, you’re supposed to be in love. Try to act like it!”

You sigh, rolling your eyes, just as Scaramouche finally appears, looking equally as unimpressed. “You ready?” he asks, not bothering to hide the lack of enthusiasm in his voice as he walks ahead without you.

“Not really, but let’s get this over with,” you mutter, pushing off the wall and starting down the path that Yae had indicated earlier as you catch up with him.

The walk is awkward, to say the least. Neither of you says a word, and the only sounds are the gentle waves crashing on the shore and the distant laughter of the other contestants. The romantic atmosphere Yae had tried to create is completely lost on you both.

Finally, you reach the small table set up near the water’s edge, lit by a couple of lanterns. The meal is already laid out—lobster, of all things, with sides that look way too fancy for a beach dinner. You sit down across from each other, the silence continuing to stretch as you both start to pick at the food, trying to figure out how to eat without looking ridiculous.

Then, out of nowhere, your ear pieces crackle to life. Lisa’s voice bursts through, louder than before. “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO SOMETHING INTERESTING!”

Scaramouche groans, his fork clattering onto his plate as he rubs his temples. “Do they ever shut up?” he mumbles.

You stifle a laugh at his pain, but it quickly turns into a grumble. “Apparently not.” You take a deep breath, trying to think of something to say that won’t make this whole situation more painful. “So, uh… what are your hobbies?”

Scaramouche stares at you, disbelief written all over his face. “Seriously?”

“What? I’ve never been on a date as an idol before,” you reply, trying not to sound too defensive but miserably failing. 

He smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, that’s apparent.”

You scowl at him, refusing to let him get under your skin. “You can’t talk. Your last relationship was a total disaster.”

His smirk fades, replaced by his usual look of annoyance. “Ew, let’s not discuss my ex.”

Before you can respond, Lisa’s voice crackles through again, this time more exasperated. “THIS IS KILLING THE MOOD. THE STUDIO IS DRY. BE HOT.”

“What does that even mean?” you mumble, helping yourself to the calamari rings Scara wasn’t touching.

Scaramouche sighs, clearly just as fed up as you are. He reaches across the table, and you blink in surprise, half expecting a slap as he leans forward. 

“Hold still,” he mutters, his fingers brushing against your chin. You feel a light pressure as he wipes something from the corner of your mouth. Before you can react, he brings his thumb to his own lips, licking it off casually.

“Gross, I hate squid,” he complains, pouring himself a drink as if nothing happened.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you can practically hear Lisa’s triumphant yell through the earpiece. “YES! LIKE THAT! Finally, some chemistry!”

You stare at Scaramouche, who just shrugs as he forgets about the cup entirely and starts drinking straight from the bottle. He meets your eyes over the rim, as if daring you to say something. You value your life so you keep your mouth shut.

You narrow your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart is pounding in your chest. But before you can retort, you’re faced with the lobster on your plate. The shell is hard, the claws menacing, and you realize with growing embarrassment that you have no idea how to eat it without making a complete fool of yourself. You were used to instant ramen since none of your members cared to cook back at the dorms. The cameras are still rolling, and since you hadn’t eaten all day out of sheer pettiness, this damn lobster was your last option.

Scaramouche seems to notice your hesitation if the growing smirk on his face is any indication. “You’ve never eaten lobster before, have you?” he asks, his tone surprisingly neutral. That neutrality puts you on edge.

“No,” you admit reluctantly, hating that he now has more ammunition to tease you with. You’re about to push your plate away and accept your fate, considering just chugging the dipping sauces out of spite, when Scaramouche sighs, setting down the bottle.

“You’re hopeless,” he mutters, reaching across the table to pull your plate in front of him. With practiced ease, he cracks open the lobster’s shell, separating the meat and placing it back on your plate.

“There,” he says, sliding the plate back over to you. “Now just eat it. And try not to make a mess, dumbass.”

You’re stunned into silence, watching as he casually goes back to his own meal as if he didn’t just do something unexpectedly considerate. The cameras must be catching every second of this, and you can already imagine the headlines. He was taking this dating show more seriously than you’d thought he would. If the cameras were off he would’ve usually just let you starve.

Lisa’s voice crackles through your earpiece, full of praise. “Wow, that wasn’t emotionally constipated at all!”

You finally manage to pick up your fork, poking at the perfectly prepared lobster on your plate. You’re not sure if you’re more irritated that Scaramouche had to help you or that you’re actually grateful he did. Either way, you grudgingly take a bite, and it’s annoyingly delicious.

“What is it now?” Scara asks, looking from how you keep glancing at him, “Did you forget how to chew, too?”

“Nothing,” you mumble, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten under your skin. “Just… thanks.”

He pauses for a moment, as if considering whether to make a snarky remark, but then just nods as if he decides you aren’t worth the extra words. “Whatever. Just don’t make a habit of needing my help.”

You roll your eyes at his words, but your chest feels uneasy. 

You shake it off as being sick from skipping breakfast. 

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

JEAN: Can you state your name for the camera?

SCARAMOUCHE: Why? Everybody knows who I am.

JEAN, EXASPERATED: Just do it, please.

SCARAMOUCHE: [SIGH] Fine. It's Scaramouche, or Kunikuzushi.

JEAN: Thank you. How was your first day on the island?

SCARAMOUCHE: It was ass.

JEAN, LOUDLY: Cut!

[00:13:00] INTERVIEW ONE, TAKE TWO

JEAN: I'm going to ask you again. How was your first day on the island?

SCARAMOUCHE: God, it was fine. Is that what you want?

JEAN: Thank y-

SCARAMOUCHE, INTERRUPTING: Actually can we retake that? I sounded too nice. I want all the fans to know I hate Yn—

JEAN: [SIGH] Cut!

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

JEAN: Can you state your name for the camera?

YN: YN! Everyone's favorite coke whore!

JEAN: Jesus Christ, cut!

YN, BEFORE THE CAMERA CUTS: What? God forbid I channel my inner Ayesha Erotica!

[00:25:00] INTERVIEW TWO, TAKE ONE

JEAN: Please state your name for the camera.

YN: It's YN! Everyone's favorite from Windblume! [WINKS]

JEAN: How was your first day on the island?

YN: It was okay. It's really hot and I got sand in my shorts. Not on purpose, Scaramouche threw sand at me because I looked at him funny. Stupid bitch. Then—

JEAN, TIREDLY: Can someone give me a normal answer for once?

YN: —after that disaster, Venti lost my vape—wait, can I say that on TV? Probably not. Anyways, it was a Lost Mary too, which are expensive!

JEAN: Cut!

YN, STILL TALKING: And after that the rest of the day was okay. I'm trying to treat this like a vacation from being an idol, so.

JEAN: Why did I get a normal answer when the camera turned off? [GROANS]

stuck with you!

masterlist — prev | next

i edited those plushies of scarayn myself do we like ☺️ yn is a grey panda to be gn

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

end of act one 🎬

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

notes — i’ve been feeling down and sick so i wasn’t in the mood to write but here you all go, wasn’t it worth the wait! 😊 pls don’t harass me to post fast touch some grass guys 😢

taglist — @na1lea @cindywasneverhere @lunavixia @aestherin @mlaakai @camvrin @retiredmommylover @iheartpieck @jangyung @cartierfiles @loveariel @silly-ez @mochipls @pomeiu @chuuismylife @flowerypesky @creammpuff @justanothertiredreader @boxdisappeared @kissmiere @kissingkzuha @webbywill @kazusboyfriend @s3xpistolss @pjsucks @bunns-wonderland @lordbugs @localgirlywithnolife @kosumos @danfelions @featuredtofu @pinxeajin @herebyaccident0 @haeunoo @scaradooche @pglt19 @chemiru @childesbabygirl @simonisferal @shutingstar @vxcmx @domimiki @ttalgi @esuz @tokkishouse @kitsuvil @scarasmood @ihearttori @nomurahayami @starringyau @androxphobic @kazuhasbabe

[claramelooo]

I think I don't need made it clear, but cheat is wrong and if you agree with this, you have a huge character flaw, improve!

Finally the moment has arrived!

Enjoy it! <3

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Warning: + 18

Paring: Mommy Wanda x Brat Fem reader

Summary: Wanda's jealousy makes her take an important step in your relationship

Read here: Prologue | Part 1 - Predator | Part 2 - The Prey | Part 3 - On Your Knees | Part 5 - The Lamb

Velvet Chains

The Spider

The church bells echoed through the neighborhood, announcing the start of the Sunday mass. You were late—as always. You sat discreetly in the back pews, trying to blend in with the crowd of familiar faces. But it didn’t take long for your eyes to be drawn to the front, where the Maximoff family sat in their usual spot.

There was Wanda, sitting upright next to Vision, with Billy and Tommy between them. The twins were impeccable, in little suits that made their rosy cheeks look even more innocent. Vision, ever composed, was the picture of the devoted husband and present father. Wanda, in turn, seemed to radiate grace and serenity.

You watched as she tilted her head to listen to something Tommy was whispering, a gentle smile curving her lips. There was something so perfect about the scene that it was almost suffocating. The way she adjusted her son’s tie with quick, delicate fingers, how Vision placed a protective hand on Billy’s shoulder, how the four of them seemed like a living painting of family harmony.

The congregation adored them. The approving glances and knowing smiles all around were impossible to ignore. It was clear that everyone saw Wanda and her family as a model to be followed—a beacon of perfection in an imperfect world.

But you couldn’t stop wondering: If she’s so happy, why does she look at me like that?

The thought hit you hard, and you quickly averted your gaze, feeling your heart race. You tried to focus on the sermon, but the priest’s words seemed blurry. All you could see was her.

As the service went on, you watched her out of the corner of your eye. She looked so devout, hands clasped in prayer, eyes closed, but there was something beneath that facade of holiness you couldn’t ignore. A barely perceptible tension in her shoulders, a shadow in her smile.

And then, when everyone’s eyes were closed, singing the hymn, it happened. You caught her looking.

It was quick, but enough for you to know it wasn’t your imagination. Her gaze met yours, just a second longer than it should have, before she diverted her attention to the children. It was a look heavy with something you couldn’t fully decipher—desire, frustration, maybe even desperation.

"She’s so good at this," you thought, feeling a lump in your throat. "So good at seeming perfect."

As soon as the service ended, you rushed straight out of the sacred temple—to avoid any contact with anyone—and ended up bumping into another person.

“Y/n?” The familiar female voice rang in your mind like bells.

“Yelena?” You asked weakly.

As soon as the words left your mouth, Yelena tilted her head to the side, a smile forming on her face as though she had just remembered an old inside joke. "Wow, so you’re still alive? I thought you had been sent off to a convent or something."

You opened your mouth to respond, but Yelena was already laughing, that laugh you always found contagious. "And you’re still as clumsy as ever," she continued, crossing her arms and sizing you up.

"I’m not clumsy," you replied, but stumbled over your words, which only made her smile widen.

"Oh, yes, you are!" Yelena shot back, taking a step back as if bracing for an imminent explosion. "But you’ve grown up well, I see."

You felt your cheeks burn, but before you could think of a witty response, Yelena stepped closer and gave you a sudden hug. "It’s good to see you, Y/n," she said, her voice softening. "I thought I’d never run into you again."

You couldn’t help but smile—that smile that seemed to come from a forgotten place, a hidden corner of your memory where Yelena always held a special space. But before you could say anything, she pulled back and raised an eyebrow. "So, do you still only fancy girls? Or have you 'grown out of it'?"

Your jaw dropped at the audacity, but the teasing glint in Yelena’s eyes made it clear she was just playing around. "Tsk, you never change!" you replied, crossing your arms and trying to look indignant.

"Oh, good," Yelena said, shrugging. "I prefer you this way. Way more interesting than these smiling hypocrites around here." She glanced around, making it clear she was talking about the very place you were in.

From a distance, Wanda watched the interaction with narrowed eyes, the kind smile she wore as a mask beginning to fade. Her chest burned with something she didn’t want to name—jealousy.

Who was this woman who made you smile so easily? Who pulled genuine laughter from you while Wanda herself struggled to coax even a shy smile? Wanda felt her fingers involuntarily tighten on her purse strap as her eyes followed every movement of their interaction.

Oh, she sees.

Yelena.

The problematic daughter of the church, the black sheep in a flock of immaculate whiteness. Wanda vaguely remembered her from the sermons years ago: messy blonde hair, clothes always a little out of place from the modest standard expected, and an attitude that seemed to shout defiance with every breath.

Yelena never fit in. She was the type of person who asked uncomfortable questions during Bible studies, who laughed loudly when no one else found anything funny, who made a point of standing out even in an environment where uniformity was seen as a virtue.

And now, there she was, as comfortable and confident as ever, talking to you like she had every right in the world to occupy space in your life.

Wanda gritted her teeth, hatred bubbling inside her with a force that almost scared her. It was irrational, of course. Yelena hadn’t done anything directly to Wanda, but that only made her irritation grow. The blonde seemed to exist to provoke, to rebel, to remind Wanda of everything she considered chaotic and unnecessary.

And now, she was pulling you into this world. So when Yelena tilted her head and gave you a playful tap on the shoulder, Wanda saw everything in shades of scarlet.

“You really are a mess,” Yelena said, laughing. “But I think I missed this.”

“Well, you’re not perfect either,” you replied, rolling your eyes.

“Of course not,” Yelena retorted, winking. “But at least I’m fun.”

Your laughter echoed in the air, and Wanda turned abruptly, marching away with firm, calculated steps. "Fun," she thought, her teeth clenched. "She doesn’t need fun. She needs focus. She needs me."

Yelena was a symbol of everything Wanda despised and feared: chaos, disobedience, questioning. And now, she had you. She made you smile. She made you open up in a way Wanda couldn’t.

Wanda took a deep breath, trying to compose herself while watching from afar, her nails digging into the palm of her hand. She knew it was irrational. But, at the same time, she knew she’d do anything to keep Yelena away from you.

[...]

Your shift at the library was coming to an end, and you hadn't seen the woman who haunted your dreams. In fact, you hadn't seen her since Sunday at church. Instead of offering you personal mentoring, Wanda had simply written what you should study and made a few comments on your essays.

Had you done something? Hurt her? Made her angry? Had something happened?

Your thoughts vanished the moment her figure appeared in front of you, as though she had been there all along. Wanda stood in front of a bookshelf, seemingly deep in thought.

“Wanda, I–” You tried to speak, but she turned to face you, making you stop mid-sentence. Wanda shot you an enigmatic look before turning back to the shelf, picking up a few books and placing them on your desk.

"Your shift is almost over," she said. Hearing her voice after a few days made your heart race. "Do you think you could help me take these books to my place? The boys have a test next week, they need to study."

"Y-yes," you replied, mentally kicking yourself for stammering.

Wanda's eyes brightened for a moment, a smile curling at the corner of her lips.

"I'll wait for you in the car, then," she handed you the keys and walked out.

The weight of the moment seemed to hang in the air as Wanda left, leaving only the trace of her overwhelming presence behind. You held your breath for a moment, the cold library keys in your hand, your mind spinning in a whirl of questions.

Why had she been distant these past few days? Why did she seem so... different now?

You finished organizing your things, carefully locked the door, and walked toward the parking lot, the weight of the books in your arms mirroring the heaviness in your chest. Wanda’s car was there, parked under the shade of a tree, and she was in the driver's seat, the window rolled down, her eyes focused on something in the distance.

As you approached, Wanda looked at you and gave a slight smile, but there was something in her gaze that unsettled you—a glimmer that felt both warm and dangerous.

"Get in," she said, her voice low and soft, almost an invitation, yet with the firmness of an order. You obeyed, placing the books in the back seat and sitting beside her. The silence that followed was thick, but not uncomfortable; it was charged, like a rope stretched to its breaking point.

Wanda drove with calculated ease, her fingers holding the wheel with the same delicacy with which she seemed to handle everything in life. Occasionally, she’d glance in your direction, and you could feel the intensity of her gaze, even without turning your head.

“You’ve been working well,” she said, finally breaking the silence.

“Thank you,” you replied, trying to sound neutral, though the stammer almost came back.

The silence reigned all the way to her house. “We’re here,” she announced, parking in front of a house that looked straight out of a catalog: an immaculate garden, a white fence, flowers perfectly aligned.

She got out of the car with grace, and you followed, balancing the books in your arms while trying not to trip.

The house was as perfect inside as it was outside, decorated with a flawless balance of coziness and sophistication. The sound of children laughing echoed in the distance, but Wanda moved with calm, guiding you into the living room.

"Leave the books here," she indicated a table, and you obeyed.

When you turned to her, Wanda was standing closer than you expected, arms crossed, that unreadable look on her face again.

"Thanks for the help," she said, and there was something in her tone, a softness that almost felt… maternal.

Billy and Tommy pulled her attention, asking for help with a question about the test. Wanda leaned toward them, answering with patience and care, the kind of mother any child would dream of having. But even while talking to her sons, her thoughts were on you, and the overwhelming desire to have you completely under her control surged inside her like an unstoppable tide.

She stood up again when the boys returned to the living room, turning back to you with a gentle smile—a smile that masked the storm raging inside her. “The boys will be fine now. Do you want something to drink?”

You hesitated, the discomfort obvious. “I think I should go, Wanda. I don’t want to impose.”

"Impose?" she repeated, almost laughing. But there was something in her laugh—something tense. “You would never impose on me, Y/n.”

The softness of her words made something stir inside you. You wanted to believe it was just kindness, but you knew it was more than that. There was an intensity in her eyes that held you captive, pulling you in like a magnet.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” you admitted, your voice low.

“Then don’t say anything,” she murmured, almost like an order. She moved closer, her steps slow, deliberate. “Just… stay here with me.”

Something inside you screamed that you should leave, that you should escape this overwhelming sensation, but your legs wouldn’t move. It was as if she had already wrapped you in an invisible web, and you couldn’t break free.

“And Vision?” Of all the things, that was the first thing you managed to say.

"Business trip," she said, placing a cup of hot chocolate on the table while she sipped a carefree glass of wine. You shot her a curious look. “What?”

“Hot chocolate? Are you serious?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, with a hint of humor in your question.

“You’re too young for wine, and coffee is out of the question,” she replied, while pouring herself more wine—almost like a playful challenge.

“I drink coffee,” you countered.

“The person who offered you that should be arrested. Or killed,” she smiled behind her glass, the corner of her lips curling into a questionable humor.

You laughed, even though you tried to hold it back. Her lighthearted comment was an unexpected break in the tension that always seemed to exist between you two. Holding your cup of hot chocolate, you took a small sip and narrowed your eyes at her, pretending to disapprove.

“I’ll pretend this isn’t just jealousy because I’m young,” you said, arching an eyebrow.

Wanda smiled crookedly, a smile that seemed to light up the room. “Maybe I just like to tease you,” she said, joking, but there was something behind the teasing, a depth you couldn’t ignore.

You shook your head, smiling, trying to hide the blush on your cheeks. “Well, mission accomplished.”

She tilted her head, watching you with curious eyes, as if trying to solve a puzzle. “You’re funny when you’re uncomfortable, you know?”

“That’s a strange compliment, Wanda,” you replied, taking another sip of the hot chocolate. “Or are you saying you like to see me uncomfortable?”

“I like to see you any way, my sweet,” she answered casually, but the intensity in her gaze contradicted the lightness of her words. You felt your stomach churn with the implicit confession.

“That was… forward,” you murmured, looking away. “It’s not common to hear that, you know?”

“Maybe because no one else has had the courage to say it before.” Her reply came quickly, almost as if it had been rehearsed. She took another sip of wine, her eyes still fixed on you. “But I’m not like the others, Y/n.”

You looked at her, studying every detail: the green eyes that seemed to pierce your soul, the way she held her glass with a confidence that seemed natural. “No, you’re definitely not like the others,” you said, before you could stop yourself.

For a moment, silence fell between you two, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, laden with something neither of you wanted to name. Then Wanda broke the moment, resting her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, as though studying you.

“Tell me something,” she said, suddenly changing the subject. “Something no one else knows about you.

“Something no one else knows?” you repeated, blinking in surprise.

“Yeah. A secret. A memory. Something big or small, it doesn’t matter. I want to know more about you,” she explained, her voice so soft it was almost hypnotizing.

You hesitated, feeling vulnerable under her gaze, but at the same time, there was something inviting in the way she waited for your answer. “Okay… I used to collect rocks when I was a kid,” you finally said, laughing softly.

Wanda raised her eyebrows, clearly intrigued. “Rocks? Seriously?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, laughing again. “But they weren’t just rocks. Each one had a story. Some were ‘magical,’ others ‘cursed.’ I’d make a huge drama about it.”

She laughed softly, her laughter’s melody seeming to fill the space around you. “That’s adorable. And it makes sense. You seem like someone who would bring rocks to life.”

You protested, but her laughter was so contagious, and soon you were laughing too.

As the laughter died down, she looked at you with a soft, almost protective expression. “See? This. That smile. That’s what I’ve wanted to see for so long.” Wanda whispered, her eyes fixed on you—clearly enchanted.

You remained silent, feeling an unexpected warmth spreading through your chest. Something was changing, deepening between you both, but you didn’t know whether to be afraid or simply accept it.

The conversation began softly as Wanda sat next to you on the couch, the dim light of the late afternoon casting soft shadows around the room. She watched you as if trying to see beyond the words, beyond the silence. When she finally broke the moment, her voice was calm, yet direct.

“Tell me more about your old life. I’d like to know you better,” she asked, her head slightly tilted, her eyes attentive.

You looked away, your fingers nervously playing with the sleeve of your sweater. “It’s complicated.”

Wanda didn’t relent. “I want to understand you. I want to know what happened to you. I can see there’s something weighing on you, something you carry alone.”

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her persistence. Something in the maternal tone of her voice, in the gentle firmness of her presence, made the words slip out before you could hold them back. “I was sent to a Catholic boarding school in England when I was 17.”

Wanda raised her eyebrows, surprised. “A Catholic boarding school? That sounds... ironic, coming from your family.”

You laughed, but the sound was bitter. “Yeah, ironic is one word for it. They wanted to ‘correct’ me.” You made air quotes with your fingers, sarcasm clear in your voice.

She fell silent, giving you space to continue.

“I was accused of… well, trying to kiss a girl named Sharon. Some neighbors saw us talking too close to each other and decided to make up their stories. That was enough to make my parents panic. And just like that, there I was, with a one-way ticket to a nunnery, where I was supposed to learn to be a ‘good girl.’”

Wanda sighed, leaning in a little closer, the warmth of her presence a surprising comfort. “And there? How was it?”

You hesitated, but something in her expression — the patience, the care — encouraged you. “I met Kate there. She was the rebel, the girl who did whatever she wanted and defied the rules. And me? Well, I was the shy one. She teased me all the time, laughed at my seriousness. Until one day, behind the chapel, she kissed me.”

Wanda’s eyes brightened with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. “And then?”

“Then, one of the nuns caught us. Kate denied everything, of course. Said I forced her, said I was a freak. I was punished. They said I was a bad influence on the other girls.” Your voice trembled as you relived the moment, but you kept going. “My family stayed silent. No one defended me. It was as if they finally had an excuse to give up on me.”

Wanda reached out, softly touching your hand, the warmth of her skin against yours anchoring you. “They were wrong,” she said, her voice firm and full of emotion. “Everything about them is wrong, Y/n.”

You looked at her, your eyes welling up. “Why do you care so much? Why do you want to know?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she leaned in closer, enveloping you in her arms. Your head found her shoulder, and she began to stroke your hair with gentle fingers. “Because I see you, Dorogaya. I see how special you are, even if no one has ever told you that before.”

You felt the tears fall, but also a calm that seemed impossible. “I just... wanted to be enough.”

She cupped your face with both hands, lifting it so your eyes met hers. “You are enough. You always have been.”

Before you could respond, her lips met yours. The kiss was soft, but firm, filled with a security you hadn’t felt in so long. There was no rush, no urgency. Just warmth that seemed to envelop you, as if she were trying to convey everything words couldn’t.

Wanda’s hands moved to your waist, gripping your curves.

“Stick your tongue out, Dekta.” She stroked behind your ears, sending a shiver through you.

You moaned softly when you felt Wanda’s hungry tongue meet yours, coaxing you to give in. Her alcohol-tinged, aphrodisiac breath intoxicating you. It was so intense, so distinct… you never thought you could be touched like this, in such a… possessive way.

Your nails dug into Wanda’s back, trying to hold onto something, anything as the kiss deepened.

It didn’t take long for Wanda to tug at the hair at the back of your neck, making the kiss addictive, and soon she was pushing you back, making you lie on the sofa cushions, coming over you. Her body became her only focus — and seeing you so vulnerable, she simply couldn’t resist.

Bold and full of lust, Wanda slid her hands under your shirt, her fingers touching the skin of your stomach, making you gasp. Her plan was to make an even bolder move, grabbing your perfect breasts and squeezing your nipples under the fabric of your bra. However, a noise from upstairs made you both pull apart abruptly.

The kiss had been a spark in the fog Wanda hadn’t even realized surrounded her. It felt as though something dormant inside her for years had finally awakened. Her days with Vision, her impeccably perfect routine, her polite smiles to her children — it all felt like it had been lived in black and white.

But your touch, your lips, brought color.

Wanda felt a warmth radiating from her chest, spreading through her entire body. It wasn’t just desire; it was something deeper, something that made her feel alive in a way she thought she’d forgotten. The world around her seemed to vanish, leaving only the sensation of you, so close, so genuine.

When she finally pulled away, her eyes remained locked on yours, as if trying to memorize every detail. A small, almost shy smile appeared on her lips. Not the smile full of control she usually wore as armor, but something genuine, unarmed.

You made her realize there was something more to feel, more to live. That the safety and routine she knew maybe weren’t enough. The instant your lips met hers, Wanda realized she didn’t want to go back to black and white. You were her reason to see the world in color again.

You swallowed hard, trying to compose your thoughts, but doubt began to grow inside you. “Wanda…” Your voice came out low, almost pleading. “What does this mean? What are we doing?”

The woman pulled back slightly, still watching you, her dark eyes reflecting the embarrassment that consumed you. What was she looking for in you? What were you seeking in her? You wanted answers but didn’t know if you were ready for them.

“I…” and for the first time since meeting Wanda, you saw her falter. “I’m tremendously attracted to you, Y/n.” She confessed. “Would you be interested in having an affair?”

Your heart raced, pounding frantically in your chest. Wanda’s proposal made your mind spin in a whirlwind of thoughts. The air between you two felt charged with electricity, the tension almost palpable. Her gaze didn’t leave yours, keeping you locked in the intensity of her dark eyes.

You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “I... You’re a married woman, Wanda.” Your voice trembled, reflecting the confusion and desire fighting within you.

Wanda slightly tilted her head, a sad smile appearing on her lips. “And you think I don’t know that?” Her voice was soft, but there was a hint of exasperation. “You think I don’t think about it every time I look at you, every time I feel this thing inside me?”

"Thing?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

She took a step forward, closing the distance between you again. "This... need I feel... This connection. It's different from anything I've ever felt before, Y/n."

Your mind screamed to pull back, but your body remained still, absorbing every word. "And Vision? Your children? The church?"

Wanda looked away for a moment, as if the mention of them was an open wound. "They are my family, my duty! But you... you came out of nowhere and became something I can't ignore. I don't want to ignore it."

"This isn't fair." Your voice faltered, a lump growing in your throat. "It's not fair to them. It's not fair to me."

She sighed deeply, and for a moment, you saw a vulnerability in her that seemed impossible. "I know. And yet, here we are, aren't we? I can't get you out of my head, Y/n. You've made me question everything... All the things I thought were right, all the things I thought I knew about myself. And if this is wrong, then... I don’t want to be right."

The silence that followed was heavy. The world around you seemed to fade as you fought against the whirlwind of emotions Wanda had triggered in you.

"I don't know if I can do this," you finally admitted, your voice fragile.

Wanda came closer, and this time, her hands found yours. The warmth of her touch was undeniable, as comforting as it was overwhelming. "I don't expect you to have all the answers right now," she said, almost in a whisper. "But I know that this, whatever it is between us, is real. And I'm willing to risk anything to find out."

You looked into her eyes, searching for something that could help you decide. And, in the end, you found the security you had longed for—not in the situation, but in her.

"I... accept." Your voice barely made it out, but Wanda heard it.

The smile that lit up her face was like the sunrise after an endless night. A smile so bright and true that it made you want to lose yourself in it, want to preserve it at any cost. And in that moment, something broke inside you—or maybe something finally clicked into place. The weight on your chest wasn’t doubt, nor fear. It was something deeper, something more dangerous. It was your own obsession.

What would you do to keep that smile? To hold onto that warmth, that feeling of being seen, of being desired, as something precious? Everything? Maybe.

"I accept," you repeated, this time more firmly, your voice echoing like a promise in the dark room. Wanda smiled again, but now there was something different in the shine of her eyes, as if she knew she had won you over, that she had pulled you into her web and there was no escaping now. "But I've never done this... None of this." You let out a shy whisper. Your confession sounded like a timid prayer, a whisper of vulnerability that Wanda knew she would never forget.

She watched every nuance of your face—the way your eyes avoided hers, how your restless hands searched for something to hold onto, and the blush that rose on your cheeks. So inexperienced, so raw. A blank canvas waiting to be painted, molded by her hands.

It was more than attraction. It was power. A power that enveloped her like a sweet, intoxicating poison, while her mind simmered with ideas of how to guide you, how to corrupt you. Wanda wanted to be the only one to show you everything—the possibilities, the sensations, what desire really meant.

"This is good," she finally murmured, moving closer, her voice low and almost maternal. "It means you're all mine to discover."

She raised her hand, the touch of her fingers running smoothly down the side of your face, almost as if she were examining a precious jewel. You leaned slightly into the touch, like a flower seeking the sun, and the innocent gesture made Wanda bite her lip, struggling to contain the growing desire.

"You trust me, don't you?" she asked, with a softness that masked the true weight of the question.

Your eyes finally met hers, hesitant but sincere. "I trust you," you answered, and Wanda felt a shiver run down her spine.

That trust, so freely given, so unprotected, made her want to devour you, and at the same time, protect every piece of your soul. She knew she was treading dangerous ground, but the desire to shape you, to be the first and only one to mark your skin and your heart, was stronger than any sense of reason that might still exist.

She held your face gently, her thumbs tracing invisible lines on your cheeks with the tips of her fingers. "You don't know how much it means to hear that, my girl," she murmured, as if trying to keep every word deep within her soul.

"I know," you replied, because you knew. You knew how it felt to fall into someone else's abyss, how it felt to be willing to be consumed just to keep feeling the warmth they brought.

Her lips met yours again, but this time the kiss was more intense, as if Wanda was trying to leave a mark, as if she were trying to brand you in a way that could never be erased. You responded with the same hunger, holding onto her wrists as if afraid she might disappear.

She pushed you hard back, and you hit your hip on the corner of the table—what would give you a bruise later, but that mattered little when you sucked in and received Wanda’s demanding tongue into yours.

The woman lifted you up, making you sit on the table so she could press her palm against your pussy, and you moaned, muffled by the kiss as you bit her lip and she gasped.

You didn't have much experience, but you knew this feeling was not common. A kind of dangerous desire to feel, it was corrosive and you could see control slipping through your fingers like trying to hold beach sand.

When the air ran out, the separation was necessary, and you could hear Wanda protesting quietly. Pressing your foreheads together, still panting, you held her gaze, feeling your heart beat like a drum in your chest. "You make me feel like there's nothing else in the world that matters."

It was true. It was dark, it was reckless, but it was true.

You knew you were stepping into dangerous territory. But looking at Wanda, with her eyes burning with emotion and her fingers still tracing your skin, you also knew you were willing to risk it. Even if that meant burning.

Wanda tilted her head, still so close to you that the heat of her breath brushed your skin. The smile on her lips was something between satisfaction and a veiled challenge, as if she were fully aware of the power she held over you—and relished it.

Yelena... the name wouldn't leave the woman's mind, taking her to a limbo of insecurities and uncertainties she didn’t even know she had. Making her feel fear. Yet now, the girl was nothing more than a private joke.

How could she think someone so insignificant could steal you from her? That she could destabilize what Wanda was trying to build with you? It was almost adorable how she still didn’t understand. Wanda let out a smile, almost indulgent, still lost in thoughts—while her fingers caressed your neck.

Yelena. 

She had no idea how much time she was wasting. Wanda wasn’t just attractive, she was necessary, the missing piece in your life, the one who could give you everything you needed—or rather, everything you hadn’t yet realized you needed. She knew exactly how to dominate, how to guide, how to make you feel that you couldn’t live without her. And Yelena... Yelena was just a passing obstacle.

The anger of seeing someone else approach you, even if only with words or looks, was a flame Wanda preferred not to feed. She didn’t need it. But all insecurity was gone when you gave yourself to her in such a... complete, raw way. 

Wanda had something deeper with you. Something more lasting. Something that couldn’t be shaken.

She could try as much as she wanted, thought Wanda, with a satisfied smile. But you, Y/n, are already mine. And that... that is something neither she nor anyone can change.

The feeling of control, of being the only one to offer security, warmth, and pleasure, filled Wanda like a drug. She knew you didn’t need anything else. Nothing but her. As she looked at you intently, the thought lingered: She can try... but you've already given in. "I'm the only one who can give you what you want." And that made her smile again. Because, in the end, Yelena could never compete with what Wanda knew she had in her hands.

In that moment, Wanda was like a spider finding an innocuous corner to weave her web. The longer she spent weaving, the more fabulous her construction became, though few noticed—her threads were almost invisible. A spider doesn’t need to exert effort or leave her place to feed—in absolute silence, she waits for her prey to approach and get caught in her web, so she can devour it.

~*~

Y/n, you'll be devoured.

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @3liyuh @rosekjsses @3liyuh @idkwhatever580 @valentine585 @beggingonmykneesforher @trindad2k

[sir-tuitsum]

An Empress' Harem.

In where, some of the honkai star rail men become your concubine. Focused on how you came to meet them and integrate them into your harem.

Men: Sunday, JingYuan, DanHeng, Gepard, Aventurine, Dr Ratio.

Note: no warning, just a birthday gift to my friend <3 thanks for winning the battle of the sperms. probably choppy and feels rushed, wasn't edited but this is for you <33

Edit: A continuation explaining your concubines' dynamics is out, ig..? Here: https://www.tumblr.com/sir-tuitsum/771149330670354432/an-empress-harem

***************************************

Sunday

During your years as a princess, of course your husband would need to come from a strong clan to provide you better supporters in your campaign to become crown princess and later Empress. At the age of 9, your father had already gotten to work and convinced your mother, the then Empress, to betroth to the Oak Family's young son who was close in age to yourself.

You met the 10 year old only weeks later, he was as gentle and man-like as you'd expect from a son of a noble family. You easily sensed his tense demeanor around you, he made it his mission to make sure you were pleased the entire time you both were together.

"I will ask the maidservant to give us treats. What do you like?" You took the Oak clan's son for an outing in the Southernmost Imperial Gardens, it was closest to your father's palace as he would've liked it anyway.

"Ah, are you a fan of treats? What treats do you usually like getting?" He stood quite straight with a hand behind his back, as he should be.

You blinked, "Treats are okay. I usually end up eating Honey Cakes I suppose."

"Honey Cakes are sweet, I think I'd like to have one too."

When you asked him why his face scrunched up a bit while taking a bite, he simply brushed it off and said it was sweeter than he was used to. You assumed the maidservant had messed something up in his cake and asked your father to replace her later on.

Either way, Sunday was your personally chosen future royal consort by the former Empress, your own mother, so naturally you held him to high regard.

He was then and now, the very epitome of a perfect consort. He was given praises by both your mother and father quite often for his etiquette and behavior whenever he came by the Imperial Palace. It was enough his family received praises for their efforts in kingdom management by your mother, also with your father praising his family's influence, seeing you as set in stone for the throne being already favored well by your mother.

You married him as soon as the age was appropriate. On the wedding night, he had frigidly arranged old husbands' tales, from using plants said to boost fertility to saying prayers to placing down objects rumored to be favored by the aeons. He had kneeled before the bed after the priestesses and servants had left the private chambers, his hands clasped in prayer.

"The priestesses gave us enough blessings, no?" You jested. You were not surprised of course, years of being together with him had shown you his sweet devout heart towards the aeons. You found it an entertainment to tease him over the years.

"It is good to show the gods your own faith as well, to ask them personally shows your trust in them and pleases them more after all.." you felt almost bad for interrupting his prayer, with the way he glanced up at you afterwards, "perhaps you should join me, we could give honor to Ena for a stable marriage."

It was not uncommon for you both to spend your leisure time praying. Maybe your fondness for him came from the fact he didn't only run to the gods when something went wry. You remembered the first time, when you were but 11 and had visited the Oak's residence without much of an announcement due to having been passing by and decided to stop to visit him, you had been told the young lord was praying as he usually did around his hour. Your better manners told you to wait but in the moment you had made your way to the family's temple and easily made your way inside, as no one would stop an imperial heir so easily.

You found him on his knees, offerings before him as a painting of Ena laid before him on the wall. He was focused, not noticing your entrance. You observed him from where you stood, the relaxed look on his face wasn't normal for you. He was always at attention and the image of sophistication every man wanted to be, composed at all times. The gentleness of him this time wasn't the expected one of his stature, something about the moment almost felt intrusive. You were quiet in your strides towards him, having a closer look at his face now, you assumed it was the dim lighting of the candles but he looked like a different person. You looked forward at the image of Ena then kneeled next to him and clasped your hands together as well. It just felt right.

Praying with the other became something shared between you two when you both found time together.

You shrugged, "I don't see why not."

JingYuan

An incident had occurred during the celebratory banquet in which the pet kitten of a noble had disturbed the peace by causing a servant to lose balance and create a mess. A great disrespect to the royal family, your mother then had chastised the pet's owner publicly and declared the kitten to be skinned alive to teach everyone a lesson of letting creatures run wild in an event like this one.

Well, you found this sentence to be bad, for the kitten at least but your mother's temper was something to be observed carefully, you'd rather not make the evening more unpleasant for her. Or yourself.

It would be three days later when you'd hear noises when you were taking strolls after a long day in your lessons to clear your mind. You had stopped to rest in a pavilion before you'd journey your way back to your palace and heard it. You told your servants to wait for you at the pavilion as you made your way towards the noise as stealthy as one could be, peeking from behind a wall, you saw a boy perhaps older than you kneeling before a bush. There was a bowl next to him and his hand was stretched into the bush.

"pspspspsps-" you had heard from his mouth, ringing confusion bells in your head.

Then you saw it, the pearl white kitten itching out from the bushes only to be attacked with immediate petting from the young boy. That cat looked an awful lot like the cat ordered to die. It shouldn't be, as you saw the peeled skin yourself. It shouldn't be, what person in their right mind would walk straight into a death sentence like this. This definitely wasn't the cat sentenced to death.

So, you watched the should-be-dead kitten make its way toward the bowl of food, meowing in gladness then going right back in to continue eating.

"Does that feel better, Mimi?" The will-be dead boy muttered softly, his tone soft as he ran his hands through the kitten's head.

You felt more uncomfortable when you recognized his face, the amber eyes and the white hair, the black spot on his face-

Jingliu was a popular swordsman hailing from a clan who rose to a respected military family from her great efforts and achievements in conquest. She took in a young distant cousin whose family had fallen on hard times and raised him to take after her and continue her legacy of sword masters. You met this boy after he had accompanied his caretaker to the Imperial Palace for the banquet to celebrate her recent victory. You remembered seeing his face when he had come to greet you and your mother formally before the banquet commenced. You remembered how much your mother revered and praised Jingliu for her military prowess. You recalled thinking the cat faced boy had delicate features.

Military families were highly regarded by the Imperial family. They were considered military when someone received honors and official recognition from the imperial family for carrying out a successful military operation. These families usually aimed to produce soldiers and were determined to ensure all their descendants carry out their military duties for generations. You were curious about Jingliu’s choice to have a man carry on her military legacy though, most unusual.

You looked back at the white haired boy caressing the young kitten like a babe. You admired his idiocy in a sense. His actions were careless and could cause lady Jingliu trouble if he was not careful- this he was not being either. And yet his actions had somewhat touched you.

You also wanted to help the kitten during the banquet, maybe this could be your second chance.

.

.

An invitation was given to the Jingliu's household inviting the now young man to enter a concubine selection for one of the princesses. To his surprise, he was one of the first chosen by her.

Gepard

During your concubine selection, you heard the name Gepard Landau and you immediately decided then and there you would take him as your concubine as well.

In the years before your dynasty sat the imperial throne, the Landaus had supported your family during the civil war. The first Empress of your dynasty had taken a Landau son for her main husband, the royal consort then, the empresses after her had them as apart of their harem for years. This was an easy decision for you.

Moreover, it keeps the Landaus in check, they had weird influence over the imperial military. It would be tricky for you, if Gepard caused any trouble you can't be too strict on him, his family would find way to stick their hands into harem issues and shield him.

Either way, the Landaus are close with the Imperials, this was expected.

With your royal consort next to you, you watched the carriage wheel in with the Landau's sigil, the proud lion, waving from its flag as it pulled up to your palace gates. The custom was that you shared chambers with the concubine on the day they arrive as per tradition. You didn't have much appetite for him. You met the Landau and his older sister when you were still a girl, you had proudly announced to your father the moment he left your presence that he was beautiful and you should have his hand when you grow older, much to your father's pleasure. Whenever the Landau family bought their children around you were always expected to play with them, this was your pleasure, then you had a strong craving to have him.

Out of sight, out of mind. The Landaus preferred to raise their younger offspring away from court. Gepard and his baby sister would spend their time in the countryside with their father from the capital while their big sister would have to handle the duties as the heir apparent in the palace with their mother. Your childish affections dispersed over time. He was now a thing that was a part of the happier times of childhood more than a person you wanted.

Watching the blonde lion step from the carriage, dressed in the colours of his house and the veil on his head, your mind wandered back to the boy you knew. You recalled you barely looked up during the concubine selection and only said yes because she heard his name and accepted him immediately. You never got to look at him.

As per tradition, he kneeled before you every 2 steps he took until he was directly in front of you. At the final kneel, he didn't rise and awaited his new wife’s command to rise, her official welcome of him into her household. Your expression softened, though only slightly. With deliberate grace, you extend your hand toward him, “Gepard of House Landau,” your voice calm but carrying the weight of tradition. “Rise and take your place among those who are my harem.”

He took her hand, her touch steady and warm, yet undeniably regal. As he stood, the space between them felt both vast and impossibly close.

The things that were not said, unspoken words and battered feelings, it was obvious your feelings didn't go as deep as his. The consummation night was not as deep as he wanted it to be. The words, “Tradition demands our Union but I shall not ask any more of you than what you are expected to.”

Control, commands, longing, he did not expect indifference.

Gepard watched you leave, his thoughts a tempest. The girl he had once played with as a boy had grown into a ruler he could not yet fully understand. But for the first time since entering the palace, he felt less like a pawn and more like a participant in a game he was only beginning to learn

Dan Heng

Your history tutor himself held personal vendetta against the Vidyadharas, if you listened to the man explain the history surrounding them, you'd think he was personally there to experience the atrocities.

Though, you did not dislike him for it. The consequences of the old dynasty's actions did not disappear with time.

389 years ago, before the first Empress of your family overthrew the Vidyadhara Dynasty in the 5 Year War, the final ruler of the Vidyadhara was a man. Male rulers were few to none in the country's history, the only reason Dan Feng found himself on the throne of Gold was from a lack of women in the succession. The fertility of the Vidyadharas has dwindled over time until it reached a point they had to turn to a man to inherit the throne. This was their final mistake.

Undoubtedly, this was the worst sovereign to ever step foot on the throne. The first Empress of your dynasty led conquest against the tyrant and in five years time, the Vidyadhara dynasty were no longer legitimate rulers. They were stripped of their lands, titles and wealth, casted off and put under surveillance by your family after the death of

the tyrant. Bans were carried out against them, stay away from the capital, they couldn't hire help without the approval of the new dynasty, the next head of their family was chosen and controlled by your family, etc.

Now, there were two bans you had to be mindful of; Marriage of a Vidyadhara was determined by your family. Vidyadharas are forbidden from entering the royal harem. For the safety of their dynasty never rising again. This wasn't a problem for you until you were approached by an advisor, speaking of a young Vidyadhara being seeked out by a noble for marriage, a noble of importance. Your natural response would be to ban this immediately, you can't mix Vidyadhara blood with your allies. Perhaps it was the late night meeting but you asked for the noble to bring forth his intended bride.

You will continue to blame the late night, the young man, Dan Heng he called himself, a pretty Vidyadhara from the main branch of the family. I'm your own defense, the pretty boy seemed less interested in the idea of the noble woman being wedded to him and his responses seemed almost robotic. In your own defense, his corrupted blood shouldn't be mixing with your allies. It doesn't matter how you took action to stop this, what matters is the marriage was cut off that night. It doesn't need to be bought up that you made conditions to a serious ban your family pressed on since childhood.

As long as Dan Heng was banned from ever becoming the Royal Consort, having any children he produced inherit your throne and his family did not receive the honors the average concubine’s family was given, you could handle this. You won't regret this later.

Aventurine

In your opinion, the Interastral Peace Cooperation had a too heavy grip on the nations, even empires like your own. You recalled a visit of an ambassador from one in your youth, finding the preparations grand enough for a king to welcome one.

Even as an adult, you found their existence in the continent as a pack of dogs being held on a leash by one person. You weren't stupid enough to deny the good they've done to unite nations in peace but you weren't ignorant enough to deny their less honorable pursuits.

Your ascension to the throne naturally led to an ambassador of theirs being sent to congratulate you. It was a natural tradition for them to appease their royals and for the rulers to accept it.

Here in the banquet hall, you observed the other envoys bought with her as they entered. They approached you first with the proper greeting, Jade took the liberty of introducing herself then everyone else. You masked your disinterest until you noticed the blond, you hadn't seen him before, his frame seemed to be smaller and hidden behind the rest. You leaned back in your seat, looking over his form as Jade introduced him.

“Aventurine, a young man in training by myself.”

“What would you train a man for?” You didn't take your eyes off of him, he must've not grown very fast as a child, for whatever reason.

“Whatever a man can understand, there are good ones out there, like him.” She gestured to the blond with a smirk on her face.

You smiled in response to her jest then looked back at Aventurine, “if he is so good, he can tell me about it.” You motioned to the close spots to yourself at your table, inviting the blond to sit with you instead of his colleagues for the remainder of the banquet.

Well, this training, he won't be able to complete it anymore.

Dr. Ratio

Your first tour as Empress took place in the capital, the pride of the Empire. Your last tour had been when your mother was alive, only last year in another smaller city. On the third day of your tour, your royal consort and yourself were set to visit a distinguished university, personally funded by your family for years.

Education was one of your most prized priorities, there was a pull back before your ascension that you sought out to fix when you were Empress. You made it your own issue to get the universities and lower level schools back on track. If your ears were right, others took advantage when the imperial eyes looked away from it.

In an attempt to not disrupt the school day, you met the staff of the university privately and spoke with them about affairs in education.

Though, mid conversation, a man with purple hair had made his way into the room, abruptly so. His eyes locked rather aggressively with some of the educators in the room but he made his way before you, all proper greeting requirements met and rising when you gave him the permission to. He took a seat close by, opening the book in his hand, “It is my ill manners I arrived so late, it was not intentional on my part and I mean no disrespect to you, my liege.” He bowed his head to you as he spoke, you did not respond with anything but a nod.

“If I am so bold, I want to ask for more than just funding to the schools but for funding to the students as well,” he started, “I just think these funds benefit the schools more than the students. Even with the school funded by your majesty’s kind grace, it's not enough to have their needs met to stay in it.”

Well, it was a pleasant change of pace. You've spent the last half hour here with the inhabitants in the room sending you praises for the funds, then asking for more, then praising you, then repeating. Even his tone was too high to be asking that for someone of his standing. Whatever the person next to you said, you didn't hear it, you lowered your chin to look the purple haired man in the eye.

“And what else?”

The amber eyed man's eyes widened slightly as if he had expected a different response from you. He composed himself quickly after, spinning through his books, “I have personal petitions from my own students in here, some I've tried to sponsor myself, I had them write down their troubles-” you found the reactions of the other folks in the room to be almost comedic. Perhaps a less public inspection was needed.

You rose from your seat, “Perhaps you can tell me more about your students and requests, somewhere else, a stroll or a room to ourselves, whatever you desire.” You looked the man over before making your way towards the door, expecting him to follow in tow. You cared less for what the other women in the room had to say at this moment about your sudden leave, you only looked back to make sure the purple beauty was following you.

Yes, you can't wait to learn more about what he has to say and can do.

*************************************

[skyrigel]

Grim Reaper! Simon x f!reader | tw: death

Grim Reaper! Simon who's supposed to take you away, between life and death, after and before, here and gone.

Grim Reaper! Simon who watched you all day, couldn't help the cold dread that clouded him because you were so full of life, despite the mess, you woke up and made your coffee. Choosing your clothes and saving that very expensive dress for some other time, some special day — not knowing this is the last, your most special. Instead picking on that shirt you loved for it's colour, not knowing it would end up only red.

Grim Reaper! Simon who stood helplessly when life was squashed out of you. One moment of extreme pain and then nothing at all. People screaming and pitying and murmuring, while you clutched your chest and raised above, looking around — blinking and confused, until you looked down and your pupils widened. Oh..gone.

Grim Reaper! Simon who clasped your hand as you cried and lamented, a life you hated so much and yet you loved it just the same. Glancing back at the flesh, hands outstretched as if begging you to not leave, same eyes, same face, same fucking everything — just lifeless.

Grim Reaper! Simon who held your soul as you wept and sobbed, it wasn't your fault...you were just trying to save the puppy, it wasn't — but now you were dead. No prayer would count. And these people around you, they're just watching your lifeless frame while you cry and cry.

Grim Reaper! Simon who knew how it went, one snap and you were truly gone to the other side. “T-this it it ? Is this the end ?” you sobbed more, remembering your goodbyes, did you tell you mum that you loved her, or did you tell dad his burnt toast were your favourite, did your friend knew they were so amazing and you loved them ?

Grim Reaper! Simon who could read your mind, “No. Come now.” he echoed, lifting you away from your dead body, just flesh that resembled you, all those things that made you a real person crumbled under those rubber tyre, now nothing but memories.

Grim Reaper! Simon who shaked his skeleton of a head, covered with his ghostly black hood, swaying like cloak behind him. You wouldn't stop crying, he couldn't bear that. “No, sweetheart.” He traced your jaw, letting those tears vapour in a whoosh,“Not yet. Not so soon. Not for you.”

Grim Reaper! Simon who took you back to your apartment, letting you take it all, your fingertips against smiling people trapped behind glasses, your cat purring in her cushion, notes sticked around, empty checkboxes that would never get ticked.

Grim Reaper! Simon who held above the dress you'd saved. “You would look so lovely.” he kept, ‘You always do.’ to himself, he sat as you licked the last bit of Nutella and patted your cat, oblivious to so many things.

Grim Reaper! Simon who took you to the beach because you never got time to go one, never had anyone to go with you. Now was the time and company.

Grim Reaper! Simon who sat beside you watching the last bits of rays disappearing into nothingness, letting sky turn darker and stars twinkle in it's wake.

Grim Reaper! Simon who might be smiling just a bit when you want to go for a night walk, with no fear and no worries. He's swaying behind you, while you are almost flying with new freedom, a new sense of living or dead taking over you. There was a before that you loved but there's also an after that awaits. It's okay, Simon had said. It's going to be okay.

Grim Reaper! Simon who took you on rooftop because you wanted to see the city, the whole fucking city. “How you wanted to go ?” He found himself speaking, he never did that, it's a simple affair — guide them to the other side, that's it. You rewarded him with a smile, “Like this.” You whispered, he would hear it anyway, “I wanted to be gone like this...on my own will, L-like —” You choked on your own words, “— to jump from a very tall somthing.” and that's the irony, your life was squashed out of you, no fall and no wind smashing your face and nothing like you thought.

Grim Reaper! Simon who would grant all your wishes, “Come” he said, the second time. First, he said it when he was pulling you back while your eyes were struck on those that belonged to you, the very same but truly empty — gone before it's time.

Grim Reaper! Simon who wanted you to be happy, forever if he could help it. He took your hand in his and floated to the edge, across the horizon. There's sun rising from new beginnings, “I can't die a second time.” you laughed, a soft choke in your throat. Your stomach twisted in your guts and it's shouldn't be like this. You should feel empty and whatever void meant to be, but this knot wouldn't let go.

Grim Reaper! Simon who shook his ghost of head, tilting his head affectionately to you, “No. but you can live.”

Grim Reaper! Simon who took the fall with you, in the dress you always wanted to wear, smelling like all the things you loved, your city and salt and your favourite perfume. A smile that was forever young and true. There with him, between life and death.

Please always take care. Someone somewhere loves you so much and you mean the world to them. Please remember, please know you're loved and blessed and mean so much more than you think. Xoxo.

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[sourvers]

THERE’S NOTHING LEFT FOR YOU (MY FATHERS LOVE)

summary: duty or family? he always did chose duty behind bittersweet goodbyes and missed birthday parties. you’ve always tried to understand. but when your husband comes home one day, your 15 year old kid decides enough is enough.

or… your child yells at their father through a tear-stained face

contents & warnings: simon & john x mom reader (separate), angst, reader's child is named, absentee father, emotional manipulation?

cod main masterlist . ao3 profile

⤷ i genuinely don't know what came over me. while i absolutely love the idea of tf141 being amazing fathers... a part of me always thinks the opposite.

JOHN PRICE

He knows he's late. Beyond late.

Night had already settled across London's horizon. The sky blanketed with an array of stars. Each of them a touch brighter than the next; glimmering down on him, smiling even.

John's momvents are gradual, unwinding. Park the car. Take the key. Unbuckle the seatbelt. Open the door. It was timed, familer, known like the spurs of energy from his only, beloved daughter and the tender warmth from his wife's arms. You exuded it: the candid, honeyed sweetness that Price indulged in, gulp after gulp.

"Dad?"

John recalled when he first held his daughter in his gritty, calloused palms. Under the hospital's white, glaring lights and your ever asture gaze, John felt the bones in his body quiver, his eyes a deep sea of glisenting blue. The world mellowed, it was only him and her: a finite stone hurtling against a blodied reality. She was so tiny. Wrapped in nothing but a blanket, her nose twitching, her body tenderly warm, malleable, innocent.

"Hey honey, how's school?"

"I didn't go to school today."

"Oh? Why?"

"Mom's sick again."

John slipped the ring on your finger for two reasons. First, he adored you. You were like stardust against his fingers, a kind of breeze he'd beg to dance with, a woman he'd kneel before when he came home, bruised and battered like a wooden doll. Second, you are shrewed, clever, and undeniably effacious. To a fault truly. John sunk his teeth deep and swallowed every drop of mellowed forgiveness until it ran dry. Untill John stopped reasoing because every father should drop their kid off for the first day of kindergarten, because he should've been their clasping your hand when you fainted for the first time, because little Jen should've had her father come with her to 'bring your dad to school' day.

"Is she in her room?"

"Why would you care?"

John stops, the warm lamp light of the living room constraints him, the bitterness in his daughter's voice echos against the walls. Against him.

"Jenzelle. Drop the attitude-"

"Or what? Or what dad?" Your going pack your bag up and leave?"

"Jen," John sighs, "You know I can't control-"

"Of course I know!" Jen heaves, throwing her hands in the air, taking another step back, "You've always told us that. Told mom that. You told me that."

Jen's face scrunches up, her lips pressed into a firm line, just like her mother-

"Don't look at me like that dad, don't."

John takes a gentle step forward, stretching his hand to her shoulder, "Honey, please. Sit, we'll talk. I'll call your mom-"

Jen swats his hand away, stepping backwards, "That's what I've been trying to do for the past fifteen years of my life."

Her words are blunt, sharp, faster than any bullet John has-

"Do you love me dad?"

John melts, his hand quivers. Jen swallows and her eyes grow red, glossy, hot. Yet, her voice is hushed, mumbled under her breath like a mere whisper. A prayer. A quit plead hidden behind her crescent smile and brilliant, bright eyes.

John swallows, "I love you and your mom more than anything in this world."

Jen squints, as if gazing at a puzzle. "Then where were you dad? I know it's stupid but-" Jen huffs, hastily wiping the tears from her face, gazing to the ground before glaring straight into John's eyes, "You said you'd keep me safe. That I'd never be alone."

He did say that, whispered it into her ears when she scraped her legs. When he tucked her into bed and when the fireworks shook the house. He engraved it in his heart when he held her for the first time. And after every ‘I love you’.

“Then why at the hospital, did I spent every night alone since fourth grade? Alone dad. Alone because you couldn’t answer. I took care of mom alone and you-”

She points her finger at him, John freezes.

“You love your job more than me, don’t you?

No no no baby, that’s not true.

“Jen-”

I love you baby. You, your mom. I love how you take after her. Whatever you said is not true. It’s not true. God, it’s not true.

“Honey I-”

I’ll retire, quit, drop the job whatever. But please don’t say that honey. Please.

“Don’t try dad. Don’t try.”

The stars are out; glimmering, dancing in the night sky. The paper he’s writing on is strangely wet.

SIMON RILEY

They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

"Why dad? Why?!"

It really doesn't.

Simon learned to be silent. To stitch his mouth close and chop his tongue off from the beginning of childhood leading into his career.

Neverthless, he believed his indifference- the apathetic glaze of his eyes- would never reach your eyes or his son.

"I've tried everything to make you stay- I brought home medals, took honours classes-"

"I know that."

Sean grimaces, his eyes painfully red. "Of course, you knew," he seethes, "You always seem to know everything!"

Simon was taught not to flinch or cower, his back straight and stiff. Accompanied by flat indifference.

Simon still smells the savoury aroma of dinner: its scent lingering in the living room. He notes how the recorded player is not fully off and how there is only one hanging photo of all three of you: when Sean was born, Simon gingerly cradling him in his burly arms.

He's a ghost.

Simon recalls how twilight casted its shadows over your home fifteen years ago. How violently his legs shook; caving under his own weight when he fell to his knees before you, grasping onto your shins and knees for dear life, begging, asking.

"What if I'm not a good father?"

"You're going to be a wonderful father, Simon, don't you ever let anyone tell you otherwise."

"I don't want to hurt... I don't want to be-"

"You won't."

"You never cared about us," lashed Sean, "You were never there, and don't give me the stupid 'military' excuse."

For the first time since he arrived home, Simon spoke ever so calmly, "It is true."

"I saw the papers. I heard what you and mom were talking about over the phone."

Simon's eyes widen slightly.

"She asked you to retire dad," Sean's lips quiver, "She never asks of anything too big. You know this."

Simon did know that: how you desperately pleaded with him. At that moment, he imagined your clenched fist, the hot tears streaming down your cheeks and the grit in your eyes. The same one he spent nights picturing over and over again.

"Why dad? Why were you never just there?"

Because I'm a coward. Because I'm afraid.

"You know the answer."

Sean's bloodshot eyes stare daggers into Simon's. Acute and tenacious while he backs away, "Keep telling yourself that."

'Go call him', screamed Simon's mind, battering against his head, 'Do something, anything. Please.'

Simon stood there frozen.

A self-made ghost in his own home.

For what purpose?

cod masterlist .

[ccwpidsblog]

SAINTS AND SINNERS — iwtv

SUMMARY : Edmée Heart, the dutiful daughter of a pastor, lives a sheltered life bound by rules and expectations. But her quiet world begins to unravel when she catches the attention of Louis de Pointe du Lac and Lestat de Lioncourt, two enigmatic men with dark secrets. Drawn to Edmée’s innocence, Louis and Lestat vie for her affection, each offering her a taste of freedom and danger.

RATING : 18+

CONTENT WARNING: season one spoilers, not entirely accurate to the show but we’re all grown here it shouldn’t matter much, eventual polyamory, heavy religious themes, daddy issues, more to be added

CWPID NOTES 🏹: this is a great way to come back and show how much my writing has improved. redeeming myself from the trash fiction i was writing before. ON A03 N WILL ONLY BE UPDATED ON AO3 (if im not being lazy)

Edmée remembered the Sundays before Louis de Pointe du Lac avoided the sun, somehow, he’d managed to arrive at church after a long night of sin. He was always late, slipping through the heavy wooden doors just as her father’s booming voice began the first prayer. From her family’s high pew, she could see him moving down the aisle, the faint scent of booze and perfume lingering on his clothes—a sinful whisper of the previous night’s indulgences.

He’d take his usual seat beside his brother, his strong frame settling heavily into the creaking wood. His head would bow, his eyes would close, and for the rest of the service, he remained still. Unmoving, like a statue carved from marble. At first, Edmée thought he might be sleeping, but there was something too deliberate about the way he held himself, his hands clasped loosely on his lap, his expression unreadable.

She couldn’t stop watching him. From her elevated view, she memorized the way the sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting fractured colors across his dark skin. He looked ethereal, caught between shadows and light, the kind of beauty that left her breathless and guilty all at once. She tried to focus on her father’s sermon, but her gaze always drifted back to Louis.

At the end of every service, as her father stood by the doors shaking hands and offering blessings, Louis would rise with a graceful ease. He’d move through the small crowd, a charming smile on his lips, and when he reached her father, he always made a point to praise the sermon. “Your words speak straight to the soul, Pastor Heart,” he’d say, his voice like velvet dipped in honey.

Then he’d turn to her mother, taking her hand and pressing a gentlemanly kiss to her knuckles. “A vision of grace, as always, Mrs. Heart,” he’d say, his words smooth and effortless.

But when his gaze finally reached Edmée, it changed. He wouldn’t kiss her hand, wouldn’t offer a compliment. Instead, he’d nod at her, a playful, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. That smile—the one that made her feel like the only girl in the world and completely invisible at the same time. If her skin had been any lighter, she knew she would’ve turned as red as the pew cushions beneath her.

In passing, he treated her the same. A quick nod, a flash of white teeth. But she noticed how he greeted the other women—the kisses, the murmured words that made them laugh and fan themselves, the lingering glances. With her, there was none of that.

Only a nod. A smile.

And it made her stomach twist with jealousy. The last time Edmée saw Louis was at Grace’s wedding. The church was packed, and the air was thick with the scent of lilies and the murmur of joyous chatter. Louis was everywhere that day—his laugh echoing above the music, his face alight with a rare kind of happiness that made him seem untouchable. He was glowing, his usual quiet intensity replaced by something brighter, freer. Edmée stood by the punch table, nervously clutching a glass, when he approached her. She didn’t see him coming; one moment she was alone, and the next he was there, his presence commanding and electric.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice low enough that no one else could hear. “Maybe even more beautiful than the bride.”

Her breath caught, her cheeks burning.

“Don’t tell Grace,” he added with a wink, leaning in just enough that she caught a whiff of his cologne—a mix of cedar and something darker, richer. Edmée could only nod, her voice stolen by his closeness, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it.

Months.

Many months without seeing him.

The pew Louis shared with Paul and his family remained empty every Sunday, a silent memorial to all that had unraveled. No one dared to sit there now, not after everything. Not after Paul’s tragic passing, not after the whispers.

The whispers.

They followed Louis like a shadow, stretching long and dark through the town. The women at her mother’s so-called “Bible studies” spoke of him in hushed tones, their voices dripping with scandal and sanctimony. “Dancing with the devil,” they’d say, the words lingering in the air like smoke. Edmée would sit in the corner, quietly stitching or polishing silver, her ears pricking at every mention of his name. Her brothers were no better. On Thursday nights, they’d gather in the attic for their card games, their voices low and conspiratorial. Edmée wasn’t allowed to join, of course, but she’d found her own way around that rule. If she sat at the top of the stairs, just out of sight, her father wouldn’t scold her.

There, she could catch snippets of their conversations, each word painting a more vivid picture of the man she hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

“...seen him with him again...” “...spends his nights where no decent man would...” “...more dead than alive, if you ask me.”

The words made her chest tighten, her heart ache. She couldn’t bring herself to believe them. Louis de Pointe du Lac, the man who nodded at her with that secret smile, who complimented her at Grace’s wedding, couldn’t be what they said he was. Could he?

But her father’s rules were ironclad. She couldn’t ask, couldn’t go looking for answers. The world outside their home was a forbidden one, especially now. Edmée’s days were measured in prayers and chores, her nights spent reading scripture or mending clothes by candlelight. Her father had made it clear: the streets were no place for a proper young lady, especially after dark. The world out there was dangerous, filled with temptation and sin. But tonight, as she stood by the forbidden window, the temptation was unbearable.

The house was quiet, her family long asleep. The window, a heavy thing with rusted hinges, had always been forbidden. “Nothing good comes from looking where you shouldn’t,” her father had said countless times. But tonight, Edmée couldn’t help herself. She pressed her fingers to the cool glass, peering into the moonlit street below. At first, there was nothing. Just the empty streetlamps and the soft rustle of the wind through the trees. But then, she saw him.

Louis

He was walking slowly down the cobblestone street, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, his head slightly bowed. The gaslight caught his face, illuminating its sharp angles, the deep shadows beneath his eyes. He looked different—thinner, wearier, as though the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She pressed closer to the glass, watching him with the kind of hunger she didn’t dare name.

“Not tonight,” Louis said, his voice low but sharp. Another figure emerged from the shadows. He appeared with a startling grace, stepping into the lamplight as if conjured from the darkness itself. His hair gleamed like spun gold, his sharp, angular features both striking and unnerving.

There was a wildness about him, a dangerous energy that made Edmée’s heart race in an entirely different way.

“Louis,” Lestat’s voice purred, low and teasing, the sound carrying up to her window. “Out for another pensive stroll, are we? Tell me, do you plan to sulk your way through eternity, or is this just for tonight’s entertainment?”

“I’m not in the mood for your games, Lestat,” he said, his voice soft but heavy with frustration. “Oh, but you never are,” Lestat replied, stepping closer. “And yet, here I am, devoted as ever. You should be flattered, mon cher.”

From her perch, Edmée couldn’t look away. The two men stood in stark contrast—Louis, somber and grounded, and Lestat, all sharp smiles and restless energy. Their connection was undeniable, charged with something she didn’t quite understand but found utterly captivating.

Lestat reached out, brushing an invisible speck from Louis’s shoulder with a flourish. “And speaking of devotions,” he said, his tone turning sly, “you’ve been spending an awful lot of time on this street. Seems that you miss the little church mouse lately? What’s her name again? Edmée?”

She could see the shift in Louis as he seemingly snapped, finally turning to face Lestat. “Leave her out of this,”

Lestat’s grin widened. “Oh, mon ami, you wound me. I only meant to say she’s... enchanting, in her own way. So innocent, so untouched by the world.” He tilted his head, his gaze flickering upward as though he might sense her watching.

Panicking, Edmée ducked away from the window, her heart pounding in her chest. She pressed her back against the wall, trying to steady her breath.

Had he seen her?

Had they seen her?

Who was he?

What was he to Louis?

As she sat there in the dark, the questions swirled in her mind, each one more troubling than the last. And though she couldn’t explain why, she felt as though she had glimpsed something forbidden, something that would change everything if she let it.

[demonvampire180writes]

Okay. Idea.

Tommy takes a road trip to take his mind off things, but as he's driving, after making a stop for coffee, he is in a head-on collison with a semi driver. He manages to stay conscious long enough to get the driver out of the cab and to call 911 for help.

He passes out. When he next wakes up, he's in an unfamiliar bedroom he can't remember getting to. The door swings open, and a carbon copy image of Evan - Buck - comes tumbling through the door, giggling like mad. She's got his unruly curls and crystal clear blue eyes. She leaps onto Tommy, yelling, "Daddy!" A second later, Evan - Buck - comes in and lightly chastises her, calling her Pipa. He's carrying a breakfast tray filled with brioche French toast. When Tommy calls him Buck, he stops in his tracks, looking hurt and confused, and asks if Tommy is mad at him. A twinge of pain spears through Tommy’s head because he knows something is off, but he doesn't know what, so he shakes it off and apologizes. After Buck - Evan - drops his tray off, he kisses Tommy and tells him to have a good day and to remember to get the kids to school. As he eats he catches a glimpse of the silver band on his left ring finger.

Somehow he gets the kids to school, twins Pipa and Emanuel (names a WIP), and then heads for Harbor. When he gets there he's greeted by an unfamiliar woman who asks what he's doing there. When he tells him he thinks he's supposed to be on shift she looks confused. She tells him that after his husband made captain of the 118 last year, Bobby was named Chief, they decided that, with the pay increase, they didn't really both need to work so Tommy took early retirement to look after the kids. More head pain because Tommy is a workaholic and he can't imagine giving up his dream job. The pilot tells him that he gives flight lessons now and does community fire safety courses.

More confused then ever he goes back home and spends the day in a daze. That night he and Evan make mindblowing love and fall asleep wrapped in each other's arms.

Tommy then snaps awake and it's like the entire day was reset, like in Groundhog day. It plays out again, this time Tommy clocks that it's the year 2030. He fucks Evan into oblivion again.

Every time he goes to "sleep" and "wakes up" cracks appear in the dream. Things go fuzzy like a bad wire connection and the pain in his head is constant. He doesn't know how many times he's played out the same scenario when he begins hearing a voice he feels like he should k ow. It's calling him back, but to where?

Finally he comes to for real and find Evan sitting at his bedside, hand clasping his against his forehead as if in silent prayer. When Evan notices he's awake he begins screaming at him for how stupid he was. Tears are coming so hard he can barely speak. At one point a nurse has to come in and drag him out until he calms down.

When he comes back, Tommy asks him what he's doing there. It's been eight months since they broke up, and they haven't spoken, not even once. Evan explains that the hospital couldn't find any ICE information so they had to do some sleuthing. They found out Tommy worked for LAPD and got a hold of the captain of the 217 who immediately relayed the message to the 118. As soon as Evan heard he'd run out the door and not looked back. Tommy swallows thickly and closes his eyes.

They sit in silence for a long, LONG, time until Tommy starts telling Evan about his dream. He doesn't know why, but he feels like he needs to. He tells Buck that they're married and have two kids. Buck became captain of the 118 and Tommy became a house husband. Buck chuckles wetly, commenting on how there's no way Tommy would be happy as a house husband.

Once Tommy finishes, Buck is holding onto his hand again, and he asks, almost under his breath, if Tommy wanted that. If he could have seen them like that before things went south. He doesnt even have to think about it as he tells him yes. He admits that he hasn't stopped thinking about Evan in all these months, not even a hookup was satisfying, and how he regrets everything.

They're quiet again when Evan says, "Me neither, Tommy. You told me you couldn't be my last, but even back then, I knew that wasn't true. You are my everything, Tommy Kinard. No one else gets me like you got me." He takes a deep breath and says, "Be my forever, Tommy. Please."

Tommy breaks down into ugly tears and nods until his head throbs. As it closes out, Evan leans over and they kiss, slow and sweet as Evan brushes his hair back from Tommy’s face.

End scene.

Anywhosits....

(Here's this story idea sort kinda flushed out on Ao3)

(And here's the first chapter on Tumblr)

[deadmeat666]

ok ok

gabriel: the messenger. most divine voice of the heavens, second only to the trinity. he’s such a pretty thing, sent out to soothe the humans he needs to speak to, and you know he’ll be such a sweetheart, such a pure and sweet thing, so close to the throne and so willing to sing when you’re so deep inside of him.

michael: the warrior. “sir” to you at the very least. chains, collars, leashes, he won’t spare his favorite human who can handle his divinity and domination. he cares for you, truly, the way a wolf loves a lamb, the way teeth can pierce the flesh of a fruit so the taste bursts upon the tongue. your soul already belongs to the heavens, and under the protection of michael, no sin could corrupt you enough to take you away from your place beneath him, taking all he gives, gives, gives.

ABOVE AND BENEATH HEAVEN. archangel gabriel, archangel michael x amab! reader

warnings: you are about to smash the two Archangels from The Bible™, blasphemy, sacrilege, corruption on both ends, coming unprotected, no mentions of genitalia for the Archangels (imagine as you will), bondage w/ Michael (chains, collars, etc.), creampie, no pronouns mentioned for reader, confused switching from present to past tense, sub reader for mikey

a/n: ok now im horny and my dick has a mind of its own it's slapping against my keyboard to write this out help!!!! it's so weird describing sex in this when it involves two of the most holy beings in the bible

Gabriel is the very same being that had delivered the annunciation of Virgin Mary's scared pregnancy of the Lord's child within her— Jesus Christ, The Saviour Himself.

He was made a gentle one. He guided souls and prayers, clasped his own hands on those who clutched theirs in a prayer for their need of God, and yes, even yours.

How his voice was raised to such a gentle note couldn't even be transcribed. You would hear glimpses of Heaven trailing along his words and prophecies. Every lilt of his tongue rolling to produce a single syllable enough to make men— humans, go crazy. Humans that are made from dust of the grounds that bear such inferiority to the light that had shaped his wings, halo, and eternal being.

Yet, you still had your hands of flesh on him anyway. . .

He never had to serve humanity this way until you met him when he came to you. No creatures are ever truly free from the perverted woes of man.

His curls were spread on the pillow like golden threads woven like fine silks of gold. His thin eyebrows expressed so much when they knitted to create an expression worthy to be painted by those renaissance artists of the past. His eyes, colours unknown to you but undeniably alluring by their shine, were half-lidded. He struggled to even look at you properly before his pupils ultimately decided that they had learned shame for a human.

His head tilted away to reveal the soft gradient of his jawline. He wasn't as muscular, or built like a warrior of divinity fit for taking evil head-on, but he was built based on temptation which played a big role in the irony of everything. He was securely soft, not entirely too skinny, but with just the right amount of flesh— or whatever it was, on every right part of his physical form. Maybe God had something in His grand design for Gabriel to look every bit of the word "temptation"

Soft gasps and sounds that came past his two lips would've lulled you to sleep if it wasn't for the predicament you yourself had put this being in.

One hand; the back of it, rested on his forehead like a damsel. One arm bent to clutch you on your chest that heaves with the labour of a man tending to his crops.

Gabriel's robe was discarded. Yes, you managed that somehow. His body like the love of every painter. His legs wrapped around your waist as you made yourself host inside of him. But still, he did not forget the Lord's name upon him, as he chanted, chanted, and chanted of Him.

Your cock had managed to break his seal of chastity. Angels were never meant for this kind of attention, were they? Gabriel's moans grew boisterous, corresponding to your ever increasing pace. Then, you planted yourself in the deepest part you could reach inside an Archangel since you never knew when you were gonna experience this again anyway.

Your human essence made waves inside of him. His light absorbed every single drop of liquid, melding 'human' and 'angel' altogether. Wings, halo; they trembled. The magnitude of having accepted an offering of the human seed had done something to him. It was incomprehensible to what it was, but it was something.

Are you proud of yourself now?

Michael is the Prince of The Heavenly Host. He was Archangel Michael who had banished Lucifer to his fall as the Morningstar. Thee Archangel Michael that is God's personal John Wick.

Throw all of your expectations that projected Gabriel's image onto him aside. Michael still loves humanity. Their steps protected and scary nights hindered by his presence of light and grace.

The one thing that should concern you about him, the one that should've pushed you back from trying to bag the patron saint Saint Michael himself was that he was radically unyielding.

Michael knows and he will.

Like his supremacy over Satan, he had superiority in the bedroom. Ambiguously, he had power over anything that breaths, but oh— was this one a special case.

Michael was "sir", to you. His pacing was top-notch over the roof. Chains possibly made from the heaviest obsidian and his tears, collars that constricted your neck just a tad bit too tight, leathers that engraved into your flesh; they all burned of his love.

Your soul was bound to his name, the name you would groan out gutturally when he pulled back the chain clipped to the leather collar hugging the muscles of your neck when he rode you. His eyes that bore the same sympathy at your lackluster of resistance.

Strings of "Shh"s and coos when he brushed back your dampened hair, his ass clashing against your hips when he rode your cock that breached past his gate that just fit so snug. Michael's brown curls bounced, filtering the dim light of the bedroom that trapped you both in a suffocating play between angel and human.

Sharp exhales escaped from Michael when he felt you twitch inside him, an offering of your seed that would etch yourself forever onto his soul and Heaven forever. You couldn't really stop yourself as your body was molded into unrelenting futility against the warrior.

Your body corresponded with his when you reached the highest peak of Heaven and painted yourself inside him. Your vision clouded, his insides squeezing to harvest you of your warmest semen.

He tilted your chin upward to meet his gaze, his lips came down like the fall of Lucifer to meet yours.

Maybe, it truly wasn't as bad as you thought it would've been when you let him carry you in his palms.

[zablife]

A Cozy Night in with Tommy

Tommy Shelby x female reader

A/N: Wrapping him in a blanket and putting logs on the fire, requested by @brummiereader. Children's story referenced is the Aesop fable The Lion and the Mouse. Part of my Corrupt a Wish challenge.

Warnings: drinking, unwanted advances, bodily harm Corrupt a wish reminder: If you think this story has a happy ending, you haven't been paying attention. Proceed with caution!

"A lion lay sleeping in the forest...," a soft voice lilted, the melodic tone wafting into Tommy's office like a gentle spring breeze.

Removing his spectacles and dropping back into his chair to listen, Tommy hummed in contentment. This was his favorite part of the evening because it signaled the beginning of the children's bedtime routine. Within the hour, you would be here with him, reading your own book quietly on the sofa as he finished his paperwork and stole glances across the room.

It had taken weeks for you to feel comfortable enough to accept his nightly invitation, thinking it improper to be alone with a man twice your age whom you'd just met. However, you acquiesced as the pained look of sorrow grew in his eyes.

Frances explained he'd lost two wives under tragic circumstances which left him an achingly lonely widower. Upon hearing this, your kind heart urged you to look after him. It was the least you could do considering his benevolence, offering you shelter when you came to him for help.

Now you'd been with the Shelbys six months and you'd made it your duty to bring cheer to the entire household. One thing the family seemed to enjoy was your storytelling and though Mr. Shelby didn't often finish his work in time to join you, you always hoped he was listening.

You had no way of knowing he cracked his door at the same time each night, straining to hear every word. In fact, he was in rapt attention at that very moment. When you imitated the roar of the lion followed by the high pitched squeak of the captured little mouse, he couldn't help the grin that tugged at his lips.

"Spare me! Please let me go..." you begged in an overly exaggerated plea, clasping your hands in prayer dramatically until Charlie and Ruby erupted in giggles at your theatrics.

However, little Ruby soon turned pensive. "Does the lion hurt the mouse?" she gulped, clutching onto your sleeve.

The contact startled you as Ruby had been decidedly standoffish, unwillingly to accept any sort of mother figure so quickly after the death of her own. You placed an arm around her shoulder with a gentle squeeze. "No, he's quite generous," you assured her.

By the time you'd finished, Tommy was relaxing with whisky tumbler in hand, trying to be patient as you answered the children's questions about the moral of the story.

"It's about repaying debts," Charlie nodded solemnly. "Dad says a person should always pay their debts. Do mice?" he pondered, tilting his head to think for a moment.

You giggled at the firm assertion and his businesslike tone, so much like Mr. Shelby at times. "Well, according to this fable they do," you conceded. "But more importantly it's about kindness and how it's never wasted." Ruby hugged you tightly in reply, proof that the time you'd spent with the Shelby family was bringing her out of her shell.

Your heart swelled at the notion, a contentedness coming over you as you tucked the children into their beds and watched them snuggle beneath the covers. With a feeling of satisfaction, you skipped happily down the stairs toward Mr. Shelby's office in hopes of brightening his evening as well. Only then would you feel your day was complete.

However, the moment you glimpsed his hunched postured and tense looking jaw in the fading firelight, you paused. He seemed as though he were considering something of great importance and you were reluctant to disturb him. "Is everything alright, Mr. Shelby? Would you like to be alone?" you asked, peering into the shadows of his office.

He slowly raised his head from the desk, exhaustion evident in his bloodshot eyes. "'M fine," he mumbled before straightening in his chair. "Come," he urged with a wave of his hand.

In accordance with your nightly routine, you crossed to the fireplace and carefully added enough wood to last until you retired. However, as you turned to select a book from the large shelves by the desk, the now roaring fire illuminated Mr. Shelby's face, which was much paler than usual. Your fingertips lingered over the spine of a leather-bound volume as worry began to crease your brow.

Noticing your hesitation, Tommy asked, "Haven't found what you're looking for?"

You shook your head softly to indicate that wasn't the problem. Meeting his gaze earnestly, you ventured, "I hope you don't find this presumptuous, Mr. Shelby, but I think you could do with a bit of rest. You look unwell."

He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled a heavy sigh. The silence that followed set you on edge, wondering if he might correct you once again. He was insistent you call him Tommy, but the informality of it still seemed disrespectful.

As you studied his graying temples for a hint of what he might be thinking, Tommy revealed the problem. With gravel filled voice he admitted, "It's true, I can't sleep...haven't been sleeping for some time now."

You felt an ache bloom in your chest at the thought of his suffering, wishing you could ease his discomfort. Without hesitation you complied with his request to join him on the sofa, happy to see he was taking your advice.

Removing the cozy blanket from the back of the sofa, you lightly draped it over his shoulders. With a warm smile, you offered to read aloud while he closed his eyes. However, he politely declined as he reached for your hand instead. Your heart skipped a beat as his long fingers closed over yours, giving a gentle squeeze.

"I like having you close to me, Y/n. Say you'll stay." His penetrating gaze made you feel small beside him and a ripple of anxiety coursed through you at the thought of confiding your plans for the future.

You took a deep breath for courage as you explained, "Mr. Shelby, I can't tell you how much I appreciate your kindness, but it isn't my intention to rely on charity the rest of my life," you began. "I've taken a job so I won't be a burden to you any longer."

His jaw clenched almost imperceptibly at your statement. He disliked the news coming from you even less than Maggie at the exchange. She'd dutifully informed him of every call you made to town inquiring about job opportunities for young women. It was the beginning of his many sleepless nights, wondering how he might keep you here.

When your plans sounded like idle gossip, they were easy to ignore. Now the threat of you leaving was real and immediate. He knew he had to do something drastic. Opposite hand rising to stroke your cheek with his knuckles, his sharp blue eyes darted to yours as he blurted, "Marry me."

"I-I don't know what to say," you stammered, head spinning at his overly familiar show of affection. In all the time you'd spent with Mr. Shelby, he'd never once touched you. You felt it had to do with the respect he held for you, or at least that's what you told yourself until now.

"Mr. Shelby..."Tommy," you corrected yourself. "I'm very fond of you, but you've been like a father to me. So you see, I couldn't possibly mar..."

Before you could finish the thought, you felt the rough, chapped skin of his lips brushing against yours. He was tender at the start, but the first taste of you only made him hungry for more. Deepening the kiss, he slipped his tongue into your mouth roughly, making you startle.

He paid no attention to the way your body stiffened, a firm hand coming to rest at the back of your head. Locking you in place, his opposite hand unclasped from yours to roam your supple curves. Heart slamming against your ribcage, you tried to speak, but only a pathetic squeak emerged.

Tommy chuckled darkly, the innocent cry reminding him of the little mouse from the fable. He not only found your shock amusing, but arousing as well. Although you tried to jerk away, he forced your hand higher on his thigh until you brushed against the growing bulge in his trousers, making his need for you apparent. "I've been more than patient with you, darling."

"What do you mean? Please, you're scaring me," you pleaded in a quivering voice. As his teeth grazed the column of your throat, a strangled cry escaped. "Stop!"

He pulled his face from the crook of your neck, a storm of emotion passing through his eyes. You watched them darken menacingly as he wound his fist in your hair and gave a harsh tug. "I don't think you understand how this works. You came to me, remember?" he emphasized, tilting your neck back at an awkward angle. "Show a bit of gratitude," he scolded.

Tears pricking your eyes, you countered, "I know you don't want to hurt me."

The force he was exerting over you proved otherwise, a sneer curling his lip as he watched you tremble under him. "I gave you everything," he spat. "For what?" he asked rhetorically, tossing you away in disgust.

"Kindness is never wasted," you implored, reciting the message from the fable you so fervently believed.

Tommy scoffed at your childlike naïveté. "You've mistaken my kindness for weakness, love. You have no idea what I'm capable of," he threatened. Then with all the rage of a spurned man, he grasped your throat.

Fingers clutching onto his wrist, you silently pleaded with him for mercy, but his grip only tightened in response. "Spare me," you mouthed, unable to croak out the words.

Tommy shook his head at your request, "I won't let you go."

As you slowly lost the fight against him, he leaned down, stubbled cheek brushing against yours to place a kiss. The low whoosh of blood in your ears nearly drowned out his final declaration whispered calmly into the night. "You belong to me."

-----------

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[phfenomena]

❝sleeping alone ❞ || william h. bonney x f!reader

| A/N- was listening to flatland cavalry and i couldn’t resist a short n sad fic abt billy bc i’m evil

| WARNINGS- a sad man who misses his girlfriend a verrrryyy small mention of death and war.

william h. bonney x reader angst? fluff?

as billy lays alone in the hostel bed he quickly begins to regret agreeing to jesse’s proposal of this job in lincoln county. he’s almost a days ride away from you and he has no idea if you’re okay. he can’t believe he used to sleep like this every night, no one to hold.

his mind wanders to the prayers his mother used to lay over him and joe, before everything turned sour in his life. he can’t remember the last time he prayed, feeling like no one’s listening. he doesn’t need a god when he has you, but he doesn’t have you right now.

he clasps his hands together just like he did all those years ago. “i haven’t done in this in quite some time, sorry if it’s not uniform prayer. i just want my girl to be okay without me, and for her to healthy and safe. oh! and for me not to get shot. amen.” he suddenly feels very stupid and confused as to why he thought his words into the empty air would assist him at all, but anything’s worth a shot. especially when it comes to his girl.

he rolls onto his side, just like he does every night with you. he holds a pillow to front pretending it was you instead a bag of feathers. he never realized how warm you were until he couldn’t feel your warmth at all. his eyes drift close and he falls asleep to memories of you.

eight hours away by horse, you lay alone in your shared bed with billy. only it’s not shared for a while, it’s just your bed. he’s working, he loves working! you thought trying to make yourself feel better about being by your lonesome. the bed feels like it’s miles long with just your body inhabiting it. you stare at the stationary sitting on your desk, illuminated poorly with one candle.

you write slowly and methodically to billy. he won’t be home for months so you figured you’d might as well start the letters. you write paragraphs upon paragraphs of how much you miss him, how much you love him, and how quiet the night is without his laughs filling the air. you trail off and start telling him about the town gossip you’ve heard but eventually get back on track. spraying your perfume over the pages and an invisible kiss by your signature, you fold it up and press the wax to seal it.

billy and jesse walk back in the saloon below the hostel’s doors. “oh! mr. billy you’ve got a letter! from a lady” the young boy wiggles his eyebrows and hands the letter to billy. he tries to fight the smile but jesse pats his back, rather hard but a kind gesture nonetheless. “the girl of yours is already sending letters after a day? you’ve got her wrapped around her finger.” billy shakes his head laughing. “that’s where you’re wrong, it’s the complete opposite.” he confesses and walks up the stairs to read your letter in private.

he instantly notices the scent of your perfume and all of the tension in his body melts away. he’s smiling like an idiot the entire time he’s reading but holds your letter to his chest after. he walks over to his own desk and begins his own letter to you, he might not see you for months but he’ll be damned if he can’t talk to his girl.

he consistently writes to you and letting you know what’s going on and how stressful things have gotten. you’re proud of him for switching to tunstall’s side because it was the right thing to do, you’ll always admire that about him. the worry for his well-being overtakes the admiration as you quickly gather your necessities and get dressed. you’re out the door and mounting your horse within the hour, riding to lincoln. you’d rather walk to hell and back than not see billy before he gets hurt.

you reach lincoln county much faster than you expected, maybe your horse sensed the desperation leaking from your pores. you ask a kind-eyed woman about tunstall and she directs you a few minutes north. you thank her make your way slowly to your destination. as your eyes focus on the beautiful country home in the dark, your heart flutters. you almost feel sick with how anxious you are, your eyes haven’t laid on billy in three months.

you quickly tie your horse to a fence post and rush towards the door, knocking rapidly. an unfamiliar man opens the door and smiles at you. “how can i help you, madam?” he speaks confidently with a british accent, this must be tunstall. “oh well, um, i was just wondering if billy was here?” he snaps his fingers and turns his head to yell for billy.

billy’s stomach dropped upon hearing his name being called, he’s thinking it might be jesse trying to pick a fight but when his eyes settle upon you his world stops. everything slows down but his heart speeds up to impossible levels. he smiles wide and laughs while running to you. his arms envelope you and you’re drowning in his scent, squeezing so hard he thought you might’ve bruised a rib. “what’re you doin’ here, doll? did you ride here alone? do you know how dangerous that is? have you ate? are you okay?” you giggle at his ambush of worried questions and put your hand over his mouth. tunstall walks away with a grin, never seeing billy so happy.

“yes i rode alone, yes i know the dangers, no i haven’t ate yet, and yes i am okay. i just couldn’t take the thought of you being so stressed with the possibility of getting hurt without me here. i also figured it was due time for a visit.” you mutter softly, never taking your eyes off him. drinking in the sights of the man you love with every fiber of your being.

he quickly ushers you inside and guides you to a main room. “gentleman, this is my girl.” he introduces you and you smile and manage a slight wave. “this the girl you’re always talking about and never shutting up about how pretty she is?” billy goes slightly red and opens his mouth up to talk before closing it. just nodding at the embarrassment. you smile up at him “you tell people how pretty you think i am? you’re so sweet! that’s adorable.” billy sighs and leads you to a seat at the table and fixing you a plate for dinner.

as you both lay together that night in the same bed, everything makes sense in the world. you understand war, they just want this feeling to be safe. your eyes begin to fill with tears as you’re just so relieved and happy to be with your love again.

“i was gettin’ real tired of sleeping alone. considered climbing into bed with charlie but i don’t think he’s as warm as you.” you laugh and gently slap his chest.

all is right in the world, because your world is filled with love.

[daycourtofficial]

Forever is the sweetest con

Cassian x reader, Azriel x reader

Summary: based on this request - the war with Hybern claimed the life of your husband. Reeling with grief, you discover that you’re pregnant. His brother and your friend, Azriel, begins spending more and more time with you, finding solace in each other amidst your shared grief.

Author’s note: sadness, sadness, sadness, this one took me ages to write bc it’s so fucking sad 😭 I’m not super happy with this bc I was mostly trying to meet the deadline so this might feel disjointed bc I had to kinda skip around a lot. Also I didn’t tag this as Cassian x reader in tags bc it felt too painful to do that

Word count: 3k

Warnings: character death, unexpected pregnancy, honestly just sadness

“I’m Cassian.”

A large, handsome male greeted you as you were shelving some new books away. His large outstretched hand reached towards you, waiting in the air for a moment as you set the stack of books in your arms down. Your hand gets lost in the warmth of his, telling him your own name.

He smiles at it, repeating it, testing it on his tongue.

For days, that is the only memory playing in your head. It is what you think of as you lay in your shared bed, his scent still lingering. It is what you think when Feyre picks you up, and her and Mor place you in a bathtub as they clean you. It is what you think of as you stare at the ceiling, hoping it will collapse on you.

It is what you think of as you stand between Rhysand and Azriel at Cassian’s memorial. It is what you think of as they lower the casket into the ground, the citizens of Velaris standing around to pay their respects.

You don’t notice the hundreds of people who come to offer you a silent nod, a gentle prayer over you, their voices carrying gentle choruses of “he was so brave” and “you should be proud”.

You’re too numb for any of this. You’re too numb to recognize the hand Azriel places on your back, or the hand Feyre clasps into your own, squeezing tightly.

All you can think about is how his hand felt in your own the first time you held it - warm, gentle, comforting. And how it felt the last time you held it - cold, lifeless, gone.

Being a war hero came with a cost.

Only Cassian didn’t have to pay it - those he left behind did.

-

You’re not sure how much time has passed since Cassian died. You’re not sure if the people of Velaris still mourned him, or were simply wearing the traditional colors of their court.

You sat in one of Cassian’s old tunics, piles of clothes scattered on the floor around you. Your back was to the wall, its cool surface warming with your heat.

You hear movement in the house, but you don’t have the energy or ability to care who���s here.

Someone knocks gently before coming into the room, Azriel’s large frame coming through the door to your chambers. He sees the slightly ajar closet door, and shimmies his way in, sitting next to you amidst the pile of clothes on the floor.

He notes that they all seemed to have been pulled right off their hangers, in a fit of rage or desperation perhaps. Shades of black and red litter the floor, and the realization that it was all Cassian’s clothes causes him to take in a deep breath.

You two sit for a while, Azriel’s wings likely cramped in the small space. Mother knows Cassian complained if he spent more than five minutes in your closet.

Azriel just sits in silence, his shadows gently swirling the floor, searching through the piles.

For what, you’re not sure.

You finally speak, the words hard to form. You didn’t speak much these days - your voice a rare sound for your family’s ears.

“He doesn’t need them to be hung up anymore.”

Azriel sighs, shifting closer to you. He gauges you, looking for a reaction before moving a bit closer.

“He never needed them hung up. Before you he mostly just left his clothes strewn about the room. Drove Nuala and Cerridwen mad.”

You look at him, pulled from your trance of that black shirt Cassian wore when the two of you went on vacation in Adriada. The shirt that fit him so well the two of you did not see the beach at all for the five days you were there.

“They’d complain, saying every night he’d pull his clothes that they neatly hung up and the next morning they’d be strewn about his room,” he shrugs, still confused over how Cassian kept track of where everything was.

“Eventually Rhys told them to stop and to let Cassian do what he wants. No idea how he managed to stay neat and tidy with you.”

Your eyes meet his, and he reaches out a hand for you. It’s the first offer of help you’ve accepted in days. You keep his hand in yours for a long time, sitting amongst Cassian’s clothes.

-

You were sitting on the small balcony of your home, looking out at the expansive night sky above you. Elbows on knees, collapsing in on yourself.

Eyes red rimmed, tear tracks marking your face. You had never felt so helpless or as hopeless as you did now. Your eyes snag on a dark figure, soaring through the skies, its body getting closer and closer.

Azriel had taken to checking on you every three days now. Make sure you were eating, washing, and moving. Honestly if it weren’t for these biweekly check ins, you’re not sure how you would be faring.

The Illyrian descends next to you, a soft landing as he tucks his wings back in and sits next to you. You two sit in silence for a while, the sounds of the night a melody playing for just you two.

Velaris is dark, few fae lights scattered throughout the city aglow. You breathe deeply, taking in the smell of Azriel next to you. You should tell him, but you haven’t been able to tell anyone all week.

It was eating you up - you knew they’d be supportive, you knew they’d love you and help you in anyway they could. But it would still break their hearts just a bit more.

Your internal debate is ended by the overwhelming turn of your stomach, your lunch from earlier wanting to make a quick exit. You hurriedly get up, running towards your bathroom and throwing yourself on your toilet, narrowly reaching it in time.

Azriel ran after you, making quick work of grabbing your hair before you began your second wave of vomiting. The only sounds in the room are your retching and Azriel’s soothing tunes.

His other hand gently rubs your back as you feel as if you’re going to die. From embarassment or pain, you’re not sure. He waits for you to say what he already suspects, having noted a subtle shift in your scent when he arrived.

You wipe your mouth, not wanting to say the words aloud. The words that Madja had told you three days ago, the words that caused you to shut down until now.

“I’m pregnant,” you say, head leaning against the toilet seat. “All Cass wanted was to be a dad. Now I’m pregnant and he’s dead.”

A forced laugh comes from you.

“It’s not fair, Az.”

Your words hang in the air, and your friend responds by wrapping his arms around you, and pulling you into his lap. He nuzzles his head into your shoulder, his breath shuddering as he cries softly into your hair.

The two of you lay there, the cool bathroom tile digging imprints into your skin as he holds you, tears streaming from both of you.

-

Several months along in your pregnancy, and Azriel has essentially moved in with you full time. He takes meticulous care of you and the babe - he goes to your appointments with Madja with you, he goes baby shopping with you, he even put together the crib in your room.

He was your late husband’s brother. He was stepping up, knowing that Cassian would want him to help you. And yet your dreams wouldn’t stop being so perverse.

For the past month, every night without fail you dreamt of Azriel. Every dream was different - some of places you’ve gone before, places you only know of because Azriel described them.

The dreams were weird and disorienting, but you left them there. They were dreams.

About how beautiful he was. About his hands, his wings, his shoulders, his thighs.

Every day you’d wake up full of shame at where your mind takes you against your will.

-

“Az,” you say, a serious look on your face. “Something’s wrong.”

He looks over to you, glasses perched on his nose. The knife in his hand clatters, landing on the cutting board, a piece of carrot tumbling to the floor as he moves to you quickly.

Your breathing becomes more shallow, and you hold your hands out, reaching for his. Once his fingers reach yours, you bring his hands to your bump.

Just as he’s about to ask what the problem is, he feels a soft thump against his scarred hand. He can’t control the soft laugh that comes from him, and he can’t help but cradle your bump just a little tighter.

He looks back up to you, a mischievous glint in your eye.

“I thought something was wrong.”

You smile, “I know - that’s what makes it fun.”

-

Almost eight months had passed since Cassian’s death, and you were finally able to hear his name without breaking down. Azriel was the only one you would talk to about him, though.

It felt right to talk about Cassian to Azriel. It felt right to plunge yourself back into the memories of him - his boisterous laugh, his insistence on touching someone at all times, his presence in rooms.

It felt right, and the babe in your belly would kick frequently whenever Azriel spoke to you about Cassian, as if they knew who you were talking about.

It felt so right, and yet so wrong. Every night before bed you replayed the memories of the day, desperately trying to insert Cassian into Azriel’s spot in them.

He never fit perfectly into them, the edges of him not quite the right size.

-

This was too much.

You were an absolute fool to believe you could do this. To not only birth but to raise your dead husband’s babe. Who let you do this? Who thought this was a good idea?

“Hey.”

Azriel’s voice vibrates through you, pulling you from your thoughts, his large frame behind you. Your back pressed to his chest, his arms helping hold your legs up.

You lean your head against him.

“This was a terrible, terrible idea.”

He smiles, “Cassian never was known for good ideas.”

Your face contorts in agony, a strong cramping pain rippling through you.

Azriel takes the wet cloth from the nurse to his left, holding it on your forehead. “I’m so proud of you. You’re doing so well.”

You scoff, “if I was doing well, the babe would be out by now!”

Azriel takes your jabs, your sarcasm, the intense squeezing of his hand in yours. He’ll take everything you throw at him.

After about eight hours, you were blessed by the cauldron with a beautiful boy, tiny wings clinging to his back as he cried.

-

Azriel’s presence didn’t stop after the babe, Camden, was born. If anything, he spent more time with you. He delegated much of his work as spymaster to support you, even going so far as helping coordinate schedules for Feyre or Nesta to help you bathe.

In the first few weeks, you were able to move around, but you were utterly exhausted. Not just the physical demands of your babe and recovering from birthing a winged babe, but also the emotional toll this took on you left you unable to care much for yourself.

You had thought being bathed would make you feel like a burden, but Feyre and Nesta did everything to make you feel so loved instead. They lit candles, rubbed your back, and told you how proud of you they were constantly. Their words never failed to make you cry, the task at hand feeling impossible if you thought about it too hard.

Eventually, after weeks of sleepless nights, feeling like nothing more than a cow for milk, you and Azriel were able to settle into a routine.

He took care of the babe at night, allowing you decent sleep. He brought Camden to you for his middle of the night feedings. You took care of Camden during the morning through early afternoon while Azriel attended to his duties. The two of you cooked dinner together, Azriel always insisting on washing dishes afterwards.

After a while, it all felt so normal. As if Cassian was never meant to be here for this part.

-

A few months after your son’s first birthday all Hell broke loose. It was a regular day. The sun still shone as it always does, your son was as beautiful as ever. Azriel was holding Camden in the air, helping him stretch out his wings, when he spoke for the first time.

A soft dada accompanied the little boy’s giggles, followed by Azriel stiffening immediately. You looked to the shadowsinger, and when his eyes met yours, you knew.

As if a golden thread appeared out of thin air, tying a knot from Azriel to you, you could feel him. You pulled an experimental tug in the bond, and he pulled back.

Wide eyes meet each other from across the room, silent except for Camden’s continued giggles. You stare at him bewildered, your expression mirrored back to you on his face.

A high pitched noise starts ringing in your eyes before everything goes black.

-

“It’s a bit of a cruel joke,” you say. “I want to love him, I want to be with my mate. But what kind of person does that to her deceased husband?”

You had woken up in Rhys’s office twenty minutes ago to your head in Feyre’s lap, her hands gently running through your hair.

You had heard bits of hushed conversation, and you thought you had heard Az, but when you came to, he was nowhere to be seen.

Rhys looks contemplative before saying, “you of all people should know that Cassian would have wanted you to be happy.”

You put your head in your hands, gathering to courage to say your worst thoughts out loud.

“It feels like Cassian died for me. I know he didn’t, but I can’t help but feel like if he had survived, would Azriel still be my mate? He would have let me be with him, yes, but just.”

You sigh, trying to grab the fragmented thoughts in your head and place them together. Rhys lets you, allowing silence to fill the room.

“It would have killed him having to watch me choose Azriel over him. He would have done the respectable thing, he would have stepped back. He would have been happy for us.”

You sigh, “but if it were the other way, if Nesta or Elain were his mate, I’m not sure I could give him up.”

Your words come pouring out quickly before you begin sobbing. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. His hands wrap around your head, and he gently smooths your hair down.

“Feyre and I are immensely happy for you, despite the circumstances. Both of you. I know you might not feel like it, but you made your own family.”

-

You found Azriel a few hours later in what used to be his room in the townhouse. He hardly stayed here, hardly stayed at any of Rhys’s estates anymore, opting instead for the comfort of the home you two now shared.

“Hi,” you say tentatively, stepping through the door.

“Hi,” he echos back, turning to see you.

“Crazy day,” you say, pulling lightly on the bond. He cracks a smile, but there’s a sadness deep in his gaze that you haven’t seen in months.

He moves towards you, slow and deliberate steps, as if you were a bunny found in the woods easily scared off.

“Do you want this?” He asks, eyes focused on your own.

You nod your head. He nods back.

“I dreamt of you. For months, years even. Since about halfway through my pregnancy, you’ve been in my dreams most nights.”

He watches you speak, letting you say whatever it is you need to. You take a deep breath before continuing.

“I don’t want to forget Cass, and I don’t want you to feel like you’re replacing him. I can love both of you.”

He steps closer, slowly moving towards you until he’s stopped right in front of you, his wings blocking you in.

“It’s unconventional, I understand. And I understand if you don’t want a widow with a child.” You look up towards him, determination in your eyes. “But I am all in.”

He gently cups your cheek, eyes full of conflict. “It won’t be easy,” he muses.

“Nothing about this has been easy, why start now?”

His face slowly moves closer to yours, his lips gentle against your own. His hands still hold you gently, as he kisses you long and slow.

There would be time for passion later, his kiss now is full of the emotions words can’t convey. Adoration, sacrifice, immense grief.

You thought having Azriel kiss you would make you feel like you were betraying Cassian. Instead you feel an overwhelming sense of rightness as your hands cup his jaw back, pouring every ounce of you into him.

-

You and Azriel look out at your backyard, watching Nyx and Camden run around, play fighting with their swords. The two boys occasionally take short flights, only about a foot or so off the ground.

Azriel wraps his arms around you, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. You close your eyes, letting yourself feel this moment, allowing the sounds of the boys playing and your mate’s breathing to lull you into some form of peace you never thought you’d find again.

[k0yaz]

engraving.

Pairings: ei x fem!reader

CW: sfw, female reader, goddess au, devoted reader, blood, wlw, uh idk ei being angy, reader fucking dies, because she’s a simp, READER IS FUCKING WEIRD LOWKEY, can be angst??mild horror, weird power dynamic / difference idk, wrote this at 12 I have school in the morning god pls help, ei lowkey insane ngl maybe even ooc a bit but it’s ok her character is…something! (Fuck you for that hoyo) greasy places ew, obsessive reader, not proofread.

A/N: part of @edgeray ‘s Halloween event! 🕯️

Chilling shivers vibrate along your spine in a surge of pure fear embedded within you, complimenting the cool shocks of steel sparking against the bottom of your chin, flat against the sharpened blade. You meekly looked down at your knees folded back and knelt onto the hard wooden floor, hunching your shoulders to avoid eye contact with a goddess present before you while you groveled like a dog at her ankles.

Ei clicked her tongue in disapproval at your lowered face of shame, making the rush of trepidation racking you far more mortifying as your subtle shivers brushed along her blade’s sharp edge ever so slowly, along a sudden push of pain teasing your throat. You swallowed back the burning sensation of electric volts gliding along your exposed throat while her blade traced along your accommodative skin, dangerously lining the sharp edge to a point in which blood would be drawn.

“Speak, human.” She snapped, eyes fixated on your every move as she maintained her position above you, blade pointed directly at you to monitor your actions. Slowly, your chin carefully tilted upward to lock eyes with the goddess currently on the verge of slashing you open, deep purple gaze boring into yours as your thighs pressed inward to maintain your balance before the shogun. Yet, you were quickly spun out of your trance as Ei pushed the blade rougher against the prominent nerves of your throat, her patience wearing thin as your breath caught in your throat, an involuntary gasp barely escaping your lips.

The gentle trickle of blood seeping down the crimson wound oddly soothed you in this moment, even in witness of the goddess’s fury burned your devotion to her further, stomach churning with satisfaction—perhaps something more as you had the privilege of even standing before Ei herself. The minuscule slash engraved onto your throat like a tattoo was something you would proudly wear after you departed from the divine being, planning to always expose your throat whenever you went out, modifying clothing that covered your neck as a symbol of your fateful encounter with her.

Day and night. Day and night you would pray to her before the carved stone statue situated in your home dedicated to Ei. Eyes closed and hands clasped together, you would kneel down before her stone form, presenting her with her wings outstretched from her back and hands extended in a cusp as she carried whatever offerings you had placed into the statue. Burning smells of incense circled the room intensely, stinging your nostrils as well as the molten end of the sticks neatly poked out of a small bowl rested by the table at the edge of the statue. “I pray that I can give you my all, Lady Ei. If I ever stumble upon you, I don’t want you to show me mercy. If you do, I will be forever in your debt.”

Clearly, summoning deities had merely been an ongoing rumor, perhaps even a silly tale meant to frighten others around you. There was no way you had throught such a prayer could descend a celestial being from the heavens, right?

The cool winds had fluttered along your cheek upon trudging through the trudging hill grounded before you, hands occasionally dragging along the road for support. Flaps of paper resounded in your ears as the howling wind whistled across the clearing, a large wooden pole with a tattered paper plastered onto it coming into view. Squinting your eyes, you shifted closer, catching sight of the paper stuck to the post. A single red character was embedded onto it, likely written in dried blood. You exhaled deeply, recognizing the symbol to pertain to Ei herself, and that the shrine you sought should be up ahead.

As you quietly made your way forward, a small yet intricate wooden gate structure greeted you. The shrines and temples constructed before you clearly displayed signs of decay and buildup, thickets of moss bundling up along every crevice of the stone and wood erected buildings. Upon venturing into the worn down and chipped area, you couldn’t help but sense the ominous atmosphere emitting from your surroundings closing in around you, heart beating in your chest as caution began to scream at you internally. Rationally, your self within you urged you to go back. It was obvious that this abandoned temple wasn’t set to be a lively and peaceful—yet that strong urge of pure devotion to atleast try, to atleast prove your worth to the almighty goddess has sharpened further than your rational self, urging you to push forward.

A bitter stench plagued your nostrils as you ventured further into the ruins of the shrine, likely from the accumulation of grime over the years it was left to rot. The winds now blew tenfold in swift gusts, nearly knocking the air out of your own lungs as it slammed against your chest like a hurricane rather than a simple strong wind; as if a warning sign had manifested before you, pleading for you to turn back. Carefully stepping before the small, well crafted shrine primarily containing stone and wood along with various offerings and a portrait of Ei herself, you knelt down before the oddly clean structure. While everything had been shrouded in moss over the past few centuries—even millennia or so, the shrine remained well painted and clean, even the area around it seemingly glowing in contrast to the gloomy greatness of the surrounding structures.

Now looking back, you truly wished that you had heeded the warnings. However, you don’t regret it one bit. Not when the very woman you had yearned to preside before had you knelt before her, divine sword dangerously positioned below your chin as her piercing gaze shot through to the bone.

You briefly paused, choking on your breath once more as the tip of her blade grazed the already open wound along your neck. “I said, state your purpose for summoning me, (Name).”

It was quite difficult to even utter a word in her presence. Her enchanting figure absolutely hypnotizing as she was looking down at you, polished black armor with her wings unsheathed, and a cracked halo crowning the top of her head as it hovered over her. Clearing your throat, you eagerly tilted your head up at her, joy boiling up within you as she had addressed you by your name. Most of the time, you had overheard ancient stories transmitted from older time periods, where this goddess wouldn’t even acknowledge, much less care about the identities of her followers even.

“Ah..Lady Ei. Am I so important you must use my name?” You breathed out, cocking your head as you were still on your hands and knees before her. She merely scoffed, a light chuckle finding its way from her throat.

“For once. I’ve never once encountered a mortal so willing to put their all into me.”

“Would you despise me if I said that I only summoned you to come face to face with my goddess?”

“Not at all.”

Withdrawing her sword from your neck, Ei beckoned you to stand up, which you did so albeit a bit weakly due to the wound you had nearly forgotten about. The moon centered between the two of you like a medium of division, pale rays outlining each of your figures in the shadows of the dark crowding the two of you as your sillouhettes burned into the the night sky. Ei hummed in satisfaction upon seeing the pure devotion fired up within you, knowing that you would serve her as anything she wanted. Any cruel punishment, any position as her right hand or so, any battle, absolutely anything.

You swallowed back the lump in your throat, presiding like a huge stone weighing down your belly before speaking up. A neat maniac smile stretched your lips as you brought your palm flush against the nerves of your neck, expression crazed you proudly showed off the engraved cut along your throat despite the blood smearing across your palm.

“Lady Ei, I should be greatful that you had even laid your blade or gaze upon me! I shall forever be in your debt. Show me no mercy as I am nothing in your presence”

Any sane person would say you were insane.

Yet, you didn’t care. You didn’t care when you were face to face with the goddess you had devoted everything for you. You were absolutely wiling to fall under her lack of mercy.

Her palm suddenly glided along your cheek, cupping the side of your face tenderly. Your body froze up at the closeness of the gesture, eyes widening in utter confusion as Ei began to caress your face as a lover would, not a superior to her subordinate.

“Lady Ei what-?“

—

…

Your words were abruptly cut off as a searing pain shot through your body, abdomen tightening as you gasped for air. Her blade had speared through your torso, deeply lodged into your body as her hand remained unmoving on your face, deep purple eyes locked onto yours.

“Humans are quite foolish. They say everything they will do, and promise it. Swear it on their life even. Yet plead and beg when it truly occurs, never following through with their promise.”

She paused, twisting the blade like a crank deeper into your stomach as the crimson liquid pooled out along your skin, staining your clothing and decorating her hand grasping the hilt as it formed a small puddle onto the ground. She smiled as she observed your features, clearly in pain yet still keeping your eyes locked onto her.

“So how come you’re different? You’re so devoted you don’t beg or cry when I go through with refraining from bestowing mercy upon you, (Name).”

The sweet smile on your face was one that would remain with her for eternity as your knees buckled inward, balance near impossible to remain as you grew more and more lightheaded. Chest heaving as blood was beautifully patterned along your body like a piece of abstract art hung in a museum, eyes lowering as you collapsed over into Ei’s arms. She kept the sword buried into your chest, as if you were the stone to Excalibur.

As your eyes slowly lowered themselves feeling your end closely trailing up to you, you squeezed them shut in bliss as her lips gently pecked your bloodied temple, heaving chest slowly calming down as you grew limp into her arms. Reaching up one last time, hand brushing along your throat…

No pulse.

She heaved a sigh, carefully setting you down in the blood steeled grass as she kept the sword embedded in your chest. Looming over your corpse, Ei gently whispered out, the first time her voice had grown soft when speaking of someone below her.

“A shame I had doubted you, (Name). I promise your afterlife will be with me as you will gain all you desire. Either that, or I shall bless you in your next life for as long as you live. I swear it.”

Drops of scarlet blood ran down her fingertips situated at her sides, her eyes fixated on your exposed throat coldly. She wasn’t saddened by your death. However, she was more..empty knowing she hadn’t gotten to speak with you any longer. It was all fine.

The mark she had slashed onto your neck which she would brighten in the near future.

The engraving of your devotion.

A/N: GUYS I AM WAY TOO SLEEPY TO ADD A/N’S TO THESE PLS BEAR WITH ME

[novaursa]

Legacy (dragonfire)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: There are unspecified time jumps that go back and forth.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (death scene)

- Previous part: of dragons and gods

- Next part: contingency

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal

The square before the Sept of Baelor was a sea of unease. Hundreds of citizens of King's Landing had gathered, their anxious whispers rippling through the crowd like dry leaves rustling in a storm. The massive steps of the Sept loomed above, flanked by the grim figures of the Faith Militant, their crude armor and spiked cudgels marking them as zealots loyal only to their cause. Opposite them, an immovable wall of crimson and gold—the Lannister men, their polished armor shining under the sun—stood ready. Beside them were the Tyrell soldiers, banners of green and gold fluttering in the breeze like delicate silk juxtaposed against the steel beneath.

The High Sparrow emerged last from the shadow of the Sept, his frail form dwarfed by the host of his followers. His hands were clasped before him in a show of humility, but the fire in his gaze betrayed his resolve. He was a man unbending, unafraid.

Before him stood Tywin Lannister, unyielding as ever, his crimson cloak flaring slightly in the breeze. At his right was Mace Tyrell, puffed with self-importance, while at his left, Lady Olenna Tyrell stood with her sharp-eyed scrutiny, the faintest curl of disdain on her lips. And you, the Targaryen bride of the Lion, stood beside Tywin with the imposing form of Viserion looming just behind you. The dragon’s golden eyes watched the square, unblinking, her massive wings tucked close to her scaled body, though her tail coiled faintly with anticipation.

The people in the crowd murmured prayers and gasped softly at the sight of the she-dragon, their gazes darting from the beast to you—silver-haired and dark-cloaked, a figure as regal as you were terrifying.

Tywin’s voice shattered the quiet, carrying across the square like a blade cutting through silk. “High Sparrow,” he began, his tone calm but carrying the weight of authority. “Have you come to your senses, or must I continue to demonstrate how futile your resistance is?”

The High Sparrow tilted his head, regarding Tywin with that infuriating calmness he wore like armor. “I answer to the Seven, Lord Tywin,” he replied, his voice soft but carrying. “Not to you. I am here only to speak for the gods.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened slightly, but his gaze remained steady. “Then let us speak plainly. Queen Margaery Tyrell is to be released immediately. She has been falsely imprisoned, humiliated for the sake of your petty zealotry. You will relinquish your hold over this city and return to the shadows where you belong.”

A murmur swept through the Faith Militant at the demand, hands tightening on weapons. Behind Tywin, Olenna’s lip curled in disdain, her cane tapping against the stone with quiet finality. “Release her, you pompous fool,” Olenna muttered loudly, though her voice carried only to those nearest her.

The High Sparrow, however, did not yield. “Your daughter is a sinner,” he said, turning his gaze to Mace Tyrell, who shifted nervously beside Tywin. “Her pride and lies brought her low. The Faith cleanses sin, my lords, and the people of this city have seen her crimes. Would you now undo the justice of the gods?”

Tywin took a step forward, the faint scrape of his boots against stone audible in the heavy silence. “Justice?” he echoed, his voice laced with icy disdain. “You call this chaos justice? You have turned this city into a breeding ground for fear and fanaticism. The gods do not command you—they are your excuse. You twist their words to suit your own power.”

The High Sparrow turned his gaze to you then, his calm eyes alight with something unreadable. “And you,” he said softly. “You stand with this man. You command a beast of flame and blood, yet you would march against the will of the gods. Do you not fear their judgment?”

The crowd hushed further, heads turning to look at you. Behind you, Viserion stirred faintly, the ground trembling as she shifted her weight, her claws scraping against the stone square. Her rumbling growl resonated through the silence, low and ominous, a reminder that she was there—waiting.

You stepped forward, your violet gaze fixed on the High Sparrow, unflinching. “The gods?” you replied, your voice clear and sharp. “The gods have no claim over me. Dragons bow to no one—not kings, not gods, and certainly not men who preach with lies on their lips.”

A ripple of shock swept through the crowd. Some gasped audibly, others began to murmur fervent prayers. Even Mace Tyrell paled, his mouth opening to object before Olenna silenced him with a sharp look.

The High Sparrow’s expression darkened ever so slightly, his hands still clasped but his voice turning colder. “Pride,” he murmured. “The sin that brought your ancestors low. It will bring you low as well, child of fire.”

You smirked faintly, tilting your head. “The last men who threatened me met their end in ash.”

The High Sparrow’s gaze sharpened. “And do you think you are above the wrath of the gods? I see you for what you are—an abomination. A woman who clings to power she cannot hope to control. The gods will strike you down, just as they strike down all who defy them.”

Tywin’s voice cut through the rising tension. “You overstep, Sparrow. Tread carefully.”

But the High Sparrow ignored him, his focus entirely on you as he stepped forward. “Turn back from this path, dragon-rider,” he said, his voice rising, carrying over the crowd. “Turn back, or the fires you wield will consume you—body, soul, and name. Just like your father.”

Behind you, Viserion let out a sharp hiss, her head lowering, smoke curling from her nostrils as her eyes locked onto the High Sparrow. The Faith Militant tensed, their hands gripping weapons, but they did not move. The crowd murmured in fear, shrinking back, as though sensing the rising storm.

You stepped forward again, your voice unwavering, your command absolute. “Enough.”

Viserion growled louder, her tail sweeping across the stone with a deafening scrape.

The High Sparrow stopped, his calm mask breaking for the first time, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze as the beast behind you loomed closer.

“You speak of fire consuming me,” you continued, your voice low but carrying across the square. “But it is you who stands in the path of the dragon.”

The High Sparrow opened his mouth to respond, but you did not give him the chance. Your voice rang out, clear and commanding.

“Dracarys.”

Viserion responded immediately, her head snapping forward as she opened her jaws. A torrent of fire erupted from her throat, a blinding stream of gold and crimson that roared across the square. The heat struck like a physical force, searing the air as the High Sparrow’s final scream was drowned by the sound of the flames.

The Faith Militant staggered back, their faces lit with horror as the fire engulfed the High Sparrow, consuming his frail form in a heartbeat. His robes disintegrated to ash, his figure silhouetted for the barest moment before collapsing into a charred ruin.

The crowd erupted in chaos. Cries of terror filled the square as people scattered, falling over one another to escape the inferno. The Faith Militant turned, panicking, their courage broken as they dropped their weapons and fled.

Viserion roared triumphantly, the sound shaking the very stones beneath your feet as she lifted her head, smoke rising from her maw. She unfurled her wings, sending a blast of wind across the square that scattered ash and dust.

Tywin did not flinch, his green eyes watching the destruction with cold calculation. He turned to his men, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Seize the remaining Faith Militant. Let no more harm come to the people.”

Mace Tyrell gaped, speechless, while Olenna allowed the faintest of smiles to curve her lips. “Well,” she murmured, her voice wry, “it seems negotiations are over.”

You stood tall before the flames, Viserion coiled protectively behind you, her golden eyes fixed on the city she now commanded. The people of King’s Landing would remember this day. They would remember the dragon who burned a god’s servant to ash.

And as the fires died down, Tywin stepped beside you, his voice low and steady. “The city will see order restored,” he said. “One way or another.”

You looked out over the square, your gaze unyielding. “And they will learn to fear the fire.”

Viserion’s rumble echoed in agreement, her presence a shadow over the broken remnants of the Faith. The gods had been defied, the High Sparrow silenced, and in his place stood power—raw, untamed, and absolute.

The Sept of Baelor had become a cavernous monument to silence. Its grandeur, once a symbol of the Faith’s unyielding power, now bore the weight of fire and fear. Smoke lingered faintly in the air, the smell of charred stone and ash clinging to the gilded arches and stained glass windows. The Faith Militant who had dared hold the Sept were either scattered, seized, or burned. The holy place now belonged to those with strength—not faith.

Tywin Lannister strode through the great doors of the Sept, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like the bloodied shadow of victory. You walked at his side, your silver hair still tousled by the wind and faint smudges of ash marking your riding leathers. Behind you, Lady Olenna Tyrell and Mace Tyrell followed, flanked by the Tyrell soldiers who had taken control of the square and now guarded every entrance to the building.

The clink of armor and echo of boots against marble filled the space as the procession moved deeper into the Sept. Candles still burned on the altars to the Seven, their light flickering uneasily as though afraid of the men and women who now strode through these sacred halls. The massive statue of the Crone—her lantern raised high—seemed to watch, its stone face impassive to the carnage that had unfolded moments before.

Tywin’s sharp gaze flicked ahead as a pair of Tyrell soldiers emerged, escorting Queen Margaery Tyrell between them. Her delicate wrists were still bound with rough cords, and her once-pristine gown hung in tatters, dirt and tears streaking the fine fabric. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders, her face pale and drawn from days of imprisonment. Yet her eyes—so like her grandmother’s—held a quiet fire as she looked up at the people who had come for her.

“Margaery!” Lady Olenna’s voice cracked through the silence, a mix of fury and relief. She pushed past the guards with surprising swiftness, her cane tapping against the marble as she reached for her granddaughter. “Bring her to me at once, you oafs!”

The soldiers hesitated only briefly before releasing Margaery’s arms. She stumbled slightly, the weakness in her legs betraying her, but Olenna caught her with a surprisingly steady hand, holding her upright. “There now,” Olenna murmured sharply, brushing strands of hair from Margaery’s face with uncharacteristic tenderness. “They didn’t break you, did they? No, of course they didn’t. They couldn’t possibly.”

Margaery let out a shaky breath, her voice soft and hoarse. “Grandmother…”

“Quiet now,” Olenna said firmly, though there was no bite in her tone. “Save your strength for later. We’ll have you cleaned up and presentable before long, I promise you that.” She turned her sharp gaze to Mace, who hovered nearby, his face pale with worry. “Stop gawking like a buffoon and fetch her some water!”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Mace stammered, waving frantically at a nearby attendant to fulfill the request. “My sweet girl, they’ll pay for this. I swear it.”

Tywin watched the scene unfold with cool detachment, his sharp gaze lingering on Margaery for a long moment before he spoke, his voice carrying through the Sept. “You are fortunate,” he said evenly, addressing the young queen. “Were it not for the actions taken today, you might still be rotting in that cell.”

Margaery’s gaze shifted to Tywin, and despite her exhaustion, there was steel in her tone as she replied. “I would have endured.”

Olenna turned her head sharply, her eyes narrowing. “Endured? My dear, endurance is for fools and martyrs. You are neither. You are a Tyrell, and we do not endure. We survive.”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly—whether in approval or amusement, it was difficult to say. He gestured to the guards nearby. “Remove her bonds.”

The Tyrell soldiers obeyed without hesitation, cutting the cords at Margaery’s wrists. She winced as the circulation returned to her hands, but she said nothing, merely inclining her head in gratitude as her grandmother steadied her.

You stepped forward then, your voice calm but clear. “The High Sparrow is dead. His hold over this city is broken.”

Margaery’s gaze turned to you, her expression unreadable as her tired eyes took in your form—the silver hair, the riding leathers still smudged with ash, the quiet power you exuded. “And his Faith Militant?” she asked softly.

“Scattered,” Tywin replied curtly. “Or dealt with.”

A faint tremor of relief crossed Margaery’s face, though she quickly masked it. “And the king? My husband—Tommen?”

“He is safe,” Tywin answered with authority. “He has been taken to his chambers, where he belongs. You will be reunited shortly.”

Olenna’s lips pressed into a thin line, her sharp eyes fixing on Tywin. “And what now, Lord Tywin? Do you intend to restore the crown to its rightful place, or will you allow another pack of zealots to take its reins?”

Tywin turned to face her fully, his expression hard as stone. “Order will be restored,” he said simply. “The Faith will not rise again.” His gaze shifted to Margaery. “You will return to your duties as queen—nothing more, nothing less.”

Margaery inclined her head faintly, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. “And the people?”

“The people will learn to trust their king again,” Tywin replied coldly. “Or they will learn to fear him.”

Olenna huffed softly, though she said nothing further, merely offering her granddaughter a supportive arm as they turned to leave the hall. Mace bustled behind them, his face beaming with relief as he chattered about preparations for Margaery’s return to the Red Keep.

Tywin turned to you then, his gaze sharp and considering. “It’s done,” he said quietly, though there was no triumph in his tone—only certainty.

You glanced back at the wide doors of the Sept, where the light of day poured in like a judgment of its own. “The Faith may be broken,” you replied softly, “but this city will not soon forget what happened here.”

“They do not need to forget,” Tywin said, his voice unwavering. “They need only remember who holds power now.”

A faint growl echoed from outside, the sound unmistakable as Viserion’s shadow passed over the Sept once more. The light flickered, and the gathered soldiers below turned their faces to the sky, murmuring in awe and fear as the dragon’s presence lingered.

You turned back to Tywin, your violet eyes meeting his green ones with quiet resolve. “Fear may win you silence, but it will not win you loyalty.”

Tywin’s gaze remained steady. “Loyalty is earned in time. Fear ensures time to earn it.”

You did not argue, though a part of you wondered how long fear could hold this city together before it crumbled again. But for now, it was enough. The High Sparrow was ash, Margaery was free, and the Sept had been reclaimed.

As you followed Tywin from the halls of the Sept, the murmurs of the crowd outside grew louder. Some whispered of fire and dragons, others of a lion’s return to power. But all of them watched the sky, where Viserion circled, her presence a reminder that fire had come to King’s Landing once more.

The halls of Meereen’s Great Pyramid were quiet, save for the rustle of silks in the warm, perfumed breeze that rolled through the open windows. The sun burned high over Essos, but within the chambers of Daenerys Targaryen, a storm was brewing. Shadows of fluttering banners danced on the polished stone floor, as if the air itself held its breath.

Tyrion Lannister stood near the long table, a goblet of wine in his hand, though he had barely touched it. His sharp gaze lingered on the map of Westeros sprawled across the table’s surface—a place that, though vast and fractured, seemed far closer now than it had for years. Across from him, Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons, stood with her arms folded tightly over her chest. Her silver hair gleamed in the light, cascading down her back like a river of moonlight. Her violet eyes burned with intensity as they fixed on Tyrion.

“So it is true,” she said at last, her voice calm but edged with an undercurrent of fury. “The High Sparrow was burned alive by dragonfire.”

Tyrion inclined his head slightly, his voice measured. “Word travels fast, even across the Narrow Sea. The High Septon and much of his Faith Militant reduced to ash in the shadow of the Sept of Baelor.” He paused, swirling the wine absentmindedly. “A show of power, certainly, but one not entirely unexpected.”

“And the dragon?” Daenerys pressed, her voice rising ever so slightly.

Tyrion met her gaze, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Viserion, yes. Your sister’s dragon, though it seems it has found itself in the service of my father.”

Daenerys’s eyes narrowed, her frustration evident as she turned to pace toward the window. “Viserion is no one’s servant. Dragon flew to Westeros for my sister, not for the Lannisters. Viserion is her dragon—my family’s dragon.”

Tyrion let out a dry chuckle, though there was little humor in it. “Perhaps. But dragons do not care for banners or bloodlines. They care for their riders. And your sister… is married to my father.”

Daenerys stopped, turning sharply to face him. “And you believe that makes Viserion a Lannister asset?”

Tyrion lifted his goblet and gave her a pointed look. “Dragons, as you say, bow to no one. But perception matters, Your Grace. My father did not merely burn the Faith Militant—he made a statement. He paraded your sister’s dragon through the skies of King’s Landing, and the people saw. They now see fire, and they see a lion standing beside it.”

Daenerys stared at him, her face hard and unreadable. “So my sister stands with the lions, then? She abandoned her blood?”

“Not by choice,” Tyrion countered, his voice softer now. “Or have you forgotten why she survived Robert’s Rebellion at all?”

Daenerys’s gaze darkened, and she turned back to the window, her hands tightening against the ledge. “Is it true? What they say? That Tywin Lannister smuggled her to the North—into the hands of the Starks?”

“It is,” Tyrion replied, his tone somber. “My father may have hated Aerys, but he was nothing if not pragmatic. He saw the writing on the wall. He knew Robert’s wrath would burn your sister as surely as it burned the Red Keep, so he acted. The North was far, and the Starks, honorable to a fault. It was the safest place for her.”

Daenerys turned back to him, her violet eyes searching his face. “And you believe he did this out of the goodness of his heart?”

Tyrion arched a brow, the corner of his mouth curling into a sardonic smile. “Tywin Lannister does nothing out of kindness. He saved her because it was the logical choice—and perhaps because some part of him could not see her slain like the rest. But his actions saved her life. And if what we hear is true, that same life now rides at his side, dragon and all.”

The Mother of Dragons fell silent for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Does he love her?” she asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tyrion blinked, startled by the question. “Tywin Lannister is not a man given to displays of affection,” he said carefully. “But…” He hesitated, the memory of his father’s cold, calculating eyes flashing in his mind. “I think he values her more than he lets on. Perhaps even more than he understands himself.”

Daenerys frowned, her gaze distant as she absorbed his words. “And her son—my nephew?” She looked back at Tyrion. “Damon. I have heard whispers of him. What do you know?”

Tyrion set his goblet down and sighed, his tone turning more reflective. “Not much. I saw him once—briefly—before I left King’s Landing.”

Daenerys’s gaze sharpened. “When?”

Tyrion looked away for a moment, as though recalling the scene. “It was the night I escaped the Red Keep before they could execute me,” he said quietly. “I slipped into her chambers, thinking I might look at my father one last time… and perhaps find some answers.” His lips quirked faintly before his expression sobered. “But what I found was… unexpected.”

Daenerys stepped closer, her curiosity piqued. “What did you see?”

Tyrion let out a slow breath. “She was asleep beside him—my father, I mean. I had never seen him so still, so… human. It unnerved me.” He glanced at Daenerys, his expression thoughtful. “And there, in the cradle at the foot of the bed, was the boy—Damon.”

Daenerys’s expression softened, her voice a whisper. “And what was he like?”

Tyrion smiled faintly, a touch of wistfulness in his tone. “A babe, as all babes are. He had silver-gold hair like hers and, when he stirred, his eyes opened—mostly violet, like yours.” He paused, his voice quieter now. “For a moment, I thought I saw my father’s shadow lean over the child. As if even then, he was preparing to make the boy his heir.”

Daenerys turned her gaze toward the window, staring out across the vast horizon where the Narrow Sea stretched toward Westeros. “My sister’s son,” she said softly. “A dragon raised among lions.”

Tyrion regarded her carefully. “He is a babe now, but the world will watch him as he grows. Tywin will see to that.”

Daenerys nodded faintly, her expression resolute as the wind brushed her silver hair across her shoulders. “Then I must watch as well.” She turned to Tyrion, her gaze unyielding. “Viserion is my family’s dragon. And Damon is blood of my blood. If Tywin Lannister thinks he can wield them for his own ends, he will learn that dragons cannot be chained.”

Tyrion tilted his head, studying her with an unreadable expression. “Let us hope, Your Grace, that your sister sees the same truth before it’s too late.”

The room fell silent again, save for the wind that whispered across the stone. In the distance, the faint cry of gulls echoed over the city of Meereen, but both Tyrion and Daenerys stood still, their thoughts stretching across the sea to Westeros—where fire had been unleashed, and the game of thrones was far from over.

The Red Keep was quiet in the aftermath of the previous day’s chaos. The air still carried a faint scent of smoke, lingering like a ghost in the hallways, though life within the castle had resumed with nervous efficiency. The servants walked in silence, their eyes darting toward the windows as though expecting the shadow of the dragon to return at any moment.

In the Tower Hand, the animosity was far less quiet. The room was cast in shades of amber as the morning light filtered through the narrow windows, illuminating the stern edges of Tywin Lannister’s face. He sat at his heavy oak desk, fingers steepled before him, his eyes cold and watchful. Across from him stood Cersei Lannister, her back rigid with fury, the remnants of her humiliation from the past months simmering just beneath the surface. Behind her, near the hearth, Jaime Lannister leaned against the mantle with his arms crossed. He said nothing, though his gaze flicked between his sister and father with growing discomfort.

The silence stretched just long enough to grate on Cersei’s already frayed nerves. Finally, she spoke, her voice sharp as broken glass. “You dare reprimand me after everything you’ve done?”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Mind your tone, Cersei.”

“My tone?” Cersei stepped forward, her golden hair catching the light like a tarnished crown. “I held this city together while you were off parading your Targaryen wife through Westeros! Do you think I wanted to stand before the gods and the people—alone—humiliated and dragged through the streets like some common whore?”

Tywin’s gaze remained unwavering, but his voice dropped to a dangerous calm. “And whose fault was that?”

Cersei’s face flushed crimson, her nails digging into the edge of the desk. “You left me. You abandoned me here to fend off enemies from all sides. You took your golden son and left for Highgarden. You sheltered a dragon under our home—under Casterly Rock!” Her voice rose with every word, edged with desperation. “And how convenient that the beast flew across the world to perch on your Targaryen bride’s shoulder!”

Tywin’s eyes flashed, and his hands flattened against the desk as he rose to his full height. “Do not presume to lecture me on matters of power, Cersei,” he said icily, his voice cutting through her anger like a blade. “While I was securing alliances and stamping out rebellion, you were inviting chaos into my city. The Faith Militant rose because of your folly. The king was placed in danger because of your arrogance. You were given stewardship of the capital, and you failed.”

Cersei faltered for a moment, her expression caught between rage and hurt. “What was I supposed to do? Sit idly while the Tyrells schemed against me? While enemies whispered in every shadow?”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly. “Your paranoia does not excuse incompetence.”

Cersei’s fists tightened as her voice trembled with fury. “You speak of paranoia, but you weren’t here. You don’t know what it’s like to live surrounded by vipers, always waiting for the next betrayal.” She looked over her shoulder briefly, her eyes scanning the room as if expecting someone to emerge from the walls. “Sometimes, I think Tyrion lingers here still—hiding somewhere, watching, waiting. I can feel his shadow behind every door.”

Tywin’s expression remained unyielding, unimpressed by her ramblings. “Tyrion is no specter haunting your failures, Cersei. He is gone. You would do well to stop chasing phantoms and focus on the enemies standing plainly before you.”

Cersei let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and hollow. “How fortunate for you that you can dismiss my struggles so easily. After all, you’ve built yourself a fine life, haven’t you, Father? A Targaryen bride to bear you more sons. A dragon to burn away your problems. You’ve abandoned me—us—for her, for that fire-blooded witch.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a menacing calm. “Careful, Cersei. My patience with you grows thin.”

Cersei’s breath hitched, her anger giving way to something closer to desperation as she turned toward Jaime for support. “And you? Do you have nothing to say? Nothing to defend me with?”

Jaime, who had remained silent thus far, shifted uncomfortably by the hearth. His golden hand tapped lightly against his elbow, and his expression was tight, torn between loyalty and truth. “What do you want me to say, Cersei?” he asked finally, his voice low. “That Father is wrong? That you didn’t bring this on yourself?”

Cersei’s eyes widened, betrayal flashing across her face. “You take his side?”

“I take no side,” Jaime replied quietly. “I’m just tired of all of this.” He gestured vaguely at the room, at the Red Keep beyond it. “We’ve made enemies everywhere, Cersei—more than I can count. And while you claw at shadows, Father does what he’s always done: he ensures we survive.”

Cersei’s lip trembled as her fury returned. “So you see nothing wrong with what he’s done? With her?”

Jaime’s gaze flicked to Tywin, his face unreadable. “What I see is a dragon in the sky and a city that now fears it. If that means peace, then so be it.”

Tywin’s gaze shifted back to Cersei, his voice as unyielding as ever. “You will accept the realities of our situation, Cersei. My marriage strengthens our position. The dragon ensures our dominance. I did not abandon you; I saved you. If you cannot see that, then you are blind.”

Cersei’s shoulders sagged slightly, her anger now tempered with helplessness. “And what of me, then? What do I do now, Father? Stand in my chambers and pretend this city doesn’t hate me?”

Tywin regarded her for a long moment, his voice steady. “You will do as you are told. You will present yourself as the dowager queen—composed, dignified. The people must see unity in this family. I will not have your petty grievances undermine what we have built.”

Cersei opened her mouth to respond, but Tywin’s raised hand silenced her. “Enough. You will not speak of this again. Not to me, and certainly not to anyone else.”

Jaime pushed himself away from the hearth, his posture rigid as he moved toward the door. “Are we done here?”

Tywin inclined his head sharply. “Go. And take your sister with you.”

Jaime glanced at Cersei, but she refused to look at him, her eyes locked on the far wall. He let out a faint sigh before turning to leave. Cersei lingered for a moment longer, her face pale and taut with barely restrained anger. “This isn’t over, Father,” she muttered, her voice low. “It will never be over.”

Tywin did not reply. He simply watched as she turned and swept from the room, her steps echoing down the hall like fading thunder. When the door closed behind her, the room fell into silence once more, save for the faint crackle of the hearth.

Tywin sat back in his chair, his hands folding over the polished wood of his desk. His gaze lingered on the door for a moment longer before he exhaled sharply, his face betraying nothing.

For all her fire, Cersei remained a child in his eyes—one who refused to see the world for what it was. He had secured the power she could not; he had given House Lannister fire and dominion. And he would not allow her pride to burn it to the ground.

The air in the solar was heavy with the scent of fresh flowers—Queen Margaery’s doing, no doubt—bouquets of bright blooms set in vases across the room to banish the memory of gloom and ash that had lingered within the castle. A soft breeze fluttered the curtains, carrying the faint sounds of life returning to the city beyond.

At the center of the room, you knelt on the thick carpet, your silver hair falling in loose waves over your shoulders as you tickled Damon’s chubby feet. The babe squealed in delight, his high, toothless giggles filling the space like music. Damon was a healthy, happy boy. His silver-gold hair glimmered in the sunlight, and his eyes were wide and curious as he wiggled on the blanket spread beneath him.

“Did you hear that?” you teased, grinning down at him as you gently tapped his belly. “Such a fierce laugh! A dragon’s laugh, is it not?”

Damon cooed, flailing his little arms as his tiny hands reached for your fingers. He caught one in a tight, surprisingly strong grip, tugging with determination that made you chuckle softly.

From the divan nearby, Lady Olenna Tyrell watched the scene with a critical eye, though there was unmistakable fondness in her gaze. “It’s always the little ones,” she mused, leaning on her cane. “They smile at you sweetly and steal your heart before you even notice.” Her tone turned wry. “And before long, they’re walking, talking terrors who rule over everyone.”

Queen Margaery Tyrell, seated beside her grandmother, smiled softly at the words. She looked much improved, her hair brushed to its shining glory and a rich gown of emerald silk draping gracefully over her frame. Though shadows of her imprisonment still lingered faintly in the hollows of her cheeks, the life in her eyes had returned.

“I think he’ll be a fine lord one day,” Margaery said, her voice gentle but confident. “With such a mother guiding him.”

You looked up at her, surprised by the sincerity in her tone. Margaery’s gaze was warm and steady as she inclined her head slightly. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For what you did—for freeing me.”

You smiled faintly, though something heavy tugged at your chest. “I only did what was right. No one deserves to be caged, least of all you.”

Olenna snorted softly, tapping her cane against the floor for emphasis. “Spare us the modesty, dear. You set fire to a godly nuisance and knocked some sense back into the city. That’s more than most would dare.”

“Viserion set fire,” you corrected lightly, glancing toward the open window as though expecting to see the dragon’s cream-and-gold form pass by. “I merely gave the command.”

“And that’s precisely the point,” Olenna countered, her gaze sharp as ever. “The command matters. You wield fire, my dear, and that makes all the difference.”

You turned back to Damon, who had managed to grab one of his toys—a small lion carved from polished wood—and was now gnawing determinedly on its ear. His eyes shone with curiosity as he turned the toy in his small hands. For a moment, the weight of the world lifted, and you allowed yourself the quiet joy of watching him.

Yet your thoughts drifted—unbidden and dark—to the vision you’d seen at the High Heart. The Wall, impossibly vast and ancient, shrouded in mist and shadow. The frozen ground beyond it crawling with death, a tide of pale, hollow faces marching under the banner of an endless night. You had seen fire battling ice, dragons against death, but even then, the outcome had been shrouded in uncertainty.

You swallowed, turning your attention back to the present, to the warmth of the sun and the laughter of your son.

“What troubles you?” Margaery’s voice broke the silence, soft and perceptive.

You looked up, forcing a smile. “Nothing that needs to trouble you now.” You hesitated, then spoke carefully, your tone quieter. “But when the time comes, will I have your support?”

Olenna raised a brow, her gaze narrowing slightly. “Support for what, exactly?”

You glanced at Margaery and Olenna in turn, your gaze steady. “When Westeros is faced with something far greater than crowns, banners, and blood feuds. When the world will need fire to combat the cold.”

There was a pause, Olenna watching you closely while Margaery tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering across her face. “Are you speaking of rebellion?” Margaery asked carefully. “Or something else?”

“Something else,” you replied, your voice firm but vague. “I cannot yet say when or how it will come, but I’ve seen the signs. When it does, fire must stand ready.”

Olenna’s lips pursed as she considered you. For all her crude tongue, she was not a woman who dismissed warnings lightly. “I’ve lived long enough to know when someone speaks with conviction,” she said slowly, her tone thoughtful. “And you, dear, are not one for empty words.”

Margaery nodded faintly, her expression softening. “If such a time comes, you will have my support—and that of House Tyrell.”

Olenna made a dismissive wave of her hand, though her gaze belied her flippancy. “I’m too old to march anywhere, but I’ll ensure the banners are raised if you ask. Consider it a promise—one rarely given, I assure you.”

Relief warmed your chest, though you kept your composure as you inclined your head graciously. “Thank you.”

Damon let out a happy squeal, as if voicing his approval, waving his wooden lion triumphantly in the air. You laughed softly, scooping him up into your arms as he giggled against your shoulder.

Margaery’s gaze lingered on the babe, her expression wistful. “He’s beautiful,” she murmured. “And strong. The realm will know his name one day.”

You kissed the top of Damon’s head, the softness of his hair brushing against your lips. “He is my greatest joy,” you replied quietly, though your words carried an edge of steel. “And I will see him safe—no matter the cost.”

Olenna tapped her cane again, nodding faintly. “Then we are agreed. For now, we play the games set before us. But when the time comes, we’ll be ready.”

You smiled softly, though your gaze drifted to the window, to the clear blue skies beyond. Somewhere in the distance, Viserion’s faint cry echoed—a reminder of the fire that lingered at your command.

And in your heart, you knew that fire would be needed before long. The vision of the Long Night had been no idle dream. It had been a warning. And when the cold crept southward, threatening to swallow the world, you would ensure the fire was ready to meet it.

For your son. For the realm.

And for the future yet to come.

The chamber of the Hand of the King was a place of quiet authority, its walls lined with maps, ledgers, and reports, all illuminated by the faint flicker of candlelight. The faint scent of ink, wax, and parchment lingered in the air—a mark of the constant work that defined Tywin Lannister. Here, where decisions shaped the realm, the man at its center sat, as composed and calculating as ever.

Tywin was at his desk, quill in hand, as he signed a final document with a flourish. The Lion of Lannister looked utterly imperious, clad in a dark crimson doublet adorned with gold embroidery, his presence an unshakable force. A small stack of sealed scrolls lay to one side, ready to be dispatched to lords across Westeros, while his unfurled map of the kingdom dominated the table.

You stood quietly at the far side of the room, watching him with curiosity and something softer. Tywin rarely stilled for long; his mind was always at work, and yet here he was, quietly overseeing the duties that he had reclaimed with an iron grip. Since his return to King’s Landing, the city itself seemed to be breathing easier—or perhaps, more cautiously. It was difficult to tell.

“You’ll exhaust yourself,” you said finally, breaking the silence.

Tywin glanced up, his sharp green eyes settling on you. “Exhaustion accomplishes nothing. Work must be done.” His voice was calm, even, but there was no mistaking the faint edge of weariness in it.

You moved toward the desk, your footsteps soft against the stone floor. “You’ve reclaimed the city, Tywin. You’ve reestablished order, stamped out the Faith, and silenced the murmurs of rebellion. Can it not wait a single evening?”

“Reestablishing order is not the same as securing it,” Tywin replied without missing a beat. He set down his quill, his gaze steady. “Loyalty must be maintained, weaknesses identified and corrected. Power is not a fleeting thing to those who understand how to wield it.”

You tilted your head slightly, stepping closer until you stood at the side of his desk. “And what of you? Are you to wield power until you collapse over that desk one day?”

The faintest flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of Tywin’s mouth—a rare, fleeting expression. “I am not so frail as that.”

“No,” you agreed softly, your tone carrying a touch of warmth. “But even lions must rest.”

Tywin said nothing at first, watching you with that calculating gaze of his. You had long grown used to the weight of it, how he measured everyone in silence before responding. Finally, he exhaled softly and leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “And what would you have me do? Lounge about while the realm crumbles into complacency?”

“Lounge?” you echoed, allowing a faint smile to cross your lips as you circled the desk. “I would never dream of accusing you of such a thing, Lord Husband.”

His gaze tracked your movements as you stepped behind his chair. Resting your hands gently on his shoulders, you could feel the tension in him, the weight he carried in the stiffness of his posture. Slowly, you began to knead at the fabric of his doublet, your touch light but purposeful. “You are allowed a moment of peace,” you murmured. “The realm will not fall apart in the space of an evening.”

Tywin’s shoulders shifted beneath your touch, though he said nothing. For a long moment, the silence held between you—comfortable, familiar, though tinged with something unspoken. You moved back around to stand before him, meeting his gaze with a softness that few others ever dared to show him.

Without a word, you stepped closer, leaning down and wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. It was a simple gesture, one you knew Tywin Lannister did not often receive, nor expect. You held him gently, your cheek resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath the fine fabric of his doublet.

For a moment, Tywin remained still, his sharp mind likely questioning the intent of this rare show of affection. And then, almost imperceptibly, his hands moved. He brought an arm around your back, his touch steady and uncharacteristically careful, returning the gesture with a restraint born of years spent hardening himself against the world.

You closed your eyes, savoring the moment of calm. The weight of his arm settled around you, and you felt, for the first time in days, as though the fire and chaos of the world beyond these walls had quieted.

“Your father would call this foolish,” Tywin said quietly, his voice breaking the stillness.

You smiled faintly against his chest. “My father would call most things foolish.”

Tywin let out a soft, low hum—something that might have been the barest hint of amusement. His hand lingered at your back, unmoving, as though he had forgotten to let go. “Affection rarely wins wars,” he said, though the edge in his tone had dulled.

“And yet,” you murmured, lifting your head slightly to meet his gaze, “it sustains those who fight them.”

For a long moment, Tywin regarded you, his green eyes softer now, though still sharp with thought. “You think I need sustaining?”

“I think you are human,” you replied, your voice steady. “No matter how much you pretend otherwise.”

Tywin said nothing, but his gaze lingered on you, as though taking your measure once again. Finally, he shifted, his hand dropping gently from your back as he leaned away. “You are insufferably stubborn,” he said, though there was no real bite to the words.

“As are you,” you countered lightly, stepping back with a faint smile.

He let out a quiet huff of breath, straightening in his chair as he regarded the stacks of work before him. “This is what keeps us alive,” he said, gesturing to the documents, maps, and orders laid out like pieces on a game board.

“And this,” you replied softly, resting a hand over your heart, “is what keeps us whole.”

Tywin glanced up at you then, and for once, there was no retort. His gaze softened—just slightly—and though his lips did not curve into a smile, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. “One evening,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “No more.”

You smiled, inclining your head in satisfaction. “That will do, Lord Husband.”

He watched you for a moment longer before turning his attention briefly back to the papers on his desk, though his movements were slower, less driven. You had seen through his armor—cracks that no one else would dare look for—and for once, he did not seem to mind.

For tonight, at least, the lion would rest.

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 9

part 1 | part 8 | ao3

cw: medical emergency

He ditches his car at the top of the street, runs the rest of the way because there are too many people standing around — a small crowd of onlookers clustered at the bottom of the lane, gawking in their sleep shirts and flannels like the world isn’t trying to end for a fourth time. Fifth? He can’t keep track. He can’t even think, numb to everything but the pounding of his shoes against the pavement, the sirens wailing in his ears, the steady prayer in his pulse not her not now not both—

“Mom?” he shouts, voice cracking and raw. “Mom!!”

“It’s not for her.”

There’s a hand against his chest then, heel of a palm pressed to his sternum, and he slams into it like a brick wall. The air burns in his lungs; he can’t focus his eyes. “Wh-what?” he gets out, voice shaking, throat thick. Cold terror drools down his sweaty neck like the breath of a hungry monster. He’s a little kid again, swept up in the mayhem of a crowded mall. Where’s his mom; where’s his mom?

“Your mom’s in my house.” The voice is deep and slow, the hand flexing against his shirt. Fingers splayed. Heavy rings.

“…E-Eddie?” Steve’s vision swims, going yellow and purple then tunneling down to black, deep water filling his ears. Nothing makes any sense. “Munson, what—?”

“Your mom’s in my house,” he repeats like a mantra. Like a lighthouse in the fog, voice rumbling and sure. “She’s safe. She’s fine. You’re hyperventilating; take a breath.”

His breath is still catching quick and high in his throat, little puffs of cold mist. Can you drown in cold air? Can it condense inside your chest?

Eddie grips his shoulder, snaps his fingers in Steve’s face. “Hey. Hey, Steve? Come on, man, look at me. Steve. Look at me.”

Steve meets his gaze like the tide drawn to the moon.

“Deep breath,” he demonstrates, sucking air through an invisible straw, letting his chest and belly swell. Steve copies him until his vision starts to clear, until his heartbeat starts to calm. "That's it," Eddie tells him. "Good. Yeah, there we go."

Some hysterical part in the back of his brain wants to laugh. To start and never stop, just laugh and laugh and laugh until his fucking head explodes.

When he can breathe again, he pants weakly, “What is going on?”

Eddie guides him to a picnic table on the outskirts of the crowd, and they perch on top of it with their feet planted on the bench. The air feels calmer here.

Steve takes another breath.

Eddie points to the single-wide right next to Steve’s. “The wagon’s for your neighbor,” he grimaces in sympathy, one eye squinting shut as he cocks his head at Steve. “Ernie. You know him?”

“Mm.” Ernie Gerwitz. Late 60s, a widower with liver spots and arthritis in both hands. Bad heart, worse drinking habit. Fucking hates Steve’s mom because she backed over his begonias. “Not well.”

They didn’t interact much beyond an occasional neighborly nod, although Steve did once earn the guy’s good graces by yelling at Misty while shooing her off with a rake. (‘Little bitch left me a whole damn weasel last year,’ he’d grumbled as he stooped to pick up the newspaper. ‘Can't shoot her, though, 'cause she scares away the possums.’) And now…

Steve can’t make out much from here, just the shape of a four-man stretcher being carried out the door, strobe light streaks in his vision as the EMTs load up the van.

“Is he…” Steve gulps, clasping his hands between his knees. He doesn’t want to ask this question. The words taste moldy in his mouth. “Is he dead?”

Eddie’s hand shakes a little when he drags it down his cheek. His answer comes on a wobbly sigh, an almost melodic quality to the tension in his voice. “No-o idea, man. Your, uh, your mom, ya know, she— She found him. In, um. In the yard." "Jesus." "Said he was just, like... lying there. In the grass.” Eddie stares off into the distance like he’s seeing it right now; makes a wet clucking sound as his bottom lip quivers. “Thinks it was, a- a heart thing, or something? Shit, I don’t know. She was pretty freaked out when she knocked on my door.”

Steve can't picture it. He hasn’t seen her express a single true emotion since July.

A hesitant hitch of breath, and Eddie chews on his next words, tapping a hand against his thigh. “She’s, uh... she’s… calmer now. Or. At least-”

Steve rolls his eyes, knows exactly where this is going. Eddie tries again: “I mean, she seemed like-”

“Like a fucking zombie?” Steve supplies.

“Yeah,” Eddie huffs, a nervous laugh of relief. You said it, man, not me. There’s something serious in his gaze, something curious and searching.

Something almost kind. Steve shrinks away from it like a vampire in the sun. Go on, he wants to say, ask about the fucking pills. Wants to goad him into a fight, some mean, sharp thing inside him itching to see someone else bleed.

Steve bites his tongue until he tastes metallic tang. Copper covering mildew; fresh bloom coating decay. He swallows hard, lets them both slide down his throat — blood and ghosts, life and death. The River Styx must taste like pennies.

The siren starts again, and Eddie groans and hangs his head. “Christ," he murmurs to the dirt, “Wayne’s gonna be so bummed.”

They both watch in silence as the ambulance goes by.

—

part 10

okay same deal tagging whoever commented yesterday (if your settings will let me) you’re all delightful tysm 😘 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @thefreakandthehair @slutforcoffein @manda-panda-monium @munsonfamilybandalso @aliea82 @eddie-munsons-missing-nipple @lololol-1234 @hotluncheddie @pennyplainknits @disrespectedgoatman @carolinachickadee @insideiscold @acedorerryn @anne-bennett-cosplayer @violetsteve my actual wife blessings upon your house @lighthousebeams @steves-strapcollection @sirsnacksalot @stevesbipanic @slowandsteddie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @so-get-this-sammy @annabanannabeth @runninriot @cuips-not-cute @a-little-unsteddie @envyadams-vs-me @ppunkpuppyy if i forgot anyone i’m sorry i am very sleep deprived