#i am not claiming to be free of sin but

[verysleepyfrog]

im sorry but if you can’t handle character.ai being down you need to go outside and talk to a person

[chronosbled]

{ I have been trying to find a female face claim for Dickson for so long now, but I can't find a single female character that matches his personality type as a female. Like... why are there like no female characters that are actively crazed and covered in blood? It's a fucking crime. Every single manhwa I find is either always a timid wallflower or some spoiled brat who has the worse character development ever. Not to mention I'm very picky with art style...

I'm honestly about to just go back and pick a female character I like from either CotA, LC, JJ, IR, or PtN cause this shit is kinda ridiculous. }

[hongjoongscafe]

Angry F*$!

Drabble

Pairing: Jungkook x reader

Genre: smut.

Summary: maybe getting angry sometimes isn’t too bad.

Word count: 3.1k+

Warnings: orgasm denial, pussy slapping, spanking, creampie, spitting kink, face slapping, hair pulling, name-calling, smoking, oral, fingering, panty sniffing (he stuffs his boxers in her mouth, too), unprotected (wrap it up, people, wrap it up or else Namjoon will spank you), cum eating, degradation, daddy kink, doggy style, cuffs, anal, breath play(?), choking, biting, squirting, aftercare ('cause I love it).

Note: lemme know if you wanna be added to the taglist. Unedited.

Masterpost.

“Do you even know how dumb you make me look?” your husband, Jungkook, screams at you. “Fifteen fucking years together and this one bitch comes and you trust that cunt over me?”

“Am I wrong?” you scream back. “A hot, sexy assistant is what you got to know and why wouldn’t you wanna have a taste of her?!”

Jungkook’s new assistant is, to say the least, known for wrecking homes. And somehow that bitch wrapped your naive heart in her fingers and filled you with rumours regarding him and herself accidentally as she didn’t know you were his wife as if you two haven’t been together out on the events and face of every possible magazine at least once.

Jungkook’s jaw ticked as he stood up and walked towards you with a feral look in his eyes. “Taste of her?” he growled.

“Yes, taste of her. Isn’t that right? Wouldn't you want to fuck her; someone sexy, hot, desirable?” you push his chest.

“Why would I?” he yells.

“Why wouldn't you?”

“Fucking-,” he cut himself off and hold you by the roots of your hair and pull you with him to the mirror. “Because I wanna fuck you and love you forever!” he makes you look in the mirror, nowhere being gentle.

“I don’t believe you!” you turn around in his hold and slap him across the face. Your jealousy hitting the skyline.

Jungkook’s face turned dark. Your only warning before he threw you on the bed was “Then let me make you believe.”

You bounced as you landed on the bed. He roughly pulled your legs up, yanked your shorts down your legs and threw them somewhere behind him. “Mrs doesn’t believe,” he scoffs. “Now you fucking will and never forget.”

You gasped as he pulled you up by your hair and draped you across his lap as he sat down on the edge of the bed. He harshly pulled up your thongs, making you inhale sharply as the flimsy cloth rubbed against your clit. He rubbed your ass gently before landing a tight slap across your perfect ass cheek, “fuck,” you groaned.

He dipped his fingers under your g-string and pinched your clit making you moan pathetically. “Be a good bitch and count,” he pinched it harder when you didnt start counting.

“One!” you gasped.

He hummed and landed another smack, worse than before. Your pussy clenched around nothing. “Two.”

“Look at your fucking pussy already leaking through his sorry piece of panty,” he pulled and snapped back. “Might as well get rid of this shit,” he growled as he tore it apart and brought the big wet patch to his nose and sniffed it deeply. “Oh,” he moans. “Keep the counting going.”

Like you weigh nothing, Jungkook picked you up and threw you back on the bed. You looked up at him as he removed his pants and white button-up. His hot abs are now on full display. His muscles flexed as he climbed over to you and ripped your tank top off you. Your boobs jiggle free and your nipples tighten with the utter, shameless need for this sinful man in front of you. You looked down at his huge bulge as your mouth watered.

“You want me to agree with you as you claim to cheat allegations on me?” he muttered, darkly. “You want me to agree with you that I will leave my fucking sexy wife and fuck some fucking assistance who is nowhere near as beautiful as you?”

Your heart rammed against your ribcage. As much as your insecurity flared in front of that sexy bimbo, you felt filthily gorgeous as he was looking at you like an animal. Deep down you knew she was getting into your head but your doubt on yourself was too much to argue with her.

“What? Cat got your tongue. Hm?” he snarls. He spreads your legs wide open as he lowers himself between them. He buried his nose between your wet folds and sniffed as he groaned. Look into your eyes.

“Jungkook!” a surprised scream left your lips as he slapped your wet pussy, hard. His palm inflated on your pussy as rubbed it painfully slowly.

“And leave my delicious cunt for someone else,” he bit your inner thigh, leaving his mark there.

You were gasping for air from his harsh treatment. He had never been this hard on you. And now when he is being hard, you crave it more.

Jungkook could feel your clit throbbing against his palm, hotly. “You like that, huh?” he bites again. “You like it when I bite you, huh? Such a fucking whore,” he spits on your cunt and wraps his lips around your clit and sucks it in his mouth, his tongue flat against your nub, playing with it.

Your back arches and fingers fist his hair and push him flush against your pussy. He works down and thrusts his tongue in your hot cunt, his big nose rubbing deliciously against your throbbing clit. “Please,” you don’t know what you are demanding.

“Shut up!” he snaps and slaps your clit, making your whole body shudder. You look at him wide-eyed. Jungkook has spanked your ass plenty of times but your pussy? Your eyes roll back as he lands another one, harder than the previous one. “Count.”

“Three… four,” you whine as he shoves his two thick fingers into your hole.

“Look at that,” he kissed your thigh as he watches his fingers in your cunt. “Your fucking cunt is swallowing my finger like the greedy cunt that it is.”

“Mmm,” you hummed as he groped your tit. He crawled up, his fingers still inside you, and sucks your other nipple. His soft hair brushes your chin. Your breath hitches and let out another moan as he slaps your dripping cunt again. “Five,” you whisper in his ear.

Your walls clenched around his fingers as he thrust them back. Knowing you were cumming, he removed himself from your trembling body.

“No!” you cry out loud at the loss of his touch. You were so close to coming undone but he ripped it apart.

His chest was pumping up and down with his laboured breath. You looked so fucking fuckable as you lay there covered in sweat and that needy fucking look in your sexy eyes.

He removed his boxer briefs and bunched them in his hand. “Open your mouth,” he orders. But you just gape at him like a damn fish. Already running low on patience, he squeezed your cheeks and stuffed them in your mouth.

Your fingers fisted the sheets. Everything was turning you on more and more. It felt like your body was on fire. And he was just fueling it more and more.

He pulled out your favourite pink fluffy cuffs. Pulling you in a seated position, he cuffed your hands behind you and pushed you back all while you shamelessly eyed his long, fat cock swinging with each and every move he made. A pearly bead of precum was shining on top. All you wanted to do was to lick and choke yourself on his length.

“I’ll make sure you never fucking forget that I will only fuck my slutty cunt,” he rubs hot length against your slit, making it wet and ready with your slick. He thrust his thick, angry pink head in your pussy and mercilessly fucks you.

Your bed bangs against the walls and makes a creaky noise. His cock hits deep inside you, fucking your spongy spot, making your toes curl and eyes water.

“Fucking, whore,” he growls. His thumb rubs tight circles of swollen clit and his other hand wraps around your neck. He chokes you just enough to make you lightheaded.

You moan loudly against his boxers as he fucks you into the mattress. You were already going half-dumb under his sinful spell.

“Look at you,” he taunts. “All whiny and dumb for me.”

His fingers were digging in your neck. You could feel all of his angry thrusts in you. He was hitting the spot with each of them. His breath was coming as wretched as yours. The sweat was beading down his hard chest and abs.

Jungkook removed his hand from your clit and neck, still inside you, he grabbed a cigarette and lit it. As he took a deep drag, he removed his boxers from your mouth and blew it in your mouth. He smirked as he felt your walls trembling around his length.

“Jung-,” your breath hitched and turned into a moan as he thrust back into you.

“Oh, fuck,” he hissed. Your loud moans and his groans filled the room. “Fuck!”

He bent and squeezed your mouth open, “gimme your fucking tongue,” he rasped. You barely followed his order and he spat on your tongue. “Swallow.” Your eyes rolled back as you swallowed. Surprised by his lewd acts, you clenched around his length as you came all over his cock.

You gasp when he lands a slap across your face. It was not painful but just hot enough to make your cunt clench painfully around him. “Did I ask you to fucking cum?”

“N-no,” you whined.

Jungkook pulled out and manhandled you on your belly, pulling your hips up. His large hand pushed your face into the mattress, gripping by your hair.

“Then how dare you fucking come,” he moaned as he plunged back. “Fuck, your cunt is always ready to take my cock,” he rasp, spitting on his cock as he pushes back in.

His other hand holds the cuffs around your wrists, cigarette clutched between his fingers. “Daddy, please,” you moan and bite the sheets.

“Such a fucking slut, my whore,” he pulls your head back and spits on your face, smearing it and pushing his fingers down your throat as you choke on them.

His hand left the cuffs and brought the cigarette to his mouth and clutched it between his teeth and wrapped that hand around your neck, keeping you in place.

The drool was running down your chin to your breasts. He has never been this rough with you but fuck, you would poke him every day if he turned into this demon.

You turned your head to the side to look at his face. His hair was sticking to his face, his lips wrapped around the cigarette. He took a drag and blew it in your face. He was hot.

Your tongue licked his fingers and moved as if giving a blow job. A smirk pulled on his pretty face. He plastered your back to his hard front, removing his fingers, he tossed you back on your back.

“Open your mouth,” he said as he climbed on top of you and slapped your face with his heavy cock. He ran his pink head around your lips. You wrapped your lips around his swollen head and sucked it with hollow cheeks. You moaned around him, tasting yourself on his cock. He pushed it all into your throat, making you gag around him. He was all the way down your throat. He pinched your nose and fucked your mouth. You could taste his salty precum in your mouth.

With every second, his thrusts got sloppier. Your lungs burned with the lack of air. You thrashed under him.

“Fuck,” he moaned as the thick spurts of his cum started to hit the back of your throat. He pulled his cock out and pained your face with the rest of his cum.

He sat next to you and smeared his cum all over your face. You were so fucked, and coughing as you were finally able to breathe again. “Would I let myself cover that bitch in my cum? Fuck no.”

He brings the same hand down to your cunt and fingers your hole “or this?” he said and stumped the burning butt on the ashtray.

“Daddy,” you whimper.

“What?” still fingering your quivering pussy. “You thought this was over?” he scoffed and stood up.

From the drawer, he pulled out the lube and unclasped it. Pulling you by your legs, he brought you to the edge of the bed.

Pushing your legs apart, he bent you in half. Your knees were touching your chin. You could barely keep your eyes open. Your body jerked when he poured cold lube on your tight rim.

“Wha-” you began.

“Take whatever I give you,” he rubbed your rim with his fingers and slowly pushed them in. “So fucking tight,” he groaned. “Gonna fuck you so good, y/n, gonna fuck that shitty thought out of your fucking brain,” he scissors your tight hole. “Look at your cunt, I knew you were a fucking whore for me. You are dripping everywhere,” he runs his fingers across your sensitive cunt and bends down to suck your clit in his mouth as he helps you get used to his fingers in your ass.

When relaxed enough, he replaced his fingers with his cock. His blunt head pushed past your back hole. “Daddy!” you screamed at the intrusion.

“Yes, baby. Scream for Daddy. Beg me to fuck your hole full of my cum,” he sank more and more of his cock into you until his pelvis was touching your thighs, growlung. He pulled your legs around his shoulder and leaned down to capture your pointed nipple in his mouth, letting your hole ease around his length. “So fucking tight. Remind me to fuck you more here.”

“Fuck me!” you whimper, letting him know you were ready. Your loins were on fire.

Jungkook found it hard to keep his breath equal. He was just as ruined as you were. He finally pulled his aching cock slightly out then plunged it back inside with a forceful thrust. Slowly, he started to fuck you harder and harder.

Your mouth fell open, hot noises came out of your mouth. Your tits juggled with each sharp thrust. You had no thought left in your brain. If someone asked you your name, you wouldn't remember.

Jungkook looked at your juicy pussy and pushed his fingers, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit. Your back arched painfully and you let out a silent scream, clenching around his cock tightly, you came all over him.

His eyes were wide open as he looked at your cunt squirting over yourself and him. He slapped it, making you tremble with shocks running down your body.

His cock twitched in your hole, finally bursting and filling your asshole with his hot cum. He slowed his thrusts and slumped over your shivering body.

He had never come so much before. His own body was trembling with how hard he came into your hole. Your heartbeat was running wild against his ear, matching his own.

Your sight was to behold. Your face was covered with his cum and spit. Your makeup was running down your face. So fucked and beautiful. Your pussy and asshole was throbbing with how sensitive they were. Your cheeks, both face and ass, were red from the slapping and spanking.

Jungkook pulled his phone and took a picture of you so that he could show you just how fucked and gorgeous you looked when you were not dazed.

“Did you see what you just did?” he asked you, looking at your dazed, cum and spit-coated face. “Baby?” his eyes widened when he saw you breaking down.”

You surprised Jungkook and yourself by squirting. Now once in your whole life, you ever squirted. “Mmm,” too tired to speak. You just wanted to hug him close and cry, not because you were hurt but because you were overwhelmed with strong orgasms he pulled out of you. “Hands,” you whispered.

Jungkook quickly pulled out, making both of you hiss in sensitivity. He took the key and unlocked the cuffs from your back. Your wrists were red and bruised. The sheet underneath was torn by how hard you were clutching them. Jungkook pulled you into his lap and kissed your wrists.

You wrapped your arms around him and silently cried in the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry, baby. I shouldn't have been so harsh. I'm sorry,” kept repeating.

You pulled slightly and took his face between your hands. “I loved it,” you muttered around his lips. “I’m just overwhelmed and overstimulated, that's all.”

Chuckling, he kissed your lips. Your tongue tangled with his as he rubbed your back with a soothing hand. He then picked you up and brought you to the bathroom. “I would run you a bath but I can't wait to cuddle you, baby.”

He helped you under the warm shower and clean yourself. His gentle hands washed every part of your body. You flinched when he cleaned your pussy.

Soon, you were wrapped in a fluffy towel and sitting on the sofa chair in your room as Jungkook changed the sheets.

You both ruined the previous one completely. “Maybe we should keep them in memory of our first filthy fuck,” He joked but you knew he would indeed wash them and keep them in his closet.

Jungkook brought you to the bed and helped you under the blanket. He rubbed the ointment on your wrists, too, and gave you water and a little snack.

Cuddling you close to his chest, he lit another cigarette, kissed your shoulder and then your head. You both shared the cigarette back and forth while talking.

“Baby, never doubt my loyalty for you,” he muttered. “Why would I cheat on you? You are my part. My love. My heart. My soulmate. My freaky partner. My everything.”

You shifted in his hold, “I just— I don't know, she is so much better.”

Jungkook frowned, “the fuck not. She is not. You are! You are my woman, my wife. The most gorgeous, beautiful, magnificent, immaculate, majestic, marvellous woman ever.”

You giggled and hugged him tighter. Your body was still recovering from all the lewd things he did to you. “Promise me you will fuck me like this more often?”

Your husband laughed and tickled your sides. “Aren't you a dirty girl?”

“Only for you,” you kissed his chest.

“If I had known, I would have fucked you like today way before… and made you squirt…” he peppers your skin with kisses. Then he looked into your eyes with seriousness. “Tomorrow, the first thing I will do is to fire her, yeah? I don't want that bitch to work under my name. I won’t accept such behaviour. And she made you cry and doubt my love so she must suffer.”

You would ask otherwise but this one time, you won't mind. You don't want her to work for him either. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, baby…” he cuddled you even closer and dropped an innocent kiss on your lips as you slowly drifted away, letting the sleep overtake you.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

…..

Taglist:

@veneziamadness @cheline @sansmilkbread @jayb17 @constantlydelulusional @8tinytings @tea4sykes @chimmisbae @demonshauntingthedoves

@jjkkkk15

Have a nice day/night💓

[stargirlygirl]

choking with caleb (gone wrong)

caleb x fem!reader

contains: nsfw, smut, choking, p in v, reader passes out from choking, caleb and reader both cry, hurt/comfort, 1.8k words

inspired by: 'what he's like during it' by @bronzealchemy

you've been begging caleb to try choking with you for the last week. it started off tame, with you bringing it up in conversation after coming across a certain inappropriate video on x. caleb had laughed it off, claiming his pips has gone a little crazy with him being away more recently. that earned him the silent treatment for approximately 1 hour, 23 minutes, and 17 seconds before the colonel kissed the irritation out of you.

your next attempt was over a freshly baked apple pie you made for him after a long day at work. still in his uniform🫦, he couldn't resist sitting down with you and tasting your fine handiwork.

"this tastes great, honey. you're getting good at baking now, huh?" he asks, gazing at you with those crinkled eyes and signature smirk.

you nod enthusiastically and chirp, "maybe you should show me how much you appreciate my cooking." his fork clinks on his plate, those mesmerising eyes on you.

he chuckles, "oh, what did you have in mind?" you ask him again to try choking with you but he refuses, dodging again behind his girl being silly and missing him.

but you know what you want, especially with the man who knows you so intimately and loves you so deeply, to the brink of obsession (and more). that's why you make a show of touching yourself right when he gets home.

your legs are spread wide, fingers intertwined in your slick folds. your moans ricochet off the shared bedroom's walls, ringing throughout the apartment. and once you hear the faint jingle of keys and clinking of the front door, you get all that much louder.

your back arches, your walls clenching in pleasure when the bedroom door is thrown open. a seething caleb walks in, huffing as he throws his hat (fuck fuck fuck i love his lil fucking hat i'm sorry pls put me back in my cage) to the side.

his eyes bulge out of their sockets as you stare at each other, your fingers still working overtime on your clit.

he pants, "pips, what're you doing?" you giggle, but it turns into breathy moan. you nibble on your lower lip and tilt your head to the other side, avoiding his intense gaze. the sinful wet sounds of your arousal scream over caleb's stomps toward you.

he kneels on the bed, one gloved hand catching your working hand and pinning it beside your head. he slots himself between your thighs, weight keeping them open beneath him as his other hand grabs your cheeks and turns your head back to him.

his brow is creased as you lock eyes. caleb drinks in the light pink dusting your cheeks and the soft whines falling from your lips.

he almost growls, "i've been away for barely eight hours and this is what i come home to? you touching yourself without me?" you try yanking your pinned hand out of his iron grip, but he only tightens his hold on you, making you yelp.

"and-and now you're ignoring me? what do you want, baby?" your free hand palms his chest, pitifully attempting to push him off. in response, he drops his full weight onto you and buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply.

"caleb—" you squirm.

he grumbles in your ear, "tell me what you want? why're you trying so hard to get my attention? it's all yours, don't you know that? or do i need to remind you how obsessed i am with you?"

your breath hitches, his voice going straight your core. you mewl as slick gushes from your hole.

"c-caleb," you stutter. he leans back to glimpse your face, all flustered.

"yes, honey," he whispers, gazing at you with those puppy eyes.

you pant, "you know what i want." he looks away momentarily.

shaking his head, he sighs, "is that really why you're doing all of this? to get me to choke you?" you nod frantically because finally, finally, he was getting it.

he chuckles all raspy, "fine." gazing back at you, he continues, "if that's what you really want, then i'll give it to you."

and that's how you got here, crying out as your boyfriend thrusts into you from behind. his mechanical hand is wrapped around your throat, applying the lightest pressure while his other hand pulls tightly on your hair. you can feel the sweat beading on his chest; it sticks to your back, a rite of passage given the connection between your bodies.

you two had hastily agreed on 'apple' as your safe word, and you're yet to use it.

caleb's cool metal hand slides down to your collarbones as he grunts in your ear, "was that okay?"

he hits the spongy spot inside of you, making you lose all coherency as you cry out.

"pips," he pants. "answer me or—fuck!—o-or i'll stop."

you nearly scream, "harder, caleb! harder!"

he chuckles gruffly as he slams into you roughly, "so demanding." his hand slides back up to your neck as he tugs your head back harder. and when he squeezes, you swear you're seeing stars. the pleasure, the lack of oxygen, the squelching sounds of your sex intermingling with his whimpers moans and your own whines. all of it intensifies as he ruts into you. and then he lets go and grabs a handful of your tit.

you cry out, "b-baby, please! please, please, ah—" he pinches your tender nipple and you just know he can feel the rush of arousal that starts dripping around his length.

"f-fuck," he groans loud. "what d'you need, honey? you can tell me." your next word makes his eyes widen and pace slow.

"bicep."

caleb breathes out, "darling, no."

you whine as his thrusts become shallower, "please, caleb! please, i trust you."

"i know you trust me," he grunts. he lets go of your hair and wraps both arms around your torso.

his chin comes to rest on your shoulder, and he whispers against your ear, "but i don't trust myself." he fucks you slower and softer, the weariness seeping into his bones from a long day of meetings and paperwork and reports. you almost start crying from being starved of his rough love.

you pout, "please, baby! ah— i love you! please! i really want you to, p-please!" your boyfriend groans. he loves hates it when you beg him for things because he's destined to cave. he wills himself to be strong, to deny your request. but upon hearing your declaration of love, how can he refuse to indulge his girlfriend's pleas?

he grunts, "fine. you want my bicep around your pretty neck?"

"yes! yes, please!" you babble.

"then you can have it," he groans as he bites your earlobe, his thrusts accelerating up to a brutal pace once more. his warm arm steadies you while his metal bicep curls beneath your chin. he doesn't apply any pressure yet, particularly mindful of just how easily he could hurt you as your small hands grip his forearm for support.

he pants in your hair, "just-just tap my thigh—mhmm— if it's too much, honey." you nod frenziedly and tap his thigh with your fingers a couple of times to show that you heard him.

he chuckles breathily at your cuteness, "okay. here we go." he squeezes lightly, trying his best to satisfy you without overdoing it. and of course, like the spoilt brat princess you are, you grumble at him to go harder.

he grunts, "you-you do know that i c-can't feel in this arm, right? if i hurt you—"

"i don't care, baby— hah— come on, please!" you scrunch your eyes shut, unable to keep them open from the sheer pleasure he's igniting within you. you hear caleb swear beneath his breath before giving you what you asked for.

in a few seconds, you're out like a light. caleb shouts as you slump in his arms, immediately pulling out and lying your limp body down on the fluid-soaked sheets. he cups your face, searching frantically for any signs of life while calling your name so loud it's like you're the one fucking him.

but you're not.

you're lying there, heart racing and breathing steadily as your boyfriend shakes you lightly, begging you to wake up.

his amethyst eyes are already tearing up, and his voice cracks as he pleads, "please, pips! please, f-fuck, please wake up! 'm so sorry, please." as if on command, you stir, your brows drawing together as you blink rapidly.

when an emotional caleb pinning you down comes into focus, you groan, "mhmm, baby, what happened? i thought— i thought we were—" you aren't able to finish your sentence as caleb squishes you beneath his weight.

he sighs with relief and raw emotion in your ear, "fuck, baby, i thought i lost you. fuck—" he pulls back and grabs your cheeks, his thumbs gently stroking them.

tears slowly slip down his face as he chokes out, "i'm so sorry. i shouldn't h-have—"

you tug on his dog tags, bringing him down to you. your noses and foreheads brush, caleb's stuttered breathing ghosting your lips.

you whisper, "it's okay." he shakes his head.

"no! it's not okay. look at you. look at what i did to you!" he proclaims frustratedly. more tears slide down his face. you do what anyone would in this situation and inch him even closer to you. you drag your tongue up the wet trails of his sadness, tasting the salt on your taste buds until you reach his under eyes. and you repeat the motion on his other cheek.

he smiles sadly and scolds you, "don't. not after i-i hurt you."

"mhmm, you taste so salty." your voice cracks as emotions you didn't even realise were there bubble to the surface.

"pips," he croaks out. he retreats to his hiding place (your neck), sobbing harder as you begin crying into his shoulder. your arms wrap around his shuddering back as some unsaid understanding passes between you.

once you both calm down (caleb's still sniffling btw), he swears that tomorrow morning he'll take you to the doctor just to check that you're okay.

the rest of the night is spent in each other's arms, whether that be in the shower, kitchen, or bed. your boyfriend doesn't let you out his grasp for more than minute. he needs to feel you right there, alive and breathing. you reassure him that you're okay, that you still trust him, and that you should have listened to him and at least let him use his other arm. but he shakes his head.

and you know that as you lie in bed cuddling, he's thinking it over and finding new ways to blame himself. you wish he wouldn't retreat into himself like this, but you can't blame him. you're confident that with a bit of time and tender support, he'll forgive himself.

at least, you hope so.

a/n: first time writing for caleb! pls lmk if the characterisation was okay

more embarrassing/gone wrong sex moments:

sylus puts you in a nelson and ends up in hospital zayne's cum spurts out of your nose xavier falls asleep while eating you out you get stuck in the sink as you and rafayel get it on

gone wrong m.list

[pennyellee]

𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐁𝐈𝐒 | 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨

title: ANUBIS chapter two pairings: yandere mafia namjoon x barmaid f!reader genre: dark romance, smut, porn with plot, 90s word count: 16,8K

beta read by one and only @chaoticpuff17

summary: “You are something I can sin for” An anchor amidst the stormy seas of life — that’s what Namjoon is for you. But it wasn’t always like that. There was a time where you’ve resented Namjoon with every fibre of your being and every word that came out of his plump lips after what he had done to prove his power. Unfortunately, you will never know what life could be if Kim Namjoon was not in it.

warnings: minors dni 18+ | injury, blood, experiencing pain, and undergoing medical recovery, IV's, strong painkillers, banter, alcohol, explicit language, themes of control and possession within a romantic relationship, explicit content, mentions of violence, mentions of religion and God, sexual tension, nipple biting, cockhumping, teasing, cowgirl, unprotected sex (stay safe!), creampie, and other...

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain strong language, explicit content, obsessive behaviour, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, oppressiveness, which we do not condone. I am also no medical professional.

author's note: hi there, my lovely fairies, sweating our tits of in da head aren't we? I'm a winter girly, northerner, so i'm very happy behind the keyboard, my desktop and open scrivener, very much unemployed right now, BUT, with my master's degreeeeeee! Not gonna romanticise that though, week before that was rough as fuck and I'm gonna pray for any of you who are going through some hardship right now, that the future is gonna be okay. Anyway, I rewrote this chapter several times actually, and it shows, but I found a sense it for the plot, thus here it is my loves. Also there is a "back to 1996" masterlist so all the fics will be together in separate place. See ya in 10 days for another preview of another 1996 project :))) Without further ado, enjoy, fairies! ♥

love, p.

masterlist 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟔

Kim Namjoon always got what he wanted. And, for reasons you couldn't yet understand, he had chosen you.

You're drifting—slipping in and out of consciousness, your body a foreign thing, heavy and unresponsive. The pain pulses through you in waves, each throb a reminder that you're still here. The world around you bled into a swirling vortex of red and black, edges blurring, fading. You hovered somewhere between life and death, unsure which realm you were clinging to.

"Joon..." The name was a breath, a whisper that might have been swallowed by the fading light. Yet, somehow, you felt him.

And then he was there. Not the Namjoon who had claimed you with his possessive touch, the one who twisted love into an inescapable knot, not something you didn't want to escape. This Namjoon was before all that. Before the walls, the darkness, the power plays, and the fear of losing you that had become so familiar in his eyes. This Namjoon, standing before you, was softer, gentler. He offered that unguarded warmth you used to adore, before everything changed. Before he killed a man for simply touching you. Before he took your passport, caging you, preventing you from flying free. He'd taken precautions, you knew, to keep you. But you wished he hadn't. You wished he didn't feel so insecure about your feelings.

"Peach," he murmurs, his voice low, the way it used to be when he wanted you to feel safe. "You're still with me, right?"

You longed to reach for him, to feel his skin against yours, but your body remained stubbornly unresponsive, heavy and alien in the haze of pain. In this fever dream, movement wasn't necessary. In this moment, his presence was enough. He was enough.

You remembered him like this. The days before his obsession, before he lost himself in the need to control. He was here now, the Namjoon you first knew, the one who looked at you with wonder, who made you feel seen, truly seen, not just a passing thought.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" he asks, a hint of that old, unspoken tenderness in his voice. His eyes hold something like longing, something that makes your heart ache in a way you've almost forgotten.

Not precisely. It's more like your hearts remembered each other before your minds had the chance. But then the ache starts—sharp, sudden. Why did it change? Why did he change? 

You try to speak, to ask him the question that's been burning inside you for so long, but your voice is barely a whisper. 

"Why did you change?" 

But perhaps he never did. Perhaps this was the man you were always meant to meet—just not the man you wanted him to be.

Maybe this is the truth, and everything before was a lie.

He steps closer, but there's something about him that feels unreachable now. Something distant in his eyes that wasn't there before. The space between you grows, even though he's right in front of you. His smile is bittersweet, almost like he's mourning something that can never be.

"You're asking the wrong questions, Peaches," he says softly, his words like an echo of something you almost understand.

His words strike you, but before you can process them, before you can reach for him, the dream starts to slip away. His figure begins to fade, like smoke in the wind. You try to hold onto him, to him, but it's like grasping through a void.

If a life of Kim is what you must choose, you choose to hold onto the idea of who he was to you. The Namjoon you fell in love with. 

You never thought of it as love until he chose you. Choose you truly. You thought about this in the dead of the night when he slept soundly on the other side of the soft bed, and you rationalised what had happened over the past year of him choosing you over and over again, no matter what. 

Choose sounds better than possess. 

Maybe you just need to admit your feelings and accept whatever this world has to offer. Whatever he has to offer. Something tells you, though, that these thoughts will merely flee if the spark wasn't readying to be lit into a flame that would take over all your senses.

The pain intensifies, a new wave crashing over you, drowning out everything, even him. And just like that, the Namjoon of before is gone. Vanished. Leaving you with nothing but the empty ache of the man who once was. Thus, now you must fall in love with this rendition of his persona. The reincarnation of Anubis himself, risen to walk among mortals once more.

"Peaches!" a voice echoes, low and steady. It's not Namjoon. The tone is sharp, urgent, familiar, but not as you expected. Not in the way you wanted. But it was him, your mind seeked to see before you went. That means something right?

"Stay with me, Peaches. I'm not letting you go—. She's losing a lot of blood!"

His hand grips yours tightly, and the pulse of his touch is steady, firm, and real. It's a contrast to the lightness of Namjoon's touch, but it's grounding, anchoring you in the chaos of the moment. He's not a dream and you're not a ghost.

The warmth of his skin against yours is different from what you expected. Just raw, undeniable care. A family. He's a family. He's here, with you, when it counts the most. 

"Jungkook," you whisper, the name escaping your lips before you even realise it. You try to focus on him, on the steady rise and fall of his chest as he hovers over you, pressing his hands onto your side, his eyes scanning your face, searching for any sign of recognition.

His lips press together tightly, and his eyes soften, but there's something fierce in the way he looks at you. "This cannot be how you go, Peaches," he huffs, and there's a finality in his words, a promise that cuts through the fog.

Your chest tightens, the effort to breathe becoming harder. But he's here. Jungkook. The one who's keeping you tethered to life.

"Nam-Namjoon, where is Namjoon?" you manage to rasp, and it feels like the only truth you know. 

He doesn't answer at first. Instead, he adjusts his grip on you, moving you carefully, lifting you as if you weigh nothing. And in that moment, you realise—he's saving you. 

"He's coming," 

is the last thing you hear.

You wake to the sound of firewood crackling. The sheets under you are impossibly soft, smelling faintly of lavender and cedar. Everything aches, but it's no longer sharp but dull. It's the kind of ache that tells you you've survived.

"About damn time," a voice echoes and you try to adjust your eyes to the lighting in the room.

Princess.

She's curled into a velvet chair, legs tucked under her, a book in her lap that she clearly hasn't been reading. Her eyeliner is smudged just enough to betray she's been here a while—longer than she'll admit.

"You scared us with that sleeping beauty stunt you pulled." 

You barely remember the pain, the blood. You barely remember anything, really.

You try to sit up. 

"I wouldn't, not yet at least" she warns, turning a page anyway. "It didn't go in, but it scraped you hard enough for Yoongi having to stitch you up."  

Your throat's very dry. "How long have I been out?"

"Two days. Maybe two and a half. Time's weird up here."

You blink slowly, trying to make sense of it. "Where's...?"

"That man has ears like a wolf, and I'm guessing they are tuned to the frequency of your sweet voice, so he will be here in a minute." She smiles, avoiding your question, shutting the book and placing her hand on her pregnant belly. 

"Jungkook?" you whisper, barely able to form the name. The weight of your memories is slow to return, but you know he's part of it. Part of what brought you back from the brink.

Princess doesn't answer right away. Instead, she tilts her head, her smile fading just enough to show something else—a flicker of concern, maybe, or maybe it's something more complex. Something that doesn't need to be said.

"He was very stubborn and did not want to leave you, but there was nothing more he could do for you,-" she studied your face for a second. You must look like death. Princess leans forward slightly, her expression unreadable. 

"—and after a call from certain someone, while you were on Yoongi's table, plus a final command from Hoseok to stay in New York, finally got him to obey."

There's something about the way she says it—something that hints at a deeper layer, a decision made in the shadows, one that you weren't fully aware of. Princess' lips curl into a small, enigmatic smile, one that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Now, ask me whatever it is you want to know before he'll kick my ass outta here, my friend. Even though I'm higher in rank, that man has the balls to do that." 

The words sink in slowly, heavy and disorienting, like stones being dropped into a calm pond, sending ripples across your mind. 

"What happened?" The first logical question that came to your mind. Boring for her majesty. 

"An ambush, raid, an absolute shit show, a message, low blow even for them." She lists every possible naming for the event that almost took you away. Princess' nonchalant attitude only added to the confusion, making it clear that this wasn't something she was rattled by, even if it should have been. You blink slowly, trying to piece together the fragments of what you've heard so far, your mind racing through everything you've been through, everything you don't remember. 

"Who���" 

"Luens." She is giving you information way easier than Namjoon ever would, hence you push more. 

"Why?" 

"We humbled yet another of their sons-" you're not sure whether it's the gravity of what she's saying or the sheer nonchalance with which she says it that makes it all the more unsettling. You blink at her, trying to process her answer, but it only raises more questions.

"Humbled?" you repeat, confusion lacing your voice. The way she phrases it makes it sound like a simple matter, but there's no way that's all there is to it.

"To his grave." The coldness in her tone sends a chill through you, and a deep, gnawing unease settles in your stomach. There must be a lot of analgesics in your system that you cannot even feel the side where you've been shot at. 

"And they chose to do that at church?" That is sinister even for you, a non-believer. But you've sinned there too, so who are you to judge?

"It's sacred ground for our clan. Perfect for striking fear into the heart of their enemies. Fucking biblical." 

The unease inside you deepens. You swallow hard, trying to process what she's saying, trying to fit it into the jigsaw puzzle of your fragmented memories. There's a sharp edge to her tone, one that makes everything feel colder, more distant. 

"Is everyone alright?" A sudden realisation runs through your body. If you've been shot someone else might have been too. You know Namjoon is alright, that much you read between the lines, alongside with Hoseok, and Princess is sitting right here in the flesh. Jungkook's alright too as it seems, but..no. Your dad was not there, and you are more than sure, he is safe. If anything, this family protects its people. So…

"Taeyhung?"

The question slips from your lips before you can stop it, a quiet but urgent need to know the answer. Princess' expression shifts ever so slightly, her eyes narrowing just a fraction, like she's measuring the weight of your words. Why'd you care for a man who dragged you to this life, literally, not metaphorically like Namjoon. Because before all that. He was kind, he was caring, he was.

"Taehyung's always fine, that motherfucker of my cousin is bulletproof" she says, her voice laced with something unreadable, an edge you can't quite place. "For now, anyway." 

"Seokjin?" 

"He is dealing with-, uhm, I don't even know. But he is on lockdown in his lovely mansion."

You nod, trying to make sense of her answer, but something about it feels too rehearsed. 

"Jimin?" 

"In Italy." She half-smiles. "Florence, I think. He's laying low too. We could not all gather in one place; we needed to be spread."

There's a long silence. You don't speak until the fire cracks again.

"Where are we?" 

Princess leans back in her chair, eyes briefly flickering toward the crackling fire as if she's weighing whether or not to tell you. There's something about her that makes it clear she's playing a game, keeping the cards close to her chest. She hesitates for a moment before answering, her voice smooth, almost too calm.

"Somewhere safe," she says, her eyes shifting toward the window, the dim light casting shadows over her features. "An old safe place. Hidden. You won't find it on any map."

The tension in your body makes it hard to think clearly, and the fog of painkillers doesn't help either. You swallow hard, trying to focus.

"If you're not ready to talk to him, go back to sleep, sweetie. I'll tell him I was just reading out loud." Her voice softening, but her eyes never leaving you. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, and your thoughts swirl like a storm inside your head. You could close your eyes, sink back into the numbness, let the painkillers dull everything. But something holds you in place—something you can't shake, something that has been growing within you for far too long. 

Princess watches you, waiting, but you don't look away. This is your moment, even if it's only a sliver, to ask the questions that have been clawing at you. 

"I..I'm not that tired," you murmur, your voice rough. "I don't wanna avoid him." Her expression doesn't change, but you can see the shift in her eyes, a moment of calculation, observation. Her smile, though, is small, a slight curl of amusement at your persistence. She exhales, like she's been holding something back for a long time. 

"Why don't you ask what you really wanna know, my friend?" You nod, your heart hammering in your chest as if you already know what's coming. You hesitate for a moment, your thoughts swirling, but then the words slip out before you can stop them. 

"I never asked for this," you say quietly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. You're not just talking about love anymore; you're talking about the whole damn mess of this life, the decisions that were made for you, the ones you never had a say in.

"That is not a question, hun." Princess leans forward slightly, her eyes narrowing just enough to make it clear that she's not done with you yet. 

"Yet you did not attempt to escape since, not once." You hadn't tried escape. You hadn't fought to leave. You just wanted a little piece of autonomy and a choice. This all must sound familiar, like an old tale to your lady boss.

"You could've run. You could've fought harder. But you stayed, hmm?"

You stare at her, heart thudding painfully in your chest, your mind running through every moment, every choice that led you here. And in the end, there's only one thing that makes sense. 

"I'm not sure I wanted to, I don't think I'd outrun Taehyung again" you finally admit with a chuckle, your voice barely above a whisper. The truth tastes bitter on your tongue, but it's the only answer that feels real. "I guess I've been holding on... waiting."

Princess doesn't react immediately. She simply watches you, her gaze intense, like she's measuring every word, every shift in your expression. Then, finally, she speaks.

"Let me then tell you something I realised and what made me stay." 

You shift slightly, drawn in by her voice, by the way she's speaking like she's about to reveal a secret. Her eyes stay locked on yours, unwavering, as if she's reading the very core of you.

She leans back in her chair, her hands folding neatly in her lap.

"How long do you think it would take for you to fall out of love with Namjoon?" 

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, everything around you seems to disappear. The fire crackles softly in the background, but it feels distant, like you're caught in a bubble, unable to move or breathe.

Princess's eyes are still locked on you, unblinking, as if she's waiting for a response. Her question was so direct, so piercing, it stabs straight into your chest. You shift uncomfortably, unsure how to respond, because the answer feels like a wound you haven't fully acknowledged.

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are, Peaches." 

Princess's smile is small, almost imperceptible, but there's something understanding in it. "You don't. You can't. Love isn't a switch you turn off. It's not that simple." She leans forward again, her gaze unwavering. "But you can choose whether to let it control you. You can choose how you handle it. That's what I learned." 

You meet her gaze, the weight of her words sinking in. 

"And how exactly did you handle it?" you ask, eyeing down her swollen belly, desperately trying not to sound mocking but you failed in that part too. 

Princess exhales slowly, her expression softening just a touch. "I stayed. But not because I had no choice. I stayed because I understood that love is never black and white. It's messy, it's painful, and sometimes, it's fucking dangerous, yes. But that doesn't mean it's not worth something."

The love you've felt for him, the parts of him that you still want to believe in, even with everything that's happened. 

"You're not trapped, Peach," Princess continues, her voice more gentle now. "You're just afraid of what happens when you stop holding on. But I'll tell you this, you need to let go before you can really know what freedom feels like." 

You think about what it would mean to finally let go, to stop fighting the inevitable pull of whatever this is between you and Namjoon. It's terrifying. But maybe, just maybe, it's time to accept that choice is the only real power you have left. 

"Is that how you and Hoseok—"

"There is no universal path we would not walk together." She interrupts you. Your own thoughts begin to swirl again, tangling up the fear, the doubt, and the small flicker of hope that perhaps you could come to understand love in a way you hadn't before. 

"But I don't know whether—"

"Ah shut the fuck up, you do." She rolls her eyes, and you cannot help but raise your eyebrows at the duality of her persona. 

"Let me tell you a secret, honey." She leans forward to be closer to your bedside.  "It's the women who run this clan, not the other way around." 

You blink, trying to make sense of what she's saying. Her statement seems impossible, a contradiction to everything you've seen, everything you've felt. The men, like Namjoon, hold all the power in their iron grip, controlling everything in their world, and yet here Princess is, telling you the exact opposite.

"I don't follow," you murmur, your confusion making your voice tremble. Princess leans in even closer, her voice dropping low as she speaks with a calm certainty that both unsettles and intrigues you. 

"Power isn't just about who gets to call the shots, darling. It's about who holds the real influence. The men of this clan think they control the game because they're the ones making the big moves, but they're playing by the rules we set." 

"Then why does it feel like I'm always at the mercy of him?" you ask, your voice small.

"Because you get angry and that makes them feel superior" Princess says bluntly. "But trust me, love, they aren’t." 

"You want something? Take it. Demand it. Tell him what happens when you don't get it. Play his game better than him." 

The idea seems so foreign, so radical, yet at this moment, it feels like the only path forward. For so long, you've allowed Namjoon to dictate the terms of your existence. You've swallowed his rules, his desires, his control, believing you had no other choice. But now... now you're starting to see the cracks in that illusion. 

"Take control. You want to work? He has plenty to give you, trust me."

It all sounds so simple, yet it's a concept you've never fully allowed yourself to entertain because you assumed he won't give you the stage.

Princess is offering you a glimpse of something else—something terrifying and intoxicating. Power. The power to dictate the terms, to make your own rules, to shape your own destiny. You wonder if it's even possible, if it's as simple as she makes it sound.

"If you want to work, you take it. You make him want you there. You make him need you." 

"Know your fucking worth. Call his hypocrite bullshit ass-," you're still not sure you can fully trust yourself with this kind of power. The stakes feel too high, the risk too great. 

"Trust me, they seem harsh and firm traditionalist, but they are fucking basking in that ‘if you'll disobey' shit, it makes the pre-marital sex all the better." 

The rawness of her words hits you like a cold wave, shocking and unsettling. Her bluntness slices through the fog in your mind, but the implications leave you dizzy. You've never thought of it this way. You've always believed that your powerlessness was a result of his dominance, that you were stuck, trapped by your own choices—or lack thereof. 

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of what she's suggesting, the sheer audacity of it. 

"And you have the ultimate advantage at your disposal." 

"What is it?" you ask, your voice hesitant, your heart pounding against your ribs. The question comes out soft, but you know the answer will change everything. You can't go back once you know what she's suggesting. 

"He is so far gone for you." 

Your heart races as the thought grows inside you, and the fear, though still present, starts to feel like a fire igniting within. This may be the moment when everything changes

or not.

How long does it take for a person to fall out of love? 

You think about her words, studying the traditional embroideries of the duvet, white dove with black raven flying around a cherry blossom tree.

For Namjoon? Probably never. But what about you? Could you ever fall out of love with Namjoon when you do not even know when have you fallen to begin with. 

Was it when he caressed your hair after a long shift? Or when he bandaged your palm after you cut yourself on the shards from a wine glass. When he made sure Yoongi—Doctor Min Yoongi—was summoned to look over that stupid little cut like it was a matter of state. Like your pain could somehow reroute the empire. 

You remember the blood wasn't even dripping. It had dried already. But Namjoon didn't care. He held your hand steady, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist while Yoongi grumbled and stitched. 

"I don't need stitches," you'd muttered, embarrassed by the attention. The silk of his eyes on you in front of everyone. Like you mattered.

"Nope, hun, you really don’t." Yoongi replied, his voice half amused.

Namjoon didn't reply. He just looked at Yoongi and said, "If she scars, I'll burn your clinic to the ground."

Yoongi laughed. The others had too. And you thought that, of course, he must be joking. 

That night when he killed for you is when you realised he was not. 

The way he brushed your shoulder like he was pressing courage into your bones.

You wish you could say you fell in love on your own terms. That it was naturally calculated. That your heart hadn't been placed gently into his hands like a bomb he never meant to hold.

But the truth is, you didn't just fall. You were led—inch by inch, word by word, into something soft and sickening and irreversible.

And now, you have to deal with it once you've admitted it.

And now, the truth has grown teeth. It bites when you speak it aloud. You loved him. You still  fucking do. And you might always. So what would it take to make you fall out of love with him?

Blow man’s brain out in fron of you? Check.

Threaten your father’s life? Check.

Subliminally force you into engagement? Check.

Confiscate your money and passport? Check.

Make you an absolute fucking lunatic for not trying to leave him? Check. Check. Check.

Yet….you know there must be something wrong with you when….

Even when he stains your world red.

Even when his version of protection looks too much like possession. 

Even when he forces his love on you.

It all makes you think maybe it was always-

"How do you feel?" 

Namjoon's voice is soft. Careful. Like he already knows the answer and just needs to hear it in your voice. He's ever-polished look is gone. He did not shave. Even his clothes—creased, dark, a size too big—hang like he got dressed in the dark and didn't care who saw. He somehow feels different once you are looking at him now. More akin to…to your Namjoon.

Not like the man they fear in five languages and ten syndicates.

No. He looks tired. Human.

He hasn't been sleeping. Not well. Not peacefully. Not since that night. Suddenly, you want to lie to him. You want to say fine or just little bitsy tired or stop fucking looking at me like that. You’re right here alive, are you not?

You want to answer, but there are no words forming on your lips. So you just extend your arms carefully to not pull out the IV Yoongi came to hook in, and gesture for him to join you in the bed. 

He doesn't move at first. Just stands there, watching you with the kind of stillness that makes your skin prickle—like he's memorizing this moment in case it's the last one he's allowed to have.

But then he does. He crosses the room with none of the grace you're used to—no calculated steps, no spine held like a blade. Just quiet surrender. Exhaustion in motion.

He very carefully lets you settle on his warm chest and lets his hand fall into your matted hair, his fingertips tingling your scalp with so much love. 

You shouldn't be in this position, but you are drugged enough. 

And for a long time, neither of you speak. And then, you hear him sob. A stutter in his breath. You don't move.

You don't try to shush him or say it's okay—because it's not. None of this fucking is and you need to face the reality. Not romanticise pain right now. 

So you just stay there.

Chest to chest.

Heartbeat to heartbeat.

Letting him cry for everything he's done, and everything he couldn't stop or bent to his will. Because he too realises, he is not a God. 

You pull back just enough to look at him. Eyes rimmed red. Jaw clenched like he's ashamed of being seen like this. But you don't look away. How could you? When he finally admits his wrongs.

"I could have lost you."

His hand is still in your hair, holding on like it's the only tether he has left.

Like if he lets go, the whole world will collapse under the weight of what he's done.

"And yet you did not. God has a way and will, and we shall obey thy lord, isn't that what you go by?" You know what works for him. 

You know him.

His hand lingers on your face, his thumb brushing over your skin as if the touch could anchor him to something solid—something real—amidst the turmoil. His breath is uneven, each exhale coming with a weight that presses down on both of you.

"I am a man of God," Namjoon says, his voice low, heavy with the weight of his truth. "I've always been. And I've always believed in a purpose—my purpose. I've used my faith, my convictions to guide me, even when I knew what I was doing wasn't right."

"But I never thought..." he continues, his voice faltering slightly, "I never thought it would almost cost me you." 

You swallow, the air in your lungs tight and heavy. The truth settles in, the realisation that he's not hiding behind his faith anymore, but using it as the thing that has broken him. The same thing that keeps him tethered to the chaos he's created. He wants redemption, but not for the sins he's committed—for you. He wants forgiveness, but not from God, from you.

"Maybe it was never about God. Maybe it was only about what you were willing to do... to keep me."

His expression shifts, dark and aching, and for the first time, you see the full depth of the struggle within him. The fight he's been waging between what he believes is righteous and what his heart is telling him.

"I would do anything," he whispers, voice breaking under the weight of it, "anything to make it right."

"I know." 

Is all you say before you close the small distance and lay your lips gently against his, feeling the tremble in his breath. It's not a kiss of passion, not a kiss born from desire. 

Maybe, just maybe, you can start again. Even if you don't know how yet.

"But even God won't give you a third chance if you fuck this up again, Namjoon-oppa."

A fine mist curled low over the garden, wrapping itself around the lavender stalks and the crooked stone path. The circular large window blessed you with such a view, a scene both peaceful and haunting in its stillness. The fog hung heavy, diffusing the early morning light into soft, muted hues—like a watercolor painting too delicate to touch. You watched it from you seat by the window, your fingertips brushing the cool glass, almost feeling the cold mist that lingered just beyond. 

The garden felt like a world of its own, isolated and serene, but also a cage of sorts—an elegant, insidious cage. The soft rustling of the leaves in the trees seemed to whisper secrets, carrying stories of the clan's dark history. 

You leaned back, careful not to strain your still-healing body, and let your thoughts drift while the infusion dripped slowly into her system. The medication dulled the pain, for most of the time. It would be three times worse if the bullet went in, but even a what Yoongi so lovingly called “scratch that just needed to be stitched” hurts nasty. The room was quiet except for the soft hiss of the IV and the rhythmic ticking of the old clock above the hearth, or Namjoon's rustle of newspaper he was reading, the brown sweater hugging his figure.

He looked domestic in the way that unsettled you—like he had always belonged to this house.

Legs crossed, his glasses slipping low on the bridge of his nose, Namjoon turned the page with a soft flick, his gaze flickering toward you occasionally, though he said nothing. He didn't need to. You'd started to learn his silences where he gave you space to zone out and just be. 

"I want to go outside," you murmured, your voice barely louder than the breath of fog on the glass.

Namjoon glanced up fully this time, folding the paper on his knee.

"It's cold today."

"I'm not made of paper."

A smile ghosted across his face while he sat down his glasses. "No, just bone, flesh and fresh stitches."

"They are not so fresh. Yoongi said, they are healing nicely." 

Namjoon stood slowly, his joints cracking in the silence, that faint creak of old wood beneath his steps making the moment feel almost cinematic. He didn't argue further—just set the paper down beside his seat, the pages rustling like brittle leaves, and moved to unhook your IV just as Yoongi taught him. Not rushed. Not patronizing. Gentle. 

"And he also said you're to be still on your medication, and should not strain yourself with walking too much" he reminded you, winding the tubing carefully, stoping only when he sees your big pleading puppy eyes.

"Ten minutes of fresh air, tops."

"And a walk to the orchard." You added.

"Five minutes to the orchard, five minutes back. That's the deal."

He helped you bundle up, wrapping the cardigan around your shoulders and tugging the blanket you liked. You still hadn't asked who the blanket used to belong to, but the stitching looked old, and the pattern—tiny cranes embroidered with red thread—felt like someone's secret, passed down through generations. 

The moment you stepped outside, the mist kissed your cheeks. It was colder than you expected. Wet and raw and alive. 

"Princess, told me Yoongi's grandma planted these." His hand rested on the small of your back, more for warmth than support, though you leaned into it anyway. Your body still felt foreign—mended, and held together with borrowed strength.

"She did, she was actually the third Buin," he said, guiding you gently over the uneven stone where moss grew thick. That will make Princess the fifth one day. 

The fog swirled past your ankles like it had something to say about that.

"Did she die here? You guys never give history classes" you asked.

"Present and future are more important now, my love."

He glanced at you, then back to the orchard ahead. His expression was unreadable—half-etched with memory, half-cautious, like a man walking a tightrope between truth and what the family still called myth. But he never answered your question.

You frowned slightly, the layers of fog around you suddenly feeling thicker, as though they, too, were listening to the stories Namjoon had left unsaid.

"When are we flying back to New York then?"

Namjoon's hand tightened at your back for a brief moment, his gaze flicking to yours. The question hung in the air between you like the fog—dense, unsettling, a little too close. He seemed to hesitate before answering, his lips pressing together briefly as if weighing the right response. 

"I want us to stay until you can walk on your own without pain, my love."

"But," you pressed softly, your voice quieter as the silence between you grew thicker "that could be anytime, can we do that? What about my dad? The distilleries or Anubis?-"

"He is safe. Guarded, I promise. The business is being taken care of, no worries there too. We won’t go poor anytime soon, love. You need to heal, Peaches. That's my objective. Your body's been through more than it should have, and I won't risk pushing you too soon."  He shifted slightly, taking a deep breath, clearly trying to weigh his words carefully.

"I also need you to understand, there's more at stake than just getting you back on your feet. Please trust me with this." 

You could feel the gravity in his words, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on both of you. The tension between the present and the future was palpable, and it felt like a decision was looming just beyond your reach—one that neither of you was quite ready to make.

"Namjoon..." you began, your voice faltering, a mix of frustration and understanding swirling inside you. "I'm not just some fragile thing you can protect in a bubble. I need to live my life-"

"Our life-" He interjected. 

You paused, the weight of his words sinking in, not knowing how to react, he continued.

"-I know, but I can't risk pushing you back into the chaos just yet."

You could feel the sincerity in his voice, the honesty, even though it didn't entirely dissolve the tension in your chest. You wanted to trust him. You wanted to understand the weight of his decisions, but the pressure of waiting for something to shift, for something to change, was starting to wear on you. 

"Trust me-"

"Trust you, Joon?" It was your turn to interrupt him. Namjoon stilled, his hand on your back faltering for just a moment, the faintest hesitation passing through his eyes.

"I've trusted you before, Namjoon. Look where it got me." 

The words cut through the air with a sharpness that felt foreign, even to you. You didn't want to say it, didn't want to feel the sting of it on your tongue.

His hand fell away from your back, the space between you growing colder, though you didn't turn to face him. You couldn't. Not yet.

"I didn't mean it like that." You whisper. 

"I never wanted you to feel like that. But I need you to understand—I was doing what I thought was best, what I thought would protect you. Us. And I still believe that's what I'm doing." You didn't respond immediately, the ache in your chest growing as you fought the urge to lash out, to break free of the words you knew would hurt him. Instead, you swallowed the frustration and spoke, quieter this time. 

"Of course you are. I'm sorry." Where did this come from? The last time you yielded it was under a lot more pressure, so why give up so easily. Just what is going on inside that head of yours with all that painkillers. 

Maybe it was the weight of everything that had built up between the two of you, and the fog of recovery still clouding your mind. You weren't sure what part of you was speaking anymore—the tired, worn version of yourself that just wanted peace, or the version that knew deep down you couldn't just let things slide this easily.

He sighed heavily. 

"You're right," he admitted and you arched your brows, his voice almost a whisper. "I didn't handle things the way I should have. I didn't listen to you or what you wanted. And I'm sorry for that."

You looked at him then, really looked, searching for any trace of doubt in his eyes. But all you saw was the same devotion that had always been there, buried beneath the layers of protection and fear he had wrapped around you.

Is this the first step to a healthy relationship? Better communication?

Maybe.

"So this is a safe house?" 

You asked whilst he was peeling an orange for you. The scent of citrus mingled with the quiet hum of the old but very nicely renovated hanok, only the pictures on the walls illustrated how this place looked before the new generation inherited it. As Princess graciously snitched, because Namjoon have been more reluctant to answer your curiosity.

There are only few things that remained completely untouched by the new blood - the outside gardens, the open room floating above the koi fish pond, and the master study of the man, the late leader of the clan, to whom they refer to as the Kkangpae.

"You could call it that way." He hummed. 

"Princess didn’t tell me where precisely we are, and you’ve never mentioned this place," you continued, watching him carefully segment the orange.

Namjoon paused, a sliver of orange peel curling in his fingers. "This isn't a place one mentions casually, love," he said, his voice low, almost reverent "it's been the heart of our family for centuries." 

He set the peeled orange on a small plate and handed it to you. You could do it yourself, but he, of course, insisted. You took a segment of the orange, the sweet and sour juice bursting on your tongue. 

"Marriages, blood oaths, shared purpose," he explained, his gaze distant, as if seeing the past unfold. You cleaned your hands in the handkerchief, the soft linen feeling strangely out of place in this ancient place.

"You want me to make a blood oath?" You swallowed, the sweet taste of the orange turning bitter in your mouth.

Namjoon leaned back against the hard glass wall, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes following your every move as you chewed. "You don’t have to make a blood oath," he said, smiling faintly, "unless you want full benefits—retirement plan, immunity from betrayal, family barbecue invites."

You scoffed softly, sucking a bit of juice from your thumb. "You say that like it’s Costco membership."

"It’s harder to cancel, I’ll give you that." You gave him a look, but he only smiled wider, the dimple in his cheek barely visible under the soft shadow of stubble.

"So," you said, tilting your head, "is this where the famous Kkangpae Min used to hold his terrifying blood orgies or whatever you lot did back in the war years?"

Namjoon let out a surprised laugh. "Jesus, blood orgies? Who told you that nonsense?" 

You shrugged, feigning innocence as you took another segment of orange. "You know how Princess talks when she’s had some wine. She mentioned something about Min, a warehouse, and a lot of very committed men."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, chuckling. "That wasn’t an orgy and it was not even here. That was a strategy meeting and interogation. Very different levels of nudity involved."

"So you’re confirming there was some nudity."

"I’m confirming nothing except that the former Kkangpae was dramatic as hell," he said, pouring you a glass of water. "He believed appearances mattered. Ceremonies. Pledging loyalty. Symbols and yada yada. But nothing akin to blood orgies, love." 

"Sounds exhausting. Did he ever just… stab people quietly?"

Namjoon smiled, almost fondly. "Only when he liked them."

You took a sip of water, eyeing him over the rim. "And Hoseok’s supposed to follow that legacy? How did it even come to Jung to inherit the throne of terror?" 

"He’s father was next by vote, not lineage–" 

"If we speak lineage, that would make Yoongi’s father the next Kkangpae, wouldn’t it?" Namjoon paused, the silence stretching just long enough to tell you the truth was heavier than the question. The faucet still dripped in the background, slow and metronomic, as if measuring the weight of names.

He finally answered, voice low. "He didn’t want it."

You blinked. 

"Didn’t want it? You’re telling me that man’s son, the son of the same man history books write about as the annihilator of Yakuza, passed on the literal underground empire like it was a scratchy sweater?"

"He just disappeared."

That made you still.

"He was last seen in ‘84," Namjoon said, folding his arms. "Showed up to a vote—one of those rare ones where every surviving elder crawled out of their hole—and then vanished. Some say he was forced out. No one knows. Even Yoongi doesn’t talk about it."

"He abandoned the clan, the family?" Your voice dropped. Namjoon’s gaze flicked to yours, smiling softly. 

"Depends on who you ask."

You set your glass down. 

"So then Hoseok’s dad was just… next in line by vote?" Namjoon nodded.

"What about your dad?" His expression flickered momentarily and you furrowed your brows, trying to remember when was the last time you saw his dad around.

"My dad is my dad. Grandpa was the right hand man of the late kkangpae Min. My dad did not follow the same trajectory, but he rebuilt the distilleries in the States, and that’s what is ours now, love."

You raised your brows. Ours. His, he meant to say, but sure, let’s play into his pro-socialist thinking.  

"So while the other clans who stayed were bleeding on marble floors and swapping secrets in bathhouses, your family was bootlegging whiskey across the pond?"

His smile widened and you could feel the warmth of his laugh. Ironic, judging by the current discourse. He sat down next to you.

"Anubis gives you different impression, right?" Anubis, his perfect shooting aim, and all the jazz Princess spilled over the years over couple of martinis or the Elixir. You knew your fair share, and this suggested you are not getting to know more anytime soon. At least, not until you have a wedding band on your ring finger and his surname behind your first name. 

"My grandpa always said, the empire only survives if one part remembers the books, while the other writes new chapters in blood."

"And your family chose the books?"

"My family chose what they could endure," he said simply, then shrugged. "Turns out a well-aged brandy and a balance sheet will keep you alive longer than a katana and a vendetta."

"But you’re–"

"I know." 

Namjoon cut you off gently, but firmly, like he was used to the question. Like it wasn’t the first time someone had tried to put him into a box his blood built but his bones refused.

"Yoongi was born into the storm. Hoseok was built for it. Me? I’m trying to read the weather before it hits." His hand brushed the edge of the table, fingers near yours.

"I’ve seen what Hoseok inherited," Namjoon continued, voice lower. "And I’ve seen what Yoongi turned away from. I don’t want a crown, Peaches. I want to make sure this doesn’t eat us alive before the next century."

"So you’re playing the middle ground?" you asked.

"Kinda, the one that thinks before," he said simply. 

"Not when it comes to me, you don’t." 

A warm chuckle comes from his lips, his dimples shining bright and for a second, you want to poke your index finger into one of them. To feel that warmth, even if it’d be temporary fix. Because now, he is in your thoughts again.

"You answered my questions." You spoke softly. Namjoon’s eyes softened, the usual sharpness melting into something quieter—almost like relief.

"I did." he retorted, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. You nodded, leaning back against the counter, feeling the weight of unspoken things settle between you. The safe house seemed to hold its breath, as if listening to the truth finally laid bare.

"I guess that means you’re trusting me," you said softly, recalling the words you’ve blurted out without thinking. You should trust him. Something in your mind nudges you to do so.

He glanced at your hand near his on the table, the space between them shrinking.

"With my heart, at least."

The orange peel curled forgotten on the plate as the room settled into a quiet promise — two halves of a legacy, beginning to write their own chapter.

"Namjoon-oppa?"

God knows you should've stayed in bed and waited for morning to chew through your nerves. But when Namjoon did not come to bed even whent he clock has striked midnight, a strange force pulled you out of the warm sheets, the haunting silence of the beautiful hanok in daylight, terrifies you at nightfall. Only when you’re alone. Which is not as often, because so far, Namjoon was very organised in your schedule and its activities, from dusk till dawn. 

So you used the wall as a walking support, just in case you’d get tired. The wounded side of your abdomen still hurts one you actually start using your muscles and it still does tire you, but you are here, walking towards the study. Alone. 

Lounged behind that monolithic walnut desk, one arm draped across the leather chair, the other lifting a glass of something amber and expensive to lips that told you you're safe here. So why are you not sleeping soundly without him? Why’d you suddenly need him with you?

Jung Hoseok was seated near the fireplace in what looked like a very antique arm chair. The fire at his side cast gold across his jawline and flickered behind his unreadable eyes. The painting above the fireplace caught your attention. Oil on canvas. Cracked with age. No plaque. No signature. But the image was impossible to forget. 

His face, marked by the harsh passage of time, is framed by long, dark hair that cascades like a silken curtain, slightly untamed. The hair, sleek and glossy, flows down to his shoulders, giving him an almost ethereal presence. 

But it's the scar that commands the most attention. Running diagonally across his cheek, the scar is jagged, the kind that tells a story of violence, survival, and regret. Unthinking the scar, Yoongi's resemblance to his grandfather is uncanny.

Namjoon's gaze, no longer directed at the painting, now rests on you, heavy with curiosity but edged with something you can't quite place. 

"Peaches, baby?"

The fire crackles, adding warmth to the otherwise tense room, but it does little to ease the unease curling in your chest.

You turn slightly, finding Namjoon's eyes—dark, steady, unreadable—and you realize you've been standing there, lost in thought, for far too long. Your fingers twitch, betraying the uncertainty running through you, but you swallow it down. Hoseok shifts in his chair, and the sound of the leather wakes you up from your thoughts, there are flames dancing in his eyes, but neither of them speaks until you do.

"Please come to bed." 

The words leave your lips before you can stop them, a plea that hangs heavy in the air between you and Namjoon. Namjoon's gaze softens for a moment, but there's something guarded in the way he watches you, like he's sizing you up, measuring something unsaid. His lips, once set in a calm smile, are now pressed into a line, betraying a tension that you hadn't noticed before.

He doesn't immediately respond. Instead, he sets the glass down, the clink of crystal cutting through the silence, and slowly stands from the chair. The firelight flickers against his features.

"I thought you’d be asleep by now," he says, his voice low, almost too calm, like the storm inside him is just beneath the surface. He glances over at his brother, who remains in his chair, silent, the firelight still dancing in his eyes. Hoseok hasn't moved, but his gaze is sharp, watching the exchange with a quiet intensity that feels like it's been a long time in the making. Was there some prior conversation you were not supposed to hear?

"I couldn't," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "Please, I need you."

The words hang in the air, raw and vulnerable, more of a surrender than a request. Your heart races in your chest, thudding in your ears, and you can feel the pull of the past, of everything unsaid, lingering in the room.

Namjoon's eyes search yours, deep, searching, and for a long moment, it feels like time itself has slowed. The fire crackles again, the only sound in the room. Finally, he takes a step toward you, his voice low and steady. 

"Alright, let’s go, baby." 

The bedroom feels impossibly still, the only sound the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet. The dim glow of the bedside lamp casts long shadows across the room, the warm light making the space feel more intimate, yet heavy with an unspoken tension.

Namjoon moves fluidly, his tall frame casting a shadow against the wall as he reaches for the buttons of his shirt. Each movement is deliberate, methodical, as though he's trying to quiet the storm inside him by focusing on something simple, something mundane. His hands are steady, confident, as he peels the shirt off, revealing the lean, toned muscles of his back, the faint traces of old scars that tell stories of a past he's never fully shared.

You can't help but watch, your gaze following the way his body moves, the fluidity of his movements almost hypnotic. But the silence in the room feels suffocating, and though he doesn't speak, you feel the weight of his thoughts pressing down on you.

Your mind is a thousand miles away, though, not focused on the man standing before you but on something—or someone—else entirely.

"Namjoon-oppa…" Your voice breaks the silence, soft at first, hesitant. You try to swallow the tightness in your throat, but it doesn't quite go away. "I've been thinking about what happened at Anubis."

Namjoon freezes for just a moment, his fingers pausing on the waistband of his pants. His eyes meet yours in the dim light.

"I don't know why... I just... I can't stop wondering if I could've done something differently. If things would have turned out differently if I hadn't—" 

"Peaches." Namjoon cuts you off, his voice low, firm. He doesn't raise it, but the weight of the word still lands heavily in the room. He walks closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, but still threaded with that same heaviness.  His eyes flicker down to your lips, and then back up to your eyes, as if weighing the weight of what he wants to say. 

"No, I just wish you did not—"

"But I did, and I did it to protect you-" his voice dropping even lower, the weight of his emotions seeping through every syllable. 

"But he did no harm apart from a bruise and shady words that hurt my—" 

"He wanted to hurt you—to fucking own you. Sell your body, and whore you around. He was looking at you like a fucking prize, planning to drag you into his brothel—"

"I couldn't let that happen. Not while you were—" he stammered, sorting his thoughts. 

"--you are mine, Y/N," he stares at you as if expecting a reaction. He does not use your birth name very often. Nobody does, as if you were always just Peaches, or Namjoon’s Peaches. When you don't speak up, lost in your thoughts, his hand warm against your cheek, forcing you to look him in the eye.

He doesn't give you time to react, doesn't give you the space to let the words settle, but his eyes never leave yours. 

"Aren't you at least a little bit thankful that I protected you, that I would give you everything?" His voice is low, almost too soft, the weight of his question hanging in the air like a challenge. 

You open your mouth to say something, to argue, to question—but the truth, as much as it stings, sits there in your throat like a weight you can't shift. His gaze flickers, waiting. The silence between you is suffocating, but it's more than just quiet now—it's a turning point, a moment where everything changes.

"Not everything." 

Namjoon's expression hardens immediately, his gaze flickering with a mix of frustration and something darker beneath the surface. His hand lingers against your cheek for a moment longer, his thumb brushing across your skin almost absently. It's as though your words cut deeper than he was ready for, the shift in your tone setting off something in him he hadn't expected.

He steps back slightly, his gaze never leaving yours as his fingers curl into a fist at his side. The space between you feels charged now, filled with the weight of everything left unsaid, everything still hanging in the air between you two.

"You still don't get it, do you?" His voice is softer now, but it still carries an undercurrent of tension, of something he's holding back. "I did what I did because I need you. Because I want you. Because I—"

He pauses, a flicker of vulnerability flashing across his features before he quickly shuts it down.

"I don't wanna argue. I just wanted you to know it still bothers me, especially when Princess talks about Anubis."

"Then don’t listen or think about it. Think of me. Think of us, Peaches."

You try to steady your thoughts, but they keep slipping through your fingers, tangled in the complexity of what's been revealed. Namjoon's words—his need, his want, his silent admission of vulnerability—have a strange effect on you. 

"Guess you're right," you say, your voice steadying, "I don't get it. I don't know how you want me to feel, what you want me to say."

Namjoon's brow furrows slightly, but he doesn't interrupt. He listens, his focus unwavering, as if every word you say is a puzzle piece he's waiting to fit into a larger picture he's been trying to understand.

"Thank you for saving me by blasting his brain out so I could see in my mind for weeks to follow?" you continue, your voice softening with a mix of uncertainty and frustration. "It took a fucking bullet to make me stop envision it."

The tension lingers in the space between you, fragile and raw. You want him to keep talking, to fucking apologise, but part of you already knows that the truth isn't something he can so easily give you, at least not in the way you want it.

Namjoon swallows, his jaw tightening. He takes a small step back, but his eyes don't leave yours.

"I didn't want that for you, Peaches," he mutters, almost to himself, but you hear it, sharp and clear. "I just wanted to keep you. Keep you close. With me." His words drop like stones, heavy and final. "That's the truth."

And you wonder if that's enough—for both of you.

"Well I’m here. What now?"

"You're safe. You're recovering. That's the immediate now. What will be is what we decide when you’re better."

You are here. You are with him. And the path forward, whatever it may be, is a terrifying and undeniable fucking blank canvas.

Bread, Butter, and Bullet Wounds is the next day’s notorious topic over the breakfast table you can finally sit at without wincing loudly. You had very lovely past weeks where days were spent recovering in quiet solitude with occasional bickering about you wanting to do more than just breathe.

The smell of buttered toast mingled with the citrusy bite of mandarin peels. Besides that, the sanctuary always smells like something warm. Woodsmoke. Cardamom. Something human and handmade, despite the place's apparent dark history.

Sunlight filtered through the wide kitchen windows, touching the wooden beams like a blessing. Someone had opened the side door to let the cool mountain breeze drift in.

Princess sat cross-legged at the head of the table, holding a tea mug that read World's Okayest Matriarch. You bet that is a sort of inside joke, the mug must have been gifted to her for pure comedic reasons.

She wore one of Hoseok's sweaters—oversized, hiding her swollen belly, sun-faded, and frayed at the cuffs. He was behind her, humming gently while flipping scrambled eggs with a flick of his wrist. His domesticity was something sacred here, like prayer. Even the skillet seemed to obey him without a hiss of protest.

There is no staff, which is opposed to the history of its place. It only became a practice after the Second World War and not a day sooner. At least that is what Namjoon told you when you wouldn’t stop asking about this place.

You sat beside him, who was attempting to spread cream cheese onto a bagel for you, with all the gentleness of a bear dressing a doll. You don't say anything. You just let the clink of ceramic and the scrape of cutlery fill the spaces between your thoughts.

You could feel his nervous energy radiate like static at times. He was trying. Hard. His fingers twitched near your elbow now and then, like he wanted to touch you but kept thinking better of it. Better to give you space for a while was his new strategy. At last, he realised it. 

"I knew you'd be one of us," Princess says, sipping from her mug without looking at you, "or a goddamn witch."

You blink. "Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying," she continues, casually. "You're not crying, screaming, plotting an escape, hating us all for letting that happen to you. That's kind of rare in our family, Peaches."

"Unlike you, right, babe," Hoseok hums from the stove and gives you what looks like thankful glance. He flips scrambled eggs with a practiced flick and slides toast onto a plate like he's feeding a family, not fugitives. But you are a family, are you not, Peaches?

Princess shrugs, as if that was just a minor pubertal phase for her, but you can feel her eyes settle on you like sunlight through stained glass. 

"I mean, Jimin lost it the first time he got shot. Trashed half the Milwaukee safe house. Taehyung wrote poetry on the walls in his own blood."

"It was beet juice, just a prank, love," Hoseok calls out.

"Still fucking dramatic, showass."

Namjoon chuckles, low and nervous about what is your reaction going to be, then glances your way. 

"What she’s trying to say is you're doing better than any of us did."

And you are. Aren't you? Why exactly are you doing better is just another mystery you will have to add to the list. 

"I’d rather feel everything at once than nothing at all," you admit, murmuring merely to yourself. But these walls have ears, and Namjoon, most of all, listens like it's a language he was born fluent in. He stiffens beside you at the softness in your voice.

"Do you want to talk about it?" His fingers pause mid-air above his mug. You stare at the swirls in your tea for a moment too long. There's a scratch in the ceramic, shaped like a crescent moon. You wonder who dropped it and how come it fell from someone’s hands. You wonder how many people have sat at this table, waiting for grief to arrive like bad weather.

"I don't even know what is wrong with me," you whisper. 

Namjoon hums, nodding like he understands. "Sometimes it doesn't come all at once. Sometimes it drips in, like a leaky faucet. Days, weeks later." He needs to stop reading his books so much when you nap in the afternoons, and so do you, when he works.

Princess leans back, crossing her legs under the table. "Or months. Or when someone accidentally plays the wrong song and suddenly you're on the floor."

"Or peeling an orange," Hoseok adds helpfully.

"That was you, baby," Princess reminds him. "You cried over an orange."

"It was a very emotional orange, and I was very young when that happened" he mutters in his defence. 

You smile despite yourself. It catches you off guard. A tiny thing, crooked and dry. But it's real.

Namjoon shifts a little closer, just enough for his shoulder to brush yours. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to.

Because somehow, in this strange, blood-soaked sanctuary, silence means safety. Banter means healing. Breakfast means you lived.

And maybe surviving doesn't always look like sobbing in the dark.

Maybe it looks like still being able to taste your tea.Maybe it looks like letting someone sit beside you long enough to see the cracks.

You sat across from Yoongi, who was carefully examining the remaining of your stitches that were, per his words, healing rather nicely and quickly over the weeks. His eyes were intent, focused on the healing wound as his fingers gently traced the edges of the thin, ready to be a clean scar. 

"How's it feeling?" Yoongi asked, his voice steady, though there was a hint of concern in his eyes.

"That? Surprisingly fine." You reply, your voice soft but tinged with frustration. Yoongi picks up on that and offers a follow up question, searching for what is wrong. 

"So what is not fine?" Yoongi's brows furrowed slightly, his tone calm but knowing, the quiet authority of someone who had seen too much pain to ignore the things that didn't add up. 

The stitches were healing quickly, as Yoongi had mentioned. The wound wasn't infected. In fact, it felt like things were moving toward a more familiar routine, as if you were slipping back into something you could handle. But the discomfort nagged at you—silent but persistent. The dull ache in the corner of your left eye, the strange heaviness that still clung to your body. You could feel something beneath the surface, like a fracture in the carefully constructed narrative that you had been telling yourself.

"My left eye..." You trailed off, unsure how to explain the sensation that was now a constant companion, that dull, nagging ache that seemed to come and go, always lurking at the edges of your vision. It wasn't a sharp pain, more like a distant pressure, but it was enough to unsettle you.

"Has it been bothering you often?" Yoongi's voice was steady, but you could see the sharpness in his eyes as he continued to observe you. He was processing the information quickly, piecing it together with his usual careful precision.

"From now and than. Comes and goes." You answered, though you didn't feel entirely certain about that. The ache had felt faint at first, but now it was more pronounced. Yet, it still seemed trivial, as if it didn't quite matter enough to dwell on.

His eyes flickered to yours, analyzing the faintest trace of concern in your gaze. 

"It could just be from when you fell down," he said thoughtfully. "The healing process can sometimes cause strange sensations—nerve endings reconnecting, blood flow shifting. You might even be a little sensitive. We’ll check it at my clinic if it won’t stop bothering you, once you all come home,"

But the ache in your eye still felt... wrong. You sigh loudly. Yoongi sensing the undertone, continues to the talk. 

"You've been through a lot, Peaches. Healing isn't linear. And sometimes, it's not the body that takes the longest to heal, but the mind. It may just be psychosomatic." 

"But I’m fine in that part." You furrow your brows and concentrate on buttoning up your black sweater again.

You weren't sure if it was the painkillers still lingering in your system or the general exhaustion from everything you'd been through, but something about the way Yoongi said those words gave you an uncomfortable sense of disconnect, as though you weren't truly present in your own body. As if this is not entirely… you.

"You sure? What about recurring nightmares? The one you told me about back in NYC?"

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you couldn't quite process what he was asking. Your eyes flickered toward him, searching his face for any sign of what he was truly getting at, but his expression remained calm—his gaze steady and unyielding.

"That one did not return since we got here and, uhm.., closed the matter," you echoed softly, biting your bottom lip nervously, eyes glancing at Namjoon. The one with Jinyoung. The one where he is gripping your hand until Namjoon makes his brain go silent with one bullet. 

The conversation was stubbornly never revisited, and the silence between you both stretched on for a week—heavy, suffocating, yet somehow familiar. Neither of you dared to break it, until one day, to your complete surprise, he did.

Kim fucking Namjoon, the one who never backed down, the one who never seemed to care about apologies, spoke the words you never thought you'd hear from him. He apologised.

His voice was quieter than usual, laced with something you couldn't quite place, but there was no denying the sincerity that lingered in his words. He admitted what he had done, how it had weighed on you, how it had affected everything between you.

And for a fleeting moment, the world stopped. Kim Namjoon—your Namjoon—had apologised.

"Look at you guys, learning how to finally communicate." Yoongi provokes. More Namjoon than you and he is met with the longest roll of eyes from him.

You thought back to the nights since you woke up, the heavy weight of sleep that had greeted you each time. There was a quiet stillness to those nights. No vivid dreams, no terrifying scenarios playing out in your mind because when they do you talk and you solve what troubles your mind. Yes, you can certainly communicate now. 

"Otherwise, I haven't had any nightmares, actually. Nor dreams to be honest."

Yoongi's expression didn't change, but you could see the subtle flicker of interest in his eyes, a momentary tension pulling at the corner of his mouth. It was as though he was waiting for you to continue, to say something more. He glanced at Namjoon, leaning against the window's parapet with crossed arms, silently observing. 

"No flashes of memory, unsettling thoughts?"

"From that particular day? Not really." You shook your head, the words catching in your throat as you considered what he was asking. Which is obviously strange.

"Is there something wrong with me?" you asked, the words coming out more chaotically than you intended. Your mind was spinning with thoughts, doubts creeping in.

"Of course not, Peach. It's the usual textbook result of trauma, but it does not have to come to it at all. For some people, it takes time before those memories hit them, if something even triggers them.” Yoongi gave you a small, reassuring smile.He paused, the weight of the unspoken meaning heavy between you. 

"I mean, it did not happen long time ago-"

"Or maybe you are a stronger than that, Peaches." He interrupts you. You knew Yoongi's usual demeanour, calm and careful, yet there was a depth to him now that seemed to dig just a little deeper with every exchange.

You chuckled dryly, trying to push away the odd sense of unease settling in your chest. 

"Maybe," you said, your voice lighter than you felt. "Or maybe I'm just too tired for that too."

Namjoon straightened up from the window, his gaze sharp as it flickered between you and Yoongi.

"That's one way to put it," he said, his voice low, though there was a quiet edge of something unspoken in his words. You looked at him for a moment, noting the familiar intensity in his eyes, a look that seemed to say he knew more than he was letting on. But you didn't push it. Not now. Not when there was something else you wanted from him.

"Either way," Yoongi interjected, his tone shifting back to its usual neutral register, "the fact that you haven't had nightmares yet could be a very good sign. It could be a blessing in disguise."

"Well,-" you clasp your hands together "does that plead my case to Mister Kim so he can stop cooping me inside? Maybe even go back home? Dad is already suspicious about our kind of long sudden vacation." Of course he made you lie to him. But this time, you were not sure yourself whether you wanted your father to know what exactly made your voice numb in the phone.

Yoongi's gaze shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of concern and caution. "You're healing," he said carefully, again, "it might feel like you're ready, but your body needs a bit more time to adjust. Away from what a hellhole is New York now."

You let out a soft sigh, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. It wasn't that you didn't understand the need for recovery, but the sense of being confined was starting to eat at you. The walls, the silence, the constant stillness—it was too much. You needed to break free, even if just for a little while.

"I get that," you replied, your voice quieter now, "but it feels like I've been stuck in here forever. Can’t really say I will run a marathon tomorrow but I can walk just fine-" You glanced toward the window, the view outside offering only a glimpse of the world beyond your four walls. 

"I just need a change of pace."

Namjoon shifted, his posture remaining rigid, yet you could see the slight tension in his jaw. "And what exactly do you have in mind?" His tone was even, though there was a hint of skepticism there—an edge of caution that you were beginning to recognize.

Before you can cramble any suggestion that would get you out of this beautiful historical hanok and its garden to different parts of the valley, Yoongi speaks. 

"Maybe you could help the healing with the hot spring that is in the valley." 

"There is a hot spring?" You question. Not so surprised but it seems Namjoon is, mainly because Yoongi even suggested such. 

Yoongi's lips twitched at the edge of a small smile, almost like he knew the reaction it would elicit. "Yes, there's a natural thermal spring not far from here," he said, his tone casual, though there was an undertone of something more—something you couldn't quite place. "My grandmama used to believe in the healing properties of nature. The warm water might soothe your muscles and calm any tension you're feeling. Nature has a way of helping more than just the body." 

You light up at the thought of soaking your limbs in the hot water. But Yoongi here, just gave you an excellent idea that he, as a doctor, would never approve of. 

"Jesus Christ, Yoongi, why-" Namjoon's voice had a quiet edge to it, as if the idea of you stepping outside—of venturing anywhere—was a risk he wasn't ready to entertain. 

"You'll thank me later, brother."

Tall, slender bamboo swayed at the edges, their hollow trunks knocking together gently with each passing breeze. Beyond them, ancient pines and gnarled persimmon trees reached toward the sky, their dark silhouettes cutting into the mist-heavy air. 

The water was crystal-clear, tinted slightly blue-green, fed by a hot stream seeping from the volcanic heart of the mountains beyond. Steam rose steadily, curling through the branches overhead and carrying the crisp, earthy scent of pine needles, wild mugwort, and damp earth. 

"Hyung said, you should not be there for too long though-" Namjoon sat down at the nearby bench that leaned against the oldest hanok in the village. The adidas hoodie that covered the Greek god's body he acquired over the years spent in the gym, looked rather ambivalent within such a historical setting.

"I'm surprised you are not carrying me inside yourself," You walk towards the steaming pond, trying to do it as fast as you can, but who are we to lie to right? The injury slows you down, otherwise, you'd already be inside, warming your limbs. The heat radiating from the pond makes the whole place very warm in colder weather.

"Well don't make me pull you out of there, Peaches." 

You grinned to yourself, stepping closer to the water. Oh, you will want me there Mister Kim. Everything according to the plan.

The heat kissed your toes first, then your calves. Or you are determined to show him just how much he wants to pull you out and do those unholy things he whispered in your ear in the church's restroom.

You breathe out, taking up the courage to do this. This time, its your turn to seduce him. Get him a taste of you before you take it away from him to demand even more. You will be in control of your life, not him. 

You undo your robe that hugged your figure and let it pool on the stones behind you. 

Namjoon shifted on the bench. You heard it — the soft creak of old wood, the rustle of fabric — but you didn't look at him. Not yet. You even swear you heard him gulp down and let out husk breath. You dipped lower, the water claiming your utterly naked body inch by inch. The only thing that adored you was the waterproof square bandage Yoongi gave you before you went here. Just in case.

"Peaches-" he calls in a low voice, like it was costing him to hold back. 

You didn't answer.

Instead, you sank deeper into the spring, the water lapping just at the swell of your chest, steam curling around you like silk. Your hair clung damply to your shoulders, your skin flushed from the heat, from the boldness flooding your veins. 

That is when you slowly turn to face him, your naked breasts splayed out right above the surface for him to salivate over.

The mist blurred everything but you knew — you knew — he was watching the way the droplets slid down your bare skin, the way the water kissed and caressed what he wasn't allowed to touch. Not until you asked him to.

The urge to shiver under that gaze, to call him to you, was almost unbearable.

Almost.

You slowly step deeper to submerge your breasts under water, your eyes never leaving his when he halts your steps.

"Stay right there," Namjoon growled — the edge of command in his voice, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. His hands flexed at his knees, the hoodie now nothing more than a poor excuse for armour he was quickly losing. He wanted to take a mental picture. To keep you in his mind like this.

The heat had your cheeks pink, your eyes bright — or maybe it was the thrill of it, the way your heart hammered against your ribs in defiance.

"You coming?" you whispered, just loud enough for the low breeze to catch it and carry it to him.

Namjoon stood so fast that the bench groaned in protest.

He didn't answer.

He didn't have to. The look in his eyes said it all — you had just started a game you might not win. Or this is precisely the step you need to take to win later.

Then, slowly — so damn slowly — he reached for the zipper of his hoodie.

The metallic slide of it lowering was deafening in the hush of the night.

You tipped your chin up, pretending to look unimpressed, even as your pulse skittered under your skin. Your fingers traced idle patterns across the water's surface, pretending you weren't holding your breath with every inch of skin he revealed.

He peeled the hoodie off and tossed it to the bench behind him. The black t-shirt underneath clung to him like a second skin, muscles shifting under the fabric as he moved — languid, unhurried. His hands slipped down next, teasing the waistband of his sweatpants, just enough to make you ache with anticipation.

But then—

He stopped.

Stood there. Watching you.

Waiting. For you to invite him. 

"Go on." The words left your lips soft, almost careless — but you both knew it cost you. A thread you held between your fingers, tugging just enough to bring him closer without giving away the whole game. 

It would be a fucking sin not to climb this man when you have the chance, to take control of him and your said life together all at once.

Namjoon's mouth twitched at the corner — not a smile, not really. Something sharper.

He liked being told suddenly.

Yet, he loved being dared more.

With a slow roll of his shoulders, he slipped the T´t-shirt over his head, dragging it off in a way that felt obscene in its patience. The mist clung to his bare skin immediately, making him look like something carved out of the mountains themselves

Namjoon stepped forward, toeing off his sweatpants without ceremony, leaving him in the dark stretch of klein boxer briefs that did little — nothing — to hide the fact that you had his full attention. 

"You are still healing." 

The words came from him like a warning, a reminder, but they were layered with something more — something that made your pulse spike. His gaze, dark and heavy, flicked to the bandage still wrapped carefully around your side, then back to your eyes.

It was like he was giving you an out, a way to back down.

Your fingers, damp from the water's surface, traced the edge of your collarbone, then slid deliberately lower, dipping beneath the water just far enough for him to see, but not enough to touch. You let the silence stretch between you, filled only by the distant crackle of leaves and the steam curling up into the air.

"Then you should be extra gentle this time." 

You knew the weight of your words — knew the invitation was laced with something deeper, something that could make him snap. But you didn't care. The way the tension stretched between you, thick like the fog around the spring, was intoxicating.

Namjoon's eyes darkened further, a flicker of something dangerous and hungry flashing across his face, but he didn't move. Not yet. He stood there, the distance between you shrinking with every second, and it was as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you — the water, the mist, the beat of your hearts, all hanging in the balance.

"Gentle?" His voice was a low rasp, like he was holding himself back with everything he had. "Is that what my baby wants?"

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, you let the question hang there, like a challenge. He didn't get to decide yet. You did. Looking at him like this, you wish he could absolutely wreck you.

"Can your ego take me being in control?" you ask, your voice a soft purr. You can see the way your words affect him, the way his body tenses, his muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. 

You pulled your legs just a little higher in the water, shifting your weight, letting him see the curves of your body more clearly. Your eyes never left his, and the way he watched you — the way his breath hitched in his throat — made the air between you feel like it was on fire.

Then, as though on instinct, Namjoon took a step forward. His hand shot out, almost jerking with urgency, but he stopped just short of touching you. The tension coiled tighter, thick enough to snap. His fingers were tracing the edge of your collarbone.

"I fantasise about it every night."  

Namjoon's voice, rough and low, felt like a confession — a brutal truth wrapped in desire.

A provocation, laid bare between you two in the stillness of the spring. His fingers brushed the edge of your collarbone again, just barely skimming your skin, and you couldn't hold back the shiver that ran through you.

You wanted him — wanted him to take you, to do everything he'd fantasised about. But you cannot. Not like that anyway. Though no one said you won't try. Your palm slipped down under the water to find his manhood when he was being hesitant to show him you want this. You hook your finger to slowly pull down his boxers and take wrap your fingers around the shaft of his thick length as is if you've done this million times before, forgetting this might be your first time together. If you don’t count your little church’s restroom rendezvous. 

You stroke him once, twice, and listen to his fastening heartbeat and ragged breathing. You mouth closes around one of his nipples and with your eyes looking up at his clenched jaw your teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, you bite down a little, pulling your head back.

Namjoon's body tenses, his hands fisting at his sides as if he's holding himself back with everything he has. You can see the struggle within him, the battle between his desire to take control and his need to please you. And you smile, knowing that you've won this round. 

"This is when I should ask you how you want me." You're giving him a choice, a chance to express his desires, to tell you exactly what he wants.

Before you tell him what you want.

Namjoon's eyes darken, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps while you stroke his cock. 

"Tell me," you whisper, your voice a low, seductive invitation. "Tell me what you want, oppa," you play with the word in your mouth. You have him exactly where you want him. Submissive. Fucking obedient.  

He swallows hard, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. His eyes search yours, as if looking for an answer, for permission. And when he finally speaks, his voice is a low, hoarse rasp, barely more than a whisper.

"I want you to ride me, love" he confesses, his eyes never leaving yours. "I want to feel you on top of me. I want to watch you take your pleasure from me."

His words send a jolt of desire straight to your core, the image of you straddling him, taking him deep inside you, overwhelming your senses. You can feel the heat between your legs, the wetness that's building with each passing second.

"Hmm," you hum, pushing him to the shallower parts of the pond to lean against the rocks whilst you come to carefully straddle him, your knees on either side of his hips, your body poised above his. Thanking the painkillers and the warm water soothing your moves. You might feel it later, but now, now you don’t care whether it will hurt after. It is worth the pain. 

You can feel the heat of him, the hard length of his cock pressing against your inner thigh. You lean in, your lips brushing against his, a soft, teasing kiss. He groans, his hands coming up to grip your hips, but you pull back, a wicked smile on your lips.

You smile, a slow, seductive curve of your lips. "You think you've been good enough for me to ride you?" Your eyes lock onto his, the challenge clear. You want to hear him beg, to see him struggle with the desire to take control but ultimately submit to your will. 

He groans, his head falling back, his body tense with need. 

You reach down again, your hand wrapping around his cock again, stroking him slowly, deliberately. He groans, his hips jerking upwards, seeking more friction, more pressure. But you deny him, your touch light and teasing, driving him wild with need.

You position yourself above him, your knees on either side of his hips, your body poised to take him. But instead of lowering yourself onto him, you reach down, your fingers finding your own wetness, spreading it over your pussy lips, coating his cock in your desire. You stroke him, your hand moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm, your eyes locked on his, watching his reaction.

You can see the struggle within him, the battle between his desire to take control and his need to let you have your way. You sit down while his length fills the space in between your swollen lips and tease him with grinding yourself on him. He groans, his head falling back and his hands fall to hug your hips and guide your movements to coat his cock with your wetness. You feel his tip trying to slip in, while you hump him. The friction driving you both wild with need. You can feel the heat of him, the hardness of his cock, the wetness of cunt, making the movement smooth and delicious.

"What a pretty sight you are, Mister Kim."

The atmosphere is electric, the tension between you and Namjoon palpable as you tease and provoke him, pushing him to the brink of his control.

You increase the pace of your grinding, your body moving faster, the friction more intense. He lays his big warm hands on your hips to help you move so you won’t strain yourself more than you should. But the both of you know, you will definitely get more than one painkiller this night. The water around you splashes gently, the sounds of your moans and cries mingling with the distant crackle of leaves and the soft lapping of water against the rocks. The pleasure builds, a coil of heat in your belly, threatening to explode, to consume you both in a shower of ecstasy and release.

You lean in, your lips brushing against his ear, your breath hot on his skin. "Do you like this, Mister Kim?" you whisper, your voice a low, seductive invitation.

"Fuck, baby." He moans, and squeezes your hips a bit harder. Not enough to make them bruise. He'll do that once you are completely healed. 

"That's not a proper answer, Mister Kim. Is this how you treat your fiancée?" He groans at your words, his body tensing, his hips jerking upwards, meeting your movements, matching your rhythm, your passion. 

"Sincere apologies Misses Kim" he grits out, his voice hoarse with desire. "God, yes, I fucking love it. Don't stop. Let me in-" 

And you don't. You can't. Even though the pleasure is too intense, the need too great. You continue to grind against him. But you're not ready to give him what he wants just yet. You want to tease him, to push him to the brink of madness before you finally give in and take him. You slow down your movements.

"Future Misses Kim would love to discuss what happens when we return to New York, Mister Kim." His hips jerking upwards in response, seeking more friction, more pressure.

"Fuck, now? You want to have this conversation now, baby?" 

You could see his muscles tense, his body a momentary statue of restraint, as though trying to keep himself in check. But you both knew that this game you were playing was reaching its breaking point.

"If you want me to sink on your thick cock in the next few minutes and ride you, yes, we will have that conversation now." Namjoon raised an eyebrow, but let you still grind against him painfully slow. 

"Is that so?" His voice was low, carrying an edge of both amusement and something darker. "And what is there to discuss, Misses Kim?" 

You tilted your head, the spark of mischief lighting your eyes. "Well, for starters, I'd like to have something to do, like an actual occupation,-"

"Absolutely not." He interjects and you still your movements upon which he hisses, signalling his disapproval. Guess you have to break him more. 

"Oh?" you lift yourself a little, just enough to guide the tip of his cock inside your warm pulsating cunt. He closes his eyes tightly, awaiting the heat of you when you pull him out and let his cock slap his stomach again. 

"Hmm, then I guess, we won't play Mister Kim." You teased, your voice dropping to a more hushed, almost dangerous whisper. He growls. Namjoon's jaw tightens, the muscles flexing beneath his skin.

"Why? You don't need to work-"

"Oh I know I don't-" 

"So?" he said, his voice gravelly with the simmering tension between you two "it's not safe for you now, and definitely not in Anubis, you’re to be my wife not a-" 

His fingers twitched at his sides, clearly battling the urge to touch you, to pull you closer. But he was waiting. Watching. Waiting for you to make the next move, like a predator assessing its prey when you slapped his hands away. 

"Then make sure its safe, Mister Kim, or I will never sink down to my knees and wrap my plump limps around your thick cock again, or guide you to my cunt so you can fill me over and over again until I beg you to fuck me harder" you trace your hand up his muscular body and envelope his throat, pressing with just the right pressure. You feel him gulp down, listening to your words. 

"Nor I will let you coat every one of your favourite spots on my body with your cum," you whisper, your voice a low, sultry promise.

You lean in, your lips brushing against his ear, your breath hot on his skin. "Do you understand, Mister Kim?" you whisper, your voice a low, dangerous purr. "Do you understand what I want? What do I need?"

"Fuck me, baby, please, fuck me." 

"Say yes to working first."

He hesitates for a second, pressing his lips tightly together, thinking fast. But the way you feel just spreading your juices around his manhood, teasing every inch, makes him ache for you. Ache for this to finally happen and finish what you started back in the church’s restroom.

"Fuck, okay, we'll think of something." You can see how his muscles coil and his fists clench at his sides as he fights to hold back, to let you set the pace, to give you the control you crave.

You position yourself above him with a smile, your body poised to take him. And this time, you don't tease. This time, you take what you want, what you need. You lower yourself onto him, your body impaling itself on his cock, taking him deep inside you in one swift, delicious movement.

"Fucking hell-" he moans loudly, throwing his head back, savouring every moment. And you smile and smile and smile and smile. A satisfied, triumphant smile on your face, as you begin to move, your hips rolling, your body taking him deep and hard, riding him with a passion and intensity that leaves you both breathless and desperate for more. 

The pleasure builds, a coil of heat in your belly, threatening to explode, to consume you both in a shower of ecstasy and release. But you're not ready to give in just yet.

"Isn't it nice when we find mutual ground, Mister Kim?" 

You ask, your voice a low, seductive whisper. Your eyes lock onto his, the challenge and invitation clear. You want him to acknowledge the power dynamic between you, to see the mutual desire and need that's consuming you both.

He groans, his body tensing, his hips jerking upwards, meeting your movements, matching your rhythm, your passion. "Yes," he admits, his voice gravelly with desire. "It's fucking incredible."

"What did you say back then?-" You apply a bit more of pressure to his throat, and you're certain he only ever sees you.

"That I'm something you can sin for?" He grunts, hearing those words coming from your lips, and jerks his hips up again and again and again.

You smile, satisfied with his response. You lean in, your lips brushing against his ear, your breath hot on his skin. "See how good we are together when you leave the bible back in the church." 

You lean in, your lips brushing against his, your tongue invading his mouth, your teeth nipping at his lip. He groans, his body tensing, his hips jerking upwards, meeting your thrusts, matching your rhythm, your passion. Still carefully to not be too rough and he makes a quick mental note to check the remaining of your stitches once you two finish.

He groans, his hips jerking upwards to meet your thrusts, his body tense with the effort of holding back.

"You drive me fucking crazy, always have."

You know you have him right where you want him—on the edge of control, desperate for your touch, your approval, your pleasure. You increase the pace of your movements.

The sounds of your moans and cries filling the air, mingling with his grunts and groans.

"Let go for me, love." 

He is snapping his hips in unison with yours to bring you both over the edge of ecstasy. You can feel it, the edge of the precipice, just within reach. 

"Yes, fuck-" he grits out, his voice hoarse with desire.

And then, with a cry that's torn from his very own soul, he comes, your body convulsing, your inner muscles clenching around him, milking him, drawing his release from him. He groans, his body tensing, his hips still jerking upwards, his cock pulsing inside you as he spills his seed, his release triggering your own, sending you spiralling over the edge, into the abyss of pleasure and ecstasy. 

You collapse onto him, your body slick with sweat, your breath coming in ragged gasps. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his heartbeat matching your own, the steady rhythm a soothing lullaby in the aftermath of your passion.

"I love you so fucking much,-" he says while you both pant, you on top of his chest and he under you. 

Namjoon quickly checks the side that has been heeling for a while and when he does not feel any sort of sign that you have reopened the remaining stitches, he places the bandage back.

"-fucking me so good like that." He praises you while he caresses your blonde locks. You smile again. You won this time.If you are to choose him too, you are doing so on your fucking terms.

INTERLOGUE A

"Fucking apologise, you moron." 

Namjoon doesn't flinch when she says it nor his brother, who founds this way too amusing. She's leaning against the doorframe of the study that previously belonged to Yoongi’s grandfather, arms crossed, eyes burning. There's no bite in her voice—just a calm, clinical fury that cuts sharper than any yell could.

Namjoon doesn't look up right away. His hand is curled around a glass of something strong, untouched, yet again. He knows she won't leave until she's finished. That’s the way her mind works. But more important, he knows she's right.

"You didn't protect her, Joon. You possessed her. You made a decision that wasn't yours to make and wrapped it in some savior complex so you could sleep at night, because you are all just bunch of psychos who can’t ask women on normal dates." 

“Auch, love.” Hoseok pretends to clutch his heart. Psychopaths indeed. 

Namjoon stands, finally meeting her gaze. "You weren't there. You didn't see how he looked at her. Like she was already his. Like he was just waiting for the right moment to snatch her into that hellhole of a brothel." 

Princess tilted her head, lips pressed tight with bitter amusement.

"He had no fucking brothel, you ass. It was a bar just like Anubis. He flirted like fucking drunk he was, and yeah, crossed a line, but he wasn't plotting to fucking sell her or her body. You wanted him gone because you wanted his turf, and because he was who he was, Namjoon." 

He stiffens. "That's not true."

Princess doesn't blink. Doesn't move. Her words hang in the air like smoke—thick, toxic, impossible to ignore.

"No?" she says, pushing off the doorframe with the lazy grace of someone who's already won the argument. "Then why was your cleanup crew already circling my bar that night, huh?" 

Namjoon's jaw clenches. The glass in his hand creaks beneath his grip.

"I killed him because he touched what's mine."

"You killed him because it was convenient. Because he gave you the perfect excuse when he touched her. When he disrespected her, sure—but you didn't do it only for her. You did it to send a message."

He doesn't answer. Can't.

"She thinks you lost control—just this once. But it wasn't just rage, Joon. It was strategy, and now both Luen brothers are rotting five feet underground—"

"—while the third one will try to annihilate us–"

Namjoon finally breathes, his voice low, as if tasting the weight of the truth.

"—and we just started another war."

.

.

.

.

.

.

INTERLOGUE B

"Do it, please," Namjoon begs, choking on his own words with red-rimmed teary eyes. 

Yoongi says nothing. But his throat bobs, and his eyes flick towards his OR, where she lays, sedated and stitched up. He stands near a cabinet filled with the patient files of all the family members, her in his hands. The silence between them is not companionable, it is waiting to be broken. 

What is the younger male asking for is reserved for the last resort only. He worked hard to push our Seokjin’s grandad immoral practices out.

"I can dodge any bullet but not the one coming from her."

Namjoon wipes his face, the tears hot against his chilled skin. His shoulders heave, his frame stiff as though the weight of what he is asking him for breaks his bones from the inside out.  

"I swear, Yoongi, please–" the older male jaw tightens. He looks down at the file in his hand again. At her warm eyes, bright smile, and immense beauty. A note scrawled beside her intake form in his own handwriting, ‘ptsd symptoms, monitor for fragmentation.’

"You’ve done it before and it worked out so well–"

Yoongi’s expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes does. Maybe, he is not a good man after all. Nor he never was. None of them is.

"You remember what doctor Kim used to say?–"

Yoongi would give anything for this scenario to not end their way this time. Because she is just that loved in this family, cherished and admired. Nobody, however, just how many different sleeping pills Yoongi prescribed to her, and this accident made sure she will never sleep again if he won’t help her. At least, that’s what Namjoon is sure of. The image of her limp after a rage attack when he plunged her with the syringe, listening to her mumbling that she’d never forgive his brother, still plays in his mind.

"Silence is salvation. The mind, once quieted, cannot scream."

𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝

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Don't be a silent reader, let's be friends chummers! ♥

lots of love, p.

[gingerteafairy]

𝑬𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝑪𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑫𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏

"Selfish, profane, or sinful—what does it matter? This passion consumes me, and I welcome it. She has my heart entirely, and she may do with it as she pleases. Haunt me if that is her wish. I ask only to feel her presence."

tags n warnings: smut/mdni. friedrich harding x reader, wife!fem!reader, obsession, ghost!reader, ghost sex, heavy angst, vampirism, language, death, blood, devotion, praise kink, fingering, oral, piv. word count: 5k

@ikkyfics thank you for making me post this and not hiding it on my virtual shelf, you deserve the world <3 masterlist

Friedrich Harding’s anguished cries tore through the air, echoing across the desolate countryside. The sound was primal, raw—a lament that seemed to pierce even the heavens. Strong hands gripped his arms, restraining him as he thrashed against them, desperate to reach the coffin that housed his beloved wife. His wife. The one who had once been his anchor in a chaotic world. But those who truly knew Friedrich understood a deeper truth—his devotion to her paled in comparison to his adoration for you. For you, he had defied every societal expectation, every unwritten rule. Now, his world lay shattered before him.

Despite the lingering fear of the plague that had claimed her, he yearned to hold her one last time, to press her lifeless form against his chest and plead for the impossible.

“Friedrich, stop this madness!” Sievers barked, his voice tinged with both command and desperation as he struggled to contain the grieving man. Harding’s fists swung wildly, his face twisted in despair. The crowd watched in stunned silence, their expressions a mixture of pity and disdain. Mothers shielded their children’s eyes from the spectacle, while fathers stood grim-faced, their silence betraying their discomfort. Children whispered questions to their parents, too young to grasp the depth of the tragedy unfolding before them.

“Release me! I command you to release me!” Friedrich roared, his voice a storm of grief, his blue eyes brimming with tears that fell freely down his face.

“Friedrich, enough!” Hutter pleaded, his grip tightening as he tried to restrain his friend. “This will not bring her back! You must—”

“No!” Harding’s voice cracked as he wrenched free from their grasp, his tear-streaked face contorted in anguish as he turned to Thomas. “She was everything, Thomas! Everything I had. God help me, what am I to do now? What is left of me? Damnation! Damnation upon this cruel fate!”

He collapsed to the ground, his body trembling as he crawled toward the coffin, his shaking hands reaching for the cold wood that separated him from her. But Thomas intervened, pulling him back into a firm embrace.

“Friedrich,” Thomas murmured, his voice soft yet insistent, “you must find strength. Look at me. Look at me.”

Thomas cupped Friedrich’s face, his hands rough and calloused, yet gentle as they held the face of a man utterly undone. The dark hollows under Harding’s eyes spoke of sleepless nights, of relentless grief that gnawed at his very soul.

“I can’t, Thomas,” Friedrich whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. “She was my life. How can I go on living when my heart is buried with her?”

“Friedrich,” Sievers began, stepping forward cautiously, “I did not know your wife well, but I am certain she would have wanted you to find happiness again. Life does not end here. One day, you may find love again—”

The doctor’s words were cut short by a vicious punch that sent him stumbling backward. In a flash, Friedrich was upon him, gripping his collar with a ferocity that belied his weakened state.

“Curse you, Sievers,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice trembling with fury. “How dare you speak of love to a man who no longer has a heart? Insolent doctor! You know nothing of my torment.”

Thomas and the others rushed forward, pulling Friedrich away as he sagged against them, his strength finally failing. His body, ravaged by exhaustion and starvation, could fight no longer.

By the time they returned to his estate, Friedrich was a shadow of himself. He sat in silence, his eyes empty, his face devoid of the fire that had once animated it. He stared into the void as though nothing in the world could reach him now. Even if the earth had split open before him, he would not have flinched. He was a man as dead as his wife, his soul entombed alongside hers.

"Promise me you'll be well," Thomas pleaded as he stepped down from the carriage, his voice wavering as he struggled to maintain his composure. His eyes, heavy with worry, searched his friend’s hollowed face. "Promise me you'll eat, care for yourself. Do not fade away, Friedrich."

Harding did not respond. He merely turned, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of his grief, and walked toward the door of his home. There was only one solace left to him—the fragile hope of seeing you in his dreams. To escape into a world where you were still alive: radiant, healthy, untouched by the horrors of the plague. There, you would be free, unburdened by the cruel fate that had stolen you away.

Later, cradling a glass of brandy in trembling hands, Friedrich lay upon his bed. The liquor did little to dull the sharp edges of his sorrow. His body shook with silent sobs as he closed his eyes, desperate to summon even the faintest memory of you—your touch, your voice, a fleeting whisper of your essence.

A scream tore through the silence.

He woke with a jolt, his sweat-soaked hair clinging to his brow, his breath hitching in panic. The room spun around him, and then he saw you.

You stood beside the bed, bathed in pale moonlight that streamed through the window. The white gown he had chosen for your burial clung to your form, pristine and ethereal. You were unblemished, untouched by disease, impossibly beautiful—more luminous than you had ever been in life. To him, you were divine, a vision too perfect to be real.

For a moment, he was paralyzed. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Fear and longing warred within him. If he moved, if he dared to reach for you, would you vanish? Was this some cruel trick of his shattered mind?

"My heart," you whispered, the words ghosting across the room.

Before he could react, you faded into the shadows, dissolving into the night as though you had never been there.

Friedrich collapsed onto the mattress, his body wracked with uncontrollable tremors. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as a guttural, muffled scream tore from his throat, buried into the pillow to escape the ears of the empty house. The pain was unbearable, clawing at his soul, leaving him raw and broken.

The next morning, he awoke to frantic knocking at the door. The sun was high, its rays spilling harshly through the curtains, though it brought no warmth to the bleakness inside him. Disheveled and barely able to stand, Friedrich stumbled toward the door.

Thomas stood there, his face pale and drawn, his eyes wide with dread.

"Friedrich. This is... it’s terrible," Thomas choked out, his voice trembling as his fingers combed through his disordered hair.

"What has happened, Thomas?" Friedrich demanded, though his voice was hoarse and distant, his mind still clouded by the haunting vision of you.

"Sievers," Thomas whispered, his hand instinctively covering his mouth as if to trap the horrifying words before they could escape.

"What about Sievers? Speak plainly!" Friedrich snapped, irritation flaring as the ache in his head throbbed from the brandy. "Thomas, what is it?"

Thomas hesitated, his voice low and filled with a grim finality. "Sievers is dead. He was found this morning... his chest torn open. His heart—" Thomas paused, his voice cracking. "His heart was removed."

The words struck Friedrich like a physical blow. He stumbled back, collapsing into the armchair behind him. His hands trembled as he pressed them to his temples. Memories of the night before flooded his mind, your whisper echoing like a ghostly refrain.

“My heart.”

It couldn’t be real. It was madness, surely. Yet the coincidence was too stark, too chilling to dismiss. His thoughts spiraled. Could it have been you? No. Impossible. And yet... Sievers had spoken of finding another, dared to suggest that love could replace the irreplaceable. Perhaps this was divine retribution—or something darker.

"Friedrich! Friedrich!" Thomas’s urgent voice pulled him from his reverie. The friend’s hands gripped his shoulders, shaking him gently as if to rouse him from the stupor.

Friedrich’s eyes cleared, a strange light igniting within them. He rose abruptly, pacing with a frenetic energy that had been absent for days.

"Call Von Franz," he muttered, his voice low but commanding.

"What?" Thomas blinked, taken aback by the unexpected request.

"Von Franz," Friedrich repeated, his tone sharper, almost desperate. "Summon him at once. That lunatic priest may know something—or I may be mad to even consider it. But summon him, Thomas!"

Without waiting for a reply, Friedrich strode toward his room, his steps hurried and unsteady. He needed to prepare. If there was even the faintest chance that Von Franz held the answers to this nightmare, Friedrich would face him. Hatred or no, he would endure anything to uncover the truth.

He stared at himself in the mirror, his hollow eyes scanning the face that no longer felt like his own. With deliberate precision, he splashed cold water on his face, the droplets clinging to his skin as if they could wash away his torment. A smile curled on his lips, unnatural, strained—then erupted into a jagged, manic laugh. His reflection in the mirror mocked him, a fractured visage of sanity, twisted by grief.

"Ah, my love," he murmured, his voice trembling as his fingers brushed the surface of the mirror, tracing a line over his own reflection. "You change me, even in death." His hand fell to his chest, clutching at the fabric of his coat as though he could rip his own heart out. "My heart… It belongs to you, always."

With newfound resolve, Friedrich shed his clothes, stepping into a bath as if it were a sacred rite. The water lapped at his skin, cleansing not only his body but the remnants of his despair. He emerged renewed, obsessed, his every movement deliberate as he trimmed his beard and dressed himself in his finest attire. His appearance was immaculate, a mirror of the man he had been on his wedding day.

When Von Franz arrived at the residence, the pastor, startled by Friedrich’s transformation, dropped his glass of wine. The shards scattered across the floor, but Von Franz’s gaze remained fixed on the man before him, his face pale as though he were staring at a ghost.

"By night, I sought him whom my soul loves," the pastor recited, his voice trembling with unease. "I sought him, but I found him not. I will rise now and go about the city, in the streets and in the squares; I will seek him whom my soul loves. I sought him, but I found him not."

The verses fell from Von Franz’s lips as if they were a prophecy, words carried by something beyond him. Friedrich stood still, each syllable piercing him like a dagger, his jaw tightening as the pastor's voice resonated deep within his chest.

"I must tell you something," Friedrich began, his voice low, commanding the attention of both Von Franz and Thomas. They moved cautiously toward the table where candles flickered, casting restless shadows in the dimly lit room. The once-bustling household was eerily quiet, the absence of servants amplifying the oppressive atmosphere.

Von Franz broke the silence, his voice a mix of awe and warning. "Your devotion echoes through eternity, Herr Friedrich." He studied the man before him, a shadow of the grieving figure from the day before, now alight with a dangerous fervor. "But it is selfish."

"Let it be," Friedrich replied sharply, striking the table with his fist before withdrawing his hand to retrieve a cigar from his coat. Lighting it with a flick of his lighter, he took a slow drag, the smoke curling around him as he spoke again. His tone softened, but his determination was unyielding. "Selfish, profane, or sinful—what does it matter? This passion consumes me, and I welcome it. She has my heart entirely, and she may do with it as she pleases. Haunt me if that is her wish. I ask only to feel her presence."

Von Franz’s voice grew urgent, his hands pressing against the table as though he could anchor himself to reality. "This is perilous, Herr Friedrich. You toy with forces beyond comprehension. Death is the final vow—'til death do you part.' To defy it…"

Friedrich interrupted with a bitter laugh, his eyes narrowing as he leaned back in his chair. "Something as absurd as death cannot separate me from my beloved." He exhaled a stream of smoke, his head tilting back as he closed his eyes. The faintest sensation brushed against his chest—soft, velvety, unmistakable. His breath hitched. "Ah, my love… Do you approve of my words?"

Von Franz stumbled backward, his wide eyes fixed on Friedrich as the air around him grew thick and heavy. He reached for Thomas, pulling the young man close as they both watched in horror.

“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine. Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth, therefore do the virgins love thee.” Your haunting voice tantalized Von Franz and Thoma’s ears, but delighted your beloved ones, hearing every word slipping from your icy and dry lips, rough against the warm soft cheek of him. 

From the shifting shadows, your form began to materialize. Von Franz’s voice faltered, barely audible. "Impressive…" he muttered, though his face betrayed the terror rising within him.

Thomas’s mouth fell open, his voice shaking. "This… this cannot be real."

His words trailed off as your ethereal hands appeared, their ghostly outline pressing gently against Friedrich’s chest. His head fell back further, his body convulsing with an eerie ecstasy.

Von Franz’s composure broke entirely. He yanked Thomas’s arm, dragging him toward the door. "We must leave. Now!" he hissed, his voice frantic. "If you wish to keep your heart beating in your chest, boy, then we must flee this place!"

Friedrich's grin turned wickedly amused as he closed the space between you intentionally this time. “Oh, my love. Be careful what you wish for.”

“I never play when it comes to what I want,” he muttered, swallowing hard as your fingers curled slightly into the fabric before reaching his arms. “And I want you, my muse.”

As he spoke, his eyes darkened, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face before he regained control. “You have something I've been searching for and found in you” he continued, as if sensing his sudden vulnerability. He placed his hand on your waist with a delicate yet firm grip, guiding you into a slow, intimate dance across the room. “Something to wish for. You made me feel something…”

His movements were measured and graceful, leading you effortlessly as if he already knew every step of the dance. “Something?”

“Passion.”

Your hand seemed to tremble. For the first time, you felt like your words ran away from your thoughts. Something unexpected in your movement as you gently lifted back up. “You're not sure of what you're saying, Friedrich. I don't…”

"If you don't want this," Friedrich cut, swallowing hard, navigating the labyrinth of his own courage, "then why does your body say otherwise?"

"I’ve learned not to trust what my body says," you replied, but your wrist didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned in, your fingers brushing the stray strands from his face with a tenderness that belied your words.

"Then listen to mine," Friedrich urged, stepping closer, pressing your hand against his chest. His heart raced beneath your touch, a frantic rhythm betraying the calm he tried to maintain.

There was something about Friedrich Harding—a tempestuous allure that made falling for him feel as deep as the ocean and as electrifying as the crackle of thunder before a storm.

His fingers lingered at the small of your back, pulling you closer to him, the heat of his touch sending an unspoken message straight to your heart. “You’re my wife, my woman, the only one I love. God spare me from my own sinful behavior through this sick pleasure.” 

“Would love be a pleasure?” you asked, your voice soft as your eyes locked with his. He studied your face for a moment before speaking.

“Perhaps the worst of them,” he admitted, turning his attention back to the fire’s flickering light. “I’ve avoided love at all costs since the last time I fell. And then you came along—wild, untamed, like the very flames in this hearth. I knew getting close to you wouldn’t end well for my… redemption.”

“Redemption?” you echoed.

“Indeed,” he murmured, leaning toward you, supported by his arm. “But it seems I’ve never learned to control myself when it comes to love. Lust, perhaps, but passion—grand, classic, all-consuming passion—never. You're my everything.” 

His voice, low and velvet-soft, broke the silence. "Make me yours again, my love.” he murmured, his lips grazing your ear. 

"You’d have the world at your feet... but I'm afraid I only offer darkness." Your voice came out faint, clinging to him, the warmth of his body anchoring you. 

"You don't have to offer anything but yourself," he replied, his voice trembling slightly, but full of resolve. "And I choose you.”

With his fierce determination, his hands tightened on your waist with a strong reverence, crushing you against him as he angled his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to tangle with your own. 

He poured every ounce of his feelings into that kiss, the way you had consumed his thoughts and dreams.

His hands roamed over your back, mapping out the curves and contours of your body in that gown, committing every dip and swell to memory. He slid one hand up to tangle in your hair, gripping the locks and tilting your head back to give him better access to the sensitive skin of your neck. 

His heart raced, pounding against his ribs like a drum as he lost himself in the taste and feel of you, the softness of your cold lips and the heat of his tongue.

“Touch me, Friedrich.” You whispered panting as your lungs felt the breathing of life again, curling your fingers on his neckline. “Feel my heart. Even when I'm dead, it beats for you. Strong and hard for I love you more than everything to overcome death itself.”

He pressed his hand against your chest, squeezing painfully the soft flesh on his palm, feeling the frantic pounding of your heart beneath his palm, the way it raced and leapt at his touch. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, a sudden, overwhelming emotion threatening to overwhelm him.

"God," he whispered, his voice breaking on a sob, "I love you too. I love you so much it hurts. You're everything to me, everything I've ever wanted and everything I know I don't deserve."

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours once more, his eyes squeezing shut as he fought to regain control over his emotions. He could feel the tears slipping down his cheeks, but he didn't care, not with your arms wrapped around him, holding him close.

“Make love with me, Friedrich.” you begged as the cold tears fell, cupping his strong face in your hands. “Take me the way only you know how. Make me feel alive, let your blood boil in my veins as you make me yours because I can't stand any other night without you, Friedrich.”

His heart leapt at your desperate plea, covering your hand with his own, turning his head to press a fervent kiss to her palm before tangling their fingers together. “I love you so much it feels like I can't breathe or sleep without you, I need you to survive.” 

He took your face in his hands and slightly pulled your hair back so his nose could longer on your neck, breathing in your essence that remained intact even among the light aroma of earth and ashes with the lilies placed with you in the coffin.

“You're my everything.” He shivered, sobbing, biting your flesh, sinking his teeth, leaving his strong mark, his saliva mixing with his tears that fell every time he realized that you were there with him. “Everything.”

He captured your lips in another searing kiss, hands sliding down to grip your thighs, hoisting you up and wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you towards the house, to the known love nest. 

He laid you down gently on the bed, his body covering yours, his hips nestled between your spread thighs. He looked down at you, taking in the sight of your locks splayed out across the mattress, skin glowing in the dim light of his bedroom.

Slowly, reverently, he slid his hands under the hem of your gown, pushing it up and over her head, tossing it carelessly to the side. He drank in the sight of you, his gaze roaming over the swell of her breasts, the hardened peaks of her nipples straining on the cold air of the night.

He leaned down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the soft, sensitive skin, his tongue flicking out to taste you as he gripped on your breast as his anchor, pushing him back to reality, his thumbs brushing over the nipples, drawing a gasp from your lips.

“Please, Friedrich. I need you, I'm begging, please.” You sobbed, choking on your own passion as you desperately searched his face in your hand, nipping the bottom lip as you tied him with your thighs. 

"Then you shall have it, my queen," he whispered before closing the distance, his kiss deep and unyielding, as though sealing a pact written in the shadows of the room.

He held you tighter, his hand now resting firmly on your waist, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles. The words you had spoken hung between you, a weight neither of you could ignore. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment, everything felt like it was balancing on the edge of a dangerous precipice.

He slid his hand up your thigh, cupping the heat of your sex. He groaned at the feel of you, already so wet and ready for him, his fingers slipping easily between your folds.

“How is it possible?” He demanded, light headed with the feeling of his beloved intimate again, he could search in all the places, he couldn't find the one who pleased him this way. 

“You're giving me life, Friedrich.” You whispered, arching your back at the travel your husband is. Loving, intense, belonging. 

He slid a finger inside you, then two, pumping them slowly, letting you adjust to the new-old sensation. “God, how I missed you.” he groaned, curling them just so, rubbing against that special spot deep inside that made you see stars. “Missed your touch, missed your laugh, your moans, your cunt. The way you moan my name, oh… everything, yeah, keep moaning for me. Please, darling. Say my name just once more, can you?”

“Oh, Friedrich.” You moaned, curling your toes as your heart beated and you felt your pleasure slip on his knuckles with your peak. 

He leaned down, pressing a soft, tender kiss to your stomach. He looked up at you, his blue eyes blazing with love and desire and a fierce, unbreakable connection. 

“Say you want me to claim you, to fill you, to make you a part of me in every way possible.” he demanded miserably, panting on your stomach, digging his fingers on your hips. “Say my name, tell me I'm not out of my senses and you are here with me. Say you need my sex deep as you crave life again as my seed overflows on your delicious inside.” 

“I want you, please. I want everything more than anything in this world or next. Fill me.” you whimpered, forking your hands on his locks, pressing him against you, grinding your arousal on his chest. 

He sighs, running his hands down your thighs, as well as his face that camped on your core, inhaling the essence and feeling an immense desire to cry at the touch of his tongue on your sensitive nerve, taking in every note of your taste.

He sank there, never wanting to leave, he just wanted to please you with his entire being, to adore you, swirling his tongue in the exact places you loved, because Friedrich knew you like the back of his hand, you were an open book to him, he deciphered all your secrets and dreams.

Everything you loved, his tongue in your canal, at the entrance, swirling on your clit and taking it all in to suck the little spot and leave a soft kiss.

“Frid, Frid, my love.” you called, sensing your approaching orgasm, you patted his head, his answers delayed by his fixation on your cunt. 

He swallowed the remaining taste, lifting his face lazily and meeting your eyes. “I love your taste.” he whispered, settling himself between your thighs, the hard, thick length of his cock pressing against your slit. “but I love being inside you even more.”

With that, he thrust forward, sheathing himself inside you. He groaned at the feel of your pussy so tight and perfect around him, it was made just for him, to wrap the way he wanted. 

Then, he began to move, his hips rocking against you in a steady, sensual rhythm, foreheads together to hear every moan, purr and whimper from you. He kept his thrusts slow and deep, wanting to savor every moment, every inch of you. 

His hands slid up your sides, cupping the soft, supple curves of your breasts, squeezing and kneading the flesh as he lost himself in the feel of you. He knew he would never get enough of this, of you, of the way you made him feel alive. 

“You're my life, darling.” He panted, deepening the sway of his hips, capturing your lips. “If it's necessary to be dead to be with you everyday like this, I'd sell my soul for just a moment. Take everything you need. Take everything from me.”

“As you wish, my love.” You whimpered, your moans becoming even higher as you craved your teeth on his neck on his pulsing point as a thin amount of blood flowed to your mouth. “Oh, God. You taste so good. Oh, fuck. You… Darling, uhmm…”

“Fuck, take it. Take more. Take every drop of me, love.” He begged, nuzzling his nose on your neck to mark you as you licked the remaining blood salty with his sweat. “Come on my cock while you suck me with your pretty cunt and your teeth. Take my soul.”

He could feel you starting to tremble, your body tensing and tightening as your climax approached. He doubled his efforts, his thrusts growing harder and faster, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he drove into you.

"Come for me, my heart," he urged, his voice a low, desperate growl, licking your bloody face. "Come on my cock, my queen. Let me feel you, all of you, now and forever.”

“Frid. AH!” The sound of your scream, raw and filled with ecstasy, pushed him over the edge. He groans,  burying himself to the hilt inside you as his own release overtook him.

"Fuck," he roared, his voice echoing off the walls of the bedroom. "I'm coming, fuck, I'm coming so hard! Take it, darling."

He pulsed and throbbed inside you, spilling his hot seed deep into your womb as he held you tight, crushing you against his chest. He could feel every clench and flutter of her walls around him, milking him for every last drop as you rode out the aftershocks.

He could feel his body growing weak, prolonging that orgasm as he gave the last thrusts, his eyes turning blank and the grip loosening. 

"Frid... Frid, my love." You cried out, watching him smile weakly, his eyes nearly fading. Desperate, you stood up and slapped his face gently against your chest. "Frid. Friedrich. Friedrich, answer me!" you sobbed, cradling his nearly lifeless body in your arms, your tears falling heavily.

"It will be over soon..." he whispered, his hands weakly resting on your back, pulling you closer. "Soon I’ll... be with you... my love... Eat my heart, and you can live with our daughters."

"How? What do you mean, my Frid?" You shouted, gasping, as life slowly drained from him.

"Wasn’t that how you... came to me? By eating Sievers' heart?" He coughed and gasped for air, his lungs sinking from the lack of oxygen. "That's what Von Franz thinks... he knows about it. You trusted him before me... I didn’t believe in you..." 

"No..." You trembled, your eyes wavering as you turned his face towards yours, gazing into his pale blue eyes, already touched by death. "It wasn’t like that, Frid. You brought me back. Your love brought me here. I manifested because of you. I can fix it. I know I can, we can live forever."

You bite your wrist, but nothing came, your blood was dry. You tried to rip your ribcage to get your heart and make him eat, but you weren't strong enough.“No… no…” you gasped

“I've always admired you. You always did your best to make me live comfortably, made me feel a king, love.” He gave a soft laugh, his body moving slightly with it. "I'm glad... I could do something… I'll love you forever" he murmured, finally succumbing to eternal peace.

“And I'll love you always, Frid.” You sobbed, holding his lifeless body in your arms, rocking back and forth as you sang a soft lullaby, the weight of your sorrow deepening, while your body slowly disintegrated, returning to dust and slipping back into your coffin.

In honor of Friedrich's love, Thomas crafted a grand coffin, large enough for both of you. They carefully prepared his body and placed it comfortably in the wooden vessel, where your hands were intertwined with his, bound together for eternity.

[allgirlsareprincesses]

Choosing the Beast: Modern Folklore Heroines Embrace the Animal Husband

“I choose the bear.” The refrain rang out across the web, with many a woman nodding in agreement or at least understanding, and certain men huffing with indignant outrage. Just a meme, really, but did it speak to a deeper truth? Is it merely age-old mistrust of patriarchy talking, or a true desire for the beastly, the wild, the untame?

I’m no sociologist, of course, but I have noticed an emerging trend in fem-gaze media that seems to reflect this view. In movies like I Am Dragon (2015) and recent shows like My Lady Jane and The Acolyte, the heroine chooses the beast, loving her animal husband in his wild form rather than requiring him to transform back into a mundane man to earn her affection. This is such a departure from the typical folktale pattern that it’s difficult to even find an historic example where this occurs.

Commonly thought to reveal the desire to tame a dangerous mate in a patriarchal society, most animal husband tales (ATU 425a) feature a hero who ultimately transforms permanently into a human. This is viewed not only as freeing him from the maddening effect of his wild form, but also saving his bride from committing the sin of bestiality. In these tales, the animal mate’s transformation is necessary for the salvation of both.

Is the modern heroine then damned by choosing her husband’s beastly form? Or does she actually free them both from the yoke of patriarchal expectations?

Bathing: Discovering the Wild Masculine

The first motif that stands out in these modern screen examples is bathing. In animal spouse tales, there is often a dynamic of the hunter and the hunted, and thus a moment when the hunter comes upon their would-be lover unawares. Perhaps they find the animal spouse sleeping, or they cast a light on them unexpectedly, see them without their animal skin or disguise, and so on. And of course, they often come upon the lover at their bath.

There is an implied eroticism in this discovery, finding one’s quarry not only undressed, but also in the most private of activities. Water of course symbolizes fertility, but bathing is also purifying, symbolically washing away all that might make a mate undesirable. And this, perhaps, is the reason that historically this motif is used almost exclusively for animal brides, not animal husbands.

For the animal husband, he either actively chooses to reveal himself to the bride (perhaps on their wedding night), or she violently strips away his disguise, often armed with “flame and steel” like Psyche and her many avatars. Animal brides on the other hand are nearly always discovered at a body of water, bathing. The hunter will then capture her either by stealing her animal skin or cloak, or by placing his own clothing on her. What does it mean, then, when it is the husband who is discovered bathing in a body of water, held as an erotic object in the feminine gaze?

In The Acolyte, Osha follows Qimir to a pool where he slowly undresses, in full knowledge that she is watching. On the shore, she steals his lightsaber, just like the hunter who steals the animal skin, symbolically claiming him. When he emerges, Qimir dons new clothes, as if acknowledging that he is a different person than before he entered the water, almost purified in a way. Osha is forced to confront that there is more to the murderer in the mask than she realized.

Similarly, in My Lady Jane, our heroine goes looking for Guildford just before sunrise on their ill-fated wedding night, only to discover him bathing in the stables. The scene is gratuitously filmed from Jane’s (very horny) perspective, flipping the script on the countless scenes in screen history shot with the masculine gaze. Immediately after she discovers and confronts him, Guildford transforms against his will into a horse, and Jane realizes that he is an Ethian, a creature she has been taught is demonic and unnatural.

And in I Am Dragon, Mira makes several discoveries in quick succession: first, she deduces that Arman is actually the dragon. In the next moment, she slips from the island’s peak and falls, saved only when Arman transforms at the last moment and breaks her fall with his dragon form. The water begins to wash over his unconscious body, and at first Mira thinks that she will allow him to drown. But the sight of Arman in his human form after he rescued her, worried over by his animal familiar, stirs her to pity and she wraps him in a sail and drags him to safety. In this way, she clothes him, claiming him as her own.

Each of these heroines discovered a new aspect of her husband at the bath, finding him unexpectedly alluring, and ultimately choosing to begrudgingly claim him. Each animal husband tried to wash away his beastly form, to separate himself from the wild masculine. These men feel a sense of disassociation from a part of themselves, but now that their brides have discovered it, there will be no more hiding. Further, the bride now holds the power in the relationship, evidenced by how her husband needs her: Qimir needs Osha to be his apprentice, Guildford needs Jane to help him “break the curse,” and Arman needs Mira to heal him from his wounds.

Playing House: The Half-Husband

The second feature of these stories is a period of domesticity for the couple. For a brief time after the husband’s beastly nature is revealed, the lovers “play house” like children. While sexual tension is present, they typically do not consummate their union during this time, but instead cook, eat, rest, and care for one another. What’s more, they ignore or even attempt to actively destroy the husband’s animal form. They deny that this is part of him and therefore part of their relationship.

In I Am Dragon, Mira heals Arman, and wakes the next morning to find he has left food for her (dragonfruit, appropriately). Together they begin building a home out of shipwreck debris they find scattered around the island. A cheery montage shows them decorating a living space, choosing clothes, playing music, and dancing. But the specter of Arman’s monstrous form lurks on the edge of their idyllic life. Mira has nightmares, and tells Arman how much she fears “the dragon,” notably not referring to them as the same person. And eventually, it emerges that Mira has been planning to escape, rejecting Arman’s dragon form entirely.

After he sheds the helmet and robes of The Stranger, Qimir turns his attention to caring for Osha: he heals her, lets her sleep in his bed, provides clothes, and cooks for her. In turn, after some lightsaber-wielding, Osha becomes more comfortable in his home and accepts the food he offers, eventually even trying on his helmet. Later, they bicker amiably on their way to Brendok, like an old married couple on a road trip. When not facing down Jedi, Qimir leaves his menacing persona behind and transforms into an empathetic, protective, and alluring partner.

Jane Grey, meanwhile, finds herself using her honeymoon sequestered away in a private cottage to try to cure Guildford of his Ethianism. With her knowledge of medicine, she concocts various potions and magical cures, but none of them succeed. Guildford often checks in on her after these disappointments, making sure she’s getting enough sleep and taking care of herself. It’s also clear that they’ve been regularly dining together when Jane suddenly dashes off to rescue her friend. Guildford follows her and the two protect one another, followed by an almost-tryst. Even when they move into the palace, their day-to-day (or rather night-to-night) life is one of comfortable domesticity, although they continue to deny Guildford’s horse form.

In each of these cases (although less so in The Acolyte without Season 2 to continue the story), playing house can only last for so long while the husband’s animal nature is denied. There is a part of him that is suppressed, rejected, and this leads to him being incomplete, a half-husband. Each hero is unable or unwilling to accept and celebrate his whole self with his bride. Eventually, it is that denial that leads to a rift between the couple, which can only be healed not with the transformation of the husband, but with the embrace of his animal form.

Enforcing Patriarchy: The Rival

Each of these relationships exists in direct opposition to the dominant culture in the story: Arman as the Dragon is the literal enemy of Mira’s people, Qimir as Sith is the enemy of Osha’s Jedi masters, and in My Lady Jane, intermarriage between humans and Ethians is punishable by death. By choosing to stay with their animal husbands, even for a brief time, our heroines are openly defying the patriarchal norms of their societies. But no oppressive society is about to take that transgression lying down. In each story, a rival emerges to enforce the patriarchal order, kill the beastly husband, and retrieve the bride.

In I Am Dragon, Mira’s betrothed and descendent of the dragon-slayer, Igor, journeys to rescue her from the dragon. Over the course of the story, it becomes clear that Igor cares nothing for Mira herself, and merely feels entitled to her as his bride. Dragon-slaying is his heritage, so he must find her, kill the dragon, and take his place as the hero of his people. Even the marriage ceremony illustrates his ownership of her: he takes hold of a rope tied to her boat and reels her in, thus binding her to the patriarchal order. Contrast that to Arman, who offers her the power of flight, a symbol for freedom.

In Osha’s case, Qimir’s rival for her loyalty is clearly Master Sol, who wants to keep his former pupil dependent on him and the Jedi. Sol takes patronizing fatherliness to an extreme, constantly rescuing Osha rather than letting her stand for herself, teaching her to deny her feelings and instincts, and lying to her to “protect” her. The Jedi refuse to allow that there might be any other way to access the Force than their own, thus invading the home of the Brendok witches and ultimately orphaning the twins. Sol continues to press this dominance to the end, challenging Qimir and insisting to Osha that his own lies were justified.

In My Lady Jane, there are two rivals, both women. Lady Frances attempts throughout the show to dominate her daughters and crush their wills, forcing them into unwanted marriages, applying political pressure, and even counseling Jane to abandon Guildford to save herself. The other rival is Mary Tudor, who is determined not only to emulate her father’s violent, oppressive, and misogynistic reign, but to crush anyone she considers “unnatural” or who poses a threat to her rule. These characters stand as clear examples of how women can enforce patriarchy, too.

In each story, there is a moment when the rival briefly recaptures or “rescues” the bride from her beastly husband, bringing her to a moment of decision: will she stay within the bounds of patriarchy like a good little girl? Or will she make an act of defiance to choose her own path?

Marriage: Choosing the Beast

The bride’s choice will ultimately decide not only her fate, but that of her mate as well. As an independent character, the wild masculine is deeply wounded, separated from himself and thus from his bride. He longs to transform not into a greater, more whole person, but into a lesser, half-person. Alone, without the embrace of his anima, he cannot see the value of his beastly form. Instead of healing, he faces annihilation.

As a part of the bride’s psyche, the beastly husband represents her innermost desires, the truth of her heart, and a spirit freed from the expectations of her society. He is her animus, her missing wild masculine. If she transforms him into a man, then she will tame his wild nature, bringing him to heel under the boot of the patriarchy. Choosing the human form and rejecting the beast means rejecting her own psychological needs. It would be just another form of psychic dismemberment.

Fortunately and unusually, each of these modern brides chooses her beastly husband without demanding he transform. When Osha finally agrees to become Qimir’s apprentice, she takes his hand under the willow tree, clasping the newly-bled lightsaber between them. A few scenes later, this wedding imagery is repeated when they hold hands over the saber again, this time looking into a sunrise/set. Notably, at the moment they “marry” under the willow tree, Qimir is wearing his beastly helmet with rows of menacing, wolfish teeth. He has not come to the light side or shed his Dark Side persona, but Osha has embraced him anyway without fear. And while they might not both be healed (yet), they are more whole together than they were apart.

When her efforts to cure Guildford of his Ethianism repeatedly fail, Jane begins to suspect that his “condition” cannot be cured at all. But listening to her Ethian friends Susanna and Archer finally convinces her that the truth is Guildford doesn’t NEED to be healed - being an Ethian is who he is, and it’s nothing to fear. Unfortunately, Guildford still associates his beastly form with his mother’s death, so he is unable to accept it as Jane encourages, and flees. After a near-death experience, he uses his equine speed to return to the castle just as Jane is deposed and captured. As our heroes battle toward the end, Guildford comes to learn that there are many other proud Ethians, and that his family loves and accepts him in any form.

Still, he’s unable to transform at will, and when Mary captures him and sentences both husband and wife to death, it seems their story may end in tragedy. But as Guildford has been struggling to accept himself, Jane too has been battling with her own conscience. Does she renounce Guildford to save herself? Use her wits to kill the guard and escape? Bend to her mother’s manipulation? Jane confronts each temptation, and ultimately chooses to face death rather than betray Guildford or herself. But when her Ethian friends (the wild instinct) appear to disrupt the execution, our heroine seizes the opportunity to rescue Guildford. Unable to free him from the burning pyre, she confesses her love for him, and they kiss amid the flames.

Fire is often a herald of transformation, burning away illusions to reveal the truth. And when Jane and Guildford exchange their vows in this symbolic marriage ceremony, Guildford’s fears and illusions are finally burned away. Now that his bride has accepted his beastly form, he can accept it too, and so he at last transforms at will into a horse so that they can escape. Their story ends with them married and whole before the sunrise.

Among our modern heroines, Mira is the boldest in her embrace of the beastly husband. Offered yet again as a bride to Igor, she realizes that this is not what she wants, and casts off the tether from her boat. She declares “I love the Dragon!” using the name of her husband’s animal form rather than his human name. Then, she sings the song that will call the dragon to her, and he appears to carry her away again.

But their story is not over yet! Earlier in the story, Arman told Mira of how he loses control when in dragon form, and that dragons are compelled to reproduce by burning maidens to death and retrieving their offspring from the ashes. Returning to the island with her a second time, the dragon drops her on the altar and prepares to spew fire, but Mira lunges up and kisses him. This act of love, even when he is a monster, stuns the beastly husband. Again, Mira declares her love and kneels before him, saying she does not wish to be parted. We might expect the animal husband to transform in this moment, but instead he lays his fearsome head in her lap as a lover. Their story ends with a child and a flight in the sky, silhouetted by the sun just like the other couples.

Each bride, when confronted with the option to return to the patriarchal limits of her childhood, chose instead an act of love and acceptance for her wild masculine. This embrace helped the beastly husband to accept his whole self, and he is healed without having to cut off the wild parts of himself.

What Does It Mean?

Again, this story is so rare in world folklore that it’s difficult to even find examples. On fleeting occasions that the woman chooses an untransformed beast, it is presented as a cautionary tale. These women are framed as a danger to the community for their bestial impulses and abandonment of the social order, much like witches who were said to consort with the devil. It was certainly never presented as a happy ending, insofar as we can tell from written accounts.

So what does the emergence of this tale mean for our culture? I would argue that this is just the latest step in our ongoing reckoning with historic gender roles, as well as renegotiating with other forms of systemic oppression. People of all genders are pressured to reject a part of ourselves, cutting us off from our own truth and desires that run counter to the enforced social order. We must not challenge patriarchy, must not embrace different gender expressions, must not blur established hierarchies of power, must not find joy and power in our identities, and so on.

This enforced denial does tremendous damage to everyone caught in the system, and so through story, we dream our way to escape. We dream of embracing the dark, wild parts of ourselves, of flying free on a spaceship or a dragon or enchanted horseback, and of being totally loved for who we are.

It’s clear patriarchy is still fighting back against this emancipation of the wild feminine and wild masculine, given that both The Acolyte and My Lady Jane were canceled not long after their release. In the case of The Acolyte in particular, there was a sustained campaign from its announcement to harass and silence the creators. Demoralizing as this phenomenon may be, it’s important to remember WHO ultimately owns these stories:

“Fanfiction is a way of the culture repairing the damage done in a system where contemporary myths are owned by corporations instead of owned by the folk.

-Henry Jenkins, NYT 1997

Ah, an oldie-but-goodie. But Dr. Jenkins is right. Corporations may greenlight, film, release, and then cancel these stories, but ultimately they belong to the people. We take from these tales what speaks to us, leave what does not, and then retell them ourselves in fanfiction, in art inspired by the stories, and in lessons we pass on to our friends and families. If the embrace of the wild masculine speaks to you, let the story take root in your own life. Do you know someone who needs to be embraced, just as they are? Do you need to accept the parts of yourself that society tells you to hate? Do you want to be free, healed, and whole?

If so, then let these stories show you how, and tell more like them. Embrace the beast, and find your joy.

Sources:

Beauty and the Beast Tales From Around the World by Heidi Anne Heiner

In Search of the Swan Maiden: A Narrative on Folklore and Gender by Barbara Fass Leavy

And a relevant song for you, as a treat:

Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D.

[witch1nghour]

𝜗𝜚 ⠀𝗕𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗣𝗥𝗜𝗖𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗢𝗙 𝗠𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗨𝗠𝗕   ﹔   various  sentence  starters   (   platonic/romantic/antagonistic/etc   )  from   JEKYLL AND HYDE: THE MUSICAL   (   1990   )   .  please   , like   or  reblog if   you   plan   on   using   .   don’t   claim   as   your   own   .   content   warning   :   tw murder, violence, religion  .   

in  each  of  us  there  are  two  natures.

he's  beyond  help.

he  stil  has  a  soul  -  as  pure  and  good  as  yours  or  mine.

madness  is  the  cruelest  of  all  prisons.

there  must  be  a  way  to  help  him.

my  theories  convince  me  there  is  a  better  solution.

use  your  gifts  wisely.

once  there  was  morning,  now  endless  night.

if  I  could  reach  you  I'd  guide  you  and  teach  you  to  walk  from  the  darkness  back  into  the  light.

please  try  to  hear  me.

I'll  never  desert  you  -  I  promise  you  this  till  the  day  that  I  die.

I  need  to  know  the  nature  of  the  demons  that  possess  man's  soul

why  does  he  revel  in  murder  and  madness?

I  need  to  find  a  way  to  get  inside.

I  need  to  try  to  separate  the  good  and  evil  -  if  I  can.

give  me  courage  to  go  where  no  angel  will  go.

there's  a  face  that  he  hide  till  the  nighttime  appears.

man's  a  master  of  deceit.

what  is  his  sinister  secret?

if  we  could  extract  all  of  the  evil  from  each  of  us  think  of  the  world  we  could  create!

what  makes  you  think  you  have  the  right  to  play  god?

my  fate  is  yours  to  choose.

I  did  try  to  warn  you.

you  should  exercise  greater  caution.

you  have  come  this  far,  remember  what  you  have  at  stake.

comments  on  style,  madam,  should  never  be  made  by  those  who  have  none.

you'll  get  what  you  want  in  the  end,  you  always  do.

the  only  thing  to  fear  is  the  unknown.

we  knew  there'd  be  a  price  to  pay.

look  in  my  eyes  -  who  do  you  see  there?

love  is  the  only  danger.

we'll  make  our  one  dream  come  true.

you  know  who  I  am...take  me  as  I  am.

give  me  you  hand  -  give  me  your  heart.

swear  to  me  we'll  never  part!

goodnight,  my  angel.

goodnight,  my  devil.

if  we  want  our  love  to  grow,  we  musn't  be  afraid  of  letting  go.

you  are  playing  a  very  dangerous  game.

a  little  touch  of  sin  -  why  wait  another  minute?

why  should  tonight  be  different?

here's  to  the  night!

if  you  only  knew  the  games  we  could  play.

you're  not  up  to  the  chase.

you  have  got  a  lot  to  lose  ...  think  of  the  consequences.

for  all  these  years,  I've  faced  the  world  alone.

I  have  started  this  alone  ...  and  I  must  finish  it  alone.

I  have  a  thirst  that  I  cannot  deprive.

tonight  I'll  take  from  all  mankind,  conquer  all  the  gods.

I  see  the  pain  in  your  eyes.

have  I  become  my  work  and  nothing  more?

what  kind  of  monster  would  do  such  a  thing?

I  am  in  love  with  the  things  that  I  see.

if  someone  like  you  found  someone  like  me  then  suddenly,  nothing  would  ever  be  the  same.

I'd  feel  so  alive  if  someone  like  you  loved  me.

it  warms  my  heart  to  know  that  romance  still  blossoms.

how  dare  you  speak  to  me  like  that?

you  don't  seem  like  yourself.

I've  been  better,  name  ...  I've  been  better.

I  did  everything  I  could  to  save  the  others.

I  am  dangerous.  more  dangerous  than  any  wild  animal  stalking  its  prey  ...

my  love,  what's  happened  to  you?

I  must  be  left  alone  to  finish  what  I've  started.

yu  never  promised  me  the  journey  would  be  easy  -  only  that  we  would  take  it  together.

you  were  heaven-sent  to  me,  was  it  never  meant  to  be?

don't  abandon  me  now,  name.

if  you  need  me  you  know  where  I'll  be.

did  you  really  think  that  I  would  ever  let  you  go?

do  you  think  I'd  ever  set  you  free?

you  will  never  get  away  from  me!

this  is  not  a  dream,  my  friend,  and  it  will  never  end!

no  matter  what  you  may  pretend.

I'll  rejoice  as  you  breathe  your  final  breath.

there's  a  beast  at  the  door,  and  he's  wild  and  free.

[night-dazai]

Demons Wife

“fuck …oh my ….” full lips pulled into a smirk while sharp fangs peeked out “You even made me curse, such naughty lady aren't you, “ he said while white-gloved hands roamed your body pulling at your nipples and thrusting a finger into your wet weeping cunt.

“Seb…seabass….” you tried but nothing but strangled moans left your mouth, you had no idea how long it had been since you were in this position.

7 months into your marriage with Sebastian to save you from being a slave, you thought Ceil and his butler were kind men who had saved you and little did you know. You would sometimes question your husband's actions and behaviour, but with his gentlemanly aura you never even thought for a second he could be a devil or anything even close to evil. ”y/n we got married too soon, it might be a shock for you my dear, “ he said softly gloved hands creasing yours “Let's get to know each other and maybe one day we can consummate this marriage “ his smile angel like you could not thank god enough for such a caring and loving husband. In the 7 months, you guys would go on cafe dates and night outings cause that's when he was mostly free from his butler work. Holding hands after 2 months and kissing after 5 months broke it for you. You were sure you could give everything of yourself to him. “Sebastian, we can consummate this marriage, “ you said a month ago while you were out for a walk after dinner. His red eyes widened for a second and were soon replaced by a kind smile “Don't force yourself, love, it will be hard “ he said squeezing your hand reassuringly “But “you said stopping him “I want it to be you “You looked up dead in his eyes” I want you to take my virginity and all of me… I give it to you “ you said giving your hand to him. His red eyes looked at you quietly for a second before he got on his knees took your hands and kissed them “Your wish is my command y/n” he said smiling. You thought his eyes became darker for a second or maybe you were dreaming. But after the confession, your gentle husband made it his mission to get you accustomed to his touch, and light makeouts which left you panting for air.

“y/n I would like it if you looked at me more “ he said taking your hands which covered your tear-tainted face which was bright red. You looked up at him “Beautiful “ was all you could think but soon you pouted and turned your head to the side “No..not fair “ you said softly.

He chuckled kissing your jaw” What's not fair love ?” he asked innocently, you were sure he knew what it was. You lay naked and vulnerable on the bed while he was still fully clothed. You pulled at his shirt, chuckling at your cuteness “My my of course what is this rude behaviour of mine “ he said and moved back removing each piece of clothing with deliberate calculations and making sure you got a full show of him doing it.

“Now things are just going to get more rude “ he said pushing you back to the bed. The dimly lit room had both your shadows on the wall while some of the candles near your bed flickered a little due to the tension in the room.

That was when you noticed it fully, red eyes, fangs ready to draw blood and the smile of the devil, a shadow deep and darker than hell your husband smiled down on you creasing the side of your check “It will hurt, we have all the time so we can go slow okay “.

It was not a question, it was an order, telling you nothing will stop him. You have heard many call your wedded partner a devil and there were many questionable things that you have seen but …..” does it matter ?”.

Smiling you opened your arms wide “If you are going to hell or even if you are hell ..take me …”. That when the realisation hit you “I knew …… did not accept it “ you said “Claim me “

You did not know what effect your words had on him but his actions stopped, his dick right at your entrance while he stared into your eyes “Do…do you even know the meaning of the things you said ? What if I am a sinful being and ..not even human ?” he asked softly but there was no gentleness in it “that has nothing to do with me . You are my husband “you said still smiling like a child at a candy store.

The demon's red eyes flashed a dangerous red but collected himself he smiled, face filled with nothing but love “You surely will drive me crazy one day before that whiny master of mine does “ he said chucking and as you both were busy laughing his shaft moved right into you in one thrust.

Your back arching completely off the bed, air completely out of your lungs and eyes rolled back you held on to his shoulders for your life. Kissing your exposed neck, the devil smiled biting it, making you moan and yelp in pain and pleasure “All mine “ eyes red as fire and shadow darker than hell … The devil claimed his wife ………….

I always had a soft spot for the demon butler and also wanted one for myself ..but @chooyahh reminded me of my old lover. Thank you for that!💕

[r0-boat]

Defile

Whb!AsmodeusxGn!Reader

Happy Halloween, and enjoy this sinful fanfiction

Cw: Corruption, primal, predator/prey, breeding, mind control, womb tattoo(what's the gender-neutral term for that), Heat, religious play, CNC, Asmodeus yaps a lot, aftercare

You kneel at the end of the sanctuary your hands clasped together As you pray in the dead of night. As the rest of your brothers and sisters at the monastery slumber, You had woken up early dreaming of sin, pools of blood red eyes staring into your very soul as you feel hands grasp and touch you in ways the Lord will not permit.

You had been plagued with sinful thoughts and dreams for a while now. So you pray hoping that someone would answer your prayers, and you'll be free from temptation.

But in the ivory halls of the church, with nothing but the light of the Moon and the candles lit around the altar to keep you company. Little did you know you were not alone. A darkness more sinister stalks closer. The candle sticks that littered the Sanctuary blow out one by one starting from the entrance when the doors creeped open.

You didn't open your eyes And one by one each candle blows out all around you. You did not open your eyes until you smelled the smoke. The only candles that were still lit were the ones around the altar. You thought as though the wind must have blew them out.

Your eyes adjusting to the dark as you squint looking around for an opened window or door that you are not aware of that could have caused the candles to go out. Your eyes peer into the blackened void behind you. You could almost feel at stare back.

That's when you heard it.

"well well well, What do we have here. A little lamb astrayed from its flock?"

It bellowed. Echoing throughout the entire chamber, your heart quickens as you lose your balance from the shock, falling from your knees to your bum. Your eyes widen as they dart throughout the room, But all you could see was the same inky darkness that not even the moonlight could pierce.

"W-who are you?" Your voice cracks the only words you can manage to get out.

The figure finally steps into what little light that could reach into the monastery. Long pitch black hair his naked figure covered by a single white silk robe ironic for what he was. Chains and barbed vines around his arms and legs and his piercing red eyes with a single yet unmistakable curled horn.

There was no mistaken of what he was. Your breath shakes your whole body shakes. Grasping the gold pendant around your neck You scoot away.

The demon chuckles. "Don't be afraid dear human, I promise I'll take good care of you." The way that word rolled off the tongue made you shiver. You didn't want to know what he meant by that.

"You're not supposed to be here!" You call out

"This is a house of God! You are not welcome devil!"

The red-eyed monster grinned, his smile wide and sinister, flashing his fangs. He let out a deep chuckle. "Your God will not protect you." He smiles. You can hear shackles on his arms and legs shake as he stalks closer. That sinister smile seems to grow wider and wider.

"Do you think you're pathetic little prayers will keep the incarnate of Lust away from what he has claimed. Look into my eyes prey you know who I am..."

As the being gets lower to your level, his claws scratch against the marble tiles as he practically crawls toward you. Eyes full of longing and hunger. Getting so dangerously close, you could smell a sweet temptation coming from him.

They warned warned you about him; One of the seven deadly sins.

Asmodeus.

He didn't have to hear you say it because he could see it in your eyes The delicious fear. He could hear every pump of your heart getting faster and faster And of course you reeked of desire. Pretty virgin things like you always made the most delicious of prey.

"I can smell that you crave for me." He growls.

Your heart practically stopped; that sentence alone finally made your feet move, scampering on the ground before taking off. All you hear was a laugh echoing through the halls as you keep running.

You could hear him coming for you his heavy breath the footsteps behind you that sound less and less human and more like a pack of hungry wolves.

You didn't look back; you didn't dare to. You could already hear how close he was and that he was gaining. Your lungs burned as you pushed as hard as you could. You could only reach outside in the courtyard, the moonlight showing his full figure before he tackled you to the ground, his whole body weight bringing you down.

Using his entire strength, Asmodeus forces you to the ground. You are at his mercy as you try desperately to fight him. You swore you felt drool dripping on your skin when he buried his nose into your neck, deeply inhaling your scent.

"perfect, simply perfect. I've been watching you for a while. And now that you're underneath me, You are far better than I ever could have imagined." His breathy voice tickled your ear as you delicately felt his claws and fingers around your neck. Your heart dropped as you felt a bulge in his clothes pressing against your pajamas. You try to squirm out of his grip, anything to get out, but you are trapped, caged in his arms, back pressed against his chest.

"your ass grinds against me, mate; You're so eager for me to claim you as mine." He sneered. His claws were ripping and shredding through your clothes as if they were paper.

Treating you like a mir doll for his amusement. Asmodeus flips you over, holding your arms together with his big hand.

"Yes, let me see you, let me see my new bride." He purrs. His eyes rolling over you like a piece of meat.

Your struggling was cute, It highlighted how much bigger and stronger he was compared to you but he began to grow tired of your useless attempts at freedom. He likes his mates 'willing' after all.

He let out another animalistic purr pressing his tongue against your collarbone looking up your neck as his other hand presses down on your lower stomach.

You felt heat underneath his palm a sweet pleasurable heat burning into your core when he lifts his palm a mark appears and its place.

That warmth from your core begins to spread all over your body. Places where he has touched, bit, licked, or sucked, begin to tingle all the way down to your core.

Asmodeus watches with a pleasant grin as his influence slowly takes over your body. He presses harder against you, his skin against yours. All he was doing was touching you, yet you felt so sensitive—that little warmth beginning to grow hotter and hotter as It became increasingly harder to think. The demon above you begins to explore your body with his hand and his tongue, licking and groping every part he can, feeling up his new favorite toy.

"Good human, become nice and obedient for me. Feel your mind slip away and become mine." His voice seems to echo in your mind; you feel it with your whole body, sending ripples of pleasure throughout.

Asmodeus, lets go of your wrists. Finally, you have a chance to escape, but your body has other plans: staying underneath him, obedient and ready.

Knowing that your body has completely submitted to him, the devil leans backward, unveiling his cock hard and throbbing, his balls swollen. "Come to me, human, come serve your new male. Prepare him for breeding." He moans, His hand squeezing his shaft with one lazy pump before cupping his balls.

His voice echoes in your mind and you obey him without question. The more you resist the deeper you fall.

As your mouth begins to drool at the sight of his dick. You crawl forward on your hands and knees. He watched in delight to your tiny hand wrapping around his demon cock before taking it in your mouth.

His natural musk, sweet yet woody fills your nose All you want to do is bury your face into him and ride him till the sun comes up. Your own drool runs down his shaft using it as lube to pump his cock with your hand while you struggle to take it deeper.

Despite your eagerness to please him, your movements were that of a virgin; he could smell that you were turned on by this, Even if you are under his influence. He plays with his jet-black hair idly, His teeth sinking into his lip. The desire to corrupt you with his demonic seed grows with every bob of your empty little head.

With a wave of his finger for you to stop, you obey like an obedient dog in heat; His cock is coated with your saliva, and your mouth drools from the taste of his pretty cock in your mouth. Asmodeus smirked as he crawled back on top of you with one hand. He parts your your thighs, preparing to sink inside you.

"I've had enough waiting, I'm going to breed you like the sow you are." Asmodeus growled

You arched your back as his cock filled you up just right. Putting your legs over his shoulders as he pressed his entire body weight down onto you. He didn't wait for a moment because if he did, you would be screaming and begging him to move.

With every slam of his hips the symbol on your core begin to glow brighter and brighter.

At that moment, your mind was not yours. It belonged to the man claiming you, but you could still feel it begin to change and warp with every thrust. His cock hits the deepest parts of you, and he snarls, feeling you clench.

"I know you're close. Cum as I fill you with seed and marry you in Unholy Matrimony right outside the very place you kneel and worship Your Lord!" He pants, a crazed look in his eye as he chases his orgasm. He's close, So close, ready to flood your insides and mark you as his. He could feel you tighten around his throbbing cock; you were close, there was no need in try to fight it. He's going to shatter your pitiful attempt at rebellion and rip the orgasm out of you.

Asmodeus let out an animalistic growl, drilling down into you harder and harder. If it wasn't for his voice ringing into your head, all you could hear was the slapping of his hips and his balls against your ass. "I will bind you to me, and you will worship me like your new God! Cum on my cock whore!"

It was a command, ending it with sinking his teeth right into your neck. Your eyes rolled back clenching and exploding all over him. Asmodeus letting out a maniac laugh before slammed with one final thrust deep inside you to steal his hips. He made sure to lift your lower body just right so he was reaching as deep as he could before filling your deepest parts with his virile seed. Your cunt milks him as you cum like it's the first time you came in your entire life milking his cock as you feel every spurt of seed as he drains his balls inside you.

Even as you stopped even after he stopped he still pressed inside you. Making sure every drop stays deep.

The two of you back in the afterglow before you feel as modius wrap his arms around you He nuzzles into your neck peppering it with kisses.

"beloved, My dearly beloved."

He groaned still deep inside you You can still feel how hard he was.

"I still want more... I want more of you." He whined overdramatically, grinding his still-stiff shaft against you.

As much as he wanted to have more of you, as much as he wanted to drill you into the dirt till the two of you were spent and on the verge of passing out, He knew that you probably had had enough. You were merely human, after all. Deliciously and lovingly human.

You felt his tongue drag across your neck again this time affectionately you giggle and push him away "All right get away from me stinky. We can't stay here for long." He lets out a groan despite him being much stronger than you he plays along moving his body giving you a little more space. Only a little.

"Satan doesn't have to know what we use this place for."

Asmodeus purred playing with your hair as he stayed glued to your body like a clingy lover. He cared little for the names you gave him It was a nickname from you and he would accept any.

"I highly doubt he wouldn't know after how loud we were."

He just let out a goofy chuckle. Guilty was charged He wasn't exactly the quietest either.

"Will you stay with me tonight? I promise we can bathe together."

It was a tempting offer. He was desperate to have you in his arms for a little while longer Even if that means doing the one thing he hated. But your answer is still the same, knowing that one night with him will never just be one night...

"You know my answer."

You heard the pout in his voice "Mmh Okay... But at least let me bring you back to your bedroom. I'd like to tuck you."

[gaylactic-fire]

If I can ask, what's been going on in the LU fandom??

I haven't been active lately and from your posts it seems like queerfobia has moved in?

I don't intend to be rude or anything, is just to be careful with what parts of the fandom I interact

Hiya!

To be completely honest, I don't know if there have been any recent developments. I am also not particularly active in LU the way I used to be.

That being said, back in 2023 @/alasse-earfalas posted a link to a "conservative christian" LU Discord server that caused a lot of strife. Mainly due to how she described the "pride movement" as being predatory and complained about the LU Link's being "queered into oblivion" (<- genuine phrasing). It got meme'd on a lot. It also got many bigots to come out of the woodwork and openly declare they aligned with Alasse.

For the most part, these people make their conservative views pretty easy to spot right from the get-go. The problem that arose afterwards was with who I would label as "stealth bigots". A lot of people in the LU religious sphere had interacted positively with Alasse and others involved with the conservative server. Of course, it could have been a case that they had no idea of Alasse's views. It could also be that they were well aware of them and chose to either be ambivalent or accepting toward those views. Many people would ask these users if their blogs were safe for queer people. Responses ranged from "yes my blog is safe of course" to "this is a fandom blog and I'm not here to do politics" to "this is targeted harassment" (lol).

The reason I rebloged the "queered into oblivion" stuff today is because of a vent with a friend. A reminder of how these religious LU users got off remarkably scot-free when faced with the fact they were interacting with bigots. So scot-free, in fact, that many of them WENT BACK to interacting with these bigots when the heat died down.

I don't think these users need to be "called out", because they haven't actually done or said anything aggressive on their blogs. But I can't deny how much it frustrates me regardless. You are in a highly queer-based fandom. You are reblogging our art and our stories. Yet you align yourself with people who want our rights to be eroded irl. This isn't something you can claim neutrality over. If a centrist sits down with four conservatives, there are five conservatives sitting down.

Essentially these folks have the right to exist on their own sphere of Tumblr. Even their own sphere of the LU fandom. I'm not asking anyone to go on a witch hunt. But I am BEGGING queer people into LU and Zelda as a whole to please PLEASE be mindful of who you are reblogging from. Whose creations you are showing the rest of the Tumblr sphere. Because no matter how ambivalent some of these people act, they are not your friend if they think your existence is a sin.

Also mormonism is a misogynistic and homophobic cult. K thanks bye ✌️

[lxkeee]

Helloo, I was wondering if it was alright for u to write a lucifer x male reader where the reader is also a powerful demon and goes with lucifer to visit Charlie in the dad beat dad episode, and Charlie is just like OMG i have two dads now, this is awesome

if u don't write for male reader, then feel free to change or ignore this lol

MY GAYDAR IS NEVER WRONG!

—Lucifer Morningstar x m! Reader

warnings: mentions of s*icide.

When Charlie called Lucifer, he was excited that his daughter wanted to invite him to see the hotel. He thought he would be able to handle it.

In fact, he did not.

The poor man had a complete mental breakdown as he over thought what would happen, how would he act around his daughter, what should he say, and etc.

So, he decided to ask for help and he just knows the right person for that.

His beloved boyfriend of one year, [y/n].

Backstory time,

Lucifer has been seeing and secretly dating the man for a year already, it took a while but he got charmed okay? [Y/n] is literally so charming, very handsome, very chivalrous.... And very tall...

And is a pianist.

Lucifer met [y/n] in a famous restaurant, that only elites or the rich can enter. [Y/n] so happens to own that restaurant.

The only reason he was there at that time was because the other seven deadly sins wanted to have a get together.

As the dinner with the other seven deadly sins progressed, Lucifer was enamored the whole night, his eyes staring at the tall and graceful man sitting in the middle of the restaurant as he played the piano for the guests so beautifully.

Asmodeus even teased him, making the king of hell blush.

That's where his frequent visit to the restaurant started.

Lucifer claims that he just wanted to listen to the man play and nothing else.

Of course, [y/n] noticed his frequent visits and decided to approach the smaller man.

Of course, Lucifer was cautious.

Lucifer was suspicious why the man looked more humane than others, aside from his sharp teeth.

Eventually, the two slowly got along and then slowly developed romantic feelings for each other.

They started telling each other their stories too.

Lucifer found out [y/n] was a pianist when he was still alive, he was born in the 1920's and died in 1945.

[Y/n] died as passionless artist, who lost his inspiration and will to live.

But despite all that, [y/n] managed to find his passion for music again in hell and despite the era he was born in, he managed to go with the flow of time.

Yes, he knows gen z slang 😭

He's got serious problems when it comes to saying "lmao" "purr" and "slay"

Anyways, after finding out and realizing why [y/n] is here is because the sin he committed is that he didn't appreciate the life was given to him and decided to take it away by his own hands.

Lucifer's caution around the man was gone and maybe, not all sinners are bad.

[y/n] confessed first and Lucifer reciprocated by giving the taller man a kiss (he had to pull down [y/n]'s tie okay?)

And Lucifer didn't regret it, [y/n] is a passionate lover. A green flag of all green flags.

“Why are you here? You're so nice, you shouldn't be here.”

“If I was up there, then I wouldn't have the pleasure of meeting you and calling you mine.” [y/n] said with a confused tone.

Unaware rizz.

This man, doesn't know how much his words affect Lucifer.

And the fact he can carry Lucifer bridal style and calls him his muse is the cherry on top.

Anyways, back to the scenario. I'm done with the backstory lmao

Lucifer decided to text [y/n] telling him about the situation, wanting emotional support as he's nervous going to an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people.

He thought [y/n] wouldn't be able to come as the man got work but he was wrong as not 15 minutes later, [y/n] bursts through the door looking absolutely disheveled.

[y/n] ran like his life depended on it.

“My muse, I am hereeee...” the poor tall man wheezed out, hunched on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

Lucifer had to help the man out by using his wings to dry him up.

“Better?”

“Better, thanks my love.”

Lucifer had to explain the situation to him on the way to the hotel and [y/n] giving him peptalk after.

After arriving at the hotel, [y/n] stayed at the side while he watched Lucifer interact with the others.

He swore he heard the pink arachnid say, “Is anyone's gaydar going off right now?”

“It's just you, Angel.” the gray haired girl says with a deadpan.

After Charlie introduced the rest, she noticed the taller male companion who came with her dad. The male was just admiring the interior of the hotel.

Tall, dark, and handsome.

“So... Dad, how about you introduce me to your friend that you brought over?” Charlie asked, making the two males flinch in surprise.

[y/n] giggling as he watched the flustered look on Lucifer's face.

The two males just looked at each other, having a silent conversation.

“Do you want to tell her?” is what [y/n]'s facial expression says based on the raised eyebrow.

“I guess it's time to tell her.” Lucifer says through his facial expression, as a sigh left his lips.

The others just stared in silence as the two males looked at each other in silent conversation.

“Charlie, this is [y/n]... My... Significant other.”

After Lucifer introduced the unknown man, Charlie's jaw dropped.

So did the other's.

The only thing Charlie can think is “Holy shit, I'll have two dads.”

“SEE?! I FUCKING TOLD YOU THAT MY GAYDAR IS POPPING OFF SINCE THEY ARRIVED”

It was a wild night. From the dad off, some loan sharks deciding to cause a mess. (Charlie has three dads now)

Do you guys want this as a series? I'm thinking of actually writing this concept because aihsjans it's so cutee and interesting 😭🤭

Also, I absolutely write for male readers as I myself is a man 🤭 aosjsi maybe I should write more Lucifer x male! Reader?

[haru-natsuka]

The fate (Anastacius x Female Reader x Claude)

Chapter 5 : The Mistress's Child

It was normal for a wife to hate her husband mistress and their child, but for her, the mistress was the person who had treated her fairly instead of the husband. When the latter died during childbirth, the wife pledged to herself to raise her child with care and love, giving the child the affection and treatment she deserved but had been deprived of...

Female reader will be named as Celestial

As always, Celestial hid behind a pillar to oversee a certain little girl who was approaching the Emerald Palace. She had observed the princess and noticed that she resembled Claude when he was a child, and there were no evident traces of Diana's characteristics except for her curiosity, similar to the latter and yet a lot of people did claimed the princess followed her mother features more. However, the princess did not take any precautions or seem concerned about the risks of being at the Emerald Palace, despite it being a place only for the Empress and the Emperor. Did she not feel scared if she accidentally met the emperor who had ignored her own mother?

Athanasia, a name that Diana bestowed on her own daughter before her passing from childbirth, also became the name that Claude used mockingly, being aware of its meaning as immortality. As if she was begging Claude to not kill their child. ​But, the crown prince had grown distant from Diana, not taking her feelings into consideration and only seeking for himself. And so, as Claude claimed to have lost a lot and could not bear to lose any more. Then, if he killed his only child, would he did not do anything except for losing some more? Celestial had lost her freedom because of Athanasia and Diana, but still she could not help but worry about the princess' fate.

"I am willing to do anything of your choice. I will support you with all my strength. I will be a good wife in exchange for saving the life of a child who was born innocent and free of sin. I beg you to have mercy and spare her, Claude. She is a pure being who only needs to be protected,"

Celestial pleaded as she hoped for the princess' safety. She could not help but feel the sense of urgency to protect Athanasia who was motherless and help Claude understand that this would be the right thing to do.

Celestial, despite having not bowed before anyone in her life, was now kneeling on the floor before her egoistic, monstrous husband. She lay her forehead on the ground in order to plead with the emperor to spare the princess' child from being killed. The scent of blood and corpses was overpowering and unpleasant, but Celestial remained to make sure that the innocent princess was protected. She could not risk it, having the sense of urgency to protect the pure and precious life of a child, despite her hatred for Claude. She had to save Athanasia with her very life.

Celestial refused to look at her husband, knowing that he was looking at her with hatred and anger. The surroundings were tense, due to the emperor's anger and the tense situation at hand. Knowing Claude, Celestial was fully prepared to sacrifice her own life to protect Diana's child, which she held so dearly. The mistress of her husband, Diana, was a kind person who was by Celestial's side when her husband neglected her and mistreated her. Because of her deep care and affection for Diana, she would go to any lengths and give her life to save Diana's child.

"Her name. Tell me,"

Claude ordered coldly, increasing the tension in the room and causing Lily to tremble in fear. She was desperate for her life and the newborn baby too. As they were the only ones alive amongst the sea of corpses, the Emperor's focus was firmly upon them. Lily was so terrified that she began to speak, answering his question with all her might, hoping that this will appease him and spare her life.

"Athanasia, Your Majesty," was the answer she gave, hoping that it was enough to keep her alive.

"Amusing. I wonder how long this thing can live in accordance to its name." Claude, upon hearing the response from the maid, chuckled madly and turned around to left the room without a second thought. He did not bother to look back, and in a stern tone to regard his wife. Knowing that Celestial gave him an offer to let the princess live, Claude finally agreed to this in turn for her devotion. He seemed to be satisfied by this outcome as he got to chain his wife by his side as long as he desired.

"And I would take your offer to me to let that filthy thing live"

While the palace was full of tension and conflict, it seemed that Athanasia enjoyed her time there. The little girl, having turned five years old this year, felt like a big girl as she was actively engaging in thievery of the palace decoration. The empress, could not help but notice her efforts to steal some decorations from the palace. In fact, she was so exposed in her position that anyone could locate her. Celestial, noticing her acts, tried hard to conceal her laughter, for she felt joy looking at the little princess engaging in such antics.

"I never know our guards are this incompetent that a thief can trespass into the main palace?"

Athanasia was caught off guard by a voice behind her. She then turned around, adorably showing of her doe eyes as she stared pleadingly at Celestial, who had witnessed her multiple times committing such sinful acts. Knowing that Celestial was aware of her daily activities, she hoped for her mercy and tried to gain sympathy by looking appealing and cute to her. However, Celestial had already grown accustomed to her thievery and antics, and the fact that Athanasia had gained a large collection of stolen items in her pockets had become a routine matter for both of them which the empress gave her full support for the girl. Let's make the palace be poor!

"Auntie, please don't tell anyone. Athy will give you my precious chocolate. Please keep this a secret," the little girl begged Celestial, referring to her as 'auntie' as she never know the true identity of the woman who she had met since a week ago.

"Is it the chocolate that you steal from the kitchen?"

"It already in my hands so it is Athy's!"

"You're funny. Am I not giving you enough jewels yesterday?"

"Athy just love pretty stuff so much that Athy wants it to be mine! Auntie is pretty too! Athy loves your hair and your eyes the most. Athy loves Auntie the most!"

Celestial knew the princess wanted her to keep her thievery a secret, but it was fun for her to tease Athanasia from time to time. In a way, being with this little girl had brought life to Celestial's darkened world, and she was glad to spend proper time with someone who was open and honest in their thoughts. She knew that the princess was a little wild at times, but it was far more enjoyable to speak to someone who was sincere and innocent compared to communicating with an adult with hidden agendas.

"Athy, I have a present for you for visiting me again, please extend your hand to me," Celestial told the little princess, who was more than happy to accept the gift.

"Is it bigger and sparkly than yesterday?" Athanasia asked with excitement, clearly expecting a magnificent gift as she had gained many trinkets from her previous visits.

"It is better than yesterday, Athy," Celestial replied with a smile, indicating that the gift would be better than what she had given Athanasia the day before. She gave the princess a little pouch, which she took in her hands curiously.

"It's not a jewel or gold?"

"Open it. I assure you will love it a lot"

Athanasia, the little girl from the royal family, opened the pouch with a sense of doubt, as she had certain expectations when it came to gifts such as this. She considered only gold and jewels to be worthy gifts to receive, as they were the only things she deemed to be invaluable for her future. The princess was not easy to please when it came to gifts, for these precious items were crucial for her future, and she wished to find out whether her expectations would be met.

Athanasia, the princess, was overjoyed when she opened the pouch and discovered that there were endless amounts of gold and jewels inside. She was overwhelmed with joy at the sight of the precious items and was amazed at the seemingly endless space inside the pouch. She was thrilled by the knowledge that she would no longer have to struggle with hiding the items she had stolen, for the pouch's space could hold everything with no one being able to notice. She thought that the gifts that she had been given were more than worthwhile, for they had truly exceeded her expectations.

"It is a limitless space inside the pouch so after this, you can put everything inside the pouch instead of your pocket. No one will notice if you steal anything more after this"

"Athy loves it! Thank you, Auntie!"

The princess hugged Celestial and gave her thighs a tight hug, as a way to show her appreciation for the gift she had just given. Celestial, in turn, also enjoyed the hug for it was a way of bonding and communicating with the little princess. She would also look forward to more future interactions, for the time she had spent with Athanasia had been an important and precious experience for both of them.

"I'm glad that you love it" She caressed the little girl hair gingerly to return her action. Celestial and Athanasia were in their own pleasant world, being completely unaware of the presence of the two individuals approaching them. However, they were soon pulled back from their dreamy moments when they heard a loud voice coming from somewhere nearby. It seemed that the princess and Celestial were not the only ones in the room, for two individuals had arrived and spotted them from a distance.

"What is this filthy bug doing in my palace?" The two girls turned to face the source of the voice, curious to see who had spoken out in such a way. It was non other than the emperor, Claude De Alger Obelia

@fluffy-koalala

Chapter 4 << Previous, Next >> Chapter 6

[sorcerersandskillusers]

Fyodor and the Devil: Analysis of Fyodor's motives and role in the narrative

Asagiri has stated that he based Fyodor not on Dostoyevsky the author but on a specific scene from one of his books The Brothers Karamazov where Ivan Karamazov confronts “the devil” in his room.

(It's a really good book, you should read it if you have time. Also. fun fact, Fyodor and the devil wear the same hat, “His soft fluffy white hat was out of keeping with the season.”)

Having read the book and gone over this scene, I realized that this could be used to find out a lot more about Fyodor as a character than we see in the story, including a potential glimpse at his real motivations.

A bit of context for the scene. Ivan Kramazov is a clever but deeply trouble man who has struggling with the concept of God and rationalising him with the cruelty of humanity, at one point while very sick, Ivan starts seeing a man in his room who claims to be “the devil”. Their conversation is a fascinating look at morality and why evil exists in the world, and if you look at it closely it reveals a lot about the role of a “villain” in a story.

This line from “the devil” is really interesting to me, and seems to explain a lot about Fyodor’s character, as well as align perfectly with how Asagiri has described Fyodor in interviews:

Before time was, by some decree which I could never make out, I

was predestined 'to deny' and yet I am genuinely good-hearted and not at all inclined to negation.

'No, you must go and deny, without denial there's no criticism and what would a journal be without a column of criticism?' 

Without criticism it would be nothing but one 'hosannah.' But nothing but hosannah is not enough for life, the hosannah must be tried in the crucible of doubt and so on, in the same style. But I don't meddle in that, I didn't  create it, I am not answerable for it. Well, they've chosen their scapegoat, they've made me write the column of criticism and so life was made possible.

Basically the devil is saying that he was created because without evil then good means nothing, if everything was perfect then nothing would happen or change, life couldn’t exist, so he was forced to be that evil even though he never wanted to be.

This is so similar to how Fyodor is described in the BSD exposition 2020:

Fyodor is the antagonist, he is the villain of the story, that is the role he plays. This explains why he chooses to commit so many atrocities in the name of  “following God's plan”. It even connects to his line in The Dead Apple, and his ability name. He is both crime and punishment, as “crime” or sin originates with the devil, but it's also the devil who punishes sinners.

(I mean the title of the episode he is introduced in is literally “My Ill Deeds Are the Work of God” by committing evil acts he is fulfilling God's purpose for him.)

And if Fyodor is really based on “the devil” it's very likely he also either does or used to wish for release from this role that was assigned to him, but he knows that he cannot stray from his path or the story will cease to exist. My evidence for Fyodor wanting to be free of his mission is just one interaction, when he kills Karma.

Look at Fyodor's expression here, this is the only time in the entire series where we see him look truly sad. This isn't an act, there is no one there for him to trick, he simply says a quiet prayer for the life of a boy who's only purpose was to suffer and die.

This next part of “the devils” speech actually seems to fit very well for Dazai, it's interesting since he is the narrative foil to Fyodor and clearly is a very similar character.

We understand that comedy; I, for instance, simply ask for annihilation. No, live, I am told, for there'd be nothing without you.

If everything in the universe were sensible, nothing would happen. There would be no events without you, and there must be events. So against the grain I serve to produce events and do what's irrational because I am commanded to.

For all their indisputable intelligence,men take this farce as something serious, and that is their tragedy. They suffer, of course... but then they live, they live a real life, not a fantastic one, for suffering is life. Without suffering what would be the pleasure of it? It would be transformed into an endless church service; it would be holy, but tedious. But what about me? I suffer, but still, I don't live. I am x in an indeterminate equation. I am a sort of phantom in life who has lost all beginning and end, and who has even forgotten his own name. 

This ties perfectly into Dazai and Fyodor’s debate on the nature of God in the sky casino arc.

Dazai here points out that it's not perfection and harmony that make the world move, it's the irrational, it's the foolishness and stupidity of humans who charges into life making a million mistakes but always finding ways to fight on through it. Here Dazai and Fyodor represent the conflicting sides of “the devil” with Fyodor embodying his mission to drive the world and Dazai embodying his secret love for, and wish to join, humanity.

“I love men genuinely, I've been greatly calumniated! Here when I stay withyou from time to time, my life gains a kind of reality and that's what I like most of all. Yousee, like you, I suffer from the fantastic and so I love the realism of earth. Here, with you, everything is circumscribed, here all is formulated and geometrical, while we have nothing but indeterminate equations! I wander about here dreaming. I like dreaming. Besides, on earth I become superstitious. Please don't laugh, that's just what I like, to become superstitious. I adopt all your habits here: I've grown fond of going to the public baths, would you believe it?

And I go and steam myself with merchants and priests. What I dream of is becoming incarnate once for all and irrevocably in the form of some merchant's wife weighing eighteen stone, and of believing all she believes. My ideal is to go to church and offer a candle in simple-hearted faith, upon my word it is. Then there would be an end to my sufferings.”

“"Why not, if I sometimes put on fleshly form? I put on fleshly form and I take the consequences. Satan sum et nihil humanum a me alienum puto."*

* I am Satan, and deem nothing human alien to me.”

This piece from the devil feels like it could be a description of Dazai’s character, his wish above all else to find happiness and love as a human despite believing he is a demon. Both Dazai and Fyodor have strong ties to the Devil, both of them are often described as demonic or inhuman, with emphasis placed on the darkness of their souls and the isolation they feel due to their minds.

But the difference between them is how they dealt with it, Fyodor chose to embrace it and fully commit to his role in the story as the ultimate evil for the greater good, but Dazai has always shown a fasciation with humans and has spent his life trying to connect to them and find meaning in his existence.

Finally, let's look at what we can learn about Fyodor’s motivation. Fyodor is the villain, he is the final obstacle the protagonist has to overcome, he is the driving force behind so much of Atsushi’s life and the reason so much of the series has played out at all. He sent Shibusawa to torture Atsushi as a child, he was an informant to the guild who put the bounty on Atsushi making the mafia turn on him, he was involved in the guild invasion, and obviously he was the master mind behind cannibalism and Decay of Angles.

If he is aware of his position as the antagonist, then he also is probably aware Atsushi is the protagonist, he knew he was the “envy of all ability users” after all, so he knows Atsushi has some significance to the world as a whole.

Atsushi is also the “guide to the book” which is seemingly Fyodor’s end goal, so even though Fyodor doesn’t seem to be focused on Atsushi, he has been indirectly influencing his whole journey up to this point. This also explains why Fyodor is only moving actively now, because the protagonist has appeared and his role as the villain can finally be fulfilled and he, like “the devil” can finally get the “annihilation” he asked for. Hence, Fyodor’s true goal is to erase himself from the narrative.

There is actually quite a lot of evidence for this. The obvious part is that Fyodor wants to rid the world of ability users while he himself is an ability user, he cannot exist in his perfect world. 

Then there’s the fact that in the Dead Apple, Fyodor calls himself “crime” if Fyodor is “crime” or “sin” then a world free of sin would not contain him at all

Even when Fyodor talks about sin, he says how humans are easily manipulated into killing each other, while he constantly manipulates characters into killing each other, he is the cause of the sin he fights.

A really strong bit of evidence is this interview with Asagiri and Harukawa

Not only does Asagiri reiterate Fyodors role as the person who moves the story, Harukawa specifically mentions that Fyodor might be trying to create a world without ability users because he thought it was a “bad thing to do” aka the action a villain would take that would lead to a hero stopping them.

“Dos-san is the biggest villain in the story so far, but I have continued to draw him with spaced out eyes that are neither righteous nor evil for a long time. The only time I drew his eyes completely white was when he said he would create a world without skill users. It was because, in reality, we would decide what is evil or not by our own scales, but I wasn't sure if he himself was doing it because he thought that was a bad thing to do.”

This also connects to how Fyodor was able to understand Gogol when no one else could, Gogol is chooses to fight against the way the world is to prove to himself that he truly is free. Fyodor, who is bound to play a part in a narrative, would understand that feeling and that longing to be truly free.

To be clear, I don’t think that Fyodor is really a good person whose just been trapped in an awful position against his will, we see many times that Fyodor revels in his cruelty and enjoys killing and torturing others. Its the same with “the devil” in the book, although he hates the job he was given, he tells Ivan stories of the people he’s corrupted and seems very proud of himself for it.

My personal interpretation is that the sadistic zelot personality Fyodor displays is a mixture of a mask and a coping mechanism, kind of similar to Yosano developing a sadistic side to help her deal with the guilt of half killing people in order to heal them. I think it makes sense that after centuries of cruelty and manipulation a person would become detached and stop really caring about the lives he destroys.

This analysis is partially unfinshed but I wanted to post it now and see what other people think of it.

[beware-of-pity]

You believe me like a god (I destroy you like I am) V

Masterlist

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Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

TW: Self-hatred/Implied Self Harm. Complicated family relations. The reader is a Targtower.

Cross-posted on Ao3

Chapter V: Not a lot, just forever (Intertwined, sewn together)

What have you done? How could you do such a thing?

You had practically run back to your room, Ser Rickard following close after. Before he could inquire about your state, you closed the door behind you, sliding down on it, shaking your head, sweating cold blood as you panicked.

You foolish girl, had you learned nothing? This is how it begins, your downfall, your own end.

You had shut yourself in your room, no one to enter unless you wished otherwise. As such, your meals were left at your doorsteps, which you cared not to take.

That same day, in the late afternoon, Jacaerys came to see you. Still shaken by your choice of actions, the whispered words, and the untold understanding between you and Lord Reynford, you gladly accepted his entrance into your room to get yourself off your raging mind. As if him being there with you could soothe your itching soul.

Oh, how much like your mother you were. Feeling guilty for wanting things you thought were within your rights to be yours, to demand for yourself, to want, to yearn. You yearned for things like a normal person. You had desires, wants, and needs, could it be so wrong to reach for what you wanted? Freedom is such an abstract concept. What is freedom? You’re free right now, within the confines created for you, but even farmers’ daughters were freer to do as they pleased themselves. So, how come you ate at yourself for being human?

Why did your chest burn with the guilt of treachery? Why did your mind chastise you with words of petulance?

How could it be your fault when the gods made you in the same image of the mother whose womb you were born from? The womb that gave you life, the womb that shaped you into who you are? From the father’s whose seed created you in his liking? The hands that, in the haze of pleasure, moulded you?

The gods made the sins they make common people like you afraid of so much stronger than the nature of mankind. A nature you were taught to fight against, to negate, to reject. But how could you when your soul demanded of you to be like others? They temped, they tethered, they schemed, awaiting, with baited breaths, as they watched you descend into a madness of your own making. For the moment, you’ll slip into the trap set for you to fall in. The gods are cruel, but they’ve been crueller.

Jacaerys had come for two reasons. One, because he had learned that you had shut yourself in your room, not wanting either maids or visitors to come in. And two, he had witnessed something he had never seen before in his life.

A dragon in distress.

He was very much aware of how close the bond between dragon and rider could be, and upon learning from one of your maids, one he paid to keep an eye on you, of your ‘situation’ once he returned to the Keep, he wondered if your indisposure and been the cause for Silverwing’s more than alarming state.

When he, Baela and Rhaena had gone to the dragonpit earlier that day, he was told that he could not access the cave where Vermax rested. The dragon keepers told him it would be too dangerous to venture into the dark of the pit when Silveewing, a dragon known for her friendly nature towards humans, was in such disarray with herself.

He had not heeded the advice given to him, citing that Silverwing had not hurt anyone ever before, even those who attempted to claim her and were unsuccessful in doing so. You were kind, and so was your dragon, he trusted that your nature fed off to Silverwing.

But when he approached the cave where Vermax rested, just a few paces from where Silverwing’s was, he understood why he was cautioned not to. She was whining, wriggling around, the chains pulling at her neck, clearly not used to them. Why would she? When she was a dragon known for her freedom. He remembered how often you used to fly with her, many times a day, almost every day. It was your only freedom, the one autonomy you were allowed in this world of men and gods. Something your mother used to reprimand you for, citing it was not good for a lady of your station to be more on the wild saddle than participating in courtly matters.

The moment Silverwing saw him, she tried to walk to him, possibly out of recognition of the many flights you and her had taken with him and Vermax in the past, until she was pulled back once more by the chains, agitating her.

When he didn’t try to help her, she grew angrier, batting her wings and snapping her jaw at him, baring her pointy and sharp teeth. Before he could make another move, she was blasting her blue flames at him, making him stumble back in surprise. She had never done that before, not to him, not to anyone. He was used to her friendliness, and her erratic change of attitude worried him.

He had not gone for a flight that morning. Instead, he waited for Baela and Rhaena to return with Moondancer, Rhaena riding with her since Morning was still too young for her to fly with. After all, the pink beauty was only four years of age, just a big hatchling still. It would be long before Rhaena could fly atop her.

With the time he was given, he contemplated what he had just found himself at the hands of. It was no secret that you missed Silverwing, the separation from your other half leaving you, at times, a shell of the person you used to be. He knew how much you yearned for the skies, not just for the sake of flying but to feel the air blow through your hair, flesh against your skin when you did so with the mount you used to spend your days upon.

Perhaps today, more than any other day, you felt more melancholic than usual, the disparity of your situation truly pulling at you.

There were….days when everything got the better of you. When you refused to go out, to eat even less than you already did, to get out of your bed. He worried for you; he truly did, and his worry did not come from a place of pity, which he knew you hated. It came from a place of care and concern for you, your well-being, and your sanity.

Jacaerys always felt that you had a special place in his heart, one he would always reserve for you. His childhood had not been the best despite his more-than-awaited royal birth. His mother shielded him as best as she could, but she could not change the nature of the world they both lived in. You were the only one, aside from Helaena, who saw him as more than what he was, seeing through the prejudices and rumours spread about him. Kind, ever the open-hearted and understanding girl you were, you made a point to defend him from your brothers when their words would get less than kind in his regards. You two read together, under the weirwood tree in the Godswood, mostly histories of Valyria and the history of House Targaryen, which you always seemed more versed on than him, one of the reasons why you also taught him most of the Valyrian he knew, which you had taken an affinity than he couldn’t compare to, even years after, when he had become a studied mind and an ample linguistic in the old tongue of his ancestors.

He remembers how you used to show him every single needlework you would sew when you first picked your needle and thread because of the lessons your mother had made you take. Your first true work was an embroidered handkerchief with Silverwing and Vermax on it. He had never felt his heart swell so much as it did that day. He was eight years of age.

He was so enamoured by the gesture that he used to sleep with the handkerchief under his pillow, worried that someone would try to steal it from him, like little Luke, who would surely tease him endlessly for it. Even now, years down the line, he never parted from it, a true testament to just how much it meant for it. It weighed in the pockets of his trousers as he watched you intricately weaving the needle in the fabric latched into the wooden hoop. A silent reminder of who you were for him.

“What will that be?” He asked, his voice just a murmur so as to not break the silence that filled the room, the flickers of the fire crackling in front of you two.

“I don’t know yet” you muttered. He noticed how you were quieter than usual as if something you did not want to say would come out of your mouth otherwise.

“I like the colour,” he said, watching the red strings sawn together “It would go well with gold”

You raise the hoop to get a better look at the weaving dragon you were sewing before moving to hold it up against his doublet to see how it would fit upon it, or something similar, like a shirt or cloak. 

“Or black,” you said, before looking at his face, only for him to stare back at you. “If you like it I shall give it to your seamstress. Perhaps she can make good use of it. A shirt or doublet”

“I wouldn’t want to take away such creation from you for a mere shirt” he huffed, not taking his eyes off your inquisitive ones.

“Even if I insist?” It wasn’t often that you were so bold as to order around or dictate to others, especially not your servants, who you were always kind to and left to their own devices most times because you did not want to bother them with your bothersome nuances. Hence, Jacaerys knew that when you insisted upon something, you did so because you genuinely wanted to. It seemed now that you wanted him to have this piece of embroidered fabric for him to do as he pleased with it.

“You did the same with your last piece, I cannot accept any more” he argued against the offer, taking your free hand in his, absentmindedly caressing the skin of the back of your hand. “And I’ve yet been unable to repay you for your free labour”

You scoffed, admittedly not out of anger or annoyance, but, maybe, as an instinct of sort to show your displeasure with his words, “How can I show you that I do not do any of the things I do because I seek recognition or payment from it?”

Your words hit a nerve, it seemed because you noticed and felt his hand tighten slightly around your caged one “I did not mean it like that”

Jacaerys didn’t want you to believe that he saw you in the same light as he would a maid or a servant, who did things that they were asked to do only so they could be praised or honoured for their work later, such as that maid he pays to watch over you, who only betrayed your services because of the pouch of golden coins he handsomely bestowed upon her.

Loyalty can be such a fickle thing if you know just how to bewitch lonesome victims. To her fairness, the maid had a family to feed, and self-preservation demanded that if the occasion for her to improve her impoverished conditions would lay at her feet, she should then throw herself at them to do so. He was sure you, too, would not blame the maid for her treachery if unmasked, and she begged for your forgiveness for her disloyalty. After all, you were not privy to how desperate means called for desperate measures. And as a product of her own environment, you would not expect less of her.

“I know you didn’t, but, truly, I want to” you sighed “I would not get any use of it anyways. I would rather have you have it, than for it to gather stifle dust in this storage of a room”

Jacaerys tightened his lips at your words. He did not like your living conditions either. Your previous room, back in Maegor’s holdfast, had always been a sight to behold for him, rich in decorations and luxury. Full of Hightower heritage, green had dominated the space —and the more devout your mother became, the sparer everything had begun to look around the Keep, a reflection of your mother’s strong desire for order and control. There were a few things that made your personality stand out among your mother’s undigitised desire to be everywhere, like your collections of books and trinkets. Helaena liked bug collecting, but to the sometimes messy and soiling activity, you much-preferred flower pressing, amounting to a collection of books containing them that rivalled Helaena’s many viewing screens for her insects.

When he was younger, he liked to come with the two of you to the gardens, watching over as you and Helaena spent your afternoons and mornings indulging in your preferred pastimes. Sometimes, when Helaena was too afraid of certain bugs to pick, frightened at the possibility of hurting them, he would pick them up for her, swallowing his own fright and the revolting sensation that washed over him at the bugs crawling in his hands. He, too, preferred the art of flowers more than that of bugs

Instead of pressing them, you would bind them, creating small bouquets of all sorts of arrangments for him to bring back to his rooms, the freshness of the newly picked flowers haunting his room with their smell. In an effort to impress you, he tried his own hand at it, often creating bouquets of all colours, which clashed against one another, not quite as effortlessly as you did. He much liked yours better.

You appreciated the effort nonetheless, complimenting him and trying to help him by giving him bits of advice for him to follow. His mother, of all, delighted in the bouquet he presented to her for her name days.

He had hated watching you be stripped of all your possessions. Your room had been given to Rhaena, who had wished for it to be rearranged in a style more to her liking, as she should be able to as the new proprietor. Whenever he went to visit her, often having tea with her and Baela there, he would let his eyes stray around, noticing how different everything was and how you would, certainly, arrange your things differently than Rhaena did, were you still living in this quarter. He sometimes missed the white and green of it all, now replaced by soft pinks and pastels, Rhaena’s most preferred colours, reminiscing of the times you two had spent together in it.

The room in the vault your family was confined to, was second rate to what you had been used to in the past, and though you never complained about it, Jacaerys imagined it to be difficult to be living in such conditions either way. Small windows, with barely any light coming from them and little to no air picking up in this part of the castle. The bells of the Sept beside the vault would create this almost monastic environment, and he would muse about how this room almost seemed to befit a Septa more than a royal princess.

He had stayed long enough to have dinner with you. To say that the ensemble on the table was pitiful would almost be a compliment to the food. Stable boys ate better than you did.

The servants ducked their eyes at his stare as they placed the food on the table. Bread, although stale, butter and honey and blackberry preserves, old ones he was sure were stuffed in the back of the pantry, a rasher of bacon and a soft-boiled egg, a wedge of cheese, a pot of tea. A sullen assembly. Still, he watched as you dived into the food with no complaints, wondering if you did not care about the conditions of the food because you had grown used to it or because you were famished out of the lack of substance you denied yourself.

Guilt is a disease, one he hoped you would soon heal yourself from. He hated how passive you seemed to become of everything, and if you were not willing to stand for yourself, he would. Had you known how he rounded the servants that had served you your food tonight, you would have surely reprimanded him about how you were more than capable of standing up for yourself if you wanted.

He had inquired, if not outright demanded, who had insisted for food of such quality to be served to you, and to his surprise, or rather, to his predictability, they had told him that it was Lord Bartimos’ orders. Celtigar, clearly, did not know how to stay his hand, a mere councillor to his mother, he had gone behind everyone’s back, his, his mother, and her hand, his grandfather, to give out orders that he had no jurisdiction to give.

It was no wonder, that the next time they had crossed paths in the middle of the halls of the Keep, Jacaerys made sure to remind him of his place and station, adding on a subtle threat that future misconduct would not receive the same mild reception. Something about being ‘fed to the dogs in the streets’.

The next time he stayed for dinner, he was more than pleased to see what you had been served. There was hot bread and fresh churned butter, a thick beef soup, capon and carrots, and peaches in honey. Even the air could be tasted, sweeter than anything you had surely eaten in months, he thought.

He had watched with a hidden delight how you had taken a spoonful of everything, letting the different flavours melt into your tongue, each delicacy bursting your tastebuds with sensations long forgotten. From then on, he took to spending his suppers in your room, eating alongside you, to entertain himself in the sight he had come to love most. Word had spread around about his ‘encounter’ with Lord Bartimos, his household and that of many, he wagered, abuzz with spreading rumours spoken by fickle tongues.

He had no time for rumours or gossiped words; he was too busy showing his newly sewn black doublet with a proud red dragon embroidery on it. Many wondered whose intricate hands had weaved such dazzling composition.

If only they knew.

Taglist: @esposadomd @aleemendoza2425-blog

If anyone else wants to be added, please comment so, and you'll be tagged in the next chapter

[wandanatskitten]

Late Bloomer

Synopsis- Reader is a 30 yr old virgin. This is a full fic from an imagine I did a while back.

@jazzyxqzl I am so sorry I didn’t see your comment on that post when you asked for a full fic last September 🫣 This one’s for you, I hope I did you justice

Warnings: g!p Wanda, oral sex (Wanda being a certified munch), fingering, P in V sex

Word Count- 1.7k

It was undeniable since the beginning. Wanda was the perfect gentlewoman. From opening doors on your first date to bringing you lunch at work during her free time. She was always so considerate and it never went unnoticed.

For Wanda it came easily, naturally. To love you was like breathing. More often than not, she thought about you. Since your first date.

The glow of the street lamps reflected in your irises as you walk the town on a summer night. The smile that crests your face just before you advert your gaze after a compliment. The way you threw your head back when you laughed, causing you to trip over your own feet.

That night filled both of you with a silent prayer as Wanda’s arms firmly held you to her taller frame. Catching you before your descent to concrete but never letting go. Fate toying with the literal and metaphorical terms of falling in love as the silence of the event was christened with your first kiss.

The more time you spent together the more it proved difficult for Wanda to keep away from you. Her lips and hands attempting to claim every inch of your body. Both of your desires left no room to avoid a much needed conversation.

The button on my jeans popped. The sound of the zipper deafening as anticipation filled the room. “Wanda wait.” I placed a firm hand on her shoulder, one that matched the defiance in my tone.

This was the one time her attention felt suffocating as she clung on to every syllable i spoke. “I can’t-I mean I’ve never…“ I cut my own sentence off and looked away from her attentive green eyes to draw a breath of confidence. “I’m still a virgin.”

“Oh.” Wanda sat up immediately and her lack of warmth felt like a stinging rejection. The desire for her causing a string of insecurity to wrap around your body, shrinking your frame. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said any-“

“No no no. Y/n Stop.” Her voice quickly stepped in. “I’m glad you told me, that isn’t something I would’ve assumed.”

“Well most people have sex by the time they’re 30.” I ironically chuckle.

“Most people also regret how and who it happens with. Rushing pleasure can sacrifice it for pain.” Even now Wanda shut down your fit of self humility. Offering solace in patience and understanding.

“So you don’t care?” I asked.

“Actually I care a lot. I care about making sure you’re comfortable and safe. We don’t have to force anything you aren’t ready for.”

Wanda’s promise held complete truth. Her thoughts clarifying into her innate desire for you. Not completely untouched but surely undiscovered. And even so, the brunette erased any other trace or outranked any memory you had of anyone else who wasn’t her.

Wanda took every chance you allowed her to have. Practically taking home between your legs. Your thighs acting as a pillow as she lazily eats you out. More often than not she ate you out selfishly. Her lips offered the slightest suction on your clit and her tongue circled your entrance eliciting breathy mewls from you. Her goal wasn’t making you orgasm. It was the promise of your honey that leaked from your innocent hole. Tasting your sinful juices and praising your body as her favorite delicacy. “So sweet. God, you’re so sweet.” She’d whisper to herself in between licks. Wanda never rushed your pleasure. As much as she was selfish with it, she had other plans. Teasing your clit til you grew desperate enough to grab hold of her locks and grind against her tongue. She loved to see you lose control, or rather take it. Your desperation transformed into a primal need to cum on Wanda’s tongue. She all but trained you to take what you need. Not having to ask for permission as she would gladly sit on her knees all day while her tongue circles your throbbing clit til she’s stripped the last bit of energy you had into your final orgasm.

One fascination was coupled with another. Over time your body cried as you squeezed around nothing, so soon Wanda’s hands joined your moments of exploration. Having you ready and relaxed she’d trade her usual form of torture for slim yet long fingers.

Wanda’s thoughts filled with thanks to the sun light gracing the room. Not only feeling but seeing the plush warmth as you all but sucked her in. Testing the waters to make sure you’re comfortable. She didn’t curl her fingers or explore your depths til she added a second one. Encapsulated by the way your walls fluttered. Just for a brief moment Wanda had to pull away. Mesmerized at the string of arousal that coated her digits when she separated them. But your needy whine didn’t go unnoticed. She hushed you with the feel of her fingers once again, this time offering a gentle curl that caused a throaty moan to escape you. Wanda being all too aware took notes on the different sounds you made, the way your legs would attempt to close, or the spasms of your pussy as you grew closer to climax.

After you came the first time, Wanda basically begged to do it again. And who were you to complain or even deny the pleasure your girlfriend could bring you. But the second time around she wanted to see you stretch. You hissed as she placed three fingers into your pussy. She paused as you tensed, preparing to withdraw but you stopped her. Comforting Wanda’s worry by telling her it doesn’t hurt, it was just…unexpected. So she continued with delicate kisses to your inner thigh. While you clamped your eyes shut, attempting to contain the volume of your moans. Wanda’s eyes glazed with a feral lust that made her shorts grow tight. Imagining the way your pussy would feel around her cock. Your cum coating her shaft as you leak the same way you do onto her fingers. As she watched you build to another orgasm, Wanda didn’t dare touch herself. Enjoying the teasing thoughts as she twitched in her boxers. Her hand wouldn’t compare to the warmth of your greedy pussy and she didn’t want to waste a single drop of cum if it wasn’t to be inside you.

That became your new normal. Wanda’s complete focus being on you. Refusing to touch you without a source of light. Your pussy became an obsession. Delicate, needy, wet, and claimed by Wanda. She made an effort to love everything you’d allow her to have. Engrossed in the perversions of your body, one night she mindlessly whispered in your ear, “I can’t wait to stretch you out even more.”

Your breath hitched and hips jolted with anticipation. Although her fingers were deep inside you, you could still feel the impressive size of her penis as you straddled her lap. So with a passionate and determined confidence you responded, “Do it, I want you.”

Wanda slows to gauge your expression to find no resignation in your words. Yet still looking for another verbal consent. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Your smile was ample as you looked into her eyes. “I’m ready.”

Wanda lifted you enough to pull her boxer down. Her member standing proud. Sure you’d seen her naked but now there was promise for more. Wanda could feel your body tense so she kissed you passionately and slowly til you relaxed. Both of your bodies filled with delirium as the head of her penis swiped through your folds before angling to your entrance. Her arm around your waist pulled you onto her length. You gasped and tensed your legs at the foreign pressure as both of you took a moment to breathe.

It took every muscle in Wanda’s body to not drive her hips deeper and you could feel it in the way her arms gripped your waist. But her pleasure wasn’t as important as your alleviation. “You okay?” She asked. You nodded your head, “Yeah. It’s just-oh fuck.” You took the initiative to take more of her causing your sentence to end early.

“Fuck Y/n.” Wanda groans into your neck. “You feel so good.” For a minute you two just sat there enveloped by the feeling of each other. Per usual Wanda encouraged you to take your time and praised even the slightest movements you made to grind your hips into her.

The pressure soon modified into pleasure as your hips grew with conviction and picked up a proper rhythm. You couldn’t subdue the breaths, moaning, or whines causing them to freely explore the space around you. You held your arms firmly around Wanda’s neck, keeping her close. While she kissed any skin she could reach. Your lips, your shoulders, your arms. The heat of her body was overwhelming as she guided the momentum of your hips with her hands.

But your stamina was yet to build unlike the girl beneath you and she could tell. Ever fluent in your body language, Wanda switches positions and lays you down onto the mattress. Propping your hips to an angle with one of her pillows.

The new position reached deeper in your core and allowed you to feel every inch of her length. Her size was an average 6 inches but her girth made you feel fuller and all consumed by the woman on top of you.

Wordless babbles and incomplete sentences struck by cuss words flowed from your lips as her cock massaged your walls, hitting your g-spot with precision.

“Fuck. Fuck, ri…there”

“Oh. My. God. D-don’t stop.”

“A little harder.”

Wanda became drunk on you, frenzied by your legs hugging her hips, your nails that painted red streaks along her back, and the quivering of your pussy against her length.

She fucked into you admirably. Keeping her rhythm as you listen to her pant and groan in your ear. Only furthering the noticeable pattern of your impending orgasm. One of her groans resembled more of a growl as she spoke, “ You’re made for me Y/n. So perfect.”

Your pussy grew tighter at her words, pressuring your climax forward as you sang a melody of euphoric relief. Like a domino effect Wanda came right after. No longer having to fight off the need to paint your walls white.

You whimper each time she rams her hips into yours. Using you to milk the last few drops for her cock while offering security in a possessive tone, “You’re mine Y/n, this is the first cock in you. And it’ll be the last.” Before taking solace in your blissful state.