#i need the next chapter more than i need air

[luvstappen]

pairing: oscar piastri x fewtrell!reader, lando norris x fewtrell!reader

summary: not even oscar’s birthday party stops lando from stirring up some drama

word count: 1.4k

warnings: swearing, angst, love triangle chaos, oscar suffering in silence

a/n: surprise! here’s the first little bonus chapter from the INTAF series, revealing exactly what happened on the balcony in part 19! hope you like it <3

masterlist

Oscar wasn’t the type to enjoy big parties. You knew that better than anyone else.

He could be charming when needed, of course. The polite smiles, the quiet nods, the well-timed remarks that made people think he was more engaged than he actually was. He was good at it. But you also knew that none of it came naturally. That socialising in rooms like these drained him in a way racing never did.

And tonight was no different.

His team had put this party together, and while the gesture was nice, it wasn’t for him. It was for the sponsors, the PR, the endless parade of people who wanted a piece of him now. Oscar wasn’t the type to demand attention, and this was the exact kind of thing he’d never choose for himself.

And yet here he was, stuck in the thick of it, listening to someone ramble about something that, judging by the slightly glazed-over look in his eyes, he couldn’t have cared less about. His expression was neutral, but you recognized the subtle signs of discomfort—the slightly tightened jaw, the way his fingers fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve.

You were different from him in that way. Where Oscar preferred to blend in, you thrived in crowds. You could talk to anyone about anything. You never shied away from the attention.

And if you were here, standing next to him, he wouldn’t feel like he was fucking suffocating. But you weren’t. Instead, you were across the room, laughing at a joke someone had said, completely at ease.

Then, as if he could feel your gaze on him, his eyes flicked across the room and landed on you. For the briefest moment, something in his expression softened. A quiet plea.

You grinned at him, excusing yourself from the conversation as you set your drink down and slipped through the crowd. When you finally reached Oscar, you leaned in with a wide smile. “Mind if I steal the birthday boy for a second?”

The woman he’d been speaking to blinked in surprise, caught mid-sentence. “Oh. Sure.”

Oscar didn’t hesitate. Relief flashed across his face as he turned to you, already stepping away before she could even finish speaking. You grabbed his wrist, tugging him with you as you led him toward the balcony.

“You looked like you were about to die over there.”

“I think I was,” he admitted with a quiet chuckle.

The moment you stepped outside, the cool air hit you, sharp and refreshing. The night was calm and peaceful, the distant hum of music and chatter fading behind the glass door.

You leaned against the railing, closing your eyes briefly as you let the fresh air clear your head. “Better?” you asked, glancing at him.

Oscar didn’t answer immediately. He took a deep breath as he watched you, illuminated by the city lights.

Then, without warning, he stepped closer and hugged you.

This caught you off guard. Not because Oscar never hugged you, but because this felt different. Longer. A little tighter. Like he just needed it.

Your stomach flipped.

“Osc?” you murmured, surprised.

He exhaled softly. “Just... thanks for coming.”

Something in the way he said it made your chest ache. You blinked, taken aback, but slowly wrapped your arms around him, letting your chin rest on his shoulder.

“Of course I came,” you said, voice quieter now. “You know that.”

"I know," he murmured, pulling back slightly.

His hands lingered on your shoulders as his gaze searched yours.

“It just means a lot to me.” He smiled softly. “You mean a lot to me.”

Your breath hitched. Oscar wasn’t usually this effusive, so his words took you by surprise. He must’ve had a couple of drinks, surely.

Before you could say anything, the sound of a door opening behind you made you both turn.

“Am I interrupting something?” Lando’s light voice sliced through the air.

He leaned against the doorway, hands casually tucked into his pockets, smirking with his usual ease, but you knew him better than that. His eyes were unreadable and sharp, almost reproachful. They flicked between you and Oscar, assessing, calculating.

You stepped back from Oscar too quickly, like you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to. And Lando noticed.

“No,” you said, too fast. “We were just… talking.”

Beside you, Oscar’s posture had shifted. His hands dropped from your shoulders, his usual composure returning like a well-rehearsed act. “Needed some air,” he added.

Lando hummed, his head tilting just slightly, as if he didn’t quite believe it. “Right,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching up, but that sharp gaze never wavered. “Well, I’m heading back to the hotel. Thought I’d let you know.”

Your chest tightened. “Already?” You hated how careful your voice sounded. How calm you were forcing yourself to be.

Lando shrugged. “Yeah. Long day.”

But his eyes weren’t on you anymore. They were locked on Oscar. A fraction too long.

Oscar, who just stood there, still and silent.

“Happy birthday, mate,” Lando finally said.

Oscar gave him a small nod, lips pressing together. “Thanks.”

Lando hesitated. Just for a second.

Then, he made a deliberate step forward. And another.

His hand clapped lightly on Oscar’s shoulder, friendly, easy. But the way his fingers curled just a little tighter than necessary felt anything but friendly.

And then, just as easily, he turned back to you with a grin. His gaze swept over you, slow, lingering. Considering.

You knew that look very well.

And before you could even react, his fingers, soft and deliberate, brushed against yours.

The contact sent a jolt of electricity up your arm. You stiffened, inhaling sharply as his touch trailed up, brushing over your wrist, before tilting your chin up with the lightest touch of his warm fingertips.

Your breath caught. You knew what was coming. And you should have pulled away.

But you didn’t.

Because this was Lando. And you never could. Resisting him had never been something you were good at.

His lips met yours, soft at first, but there was nothing hesitant about it. And then it deepened, his hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you against him, like he wasn’t just kissing you. As Gigi would say, it was like he was staking a claim. Like he was making a statement.

Your heart pounded, but not just from the kiss. It was the weight of the silence behind you.

And Oscar. Just standing there. Watching.

You should have stopped. Should have pushed him away.

But you didn’t.

And Lando knew it. He knew you wouldn’t.

When he finally pulled back, his lips barely ghosted over yours, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“See you later,” he murmured, voice low, meant only for you.

Your throat was dry, your mind racing. Because what the fuck was that?

Lando’s gaze flicked to Oscar, just for a second. Long enough to make it clear. To finish his statement.

Then he turned and disappeared back inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

And just like that, the quiet became unbearable.

You couldn’t believe what just happened. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to look at Oscar.

He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at the skyline, hands shoved into his pockets. Not moving. Not speaking. Just standing there.

And something about that hurt more than anything.

You weren’t sure what to say, but the longer the silence stretched, the worse it felt. Finally, you cleared your throat, desperate to break the silence. “Well. That was… um.”

Oscar let out a quiet, breathy chuckle, but it was empty and didn’t really reach his eyes. “Yeah.”

Your fingers curled around the railing. This wasn’t like you. You weren’t someone who struggled for words.

You shifted awkwardly. “I, uh—I should probably—” 

“You don’t have to explain,” he said quickly, finally looking at you. His voice was quiet and carefully even. It pained you.

“It’s not—” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “It’s none of my business.”

The words landed like a slap.

And for the first time tonight, you finally saw it. A flicker of something in his expression—raw, vulnerable, something that twisted in your chest and made it ache.

Your fingers twitched at your sides before you reached for his hand, squeezing it lightly. “Hey,” you murmured. “You okay?”

Oscar’s lips quivered, as if he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. “Yeah.”

Liar.

But you didn’t call him out on it.

[antinousletmehit]

˚₊‧꒰ა Chapter 22 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

⋆˚࿔ Book 2 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

୨୧┇pairing: Telemachus x reader

୨୧┇this was posted late because of SOMEONEEEE

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

The Greeks moved like a storm, sweeping through the next Skiaphos village with fire and steel. War cries echoed through the night, the clash of swords ringing out over the screams of the fallen. Telemachus led the charge, his blade cutting down any soldier who dared to stand in his way. Behind him, Antinous and Druses carved their own paths of destruction

Then Telemachus saw him.

Raphael.

The coral-eyed prince stood at the heart of the battlefield, dressed in armor polished to perfection, the deep red of his cloak making him look like something out of a nightmare. He was covered in blood, some his, most not, but he still held himself with that infuriating grace, as if this was just another game to him. Something inside Telemachus snapped.

He surged forward, his sword slicing through the chaos, his focus locked on Raphael alone. Raphael turned just in time to meet his attack, their blades clashing with a deafening clang. His light eyes widened slightly in surprise before his lips curled into a grin.

“Telemachus,” he purred, pushing back against the strike. “I was wondering when you’d find me.” Telemachus didn’t waste time on words—he struck again, harder, forcing Raphael onto the defensive. Their swords danced in a deadly rhythm, each strike faster than the last. Raphael was skilled, his movements fluid, his footwork impeccable, but Telemachus fought like a man with something to lose.

And Raphael noticed.

“You fight desperately,” Raphael taunted between parries, his smirk still in place. “Is it for her? Does it burn you, knowing she’s in my bed while you’re out here playing soldier?”

Telemachus’ next strike nearly took his head off. Raphael barely dodged in time, but Telemachus pressed the attack, driving him backward with relentless force. Gone was the arrogant grace—Raphael’s movements were getting sloppy, his blocks coming slower, his breathing heavier.

Then Telemachus’ blade cut deep into his side. Raphael let out a strangled gasp, stumbling back as blood bloomed against his armor. His light eyes flickered with something unfamiliar—shock, pain, fear. He clutched at the wound, but Telemachus didn’t let up, raising his sword for the final strike.

And then Endymion was there. The older prince moved like a shadow, stepping between them in an instant, his own blade catching Telemachus’ just before it could find Raphael’s throat. Telemachus’ arms shook from the impact, his breath coming fast and ragged.

Endymion’s expression was unreadable, his hazel eyes calm but sharp. “That’s enough, we can kill you easily, so I suggest you retreat.” he said, his voice steady. Telemachus’ heart pounded, his grip tightening on his sword. He could end this now. He could kill Raphael, take y/n back, end this nightmare—

But Endymion didn’t move. He didn’t threaten, didn’t taunt. He simply stood there, his blade still pressed against Telemachus’, waiting.

Telemachus’ jaw clenched. With a frustrated growl, he backed off.

Raphael coughed, still clutching his bleeding side, his smirk weaker but somehow still there. “Oh, Telemachus,” he rasped, laughing breathlessly. “That almost hurt.”

Telemachus ignored him, turning away as his men continued their rampage. Raphael had slipped through his fingers today. But next time, there would be no Endymion to save him.

——

The battle was over. The fires still burned, the scent of ash thick in the air, but the Greeks had taken what they needed and moved on, leaving the once thriving village in ruins. The wounded moaned in agony, and the dead lay where they had fallen. Among the wreckage, Raphael limped forward, his silver armor stained red with his own blood, his breathing uneven.

Endymion had an arm around his younger brother, half-dragging, half-carrying him back toward the palace. Raphael gritted his teeth, refusing to let any more pain show, but every step sent sharp, burning agony through his side where Telemachus had nearly gutted him. Endymion had saved his life. And he was furious about it.

The moment they passed the palace gates, Endymion shoved Raphael forward. Off-balance, Raphael stumbled before catching himself against a pillar, wincing as fresh pain shot through him.

Then came the slap

The sound echoed through the grand hall, sharp and unforgiving. Raphael’s head snapped to the side, his cheek stinging, his silver eyes widening in momentary shock.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Endymion roared, his hazel eyes burning with fury. “If I hadn’t stepped in, Telemachus would have killed you!”

Raphael let out a breathless chuckle, dragging a hand down his face. “But he didn’t, dear brother.” His lips curled into a weak smirk, but Endymion wasn’t in the mood for his games.

Endymion grabbed him by the collar, shaking him. “This isn’t a joke, Raphael! You waltzed into battle like some lovesick idiot and nearly got yourself slaughtered!” His voice was thick with frustration, but underneath it, something else—fear.

Raphael scoffed, prying Endymion’s hands off him. “And what would you have me do? Hide behind my walls and let Telemachus think he can take everything from me?” His voice was hoarse but defiant. “I am not weak.”

“You’re a fool,” Endymion snapped. “Do you even realize what would have happened if you died today? Our soldiers would have lost all morale, Skiaphos would fall within weeks, and Pandora—” He stopped himself, exhaling sharply. “You think Telemachus would have left your wife and children untouched?” Something in Raphael’s smirk twitched, but he didn’t respond.

Endymion pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice lowering to something dangerously close to pleading. “You have a family now, Raphael. Stop acting like an arrogant child and start acting like a king.”

Raphael turned away, his light eyes dark. “I will not cower.”

“No,” Endymion muttered. “You’ll just bleed.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left, his footsteps echoing down the hall. Raphael stood there for a long moment, his jaw clenched, his cheek still burning from the slap. Slowly, he reached down, pressing a hand to his wounded side, feeling the warmth of his own blood still seeping through his armor.

Teeth grinding, he forced himself to move, ignoring the pain as he made his way toward y/n’a chambers. If Telemachus thought this was over, he was dead wrong.

The door to her chambers swung open with force, slamming against the wall. The sudden noise startled Adonis, who was nestled beside his mother, while Phebie, barely a few months old, stirred but did not wake.

She didn’t flinch. She continued gently smoothing Phebie’s dark curls, her fingers moving with practiced ease, as if she hadn’t even noticed Raphael’s entrance. But she had. She could feel the tension rolling off of him in waves, the way his breath came in uneven huffs, the scent of blood still clinging to his armor.

He was angry.

She didn’t care.

Raphael stood there, watching her, his delicate eyes unreadable at first. His wounded side still ached, his cheek burned from Endymion’s earlier slap, and his pride—his pride—had taken its worst beating yet. And yet, here she was. Tending to their children, untouched by the battle that had nearly cost him his life. Because of him.

His jaw tightened. “I’m doing all of this for you, you know,” he muttered, his voice low and simmering.

She finally looked up. Her violet eyes met his, blank and unimpressed, like she was staring at a stranger rather than the man who claimed to love her. Then, coolly, she said, “I wish Telemachus had finished the job.”

Raphael froze.

The words cut deeper than any sword, deeper than the wound Telemachus had left in his side. For a moment, he just stared at her, his coral eyes searching her face for something—anything—that suggested she didn’t mean it.

“You don’t mean that,” he murmured, quieter this time. She held his gaze, her expression utterly, devastatingly apathetic.

“I do.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Raphael just stood there, his hands curled into fists at his sides. His whole body ached—from battle, from exhaustion, from something deeper and uglier than he was willing to name.

He had bled for her. Killed for her. Fought for her.

And she wanted him dead.

For the first time in his life, Raphael had nothing to say. The silence stretched between them like a chasm, wide and unbridgeable. Raphael stood frozen in place, staring at her as if she had just stabbed him through the heart. His silver eyes, usually so sharp and full of arrogance, flickered with something desperate. Something hollow.

Y/n, meanwhile, simply turned her attention back to Phebie, adjusting the tiny blanket wrapped around her daughter’s small frame. It was a simple, thoughtless movement, and yet it was enough to break him.

Raphael crumbled.

He let out a sharp, ragged breath before stumbling forward, falling to his knees before her. His hands gripped the fabric of her dress as he pressed his forehead against her lap, his shoulders trembling. “Please,” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “Y/n—just…” His fingers tightened, clinging to her like a lifeline. “Just give me something.”

A choked sob escaped him, muffled against the fabric of her gown. He was shaking—whether from exhaustion, pain, or something deeper, even he didn’t know. He only knew that he needed her. That he couldn’t stand this emptiness between them.

“I’ve given you everything,” he whispered, his voice thick with anguish. “I’ve fought for you. I’ve bled for you. I built all of this for us—for you, love—” His breath hitched as he turned his face against her thigh, his tears soaking into the soft fabric. “And you still—” His voice cracked, and he clenched his jaw, sucking in a sharp breath. “You still don’t love me.”

She simply stared down at him, her eyes eerily calm. If she felt anything for the man currently weeping at her feet, she didn’t show it. Slowly, with the same detached indifference she had given Phebie just moments before, she lifted a hand and placed it on his head. Her fingers ran gently through his calico curls, a slow, mechanical motion—not out of tenderness, but out of something closer to pity.

Raphael inhaled sharply at the touch, his grip on her tightening. He curled further into her, like a wounded child seeking comfort from a mother who could barely stand to acknowledge him.

“I love you,” he whispered brokenly. “I love you, I love you, I love you, and you—” His breath shuddered as he turned his head, resting his cheek against her lap, his salmon-pink eyes flickering up to meet hers. “You’re all I have.”

She held his gaze, her fingers still threading through his hair, her expression unreadable. He waited for her to say something. To offer him even the smallest fragment of warmth.

But she said nothing.

Instead, she simply continued to pet his head, like one would soothe a restless animal. Raphael let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes. He could pretend, just for a moment, that this was love. That she meant it.

Because if he didn’t—if he let himself truly see how empty her touch was—he would shatter completely.

Raphael was pathetic.

He knew it, could feel it, but he didn’t care. Not now. Not when she was the only thing keeping him from slipping into that terrible void inside of him. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers digging into the fabric of her dress as if she might disappear if he let go. His breath hitched, uneven and desperate, his chest rising and falling in erratic shudders.

“Please,” he whimpered, his voice raw. His tears had already soaked through the fabric of her gown, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. “Please, just—say something.”

She didn’t respond. She merely continued stroking his hair with that same mechanical, detached rhythm. Not out of love, not out of care—just to placate him. Like she was petting a dog that wouldn’t stop whining.

Raphael let out a weak, broken laugh, his shoulders trembling as another sob racked through him. “Gods, do you even feel anything?” His voice cracked as he tilted his head up, his silver eyes wide, wet, pleading. “Do you even care that I—” He sucked in a sharp breath, shaking his head. “That I need you?”

Her gaze remained blank, emotionless. If his words affected her at all, she didn’t show it. Raphael clenched his jaw, sniffling as he pressed his face harder against her lap. “I’ve done everything for you,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “I built you a home, I gave you children, I—I killed for you, y/n—” His breath shuddered as he clutched her even tighter, his arms fully wrapping around her waist now, desperate to hold onto something real. “Why can’t you just—just love me back?”

She exhaled quietly, her fingers never stopping their slow, absentminded motion through his curls. She didn’t push him away, but she didn’t pull him closer either. Raphael sniffled again, his breath uneven, his body curled against her like a wounded animal. “You’re all I have,” he murmured brokenly. “You and the children… I don’t—I don’t have anything else.”

Still, she said nothing. His grip on her waist tightened until his knuckles turned white, his body trembling against hers. “Y/n,” he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”

She looked down at him, her violet eyes cold, distant. And then, as if responding to the cries of a child throwing a tantrum, she finally spoke.

“Stop crying, Raphael.”

Her tone was flat, emotionless. A command, not comfort. Raphael sucked in a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut. His chest ached, his throat burned, but he obeyed. Because if he kept crying, she might pull away. And that—losing even this small, pitiful form of contact—was something he could not bear.

@procrastination20 @jackiepackiee @barrythestrawberry041 @blessedbyahuntress

@f3r4|frOgg3r @permanently-nothere @eyuunho @jackintheboxs-world @simpingmyassoff @sunshinewhosketches @sugarlillycookie @kaguraaaa @doodle-with-rhy

@0anodite0 @cocosparkel @tati-the-fangirl

@dazedemery @tsmaruchan @xo-cuteplosion-xo

@galaxygurlll @pjopinkk @h0ne4bee

@minteaspoon @zendoesstuff @yuvany @i-liketoast

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 How to Unintentionally, Get An Endless To Marry You: Chapter Five

How to Unintentionally, Get An Endless To Marry You: After saving a strange man from a fishbowl cage, you earn yourself a favor. When you cash in said favor, you don’t realize that you and the man aren’t on the same page on what you need from him.

Warnings: Misunderstanding.

To Note: Morpheus x Afab!Reader

Word Count: ~2.8k

Previous | Masterlist | Next

While you are helping your mom wash dishes, your dad shows Morpheus his garden. Your mom finally doubled down.

"Did you pay that handsome man to be your husband?" your mom asks, hands submerged in soapy water. Her eyes narrow slightly, a mix of suspicion and concern etched across her face.

You nearly drop the plate you’re rinsing. "Mom, what kind of question is that?"

"Well, he's too perfect," she replies, not missing a beat. "And you’ve never mentioned him before."

You sigh, trying to gather your thoughts. "Morpheus is real. We met… unexpectedly. Things moved fast.”

Your mom turns off the faucet and wipes her hands on a dish towel. "Unexpectedly? What does that even mean?"

"It means," you say, struggling to keep your voice steady, "that sometimes life surprises you. And sometimes those surprises are good." That technically isn't a lie. She finally huffs in resignation.

"I just want you to be happy, but I also want my grand babies."

You swallow hard, the pressure of your mother's expectations pressing down on you. The clinking of dishes in the sink becomes a background symphony to the thoughts racing through your mind. "Mom, we're happy. That's what matters, right?"

She eyes you carefully, as if weighing your words. "I suppose," she says slowly. "But I still don't understand why you never mentioned him before."

You force a smile, trying to appear nonchalant. "We wanted to keep things private for a while. Morpheus has a very demanding job as a sleep doctor. The fact that we even met is still mind boggling to me. We come from different worlds." Literally.

The back door creaks open and your dad steps in with Morpheus trailing behind. Their conversation, a low murmur, fades as they enter the kitchen. Your dad beams, patting Morpheus on the back.

"Y/N's husband is quite the gardener," your dad says, pride evident in his voice. He is? That was news to you.

Morpheus nods, his expression serene. "Your father's garden is a reflection of dedication and care."

You give him a grateful smile. "Glad you two hit it off."

Your mom snorts softly but says nothing, resuming her task at the sink. Morpheus moves to stand beside you, his presence both comforting and disconcerting. He picks up a dish towel and starts drying the dishes you pass to him.

"How was the garden?" you ask, trying to keep things light.

"Enchanting," Morpheus replies, eyes meeting yours. "It reminds me of the Dreaming in its own way."

You feel a twinge of warmth at his words. "I'm glad you liked it."

Your dad grabs a chair and sits down, looking more relaxed than he has all evening. "So, Morpheus, what do you do when you're not working or being married to my daughter?"

Your dad's question hangs in the air, and you feel a moment of panic. Morpheus isn't exactly versed in mundane small talk.

Morpheus pauses, considering his answer. "I enjoy the creation of artistic expression through my sand."

You watch your dad’s eyes widen, trying to make sense of Morpheus's cryptic reply.

“Sand, huh? Like those fancy sand sculptures?” he asks, scratching his head.

Morpheus tilts his head slightly, a flicker of confusion passing over his face. "In a manner of speaking. It’s more… ethereal."

You interject quickly, sensing the need to steer the conversation. "Morpheus has an artistic soul. It's one of the things I love about him."

Your mom gives you a sidelong glance, but your dad seems intrigued. "Artistic, eh? Maybe you can help me design the new flowerbed."

Morpheus inclines his head graciously. "I would be honored." There is a little more small talk as the dishes are finished and you finally decide to retire from your mom's scrutiny for the night.

"I think I am gonna head up to my room for the night." You speak up. "It's been a long day. For both of us."

"Shall we turn in then, beloved?" Morpheus questions, stepping up to you and softly taking your elbow.

Your mom's eyes narrow slightly at Morpheus's gesture, but she says nothing. You nod and start heading up the stairs, Morpheus’s presence close behind you. The air feels thick with unspoken words as you ascend, each step echoing in the silence.

When you reach your room, you push the door open and let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The room looks the same as always—comfortingly familiar. You glance at Morpheus, who stands just inside the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"Well," you say, trying to break the tension. "That was... intense."

Morpheus steps closer, his eyes softening as he looks at you. "Your parents care deeply for you. It is... admirable."

You flop onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling. "Yeah, well, they have a funny way of showing it sometimes. I really don't need my mother breathing down my neck about grandchildren."

Morpheus sits on the edge of the bed, his presence both grounding and otherworldly. He looks at you with those endless eyes, a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"Do such matters weigh heavily upon you?" he asks, his voice a soft murmur.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. "It's just... a lot. My mom has these expectations, and I feel like I can never measure up."

He reaches out, almost hesitantly, and takes your hand in his. "You are more than enough," he says with quiet conviction.

Your heart skips a beat at his words. "Morpheus, you really don't have to—"

"I do," he interrupts gently but firmly. "You are my wife. Your burdens are mine as well."

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. You sit up, turning to face him fully. "This is a lot harder than I thought, pretending in front of her," you speak absentmindedly.

"Then do not pretend," Morpheus says as if it is the simplest thing in the world. "Be yourself, for that is the one whom I married."

His words fly right over your head as mental fatigue plagues your mind.

You lie back on the bed once more, staring at the ceiling, trying to process everything. Morpheus's words echo in your mind, but the exhaustion makes it hard to focus.

"Do you think my mom will ever stop questioning us?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Morpheus looks at you with an intensity that feels like it's piercing through your soul. "She will see the truth in time," he says simply.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting Morpheus's words wash over you. The fatigue is almost overwhelming, but there's a strange comfort in his presence.

"I hope you're right," you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

Morpheus doesn't reply immediately. Instead, he stands up and walks to the window, looking out into the night. His silhouette is bathed in moonlight, making him seem even more otherworldly. He really is handsome, isn't he…

"Your world is so different from mine," he muses softly. "Yet, it holds its own kind of beauty."

You turn your head to look at him. "The Dreaming is incredible."

"It is," he agrees, still gazing out the window. "But it can also be... lonely."

The admission catches you off guard. Morpheus, the Lord of Dreams, feeling lonely? It's a concept that seems almost impossible.

"Morpheus," you say gently, sitting up on the bed. "You're not alone anymore."

He turns to face you, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. "Nor are you."

The room falls into a comfortable silence. You both sit there, sharing a moment that feels both surreal and incredibly real.

The night stretches on, and you find yourself unable to sleep. The weight of Morpheus's presence beside you makes it impossible to relax. He's lying on his back, staring off into space, eyes reflecting the moonlight streaming through the window.

You shift slightly, trying to find a comfortable position. "Do you ever sleep?" you ask quietly, breaking the silence.

Morpheus turns his head to look at you, a small smile playing on his lips. "I do not require sleep as mortals do. My realm is the domain of dreams, not slumber."

You let out a soft sigh, staring at the ceiling. "It must be nice, not having to worry about sleepless nights."

"It has its advantages," he admits, his voice a soothing balm in the quiet room.

The minutes tick by slowly. You can hear the soft hum of crickets outside and the distant rustle of leaves in the night breeze. Morpheus's presence is both calming and disconcerting, an enigma you still struggle to understand.

"Morpheus," you say after a while, your voice barely above a whisper. "Do you ever feel... restless?"

He considers your question for a moment before replying. "In my own way, yes. There are times when even dreams cannot provide solace."

You turn to face him, propping yourself up on one elbow. "What do you do then?"

"I wander," he says simply. "Through dreams and realms, seeking understanding and purpose."

His answer leaves you with more questions than it answers. You lie back down, staring at the ceiling once more.

"I guess we both have our issues,” you murmur.

"Indeed," Morpheus replies softly. "But burdens are lighter when shared."

You close your eyes for a moment, letting his words sink in. The night feels endless, each second stretching into eternity.

"Do you miss the Dreaming?" you ask suddenly, opening your eyes to look at him.

Morpheus turns his head slightly to meet your gaze. "It is my home," he says simply. "But being here with you has its own unique beauty."

Quiet stretches between you for a few moments and you toss and turn, unable to quiet your mind. Each shift in position only seems to amplify your restlessness. Beside you, Morpheus watches with an unreadable expression.

"You're struggling to find sleep," he observes, his voice a gentle whisper in the dark.

You let out a frustrated sigh. "Yeah, it's just... everything. I can't shut it off. Plus, I've never slept next to someone before."

Morpheus reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your forehead. "Would you allow me to help?"

You hesitate for a moment, the idea of letting him into your mind both comforting and unsettling. But the exhaustion wins out, and you nod slowly.

"Okay," you whisper. "Please."

Morpheus's touch grows firmer, and you feel a strange warmth spreading from his fingertips. His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, everything else fades away.

"Close your eyes," he instructs softly.

You close your eyes, trusting Morpheus as his touch sends a soothing warmth through you. His fingers linger on your forehead, a gentle caress that feels like the promise of a peaceful night.

"Sleep," he murmurs, his voice a soft command. You feel the weight of his presence deepen, the air around you shimmering with an almost tangible energy. A gentle dusting of sand blows over face, the grains drifting down like tiny stars, each one glowing faintly as it touches your skin.

Morpheus's voice reaches you again, barely more than a whisper now. "Sleep, beloved."

Your body relaxes, sinking into the mattress as if it’s made of clouds. The tension in your muscles melts away, and your racing thoughts quiet to a gentle hum. It's as though the world itself is lulling you into sleep.

You find yourself standing in the heart of The Dreaming, the familiar yet ever-changing landscape unfolding around you. The air shimmers with a soft, ethereal glow, and the distant murmur of dreams creates a symphony that feels both comforting and surreal.

"Wow that was fast," You comment to yourself, blinking rapidly. Had it not been only moments ago that you were speaking with Morpheus in your bed?Lucienne is cataloging books nearby. She looks up as you approach, her eyes warm and curious. Matthew the Raven perches on a nearby shelf, preening his feathers.

"Hey, kid," Matthew greets you with a casual flap of his wings. "How's it going? How'd the ol' meet'in the in-laws go?"

"My mother wants Morpheus and I to start making babies, immediately," You say in a dry tone. "But Morpheus has charmed my father so that's a plus…"

Lucienne's eyes widen behind her glasses, her usually composed demeanor faltering for a moment. "Your mother said that?" she asks, clearly taken aback.

Matthew, on the other hand, bursts into laughter so hard that he loses his balance and falls off the shelf, flapping his wings frantically as he tries to regain his footing. "Oh man, that's rich! Babies! Immediately!" He caws, his voice full of mirth. "Your mom doesn't waste any time, does she?"

"That would be a firm no," you respond dryly.

Lucienne adjusts her glasses and gives you a sympathetic look. "That is quite the demand," she says softly. "But I'm sure Lord Morpheus will handle it with his usual... grace."

Matthew snickers again, still perched awkwardly on the edge of the shelf. "Grace? More like he's probably planning a whole dream nursery as we speak!"

Lucienne shoots him a disapproving look, but there's a hint of amusement in her eyes as well. "Matthew, be serious."

"Hey, I'm just saying," Matthew replies, flapping his wings and finally managing to get back onto the shelf properly. "The guy's got a thing for creating worlds. A nursery wouldn't be that far off. Besides, have you seen the way he looks at Y/N? They'd make cute babies, I'm sure of it."

"Matthew!" You exclaim as heat blisters its way up your neck and all the way to your ears. The raven is unperturbed and cackles louder, his wings flapping in excitement.

Lucienne shakes her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Matthew, you're incorrigible."

You rub your temples, feeling a mix of amusement and exasperation. "You two are going to be the death of me."

Matthew hops closer, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Hey, if you can't laugh about it, what's the point? Besides, you've got Morpheus wrapped around your little finger. He'd do anything for you."

"Um, please remember that this is supposed to be temporary," You reminded the raven.

"Yeah try telling the boss that," Matthew mutters. You chuckle, shaking your head at Matthew's antics. The raven’s sense of humor is infectious, even if it does hit a little too close to home.

"Well, let's hope my mom eases up a bit," you say, glancing around the Dreaming's library. The shelves stretch endlessly, filled with books that you can only dream of reading. "I don't need any more baby talk. It's embarrassing and mortifying."

"What is mortifying?" You jump at the sound of Morpheus' words and whip around in place, hand over your heart. Your heart races at the sudden appearance of Morpheus, his presence commanding even in the familiar setting of The Dreaming. "What's mortifying?" he repeats, his tone neutral yet inquisitive.

You take a moment to compose yourself, trying to ignore the way Matthew snickers from his perch. "Just... my mom's expectations," you manage to say, meeting Morpheus's gaze. "She's got some pretty outdated ideas about marriage and family."

Morpheus considers this, his expression unreadable. "Your mother's views are not uncommon among mortals," he remarks. "The desire to see one's lineage continue is deeply rooted."

You nod, feeling a mix of frustration and resignation. "Yeah, I get that. It's just..." You pause, searching for the right words. "Babies…"

"Indeed," Morpheus says, his voice devoid of the amusement that bubbles up inside you. "But let us not dwell on such matters now."

Matthew flutters down, landing with a slight hop beside you. "If I were you, I'd start thinking of baby names," he teases with a wink.

You shoot him a glare. "Don't even joke about that."

But Morpheus tilts his head, considering Matthew's words. "Names hold power," he muses aloud. "It would be wise to choose carefully."

You freeze, your eyes widening as you realize the potential misunderstanding. "Wait, Morpheus, no," you say quickly, trying to ward off any ideas forming in his head. "We're not actually naming children here. It's just Matthew being... Matthew."

Morpheus nods slowly, though you're not entirely sure he grasps the sarcasm. "Of course," he says. But then his gaze drifts away, contemplative, and you have the sinking feeling that he's still pondering baby names.

Matthew bursts into raucous laughter again, nearly toppling over from the force of it. "This is too good!"

Lucienne steps forward, her expression one of gentle reprimand aimed at both Matthew and Morpheus. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," she chides softly. You need to get out of there.

"I'm gonna go get some air," You blurt out, turning on your heel and darting away before the conversation can turn you into a ripe tomato.

Date Published: 2/8/25

Last Edit: 2/8/25

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[bread-crum206]

A Game of Hearts

Chapter thirty-two: A Line in the Sand

Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?

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Series Masterlist

The tension in the room lingered long after In-ho had left, settling into the very air you breathed. You stood there, staring at the empty space where he had just been, frustration burning beneath your skin.

We’ll see.

Those two words gnawed at you, an infuriating mix of dismissal and challenge. You weren’t sure what he expected—to scare you away? To make you question everything that had happened between you? If that was his goal, he was failing spectacularly.

Because the more he pulled away, the more determined you became.

With a sharp breath, you turned on your heel and left the lounge, your mind already racing. You needed answers—needed to understand what was happening beneath the surface of In-ho’s carefully constructed exterior.

And there was only one place you might find them.

The control center was quieter than usual, but the guards stationed near the entrance barely acknowledged your presence as you walked through the doors. By now, they had grown accustomed to seeing you move freely through the compound—something that, at first, had been met with stiff resistance but now had become an unspoken allowance.

You spotted the surveillance screens first, a wall of flickering monitors displaying every inch of the facility. Your gaze skimmed over them until you found what you were looking for—In-ho, standing at the main observation deck, arms crossed as he overlooked the arena below.

Typical.

He buried himself in his work when things got too complicated, retreating into the one thing he could control.

“Looking for something?”

The voice startled you. You turned sharply, finding a familiar figure leaning casually against the console. The Square Guard. The same one who had led the charge against the Panther Mask.

His uniform was the same as the others, but there was something different about him—an air of authority that set him apart.

You hesitated before answering. “Just looking.”

His head tilted slightly, studying you. “You won’t find what you’re looking for on those screens.”

Your brows furrowed. “And what exactly am I looking for?”

The Square Guard didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pushed off the console, stepping closer, lowering his voice just enough to make you uneasy. “You want to understand him. But you won’t—not by watching.”

Your stomach tightened. “And you think you understand him?”

A low chuckle. “I understand the way he works. He keeps people at a distance for a reason.”

You crossed your arms. “And what reason is that?”

The guard studied you for a long moment before finally answering. “Because getting close to him is dangerous. For both of you.”

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed hard. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“No,” the guard agreed. “But you should be afraid of what being close to him will cost you.”

A beat of silence passed between you before he nodded toward the screens. “If you really want to know him, stop looking for him here.” Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into the hallway.

You stood there for a long moment, his words weighing heavy in your mind.

Stop looking for him here.

You exhaled sharply, your decision made.

If In-ho thought shutting you out would keep you away, he was wrong.

And if there was a cost to getting close to him…

Then you were willing to pay it.

———————

32!!!! Lemme know what you guys think!!! Thank you!

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[myloveer0]

''Dream at first lust''

(Ambessa x reader NsFw)😭🥵❤️

(Part III hehehe)

18+ Read it at your own risk!

Warning: Intense smut🔥🔥🔥

---Imagine waking up in the middle of the night, only to find Ambessa standing before you. What would you do?---

Note: Forgive me… it took longer to update this time. I was debating whether to post a next chapter or make this the last one for a while since I still have some pending school projects. But oh well… this chapter is extra smutty. Hope you enjoy it!

You jerked upright, barely biting back a moan. Your breath was uneven, chest rising and falling as heat coursed through you. You didn't waste a second. Slowly, deliberately, you stepped down at the bed toward Ambessa, not caring that you were half-naked.

In fact, you wanted her to look.

You wanted her to see every inch of you—the way your skin was flushed, the way your thighs trembled, how your wetness slickened the soft curve of your legs. You felt it, the warmth trailing down. This was all the power that Ambessa can do to you.

Such a good liar.

Lying to yourself, pretending you hadn’t wanted her offer—hadn’t craved this. Every inch of Ambessa Medarda was everything you wanted. Even the single strands of her hair, the curve of her smirk, the effortless dominance in her stance. She was intoxicating, and you were helpless against the pull. You would gladly accept any offer she can give as long as it was her. But you were just too prideful to admit.

Your eyes rolled in your eyelids as you slowly sat down on her thigh, felt your clit touched of her cold skin. It doesn’t change the fact that your nearly already panting. It doesn’t change the fact that Ambessa watching you this only makes it a thousand times hotter.

Your eyes fluttered shut, head tilting back as you lost yourself in the sensation. Ambessa was watching you—studying you, indulging in your unraveling with a smirk while you use her thigh for your pressure.

“Yess...” The word slipped past your lips, barely more than a breath.

Then you moved.

Slowly at first, pressing forward, grinding against her strong muscular thigh, each motion sending sharp sparks of pleasure through your clit. It wasn’t enough—but oh, it felt devastatingly good. The pressure, the friction, the way Ambessa didn’t even need to touch you to make you tremble.

This feels like a heavenly dream come true. Ambessa was someone you never thought and was impossible to get into. You had only fantasized about her, but now you were here, panting as you as you ride her deliciously.

It was a dream come to life, a fantasy made real. And you never wanted to wake up.

Ambessa watched you for a moment, her gaze dark and unreadable—except for the unmistakable hunger simmering beneath it. Then, without warning, she move, her large hand reaching out rasping against your increasingly sensitive nipples through the thin fabric of your tube top.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as she rolled the sensitive peak between her fingers. She tugged—hard. A strangled cry escaped you, your back arching instinctively. You can't help but hold to the armrest for support.

Then, she looked up, “Take it off, little one.”

You were only too happy to comply. Fingers trembling with anticipation, you peeled the last fabric from your body, letting it slip from your shoulders and fall away. The cool air kissed your exposed skin, but nothing compared to the heat in Ambessa’s gaze as she took you in.

The way she watches you—God,You can’t breathe. Your orgasm is bearing down on you. You lean back and prop your hands on her knee, giving her full view of the long line of you body as you straddle her thigh. Ambessa jaw goes tight. “ I must admit, child. You have a beauty that demands attention.. ”

You bite your lip for keep from begging for more, to praise you more, but you can’t stop yourself from rolling your hips harder, grinding against her harder and faster. Your almost there. It was too soon but who can you blame? It was Ambessa you were riding.

Ambessa must felt it. She releases your breast before her large hand starting creep down to your inner thigh. So near but so far. She hisses out a breath against your neck. “Your so wet I can feel your wetness dripping”

 You draw in a shaking breath. “My lady If you don’t start touching her, she’s going to touch herself.”

  Ambessa laughs against your neck. “Impatient.”

Without warning, Ambessa plunged one strong finger in your pussy. A gasp escaped your lips as you felt the sudden fullness. You grabbed her arm with the shockness. It was nothing compare to your delicate hands. Even after days of stretching it wasn't as half as Ambessa's. It's like one finger of her was already three in your. She shove it as deep as she could making your body squirm.

You reached up, feeling reckless—bold, even—your mind clouded by pleasure. Your fingers trembled as they traced over her broad shoulder, down the planes of her stomach. The silk robe did little to hide the hardness of her body beneath your touch. She was ripped and powerful. You wanted to look under this silk every inch of her but you were not brave enough. Afraid it will upset her more.

Touching her meant surrendering to something dangerous, something you couldn’t take back. And Ambessa? She was the kind of woman who took whatever she wanted.

"Fuck! Fuck, yes..." Oh god, what am you saying? you don’t know, but you can’t stop. As if your mind stop functioning due to the overwelming pleasure. The words spilled from you before you could stop them, your voice raw, desperate. A flash of panic surged through you as you slapped a hand over your mouth. Too loud. Too loud. What if your neighbors heard? what would they think about you..

But Ambessa didn’t care. If anything, your muffled cries only seemed to fuel her. Then a hot warm sensation covered your nipple. You look down at her and both of your eyes met only to find her mouth covered your nipple. She suck on it, tugged it with her mouth as she circled it with her tongue. You cried. Feeling the cold lip cuff in your skin. It was intense. She was so hot sucking your nipples.

Ambessa's finger didn’t stop. She didn’t slow. Her fingers plunged deeper, relentless, as if searching for something inside you.

And God, she was finding it.

"Look at how greedy your pussy is. You’re practically pulling me in. Don’t you dare come until I say so..'' Ambessa’s commanded. You looked at her with wide eye, disbelieve. Was she serious?!

With pleading eyes, you shake your head, your body trembling with need. "I—I can't! It's impossible… I'm too close—I’m going to come, Ambessa!" you cried out, your voice breaking between gasping breaths.

Ambessa’s grip tightened around your hips, "Not yet," she warned, her tone laced with dark amusement. But your body can't take it any longer.

Then a sharp, all-consuming pleasure surged through you, ripping a scream from your throat. Your toe curled upward as you orgasm. Your entire body convulsed, helpless against the overwhelming release, your whimpers swallowed as you collapsed against her chest, spent, shaking, completely undone.

You were beat. Completely wrecked. That was, without a doubt, the most intense orgasm of your life—and all from just grinding against her. With just one finger. The thought made your body shudder. How much more could you take?

Before you could even catch your breath, Ambessa's strong fingers gripped your jaw, lifting your face from where it had rested against her chest. Her eyes burned into yours.

"Didn't I tell you not to come?"

Your lips parted, a weak, breathless sound. "F-forgive me… I—I was just so lost… I couldn’t think straight anymore…"

Her gaze darkened. "Excuses."

You barely had time to react before Ambessa shifted, standing up with ease—carrying you as if you weighed nothing. A startled squeak escaped your lips, and your arms instinctively wrapped around her neck, clinging to her afraid to fall down.

She moved, each step slow and deliberate, until she stopped at the other side of the bed.

Your breath hitched as you realized where she had taken you.

The two of you stood in front of a full-sized mirror.

Your reflection stared back—disheveled, breathless, your skin flushed still lingering from your orgasm. The moonlight entering from the open window was the only thing that light up the room. It made it a thousand times better that way. There you can see things properly.

Ambessa carried you effortlessly in her arms, cradling you like a bride. You were completely bare beneath her, while she remained dressed in that flowing red silk robe. Against her massive build, you were so small—like she could snap you in half with just a flick of her strength.

You noticed the furrow in Ambessa’s brow. She must’ve been upset that you didn’t listen to her. But how could you? You were overwhelmed by her—the way her mere presence unraveled you, leaving you powerless to control yourself.

God, Ambessa was beautiful, even when she was upset.

You had no idea what was going through Abessa's mind, what thoughts lurked beneath her head. But the thought where all of this all leading makes you shudder.

You swallowed hard. "W-what is this, my lady?" you whispered, you look up at her. While Ambessa eyes was straight infront of the mirror.

Ambessa smirked, her fingers trailing down your spine, igniting every nerve in their path. She leaned in, her breath hot against your ear.

"This…" she murmured, her tone both wicked and possessive, "is where you learn not to disobey me again."

Out of nowhere, Ambessa sat down at your mattress still facing the mirror. She shifted you as if you were weightless, making you squeal as she effortlessly maneuvered your body. You hold both of her arms in support. In a second, both of your foot rested over her powerful knee, your back pressed firmly against her chest. And in front of you—the mirror.

Your legs were spread wide, leaving nothing hidden, every inch of your pussy lips fully exposed stretch wide open. You can see the detail you haven't seen before. God! Hold on? what is she doing!

You gasped at the sight, heat flooding your face as embarrassment crashed over you. You tried to close your legs but Ambessa was holding your leg too strong for you to fight against. The position was so naughty and scandalous made your pulse race, and as your libido stirred once again. And Ambessa was there smirked as she take her time she get to examine every part of you.

All of this so downright scandalous. But It’s so fucking hot.

''Put me down My lady..!'' You gasped..

You tried to cover yourself with your hands, but she stopped you, her grip firm and unyielding. “Don’t you dare cover it,” Ambessa whispered, her voice low and husky. “Didn’t I tell you? You have a beautiful body. It’s meant to be rejoiced.”

She leaned in closer, her breath hot against your ear. She bit it making you moan “But too bad… this is your punishment for disobeying my orders.”

''But th-'' You were cut short when a finger suddenly slip inside your core. No warning. No care. But this time two of her. You bit your lip, trying to suppress a loud moan. You covered your mouth because of the intense. There you see at the reflection, as your watch at your own aroused expression. Your lips parted and cheeks painted red. You can't recognized yourself anymore.

With ambessa other hand stopping your legs from closing while her other arm was stroking your labia up to your clit. You bite your bottom lip.

“This is too much..! .” Except you sound like your asking her more instead of telling her otherwise. Like your hoping she’ll ignore you and pave the way for us to be oh so bad. Reckless. So fucking reckless.

Ambessa ignored you she keeps grinding into, her fingers stroking your clit in the way you need. It was different this time too fast, too intense. Like it was her new favourite thing to do. It’s almost too much, but you don’t want to stop. You don’t ever want to stop.

''A-ambessa! Yes!'' You move your hips as much as you can and moan.

She leaned down, her lips brushing dangerously close to your ear. “This is what you like, little one, isn’t it?” she murmured, her voice low and smooth, sending shivers down your spine.

You swallowed hard, unable to speak.

Ambessa chuckled softly. “Look what at your expression. You look so breedable, completely under the spell of my fingers ” she whispered, her dark eyes locking onto yours in the reflection. “In your strange little object. The things you wrote… the things you wanted.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief, mortification washing over you in a tidal wave. She read it.That far?!

“I read it all,” she continued, like just read your mind. Her smirk deepening. “You wanted me to use you. To break you. Discard you” She let the words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. “Such improper words, little one.”

Your mind was a whirlwind of emotions—embarrassment, desire, fear—all blending.

You clawed at Ambessa's arm instinctively, but she didn’t even flinch. If anything, her grip only tightened slightly, just slightly, as her fingers began to sank deeper inside. You watched, breath hitching, as both of her fingers disappeared in and out of you—your body fully accepting her, no matter how big she was.

Your so close, but you can’t get there. Your sobbing and trying to move to met her trust, but Ambessa have you too effectively wrapped up. You helpless to do anything but take it.

So this is what it’s like to taste your own medicine, you thought, the realization sending a shiver down your spine. And despite the embarrassment, despite the vulnerability, you loved every second of it.

Your breathing grew ragged, your body trembling with the effort to hold yourself together.

"Y-yes! I'm coming, Ambessa!" You grabbed her arm as she moved her fingers faster, your body trembling under her touch.

Your throat felt raw from the sounds that had escaped you, and Ambessa's firm hold around your waist kept you grounded. The intensity was overwhelming, but your arousal hadn't waned even a little bit. You found your hand drifting to your own clit, desperate for more even as your body trembled. Your legs still spread open while your foot was still on her knee, like it was glued there. You were so close.

It was messy and so fucking good that you whimpered. Or maybe you were whimpering because Ambessa was watching you like it was her own personal porno—something you didn’t even know you wanted. It was so beyond hot. So beyond anything you’d ever thought to ask for.

Your eyes rolled back; you wanted to fight your own orgasm, fight not to close your eyes. But it didn’t seem to matter what you wanted. Your body took over, pleasure washing over you in waves. God, it was so good. Too good. Can a person die from too much pleasure?

"Ambessa!" you gasped again, unable to take it any longer, clutching her arm as the waves of pleasure continued to ripple through you. Your voice was hoarse but the heat between you both refused to fade. Your head rolled back, and the next thing you knew, your release was making a mess on the floor.

Your body immediatly slumped down, every ounce of energy drained from you. You couldn’t feel your legs anymore—numb from the overwhelming intensity of everything that had just happened. You were on the verge of sliding in her body when Ambessa’s strong arm shot out, steadying you with ease, refusing to let you fall.

Your chest heaved, breaths coming in ragged gasps, your legs trembling beneath you. It was all too much, too fast. The heat still simmered under your skin, leaving you dizzy and barely grounded. There’s been too much pleasure in too short a time and your in danger of having an out of body experience. It was intense and hot and so good. God! Ambessa was so good at this. Like she was made to make a woman suspend on it's own pleasure.

Like she was born to do this. Like she was a goddess, not of war, but of sheer, unrelenting lust.

“I… I can’t anymore…” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you raised your head to meet her gaze in the mirror. And the sight that greeted you made your breath catch in your throat.

Ambessa’s reflection was calm, composed. That smug, knowing smirk curved on her lips told you everything. She wasn’t done. Not a little bit.

“You think you’re finished?” she murmured, her voice a low, velvety whisper that sent shivers down your spine. Her eyes locked onto yours through the mirror, dark and unyielding. “No. I decide when you’re done.”

Her words sank deep. She held you there, her grip firm but not cruel. Holding you afraid you'll escape.

“Look at you,” she murmured, her tone soft but laced with that ruthless edge. “You’re already falling apart. But too bad, little one… we still have so much to do. And you’re not going anywhere.”

Your jaw dropped. Oh god… she really wasn’t joking when she said it would last as long as you could keep up with her energy. At this rate, you were sure you’d die tonight just to keep up with her.

..

Your eyes snapped open.

The morning sun poured through your window, spilling across every inch of the room, its harsh brightness a jarring contrast and was painful against your tired eyes. For a moment, you just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, your mind sluggish and unwilling to catch up with reality.

Was it a dream?

You blinked several times, your heart still pounding as if you had just woken from a nightmare—or something far more complicated. You shifted under the covers, feeling the coolness of the sheets against your skin. The bed was cold, undisturbed, like no one had ever been there beside you.

A sharp ache settled in your chest. So it was all a dream?

You sighed heavily, pressing your arm against the mattress to push yourself up. The room around you was a mess—pillows scattered across the floor, the sheets tangled and twisted like you’d been fighting off invisible demons in your sleep. You ran a hand over your face, trying to shake off the lingering haze as the sunlight made your head throb. Trying to process everything.

Then, a dry chuckle escaped your lips, humorless and a little bitter. Just a dream, you told yourself, but the memory of it clung to you like a second skin.

Flashes of the night flooded your mind—Ambessa’s imposing figure, her piercing gaze, how she didn't let you rest for hours. She really used and made you come multiple times you felt dying every second if it, the overwhelming heat of her touch—it all felt too real. So real, it made your cheeks flush with warmth even now.

Who cared if it was a dream. It was the best fucking dream you ever had. You can't help but grin in excitement. God! That was so intense. I hope it will happen again.

You glanced at the clock on your bedside table. 7:00 AM.

A groan escaped your lips as the reality of your day hit you like a brick. Work. You flopped back onto the mattress. The last thing you wanted was to face the world after a night like that. Your body felt heavy, drained, like you’d actually been through hours of… well, whatever that was.

You released a deep sigh, the weight of exhaustion sinking into your bones. Slowly, you shifted in the bed, attempting to swing your legs over the edge—but the moment your feet touched the floor, a sharp, overwhelming soreness radiated through your core.

What the heck…?

But it wasn’t just the ache that stopped you. Your eyes widened as they drifted down to your body. Your chest was a canvas of deep, dark bruises and love bites, some already turning a faint purple. The marks trailed down your torso, a chaotic map etched into your skin. Your nipples were red and sensitive, even the slightest brush of the cool air making you flinch. The trail of marks continued down your stomach.

With shaky hands, you threw back the blanket, your breath catching in your throat at what you saw next.

Goodness…

The soreness wasn’t just internal—your pussy was red like it was ravaged. Even the smallest shift sent a jolt of discomfort through you, making you squirm in both pain and disbelief.

But then, as it all began to settle in, realization struck like a lightning bolt. The memories flooded back, vivid and undeniable.

A delighted scream burst from your lips, echoing through the room. You weren’t dreaming. Ambessa had been here, had touched you, had left her mark on you in more ways than one. The sheer absurdity and excitement of it all washed over you, leaving you breathless. You almost forgot to breath.

You leaned back against the headboard, your heart pounding in your chest, trying to process everything. You grin so hard that it hurts. The soreness, the marks, the memories—it all felt surreal. But the evidence was right there on your skin, impossible to deny.

She was real!

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 4

Masterlist

Previous (Chapter 3) // Next (Chapter 5) (tbd)

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, panic attacks, implied prior noncon, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

Rowan was relieved to see that the boy was capable of cleaning himself up. The shower had only run for a matter of minutes, but as Rowan lingered outside the bathroom to eavesdrop – just in case he was needed - he heard the tell-tale clicks of the shampoo bottle opening and closing. Water splashed rhythmically against freshly cleaned tiles in a hum that was barely muffled by the door. Rowan waited a few painstaking minutes after the water had turned off, seizing the opportunity to practice his patience, before he knocked and reentered.

Although it was a deeply unsettling sight to see the young man kneeling naked in his bathroom, Rowan could already see that the boy’s skin was cleaner, and his wet curls still seemed lighter than when they had been coated with grease, sweat, and blood.

The shower also made clear that some of the yellow patches on the boy’s skin were not dirt, as Rowan had foolishly hoped, but near-healed bruises. Some wounds that had been scabbed over before the shower were open now, glistening red with nascent blood as the skin tried to stitch itself back together. Bright white scars danced with blue bruising, and a single drop of crimson trailed down from a recently reopened leg wound. It seemed that the boy had interpreted the instruction to clean himself up as an instruction to rub his scabs away, scrubbing at his skin until his injuries were raw.

Rowan made a note to himself to speak more clearly in the future. The next thing Rowan noticed was that the mirror was bone-dry, no signs of steam or beading water at the top of the glass. No hints of humidity hung in the air either. He felt his lip turn down in spite of himself.

“You can use hot water next time, yeah?” He offered as hopefully as he could, though his gaze was not returned. “Seriously, you can use the hot water, as hot as you can stand it. This place is great, because I only pay a flat fee for utilities. No extra charge for those long, hot showers. Feel free to sit in the hot water as long as you want. I mean, I certainly do. Anyway, you’re looking a bit cleaner now, so maybe you want to try on some of those clothes? You’ve got to be freezing after that shower. Come on, follow me back to your room.”

And the boy followed, damp hands and knees finding purchase on vinyl tiles, an unfamiliar rhythm across the condo’s floors. Rowan winced again, making sure to hide his disappointment by looking towards the ceiling. They’d have to do something about the crawling, get him back on his feet and walking with confidence. They’d also have to get him eating and drinking on his own, comfortable enough to take showers in hot water, wearing clothes by default, acting of his own will and guided by his own desires…

Rowan bit back a sigh. There was a lot to work on.

They made it back across the hall, and Rowan walked over to the file cabinet that was currently doubling as the boy’s dresser. He slid the bottom drawer open as the steady shuffle-crawl followed in behind him. Rowan’s fingers thumbed through the sweaters that he’d hastily folded just hours earlier, one after the other, a stack of cotton and polyester and sherpa promising warmth. There was a sweatshirt he remembered specifically from his clothing haul, something lined with fleece, certainly thick enough to restore a bit of warmth after a cold shower. Hands still digging through the drawer, Rowan defaulted to his rambling once again.  

“I know I set out sweatpants and a sweatshirt earlier, but there might be a warmer sweater in here. I’m going to guess you’re cold, so let’s see if-“ and as Rowan turned to look back at his guest, just to see if he was listening, his heart dropped through his stomach.

There, on the bed, the young man was presenting himself with raised hips and a carefully arched back, eyes looking up through thick eyelashes to meet Rowan’s own-

“Fuck.” Rowan gasped, and he took a step back so fast that his shoulder slammed into the filing cabinet. His hand snapped up to shield his eyes while his voice bubbled up from his chest, words coming out as an inadvertent shout. “No! Jesus Christ, no! No. Stop doing- stop doing that. Fuck, get down from there, just get down. No, we’re not doing that. I’m not going to- we’re not- just- fuck-“

Before Rowan could speak another word, the young man bolted off the bed and down to the floor, throwing himself flat against the ground so hard that the nearby furniture trembled. The sound of his bony knees hitting the ground resounded like two gunshots. In the blink of an eye, Rowan’s outburst had caused the emaciated victim to expose his scar-riddled back to the sky.

It was clear that he was waiting for Rowan to rain blows down on his skin, whether with fists or with whips, another line written in the book of abuse written for all to see. He trembled, but he was silent, utterly silent. This was routine, a punishment he’d been subjected to before. It was something the boy expected, that he waited for, that was the natural consequence to someone raising their voice.

All because Rowan had been a bit uncomfortable, and all because he couldn’t keep that discomfort to himself. He’d been given a sliver of power, a shred of influence, and he’d already resorted to screaming.

Guilt washed over Rowan just as coldly as shock had moments earlier. The sight of the boy offering himself up for punishment, moments after he’d offered himself up for use, jolted Rowan’s consciousness back into his body. He’d yelled, one of the very few thingshe wasn’t supposed to do, and had undoubtedly terrified his guest in the process. The boy’s hands were trembling where they rested, palms up, in front of him. Short gasps came from his mouth, just soft enough that they weren’t quite whimpers, but Rowan could hear the tears he was swallowing back nonetheless.

Rowan pulled in a deep breath, surprised to find that his own eyes were stinging with emotion and moisture. This was all too much. He knew what the victims endured in their abuse, he knew that he had brought a Romantic into his home, he knew all of this from when he signed the papers and looked through the PLF rehabilitation materials. But it was one thing to read the words on a page, and it was another thing to have a battered young man on his bed offering himself up for abuse.

It was the closest Rowan had come, now by himself and in his very own home, to seeing just what he’d been fighting to have dismantled all these years. It was the closest he’d been to direct complicity, to participating in the cruelty of man. It was the closest he’d been to hell on earth.

I can fix this, Rowan thought to himself, forcing another deep breath into his lungs. I have to fix this. I can smooth this over, make it better. This is what I signed up for, this is what I’m here to fix, this is what I have to deal with. I fucked up, so I have to fix it.

What better way to start than with an apology?

“I’m sorry,” Rowan hissed through his teeth as he fought to control his volume. He wasn’t going to yell again, no matter how hot the adrenaline felt in his veins. “I shouldn’t have yelled, and you’re not in trouble. You’re not in trouble, I promise, it’s all okay. You’re okay. You’re alright. Everything’s alright.” Rowan’s heart was pounding so heavily in his chest that it was hard to swallow his volume back. His head felt heavy and his hands tingled with the panic seizing his nervous system.

Yet Rowan knew that he was not the most terrified person in the room. No matter how scared he was at the seemingly impossible challenges ahead, and no matter how worried he was that he’d already ruined everything, the boy was infinitely more afraid. If his first instinct after a shower was to offer his body up for sexual abuse, and if his first instinct after a shout was to offer that body for physical abuse, there was little question as to what horrors he’d endured before this point. He hadn’t even been in Rowan’s home for more than an hour, and he had resigned himself to the service of a stranger who owned his body, who held a title to his very life. There was no sign of the defiance, or disobedience, or even displeasure. It was fluid, seamless, undeniable recognition of ownership.

The boy hadn’t moved despite Rowan’s attempted placations. A perfect pet, entirely obedient, unmoved by gentleness. This was everything WRU wanted in its output, in its products. Simultaneously, it was everything that made Rowan sick to his stomach.

After a painstaking deep breath, Rowan grabbed the clothes he wanted from the file cabinet, and took a step towards the body trembling on the floor. He kept his steps slow, movements as glacial as he could muster, hoping that the boy wouldn’t expect a blow.

“Hey, I’m coming over now, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not even going to touch you. Just-“

The boy flinched nonetheless as Rowan lowered the clothes to the floor beside his outstretched palms.

“Here,” Rowan offered, voice as soft and level as he could manage, “these are for you. To get dressed. Please, get dressed. I’m going to leave you alone now, okay? Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be back later to check in. I think we both need… a minute, yeah? A minute to take a breather. Both of us. You’re not in trouble. Just, get dressed please.”

Rowan left as quickly as he could manage, shutting the door with a soft click behind him.

---

The pet could hardly choke back its tears. What had it done wrong? Had it erred by not offering to please Master first, settled square on its knees, eyes pointed upwards and an eager, open mouth? Had it not cleaned itself well enough, hair still damp from the shower, some wounds still raw and dripping blood? Had it not seen something obvious in this room that it should have found for Master’s use instead?

But the punishment it expected for its insolence and incorrect assumptions never came. Even though it had exposed its hands and its back, opening its skin for lashes or stomping boots, no such corrections came. It hadn’t been able to make out the precise words that Master had shouted, his precise displeasure lost to the ringing in the pet’s ears, but it knew anger from the tone alone. It always knew when its master was angry.

Anger, yet no correction. Shouting, but no punishment. Nothing but a bundle of clothes dropped on the ground beside it, a clear indication that it was supposed to get dressed.

And with that, Master left, closing the door behind him. The pet was left alone to cover its shameful body and await its uncertain future.

---

Rowan wasted no time in grabbing the now-wrinkled PLF Rehabilitation Manual from where he’d placed it on top of the fridge. He knew that if he didn’t separate it from the rest of the paperwork strewn across the kitchen counters, he’d certainly lose it amidst the chaos. On top of the fridge, placed alongside the boxes of now-stale cereal, was as safe a place as any.

He leaned the small of his back against the countertop and busied himself with thumbing through the pages. His eyes flicked quickly over the table of contents, then through the section headers in the body of the document. When he read the manual earlier, he swore he’d seen a few pages dedicated to fixing a fuck-up. That’s what this was, wasn’t it? It was a fuck up of fantastic proportions. Rowan hadn’t even made it two hours before he’d yelled at the abuse victim in his second bedroom, all but screamed at him, just for doing what he’d been so thoroughly trained to do.

He was the picture of a perfect pet, and Rowan had managed to get mad at that. In the boy’s mind, he’d done exactly as he was trained, and it still hadn’t been enough for Rowan. That was going to forever be his first impression of Rowan.

Some people are just more suited for fieldwork, the voice of his past mentor echoed in his ears. Rehabilitation and recovery isn’t for everyone. Just like Greyson has found his stride working on the administrative side of the PLF, you’re doing your best work out in the field. Rehabilitation is an entirely different skillset, a skillset that some people don’t excel in, and that’s fine. Everyone’s job is important here. Your job is important even if you don’t work directly with the victims, I promise.

And yet, despite years of being aware that he was most certainly not suited for rehabilitation work, he’d taken up this cross on little more than impulse. The only one who would pay for Rowan’s ignorance and impatience was the very person who needed him the most.

For the second time since he’d purchased the boy he felt his eyes sting. The weight of this new responsibility weighed on his shoulders now more than ever. There was so much that could go wrong, so much pain and misery he could unknowingly inflict. This time it was his own uncontrollable shock, something he should have been able to swallow back. What would it be next time? His impatience? His ignorance?

Rowan swallowed back the lump in his throat as he finally found the dog-eared page he’d been looking for. He’d dog-eared it, of course, because he’d been afraid he’d have to use it.

You Lost Your Temper – Now What?

In a perfect world, we’d never lose our temper when assisting the wards in our care. Much like we might lose our temper with friends, family, or colleagues, we might likewise lose our temper with our wards.

These moments, while less than ideal, present a learning opportunity for all parties involved. For you, the guardian, it is an opportunity to model sincere apologies and create a safe space for your ward to talk about how they feel. For your ward, it is an opportunity to learn that they deserve politeness and equal treatment from others. For both guardian and ward, it is the chance to discuss communication, expectations, and mutual respect.

Should you lose your temper with a ward in your care, take the time to collect yourself and your emotions. You might be feeling upset, disappointed, or even angry with yourself. You might even be upset with your ward for the actions that triggered the incident, even if you know those actions aren’t their fault. You might be upset with a ward who tested your boundaries, or exercised their freedom and autonomy, in a way that you aren’t comfortable with. These are normal and expected feelings. While it is healthy to process these emotions and acknowledge their impact on you, it is best to do them away from your ward early in the relationship, and in front of your ward later in the relationship. Both are opportunities to model behavioral processing in a healthy and focused way.

Once you have gathered yourself and recognized your own emotions, take some time to think about what caused that first negative feeling. Recognize the moment you lost your temper, recognize what triggered that initial negative emotion, and consider creating a plan to prevent a similar reaction in the future. Take as much time as needed for this process, and ideally, try to give your ward an adequate amount of time to process the event as well.

Finally, talk to your ward directly. Make an appropriate apology for your reaction. For example, if you yelled, apologize for raising your voice. Take the opportunity to remind your ward that they should be treated with kindness and respect at all times, and acknowledge that you did not fulfill that basic expectation. You do not need to share the reason for your reaction – in fact, doing so can cause unnecessary fear and guilt in your ward, particularly early in the recovery process, and even more so if the triggering behavior was due to their trauma or conditioning. Instead, offer them comfort and an opportunity to discuss how the event made them feel.

The rest of the page was filled with sample conversations, language for new rehabilitators to use in such situations. Rowan studied them carefully, feeling himself grow calmer as he did so. He wasn’t the first rehabilitator to fuck up, and from the looks of the manual, he certainly wouldn’t be the last. While this did little to alleviate the guilt, it allowed for a small sliver of relief. There wasn’t anything uniquely wrong with him. Instead, his response was one rooted in human emotion, another byproduct of the system and its cruelty. His disgust was with systemic oppression, not with the boy himself.

I have to do better, Rowan reminded himself, and he took yet another deep breath. His hands were still shaking from the adrenaline that had dumped into his system.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine how the boy was affected if he himself was feeling the effects of his own temper so severely.

That was the next thought in his mind. He couldn’t simply refer to his guest as the boy forever. Part of developing autonomy, including the autonomy necessary to process scenarios such as the one that Rowan had just created, came from a sense of independent identity. Right now, the boy was just that: the boy in Rowan’s spare room, an object, a legal possession. To recover, he would have to become so much more than that. The manual had said as much: giving the ward a name as soon as possible was critical to developing a relationship of equals.

That would all have to come later, and it would hopefully come from the help of a rehabilitator that Rowan prayed was on the way his condo. Hope was doing a lot of heavy lifting as Rowan sat and stewed at his kitchen counter. He took a moment to check his phone, then he checked a second time to confirm there were no new messages, before placing it back on the granite.

His heart was still racing, so he looked back to the manual with a glance, then over to the closed door of the den, then back to the manual. If either of them were going to make it out of this intact, the least Rowan could do was take the manual’s word as gospel.

What emotion am I feeling? It burned hot, Rowan knew that much, and it had spurred him to yell when he rarely ever did so. Is it anger?

But instead of a tightness in his throat and a burning in his head that he would expect from anger, Rowan felt a tingling in his fingertips, a tugging in his chest, a queasiness in his stomach. It was like he was in grade school all over again, waiting for a teacher to pass out a test he hasn’t studied for. It was that heavy, burdensome dread that clung to him every time he walked onto the liquidation event sales floor.

Rowan knew he could name the feelings as soon as he took note of their home in his body. It was one that he was loathe to admit, even as old as he was, because of the stigma of weakness that clung to those words. No matter how many times he had conquered these feelings in the past, he struggled to confront them now.

But he had to. He had to, for the sake of the person in his care, the very soul that was counting on him to move past the discomfort. Rowan would have to now, and he would have to again, for the both of them.

What am I feeling? He asked himself again, biting down on his lip in spite of himself. Coppery blood washed over his tongue from the open wound. What am I really feeling?

Anxiety. Fear, dread, distress.

Those feelings were so much more than mere anger, and they were budding like a nascent ulcer in his stomach. Those were the feelings that had governed his actions since he’d signed the contract just over 24 hours prior. Adrenaline had made him run like prey, a panicked creature hunted by an unseen predator. Rowan was a gazelle on an endless savannah, running for his life, uncaring of his destination so long as it put distance between himself and the lion on his tail.

In Rowan’s case, the lion was the system itself, the weight of an industry that would crush him if it knew what he was doing. It was ruthless, it was nefarious, and it would readily kill him if it knew of his efforts to liberate people from its clutches. If so, he wouldn’t be the first liberationist to go missing under similar circumstances.

Of course Rowan was frightened, and of course he had every reason to be. There was legislation, there was law, there was unspeakable amounts of money and power that he was up against. The PLF had always been at a systemic disadvantage in this fight, as had all of its victims, all of its wards. They were fighting on the side of the underdogs, and they would be underdogs until a significant change in the public consciousness occurred.

I’m smarter than a gazelle, Rowan thought to himself, fist tight in his lap. And the lion’s only teeth are rich politicians with a vested interest in oppression. I’m not their fuckinggazelle. I’m braver, I’m smarter, and I’m stronger. I have to be. I refuse to be their prey.  

A few more moments of steady breathing were necessary for Rowan to compose himself. And just as the manual had mandated, he’d named his emotions, processed them, and acknowledged their trigger: a victim, a ward who could not consent, offering their body for sexual and physical abuse.

Another minute passed, and much to Rowan’s pleasant surprise, his breathing had levelled. The buzzing in his extremities had relaxed, and his heart no longer felt like it was being squeezed in an unforgiving fist.

The next step was to confront his ward, the boy still waiting and terrified in the spare bedroom.

“I can do this,” Rowan muttered under his breath, the soft escape of his internal dialogue. “I can apologize, I can name my feelings, and I can offer reassurance.”  

He paused and searched his thoughts for something to bridge the gap. What had the boy responded to the best in these last few hours?

After a moment of mulling, Rowan realized that it had been the water. The boy had grasped the glass as if it offered his only salvation. He’d swallowed it in the blink of an eye, disappearing before Rowan could have even come up with the words to stop him.

Of course, as Rowan knew from more than a decade of field work, the victims that were prepared for transit were both starved and dehydrated to reduce any potential resistance during transit or during their first few hours with their purchasers.

Such practices resulted in a non-zero number of transit deaths each year, some of which Rowan had documented firsthand.

Rowan went over to the pantry and took out another glass, paced over to the fridge, and poured another glass of cool water from the filter. He filled it just below the brim, tall enough that the boy would be able to drink his fill, but not so full that shaking hands would be unable to raise it to equally unsteady lips.

Glass in hand, Rowan walked back over to the second bedroom’s door.

He paused. A moment, a deep breath, a hand raised towards the faux-wood painted in landlord-eggshell. And he knocked, once, twice, knuckles on the paint making a hollow thunk with each hit.

No response was expected. None came. After another two long seconds, Rowan grasped the doorknob and pushed into the room.

---

The pet had gotten dressed. It had dressed itself in the clothes that Master had tossed beside it after he had yelled, the command obvious enough even without it understanding the precise language.

It knew it had messed up. It knew that something it had done – perhaps it was the position? Perhaps it was the assumption that it would be taken on the bed? – had made its master furious. It had made its master so furious that he had thrown clothes at it, commanded it to cover itself, and left it alone.

So the pet had obeyed as best as it could. It clothed itself in the linens – softer than it had ever been granted with its old master, and so much warmer too – and resumed its position kneeling in the center of the room. Master had placed it here for a reason, certainly, alone with nothing but its thoughts and the ringing in its ears.

Fully clad, from its ankles to its wrist, in pillow-like clothing, the pet felt the pull of sleep. Even the fear from its Master yelling was not enough to overcome the exhaustion of its travels and of its last moments with its handlers. It was so tired that it was nodding off where it knelt, knowing full well that such an action would earn it a lashing like no other.

But its body would only be pushed so far before it broke.

Adrenaline returned when the walls and floor trembled with slight vibrations. Ever since the ringing in its ears had begun in earnest, the pet had learned to pay attention to the way the surfaces around it sang. Now, the floorboards rumbled with the sound of its Master approaching. Light steps – none so heavy as its old master – but an insistent knocking that carried through the wood and laminate.

The pet wished it could shrink in on itself, become smaller, offer an adequate with just its body. But it was already as small as it could make itself, swallowed by the billowing fabric of the sweatshirt, sleeves coming down past its wrists and covering its bony knuckles.

There was almost a certain chance that it would be asked to remove the sweatshirt in short order, anyway.

As it expected, Master’s feet appeared before it moments later. It took deep breaths, listening to the steady hum of Master’s voice. He wasn’t shouting, not this time, back to that level-set rhythm that the pet already found so soothing. If there was supposed to be anger or frustration, the pet couldn’t hear it.

That wasn’t saying much, given that it couldn’t hear much at all.

Much to the pet’s surprise, Master leaned down and placed another glass in front of it. This glass was crystal-clear, filled nearly to the brim with water, its surface rippling from the movement. Although it had happily drank the earlier glass of water at its Master’s command, the pet was still parched. And although its stomach was still in knots from how Master had yelled at it, how it had been waiting for a punishment yet to come, the thirst once again prevailed.

It knew better than to grab the glass with its greedy hands. Waiting, patience, showed the very skills that it had been trained time and again to embody. So it waited, waited, until Master’s voice raised with a sharp uptick in volume.

Drink.

The pet did so without hesitation. It reached forward and it drank eagerly, trying to still the trembling of its hands as it did so. Although it had to raise its head to drink, it made sure to keep its eyes pointed downwards in as much respect and deference as it could display.

The water disappeared in a matter of moments, the pet ensuring that it showed its gratitude for the generosity by finishing it with haste. Carefully as it could manage it placed the glass back on the floor where Master had set it.

Its stomach was still tight with worry, filled with the sandwich and the first glass of water, but it was confident that it would keep the meal down. It had to – if it got sick now, there was no telling when it would get food again. This nutrition was more valuable than anything else at the moment, it was the only way it could hope to have the strength to carry on.

---

“That’s great,” Rowan praised, trying to keep his voice steady as he had been. It had already been stressful enough to raise it to give the command to drink, but the boy seemed unfazed. In fact, he finished the full glass in a matter of seconds, drinking eagerly and without hesitation.

Figuring out how to get the boy to drink on his own would be a challenge for another day. For now, even if Rowan had to command as much, drinking something was better than not at all.

Now, for the reason he’d come back into the room in the first place, when all he wanted to do was leave the boy alone long enough to decompress.

“Hey, uhm, I’m sorry for yelling,” Rowan said. The apology came easily and naturally enough, so he pushed on. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you. That was wrong of me, and you didn’t deserve it. You did nothing wrong. Really, you did nothing wrong. The fact that I yelled was my fault. I’m not angry at you. I’m not mad, and I’m not going to hurt you. Everything is okay.”

The boy didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t acknowledge a word beyond the command to drink. Just as all the other times Rowan had spoken, he seemed attentive, but didn’t react.

“I mean it,” Rowan pushed on. “I’m sorry. Everything is alright. You’re okay. You’re safe here, with me. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to ask you to do those things you had to do before. It caught me off guard, and my reaction was wrong. I shouldn’t have raised my voice”

Nothing. At this rate, it would be impossible to have the back-and-forth dialogue that the manual had encouraged, but Rowan knew that it was possibly asking too much for a first day, even a first week, or a first month. His one-sided apology was a start, at least.

“If you want to tell me how you feel, you can,” Rowan offered the floor up. “It’s okay. You can say how you feel – actually, you can talk, if you’d like, about anything. I haven’t heard you say anything yet, but you’re allowed. You’re allowed to talk as much as you want here. And- and you can get your own water, and your own food- ah. I’m getting ahead of myself, I think. The point I’m trying to make is that it’s okay, and you can talk to me. If I scared you, or upset you, you can tell me that. And if you tell me what’s wrong, I’ll do my best to make it better.”

As Rowan rambled on, self-conscious of the words spilling out of his mouth, he forced himself to look down at the boy kneeling before him. This was no way to talk to a victim like this, was it? Rowan was still towering above him, voice booming downwards, the power imbalance as visual as it was ingrained in the boy’s blood.

So, after another moment, Rowan sat.

He lowered himself to the floor in front of the boy and sat down, crossing his legs like he was a child again. A laugh almost escaped his mouth as he realized how much flexibility he’d lost, knees straining and thighs tugging, as he finally got his ankles close to one another.

The boy perked up immediately, looking through his hanging curls in Rowan’s direction with those bright doe-eyes that Rowan had only seen a glimpse of once so far. Rowan smiled in spite of himself.

“Hey, is this better for you? I think it’s better, at least for right now, if you don’t want to stand up yet. This will let us talk to each other like equals, yeah? We are, you know. Even if you don’t believe it yet. So, I’ll say it again, and maybe you can think about it some more. I’m sorry for yelling at you, and yelling was wrong of me. I never should have raised my voice. I wasn’t mad at you, I was just surprised, because I don’t want to do those sorts of things to you. I’m here to help you, not hurt you, especially not like that. I promise that you’re safe, and no harm is going to come to you here.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something. As Rowan spoke the boy’s weight shifted slightly forward, so slight that Rowan almost missed it entirely, and his eyes flitted from his knees towards Rowan’s face. He never quite made eye contact, still hidden behind the curtain of hair, but it was closer than Rowan had been able to achieve from a standing position.

This was what had stood out to Rowan on the sales floor of the liquidation event. The boy seemed distant, but he was far from catatonic like some of the victims that were more difficult to rescue. There was a spark, an attentiveness, a willingness to listen and to obey. It was a flame that yearned for the chance to survive.

Rowan just had to figure out how to nurture that flame and reach through the glass between himself and the boy. They would have to break that barrier down if they were going to move towards healing.

“Yeah, we’re just having a conversation right now, that’s all.” He wasn’t sure how effective his soothing would be so soon after his yelling, but Rowan knew he had to try. “If you want to talk about how you’re feeling, you can do that, talk to me all you want. You can also just tell me to leave if you’d rather be alone right now.”

Nothing, still nothing.

“Can you nod for me if you want to be alone?” He asked, hoping to see some movement. Nothing. “Can you shake your head if you want me to stay?” Nothing again. 

A thought struck Rowan as he saw the boy’s eyes peek up again, still hunting, almost fixated on his lips. He tried again once he saw the boy look upwards.

“Can you nod your head for me?”

And just like that, the boy’s head moved slightly, once up, once down. It was short, but unmistakably the very nod that Rowan’s question had evoked. And once the nod had finished, the boy looked back down at the floor.

“Can you nod again?” He asked once more as soon as he was certain the boy was no longer looking.

No movement.

“Oh my god,” Rowan whispered out loud as realization flashed through him, and he clambered to his feet. He nearly tripped over himself as he did so, staggering to a standing position and darting behind the boy, back over to the far corner of the room, directly behind his ward. The boy was still kneeling, unmoving, his eyes were still pointed towards the door. Importantly, he was unable to see Rowan’s face even if he raised his eyes.  

Rowan snapped his fingers, a few times on his right, a few times on his left. No reaction. Then, after a pause to suppress the oncoming wave of guilt, he clapped his hands together with considerable force. The sound was sharp enough to echo throughout the small room.

This evoked a reaction. It was subtle, but he saw the boy’s shoulders twitch in some sort of anticipation. A fear response, automatic, but a response nonetheless.

“Holy shit,” Rowan muttered to himself, a hand running through his hair almost of its own accord. His epiphany was looking more and more like a plausible possibility.

“Hey, turn around,” he instructed. He made sure not to raise his voice, keeping it as neutral as possible, but still issuing the command with certainty. Again, no movement. He tried again, same tone, conversational volume. “Turn around, right now. Turn around and look at me.”

Nothing.

After a deep breath, and a final reminder that he was doing this for the boy’s own good, Rowan shouted.

“Turn around!”

And just like that the boy moved, turning on his knees in a swift, fluid motion. A blink later and he was kneeling in that same position, but this time pointed towards where Rowan stood at the back of the room.

A nervous chuckle slipped out before Rowan could swallow it. All of that pain, all of that suffering, the threat of death on the sales floor, it had all been under the guise of disobedience. Rowan was now certain it was anything but.

“Jesus Christ, kid, you’re not disobedient. You just can’t fucking hear me.”

There was a euphoria he couldn’t describe blossoming in his chest. This rescue wasn’t a hopeless mistake that he had made, this victim wasn’t beyond recovery or redemption. He simply couldn’t hear the very words that Rowan was speaking to him, commands or otherwise.

It was Rowan’s turn to drop to his knees, aging bones hitting the wood as he fell a mere foot from where the boy had stationed himself.

“It’s okay!” Rowan all but shouted, the boy’s flinch lost to the excitement. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s all okay.” His voice was as loud as he could make it without screaming.

“You’re safe. You’re safe now. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re home, you’re safe. It’s all going to be okay.”

A/N: Cheers to the rewrite for a chance to make it clear that Rowan's not an idiot, he's just out of his depth. That was one of the driving factors for the rewrite, actually. Sorry for those that hoped there'd be a few more chapters of misunderstanding and obliviousness from our well-meaning caretaker - it's important to me that Rowan is capable and aware of himself in this story, particularly given his role in other liberation efforts. But there will absolutely be other barriers to communication and understanding between the two, I can promise that much!

Taglist:

@honey-is-messi @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @squishablesunbeam @tragedyinblue

@clairelsonao3 @den-of-evil @cepheusgalaxy @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @whumpzone @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader

@dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast

@dokidokisadness @anonfromcanada @starfields08000 @bloodredfountainpen @pumpkin-spice-whump

@maenr @whump-enthousiast @taterswhump @whump-me-harder

[mixelation]

✨blood covenant✨ fic preview ->

for those of you that missed it, @tozettastone, @waffliesinyoface and i all agreed to do a blood covenant challenge where we write OC/character fics.

here's the potential first chapter of mine, which is OC/Minato

****

I’m going to fuck up that guy’s whole life, is the only thought in my mind as I leap through the trees. 

Every time I come down on a new branch, my right thigh screams in protest. It screams again as I come back up, hurling myself as ungracefully as a new genin to my next landing. WHat’s left of the fabric of my leggings is hot and sticky with blood. 

But, dear reader, I have advice for you: if you want to kill a medic, make sure you make a killing blow. Don’t just leave her for dead and assume she’ll crawl off and die like a good girl. I know, if you’re a megalomaniac with an ego the size of Hokage Mountain, this will seem tempting, to leave her to wallow and suffer while you go off to do something more important. Do not do it. 

I’m not Shisui, I thought furiously, pausing in my sloppy run as the temple I was aiming for came into sight. I’m not just calling it quits and giving away my eyes. Fuck off, Danzo. 

I lean against the trunk of the tree, panting heavily. Through the branches, I can see the curving roof of the temple. There are a lot of old abandoned buildings out here, dotting the forests of Fire Country, and this one doesn’t stand out as special. I only knew where it was because I’d previously found it by happenstance, and I only recognized it as important by chance knowledge. I have never been inside before. 

Pausing my run was a mistake. The loss of momentum means that I am abruptly and painfully aware of how shaky and weak my legs feel. I make a clumsy jump for the forest floor and have to turn my landing into an embarrassing roll. 

If anyone is following me, they’re far enough behind that I can’t sense them. I can see the spiral emblem on the door of the temple, the carved wood smoothed and faded with time. I limp forward confidently, using my left hand to push more healing chakra into the hole in my leg, which I would generously describe as “gaping,” but is definitely less gaping than when Danzo had stabbed me. 

I’ll get both his legs, I think as I push open the temple door. Ugh, it’s going to scar!

The movement of the door tosses an enormous amount of dust into the air, making my eyes water. The air smells stale and musty. The windows are boarded up, and only a few sickly strands of moonlight illuminate the innards of the Uzumaki temple. 

I have to stop my healing to activate my sharingan. I can usually do both at once, obviously, but I’d been running on nothing but adrenaline and spite for too long, and my body currently doesn’t contain nearly enough blood as it should. I’m starting to get dizzy. 

The sharingan does nothing to enhance color vision, but with it I only need the smallest source of light to make out the contents of the temple clearly. There are some hanging scrolls and abandoned, rotting furniture, which I ignore. My eyes go straight for the rows of masks hanging across the back wall. 

I limp into the temple. When forming this half-made plan on the way over, I’d had some trepidation about identifying which mask is the one I want, but looking at them, I know instantly. 

It’s not that the mask looks extraordinary or that my sharingan can pick up something special. The mask appears to be nothing but wood: paint peeling just slightly with time, a grinning demon’s face with curling horns, a jeering smile on its lips. Nothing is peculiar about its craftsmanship, and my sharingan can detect no jutsu or chakra on it. 

And yet, to look into its eyes, is to see the inevitability of your own death. 

A hint of fear tingles up my spine. A bad omen, my superstitious mother would have said. A warning to my most primal senses that this is a power not to be taken lightly. 

I step limp forward anyway. 

It’s fine. I’ve been staring down the inevitability of my own death for over two decades. The feeling still makes my blood run cold with terror, but it’s a feeling I’m used to. This is my last chance at defying fate. 

I pull the mask for the wall and lift it to my face. 

If you kill me, I think at the mask, make sure you bring those assholes down with me, will you?

xXx

Dear reader, here is what you need to know about me.

My name is Uchiha Renka. I was raised by a great aunt after both my parents died in the Second Shinobi War. My hobbies include reading, baking, and dabbling in make-up and fashion. After a lot of study and hard work, I have passed most medic-nin competencies and work mainly in the hospital. 

I am a painfully normal sort of young woman, as you can see. At least for a ninja. I work my shifts, and I treat myself to a new book once a week. The most scandalous thing I do, aside from occasionally going out on state-mandated missions that sometimes include various types of murder, is that every once in a while I go out drinking with my girlfriends, and even that isn’t too scandalous. The rowdiest I get is wearing unique shades of lipstick. We even have a three drink maximum. I did not do anything to merit the fucking headhunt after me except exist as an Uchiha. 

And… well, okay, I’ll admit something, just between us. Another thing you should know about me is that, even if my main goals in life are to not die, to help people at the hospital, and then to go home and read a good book over some hot tea on my balcony, I do have a bit of a fatal flaw. It’s nothing more than a basic Uchiha family trait, really:

I am just a teensy-weensy bit vindictive. 

It got me into trouble a few times growing up, but it’s really nothing too bad. It definitely wasn’t enough to make me deserve the absolute clusterfuck you just read about. You make one mistake, and next thing you know, your boss is calling you a vile woman and a disgusting, cowardly failure and trying to kill you. 

Well, fuck him, honestly. I’d survived everything up until him, and I’m not going down without a fight. 

I wasn’t one hundred percent sure how the shinigami mask worked when I put it on. When I’d decided to try it, I thought I could maybe use the shinigami to chuck Danzo and-slash-or “Madara” into the afterlife for good. My second choice was to bring back Tobirama and have him tell off my enemies and maybe my clan for… whatever the hell they were doing. 

Honestly. All I want is to sit in my patio chair with a blanket and read…

I vomit up the Fourth Hokage instead. 

I know. It sounds gross. I know. But I’m not making any of this up. I put on the mask, and it’s like the shinigami is inside me, and then inside of the shinigami was this horrible squirming feeling. I want it out. I need it out. 

I throw up. It feels awful, worse than any vomiting session I’d had before, my whole body retching. The mask falls off my face. 

Then the Fourth Hokage is standing in front of me.

Reader, I assume that you are coming into this story with certain expectations for how pulling a soul out of the shinigami’s stomach should work. Well, toss those expectations. You’re basing them on people who knew what they were doing. I’m just one innocent little Uchiha. 

Namikaze Minato appears before me in a white funeral kimono, folded neatly right side over left, a white band with a triangle over his forehead around his head. Clearly instead of a fighting-fit Hokage like I expected, I’ve grabbed him… right out of the grave…?

He turns to me and blinks rapidly, like the sun is in his eyes, despite it being the middle of the night. Reader, this man is handsome. With this wide, dazed expression, he looks like a confused male model, not the most lethal ninja in history. 

My throat feels raw. I open my mouth to speak but can’t. His eyes move away from me like he hasn’t quite registered that I'm there.

He pats himself down absent-mindedly, his hands going down his chest and stomach like he’s surprised they’re there. I watch as his brows furrow a little as his hands approach his hips. Then he reaches down to his right thigh, his fingers moving toward the inner part of the front. He presses down. 

I scream. It’s like someone has stuck their fingers directly into my thigh wound. Pain completely cuts off all my thoughts and I finally topple over completely. 

I’m aware he’s moved over to stand over me, although my vision has gone white with pain. His gait is uneven, something of a limp. I fumble for my wound, pressing numbing chakra into it. Danzo had clearly been aiming for the femoral artery to make me bleed out, and I’d fixed it up enough to not endanger my life, but it still hurt. 

There’s no new damage to my wound, even though that definitely felt like that should have ruptured something. 

I feel the Fourth Hokage squat next to me, and his hand comes down over mine, pressing gently against my wound. It’s not enough to hurt this time, not with the help of the healing chakra numbing the nerves, but it increases the pressure over it markedly. 

“Huh,” he says. 

“What the fuck,” I croak out, and dust on the floor gets in my throat and eyes and makes me have to fight back a cough.

He removes his hand. Then, even though he’s clearly not touching me, I feel a pinch on the back of my hand. 

“Ow,” I say accusingly, and then give into the coughing fit. 

“You can feel that?” he asks, sounding surprised. 

He waits patiently while I sit back up, coughing again. He seems completely unrushed and unbothered, watching me with extreme interest. He doesn’t have the slightest idea what’s going on. 

I stare back at him. I’m clearly a wreck. There’s dust all in my hair now, flooding my nasal passageways and making me sneeze. Between the sharingan and having to use Mystical Palm again, my head is swimming and my arm is barely strong enough to hold me up. 

He holds my gaze despite the active sharingan, studying me like he’s never seen another human face before. Brave man. But maybe being dead for eight years makes one brave. 

Or… who am I kidding? He’s the Yellow Flash. He probably thinks he could kill me before I could cast a genjutsu. 

(I think he couldn’t. But I’m obviously not going to test this theory unless I have to.)

After a few moments in which I let out several unsexy, wheezing breaths, he turns away from me and picks up the fallen shinigami mask. 

“So that’s how you did it,” he says, flipping it around in his hands. “I’m remembering now… I think I was hoping someone would come for this, at first, or another tool to let me pass on properly. But then… I forgot…” He frowns, deeper this time. “I forgot a lot of things. How long has it been?”

“Since you died?” I say. “Eight years.”

“Only eight?” he repeats and absentmindedly scratches the side of his face. I cannot feel this on my own face, I notice. Perhaps we can only share pain. “It felt so much longer, with nothing to see or feel or do…”

His head turns up, and it takes me a few moments of concentration to realize Danzo’s cronies have finally caught up with me. He hadn’t immediately sicced any on me, as he’d confronted me himself and then left me for dead. But likely he’d sent a team to confirm I’d actually died, and I hadn’t exactly covered my trail. 

The Hokage doesn’t look worried, just mildly curious. 

“They want to kill me,” I say, unsteadily getting my feet under me in preparation to stand. “I… you have to help me. You have to help Konoha.”

He turns his eyes back on me, and they still have that look of mild curiosity, like he’s watching a television show he doesn’t understand the plot to. 

“Why do they want to kill you?” he asks. 

“It’ll take too long to explain,” I say. “Please.”

I had thought that summoning the dead meant you got to control them. This doesn’t appear to be how it works. Instead of getting up to kill the team of ROOT agents outside, Minato tucks the shinigami mask into his white kimono and then leans over me to set his hand on my shoulder. A second letter, we’re on Hokage Monument, overlooking the village. 

“Wow!” Minato says, standing over the village with hands on his hips. “It’s been so long… look at all those lights…”

“Can we please focus?” I ask. I’m still squatted on the ground, and I don’t have the strength to stand casually. I fall back on my butt. 

Minato looks pained as he pulls his attention away from the view. 

“Right, right, the fate of Konoha or whatever…” he says, sitting cross legged in front of me. He smiles widely. It’s a beautiful, inviting smile. “Now you have time to explain it to me.”

xXx

When I graduated the Academy a little over ten years ago, Konoha was still at the height of war. I’m sure you’ll hear more about that if you stick around. 

Back then, I knew of Namikaze Minato because he was one of the Jounin sensei for our cohort. I never spoke to him, but I’d seen him talking with my sensei sometimes. Sometimes I had to talk to Obito about Uchiha related things, and he’d waved at us once or twice from a distance. 

My very first real impression of who he was came from an Iwa-nin. 

I don’t really like talking about this part of my life, but I want you to trust me, so I’ll be open. When I was thirteen, my team was captured by Iwa. Everyone but me was killed. I was only spared because I had some medical training, and they agreed to let me live in exchange for healing their wounded. 

One day I was treating a man with a nasty burns across his entire body, and he suddenly grabbed my wrist, which was all bruised up from being tied when I wasn’t actively healing people. 

“You’re one of those Konoha floozies?” he asked. His eyes were unfocused from pain. 

I didn’t say anything. Speaking rarely ended well. His grip on me tightened and I winced. I’m always surprised by how strong some people can stay, even when they’ve been beaten half to death. 

“Do you know the Yellow Flash?” he asked. “My whole platoon… all of them, gone in an instant…”

He gibbered on and on for several moments, eyes wide. He’d been towards the outskirts of his platoon’s camp when Minato had showed up, which was why he’d had the few precious seconds to realize what was happening. 

“We’re supposed to flee on sight,” he said, his whole body shaking. “What they don’t tell you is that once you see him, you’re already dead.”

“You’re alive,” I said diplomatically. 

“I used a suicide jutsu, tried to blow myself up,” he said. “I should have died. I would have preferred it, if he’d killed me…”

The man did eventually pass from his wounds. There hadn’t really been much I could have done. Even Tsunade herself probably couldn’t have saved him. 

They punished me for it anyway. When I was sitting in the prisoner’s tent, cheek smarting from where the commander had slapped me and stomach growling from reduced rations, I thought about what the man had said. 

Once you see him, you’re already dead. 

That was the first time I’d really understood the sheer power that a singular ninja could have. 

xXx

One reason I think Konoha loved their Fourth Hokage so much, is that he’d go out and kill countless enemies, and then he’d come home and look and behave like the protagonist from a shoujou manga. He was devastatingly lethal, but in everyday interactions, he just had a way of making you feel safe and valued. 

Sitting in the cool breeze breeze on Hokage monument with him smiling back at me, it’s not hard to confess to him what had been happening. The planned coup, the proposed counter massacre, the way I’d been caught up in it all. I cry a few times. Beautifully, I might add. I’d practiced in the mirror. 

I might be… a little vane. That’s not important right now, though.

Minato nods along with a thoughtful look on his face, more like he’s watching a TV show than listening to a poor woman explain that his village is exploding. It feels off. I hope he’s appreciating my show, at least. 

“There’s also…” I turn my face so he can see my flawless profile, staring out over the village. The lights below twinkle in the night like always. There’s really no sign of my entire family— including me—  potentially being wiped out tonight. 

“There’s also the masked man,” I say. 

Minato blinks, his expression suddenly snapping into focus. He frowns at me. 

“The masked man?” he asks. 

“He claims to be Uchiha Madara,” I say. “He’s obsessed with me. He approached me, saying he’ll help me if I volunteer for the massacre–”

Minato stands, turning towards the village again. In his white kimono fluttering in the breeze, he almost looks like a Hokage again. 

“I think…” he starts. “I think I want to kill him. I was angry about him, before. I can’t quite remember…”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, a twinge of hysteria teasing at the edges of my mind. I try to stand, but my head is dizzy and my injured leg gives out. 

Minato turns to me, absentmindedly patting at his own leg. 

“This is really annoying,” he says. “Why are we connected?”

“I don’t know,” I snap back, the hysteria bleeding into my voice. “Of course you want to kill the masked man.” I want him to kill the masked man! That’s the whole point! “He’s the one who killed you and your wife.”

His eyes widen. 

“Ah…” he says. He sticks out his bottom lip. “I really missed Kushina, the first hundred years…”

“You’ve only been dead for eight!” I screech back at him. Honestly, what was the point of summoning the deadliest ninja in history if he’s a basket case?

I get to my feet for real this time, grasping at the loose pieces of his kimono to pull myself up. He makes no move to intervene, but he also doesn’t help me. Instead he pouts down at me, wincing when I put my weight on the injured leg. 

“You have to help,” I say. “Or I will throw myself off this cliff, and we’ll both find out how much pain an undead man can feel.”

He catches my elbow as if to stop me, face still all pouty. It’s a cute look, except that I want him to be a cool leader fixing all my problems!

“Don’t do that,” he says. “Look, I’ll help you. I spent hundreds of years with nothing but the dark pit of the Shinigami’s stomach, thinking about how I wanted to kill the masked man.”

I don’t correct him on his time period. 

He smiles brightly at me. “And the Uchiha coup is an easy fix!” he says. “I’ll just do what I did last time.”

“Last time…?” I repeat. I had no idea there’d been a “last time.” What on earth…?

“Mm, they tried this when I was Hokage,” he says. “What did I do again… wow, look at this tree…”

Red autumn leaves flutter off a scraggly tree a few meters away. Minato watches them in the breeze intently, like he’s never seen leaves before. 

“Hokage-sama,” I half yell, yanking at his kimono sleeve. “You can look at all the trees you want later.”

“Oh,” he turns back to me. “Right. Last time, I just put one of my Hiraishin markers on their heir. Fugaku’s son… what was his name… anyway, I put a marker on him, and said if the Uchiha tried anything, I’d simply kill their precious child.”

He beams at me. I stare back, mouth unfortunately gaping. It has to be a very unsexy look, but I can’t help it. I’d assumed… I’d assumed there had been no problems under the Fourth, that the Uchiha had been fine and at peace under him, and that he’d be able to make them see reason… 

“We can just do that,” he says, cutting through my anxiety spiral. His smile gains a reassuring quality. “I already have the marker in place. We can take the child hostage to make them back down, easy-peasy.”

“N-no,” I sputter out. “We can’t do that. Uchiha Itachi… Fugaku-sama’s first son is dead.”

[umi-adxhira]

ᝰ.ᐟ SERENITY | 020

FANDOM: TWTPTFLOB

WARNINGS: Fontaine, Lante, Dion, a severed head

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Last post of today, hope you guys enjoy it

◄ PREVIOUS CHAPTER NEXT CHAPTER ►

It’s been two days since Dion came back, and you’re sitting in your room, eating some bread with soup. The doctor advised you not to eat solid food such as bread, but having it with a liquid to soften it would be okay.

You eat by yourself, content with the quaint atmosphere of the room. The bread with soup is good, much more savory than the soup you’re familiar with in your world. It must be due to the lack of exotic spices. If they can’t make it flavorful, then making it rich and savory is the next best thing.

The door to your room creaks open. You don’t need to look up to know who it is.

Lante stands over your small form, his presence as oppressive as ever. He smokes a cigar, the acrid scent stinging your nose. He takes a long drag before speaking.

"Since you're injured, you’ll have to make up for it later. I expect overtime. And when you’re back on your feet, you better doll yourself up properly. Consider it an apology for the inconvenience."

He turns to leave, then mutters under his breath, "Last time someone pulls a stunt like that." Your bread halts halfway to your mouth. Stunt?

"What do you mean?" you ask.

Lante glances at you over his shoulder, his expression one of mild irritation. "Fontaine's been dead for two days. His head's missing, but I'd recognize that stupid brat’s body anywhere."

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you in silence.

Your stomach churns. The soup suddenly tastes like ash. Fontaine is dead. You have no doubt who did it.

Dion.

The blood on his cheek that morning. His calm, unbothered demeanor. He didn’t even hesitate, I bet. That makes me feel a lot better. One problem is gone, but I’d be an idiot to think that Fontaine is the only Agriche to pull off a stunt like that.

You push your half-empty bowl away, fingers curling over the edge of the wooden tray. I should eat. I won’t heal if I don’t. But the thought of swallowing anything now makes your throat close up.

Your thoughts scatter when Roxana enters, carrying fresh bandages, a basin full of water, and a towel. She says nothing as you set your food aside and pull the blanket off your body. The cold air makes you shiver.

She starts with your head, unwrapping the old bandages carefully, her fingers firm yet gentle. She dips the towel into the water, squeezing out the excess before dabbing at the wound. The water stings, sending a sharp jolt through your skull, but you don’t flinch. It’s better than infection.

She works in silence, her touch precise, pressing fresh gauze against your temple before securing it with clean bandages. Moving to your arms, she peels away the old wrappings, revealing healing bruises and shallow cuts. She cleans each wound methodically, replacing the bandages with practiced ease. Your legs are next - she lifts them gently, mindful of your sore muscles, fingers brushing against sensitive skin as she works.

By the time she reaches your torso, you’re trembling slightly, not from pain but from the sheer exposure. She unwinds the final layer of bandages, revealing the deep gash across your ribs. The cool air prickles against it, but Roxana says nothing. She only dips the towel again, pressing it firmly against the wound to clean away the dried blood.

The basin is now dark with bloodied water, the scent of iron thick in the air. She wraps the final bandage tightly, securing it with a knot before gathering the soiled wrappings and the basin. She turns toward the door, only to pause when it creaks open once more.

The door opens again. You don’t need to turn to know who it is this time either.

Dion steps in, a medium-sized box in his hands, wrapped with a red bow - the same shade as his eyes. Roxana stops, scowling at him before shoving past and leaving without another word.

Now, it’s just you and Dion.

He walks closer, setting the box beside you. You glance at him, searching his face for anything. He meets your gaze without hesitation, but he says nothing.

He’s watching me. The silence stretches between you both, thick and unspoken. You hesitate before reaching for the box. “You brought me something?” you ask, your tone teasing, though there’s an edge to it. Why does it feel so heavy?

Dion doesn’t respond. He only tilts his head slightly, watching you expectantly. You tug at the bow, undoing the knot, then lift the lid.

Inside, staring back at you, is a severed head.

Fontaine’s head.

Your breath catches. The world tilts.

The face is pale, slack with death. Blood stains his hair and the edges of his severed neck, dried and dark. His lifeless eyes remain half-open, a frozen expression of surprise barely etched onto his face. Flowers adorn the edge of the box, along with a single rose in the hole of his gouged eye. It’s an ugly sight to see, but something about it…

The silence is deafening.

Your hands tremble, but you don’t drop the box. You can’t move, can’t breathe.

Dion doesn’t say a word. He only watches.

You suck in a breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. He watches you with something unreadable in his crimson eyes, head tilted slightly, as if assessing your reaction. There is no remorse. No regret.

Your stomach churns violently, but you swallow it down. He did this for me. Didn’t he?

How sweet.

You exhale, pushing the lid back onto the box, blocking out the gruesome sight. It doesn’t erase the image from your mind, though. Fontaine's dead eye is seared into your thoughts.

Dion shifts closer, his presence suffocating in its intensity. His fingers brush against your cheek, cold and deliberate. He lingers there, his touch featherlight, testing.

Your pulse stutters. You should pull away. You don’t.

His lips barely part, his voice a whisper. "Afraid?"

You swallow, shaking your head. "No."

His fingers trail lower, his touch ghosting down your jawline before he pulls away.

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips - something dark, something satisfied.

"Good."

The room feels smaller. The air between you charged with something unspoken. You don’t have an answer, but one thing is clear - Dion did this for you. He has no intention of leaving.

And now, neither do you.

TAGLIST: @evaxmisu, @00hellohello00, @welpthisisboring, @hsrvl264, @flyingpansaurus

[h50europe]

Day nine of @bucktommyfluffebruary - Moving in together

Under a clear, sparkling night sky, Tommy stood on the front porch of his cozy home and stared out at the bustling city lights that shimmered like a blanket of stars. The memory of the last time this moment had taken shape haunted him- the day Buck had asked him the life-changing question about moving in together. Tommy's heart had been filled with so much doubt then. He had walked out, his fears chaining him to an emotional prison. Buck had always been understanding, but Tommy's own insecurities and deep-seated fear of heartbreak had made him run.

Tommy took a deep breath and returned to the living room, where Buck sat on the couch, absentmindedly flipping through a book. The unasked question hung heavy in the air, a palpable tension between them. This time, Tommy knew it was his turn to flip the script. He walked over, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Evan, can we talk for a minute?" Tommy said, his voice shaking slightly.

Buck looked up, a mixture of curiosity and concern in his eyes. "Of course, Tommy. What's up?"

Tommy sat down beside him, gathering his thoughts. He needed to explain why he had changed his mind, why this time was different. "I've been thinking a lot about us," he began, struggling to keep his voice steady. The last time we talked about moving in together, I walked out because I was scared. I was scared that if things went wrong, it would break my heart."

Buck's eyes widened slightly, surprise etched on his face. He hesitated, then reached for Tommy's hand, unsure where the conversation was heading.

"But I've realized something important since then," Tommy continued, his voice shaking. "You have been my constant, my strength. I can't function without you. I want to wake up next to you and share the mundane and memorable moments with you. I've been scared because I care so much, but that's exactly why I want us to take this step. My love for you is unconditional."

He looked into Buck's eyes and felt a surge of emotion. "Evan, will you move in with me?"

For a moment, there was silence - a seemingly endless pause that felt like an eternity. Buck's expression was a mixture of surprise and hesitation, processing the weight of Tommy's words. Eventually, a warm smile began to form on Buck's face, his eyes shining with love and understanding.

"I was afraid you would never ask me, Tommy," Buck said softly, his voice filled with emotion. "I've been waiting for this day. Yes, let's make this our home together."

Tommy's heart swelled with relief and joy. The night sky outside seemed to shine a little brighter, as if the universe was celebrating their decision. He had taken another leap of faith. Only this time, Buck was right there, ready to take the leap with him.

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Two weeks later, Buck stood in the doorway of his now-empty apartment, a moving box in one hand. He paused, his free hand gently brushing the doorframe as memories flooded his mind. He thought of Taylor, who had once lived here with him but had chosen her career as a journalist over their relationship. Then there was Natalia, the death doula, who seemed more fascinated by Buck's story of being dead for three minutes and seventeen seconds than by the fact that he was alive and breathing. And, of course, the surreal experience of helping to deliver a baby boy who was technically his, the result of his decision to be a sperm donor. As he thought about the baby boy, a fleeting thought crossed his mind: what if he and Tommy had children of their own someday? He shook his head. First, they needed to move in and see how things worked out. Buck looked around one last time; it had been tumultuous times.

He closed the door behind him with a sense of finality and took a deep breath, ready to begin this new chapter. Buck carried the box filled with the remnants of his past down to his car and drove to Tommy's house, where a new beginning awaited.

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At Tommy's house, they placed this last box among all the others, stacks of cardboard symbols of their lives together. They looked at the sea of boxes, knowing that much work lay ahead to make this house their home. But amid the chaos and the daunting task ahead, they felt a deep sense of unity and purpose.

Buck turned to Tommy, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and anticipation. "We can do this," he said, his voice determined.

Tommy smiled and nodded. "Yes, we do."

They hugged, holding each other tightly, finding comfort and strength in their bond. The road to get here hadn't been easy, but as they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, they knew they had made the right decision. They were ready to face the future together, with love as their guide.

So, amidst the chaos of moving boxes and the promise of a new beginning, they knew they had taken the first real step toward a life together.

[basilone]

I wasn't about to let @blind-dates-fest pass me by, and I'm very excited to get to share this next piece! We're off to a racetrack in Wyoming this time, as we sneak a little peek at Gale Cleven's childhood... and get to know someone new!

It’s one of those slow business days. There’s no big race on today, even though it’s the weekend and there ought to be. It seems to Sally as though the whole of Wyoming is holding its breath for a little while. Waiting for next weekend, when the best horses and finest families will come out for a time on the track. That’s when the season really starts and the money begins to flow.

Well, at least, all of this is according to Mister Danvers from the ticketing booth. Sally doesn’t put a whole lot of stock in the opinion of a man who doesn’t know the difference between a cravat and a bow tie, especially not after he’d said Sally wouldn’t have to add any big numbers because hot dogs are cheap. But then Erica Post of the Post Winery had said the same, minus the snippy comment about Sally’s hot dogs, and so had Susan Rugatti, with the additional comment that Sally’s hair needs fixing.

There’s nothing wrong with her hair.

Sally puffs an exhale and swipes her unruly fringe off her forehead as she takes stock of her stand. Lunch rush has come and gone, insofar as one can call it a rush when it’s just fifteen people and three screaming kids, and the time of afternoon snacks isn’t quite reality yet. If she hurries just a little more than she is right now, she could finish that chapter on how to set broken bones and get a head’s start on next week’s studying.

She could do all of that, even though Miss Audrey’s currently gliding over to her stand with all the air of the faux French aristocracy in her countenance. She’s guiding a young boy not older than ten or eleven by the shoulder. Leaning on the kid, actually, as though she’s quite concerned he’s going to bolt sooner rather than later.

“Good afternoon, Miss Audrey!”

“Sally, ma chérie,” booms the woman, heavily-lidded eyes sparkling with good humor, “you are like an angel’s appearance to me!”

Sally can’t help but laugh at such nonsense. Miss Audrey’s always complimentary like that, often making a whole lot of hubbub about something. She works with hats and hair and harlots, darling – Miss Audrey’s words, not Sally’s – and is to the Wyoming racetrack as the President is to the White House.

“You flatter me,” she says, smiling as the woman draws close to her stand. “How’re the girls? And business?”

“One and the same, one and the same,” waves Miss Audrey, rolling her eyes for good measure. “They ought to be ashamed of themselves for putting us up in that tent right there. I told Mister Barbieri that I can’t cut hair like that, and oh Sally what that awful man told me next cannot be repeated in polite company...”

“They’re expecting some gusts of wind to roll in on Wednesday. You’ll be out of your tent by next weekend, then,” winks Sally, knowing everyone on the track would help foil Mister Barbieri’s best-laid plans any day of the week even though he owns the place. One tent won’t be a match for that kind of determination. “You got any clients coming in today, Miss Audrey?”

“Sure do. Next week’s gonna be a big hubbub, but can’t complain about today neither. I told the little mister here that we’re always happy to see him, but he shouldn’t stick around too long this time.”

Sally gives the kid a quick once-over. “Good of you,” she says, taking in the boy’s small shuffle and his apparent refusal to so much as look at her. “He ain’t one of yours, I know that much”– it’s just Miss Audrey’s Lola who’s got a kid, and that one’s as dark as this one’s fair –“so who’s the kid, anyway?”

“I’m not a kid!” says the boy, before Miss Audrey can even open her mouth to answer for him. His rather fierce glare flashes up at her from beneath his tousled blond hair. “My name is Gale”– there’s demand in the emphasis, a don’t you dare call me otherwise lurking in his tone –“and I’m nine!”

Sally only just manages to hide the largest portion of her smile. “Nice to meet ya, Mister Gale,” she says, resting her chin on her hand as she makes a show of studying him. Collar on a too-neat shirt tugged a little askew, trousers that have been patched up at least twice, some scrapes on his knuckles, and a pair of battered-looking shoes. “My name’s Sally,” she offers, “and I’m nineteen.”

The kid – Gale – nods at her with the tiniest incline of his head. He didn’t object to being called mister, which should not feel like a won battle as much as it does right now. It’s kid he’s got problems with, then, and Sally can hardly blame him for that.

“Gale hasn’t yet had lunch. Or breakfast.” Miss Audrey manages to make it sound like an everyday sort of thing to be told at three in the afternoon, even though her mouth does that funny little disapproving thing that Sally’s never quite been able to mimic. “We had no idea about that until Candy heard that belly rumble, lemme tell ya that!”

Hides hunger, thinks Sally, already busying her hands with a warm bun and a knife. Miss Audrey lets him sit with her girls. A quiet kid, then, if even hard-shelled Candy manages to look out for him. She’s seen the like of him before, usually lurking in a group of rowdier kids, eyes roving everywhere but mouth refusing to show weakness.

“What d’ya want on your hot dogs, Gale?” she asks, making a show of adding one very hot sausage to the bun. “I’m getting two for you and one for me. Mine’s gonna have a whole lot of mustard and some red onions. And you look like the kinda man who knows exactly what to put on his.”

She’s not sure if it’s her wink or the promise of food that’s got him stepping out of Miss Audrey’s shadow. “D’you have ketchup, Miss Sally?” he wonders, blue eyes going wide as she nods in reply. “A-And… uh… I want cheese on one of them.”

“So that’s one ketchup dog and one ketchup-and-cheese dog?” she checks, showing him exactly what she’s doing to make his food. “Yeah?” She laughs as his nod turns rather vigorous. “All right, Mister Gale, I’m gonna add the ketchup now and I’m gonna need you to tell me stop, okay?”

“Okay!”

“I’ll leave you both to it, Sal,” says Miss Audrey, patting a few crisp dollars into Sally’s apron’s pocket that Sally already knows better than to protest against. Her multi-ringed hand ruffles Gale’s hair as his first stop! rings out. “Enjoy your late lunch, and be good to Miss Sally.”

“Yes ma’am,” nods Gale, fingers already carefully rearranging his hair and smoothing its back while he leans over to see the ketchup progress on the second hot dog. “Stop! More cheese than ketchup, please,” he directs, sounding very sure of himself indeed. “They’re better with cheese.”

“D’you want cheese on both? You can, you know, it’s no trouble. Look,” she says, slightly overdoing it on the mustard for hers, “you can get as much as you want on these. Not a lot o’ people have been wanting cheese today, so you’re extra lucky!”

“Only if it’s no trouble…”

“None,” she smiles, putting more cheese than ketchup on both of his. “Now, c’mere, grab yourself a plate,” she directs, “and – oh, thank you!” She blinks in surprise as he holds another plate out to her. “That’s gonna make these onions a little easier to eat. They would’ve spilled all over my apron like yesterday otherwise!”

His you’re welcome, miss is rather soft-voiced. Almost shy, really, in comparison to some of the more loudly demanding nine-year-olds she’s seen out and about at the track. He’s got that look about him of someone who’s going to grow tall – all limbs and careful posture – even though he just sat down and made himself small as can be.

Sally brushes her apron and skirt down. Settles on the grass just outside her hot dog stand, next to her small pile of books and notes. Folds herself around her plate the same way Gale does – arm around it to shield it from view, hunched over the food just to be sure nobody takes it – and tucks into her own food with no small degree of relish.

“Oh, that’s the ticket,” she sighs, having only had a single coffee and an orange early this morning before she was almost late for her bus. She smiles as she peers up at the kid, who’s practically wolfing his food down. “You like ’em, Gale?”

His nod is accompanied by him licking his fingers clean and wiping them on his trousers. Sally finds she’s learning fast the longer she studies him. He’s somebody’s kid all right, because his clothes got patched up and he’s got manners some of the orphan kids don’t. Nobody objects to him spending time with Miss Audrey’s girls, even though Miss Audrey’s girls are scantily clad loudmouths who rake in more cash in two hours than Sally does in a week’s work.

“Does your daddy know how to find you?” she asks, deducing several things just from watching him polish his plate clean. “Is he expectin’ you at Miss Audrey’s?”

There it is. The small freeze. That little line to his shoulders that goes rigid and defensive all at once. “I know where to find him,” says Gale, biting the words out like the very syllables have their hackles raised at her. “It’s not time yet.”

“All right,” she agrees, setting her plate aside and leaning back a little. “You tell me when it’s time now. There’s a big clock out on th–”

“The pavilion.” His hands are a flurry of motion, dragging a chewed-on pencil and rather battered little notepad out of his shirt pocket. He doesn’t look at her. Flips the notepad open and sets his pencil to paper instead. “I been here before, you know.”

Sally almost winces at his tone. “All right, Buckaroo,” she sighs, propping her own book up on her knees, perfectly aware that she’s conceding defeat to a rather headstrong nine-year-old. She smiles as she catches his tiny grimace at the nickname. Gotcha, kid. “I’m here almost every day in summer. So are the hot dogs.”

She’s not surprised when he stays silent. Kids like him often do when something starts to sound too much like an invitation or expectation. It’s what she would’ve done, too, back in the time her mother was dreaming about winning big money instead of buying something to put on the dinner table.

Nine-year-old Sally would’ve killed for a hot dog.

“And your homework.”

Sally blinks away her furious stare at the differences between fibula and tibia. “Sorry,” she says, attempting to smile, “what was that?”

Gale’s half-moon smile flickers up at her. “Your homework, Miss. That’s here too.”

“So’s yours, by the look of that,” she nods, indicating his notes.

“It’s just some stuff.”

“Some stuff, huh? Me, I’m learning about bones.” Sally raises her book to show him, seeing how his arm has already come up to curl around his notepad to shield it from view. “See? I need to learn how to help fix them when they’re broken. So I need to learn what they look like when they’re normal, first.”

Gale peers at the pages more closely than she’d have imagined him to do. “That’s Latin.”

“A little! The bone names are like that,” she agrees, nodding, “and I think it makes them sound as important as they are. D’you know Latin?”

He shrugs. “Only if it’s got to do with calculating things. Like ad infinitum means that the operation is to be carried out endlessly.” His nose wrinkles a little at his explanation. “Infinity’s still really tricky, though, so I’m trying to work on limits rather than infinitesmals right now. I think infinity’s one of those things I’ll know once I’m as old as you.”

“Yeah?” Sally grins at him over the top of her book. “Are you going to be a scientist, then, Buckaroo?”

“No, I’m going to be a pilot! And they have to do loads of math!” He doesn’t grimace at the nickname this time. Scoots closer until he’s seated beside her, even, just so he can show her a sliver of his notepad that’s filled up with numbers and crude little graphs. “I’m practicin’ heaps of it.”

“Getting a good start!”

Gale nods vigorously. “I’m gonna be the bestest pilot ever, Miss Sally.”

“Yes, you are,” she agrees as his knee knocks against hers. “I’m gonna be a good nurse, too. It’s all in the work.”

“You’re gonna be the bestest.”

“Not if I don’t know the difference between a fibula and a tibia,” she snorts, tapping the page. “Just like you won’t be a pilot unless you know fancy things like trajectories and calculus. But we’re gonna learn all of that just fine out here.”

And may the good Lord please stop your daddy from clipping your wings before you got a chance to fly.

[sweetvoidstuff]

Fading into the Shadows - Gravity and Gold (4)

Jungkoo x Reader

Summary: (Y/N) wants a normal university life, hiding her gravity powers, while Jungkook strives to be a perfect hero. When villains attack their campus, she is forced to make a choice—stay hidden or fight. Their encounter changes everything.

Masterlist

Story List

A/N: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, please let me know—I’d love to hear your thoughts. I plan to publish one chapter per week, so stay tuned for more!

Chapter 4: Fading into the Shadows

The air was thick with the scent of smoke and electricity. The battle was over, but you could still feel the weight of it pressing down on you. Your muscles ached, your head was spinning, and worst of all—you weren’t sure what happened next.

The second the villains had fallen, reinforcements flooded in. More heroes. More uniforms. More people who would have questions you weren’t ready to answer.

I need to leave.

Before anyone could notice, you slipped into the shadows, using the last of your strength to lighten your steps, making your movements barely detectable. You moved swiftly, avoiding the floodlights and the murmuring voices of the other heroes. They were too focused on securing the area to realize you were vanishing.

Except for one person.

"Where do you think you’re going?"

You froze.

Your golden lightning throwing hero stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his dark eyes locked onto yours like he had expected this. His uniform was torn in places, smudged with soot and sweat, showing of some tattoos on his arm, but he still held himself with the confidence of someone who wasn’t used to losing.

You swallowed hard. "Home?"

Jungkook let out a dry chuckle. "That’s cute. But you and I both know that’s not gonna fly." He took a step forward. "You’re not some civilian who just happened to get caught in the crossfire. You helped. And not in a ‘lucky bystander’ kind of way. So tell me—why the hell aren’t you with us?"

"Don’t wanna be."

The words were out before you could stop them.

Jungkook’s smirk faded, his expression growing unreadable. "You don’t want to be a hero?"

"I don’t want to be anything," you corrected. "I just want to live my life. Without all of this." you gestured vaguely to the ruins of the battlefield behind them. "Without people like you showing up and dragging me into something I never asked for."

Jungkook’s jaw clenched. He stared at you for a long moment, like he was trying to piece you together—like he couldn’t understand why someone with power – so much power wouldn’t want to use it.

"You don’t get it," he said finally.

"I don’t need to." You replied, already taking a step back. You turned and disappeared into the night before his body felt lighter again and before he could stop you.

The Next Few Days

You did what you always did—you blended in. You stuck to the back alleys, avoided any locations that heroes were known to frequent, and kept your head down. It wasn’t hard. People didn’t pay much attention to you. That was the way you liked it.

But Jungkook?

Jungkook was impossible to ignore. It took less than a week for him to be there.

Everywhere you went, it seemed like he was there. At the market, where you tried to grab a quick meal. At the park, where you liked to sit and think. Once, you even caught him leaning against the entrance of your favorite bookstore, scanning the crowd like he was looking for you, waiting for you to show up.

It wasn’t a coincidence.

And then, one afternoon, he finally cornered you.

You had just stepped out of a convenience store when you spotted him leaning casually against the railing outside, sipping from a canned coffee. He looked up the moment you walked past, falling into step beside you as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You know, you’re really bad at hiding," he mused.

You huffed. "Or maybe you’re just really annoying."

Jungkook grinned. "Could be both." He took another sip of his coffee. "You really don’t want to talk about it, huh?"

"There’s nothing to talk about."

"You’ve got power," Jungkook said, his voice dropping slightly. "More than most people I’ve ever met. That’s no small feat either. And you act like it’s some kind of burden instead of a gift."

Your fingers curled into fists clutching your shopping bags tighter. "Maybe that’s because it is a burden."

Jungkook stopped walking. "That’s bullsh*t."

You turned to glare at him. "You don’t get to decide that."

"No, but I do get to ask why," Jungkook shot back. His expression had darkened, his usual playful arrogance slipping into something more serious. "You could help people. You could be part of something bigger. So why are you so damn determined to run from it?"

Because I know what happens when people like me get noticed.

Because the Hero Program isn’t what you think it is.

Because power always comes with a price.

You took a slow breath. "You and I are not friends. You helped me back there and I thank you for that, but I don’t owe you an explanation."

Jungkook’s jaw ticked. You could tell he wanted to argue, but after a tense moment, he let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his hair.

"Fine," he muttered. "I’ll drop it. For now."

You didn’t miss the last part.

He wasn’t giving up on you.

And you weren’t sure if that scared you more than anything else.

[middleearthpixie]

The Ties That Bind ~ Chapter Twelve

Summary: Although Erebor is his once more, Thorin knows there is still a great threat to the peace of Middle Earth. Azog is gone, but another has taken his place and has sworn to finish what Azog began. Erebor is back, but it’s sadly lacking in protection and as much as he hates the thought of it, Thorin knows there is one thing that will guarantee the safety and continuation of his line.

War is coming and all Eirlys of Mirkwood wishes to do is fight alongside her brother Legolas and the other elves, united with Men and Dwarves in their attempt to quell the renewed tensions between them and the orc army of the north. But, her father, Thranduíl has other plans. Unite his kingdom with the newly reestablished kingdom of Erebor and use the power of both to defeat the orcs.

An arranged marriage that neither side wants, but both sides need. But what happens when the two sides realize that maybe—just maybe—being together isn't quite as bad as they'd thought...

Pairing: Thorin x ofc Eirlys of Mirkwood

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 3.9k

Read on AO3

When she opened her eyes the next morning, Eirlys was alone and she thought for a moment that perhaps she’d dreamed the previous night. Dreamed the previous weeks. 

But then she heard the soft pad of bare feet on wood and rolled onto her belly to gaze out at the terrace. There, dressed in only his trousers, was her husband. She smiled. He is my husband. 

The chill in the morning air did not seem to faze him. He did not shiver. Didn’t rub his hands along his thick biceps or forearms to try to keep warm. Instead, he bent slightly forward—most likely leaning against the railing as she often did—and let the pale early morning sun splash across his skin. It highlighted the swells of muscle along his broad shoulders, down his equally broad back, but her smile faded at the sight of the scars that marred his skin, for there were quite a few. When he moved and the hair that fell halfway down his back shifted, it exposed still more marks. Some were old and had gone white, some were newer and still pink. Some were smooth, but more than one had jagged margins, and she wondered how he’d come by them. 

The sunlight shone along his black hair, the ornaments he’d woven into it glinting, throwing off flashes of light here and there with the slightest of movement. She didn't know what he watched, but something seemed to have caught his attention. 

She snuggled into the pillow beneath her cheek, perfectly content to simply study him. The previous evening had been nothing short of magical and while she hated to see the morning come, she knew there would be more nights like their first and she looked very much forward to them. 

He turned then and her breath hitched. If she’d thought him beautiful in the moonlight, that was nothing compare to him in the daylight. Her dwarf was the powerfully built man she’d ever seen and when he smiled, her heart actually skipped a beat, a soft laugh bubbling to her lips when he grinned and greeted her with, “So that’s why my back grew warm.”

“I’ll not apologize. You’re quite handsome, you know.”

His grin widened as he came back into the room. “I thank you for the compliment, but I’m certain not many would agree with you.”

“I find that hard to believe,” she replied, rising to prop her head on her fist. “They must need glasses, to think such a thing.”

He sank onto the edge of the bed. “I thought this moment might be awkward,” he confessed, trailing his fingers along the length of her hair. 

“Why? We did nothing wrong.”

“No, we didn’t. But… it was still nothing I could have prepared for. And I mean that in the nicest way, before you think I found fault with it, or you.”

He skimmed along her hair, over her shoulder, and the caress sent heat streaking through her. Her eyes grew heavy-lidded, but she refused to let them close even as she shivered beneath his touch. “I also found no fault with you, Thorin,” she told him softly. 

“So I did not disappoint you, then?”

She heard the note of teasing, the hint of a smile, in his voice, and shook her head. “Not at all. Did I disappoint you?”

His eyes darkened slightly and he shifted to ease himself over her. The hair curling away from his chest tickled her bare back, and he nuzzled her, whispering, “I think it impossible for you to ever do such a thing.”

Now she let her eyes close, his lips soft and warm, his beard coarse and tickling her skin as he swept teasing kisses along first her cheek, then over her jaw. Sweeping her hair to let it spill over her left shoulder, he then kissed his way down along her neck, over her nape, across her shoulder. With each pass of his lips, her skin grew more sensitive, the warmth that uncoiled in her belly bubbled into heat that spread through her veins.

He slid one hand along her arm, to her hand, beneath her pillow, and covered it, linking his fingers with hers as he whispered, “Does anyone expect us at this hour?”

Her thoughts came muddy and slow, thick and lazy as she managed to murmur, “I care not, to be honest.”

A soft laugh whispered across her back and her toes actually curled as he kissed down over her left shoulder blade. “Good.”

Thorin crept lower, drawing the sheet down to her hips, pausing when she shivered. “Are you cold, mesmel?”

“No.” She could barely make her voice go above a whisper, she felt so languorous. He punctuated each kiss with a teasing sweep of his tongue, and with each caress, the heat within her grew. The now-familiar knots slowly tightened, slowly lowered into her core. He came back up, flattening again her, his breath warm against her ear.

“Your Majesty?”

Eirlys and Thorin groaned in unison at Madris’ voice. With a muffled growl, Thorin eased off her, onto his back and she winced, calling back, “What is it, Madris?”

“Your father sent me up to remind you of the breakfast before everyone departs.”

Eirlys bit back the oath rising to her lips. She’d forgotten about the breakfast. “Give us a minute, please?”

“Of course.”

“I forgot about the breakfast,” she sighed, sinking back into her pillows.

“It is of no matter.” His words wafted slowly into the air, heavy with what sounded like regret. “There will be other mornings.”

That brought a smile to her lips, one that stayed there even as he gave a rough sigh and rose from the bed to go to the wardrobe, where his chest stood alongside it. “Do you promise?”

“Why, Queen Eirlys, you sound almost wanton.”

He said it with a grin, which warmed her blood once more. “Is that a yes, King Thorin?”

Crouching before the chest to lift the lid, he bobbed his head. “It is most definitely a yes.”

“Good.”

“And now,” he stood, a heavy dark grey henley clutched in both hands, “I will go and assure your maid I’ve not been in here ravishing you silly and if you don't mind clumsy dwarven hands assisting you, I will help you dress.”

“She might not believe you.”

“I am very persuasive when I wish to be.” He drew the henley over his head, winking as he emerged through the neck. “Although, I might warn her we will be late to the breakfast. I think she will understand though, given that we are newlyweds.”

“Thorin, we can’t keep our guests waiting.”

He thumped past her, pausing to bend and press a kiss into her forehead. “If they have complaints, they can come visit me in Erebor to voice them.”

“I like how you think.”

He winked once more and then crossed to the door, where he tugged it open and stepped to into the corridor. Eirlys sighed softly, then reluctantly rose from the bed, crouching to swipe her nightgown from the floor, where it had spent the night. The wrapper lay beside it, but further under the bed, and she snatched that as well, balling both in her hands as she stood. 

She moved around the foot of the bed, toward the basket where she’d dump the garments, when something caught her attention from the corner of her eye. 

The dark splotch stood out vibrantly against the white linens. Blood. 

“I thought you might not want your maid to see that.”

Thorin’s voice suddenly in her ear made her jump. He’d come up behind her without a sound, and slid an arm about her waist as he spoke. A feeling of foolishness swirled through her at her starting the way she had, but at the same time, his concern touched her as well. “It’s silly to be concerned about it,” she murmured, shaking her head. “It isn’t as if no one knows what happened here last eve.”

“Still… it’s no one else’s concern, either.” The arm about her waist tightened briefly. “Although, I’ll wager both houses will await the announcement of an heir’s imminent arrival in the coming year.” 

“An heir…” She peered up at him over her shoulder. “I do hope we might adjust to being married first.”

“Of course. But…” He smiled as he released her, and stepped around to whisk the linens from the bed and balled them in his arms. “I rather enjoy how one goes about begetting an heir, so I daresay, we will have one sooner rather than later.”

She didn't answer, not that he gave her a chance. Instead, he tossed the ruined linens into the basket and then crossed back to the wardrobe to tug open the doors. “What did you wish to wear today, Eirlys?”

A sense of unease settled about her even as she forced a smile to her face and said, “I think the pale blue will suffice.”

By early afternoon, the palace became a frantic hive of activity as the wedding guests readied to take their leave. Her father and Thorin had disappeared after breakfast, although neither would tell her why, which irritated her as much as Thorin’s statement about begetting an heir troubled her, and Eirlys tried not to dwell on either as she went in search of Madris to aid her in the packing they need to do to make the trip to Erebor in the coming days.

“Eirlys?”

She paused at a very familiar voice, one she had not heard in what seemed like a lifetime, and turned to smile. “Lachon? Is that really you?”

Lachon of Rivendell hurried toward her, sweeping her up to swing her around. “Did you think I would miss an event such as this? Princess Eirlys of Mirkwood actually settling down and taking a husband?”

She couldn't help her laughter as he set her down, and she smiled up into his warm dark eyes. “My father was none too fond of you, if I recall.”

“Well, now, that would be because he caught me attempting to take liberties with you, if you will also recall.”

“Lachon, we were but children when that happened.”

“I was a boy, yes,” he nodded, tucking her arm through his, “but you were anything but a child.”

Her cheeks grew warm. “Either way, it was a lifetime ago, so I suppose Papa thought it would be safe.”

“And he judged correctly. I would never have missed this.” He looked around, the sunlight glinting russet over the reddish-gold hair streaming down his back. “But, where is your new husband? I should like to offer him my congratulations on winning your hand.”

“He is in with my father even as we speak.” She peered over her shoulder, toward the Throne Room, where she figured her father and Thorin were discing whatever it was they discussed. “I’m sure it has something to do with how many soldiers will accompany us back to Erebor.”

“A wise idea, to be sure.” Lachon bobbed his head as they strolled along the walkway, where sun splashed the wood as if lightning their path. “Gundabad has grown far bolder and if you are making your way from here to the Lonely Mountain, it would be best to have as many soldiers as your father might spare.”

She paused, peering up at him. “Have they grown so bold? I know they’ve ventured closer to our borders in the last few weeks, but are they stronger? They have no leader.”

“Oh, but they do once more have a leader.” He turned to her. “And by all reports, he is far worse than Azog or Bolg would ever be.”

She tried to ignore the sudden knots in her stomach, the sense of unease that settled about her. “And has he a name?”

“Rildu. He is a cousin to Azog, or more aptly, was a cousin to him. And that blood knows no mercy, no empathy, and no compassion. And yes, they are stronger now. Stronger and far more determined to rule whatever they can.” Lachon nodded in the direction of the Throne Room. “From what I understand, he is also to out for revenge for what your husband did to his cousin, and what your brother did to Azog’s son.”

“Wonderful.” Her unease grew. Erebor was almost two days’ travel from Mirkwood. Not incredibly far, but a good portion of their journey would be along open road, which would leave them more than a little vulnerable to attack.

“Let’s not talk about it now,” she told him, forcing a smile to her lips, forcing a cheeriness she did not feel into her voice. “Instead, tell me what you’ve been doing since we last met?”

“A little of this, a little of that.” He shrugged. “You know how I am, Eirlys. I’m not overly fond of doing the same thing over and over.”

“I know, but I’d have thought Elrond would have given you the opportunity to channel your energies into one objective.”

Lachon chuckled. “He has. More than once.”

“And still nothing, eh?” 

“I tried to have him speak with your father,” he replied, his smile fading and his eyes growing soft. 

A hint of unease unfurled in her belly. “We’ve been through this before, Lachon. And besides, I’m married now, remember?”

“I know, more’s the pity. Although,” the familiar gleam leaped into his eyes once more, “I am happy for you and Thorin, is his name?”

She cocked her head to the side. “You very well know his name and do not try to pretend otherwise.”

“Guilty. But tell me,” he lowered his voice, “does the fact that he is a dwarf trouble you at all?”

“No,” she replied without hesitation, shaking her head, “not one bit. Why should it?”

He offered up a long look. “Surely, you remember well the last time they passed through here. We heard about it all the way in Imladris.”

She sighed. “The last time they passed through here, it was for the wedding of the king’s nephew to our own Tauriel. So, I’ll wager whatever you heard of that was not nearly as horrifying as what I think you’re alluding to.”

“Don’t be daft, Eirlys. You knew I meant the last time they were here uninvited.”

She stared hard at him. Of course she knew what happened when her father imprisoned the dwarves. They escaped and made their way first to Esgaroth, then to Erebor itself, unleashed Smaug and destroyed the town on the lake.

But, all she said to Lachon was, “What is it you’re saying, man? Don’t beat about the bush, but man up and say it.”

“Your dwarf king went mad. Went mad and nearly wiped out your father’s army, your brother  and Tauriel, all of Esgaroth, as well as his own kin.” Lachon’s dark eyes almost glowed. “And yet you’ve married him just the same, which astounds me.”

“Why?”

“Because when I asked for your hand, you refused. And yet you willingly pledged your troth to him—a dwarf?”

She rolled her eyes. “I refused you because we wanted different things, if you’ll recall. You had our lives all planned out and yet failed to ask me what I felt about any single aspect. I’d rather not have a husband who plans my life for me without any input from me.”

“And your dwarf has listened to you? Has he taken into account what you want?”

“Although, I’ll wager both houses will await the announcement of an heir’s imminent arrival in the coming year.” 

“An heir…” She peered up at him over her shoulder. “I do hope we might adjust to being married first.”

“Of course. But…” He smiled as he released her, and stepped around to whisk the linens from the bed and balled them in his arms. “I rather enjoy how one goes about begetting an heir, so I daresay, we will have one sooner rather than later.”

Still, she couldn't very well tell Lachon how Thorin had not troubled himself to ask her whether or not she even wished to have children. “Lachon, you know how families such as mine are when it comes to marriage. It’s all about the alliances that are created.”

“So, it’s one of convenience,” Lachon nodded, “so why not simply say so?”

He stepped closer and before she could do anything, he caught her around the waist to pull her close. “Remember, my grandmother was Oropher’s mistress. We should continue the tradition, Eirlys.”

“What our grandparents did has no bearing on what we do, and you know as well as I do that those rumors were never more than that—rumors,” she told him, shaking her head. “Now, unhand me.”

“We belong together, you know,” his voice lowered, grew throatier, his arms in fact tightening about her, “and you would be but wasted on that fool, mad dwarf.”

“Lachon, don’t you—”

Before she could finish, he caught her lips in a fierce kiss, his arms like bands of steel about her, pressing her own arms almost painfully against her sides. She tried to jerk back, to pull just beyond his reach, but she had no leverage and no way to force him to yield.

“What goes on here?”

The angry growl of Thorin’s deep voice was enough to make Lachon pull back and she was able to yank free of his grasp. “Thorin, I didn't hear you coming.”

“No,” he growled, turning cold blue eyes to her, “I’ll wager you did not. It’s time for us to take our leave.”

She smiled. “Good. I was just coming to find you.”

“Were you?” His gaze shifted to Lachon. “Did you perhaps mistake an elf for me?”

Her belly knotted. “It isn’t quite what you think.”

“Really?” Thorin came up to them, putting himself between her and Lachon. “You were at the ceremony yesterday, weren’t you?”

Lachon bobbed his head. “I was, indeed.”

“So you know that her Majesty is now married. To me.”

“I do.”

“Good.” Thorin offered up a mild smile and then, to both Eirlys’ and Lachon’s surprise, leveled the elf with a punch that seemingly came from nowhere. 

Lachon crumpled to his knees and Thorin crouched before him, adding, “If you come near her again, I will kill you. Do you understand that, elf?”

Blood trickled from the corner of Lachon’s mouth, and he gingerly prodded at his already swelling bottom lip as he nodded. 

Eirlys pressed her lips together to hold back her smile as she looked over at Thorin. He’d seen the kiss, but he’d no doubt seen her fighting Lachon off as well, which filled her with relief. At least his anger was aimed at the right person.

She moved to slip her arm through his. “I’ve never been so thankful to see you, Thorin,” she whispered, giving his arm a gentle squeeze.

“Indeed,” he replied, his voice cold, “and now it is time for us to take our leave.”

With that, he started off, and she stumbled as she tried to fall into step with him. Fury practically radiated from him as he stalked away from Lachon, still on the floor. Eirlys had to practically run to keep up with him, and as they rounded the corner leading to her chambers, she said, “What is the matter?”

“The matter is that you were kissing another man the morning after our wedding.”

“Wait,” she dug her heels into the floor to halt him, yanking her arm free, “I was what?”

“I saw you.” He spun around to face her. “Laughing with him and then the next minute, kissing him. Now, I know you and I might not know each other well yet, and perhaps that isn’t exactly how a marriage should begin, but—”

“I want’t kissing him. He was kissing me.”

He stared at her, eyes cold, arms folded. “As if there is a difference.”

“There is this time! He kissed me and made it so I couldn’t free myself.”

“Is that so? I thought you were trained alongside your brother, with Tauriel, with the others, to defend yourself. Didn’t you tell me that? That you are skilled with a bow and arrow as well as steel? And yet, you could not avoid a single kiss?”

“I couldn't when he’d pinned my arms to my sides, you fool!”

“I am indeed a fool,” he replied with a sharp bob of his head, “for now I am bound to you, my faithless queen, for the rest of my days. You should have but told me your heart belonged to another, for I would have refrained from consummating our marriage and then could have possibly freed myself.”

Her heart beat at triple its pace as she held his angry stare. “If that is what you wish to do, then leave for Erebor without me. I will tell no one of last evening.”

“Your sheets were stained with your virgin’s blood, your maid saw them and for all I know, they’ve been presented to your father as proof of our joining. So, as much as I would now rather just leave you behind, I can do no such thing.”

“I did not ask him to kiss me. I did not want him to kiss me, Thorin. But he did so anyway. I’ve not betrayed you nor am I faithless, but instead fell prey to a man who used his size and strength against me to his advantage and for all I know, he saw you there and that was why he did what he did.”

“We will never know, I suppose.”

“No, but you’ve already made up your mind as it is, so I don't suppose it matters one way or the other.”

“No. It doesn’t.” He turned and strode away, calling over one shoulder, “We leave in thirty minutes’ time and do not think to hide in your chambers. You will be with me in my coach if I must throw you over my shoulder and put you there myself.”

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” she snapped.

He paused then, turning back toward her. “Satisfaction?” He shook his head. “There is no satisfaction. I knew better than to trust Thranduíl. Woodland elves lack all honor and now I am trapped with one for the rest of my days.”

“Thorin, I do not lie when I say I tried to free myself from him. I—”

“Of course you did. I saw what a struggle you put up. Please, do not insult my intelligence.”

He bit off the last part as he whipped about and stalked off without a look back. A heavy sigh rose to Eirlys’ lips as she watched him go, watched the way the light played along his silver-streaked black hair, the way it glinted off the silver ornaments woven into those long curls. As soon as he calmed down, he would realize she told the truth. Why else would he hit Lachon the way he did?

Lachon.

She stalked back to where he still sat, his back against the wall, probing the swollen lower part of his face. Crouching alongside him, she said, “If you ever come near me again, Lachon, I will see to it that you never know another woman again. Am I clear?”

“Bugger off,” he mumbled around his puffy bottom lip.

“Gladly.”

With that, she stood up and marched off, wondering who had been fool enough to invite him to the wedding and how she untangled herself from the mess his being invited had created for her. 

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[swag696942069]

Me, every couple weeks, going back to the same wip that hasn't been updated in almost a year, to reread the same 13 chapters and, silently, hope that a new chapter is on it's way, but I'd never leave a comment asking for a update cause I don't wanna make the author feel any pressure:

[plutotheplum]

Felt Good About You

akaashi keiji x fem!reader

summary: delivering a revised manuscript to your editor turns into something more.

cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, fluff, post-time skip, oral sex, vaginal fingering, praise kink, handjob, p in v

wc: 4.8k

a/n: i'm afraid i have the fattest crush on akaashi

also on ao3!

“The romance isn’t working.”

You groan when your editor pushes your manuscript for this week’s chapter towards you. You didn’t need any more bumps in the road, not when you were already running behind on deadlines, with the publishing company breathing down your neck to get the next volume out.

“The romance is fine, Akaashi” you mumble, flicking through the pages of the manuscript to skim through his notes.

“If it was fine, I wouldn’t be here,” he replies dryly.

Akaashi was as blunt as ever. Most of the time you appreciated his honesty, he was the reason for such success with your manga after all, but sometimes he managed to get on your nerves.

“It’s an unnecessary subplot,” he continues, flipping through a couple of pages to show you a few of the panels you had drawn, “there’s just no plausible progression between the two, no chemistry.”

You glare at him. He was really starting to get on your nerves. Akaashi rolls his eyes when he sees your glare, reaching out to flick your forehead.

“You’re already behind on the scheduled publishing date,” he reminds you, crossing his arms over his chest, “and I get the short end of the stick because I’m your editor.”

“The higher-ups love you,” you retort.

You stare pointedly at the small stash of awards that were tucked onto a shelf in his office, the small trophies and plaques a clear display of the company’s commendation for his work. 

“Not enough to let me work in the literature department,” he mutters bitterly.

“I’m right here!” you protest, an exasperated expression spreading across your face.

“Yeah, yeah,” Akaashi murmurs. 

He taps your manuscript a few more times before giving you a stern look.

“Get me the revised version by tonight, otherwise you’ll miss out on this week’s issue.”

You curse him under your breath, giving him one final glare as you gather the pages of your manuscript into your hands. You had come into his office thinking he’d been fine with the story, but now you had somehow ended up with more work than before, and an even tighter deadline.

- 

A few hours later, you end up finding yourself outside Akaashi’s apartment. Guilt had won out in the end, and you figured that it wasn’t fair to let him take the blame for your tardiness. Revised manuscript clutched against your chest, you ring his doorbell.

You can feel your throat dry when he opens up the door. His hair is damp, towel slung around the back of his neck. He’s wearing an old volleyball shirt with sweatpants, and you don’t think you’ll ever get used to him looking so domestic. 

Akaashi stares at you blankly, clearly not expecting you. Usually you would’ve just emailed the revised manuscript over to him, not show up outside his door.

“I felt guilty,” you blurt out, cheeks flushing at the awkwardness in the air, “and- and I ordered gyoza so it should be here in a few minutes.”

“Right,” he says after a moment, “you didn’t have to.”

You stare at each other for a moment longer until he sighs, opening the door wider to let you in.

“You’re just as bad as Bokuto,” he informs you.

The mention of the pro-volleyball player makes a smile spread across your face. You had met Akaashi’s volleyball friends a few times when they had enlisted your help in throwing Akaashi a surprise birthday party - which had maybe ended up in a disaster - as well as when you had wound up to a few of their games.

“He’s a sweet guy,” you reply, handing him your manuscript.

Akaashi only hums in response, walking over to his desk. He hangs his towel on the back of his chair before sitting down. You watch as he slips his glasses on, examining the pages of your now edited work.

“I thought you’d try and fight me about the romance,” he murmurs, his pen making a few adjustments here and there. 

“Figured it wasn’t worth it,” you sigh, slumping on the couch in his living room, “you were right, as always.”

He peers over at you, his eyes narrowing as he watches the sulky look on your face. Despite your random bouts of laziness, even Akaashi had to agree that you were a good mangaka whose popularity had built up a loyal reader base. 

“Look,” Akaashi says, setting his pen down, “if you’re that hung up about cutting those scenes, start drafting it now.”

Your gaze shoots up to meet his eyes.

“Seriously?” you ask, eyeing him suspiciously. 

Akaashi was dedicated, sure, but he wasn’t exactly one to take on extra work. Sometimes  you felt as though he would’ve been right at home in the literature department, editing novels instead of volumes of manga. It was like he worked with you out of obligation, not enjoyment, despite the friendship you had built up over the years.

“Yeah,” he says, pushing his glasses up a bit further to sit better on the slope of his nose, “I’m serious.”

You don’t get to dwell any longer on your editor’s change in mind, the sound of the doorbell piercing through your conversation. Akaashi waves you away when you move towards the door, grabbing the delivered containers of gyoza himself. 

He sits down beside you on the couch, handing you one container whilst he takes the other. For some reason, you’re feeling more on edge than usual. The brush of his arm against yours has heat rising to your cheeks, body growing taut with the way your stomach is swirling with nervousness.

It was no secret that Akaashi was one of the most handsome men in the office, and you had maybe developed a tiny crush on the man, which was now inflating into something that was not so tiny, and much, much harder to control the more time you spent with him. 

“You okay?” Akaashi asks, peering over you.

You don’t trust yourself enough to reply which is why you stuff a gyoza into your mouth and nod rapidly.

Silence lapses over you both as you eat, but you can feel his eyes boring into the side of your head. You pretend not to notice, trying to engross yourself in the taste of the gyoza and the tang of soy sauce.

Akaashi slouches slightly, his body relaxing as time passes. You can see it in the way his shoulders drop, his thighs spreading as he gets more comfortable.

“Instead of adding romance as a subplot, why don’t you make it into another story altogether?”

You blink over at him, surprised. 

“I don’t have time to write another manga,” you say, shaking your head, “I’d have to find another publisher if I wanted to write something that was purely romance.”

“Shonen manga in the romance genre exist,” he replies, running his hand through his hair, “or you could just self-publish.”

You’d been hoping to avoid the topic of self-publishing. Sure, you knew of it, participated in it even. It’d been used as a creative outlet, to get out some ideas that you couldn’t work on when your success as a mangaka had grown. Besides, it wasn’t like you could tell Akaashi that you had drawn up stories that were, well, inappropriate. 

“But that would be too much work,” you sigh, trying to stop his train of thought.

Akaashi stares at you thoughtfully. The more you spend time with him, the more you begin to regret your choice to come here. Emailing the manuscript to him would’ve been the smarter choice, but you just had to feel sorry for the guy.

“I did read one the other day that had a similar art style to yours.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You can feel your composure slipping. There was no way he could know that you self-published stories that were practically panel after panel of porn. Maybe he enjoyed it? One thought leads to another and you find yourself imagining Akaashi with his hand wrapped around his cock, his head tipped back as he strokes himself.

“What was it about?” you manage to grit out, trying to see through the haze of your indecent thoughts.

“About a couple,” he says simply, “they ended up fucking.”

You can feel the hope swirling in your mind fade. Akaashi definitely knew. 

“Didn’t know you read that sort of thing.”

“I’m a man, aren’t I? Sometimes porn just doesn’t cut it. The story was pretty great too.”

He thought the story was great? You can’t help yourself from perking up, the compliment making you feel warm. 

“I just find it so strange,” he murmurs, leaning closer to you.

You swallow harshly, mustering up a smile with your trembling lips, “why’s that?”

“The author’s note,” Akaashi says, “the little bunny avatar was the same as yours.”

So, you had messed up. You spy the front door from the corner of your eyes. If you walked, you’d get there in about ten steps, but if you ran, you’d get there in about three - maybe two - strides. Sure, you wouldn’t ever be able to face Akaashi again, but you think you’d be fine with it. Report filed to the higher ups stating creative differences and you’d be able to find a new editor, no problem.

“It’s all probably just a coincidence,” you say nonchalantly, “plenty of people like bunnies.”

“Some of the dialogue was similar to yours, distinct writing and all that.”

You grit your teeth. The man didn’t know when to let go.

“Like I said, coincidence.”

“Right,” he says, nodding along, “a coincidence. Was it also a coincidence that the couple that had sex was a mangaka and her editor?”

You scramble to your feet when he says that. Letting out an awkward laugh, your cheeks heated with embarrassment, you decide that this is the best time to take your leave.

“Have- have a good night!” you say, voice pitching.

Determination has Akaashi’s eyes gleaming and now you’re bolting, feet nearly tripping over each other as you dart towards his apartment door. It seems as though fate isn’t in your favor tonight, Akaashi’s hand curling around your wrist as he catches onto you before you can open the door. You squeak when he slams his hand against the wall, right next to your head as he pushes you up against the door.

“Classic scene,” he murmurs, his eyes narrowing as he takes in your meek expression, “you always use it.”

“Fuck off, Akaashi!” you snap, pushing at his chest.

It’s a struggle, but you reach back behind you, hand grabbing blindly for the door handle. He doesn’t let you reach it, catching your wrist and pinning it against the door.

“You sure?” Akaashi asks, his eyes darkened, “or maybe you want me to fuck you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, mouth opening before closing again. There’s nothing left in you, no retorts, no words to get yourself out of this situation. He lets out a sigh when he feels your body relax, his hand on your wrist loosening as he lets go. You stare up at him, biting your lip nervously.

“You should’ve said something,” he says quietly, adjusting his glasses.

“And embarrass myself?” you mutter, picking at the wool of your sweater.

Akaashi doesn’t say anything, his hand smoothing up your hip and settling on your waist. Your eyes widen, arousal shooting through your body as he presses himself closer, his other hand finding your waist. Akaashi squeezes gently and you bite back a whine, eyes drooping slightly as he just squeezes and pets at your sides.

“It was good,” he says hoarsely, “the story, the details, the sex… came to it a couple of times.”

“You- you liked it?” you whisper, voice airy.

“Yeah,” he whispers back, his eyes meeting yours, “liked it… like you.”

Your eyes flutter shut when he kisses your cheek, your heart thudding in your chest. You never dreamt it’d come down to this, but you find yourself grateful for Akaashi’s observational nature.

He takes his glasses off, placing them into his pocket. Akaashi’s lips drag across your cheek, pressing soft kisses against your skin. He kisses the corner of your mouth, lips brushing against yours gently. 

“Kiss me, Akaashi” you whisper, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Yeah,” Akaashi says softly, “yeah, I’ll kiss you, baby.”

A contented sigh escapes you as he slots his lips over yours, kissing you gently. The heat between you begins to grow, his hands slipping under your sweater to feel your bare skin. You gasp into his mouth, his hands surprisingly warm.

Akaashi smiles against your lips, his hand running up your back as his kisses turn hungrier, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips. You let him lick into your mouth, tugging at his hair desperately. Rocking up onto the tips of your toes, you deepen the kiss, pulling him impossibly closer. 

He wraps his arms around your waist, groaning when your nails scratch his scalp fleetingly. You bite your kiss-swollen lip as he drags his lips down your neck, landing heated kisses to your skin.

Akaashi kisses the pulse of your throat, his lips finding their way back to yours. Soft pants fill the air, his smile hazy as he peers down at you. You smile back, head tilting to the side to let him kiss your cheek again.

“You’re such a dork,” he whispers, his eyes twinkling.

“Shut up,” you whine, pushing at his chest.

He grins, his hands grasping yours. Akaashi pulls you away from the door, his arms wrapping around the backs of your thighs as he picks you up. You laugh, legs wrapping around his waist, lips pressing against his as he carries you to his bed.

Akaashi lays you down on his bed and you watch with half-lidded eyes as he pulls his shirt off. He might not have played as competitively like he did in highschool, but you had been there when he had played with his friends. It’d been entrancing to watch the way he had set the ball for his friends, the ball curving through the air cleanly for the spiker to hit.

“‘s not fair how good you look,” you grumble, pouting.

He rolls his eyes, crawling onto the bed, his body hovering over yours.

“You look pretty good yourself,” Akaashi says, his fingers playing with the hem of your sweater.

You lift your arms for him, letting him pull it off of you. His gaze fixes on the swell of your breasts and you flush, looking away.

“You’re shy now?” He murmurs, a soft laugh escaping him as he kisses your jaw.

“You’re such a jerk,” you huff out.

Akaashi smiles and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to be truly angry with him. He’s patient more than anything, caring and always honest. You’ve never met a man like him, never met someone who could quell your worries the way he could. It makes you want to never let go.

His body settles between your thighs, his nimble fingers pulling your bra free. Your nipples pebble in the cold air and Akaashi leans forward, his hot, wet mouth enveloping a hard bud into his mouth.

You whine brokenly, back arching slightly as he sucks your nipple, tongue swirling around the bud. He groans as you run your fingers through his hair, his mouth suctioning around your breast for a few moments before he pulls off with a pop.

His mouth finds your other breast, kissing the side of it, mouthing at your skin. You can feel his tongue caress the underside of it, laving across your breast before he bites gently at your flesh, his half-lidded eyes meeting yours. 

“You’re a fuckin’ tease,” he whispers against your breast.

You shake your head, mewling when his hand slides up, his fingers pitching at your spit-coated nipples. He rests his head between your breasts, watching you contentedly as you writhe under the onslaught of his touches. 

“A- Akaashi,” you whimper, hips bucking, “want- want more, please.”

“So polite, baby” he coos, his hands groping at your breasts. 

He pulls away from you and you whine, lifting your hips for him when he peels your pants off. There’s a moment of silence and you’re anticipating the feel of his mouth on your body, only for him to let out a low laugh. 

“Bunnies til the end, huh?” Akaashi asks, his fingers playing with the waistband of your panties.

Your brows furrow, not quite sure what he’s talking about until you prop yourself on your elbows and see that you’re wearing a pair of bunny-patterned panties.

“Oh, fuck off,” you groan, slumping back down onto the bed and slinging your arm over your eyes.

“They’re cute,” he smiles, prying your arm away from your face, “just like you, baby.”

Akaashi grasps one of your legs, bringing it to his mouth as he runs his hand along the length of it, kissing the sole of your foot and then your ankle. A soft hum leaves you, watching as he kisses up your leg, his kisses feather-light.

You run your fingers through his hair as he kisses the little bow on your panties, his nose pressing between your clothed folds to breathe you in.

“Pussy’s soaked through,” Akaashi murmurs, pulling back to look at your dampened panties.

“‘s your fault,” you slur, trying to push his face back to where you want it.

“All my fault,” he agrees, his tongue licking up over your panties, “guess I’ll have to take care of you then.”

You nod, trying to stop the little twitches that shoot through your body. Akaashi lets his mouth latch onto you, trying to suck the slick that’s soaked through the fabric of your panties.

“A- ah!” you pant, fingers fisting his hair as he squeezes your hips, his face nuzzling deeper between your thighs.

Akaashi’s lithe fingers pull at your panties, dragging them down your thighs. You don’t miss the way he tucks them into his pocket.

“Always so pretty, baby” he whispers, his thumbs pulling apart your folds to expose your pussy.

He moans when he sees the translucent strings of arousal that cling to your folds, his tongue darting out to lick up the little strings. You whimper when he kisses your clit gently, watching as he rubs the pad of his thumb against your swollen clit. Thighs twitching, you shift, trying to tilt your hips a little higher so you can feel his mouth on you.

“Ask for it,” Akaashi says, his cheek pressing against your thigh as he stares up at you.

“‘m not- ‘m not asking for it,” you retort, glaring at him.

“Bet it’d feel good,” he whispers, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

You whine when he just keeps his tongue there, saliva dripping from the tip of it and onto your pussy. He makes an obscene noise, gathering some more saliva, spitting on your cunt.

“All you gotta do is ask,” he coaxes, his arms wrapping around your thighs, “clit looks so achy… makes me wanna kiss it better.”

“P- please,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Didn’t quite catch that,” Akaashi smiles up at you, his eyes twinkling.

You’ll have to get him back for his teasing later, but right now you can’t wait.

“Please lick my pussy!”

You squeal when he latches his mouth onto you again, his tongue lapping over your wet pussy. He groans and you tug at his hair, thighs squeezing around his head as he laves his tongue over you greedily, letting his tongue dip into your hole before he sucks your clit into his mouth.

Legs kicking out, you let out a strangled noise as he flicks his tongue over your clit. Akaashi lands the filthiest kisses to your clit, alternating between sucking and little pecks, while he’s sunk two fingers inside of you. They curl up inside of you, grazing your sensitive spot perfectly. He fucks his fingers in and out of you, your wanton noises filling his bedroom.

Akaashi presses his face deeper, his fingers crooking. The feeling of his mouth in tandem with his fingers has you whimpering and whining, airy noises spilling from your lips at his ministrations. You might not ever be able to go without him ever again.

He holds you in place as you thrash, the overwhelming feeling inside of you building and building. Akaashi slips his fingers out of you in favor of devouring your cunt again, licking through your velvety folds, his tongue swirling before he presses it inside of you. 

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls. 

You blink down at him dazedly. There’s a light flush covering his cheeks, his mouth glistening with your wetness. He opens his mouth to say something else but you ignore him, pushing his head so that his lips are flush against your cunt. Akaashi lets out a muffled laugh against your pussy, his tongue licking over you again.

Hand squeezing at your breast, you bite your lip, losing yourself in the caress of his tongue. He laps over you, again and again, pressing sloppy kisses to your clit. 

“Gonna come,” you whisper, feeling the softness of his hair under your palm, “gonna come, ‘kaashi.”

He tilts your hips a little more, rising up onto his knees with your legs slung over his shoulders. You squeal again when he shakes his head, tongue dragging from side to side before he plunges it inside of you, his thumb pressing against your clit at the same time.

Your thighs squeeze tightly around his head as you come, loosening after a while when twitches rack through your body. Akaashi squeezes your thighs, lets your legs slip from his shoulders as he kisses your trembling thighs. 

“Good girl,” he whispers.

Akaashi kisses your cheek and wipes the stray curls of your hair away from your face. A soft sheen of sweat covers your body and he hums, smoothing his thumbs over the underside of your breasts.

He lays down beside you and you curl up beside him, eyes catching on the bulge in his sweatpants.

“Need some help?” you murmur, fingers dragging down his chest.

“If you don’t mind,” he sighs, his arm wrapping around your waist to hold you close to him.

You smile, kissing his jaw gently as your hand slides past his navel, disappearing into his sweatpants. The weight of his cock is heavy and hot and Akaashi moans softly when your hand curls around his length.

“Ask for it, ‘kaashi,” you whisper, voice lilting.

“You’re such a brat,” he mutters.

“Use your manners, Keiji.”

His eyes widen when you use his name and you grin, landing a soft kiss to his cheek as your breasts squish up against his bicep. You squeeze around his cock and he lets out a soft whine, his hips bucking.

“Fuck- fuck hah-,” Akaashi grits out, “stroke my cock, baby, hm? Please?”

You hum softly, beginning to move your hand. His thick cock twitches as you stroke him, your wrist rotating.

He pants softly, his head turning to meet yours. You smile, running your fingers through his hair, brushing the soft strands out of his eyes. Affection bursts inside of you, heart fluttering as the flush on his cheeks deepens.

His brows have drawn together and you smooth your thumb over them, peppering soft kisses over his face, leg slinging over his as you pull down his sweatpants to free his cock completely. Akaashi’s cock has filled out, pre-cum smearing across his abdomen. You caress the head of it, giggling when he lets out a broken moan as you rub your thumb against the tip.

“You look so handsome,” you say, stroking his cock a little faster.

Akaashi smiles and you dip your head, kissing him. He groans, his hips chasing after the feeling of your hand around him as you kiss. Your hand tightens a little, squeezing at the tip of his cock. Pre-cum wets your hand, soft gasps escaping Akaashi as you let your tongue slip into his mouth.

“Keiji,” you whisper, lips brushing over his, “Keiji, will you fuck me?”

You squeak in surprise when he manages to grab onto your waist, lifting you up and placing you on his lap. His cock is snug between your folds and you whine, dragging your hips along the length of it, biting your lip as more pre-cum leaks from him.

“Sit on my cock, baby” he whispers, smoothing his hands up your thighs.

You nod, shifting a little so that you’re up on your knees. Akaashi watches as you grip the base of his cock, moaning when you rub his cock against your pussy, letting it catch on your clit. Akaashi’s head tips back as you sink down, whimpery, little noises leaving you as your pussy swallows up his cock.

It’s so thick inside of you, fitting so snugly that you clench around him. Akaashi wraps an arm around your waist, bringing your front flush against him. He lets you tuck your face into the crook of his neck, his arms tightening around your waist. You can feel him move, his feet flat against the bed as he bends his knees.

“K- Keiji!” you wail when he begins to fuck up into you.

Akaashi grunts, holding you against him as he moves his hips, rutting up into you. His hands grope at your ass, gripping your ass tightly as he moves a little more forcefully. You bury your face deeper into the crook of his neck, pressing sloppy kisses against his skin as you smooth your hand over his hair. 

“Is this- fuck,” Akaashi grits out, “is this what you imagined when you drew up those panels?”

You nod, too far gone to cling onto the remnants of your stubbornness. 

“Yeah?” he whispers, “imagined me fucking up into you, huh?”

“Y- yes!” you cry out, body squirming when he lands a heavy spank to your ass.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he growls.

A soft mewl leaves you at the praise, your hips swaying back lazily to meet his thrusts. The sound of his hips slapping into your ass echoes through his room, your wetness leaking around his cock and coating his balls.

Your body rocks against his, your hand gripping at the sheets beside his head when he adjusts his grip on you, planting his feet a bit firmer against his mattress to thrust into you harder. You gasp at the sensation, sinking your teeth into his shoulder when his cock hits deep inside of you.

Akaashi hisses at the feeling of your teeth, spanking your ass again before you clench around him with a scream, body shuddering on top of his as you come. 

“Baby, baby, you gotta let go,” he rasps.

You shake your head stubbornly, pushing your hips down so that it swallows his cock all the way to the base.

“Inside, Keiji.”

He groans, his hands kneading at your hips roughly. You can feel the twitch of his cock, a satisfied coo leaving your lips when he comes, spurts of his hot cum filling you up. Akaashi’s hips stutter, thrusting into you unevenly as his cock jerks, more cum flooding your pussy.

You both pant, chests heaving. Akaashi rubs his hand along your back and you emerge from the crook of his neck, a drunken smile on your face.

He laughs hoarsely at your expression, cupping your cheek to guide you into another kiss while his cock softens inside of you. It’s a little uncomfortable, but you don’t mind, losing yourself in the heat of his body as cum leaks from your pussy.

“How long have you known?” you ask, tracing the slope of his nose.

“About a month,” he murmurs.

“A month?” you scoff, hitting his chest, “and you didn’t say anything?”

Akaashi grins, grabbing your hand and bringing it up to his lips to kiss across your knuckles.

“That would ruin the fun.”

You roll your eyes, prodding your fingers into his chest, “it was hardly fun, Keiji.”

“But you got what you wanted, didn’t you?” he whispers.

You laugh when he flips you onto your back, moaning softly when you feel his cock beginning to harden again inside of you.

“Put- put your glasses on,” you whisper, head tipping back as he rolls his hips into you.

Akaashi reaches over to dig his glasses out from the pocket of his discarded sweatpants, pushing them up to sit comfortably on his nose.

You clench around him at the sight, biting your lip as you give him a pleased smile.

“Knew you had a thing for ‘em.”

He grabs at your legs, moving them so that they’re pressed against his chest, your ankles resting on his shoulders.

“Use this as inspiration, baby,” Akaashi smirks, “I’ll even edit it for you.”

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Cimson Blood

Chapter 41: Revenge

Summary: A surprise trip to America has things turning in a direction no one thought they would

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 6,390

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, a/b/o, alternate universe, dead dove: do not eat, graphic violence, torture, on screen death, stabbing, knives, choking, punching, blood, aftermath of death, emotions, angst, trauma, very small hint of comfort

A/N: Please, please heed the warnings. This chapter deals with some heavy topics and rehashes a lot of Chapter 34. I've put a trigger warning before everything starts and if you don't want to read it then skip from there to the next section. You'll be able to put two and two together from there.

Also if you haven't seen, I went back and changed a pretty major plot point from chapter 34 onward and it will need to be read to really understand this chapter

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

“You’re in charge.” John says, passing over the keys to Dr. Keller. “Hold down the fort. Take some time for yourself.” 

“Invite over Ashley.” Kyle winks as he passes. 

“Cute.” Dr. Keller says, rolling her eyes. 

“Call if anything happens.” John continues, ignoring Kyle’s remark. “You know how to get a hold of us.” 

“I do.” Dr. Keller nods. “I’ll make sure the cottage is still standing when you get back.” She glances at the car. “Take care of her.” 

“We will. We’ll make sure she’s still in one piece when we get back.” 

“You better.” Dr. Keller says, giving him a look. “Safe travels.” 

Kyle closes the car door, cutting off the rest of the conversation. You’re squeezed in the back of the car between him and Johnny. It is a tight squeeze between the two of them and their broad shoulders. It’s not the most comfortable position, but the decision to leave one car behind has sealed your fate. 

Simon is in the front passenger seat, looking about as happy to be there as you feel. His arm is leaned against the door, his gaze set out the front windshield. His scent is thick in the air, musky and leathery. It’s a mixed cocktail of scents in the small enclosed space, but Simon’s is the loudest. 

John opens the driver’s side door, climbing into the car. It felt cramped before, but now it feels almost claustrophobic. 

“Just an hour drive and you can stretch your legs.” He says, and you know he’s talking to you. 

“Where are we going?” You ask as he drives down the long driveway. 

“America.” He says, giving you the same answer he gave you before. 

“Why?” You ask, knowing what the answer is going to be. 

“We have some things we need to take care of.” He answers simply. 

“What things?” You pry, already guessing where this conversation is going to go. 

“I already told you.” He replies. Simon glances at him, but says nothing. 

“You told me nothing.” You purse your lips. 

“It’s a surprise.” He says, almost like he’s rehearsed this before. 

“I hate surprises.” You say, leaning back in your seat, your scent souring a bit. “If you bothered to pay attention you’d know that.” The last bit is hardly more than a murmur, but you know he heard you in the enclosed space. 

It falls silent in the car, the five of you sitting there awkwardly after the exchange. It’s been a long time since you’ve been so bombarded by their scents all at once, and it’s been a long time since they’ve been so surrounded by your own scent. It reminds you of that time months ago after Simon returned from his solo assignment when you’d kissed in the car and nearly drove them all insane with an explosion of your scent. 

Only this time, your scent has gone sour with your displeasure and agitation at the lack of information from John.

This time Simon is the first to cave, cracking the car window to let in some air and disperse the heavy scents. 

It’s going to be a long hour. 

Traveling is your worst nightmare. 

Or, at least, traveling like this. 

It’s only the five of you on the plane, some private jet that Kate had procured. It’s a nice plane, but at the same time, being enclosed with your pack for nine hours isn’t exactly ideal. You thought the cottage was bad at times, but at least there you could go outside and escape from them. 

Now you’re really stuck with them. 

Thankfully they’ve mostly left you alone for the duration of the flight, letting you sit in your seat with a book in silence. John and Simon have been in a corner conversing for the better part of the flight, glancing at you every so often. Johnny has slept through most of it, reclined in a seat not far from them. You wondered for a moment if he was faking it to listen in, but when the snores started you knew he really was out. Kyle is in a position not unlike your own, huddled in a seat with a book, minding his own business. 

You really want to know what John and Simon are discussing, what has held their attention for so long. It’s gotten heated a few times, John’s brows pulling into a frown, his lips moving rapidly. Simon’s shoulders keep squaring and relaxing, giving you insight into the rise and fall of emotions during the conversation. You can imagine his face mirroring John’s, his brows pinching in worry or frustration or perhaps even anger. 

Whatever it is, it’s serious enough to last a good part of the flight.

You’re ushered into a car almost as soon as the wheels touch the tarmac and the plane has stopped. You’re stuck between Johnny and Kyle again, but at least the SUV is spacious enough to not have you crammed in like sardines. Your legs are stiff and sore after sitting for the better part of eight hours, but you’re not about to complain. Not with the way John’s hands are gripping the steering wheel. 

If you didn’t know better, you might have thought he was having second thoughts about whatever is happening. 

You still don’t know. 

They still haven’t told you. 

The airstrip the jet landed in looked to be a private one as well, isolated in a grassy area with rolling hills of green and a few sparse trees missing their leaves. You almost fear it might be Texas again, given the warmth of the air for a time so late in the year, but you want to believe they wouldn’t be that cruel to you. At least you hope that’s the case. 

The drive takes longer than the one in England, time seeming to stretch on endlessly as it did in the plane. You’re tired after the flight, but curiosity is keeping you awake and aware. You almost wish you had your book, but it’s stuffed in the back with the small bag you’d been allowed to bring. The others had small bags as well, and you can only imagine what is inside them. 

It makes your insides crawl with nerves. 

The exhaustion becomes too much as the naked trees and rolling hills continue to pass by outside the car. It’s quiet in the car, the tense silence not even enough to keep you awake as your head begins to droop onto Kyle’s shoulder. 

You’re jolted awake as the car comes to a stop. 

The muffled sound of car doors closing outside reaches your ears as you peel your eyes open. 

“Come on.” Kyle says softly, gently shifting you with his shoulder. “Time to get up.” 

You let out a quiet grunt, rubbing your eyes. The world outside is full of grey sky and naked tree limbs from the angle you’re at. John and Simon’s doors slam as they exit the car, the warmth on your other side disappearing as Johnny gets out as well. Gravel crunches outside as Kyle opens his door, easing you so you’re sitting upright. 

The SUV is parked facing another one, and the world behind it opens into more green fields. Kyle slides out of the car, hitting gravel before offering you a hand. You blink the sleep from your eyes, taking the offered hand. 

There’s three other SUVs parked in the gravel, people dressed in plain clothes moving around an old, rickety barn. John is standing halfway between the car and the barn, conversing with Kate. You blink in surprise. You haven’t seen her since she dropped you off with your pack almost a year ago now.

Whatever they’re discussing, it seems to be serious. 

Kyle puts a hand on your back, leading you towards them. 

“Hi honey,” Kate greets you with a small smile, the seriousness melting on her face in almost a performative manner. “How are you holding up?” 

“I don’t know.” You say, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Depends on why I’m here.” 

“You didn’t tell her?” Kate says in surprise, turning back towards John. 

“I knew what she’d say if I told her.” John says. 

You purse your lips again, disliking being talked about as if you’re not standing right there.

Kate looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t, instead she takes half a step back. “Better get this over with, then.” 

John turns towards you, wrapping a hand around your wrist. “Come on.” 

You almost dig your heels in and demand he tell you, but you don’t. You have a feeling you’re about to find out regardless as he leads you towards the barn. Simon and Johnny are waiting by the doors, Kyle following close behind you. Nerves are starting to flutter in your stomach, your insides twisting in fear. What the hell is on the other side of those doors and why does everyone seem so serious about it? 

Johnny’s face is hard set, Simon’s eyes blank as John pauses in front of the door for a moment. 

They’re not themselves. 

You’re looking at Task Force 141. 

Simon slides the barn door open, your stomach clenching painfully. It’s dark in the barn, but not dark enough you can’t see. Grey light seeps in through holes in the roof and sides, giving the barn an eerie look, like you’re about to step into a horror movie. 

John’s hand tightens around your wrist, tugging you forward into the musty air inside the barn. You want to dig your heels in now, fight him and scream not to drag you inside. Your hand is shaking, curling in on itself until your nails dig into your palm. 

“Hi darlin’. Didn’t know you’d be joining us too.” 

You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut, the breath leaving your lungs. 

“Phil.” You breathe, nearly choking around his name. 

He’s seated in the middle of the barn, restrained in a chair. He looks far too comfortable and casual sitting there, greeting you like he would an old friend. 

There’s a table beside him filled with all sorts of instruments. Knives, scalpels, an ice pick. 

Your stomach twists as you realize what’s about to happen. 

The other four approach Phil, leaving a gap so you can see him as you linger behind. You have half a mind to turn and run out the now closed door, but something keeps your feet frozen to the ground. 

“You’re wasting your time.” Phil says, addressing the four members of your pack now. “I don’t know where Shepherd is.” 

“That’s not why we’re here.” John says, his voice deeper and rougher than it had been just outside. “You tortured a member of our pack.”

“Our omega.” Johnny says through gritted teeth. 

“Oh I see, a little revenge then.” Phil says, a smirk lifting on his lips as he stares at you. “And you brought a little audience.” 

***Content Warning: Torture ***

You jump as Simon takes a step forward, rearing back before punching Phil across the face. His head snaps to the side from the force of it, a grunt leaving his lips. Simon grips his chin, yanking his head back to the other side so Phil is looking up at him. 

“We’re going to do the same to you that you did to her.” He growls out. 

The words have a shiver tickling down your spine. 

Simon releases Phil before drawing his fist back to throw another punch. Nausea churns in your stomach as something cracks, the sound echoing in the silence. 

“Solid hit, big man.” Phil grins, spitting onto the floor before sitting up straight again. “You’re going to have to hit me harder than that.” His eyes flicker to you as you stand there in shock. “You can ask your omega how hard I hit her.” 

Johnny surges forward, wrapping his hand around Phil’s throat. “Give me a knife. I’ll cut his tongue out.” 

Phil lets out a choked sound, your own throat constricting a bit from the memory of Phil’s hand choking you. Tears fill your eyes as Phil’s face begins to go purple from the lack of oxygen. 

“Easy.” John says, easing Johnny off of Phil. “We’re not done yet.” 

Phil lets out a choking cough, his hands straining where they’re tied to the arms of the chair. “Not bad.” He coughs out, his face still red. “Gonna have to try harder than that.” 

John punches him in the face, sending his head snapping the other direction. Blood trickles from his lip, his tongue darting out to lick the wound. 

“Of course the alpha would spill the first drop of blood.” Phil says, letting out a chuckle, his gaze returning to you. “This is going to take a while, sweetheart. Why don’t you go back outside and wait for your boys to be done, hm?” 

“No.” John says, his hand closing into a fist again. “She’s going to watch every last bit of this.” 

Your stomach churns as he throws another punch at Phil, this one landing with another sickening crack. You don’t really want to watch this, but at the same time, there’s a sick sense of satisfaction filling you as your pack takes revenge on your behalf. Your omega is nearly purring, watching in glee as they drive punch after punch into Phil’s face. 

“You’re going to have to try harder than that.” Phil chokes out around Simon’s hand where it’s wrapped around his throat. 

“We’re just getting started.” Kyle says, grabbing a knife from the table. 

Phil lets out a pained yell as Kyle stabs the knife into his bicep, slowly dragging it down his arm. It’s deeper than Phil had cut you, blood pouring out of the open wound. Your stomach twists, nausea bubbling up into your throat. How easy this all seems for them. 

How easily Phil had tortured you. 

Your fingers trace the thin, pink line down your own arm, your skin burning with a reminder of what happened to you. 

The realization of what’s happening settles in as Kyle drives the knife into Phil’s chest, dragging it downward in another deep cut. You do want to turn around and go outside. You don’t want to watch this anymore. 

The soft call of your name has you coming back to yourself. Your pack has turned to face you now. You hadn’t even realized that you had turned your head away. Tears have trailed down your cheeks, your breath hitching. 

It’s John that’s called your name, his hand outstretched. He’s holding the ice pick. Your shoulder throbs at the sight of it. The memory of one almost exactly like it being stabbed into your scent gland has a whimper leaving your lips. You know what he’s asking, what he’s offering. Phil inflicted the worst pain you’ve ever felt onto you. Now you’re being offered the chance to do the same to him. 

Your omega is screaming, yelling at you to take it, to return what he did back to him. It’s his fault this happened. Weeks of pain and agony that you will always remember. He did that to you. 

You’re moving before you even realize it, your fingers wrapping around the cold metal. Your omega is taking over again, driving that instinctual violence forward again. Simon is standing behind Phil, holding his head to the side. He looks like shit, his face already bruising and covered in blood. The metallic scent of it is strong, your mind flickering back to those soldiers, his soldiers, the ones you killed with that knife. You wonder what happened to it, if it’s still laying out in the forest, the last lingering remnant of the violence that happened there. 

You stare down at Phil, at his exposed neck. He’s jerking against Simon’s hold, as if he knows and understands what’s about to happen, as if he can already sense the pain that’s about to be brought on him. Does he? Does he really understand? 

He’s about to. 

Your hand moves before you can stop it, driving the ice pick as hard as you can into his scent gland. He lets out a yowl of pain as the metal slides under his skin and into that sensitive spot. You remember it, the lightning-like pain rushing through your body, every nerve-ending on fire, every movement agony for days and days and days. 

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” You say, pushing the ice pick as far as you possibly can into his body. “It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt. Worse than all those years I sat in that institute thinking about my family, the family you helped tear me away from.” You take a step back, leaving the ice pick in his shoulder. “You’ll never forget it, that kind of pain.” 

Simon wraps his hand around the ice pick, pulling it free. Blood seeps out of the hole, pouring down Phil’s chest. He jerks in his restraints, his eyes squeezed shut. 

“You deserve to feel that kind of pain.” You say, taking another step back. 

“Look at you.” Phil laughs, tilting his head up with a wince. His eyes are on you, focused solely on you as you stand there. “Tough little thing. Turning more and more like your father, aren’t you?” His words bite at the back of your brain, your omega screaming at the insult. His eyes leave you, instead roaming over the three members of your pack standing in front of him. “No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t hide her away from this world, could you?” 

He’s not talking to you anymore. 

“You’d always leave a stain on her. Eventually it would come around. She’d get caught up in a life like this, a life of violence and bloodshed. Proud of yourselves?” He lets out a chuckle. “You ruined such sweet innocence.” 

“Shut yer fuckin’ mouth.” Johnny growls as Simon moves back around so he’s standing next to you. 

“Ooh, hit a nerve did I?” Phil laughs, turning his gaze to you. “You know your dad never checked you made it to the institute? As soon as you were out of his sight he could finally stop caring about you.” Phil licks his lips. “I should have just taken you right then. No one would have known the difference. None of this would have happened. You’d still be just a sweet little innocent girl, just like you always should have been.” 

Anger and rage burns through you at his words. Years of repressed fears and emotions surging out all at once. Later you’ll wish you could blame it on your omega, that she took over in this moment, but that’s not the case. It’s you in your true form, in your own rage at Phil for his words, for his actions, for the ways he’s ruined your life even still years later. 

Time slows as your fingers wrap around the knife strapped to Simon’s side. It slides out of its sheath easily, your body moving forward as you grip it tightly in your hand. It won’t be the first time, your brain flashing back to all of those men, men who would have done worse things to you had your omega not acted on instinct. She’s screaming at you now, still, clawing at the poorly constructed cage you’ve forced her back in, calling for violence. 

You’ll give it to her. 

The knife cuts through his skin easily, sliding downward as you stab it into his neck. Blood spurts out, coating your hands in the slippery liquid. Adrenaline courses through your body, your vision going red as you yank the knife from his throat, blood spraying out of his artery from where you’ve severed it. It’s like some gruesome renaissance painting as you’re pulled back, an arm around your waist tugging you backward away from the quickly fading body in the chair, your mouth still open in an enraged scream. 

The knife drops from your hand as you’re tugged backwards, your body falling against a solid one. Your legs feel like jelly as the adrenaline pumps through your system, your blood covered hands shaking as you stare at the lifeless body of a man you once thought of as a family friend. A man who played such an integral part in your life behind the scenes. A man who was almost your alpha, a man who would have been your alpha had it not been for the woman standing outside. 

The man who tortured you and brought you more pain than you’ve ever felt in your entire life. 

He’s dead now. He can’t ever hurt you again. 

Nausea churns in your stomach as you sit there, staring down at your blood-soaked hands. It’s deep red and sticking to your skin, no matter how much Kyle tries to wipe at it with a t-shirt. Your body has gone numb as reality has settled in. 

You just killed a man. 

“Easy.” Kyle says, his hand warm against your chilled skin as he wraps his fingers around your arm. 

You’d jerked away from him, nearly slipping off the edge of the trunk. The trunk of the SUV is open and you’re seated on the edge of it, toes pushing into the gravel below to hold yourself up. Kyle had been trying to wipe the dried blood off of your hands, but no matter how hard he scrubbed, some of it wouldn’t come off. 

“Here.” Footsteps approach in the gravel, the rocks crunching under boots. “Go help Simon.” 

Rougher hands replace Kyle’s, wrapping around your wrists. You jump when the cold water hits your hands, shocking you out of your dazed state. You lift your gaze up to John’s face as he wipes the blood from your hands, the shirt quickly becoming stained with red streaks. 

“This wasn’t our intention. I just want you to know that.” He says, his gaze focused on your hands. “We didn’t bring you here to kill him. I just thought you might want to know what was going to happen to him. Closure. Maybe you could rest easier knowing he wasn’t ever going to see freedom again.” 

“He won’t see anything ever again.” You murmur. 

“It doesn’t make you a bad person. Heat of the moment. He was saying some vile things to you.” John tries to comfort you. 

“But that doesn’t mean I had to kill him.” 

“Maybe not. He wouldn’t have lived much longer regardless.” Your hands are starting to feel raw with how hard John is scrubbing them. It’s almost like he’s trying to wipe the fact you’re a murderer from your hands. “None of us will think any less of you for what you did.” 

You stare down at your hands as John finally relents his scrubbing. The blood is gone, but you’ll always remember the look of it staining your skin. “I’m sorry.” 

John squats down in front of you, his hands closing around yours. They’re so warm compared to your own chilled skin. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

“But I do. Phil was right. I’m not innocent anymore. I’m not a good omega. I lost that when I let her take over.” Tears slip down your cheeks, warm against your skin. 

“That doesn’t make you a bad omega.” John says, reaching up to wipe the tears from your cheeks. “You’ve done what you had to do to survive because of our failures. We failed to protect you like we promised and we forced you into situations you shouldn’t have ever been in. We will never be able to apologize enough for what we did.” 

“I’m scared, John.” You whisper. “I don’t want to be like this anymore.” 

His brows furrow. “Be like what?” 

“I still feel like she’s in control.” You say, more tears sliding down your cheeks. “I don’t think I’ve come back to myself at all.” 

Tears still sting your eyes as you sit in the back of the car, watching the flames through the rearview mirror. 

“Unfortunate that the old barn burned down.” Kate says, her voice slightly muffled through the closed car door. 

“Feel sorry for the poor soul stuck inside.” John says. 

“Too bad they’ll never be identified.” 

Their words nearly make you sick again. How easily they talk about it, how easily they can detach themselves. It is their job, you suppose. This is just a normal occurrence to them. It scares you, how easily they confront death and dismiss it. It’s cold and unwelcoming, just like their attitudes had been upon your arrival. You should have known just by that. You should have turned and left when you wanted to. 

Maybe then you’d have less blood on your hands. 

Phil did deserve it, after everything. At least this way you know he won’t try to find you again, won’t try and get revenge of his own against your pack. One less loose string to worry about, John had said. 

There’s just one more that needs to be tied off. 

“Any sign of Shepherd?” John asks. 

“None yet.” Kate answers. “Alex and Farah are investigating a couple of leads. You’ll be the first to know if they find anything.” 

“Good. The sooner we can find him, the better.” 

“He can’t hide forever.” Kate says. “We’ll find him eventually.” She glances towards the car. “You’ll be alright?” 

John is quiet for a moment. “Eventually.” 

“You need anything...” 

“We’ll be sure to let you know.” 

Cold air rushes in with the smell of smoke as Kyle opens the car door. He slides in, quickly closing it. 

“We’re almost ready to go.” He says, shifting so he can put your seatbelt on for you. You’re glad he’s doing it. You’re not sure you could have managed it anyway. “Another long flight back to England.” 

You feel like you’ve spent more time on a plane in the last few hours than you have in your lifetime. You’re not even sure what day it is, or what day it will be when you get back. A week could have passed and you’d never even notice. 

“We’ll stop and get food before we go.” Kyle continues. You know he’s trying to talk to keep you distracted. “Anything you want in particular?” 

Food is the last thing you want right now. 

“Something we can eat on the road I suppose. Don’t want to linger too long anywhere.” Kyle trails off as the doors open, Johnny and Simon climbing in. It’s a tighter squeeze this time thanks to John’s coat that he put on you to keep you warm. You don’t really need it in the car, but his scent is the only thing keeping you sane right now. 

“Ye doin’ alright?” Johnny asks as he puts on his own seatbelt. 

You hum in response, not trusting yourself to answer. You don’t trust yourself to say much of anything right now. 

The smell of smoke hits your nose again as John opens the driver’s side door, climbing into the car. “Let’s get out of here.” He says, putting on his seatbelt before the car rumbles to life. 

You lean back in the seat, staring at the smoldering ashes in the rearview mirror until they disappear around a bend as John drives away from the scene. Warm fingers brush the back of your hand, Kyle’s gaze down on your lap as he slowly curls his fingers around your hand. You stare at his hand for a moment before you look away, curling your fingers around his. 

You don’t remember much of the flight back. You slept through a good part of it, reclined in a seat just like Johnny had been on the flight to America. You barely remember the drive back to the cottage, spending most of it in a sleepy daze with your head propped on Kyle’s shoulder. 

Dr. Keller is there to greet you when you return, some delicious smell wafting from the open door of the cottage. It makes your stomach churn after hours of no food. You haven’t had much of an appetite, the memories of what had happened too fresh to allow you much else but the blissful ignorance of sleep. 

You drag your feet up the steps of the cottage, passing Dr. Keller in a haze as you head straight for the comfortable familiarity of your bed. You can hear quiet voices through the wall as you manage to work your heavy limbs out of your clothes and into something more comfortable. 

You just want to sleep more, sleep forever if it were possible. In sleep you don’t see the blood staining your hands, the spurt of blood from Phil’s neck where you’d stabbed him. You don’t see the light fading from his eyes, his body falling limp as he dies by your hand. In sleep you’re not a murderer, you can go back to when things were easier, when nothing mattered but being a good omega for your pack. Back when your only stress was making a good impression and doing your job like you’re supposed to. 

What a shitty omega you’ve become. You can’t even hold your pack together anymore. 

It’s not like they’re putting in much effort themselves, though. 

Maybe you should let things fall apart. Maybe it would be easier on everyone if you just moved past this, moved on to an unhappy, short life in a care facility while your pack got to live out the rest of their days with nothing but a painful memory of the short stint they got as a full pack. 

Phil was right. You’re not a sweet innocent little girl anymore. That person died as soon as you were forced into this pack. Maybe this was inevitable. By being forced with them you would always become like them. Good omegas learn to adapt to mesh well with their pack, giving up personality and wants in favor of making alphas happy. Maybe this is what they want, maybe this was the way things were always going to end up. You were doomed from the start to become just like them. 

You press your face into your pillow as tears slide down your cheeks, willing yourself to fall into the sweet embrace of sleep once again. 

“John told me what happened.” Dr. Keller says as you sit outside in the cold morning air. “I just want you to know that it doesn’t make me think any less of you.” 

You wish she would. You wish she’d yell and reprimand you for killing someone. You wish any of them would call you a bad person, a wicked soul capable of taking the life of someone else. 

They’re all acting like it’s normal, like it was nothing. 

You hate it. 

“You’re not a bad person.” She says. 

“I killed someone.” You retort. 

“Did you?” 

Her words make you pause. You did. You remember the blood staining your hands, the warm spray of it from Phil’s neck. It was your hand that drove the knife. 

“I want you to walk me through what happened. Step by step.” She says. 

You let out a sigh. It’s not the first time you’ve been over it in the last day. “They were torturing him, but he wouldn’t stop talking. He said that he wished he had just taken me instead of sending me to the institute, and how that way I’d still be an innocent little girl.” Your voice starts to shake. “I got really mad. I barely remember grabbing the knife.” 

“Right there.” Dr. Keller interrupts you. “Walk me through that second by second. What were you feeling beyond just anger?” 

You pause for a moment, thinking it over. What were you feeling? “Blinding rage.” You say. “I was so angry because he helped ruin my life just because he wanted me.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “Just the idea of being his...” Nausea churns in your stomach. “It’s like my brain went numb. It acted on instinct. I didn’t even know Simon had a knife until I was grabbing it.” 

“What was your omega feeling in those moments?” 

You pause to think again. You hadn’t taken into consideration your omega during your ruminations, when you’d told Dr. Keller your side of the events the last few times. “She was...angry too. But, at first, she liked it. She liked Phil being tortured. She wanted me to stab him with the ice pick.” You swallow thickly. “Why did I do that? Why didn’t I say no?” 

“Revenge is a fascinating part of human thought processes.” Dr. Keller says. “In the moment, it fires up those reward centers of the brain. It feels good, feels satisfying. The desire to act on those impulsive needs to dole out justice against someone that wronged you is natural. While it’s not the best idea, it’s just human nature to want to get revenge. In the heat of the moment, logic is the last thing on your mind. Throw in an uncontrolled omega and you may find yourself doing things you don’t want to do, and you don’t know why.” 

“So it was her fault.” You say, wiping your nose. 

“Not exactly. Instincts are complicated things to consider. Instincts don’t care about your feelings or what society considers acceptable. They’re natural, ingrained behaviors in response to certain stimuli and events. A bear chases you, you run. An alpha threatens you, your omega fights back. While yes, what you did may be morally questionable, in the moment, your omega didn’t care about morals or societal expectations. You felt threatened and uncomfortable and your omega acted on your behalf.” 

“It’s because she’s out of control.” You say. 

“Yes. You let her out of that specially crafted cage you learned to keep her in, and now she’s going to fight tooth and nail to stay out. You’re in a very delicate state and it’s not surprising your omega decided to act for you.” 

“She’s so violent.” You say quietly. 

“Omegas and alphas only show themselves for a handful of reasons. Usually those involve danger or extreme emotions. Omegas especially show themselves when violence is needed. We are all fighters at our core, even omegas. You yourself may not be a violent person, but your omega is unsettled. She’s on high alert and any perceived threat could set her off, or any moments of high emotions, such as witnessing what you did.” 

You look down at your hands, imagining them covered with blood again. “I wanted to leave. I should have.” 

“We can’t change what we’ve done in the past. Your omega was likely largely responsible for what happened in those moments. While that doesn’t absolve you of guilt entirely, that also means you weren’t fully in control of yourself when it happened.” She reaches out, putting a hand on yours. “I believe you when you say you didn’t want to do it. I don’t think you’re capable of it in your right mind. You’ve been through a lot over the last few weeks. I thought it was a bad idea to take you, but you know John.” 

“He thinks he knows what's best because it’s what he thinks is best.” You murmur. 

“You can confront him about that.” Dr. Keller says, leaning back in her chair. 

You snort. “That will go well.” 

“It might. Your pack has expressed their willingness to change, to adapt to what you want. You have the power to change your pack. If you don’t like the way they’re doing something, then tell them.” She gives you a pointed look. “They won’t know what to change if you don’t tell them what you want to change.” 

“I’m scared to ask them.” You admit. 

“Why? Why are you scared to ask them?” 

“Good omegas adapt to their pack, they don’t ask. They don’t ask their pack to change just for them.” 

She gives you another look. “Don’t go regressing that far on me.” She shifts in her seat, leaning closer to you. “We’ve talked about this before. You’re a part of this pack too, just as much as they are. You have a right to communicate your needs and your wants just as much as they do. You’re an equal in this pack, and they’ll be the first to agree with that. While their actions of late have been questionable, they do still care about you and want to make you a true equal in this pack.” 

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” You huff. 

“Then let them show you.” She says. “What’s the harm in asking?” 

“They say no.” You say. “I don’t think I could handle it if they said no.” 

“But what if they say yes?” Dr. Keller squeezes your arm. “You’ll never know until you ask. In my professional opinion, I think you hold more power now than you realize. A lot of things happened to you, but a lot of things happened to your pack as well, and within those bonds.”

“Yeah. They’re all fractured now.” You say. 

“They’re in rough shape, but they’re not unfixable. You have to want to fix them. You’re the only one that can fix them.” 

“I don’t like that power.” You say. “Part of me wants to end things.” 

“But, that means there’s a part of you that wants to repair them. As your doctor, I suggest listening to those thoughts more than the ones telling you not to. It won’t be easy, but I think it’s worth your time to try.” 

Tears fill your eyes as you sit there, thinking over her words. You do want to try. You want to try so badly, yet you can’t help that nagging in the back of your mind that everything will go back to the way it was before. 

“What do you need?” Dr. Keller asks softly, brushing some of the hair from your face as you cry. 

What is it you need? A new brain, a reset button, some amnesia? All things you can’t have. You’ll have to choose with what you do have. What do you have? A pack that desperately wants to help you. They’ve told you that themselves. Kyle told you things would get better, but here you are with more blood staining your hands. Kyle wouldn’t lie to you. Not like that. 

You have the power now. 

“Johnny.” You sniffle. “Get me Johnny.” 

NEXT ->

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[foreverdolly]

ೃ࿔ SAVAGE BONDS part I 『 feyd rautha x atreides!reader 』

summary: destined to one another since conception, your very life belongs to feyd rautha. as a token of good will you are sent to the strange planet of giedi prime a week before your wedding ceremony, only to learn that it is far more hostile than you imagined it would be. a failed assassination attempt has tempers flaring and sparks flying when it is decided to be safer to sleep alongside feyd. you hate to admit it, but he has played the part of a "protector" better than the guards who were tasked to watch over you. whilst you have been dreading this union all of your life, feyd has been anticipating it. meeting you as children had left him awe-struck. . . and a bit obsessed.

warnings: !SMUT HEAVY IN FUTURE PARTS!, feyd is super overprotective in this fic and kills multiple people in your honor, blood and gore, it's a dark romance folks, political marriage, forced proximity, temporary unrequited love, a lil dubious consent in some scenes, there's a lot of talk about breeding, enemies to lovers (in your mind, not his), there's a "who did this to you" scene, knife play, blood kink, breeding kink heavy, lots of scent marking/marking. (needs to be edited, so please excuse any temporary errors!)

word count: 5.3k

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The ancient walls of Castle Caladan were a fortress, the long winding halls a labyrinth to those unfamiliar with its layout. You had tried feigning sleep when you had been made aware of the surprise guest’s arrival, a one “reverend mother”- as your mother referred to her. The cool air from the hallway nipped at your exposed arm, which currently hung limply over the side of the bed. 

“She’s even smaller than your son, Jessica.” The voice sounded more like a wheeze- and it certainly didn’t belong to anyone you had ever met before. 

“As I’ve already said, the Atreides are slow to grow.” Your mother’s tone didn’t hold even a semblance of a bite to it, not like you expected. She was usually fiercely protective of you and your brother. 

Your finger twitched, causing the woman to stifle whatever disapproving comment she was about to make. Being caught eavesdropping like this certainly wasn’t ideal, but you found it impossible not to be curious. 

“She really is just like her brother,” More like he was more like you. You’d always been the rowdy one of the two. Paul must have been listening in as well, and you imagined that he was more insulted at the comments of his lack of height and muscle than you were. “The little rascals.” 

There was a beat of silence before the woman began to crone again. This time you opened your eyes just a sliver, staring into the dark abyss of your room so that you could make out the shapes of your mother and the stranger. 

“Rest now. Both you and your brother need to be prepared to meet my Gom Jabbar.” The reason couldn’t be pinpointed, but there was something about her tone that filled you with dread.

Your mother woke you up the next morning, bright and early. 

Not even the breathing exercises that your mother had taught you had been able to calm you down last night. The darkness had swallowed you whole, which resulted in a dreamless sleep that left you feeling just as unrested as you had felt the night before. Your mother noticed your hesitations, the skirts of her dress dragging against the stone floor as she moved in the direction of your closet. The dress that she picked out for you was one of your more official garments, the red hawk of the Atreides crest proudly sewn onto the right breast. 

“Did you sleep well?” She questioned as she laid the dress neatly onto the edge of the bed, urging you to stand once her hands were free. 

You blinked at her, nervously brushing your hands along the soft cotton of your nightdress. Your voice felt stuck in your throat, but you still managed to lie. 

“Yes, of course.” Your tone was flat, and for once she didn’t question you on the reasoning. She knew exactly what had you feeling so uncomfortable in your own home. 

Gom Jabbar. Gom Jabbar. Gom Jabbar. 

What exactly did the old woman want from your family? Lady Jessica was a Bene Gesserit, which could only mean that this woman was a higher up, sent to pay you and your brother a visit. You knew nothing about any “coming of age” rituals. 

Paul barged into the room, dressed in his finer clothes as well. He leaned against the wall of your room, lips pursed as if he was deep in thought. You tilted your head to the side, leveling him a worried glance. He simply shook his head, and you knew at once that he wasn’t trying to dismiss your worries. 

‘Not here. Later.’ His expression told you, and for once you obeyed. 

“The reverend mother is waiting on the both of you. Paul, get out of your sister’s room so she can get ready.” She commanded, her tone leaving no room for whining or disobedience. 

He groaned, pushing himself off of the wall so that he could head back out and into the hall. You shrugged out of your dress quickly at the hurried insistence of your mother, allowing her to do up the clasps of the dress for you. 

“Who is she?” You asked simply, brushing your hair to the side so that she could get a better grasp of the dress. 

“She was my teacher at the Bene Gesserit school and now she is the Emperor’s Truthsayer.” Your mother sighed out your name, turning you quickly so that you were facing her. “You need to do exactly as she says. There is no room to be prideful today, do you understand?” Her eyes were pleading, and you knew that she had your best interests in mind. 

You and your mother walked wordlessly out into the hall, catching up with your brother who was busy running his fingers along the uneven stone walls. You flashed a quick look at your mother before jogging to catch up with Paul, taking the hem of his sleeve into your hand. 

“What do you know?” You whispered, turning your head so that you could look at your mother. Much to your surprise she seemed to be in no hurry to separate the two of you. 

“I’ve had dreams about her before,” He whispered, and you had to pick up your pace to keep up with his strides. “And mother told me this morning that I have to tell her about my visions.” 

Your mouth went a bit dry at the realization that this woman truly was here just for you and your brother. What is the Gom Jabbar and what did it entail? There was no telling. 

“She’s in my morning room, you two.” She called out after you. 

Jessica caught up, leveling the both of you a disapproving motherly look that had the two of you slowing your strides to match hers. She seemed a bit hesitant, eyes flickering between you and your brother and the closed door. 

The “reverend mother” sat in one of the tapestried chairs, her arms perched on either side of the armrests as she watched the three of you come in. The view behind her was beautiful, the sprawling, green farmlands of the Atreides family holding on full display through the large windows behind her. You glanced at your brother, eyes widening when you realized that he was already looking at you. He bowed in her direction and you followed his lead. 

“They are a cautious bundle, aren’t they?” The witch-like woman croaked, looking between the two of you. 

“As they have been taught, your reverence.” 

In this room, here in front of this woman, Jessica was no longer the Duke’s concubine nor your mother. She was reduced to that of a pupil in the face of her teacher. You kept yourself from fidgeting, clasping your hands in front of you. You fought the urge to reach out and grab your brother’s hand, as the two of you so often did when faced with anxiety as children. Fear hadn’t regressed you to that of a blubbering child in years. 

Your mother also seemed to fear the woman before her. There was something in her tone that led you to believe that whatever she was here for, it surely wasn’t a pleasantry. Your brother was tense at your mother’s other side, jaw tense as he stared the reverend mother down. 

“Teaching is one thing, but there are some things that cannot simply be taught,” Paul’s eyebrows furrowed as she spoke, and as if she was dismissing a servant of the castle, she waved your mother off with a flick of her wrist. “You and your daughter leave us. It will be her turn soon.” 

For the first time that morning your mother hesitated, eyes softened as she looked upon her son.

“Your reverence, I-” She began, but was cut off before she could finish whatever it is she was going to say. Surely it was meant to be an objection. 

“Jessica, you know that this must be done.” Her voice held a tone of finality. There was no room for your mother to try and wiggle the both of you two out of this trap.

“Yes. . . of course.” Your mother straightened, turning towards both of you. 

“This test. . . It’s very important to me, you two.” She spoke in a hushed voice, eyes still fearful. 

“Test?” The two of you questioned at the same time, looking at one another in concern. You were confused, even more so than you were before. 

“Remember that you’re the duke’s son.” And with that your mother was grabbing your arm, pulling you in the direction of the door. 

“I suppose that it is my turn?” Your voice shook with anger as you practically tore the door off of its hinges, anxious to take your brother’s place. His cries and whimpers did not go unheard, even with the thick wood separating the two of you. 

Looking at him now, his right arm still shaking from the pain, was like being slapped across the face. 

“Right you are, girl. Jessica, please escort your son out of the room.” There was a silvery glint in her bright eyes- a challenge. She could sense it in you. 

Your mother didn’t interrupt this time, and without any words exchanged the door closed. Your brother was too shaken up by whatever had taken place in that room to fully comprehend that the same thing was going to happen to you. He tossed a terrified glance over his shoulder at you just before the heavy doors closed. The sound of it echoed around the room, pulsing in your chest as you tried to steady the adrenaline pumping through your veins. 

“Your future. . . do you know what is expected of you?” 

You eyed the black box that sat next to her as you began closing the distance between the two of you. The question she had asked. . . it was a touchy subject with you. Of course you knew. A day didn’t go by that you weren’t mortified by the prospect of your future. You only had three short years to live and enjoy before you would be forced to abandon your family to join hands with another one. 

“Of course I do. It is my duty to marry.” Your voice had a bite to it, your eyes unwavering as you stared her veiled face down. 

“It is your duty to marry a Harkonnen. It is an honor to be the only reason that these two great Houses are allies. Your heirs will be powerful beyond comprehension.” The way she spoke. . . she truly believed the shit she was spouting. 

It was impossible to consider marrying Feyd an honor. It was an ever-present looming threat. 

“Put your right hand in the box.” She commanded, nodding her head in it’s direction. 

It seemed harmless enough, nothing more than a metal box. You bent your head ever-so-slightly, trying to have a look inside. It appeared to be a pitch black, endless void. No beginning or end in sight. 

You did as you were told, biting the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from muttering anything too disrespectful under your breath. If Paul’s screams were anything to go off of then this was going to be painful. Still, you were shocked by how cold the box was. You wiggled your fingers a few times, feeling the metal encasing them. Slowly a tingling sensation began, almost as if they were falling asleep. 

“You’ve heard of animals chewing off a leg to escape a trap? There’s an animal kind of trick. A human would remain in the trap, endure the pain, feigning death that he might kill the trapper and remove a threat to his kind.” 

The tingling sensation somehow melded into. . . heat. No, not heat. Burning. It felt as though you had your hand held up to a bright flame. You flinched, but froze when you finally noticed that the reverend mother was holding something against your neck. Your eyes flickered the best that they could to her hand, not wanting to turn your head. 

“What I hold at your neck is the Gom Jabbar. The tip of the needle is dipped in poison. Remove your hand from the box and I will plunge it into your neck.” 

The palm of your free hand began to sweat, the gravity of the situation finally landing on your shoulders. You would be forced to endure the pain and there was nothing that anyone outside of the doors could do. No guards had come to protect your brother when it was his turn, and no matter how emotional your mother had gotten whilst hearing his screams she still hadn’t rushed in after him. You could truly die here in this room. 

“Why are you doing this?” You urged, wincing again as the burning continued to worsen. 

Now it felt as though you were almost touching a flame, fingers dancing dangerously close. It wasn’t just uncomfortable now but painful.  “To determine if you’re human. Now be silent.”

Meant for greatness, yet stifled before her prime. 

It was impossible for your clipped wings to take flight. The Bene Gesserit had instilled in you your purpose from a very young age, letting it be known that you were little more than cattle to be sold off to breed. The whole arrangement was dehumanizing, but this was the way of galactic high society. Every House had been developed by the close, watchful eye of the Bene Gesserit. Your mere existence was a result of a centuries long breeding program, so how could you ever expect for your own life to be any different? 

Every child, especially in their naive youth, dreams of greatness. There was a point in time where you had hoped to mean something. There were differences to be made, rules to be broken, wars to be raged- but you would never be at the helm of any of it. But Paul. . . Paul was different. 

“You know something that I don’t.” You weren’t asking Paul, rather telling him what you already knew. 

Where you were used to your brother pulling no punches, he had been overly cautious with his treatment of you during training today. For a second he just stared ahead blankly at the wall, and you wondered whether he would try to lie. The older you’ve gotten, the stranger other people’s treatment of you has become. Women were little more than something to be owned. It was a hard lesson to learn and was one you were still grappling with. 

Your femininity were the chains that bound you. And what of your ambition? It was currently acting as the flames licking at your boot heels. Soon you feared that it would fully engulf you; become your undoing. 

“Tell me.” Your lovely features crumpled, and as childish as it was you found yourself giving his arm a slap. 

He jumped at the sudden contact, eyes widening as he turned to face you after what felt like an eternity of prolonged silence between the two of you. The hard flooring felt cool beneath your legs as you stretched them out beneath you, and for a second you found it hard to keep yourself up in a sitting position. The world felt unsteady beneath you, both literally and figuratively. 

Paul didn’t have to say anything at all. You looked, you saw, you felt, you understood. Your shared connection had nothing to do with your genes, rather it had to do with your likeness. Two bodies, two minds, but one soul. Your twin’s features crumpled, mirroring that of your own as he pushed a few strands of dark hair away from his face. 

“So there is nothing I can do? My fate is sealed.” Your lips felt numb as you spoke. 

Your brother’s visions were more frequent than they had ever been before. “Horrors”, he’d described them.

“If there was something I could do. . .” He started, turning quickly to face you, tucking one leg beneath himself. “My hands are tied. Mother and father’s hands are as well.” 

Hiding you away or knowingly allowing you to escape your duties would be seen as an act of treason. You’d be putting your parents and their status in danger, and no matter how desperate you were to get out of any sort of marriage pact, it was far too late. Since the very moment you were conceived, this was what you were meant for. 

“When will the orders come down, you think?” You pulled your legs up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them tightly. 

You wished that you could stay like this forever, protected from the rest of the world. If only you hadn’t been born as twins at all. You wanted so badly to be like Paul. 

But the galaxy didn’t work like that. You were not fortunate enough to get what you wanted. 

“Soon.” 

You felt comforted by the hand that he placed on your shoulder, and even more so when he kept it there until you felt as though you were able to stand up. 

You were to marry into House Harkonnen. That was your purpose; to unite the feuding houses and birth powerful offspring. You had met Feyd once before, but only for a fleeting moment. It hadn’t been awkward- no, back then the two of you hadn’t cared enough to pay any mind to the looming threat that was your betrothal. You’d been too young back then to fully grasp the severity of the situation. 

You remembered being shocked by his size. He towered over Paul, appearing to be years older than he really was. His hair had been dark back then, thick and slightly curly. 

He had only just been taken under his uncle’s wing at the time. The environment of Giedi Prime had yet to fully sink into the young boy. The Harkonnen’s looks had always been startling to you, no matter how many times you’d been exposed to it. They were dark creatures, brooding, hairless with skin as pale as milk- not to mention violent. 

The desperate way that Paul had clung to you was not lost on you. You let him squeeze you as tightly as he needed, your arms locking around his back. This meeting would change everything. In a matter of moments your life as you knew it would be taking a drastic turn, and not for the better. 

You’d made that very same trek to the parlor room a million times. This was your ancestral home- had been in your family longer than you thought was conceivable, and yet this felt new to you. Wrong. The shadows from the windows were casting strange lights on the wall beside you, and your footsteps sounded muffled in your ears as your pounding heart nearly deafened you. Your father’s hand brushed against your palm a few times, his attempt at showing you physical comfort without causing any sort of scene. You knew that this was Feyd-Rautha’s right. 

You were Feyd-Rautha’s right. That simple fact alone was enough to send you reeling, that morning's breakfast churning in your stomach. 

“It will be fine.” Your mother’s fingers shaped the words at her side, a comforting and silent presence. 

Your parents had always protected you. They had taught you well in all aspects of life. She was right. You had to trust yourself just as much as you trusted them. This will be fine. You will survive. 

But god, you wanted to live. 

Your worst fear was being locked up like a caged animal, only taken out to be played with or paraded around. You didn’t want to be somebody's little wife; you were no homemaker or bed warmer. 

‘I am better than this.’ You thought to yourself, your hands balling into fists at your sides. 

As the double doors began creeping open, you felt the sudden urge to run the opposite direction, your parents be damned. The feud between House Atreides and House Harkonnen would surely become deadly if you were to turn your back on the promise now, and that was the only thing that steeled your feet. You stood, back straight and hands clasped tightly at your front. 

You looked to be a pillar of strength, but oh- you were so close to crumbling. Your father took a step past the threshold, eyes hard as he bowed his head respectfully in the Baron’s direction. There was still time to turn around. The door was right there, and you were sure that you could commandeer a ship. You’d piloted a few times before in your life, and while you weren’t the best, you were certain you could get yourself the hell off of Caladan. You shuffled your feet, eyes wide as you looked up and caught your mother’s gaze. Her lips were parted, and you could tell that she was trying to decipher your expression. 

“What are you doing?” Her hand moved quickly at her side, the flowy gauze-like material of her skirts hiding her frantic movements from the visitor’s view. 

Nothing. You were doing nothing. There were no options yet. If you fled then the insubordination would fall back on your parents. If you downright refused then the outcome would be the same. There was nothing you could do but keep your mouth shut and try not to show the Harkonnen even a semblance of vulnerability. 

Disdain rolled off of you in waves as you breezed into the parlor, eyes locked on the side of your father’s face as he conversed with the baron. Tensions were high, even now. No pleasantries were being exchanged, that you were sure of. The Harkonnen’s stark black attire was a startling contrast to their pale skin. There, in the middle of two other men, whom you were sure were present for reasons of protection, was Feyd. 

He looked the same as the rest of them. Hairless, blue eyes dripping with something that could only be described as malice. Gone was the curly haired child that you remembered. In his place stood someone unrecognizable to you. You wanted to question what the Baron had done to Feyd, but you already knew. Perfection was expected on Geidi Prime. 

He had shaped Feyd into the very likeness of perfection. The once dark haired boy was now a walking, talking machine; not even a dead leaf echo of the boy you met all those years ago. 

You tried to map out every single one of his microexpressions, searching desperately for any sign that he might disapprove of the predicament the both of you had found yourselves in. He tilted his head to the side, observing you with a horrifying level of concentration. The Baron began to speak, saying something that you didn’t care enough to listen to. You were too distracted by the terrifying man before you. 

“She will come back home to Geidi Prime with us. No objections, correct?” 

You were marrying him out of an obligation, this he was already privy to. He had seen the reluctance written plain across your face as you’d entered the room. You’d wanted to run. Away from him, away from your responsibilities- and he could not blame you for it. His understanding stopped there though, simply because this proposal wasn’t going against his own wishes. 

“The wedding isn’t taking place for another week.” The Duke didn’t seem to like the idea of his unwed daughter leaving his side. 

Feyd fought back a smile, having known that the Baron’s sudden request would have this effect on the Atreides family. He watched you squirm like a bug under a magnifying glass, your hand moving at your hip. For a second he thought that you might be tugging at the seam of your dress, writing it off as nothing but a nervous tick- but then he saw the way your mother’s eyes followed those movements. 

The two of you were communicating. 

“That may be so, however I think that it is only right that your daughter,” Baron Vladimir motioned in your direction. “Becomes better acquainted with Feyd. You don’t agree?” 

His uncle decided that it was best to test the boundaries of this alliance. He was pushing the Duke, seeing how far he could get. Leto’s lips twitched, his eyes flickering thoughtfully towards you. Feyd was finding it hard to pay attention to anyone else other than you in the room. He’d spent years imagining what you would look like as an adult- dreamt about it. He’d eagerly been awaiting this moment, counting the days that he could finally be reunited with you. 

It wasn’t just because he had been promised powerful heirs. It was the thought that someone was fated to marry him. Since before he was even conceived, you had always been promised to him. That idea had been put into his head since childhood. You were the constant topic in his mind, a person that was unavoidably meant to be in his life for the rest of his days. 

In a strange way he had loved you since he was but a child. 

Seeing you for that first time had been better than he had anticipated. You were a beautiful little girl, but now? The child that he had met all those years ago did not hold a candle to the grace and brilliance of the woman that stood before him. Nobody else could ever compare. You didn’t have to fall for him right now, he was content with that. Hell, you didn’t even have to tolerate him.  He would find pleasure in wearing you down. He was going to make you love him.

I must not fear. Fear is the mind killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. 

The adrenaline had run its way out of your system, leaving you cold and alone on a planet that was so incredibly alien to you, you weren’t sure how you’d ever be expected to adjust. Even the oxygen felt different in your lungs- the sweet, acrid smell of chemicals tinging the air around you. It was nothing like your home on Caladan. Your home was a stone castle, but this? This was a cold, black fortress. 

You weren’t sure if it was meant to keep people out. . . or in. 

You thought back to that fateful day with the reverend mother. 

“You’ve heard of animals chewing off a leg to escape a trap? There’s an animal kind of trick. A human would remain in the trap, endure the pain, feigning death that he might kill the trapper and remove a threat to his kind.” 

You couldn’t chew your leg off to be free of this. No, you had to lay in wait. Only then could you strike if the situation called for it. 

“Striking” could wait until tomorrow though. For now you wanted to rid yourself of the anxiety. Sleep was the only cure you could think of. 

“Is the room to your liking?” That husky voice of his was already grating on your nerves. 

Feyd had only attempted to speak to you a few times and already you were sick and tired of his presence. He was a constant reminder that you would never know what it was like to be free. Then again, was anybody in the galaxy truly free? Feyd sure seemed to be carefree in his current position. 

His tone felt off, like he was toying with you. 

“I would be far more pleased about my new living quarters if you were to leave.” You said simply, pulling the slate gray blanket up and over your chin. 

You weren’t sure if it was due to his ill-breeding, but he didn’t seem to care that you were in nothing but your night dress. He walked into the room in long-legged strikes, letting the door shut behind him. Never before had the two of you been alone together, not since you were children at least. If you were back in your family home you would feel safer during a moment like this. 

You were in his territory now, meaning he had full reign over everything. Your father and family name couldn’t protect you on Geidi Prime. 

“You’re in quite the rush to be rid of me,” He didn’t falter for even a second as he moved to sit down on the edge of the bed, leaning back against the plush mattress with a small sigh. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think that you didn’t like me.” He didn’t seem upset at the notion of you disliking him. In fact, there was a glint in his eyes. That same sort of silvery glint you’d seen in the reverend mother’s eyes all those years ago: a challenge. 

This was nothing but a challenge to him. You were a conquest, and you detested that. Your stomach soured, your face becoming pinched as you glared at him. This was all too much too fast. You were in the comfort of your own home not even four hours ago, and now you were expected to make small talk with the source of your life-long discontent.  

“And what of your concubines? Could you not pester them tonight and give me a moment's peace?” 

“I dismissed them from their duties, permanently, weeks ago.” He said simply, his fingers running along the cotton of the comforter. 

“What?” You’d never heard of such a thing. 

“Spending time with them would be a waste.” His blue eyes flickered up to meet your eyes. “Acquiring concubines had just been a show of status.” 

It took you a few moments to process what he was saying, the burning hatred you had felt just moments ago flickering out into a dull flame. 

“Why would spending time with them be a waste? Am I expected to spend that much time with you?” A horror, truly. You had hoped that you’d be able to get away with spending a night or two a week with him, if only to achieve the Bene Gesserit’s goal of siring an heir. 

“A waste of time. A waste of seed,” He looked at you pointedly, his lip pulling up into a smile that revealed more of his black teeth. “And both of those things are important to me.” 

Your stomach hollowed out as you were once again reminded of what was expected of you. You had a week to prepare mentally for your wedding night, which you weren’t sure was enough. 

“And what happened to the concubines? Are they still being housed here?” 

“Why? Are you jealous?” He was smiling even wider than he was before. 

A shiver ran through you as you noticed how predatory his body language was- you felt like prey under his haughty gaze. It was hard to believe that Feyd had been administered the Gom Jabbar test and passed. 

This man was no human. He was an animal, that you were certain. 

“Wickedly.” Your tone was flat and noncommittal. Even now, you never saw Feyd as a potential lover. 

The man that was your so-called “destiny” was also your jailer. 

“Well then you’ll be happy to know that they no longer live here. . . or anywhere, for that matter.” He sat up, rolling his shoulders back to stretch his broad muscles.

The blood drained from your face as you stared up at him from your spot on the bed. He must have felt the weight of your gaze and turned his head, his eyes alight with. . . pleasure. Violence was as ingrained in him as breathing was. It was his life. Standing before you was the prince of death- pale, striking and terrifying. 

Animal, indeed. 

I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain. 

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A/N: this chapter was plot heavy, I know, however it was crucial to give you guys some background information so that I can better build tension. the beautiful dividers were created by @ kitsunecafe!