#if I DO predict my own death though then

[carciinogen]

I am INCREDIBLY nervous of going on a plane again tomorrow. To combat this:

[yandere-daydreams]

file #5: the lactation fic.

part of the FREAK SHIT MARCH evidence packet.

pairing: yandere!sukuna x reader (jjk).

length: 1.8k.

warnings: afab!reader, heian era sukuna, vaguely dubious consent, lactation (not the way you’d expect though), fem!dom, verbal degradation (m. receiving), breast milk, and mentions of death/cannibalism.

If you could say you’d learned anything about Sukuna, it would have to be that he was not the kind of man you could expect predictability from.

That was, if you could even call him a man at all. It would be more accurate to say that he was not the kind of monster you could expect predictability from, which made sense – monsters were rarely known for having a rational motivation for their senselessness. With Sukuna, though, it was less that you were forced to guess how violent he’d be and more whether he’d be violent with you at all. It was as common for him to demand that you spend the afternoon laying on a shady riverbank, feeding him honey and grapes, as it was for him to threaten to gut you like cattle should you make one more snide comment about the bloodstains his constantly wandering hands tend to leave on your clothes. His other servant, the inexpressive butcher who spoke to you rarely and reeked constantly of blood, claimed to be able to find a pattern to the chaos, but whatever knowledge they might’ve gleaned over their time with him, they’d never seen fit to share with you. You found your own ways of coping, though.

Like right now, for instance – as you hung limply over Sukuna’s shoulder, kept in place only by the hand pressing into the small of your back. Despite the way his arm bit into your stomach, a slight scowl that’d been playing on his lips when he snatched you away from what you’d been doing, you did your best to keep your mind empty, your thoughts limited to a blank ambiance. If there was as good of a chance that he was going to kill you and feast on your decaying flesh as there was that he simply needed someone to fix yet another tear in his favored yukata, you didn’t want to make it worse for yourself by panicking prematurely.

Still, you were vaguely aware of the passing scenery as he hauled you through grand, vacant halls and into the master��s chambers. Sukuna would find a place to dwell wherever he roamed, whether that meant sleeping in a damp cave or on a bed of woven cloud and quail feathers, but a part of you was undeniably (and guiltily) glad that he had a clear preference for the latter. Currently, you were biding your time until Sukuna’s next feeding spree in a palace that used to belong to a wealthy merchant; a merchant whose organs were, if memory served, currently being divided into portions and dried on a rack of—

You were pulled out of your thoughts as Sukuna dropped you onto a bed of down-stuffed pillows and silk sheets. Wordlessly, he fell beside you and, using his lower set of arms, hauled you onto his chest, forcing you to straddle his abdomen. With only a slight huff, a roll of your eyes, you settled into place – bracing your hands on his midriff. “My lord, I have other obligations to—”

“I am the only obligation you should be paying any mind to.” His tone was clipped, his voice gruff. Clearly, he was in one of his poorer moods, today. “Get on with it” he barked, making with a vague gesture to his upper chest. “I don’t have all day, brat.”

You spared a half-second to scan over him. He treated you like a tailor, among other things, but at the moment, his chest was bare, and this wasn’t exactly comparable to the countless times he’d dropped the tattered shreds of a kimono or yukata into your lap and told you to make something more or less wearable. “I… I’m afraid I don’t exactly know what I’m supposed to be doing, sir.”

He rolled his eyes, and you bit back the urge to return his irritation. “Y’know, just…” Another gesture to his chest, this one shortly followed by a disappointed, breathy noise. “Empty them out. It’s starting to get uncomfortable, again.”

Empty them…?

Again, you glanced down, your attention landing on the swell of his chest. He was always sickeningly bulky, prone to wearing his strength on the layers of muscle blanketing his biceps and thighs, but his chest did seem more swollen that it normally was, now that you thought to look, the usually hardened flesh visibly more plush, more tender. You shifted your weight, your fingertips digging into the swell of his right pec, and you felt something warm and wet trickle over the back of your hand and onto the velveteen cushions below you.

Sukuna let out an airy groan, and your mind went entirely blank.

Reflexively, you tried to pull away, but Sukuna had always been faster than you. His hand was wrapped around your wrist before you could so much as break contact, keeping your palm pressed into his pec (breast?). “Don’t act like such a baby. It’s a task even an idiot could manage.” With his hand draped over your own, he ground the heel of your palm into the plush of his pec, and this time, you weren’t lucky enough to look away in time – your eyes falling to his chest as a thin stream of a surprisingly white, surprisingly thick fluid dribbled out of his nipple in short, stilted bursts. Milk, your mind filled in, against your will. Except, it couldn’t be. Sukuna wasn’t human. Sukuna wasn’t supposed to be able to do that.

More out of curiosity than anything, you pressed your palm down again with just a little more force, a little less trepidation. The jet was stronger, this time, and Sukuna’s eyes closed, his lips soon drawn into a thin line only occasionally parting to let out a deep breath or raspy groan. His hand dropped away entirely as you fell into a steady kneading pattern – both of his upper arms soon crossed above his head, as he often did when he was lounging in a particularly entrancing patch of sunlight, while their lower counterparts remained on your waist. “Use both hands,” he grunted, and not bothering to suppress your scowl, you did. Soon enough, milk (because, as unsettling as it was, you just didn’t know what else to call it) frothed steadily, painting both sides of his chest with unorganized streaks of splotchy white – delicate ribbons spread over a canvas of ink and scars.

Despite yourself, you found yourself focusing on that. The word, almost jarringly quaint, repeated in the back of your mind; milk, milk, milk. Almost in a trance, you found yourself bowing your head, lowering yourself until your chest was slotted against his. After making sure his eyes were still closed, his attention still on the steady movement of your hands, you ran the flat of your tongue over his left nipple and—

Oh.

It was sweet.

His hand was on the back of your head in an instant, but you were already latched on – your lips sealed around his nipple, sucking harshly. There wasn’t a point trying to be gentle with Sukuna, not when you’d seen him take spears to heart without so much as a wayward flinch, but any passing temptation to veer towards delicacy was quickly forgotten as thick fingers knotted themselves in your hair, a reverberating moan tearing past his lips as you lapped and suckled, letting whatever you couldn’t swallow down flood out of the corner of your mouth. He could’ve pried you away, if he’d wanted to, could’ve torn off your head with little more than a flick of his wrist, but all he offered was a weak – pathetic – tug, a few garbled curses spat under his breath. “Brat,” he hissed, as you drank greedily. “Just— Just do your damn job and—”

“You’re so fucking loud,” you muttered, pulling back just far enough to be audible. “For once in your life, would it kill you to be quiet?”

You couldn’t see him, but you’d seen him baring his teeth often enough to recognize his tone. “Know your place, huma—”

You didn’t give him a chance to finish. Before you could think better of it, you braced yourself and bit down, burying your teeth into the tender meat of his chest. You tasted blood, heard Sukuna moan, and felt his body jolt underneath you, hips jutting against yours as something long and thick twitched against your ass. You pulled away as quickly as you could, already grinning. “Are you…?

“Be quiet.”

He was. You could feel his cock against your ass - already hard, already pulsing. Or, his cocks, rather, both standing stiff against his lower stomach despite the loose fabric of his robes. Carefully, you shifted back, straddling his thighs, as you slowly removed the thin sash sitting low on his waist, as you dragged the silken fabric aside in favor of wrapping your fist around the thicker of his paired cocks; your fingers barely grazing each other where they were supposed to overlap. “No wonder you’re always so temperamental,” you went on, speaking slowly, giving him every chance to cut you off, to throw you to the side, to tear you limb from limp. He only scowled, though, only pouted, clenching his eyes shut as thick beads of arousal blotted and dripped over the back of your hand. “To think the King of Curses would get this hard from some powerless human sucking on his leaking tits… You must be so pent up, you just don’t care who touches you, huh?”

His hold on your hips tightened, threatening to bruise. You barely noticed, already distracted by the slight tremble in his bottom lip, the pitchy whine that escaped his grit teeth as you shifted your weight onto your knees and aligned the blunt, flushed tip of his cock with your entrance. You took measured seconds to lower yourself onto him, ignoring the burning stretch in favor of focusing on the heat of it, the immediate and overwhelming fullness. You’d barely gotten the head of his cock inside of you when you stopped, going completely still. A second passed before Sukuna seemed to notice, another before one of his many eyes flickered open – immediately landing on you.

It was barely a whisper, a breath. He was mumbling, as much as you knew Sukuna would loathe you for accusing him of something so meek aloud. “Do your—” A bubbling groan, a hitched gasp as your pussy clenched around him. “Do your damn job, brat.”

Your attempts to bite back your wide, beaming smile were only half-successful. “It would be my pleasure, my lord.”

You rolled your hips as you lowered yourself back to his height, trapping his unsheathed cock between your body and his as your mouth found its way back to his nipple. It was barely another minute before he was swearing, groaning, bucking into you from below in short, stilted thrusts – like he was afraid of so much as coming close to slipping out. It was all you could do to stay concentrated on the task at-hand, to stop your mind from wandering from the taste on him on your tongue, the feeling of his cock throbbing inside your pussy. Still, you found the time to allow yourself a single, self-indulgent thought – one so ridiculous and so simpering that you couldn’t help but laugh against his skin.

Maybe, just maybe, there were sides of Sukuna that weren’t so difficult to predict, after all.  

[harmonysanreads]

Dosis Sola Facit Venenum

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Yandere!Jiaoqiu x Reader

cw(s) : yandere themes, force feeding, drugging, implications of munchausen syndrome, biting, gaslighting, non-consensual touching, intrusive thoughts, victim blaming. read at your own discretion.

「 word count : 900+ 」 「 read on ao3 」

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Tagging @yandere-romanticaa I did not expect to write Jiaoqiu content so soon TvT

Your naïveté knows no bounds. Pushing, objecting, fighting and defying a phenomenon your senses can't even perceive. Blinded in spite of a functioning vision, immobilized even at the absence of tangible restraints. You protest and mewl and reject, but you're oblivious to what against. It's enough to lure out the claws kept in check, entice them to sink into layers of tender flesh.

Your turned head and stretched palm before his insistent advances are delightful to spectate, so much so the healer can't for once peel his eyes away. “I feel full.”

“Full? From two measly spoons of medicinal stew?” he tilts his head as though to better gauge the increasing pressure between your reddened lips. Blood rushes to and paints your skin in a flush, he can very well predict your next words.

“You call that medicine? It's spicy enough to burn my whole digestive system!” you all-but roar at his placid face, Jiaoqiu gives but a hum in exchange.

The bite of the capsaicin renders you restless, his scheming gaze doing little to soothe your distress. You are a pitiful, confused thing ; aiming your arrows without direction in hopes of eliminating whatever it is that sends you in disarray. A hunter lost in a maze of a forest, soon to lose their titular identity and succumb to the shadows' calling.

Your stare is dumb when his thumb swipes across the residue stew clinging to the corner of your lips, a shudder nearly cracks his facade when his tongue acquaints with the taste.

“Barely stings. If I add any less of a spice than this, it's going to taste like distilled water.”

Jiaoqiu nearly tsks at the way your fingers clench the ends of your garment, it should've been him — not some measly piece of fabric in the clutches of your attention. But the silence that now spreads around the room intrigues him, for once you have nothing sassy to say.

“Whatever. I'm not eating any more of that Jiaoqi—mmph!”

Silly little thing. Cloaking yourself in sickness in order to escape your duties, provoking a famed healer to cure your mystery, non-existent ailment. You're a sinner just as much as you're a sin, bit by agonizing bit, ensnaring his soul in your dainty grasp yet sporting the audacity to not see it. Jiaoqiu knows he could never escape from beneath your fingertips, but he can attempt to seize your flighty little being in a death grip.

There's a scintilla of defiance in your pupils even as his hand grasps your jaw, shining through the discomfort induced by the silver spoon shoving a mouthful of that detestable stew and not relenting until the movement of your throat determines its consumption. Your breaths are stirred in abrupt patterns, titillating the Foxian's interest. You eye his lingering fingers absentmindedly squeezing close the flesh of your cheeks, a few dots of darkness almost blurring your vision.

“Was that necessary?” you bite out vengefully.

“I think I need to cure that attitude of yours before whatever sickness it is that prevents you from doing that one particular work. As for whether this is necessary?” Jiaoqiu's free hand slides down to your right wrist, the fabric of his glove makes unwanted gooseflesh appear on your skin.

“Look at how skinny you're getting. Even an old fox like me could snap this in half and you're whining about me keeping you under observation? You really don't know what's best for yourself.”

You sputter at his pointed words, “I'm not that weak... and I definitely don't need your specialized medicinal stew to cure me—heck, I'm not even actually sick!” you snap with vigor but can't find the energy to snatch back your wrist.

“Oh really?” a squeeze to your cheeks shuts you up, the heat in his orange eyes threaten to engulf the spark still keeping you alight.

“But that's where you're wrong. You are sick and you do need me and my healing art. If you aren't in fact sick, how come you can't even keep your eyes on mine anymore?”

No amount of spice could rival the image that paints itself before him, muscles fighting the pull of slumber and sagging before his voracious gaze. Not even a single coherent word can escape from your heavy tongue and shut lips, no finger vigorous enough to lift against his grabby hands.

Jiaoqiu observes the pliant face in his grasp. The scent of fear and desperation tickles his nose and beckons him closer to the sin, fangs so insistently obscured now sinks on the first bite of his demise. You flinch upon the intrusion of something sharp on the skin of your throat, collapsing to a pair of awaiting arms. Indentions marr the previously flawless canvas, a sheen of saliva shines obscenely and the Foxian is certain he's too far gone.

Your resilience is an infuriating trait, especially in response to the forces that try to weaken the fire in your soul. When one drop of Tumbledust fails, a second is added and if this continues for more than one meal — even the most roaring flame will be rendered suppliant.

The dosage of medicine is an area of caution for any physician, prescribing more than what is necessary can accelerate the erosion of health. But without sickness and ailment, what value does a healer hold? Without the presence of this flame that brightens his stale life, what purpose is there for Jiaoqiu to continue pursuing this existence?

Naïve, pitiful, agonizing, sinful, intoxicating — he'd never run out of adjectives to describe you. You brought him to ruination, and an eternal damnation he'd choose still before the prospect of losing you, too.

[phantomrose96]

My dodgeball friends which are my tennis friends which are my biking friends which are my skiing friends took me skiing again yesterday.

It was only my third time skiing after 10+ years of not doing it, and surreptitiously ("surreptitiously") yesterday was a pure powder day, which we couldn't have predicted when we booked the tickets. Given the absolute zoo of the parking lot, I figured "powder" would be like skiing on a dream.

I was wrong. By god I was wrong. Powder makes you work 10x as hard to turn and control. Powder turns the ski slopes into checkboard patterns of mounds and valleys which, if taken at high enough speed, must generate some kind of musical note. Like a marimba of bad decisions.

I was making noises I wasn't proud of. I was watching my life flash before my eyes. I was voluntarily faceplanting in the snow one time, because my options were voluntary faceplant now or involuntary faceplant later at a speed I could only reach against my own will.

My one validation was reconvening with my friends at lunch and seeing that half of them also looked like they lost a long argument against God at the peak of that mountain, shoveling fries into their mouths and buying $5 powerade because it's that or death.

I got better like I got a feel for it as the day went on. But the fatigue stays with you. More than once I tried to tell my leg muscles to do something and they informed me the sodium-potassium channels were out to lunch. Informed me they were on their union-mandated break, but Good Luck to me and my own. I stopped on the slopes more than once to catch my breath. I flopped right over in the snow at the end of a run. And in the middle of it. And in the middle of the part before the middle.

I escaped the previous two ski sessions without being sore the next day but I knew this time I was done in. Did things to my legs that go against the Geneva convention. Would reap my consequences when the sun returned.

Woke up this morning. Legs were fine. Not just "not bad" but completely, 100% fine. As fine as if I'd done absolutely nothing the previous day.

My UPPER ARMS are killing me though. From, as best I can gather, the gargantuan, mammoth effort of... like pushing myself up from the snow like 5 times.

I should stop skipping arm day.

[darlingofvalyria]

❝Dragons do not seek permission, niece of mine. Dragons take.❞

[ Betrayal clouds your judgement, for when Jacaerys' indiscretion takes the form of a child, your anger lands in the palm of the Rogue Prince. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 3,412 ] | Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen Niece!Reader, Jacaerys Velaryon x Manipulative Aunt!Reader | this set in an au inside of in hightower green. | this is able to be read as a oneshot.

contains— canon divergence to the second power - an au of an au - targcest, use of 'bastard', infidelity, profanity, revenge, violence, pureblood Valyrian bullshit - thinking about death as a revenge but no suicide/suicidal ideation- angst, smut - two wrongs apparently make a right - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - nsfw: rough sex, biting, degradation, breeding kink, smidge dacryphilia, creampie - no kinslayers, no kings, no betas.

a/n— special thanks to @ahristata and @hiraethrhapsody for kicking my pursuit of this thread!! i woke up (almost literally) to this line of inquiry, & though writing for daemon is difficult, i had a way, way too much fun with this one m'fraid. Ihad so much fun I started laughing at the absurdity. + comment, reblog & like at will, mi luvs, mwa!

You can't breathe.

You stand there, your daughters by your sides, no more than five or so name days, dutiful as ever, the princess of the realm— the heir's wife, blindsided. Betrayed. Lied to. And you can't show them your grief, your anger, your shock— you smile, not betrayed, not realised, stupid.

Your act of stupidity protects you, for you can just tell that others, sharp-eyed as they are owning of sharper tongues, calculate the similarities between your husband and the child he is cooing at, at the arms of the Warden of the North's sister.

His bastard fucking sister.

You can't blink away as the facts, the threads, make a beautiful web in front of you. The conclusion is unmistakable. Jacaerys' consistent travels to the North, despite the campaigning for his mother's seat had not required the frequent stretches of long travels. How Aemond had remarked that the bastard is doing twice as much work in doing so, "as he should," Aemond murmurs darkly. "He casts a disgusting shadow on the Iron Throne, 'tis the least he can do."

The insistent of personally greeting the delegates from the North, you thinking it is just his wondrously formed friendship with the Lord Stark, had you dressing up and bringing your girls with him. So that your daughters can meet their father's fucking friend, one that occupied his time when he could have been at home, tending to his duties, his heirs.

And the woman who follows after the Wolf, the bastard Snow, his beloved sister. Dyanna had told you beforehand, as Lord Stark adores his only sibling. Their parenthood is unmistakable, dark hair and sharp chins. A Northern Beauty.

And then you stop, as there is a babe in her arms, no more than two name days at least.

And you see Jacaerys in his gaze.

His beautiful, warm brown eyes in the child in her arms, and as he stands there, your Prince of the Realm, too close for comfort, too close for platonic friendship, a familiarity one cannot deny— and that fucking, sweet-edged, tender smile on his face...

The same one he wore when you had given birth to his daughters. Soiled sheets, bloodied babes— it didn't matter. He held them to his arms with the very same smile, thanking you for birthing his babes.

A gut punch, a sharp inhale, an anger that coils and burns and roars.

Your bastard of a husband had fucked another bastard, and made himself a bastard little fucking family.

Life can ever be so cruel as it is humorous.

Daemon could have laughed at the prediction you found yourself in.

He sits to the left of his wife, the Queen who— in enough of itself, the evidence of the turmoil the court is about to get under, amusingly is talking quick with her Lord Hand; Corlys and Rhaenyra had not stopped pointedly looking at her heir, words too fast but unmistakable what the topic is if their gestures, the knot between their eyebrows, and unmistakable sighs and determined noises.

He, on the other hand, is pointedly staring at you.

You, who tries so hard to piece together an armour of stupidity, an air of nonchalance. As if there is no anger in your visage at your husband's attention completely stolen by Wolf's little sister and her son... who looked completely like him. Dark colouring, the First Men blood thick in his nose, his hair, at the curled edges of his baby-cheeked giggles.

When standing so close, faces to each other, there can be no doubt a mirror.

Or the lovesick smile on the mother's face, watching the Prince of the Realm interact with her son.

Together, the trio of them don't hint as much as a bead of Targaryen blood. One is able to pretend they are nothing more than a small... brown haired family.

Daemon presses his lips, trying desperately not to laugh so loudly.

He admired the boy, truly. Rhaenyra loved each child from her bosom with equal fervor, and Daemon was prepared take him as purely one of his own... but after he broke the betrothal with his daughter (though Baela could give lesser of a shit, though mildly dissatisfied as she was to become Queen, and the girl held her duties between canines) to marry a Hightower cunt... he had distanced himself from the boy.

Daemon viewed it as a sign of weakness, for he knew you. You were just like your mother, prodding into softened parts of his family— that green whore with his brother, young as she had been, his good sister Aemma had not been cold in their memories before she had found herself weightily pregnant with new heirs, and then Jacaerys, new to womanly spells, new to cunt, and you had him making vows in the ways of the dragonlords.

Though he can surmise that much of your mother's movements had not entirely been her own... Daemon knew that calculative look you got in your eye. Blink and it's gone, but your gaze sharpens, your mouth curls in a winning, prideful little smirk.

You were Otto Hightower's granddaughter alright, and you had wanted the Heir's Heir.

But now, it seems like, once a vow broken, it didn't really matter if it was a betrothal or a marriage to Jacaerys.

It brings a sick pull of satisfaction in him, that tugs him to look at you. Every time.

You laugh, tither, still evermore the gem of the feast— a feast you organised with the Lord Hand for your husband's absolutely exceptional diplomatic achievements in the North, truly, Daemon is laughing in the sidelines as the jests and songs make themselves — but Daemon is overtly familiar with dragons. And anger. And you simply stink of it. The way your eye twitches, the occasional grind of your jaw to how your fingers dig crescent moons into your palm. He catches blood in one blink then smeared, then gone, in another.

Your hold onto your armour— the Darling of the Realm, curated so painfully by a young, sly girl moving about the cesspit they call a crown's court — is breaking in pieces and tatters at each hour the feast went on.

It snarls. Like a dragon locked in the pits, tugging at reins, wishing to burn cities.

Maybe you aren't just another Hightower cunt after all.

Not purely at least, he thinks in distaste, staring at the dark green of your gown.

It is a childish tantrum, more than anything, for what is your Hightower green will do now? A bastard has been made, worse, a son. And though Jacaerys himself has muddied blood, he is still a Targaryen. His mother is Queen, prepared to make him an Heir to the Iron Throne as he had been legitimised as Laenor's son. A Velaryon. He bears the name, the crest, and the support of its house.

What is stopping him from marrying the Snow Bastard, legitimising the boy as his own, surpassing your own daughters?

Targaryens marry siblings, they also marry multiple wives.

It is a thought that he can see it dancing in your head— raw, enticing rage and bloodlust that tightens his breeches.

It is an interesting thing.

The green is disgusting, but Daemon can appreciate a young, fertile, Valyrian beauty.

Something your mother had ingeniously provided you and your siblings with, reining in her muddied blood to produce unmistakable Valyrian children. And as a smart little tart, you understood what to do with it.

When Daemon first met you, you were just one of the Hightower spawns that his brother had made to further his line. His brother's daughters—apart from Rhaenyra — were quiet things as babes and children. Odd the two of you were, but not really hostile. When you were introduced to him, your fat babe of a twin brother was teary-eyed and clinging to you, a quiet child with round eyes, staring at him inquisitively, as if challenging.

Then and there, Daemon disliked you so.

Even as you grew, the little of what he could see as he paid no mind of Viserys' other children, you grew up a fine royal, a princess of every word and sung note. Mentions of your progressive fight for the small folk, your charitable heart, your sweet nature that even his brother had made a note once or twice—

He thought it had been Otto Hightower who put you up to such machinations. Wouldn't be below him.

The night you bedded Jacaerys Velaryon, he was pleasantly surprised to find out it had been you all along.

And now here you are, betrayed as you had betrayed his daughter, delicious in your righteous anger and ripe (two babes before the year ended, Jace is an inglorious fool) for the taking. And youthful still. Smooth, soft skin, pretty lips and bright-eyed.

All your scheming, going as far as throwing your grandsire to Oldtown, it is obvious no one has wrangled the clever, spoiled little brat out of you.

As he sips his wine, amused and pleasantly hungry, he muses he might do a job or two of being the strong arm to do so.

He snorts, eyes straying back to the little First Men family.

There it is again. The jest that keeps on giving.

It was pride, truly, that kept you for most of the feast. That kept your gritted teeth to yourself, ducking into corners whenever your anger burned at your eyelids, stubbornly brushing stray tears away.

All is not lost, you stubbornly thought. You just had to plot.

But when Jace had taken your daughters, your Daenera and Aemma, gently tugging them to his bastard whore and his actual bastard to meet— finding your eyes, at that very moment as Daenera's precious, pureblooded hand shyly took the hand of her bastard brother, a fool's tender fucking simpleton of a smile on your husband's face —

Something in your head had snapped. A clean break.

And your armour had fallen. Like limestone from a fortress. Caved in ruins at the pool of your feet. Dark, furious loathe unfurled in your chest. Unable to handle it anymore, you had taken your dress and got out of the feast, for you could feel the urge of unsheathing a sword and going on a bloodied massacre, crowns and titles be damned.

You may not have a dragon, but you have its bloodlust.

Just as you are rushing to your chambers, you stop and make a different turn, knowing that if your husband had caught wind of such an ugly expression on your face, he would try and find you, talk to you, and you don't have the patience to cater to him at the moment— you find what you know of is an empty chamber, reserved for guests at the Keep.

It is a simple room with all the usual accruements. Most of the fanfare, the sheets, are in storage.

You start with a candelabra.

Raise it high before you are violently smashing it against the dresser, shrieks and guttural screams out of your mouth as you tear through the room like a typhoon, cursing Jacaerys, the North, and bastards to the Seven Hells.

None will be the wiser, for you had built your network well. Your spiders will pivot guards and strangers from this area, ensuring you a reprieve where your anger and grief can unfurl and manifest.

So you lose yourself, a dragon untethered. You get so into your rage, quiet in your thoughts, that you don't hear an intruder entering until there is a low, amused laugh too close for comfort.

You whirl around, tear-stained and rage-filled, and though the Rogue Prince expects you to fall into stutters, your eyes slit and you grip— when had you picked up a tome? — the tome tighter to your chest, snarling, "Get out."

Instead of surprise, or even offense, Daemon laughs as if you are the most amusing thing to him all night. Jesters and whores alike.

"I shall not." He makes a noncommittal hum around the dark room. "I rather like it here. It seems this chamber holds a much better entertainment than anything beheld at the feast."

You let out a dark, incredulous laughter. "I have no time for your toying, uncle, get out!" You toss the tome with fervour, but he's a warrior and he anticipates your anger, sidestepping easily before he's back to casual prowling.

"I do not have time to play jester for your entertainment," you hiss, unable to stop the hateful tears from spilling, brushing them away harshly as you watch him watch you.

He raises an eyebrow. "I am not asking you to."

"Are you here then for my humiliation? Press a bitter wound while it's still bleeding, is that it? Is that what would make the glory of your night?"

He snorts. "What would make the glory of my night is a warm body and a tight cunt."

Your face scrunches. "You are disgusting."

He barks out a laugh. "Not as disgusting as your brother."

"Aegon is no longer—"

"— or as stupidly naive as your husband."

A sharp intake of breath before you're once more cracking in broken rage and ghastly pain.

"Of course you would notice, who would not, he looks so much like his fucking bastard."

"Watch yourself, girl," he barks. "You are still talking about the Queen's heir."

A beautiful guard dog, you think, you snort. You push past him, gasping into the crisp, cool air, holding onto the balcony for dear life.

"His already diluted blood makes this conversation entirely hilarious to me I'm afraid." You look down and wonder how fast you will fall. How messy would such a death be? How much care there is left in your wake? Will your husband even care, now that he has his heir? Borne out of true love no doubt, despite such bastardly blood— or is that what makes it thrilling for them?

Mangled bone, spread thin blood— if you die such a way, it should be pretty. You hope it haunts the Keep of so many before you.

But if you die now, you will be replaced so easily. So prettily.

And your daughters—who will care for them? Will Jacaerys even care, if his bastards soon no doubt fill your once home, your mother, your brothers— your daughters pushed aside to make way for fucking dogs.

There is no satisfaction in such a plan.

There are many others.

The Rogue Prince makes his presence known by standing close to your back, close enough that you can smell him, that his heat is your own, as he hums, peering below as you have.

"Have you been drinking, zaldrītsos little dragon?" he whispers, tangling his fingers through your hair, running a lone finger down your neck, up and down in a tantalising movement. You can't help it, it feels comforting, leaning close to it despite such a breathy huff out of your lips.

"Since when am I dragon, kepus uncle? Haven't you always likened us muddied blood, filthier than dragonseeds?"

"I see that I am wrong," he says, almost idle as if he isn't devouring you in his gaze. How you feel soft, pliant under one finger after weighted in wine and the ruins of your anger, how you're almost purring and sweet like this, your fire alive but consistent. "Aōha perzys burns jehikagrī. Nyke hae ziry. Your flames burn bright. I like it."

"Hm. You've had sons, don't you uncle?"

"I have," he replies, amused.

"And many a children." You reach for his chin, your thumb rubbing his bottom lip. He's old, sure, but men don't have the same bodily issues as women. You know he could reach your father's age and be able to produce five more brats.

But his shoulders are strong, spry only as a swordsman can be.

And he isn't like he's loyal to Nyra, turning fully to you with a hand caressing your side.

His hand comes for your neck, halting your movement as he tests a squeeze. There is only much hatred as there is lust. And his cock is winning over his mind, for when your free hand, watching him intently, reaches for the hardness straining against his breeches, giving it a stroke, his breath stutters into a groan whilst his hips push into your hand.

"Dragons do not seek permission, niece of mine," he hums darkly. "Dragons take, or do you have too much of your Hightower cunt of a mother that you—"

You curl your hand over his cock until his breath hitches.

"I want a son. Surely you'd rather want for your true blood to sit on the Iron Throne? Your wife would remain Queen, her and her heir none the wiser. Any son of mine would be King regardless." Your voice is barely above whisper, stroking him as your squirm in his hold, his breath heavy by each promise, each tale you spin so tall. "Wouldn't you like that better? I am a Targaryen, as are you. Our blood would be pure."

"I have pureblooded sons, riñītsos little girl."

"But will they be king? With my husband as your wife's heir?" When his hold softens on your throat, you push yourself forward, pressing yourself against him. "Wouldn't you want your family's legacy, your legacy, unsullied with prettier blood?

"I want a son, uncle," you whimper, thickened with need and desire, willing him to bend and fold because men like Daemon are easy, because a loving marriage is one thing, a man who holds his house as his pride in another fist is another. "I want your seed to take root in me."

And it isn't like you're asking him to betray his Queen.

Daemon is surprisingly a soft lover, prone in a way to worshipping you even as you had gotten impatient and tried to get your way. His punishments are quick and precise, a hit on your thigh, a tighter squeeze in your throat, a firm bite in your breast enough to draw blood. He's soft but by choice, almost as if he is amusing you in each caress while one hand is holding you by your hair, fucking you down into the sheets.

His words aren't better, spun in hisses and spits, mocking laughter and groans.

"Do you want my seed, you little whore?"

"What would your husband say now, his pretty wife mewling for another? Or would he even care?"

"Your tears are pretty, if you want my seed, I think you need to be sobbing, hm?"

When he finally spills inside of you with nothing less of a broken, guttural roar, hips chasing the high, meeting your sensitivity once, twice, again— you are shattered in pieces and contradictions, floating and wide awake, pleasured and in pain.

He slaps your face gently after he's cleaned himself up, tucked his flaccid cock back in his breeches as he comes to your eye line. "Come to me again when you want my seed, hm? I shall prioritise your wants for the good of the realm but I dare say—"

He cocks his head with a smirk, feeling stirrings at the sight of your fucked out state, his seed spilling from your pretty hole that he can't help himself as he chases it with a finger, forcefully pushing it back in while your body trembles and twitches.

"— you may be with child soon enough, niece. I shall congratulate you and my son with the happy news."

Your eyes flutter close at the echoes of his disappearing footsteps.

Nine moons later, through a hearty, blood-soaked birth that rocked the keep with your wails of pure pain— much more painful than when your girls had come into the world — a baby boy is born of pure Valyrian colouring.

A fat babe who cried murder in his first seconds of life, and it is Caraxes who snarls and screeches into the high noon sky.

"I shall name him Daemon," you say to your husband beside you as you beheld the babe with a wondrous smile and a full heart.

"After your brother and my father," Jace says, smiling. "That is wonderful, my wife. He does look much like them."

Your smile curls, a finger rubbing your babe's fat cheek. "He does. And he will be strong swordsman." Your lashes flutter to Jace, poisoned vowels in each word that he blinks, startled. "Just like his father."

TAGGED @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata @xxvelvetxxxx @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @bunbunbl0gs @yazzzmints @bellstwd @hiraethrhapsody @watercolorskyy @fulla02 @menaosama @cookielovesbook-akie

[merakiui]

crow & goat in courtship.

yandere!rollo flamme x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, dub-con, coercion, religious symbolism/imagery, mentions of pregnancy, implied breeding kink, obsession, alcohol/intoxication, slight codependency, non-consensual touching/groping, au in which you attend classes at nbc instead of nrc under rollo's supervision note - the crow is always on call.

i. “but each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed. then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death” (james 1:14-15).

Rollo answers on the third ring.

He always does—claims it’s polite to answer after three chimes just as it’s right to knock thrice before entering a residence. He’s stubborn in his ways, a crow bound by routine, only ever doing things in threes. Habitual to a fault, strictly so. You are similar in that regard; you find solace in the familiarity of predictable patterns. The relief that stems from knowing what will come next—in being prepared for all manner of events even if you haven’t yet reached the first.

But then you also like fun, and the best sort of fun is often had with a disregard for habit. Disorder and spontaneity. Throwing all caution to the wind. Trusting in the arms of the crow who will catch you, the carefree goat, when you fall.

“Good evening,” he mutters into the phone, his voice sounding so close despite the distance between you and him. “It’s rather late. Is there a specific reason you’re calling?”

“Rollo! Hey! Hiii,” you drawl, grinning like a fool. You stagger through the door into the chilly, starless night, your heels slipping on cracked, frozen pavement. “Whoa!” You stumble against the railing with a carefree giggle. “Almost lost my footing!”

There’s a stalling silence on his end. And then, with a deep inhale, he asks evenly, “Have you gone out?”

“Mm. Yeah. Went out to celebrate with some friends.”

“Some friends?”

“Like one or two…or a whole house full of ’em.”

“(Name).”

“What?” When he doesn’t reply, you laugh. Not because it’s humorous or embarrassing, but to merely fill the silent gap. “What? Roro, you’re sho stern. Don’t lecture me!”

“So you’ve been drinking.”

“What?! No!” With an offended scoff, you shake your head even though he’s not here to witness it. “You know NBC’s no-booze rule. I’m not gonna get caught—won’t get caught.”

“You slurred your speech and called me ‘Roro’—both in the same sentence, mind you.”

“So what? Rollo, Roro. Tomato, potato.”

“It’s to-may-to, to-mah-to. And—” he exhales an exhausted breath— “Never mind. That’s besides the point. Why, pray tell, have you called me at midnight?”

“Why’re you up at midnight?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Not fair! I asked first!”

“Not quite.” There’s a smile in his voice when he speaks next. “If I were to visit your room right now—knock on the door and wait there—would you let me in?”

“Yeaaah,” you start to say, only to catch yourself halfway in the trap. “No!”

“No?”

“No…thank you. No visitors tonight. S’late and I gotta study for tomorrow’s exam.”

“And a party will somehow aid in that endeavor? (Name), you do realize you’ve spun one too many lies and now you’re woefully entangled.”

“Less poetry and more picking me up.”

“Ah, so that’s what this is about.”  

“Rollo, please be nice,” you whine, your lips twisting into a pout. “S’cold and I didn’t bring a jacket and I’m kinda-maybe-sorta a little…”

“A little…?” he encourages, and you can just envision that self-satisfied smirk of his.

“A little-drunk-but-also-not-really-drunk-but-also-totally-drunk,” you hastily admit in a string of syllables. Snowfall swirls around you, and you grasp the bannister to prevent yourself from falling over. “Oh, it’s snowing.”

“I can see perfectly clear from my window. Beautiful, is it not?”

“So stop being an obtuse dick and come get me before I freeze!”

“Should that come to pass, you may just rival the Righteous Judge at the entrance. I’ll be sure to polish you every month.”

“I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna poison your coffee and watch you drink it, and then we’ll see who’s stiffer than a statue. It’ll be you—in death, y’know!”

“Will you now?”

“If you don’t pick me up, yeah!”

There’s the distinct sound of shuffling. You hear crisp pages turning and then a book closing before the rustling of fabrics invades your keen ears. You picture your responsible friend pacing around his room as he dresses himself for the weather.

“Very well,” he says after a moment, ever the composed gentleman. “Send me the address.”

“You’re the best. Love you lots. Thank you! Thank you!” You press your lips together to mimic obnoxious kissing sounds, which elicits a huff of amusement from him. “It’s not a far walk. Promise.”

“Stay on the phone with me. I’ll be there shortly. And don’t go anywhere.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“You do realize sneaking out is against the rules, yes?”

“Aaand here comes the lecture. Gimme a break. Can’t a girl celebrate her birthday in peace?”

You drag your hand over your mouth and wipe sticky wine residue away. In the process, you smear black lipstick. Dark like night, like a crow’s inky feathers, it leaves your once-flawless appearance in disarray.

“There are much better ways to celebrate. Did I not say I’d take you into town this weekend and we could celebrate then?”

“That’s so far from now.”

“It’s three days away, (Name).”

“Still too far.”

“Don’t expect me to provide cover if you get caught.”

“And you can just leave campus whenever you please?”

“This is different.”

“Yeah?” You giggle into the speaker, warm and fuzzy and endlessly entertained. It’s enough of a distraction to keep winter from seeping into your marrow. “How so?”

“This is official Student Council business.”

“Really?” you ask with an impressed whistle. 

“Indeed. On account of my being President, it’s only natural I punish students who conduct themselves poorly. Shall we review your list of infractions and decide on a suitable penalty together?”

“I’d rather we not.”

“Oh, but I insist. Perhaps our discussion and the cold will sober you and teach you a valuable lesson about integrity.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you lower onto the step to await his arrival. The icy stone digs harshly into your rear, which is hardly covered by your too-short dress. It’s definitely not fingertip length or weather-appropriate. You shiver and stuff your hand into the pocket of your cropped sweater. You should take shelter inside, where it’s plenty cozy and inviting, but your inflated pride disagrees. Retreating to the warmth after you’ve already bid farewell would be foolish. At least, that’s what the alcohol in your system is telling you.

So the goat endures the cold, for it knows that that is all that awaits it as the crow closes in.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m an academic criminal. Get on with it, President Flamme.”

“Let’s see. You’ve disobeyed campus curfew, snuck out on a school night, attended a party when your grades could use improvement, neglected your studies, drank carelessly, called the one person who can and will punish you for this and the aforementioned…”

The sound of crunching snow pierces the air then, and you look up in time to see Rollo approaching. He’s dressed in a long woolen overcoat with a scarf twined around his throat and a hat pulled down over his ears. He smirks at you from where he stands on the pavement, cutting the call and sliding his phone into his pocket. Tilting his head at you, he pulls another coat from under his arm and offers it to you.

“And you’re dressed for your death.”

“Okay, that one’s personal.”

Rolling your eyes, you rise on unsteady legs. He meets you at the stairs, climbing two of them to help you into the coat. It’s an embrace more welcoming than that of a lover’s, so soft and comfortable that it immediately rejuvenates your weary skeleton. It smells like Rollo, too—like coffee and weathered pages in an old book. You hum your approval, snuggling into the fluffy fabric. He’s plopping his hat on your head next, tugging it so far down that you almost slip on the slick stoop. Like he always has, ever since he first met you, he catches you. 

“Hello to you, too.”

You blink back at him. “Yeah, thanks. I owe you.”

“Let me see your hands.”

He takes them in his, runs his thumbs over the tops, and then procures mittens from his pockets. You watch him slide both over your hands, rubbing them together briefly to generate heat at a faster rate. Your body sways, gaze unfocused. He’s just about to unwind his scarf from his shoulders when you reach out to stop him.

“I’m good. This is enough.”

“You’ll catch your death—”

“And you won’t in just a coat and scarf? At least let me give you your hat back.”

He shakes his head, holding his hand up in objection. “You’ve been out in this weather longer. It’s only fair. But, really, did you have to wait out here? Couldn’t you have gone inside?”

“My pride’s on the line.”

Rollo’s unamused stare cuts through you. “You won’t have much pride left if you’re encased in ice.”

“Then we’d best get moving. Campus awaits!”

You wrap your arm around him, clinging out of instinct. Rollo peers at the proximity, his lips upturned in a covert half-smile, and his arm snakes slowly around your waist in return. You don’t notice this, for you’re too busy dragging your feet through the snow while he acts as a helpful crutch, stable in a way you just aren’t. Not right now, at least.

But then the goat is never stable enough to survive the inevitable—the swift, sacrificial blade that befalls and beheads, leaving gory spatters to run red and visceral in the wake of the end.

You’ve never known, and you never will. How could you when he’s been nothing but cordial? A clean slate. Admirable guidance. A helpful friend. Your only friend.

The crow descends in three knocks. He lets himself in regardless of whether you wish to have him as a guest. He is unwanted and feared, the very foundation of death and destruction, and he has set his beady eyes on you—the goat.

It’s common knowledge that you cannot pray away the crow. He persists, as always, quiet even when his wings beat against his sleek, feathered body like the loudest war drums. And the caw—the dreadful caw! It’s a most disturbing cry, one that pierces through the dark like jarring slivers of light in shadow. Or a butcher’s blade through flesh, sawing through sinew to get to brilliant bone beneath. The hoarse call of Death’s crows—they circle in a murder, swooping down to meet you as harbingers of malevolence.

Rollo has always strived to lead a virtuous existence defined by a rigidly righteous moral compass. In the gloomy pits of misery and hatred, where he festers in a bundle of tar-colored feathers, he does not hope for sunshine. He no longer knows the uplifting ebullience of life’s greatest miracles. Because there is no miracle in death or tragedy. Because there is no happiness to be found in a doomed hand, every card showcasing Death and its many forms. Not for him. Never for him.

But then, amidst the despair and despondency, each all-consuming, a goat fell into his lap.

A divine offering to the crow, who is so far from divinity himself, can only mean one thing. It is neither conciliatory nor a reward.

It is a sacrifice.

But then the City of Flowers adores its goats—reveres them for all that they are. Goats are cherished, not sacrificed. But to drag a nameless, magicless goat from the grounds of its far-off, inconceivable pasture—is that not the cruelest form of sacrifice? To drop this goat into the equitable embrace of the crow—is that not the sweetest gift? Generous yet unfair. Plucked right from the folds of another heaven.

The mortal coil can be callous, which is precisely why the crow is permitted to exist in impartiality. Death does not care for who you were in life and who you will be in the next, and the crow only ever oversees finales. Never beginnings. Much like a deity does not care for what good you can do if you do not first adore them in copious adequacy.

The crow carries with him a most fearsome knell—the chime of judgment, to be delivered right on time like an execution staged for noon.

All throughout life, you can plan for the crow and all that he shall deliver, and still you will never be fully prepared to greet him. He brings misfortune bundled in baskets woven from the bones of sacrifices past. In holy scripture, it is the goat who is punished most often—who is slaughtered at the altar, who is arranged as peace to quell the torrential fury of the deity, who is made to suffer at the hands of those hoping to avoid damnation or godly wrath, who is meant to shoulder the blame when no one else wants to. Favors have been bought with the blood of the goat, its head nestled amidst verdant grasses, pure forevermore even when it is dyed carmine. It appeases and pleases.

So it’s just—religiously so—that the crow takes the goat for himself, strips it bare, and proves to the prying eyes in heaven that the greatest sin is more than lustful temptation.

For the crow—for Rollo—the heaviest sin, a vile, cursed burden from his very first breath—it is existence itself.

And only the blood of a pure goat can wash away such filth—can cleanse what has been rotting within. The goat can make a garden out of the crow—bring life and love to its barren insides regardless of however fleeting its presence may be. It is within this garden—within the softest, fertile soil—where the crow shall sow the most special seeds.

You cross the bridge with Rollo, your laughter filling the cloudy sky as you recall all manner of amusing stories from the past few hours. Drinking games paired with drunken gossip. Delicious wines and snacks. A party with an energy so lively it could rival the city’s annual festivals. Even though he doesn’t seem outwardly pleased to hear any of it, he listens well and occasionally stops to steady you before you can topple over the railing into the water below. Your heels clack against smooth, frosted stone, and the wind whips at your face, each snowflake biting and vicious. Noble Bell’s vast campus waits just beyond the wrought iron gate, standing proud and backdropped by the night.

“You think anyone’s up?” you ask, curling your fingers into his arm as he guides you through.

Rollo eases the gate shut. “They might if they hear you. It would be best to keep quiet.”

You pantomime zipping your lips and discarding a nonexistent key. He quirks a small smile at that and then hurries you along. Nights are always peaceful at Noble Bell. The halls are desolate and quiet, devoid of all signs of student life. Your and Rollo’s shoes click in unison as you walk through the hall and past the courtyard. You gaze at the arched openings, counting each one as they become fainter with the growing distance.

Your breath materializes in front of you when you sigh. “I’m so sleepy. I wanna go to bed for a thousand years.”

“You’ll miss your exam if you do that,” he chides, tutting. “And every other exam that will follow.”

“That’s the point!” Your voice bounces off the walls, returning to you in a reverberating echo. Cringing under Rollo’s disapproving glower, you speak softer. “Oops. Sorry.”

“Just how much have you had to drink? You can hardly walk straight without leaning on me for support.” He narrows his eyes, his lecherous gaze crawling down to your bare legs. “Not that I mind…”

His words don’t reach you, for they’re swallowed in a howling gale as it sweeps across the courtyard. You spy the dormitories then, each one looking more like gingerbread covered in confectioners’ sugar instead of buildings dusted with snow. Your eyelids droop while you cross the distance to reach your designated building, your every movement feeling slower than molten molasses, and by the time you’re actually inside the dorm—Rollo’s shushed you more than once—you’re yearning for the warmth of your bed.

So it’s bewildering when, rather than your own room, you stop at Rollo’s instead.

He opens the door and steps inside with you in tow. You keep your mouth shut, too tipsy to think coherently. After he clicks the lamp on, which leaves the room awash in soft shades of amber, he shrugs his coat off, draping it over a nearby chair. You drag yourself over to his bed and flop down, squeezing your eyes shut to block out both the light and your spinning surroundings. Rollo doesn’t say anything, but you hear him shuffling about his room, crossing to close and lock the door before walking back towards you. The mattress dips under his weight, and you feel nimble fingers working to undo the buttons on your coat.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” you ask, cracking your eyes open just as he’s pulling the coat from your person.

Rollo folds it neatly and sets it aside. “You’re practically melting into my bed already. It would be quite the undertaking to make the walk back to your room at this hour.”

“So considerate,” you tease, grinning up at him. Sleep stretches your expression into something dazed, and you yawn loudly. “Then I’m gonna sleep here. Wake me up before class.”

You almost drift off, but those frigid fingers are moving to tug you out of your sweater next. They crawl across your bare shoulders like a spider on a web.

“You really are something,” he marvels, glancing at your body sprawled beneath him. “To brave the cold in such thin material…”

“Stupid choice. I know.”

“It appears we’re in agreement.”

“Shut up,” you snap back with a weak laugh. “You’re no better, showing up so cozy and then giving everything to me.”

Rollo memorizes the way the form-fitting dress hugs your figure. He inhales a shaky breath and brings his hands back to his sides. Your chest is right here. So close. So frustratingly close.

He can’t indulge. He really shouldn’t. It’s unbecoming to show such unfair favorability when he’s meant to remain impartial. Death should not lust for the beauty of life because it only knows endings—or the beginnings of ghostly eternity. The crow should not allow himself to be swept up in tumultuous temptation.

And the goat is the only friend he’s known—the only one who understands the crow, if only by a few meager slivers. But someday the goat will know.

Rollo swallows his inhibitions, beating his urges away with a stick. He’s not one for rash decisions; he’s meticulous and thoughtful. He would never take such a risk—would never nosedive into a crude confession. He’s plotted it in his diary, but it’s never come to fruition. He restrains himself because he must. Because it’s the polite and proper thing to do when caught up in courtship. Because if he opens his torso and allows you to poke around inside, you’ll find that he is not the friend you’ve known for all these months.

He is a fiend, devilishly so, wearing the hide of a goat to put the real one at ease.

Warring with rationality, he slides away from you and intends to recover at his desk. He’ll scrawl all of the things he wishes to do to you in there and that will be enough. That will help clear his head of the intoxicating fog that settles whenever he’s with you in private. But then he’s reaching to untie the canopy draped over his bed, each corner undone within seconds. The sheer curtains fall in thin layers, confining the both of you to this island in the middle of a barren sea. It’s darker in here, dimly lit by the faint glow of the lamp outside.

You blink up at him, owlish.

“You…” He stops himself, shakes his head, and turns away. Hastily, he fishes his handkerchief from his pocket. With this enclosed propinquity, he can smell your perfume. It’s spiced and flowery—alluring and adorable all at once—and it assaults both his nose and mind. “You should sleep. It’s late.”

This is for the best. The crow is only meant to look after the goat, remain unaffected even in the face of lustful, fateful sacrifice.

But you’re here. You’re splayed like a spill, perfectly imperfect, and your shoulders are a canvas coveting kisses. He clutches his handkerchief in a white-knuckled fist.

“Mm, okay. Night…”

“Yes… Yes, good night,” he mumbles, lowering his handkerchief. He swallows thickly.

This is for the best.

But even though he thinks this, his arm is stretching out. Closer. Closer. So close, until his hand is hovering just above your chest. He’s so close.

When will he ever have another chance as fortuitous as this?

His hand closes around your breast and he squeezes it experimentally. It’s soft when his fingers dig in gently, depressing with the pressure of his digits. Rollo’s green hues flick to your face. Your eyes are shut, and soft snores slip from your parted lips. He glimpses your chest again and, with the utmost care, slides your dress down to free your breasts. They’re mostly bare, save for the heart-shaped pasties covering your nipples. Rollo heaves a disbelieving sigh.

“Promiscuous,” he mutters, plucking the edge of the first adhesive and peeling it away to reveal the perky nipple beneath. You look so soft, so clean, so pure… What was he even worried about? No one’s had you before. He’s sure of it.

He’s about to remove the other heart when your voice freezes him.

“What…are you doing?”

He holds your gaze. It’s tense for a moment, unspoken accusations brewing between the both of you.

“A massage,” he blurts, but there isn’t a hint of haste in his tone. He suspected this outcome when he chose to traverse the line of right and wrong—and ultimately sided with the former. Because to him it’s right, even if it’s wrong. He knows what will soon follow: disgust and detestation.

Instead, you giggle. It’s sleepy and silly-sounding, but it’s also light and lively.

You catch his hand in yours and drag it back to your chest. “If you wanted to touch, just ask,” you murmur, your words slurring. “Nothin’ wrong with it.”

You’re not just perfect and pure. You’re everything.

Yes, it’s the alcohol blurring your brain and the intimacy of being trapped in a quiet, comfortable space such as this one that allows you to desire him. Would it be the same if you were sober? He can’t quite say, but he doesn’t wish to know. This is enough. This is paradise.

He kneads slow, steady motions into your breast, and you watch from where you’re lying on the bed. His other hand slithers between your legs to search for your clothed clit. Your breath hitches just as his fingers brush it, and he presses in, rubbing with his index. Your arm falls over your face, and your chest rises with every breath.

“How does it feel?” he asks, rolling your nipple between chilly digits.

“Not enough,” you bemoan, curling your fingers into a fist. “S’not enough…”

“How fascinating. I suppose cheap wine truly does turn you into a pute.”

“No… Was definitely expensive. The fancy kind.”

“Was it now?” He circles your clit, predatory and shark-like, his eyes alight with glee. “You say that, but look at the state it’s left you in. Utterly disheveled.”

“That’s because of—” you gasp, your voice rising in pitch— “because of you…”

His heart hammers in his chest, a resounding, pounding melody.

The City of Flowers treasures its goats, and the crow loves his fiercely even though he shouldn’t.

“Did you enjoy drinking yourself foolish and indulging in debauchery?” His fingers dance along your inner thigh, hooking around the hem of your underwear. “Was it a fun celebration?”

You lower your arm to glare halfheartedly at him. “Someone sounds jealous.”

“More so disappointed, mon chou chou,” he coos, sugary, sickeningly sweet. “Someone could have taken advantage of you. Someone could have tainted you with magic.” His lip curls up into a nasty sneer. It lingers for a moment before fading into something calm. He gazes at you, oddly tender. “That didn’t happen, though, yes?”

You shake your head and flinch when he drags your panties down. Dewy strings of your slick come away with it, and you shudder at your newfound nudity. He hums approvingly and drags his finger through the wet patch staining your panties. Driven by libertine compulsion, he stretches viscous strands of your essence between two fingers.

Your eyes find his deceitful greens once more. Silence sparks between the both of you, quickly broken by your exhalation. Rollo kneels before you, taking in the sight of you as your face wavers through the stages of consideration. Upon arriving at your conclusion, you sit up slightly and shuck your dress over your head. And then you’re lying back, shaking your panties from off your ankle, and wrapping your legs around his waist to draw him in closer. 

You grin, coquettish. “Why not search for yourself if you’re so worried, Mr. Student Council President?”

There’s no turning back. Not that he ever would. Not when the goat’s given him the signal. The blade doesn’t fall, but he does.

And this is better than dreams and erotica. This is real.

He surges forward to fit his lips against yours. Sloppy and inexperienced, he molds himself to your body. You tug him against you, your hands working to undress him. Clothes and shoes are cast aside between open-mouthed kisses, torn off half-buttoned and ripped away from soles. You breathe him in, gasping into his mouth. Translucent strings of saliva connect your mouths when you part, soon broken when you lean in for a chaste peck.

“You’re okay,” he says, the words practically bleeding onto your own tongue with how close he is. “Still as pure as the day I first met you.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“The best thing.”

His third and fourth fingers prod at the depths of your pussy, pressing inwards. Shallow at first. He watches your face unblinkingly, burning every pleasured contortion into his brain, and slides his thumb along your clit. Your breathing staggers, coming in quick huffs, and you grab at the bedsheets to steady yourself. Rollo works you open on those fingers, curling and scissoring in equal measure. The slick squelches join in the salacious symphony you’re currently producing. Every sigh and groan come together in perfect harmony. You’re a heavenly harp, and he’s plucking your strings like an expert musician.

“Tonight is unforgivable,” he adds, and you blink through blissful tears to view him. “Folly is the worst distraction.”

“Then be stupid with me,” you joke, running your hands over his shoulders. He’s so cold. “Warm yourself with me.”

And he will because he’s always wanted to. He’s desired it. Craved it. Coveted it. Thought of nothing else for days and days, each delusion so cyclical it often felt tangible.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, sliding his other hand up your hip and towards your rib. He traces the path of where it lies beneath layers of flesh before pressing down to feel it. “So beautiful…”

Your hand glides into his, fingers twining like silken thread around a spool. A lopsided smile lifts your lips, and you preen under him. “Yeah? Am I really?”

“I wouldn’t lie about the obvious…” Your walls hug his fingers tighter then, and a shiver electrifies your nerves. He hums again, quite pleased. “Oh, did you like that?”

“I did. Very much.”

Lashes fluttering against your cheekbones, your head thrown back in ecstasy ever-mounting, you render him ensorcelled. Like a prized Renaissance nude, a goat laid to sacrifice in the crow’s nest, you are beatific. Divinely so.

“Allow me to reiterate then.” He hastens his pace, pumping his fingers relentlessly. You tamp down a shameless moan. “You’re exquisitely beddable. A work of art. Enchanting. Une belle femme.”

You’re nearing the edge—very gradually, but not quite—and so it’s devastating when he slips his fingers out, each one thoroughly coated in you. They shimmer in the dim light, reminding you of where they had previously been.

“Put it back in,” you beg with wide, glossy eyes. “C’mon… Please don’t stop now. Was so close. So close and—”

Your complaints are curbed when you follow his hand as it moves to wrap around his half-hard cock. He strokes himself thrice, using your slick as lube, until his cock is curving up against his stomach. You stare at him; he stares right back.

And then you realize he intends to go all the way.

“Wait, Rol…lo… S’not my safe day,” you say, shifting away. Whether impatiently or anxiously, he can’t tell, but he can certainly guess. Your world spins once, a dizzying blur, before it promptly clears. In the very center of your vision, as he’s always been, Rollo remains. “S’not safe…”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with levity. “I know.”

He’s kept track, dutiful like always.

You attempt to crawl out from under him, but he stops you. Your stomach churns.

“I’ll pull out in time,” he promises, rubbing soothing circles into your plush hips.

Even with the alcohol still buzzing through your system, you aren’t convinced. “N-No, really, we should stop here…”

“You’ll feel so good. Come now, aren’t we nearly there already?”

Rollo lifts your legs onto his shoulders. You squirm with more determination this time, but his fingers dig into your thighs. With a startled squeak, you sink into the mattress, cowed into submission.

“We… We can’t.”

“Why not?” The smooth, soft head of his cock prods curiously at your pussy.

You chew your lip, admitting in a meek tone, “I… I could get p-pregnant…”

“Pregnant,” he parrots, tasting the word as if it’s a delicacy he has yet to sample. His cock twitches. “Pregnant…���

“So… So that’s why…”

“Do you not want children?”

“I… Well… Now is kinda…”

He presses onwards, sinking in slowly. Your breath hitches; your heart stumbles. The intrusion is not entirely unwanted, for your slick, snug walls cling to his shape, and you almost give in to bodily inclination. But it doesn’t feel right. You’re scared. No matter how naturally your body reacts, you don’t want this.

“Rollo, wait—”

“It would be a wonderful thing—to see you rounded with my children.” Rollo props himself on either side of you, his body pinned to yours in sinful, sweaty connection. He exhales a deep breath, restraining himself as he pushes deeper. Patience is a virtue, after all. Your expression tightens with discomfort, and so he peppers your face with placatory kisses. “To see you grow in and—mmh—out of the most flattering maternity wear. To behold every change that blesses this beautiful body of yours… To see you swell with my love, filthy as it may be. Ah, but pregnancy is just as messy… Nevertheless, it shall be a special bond for us—a sacred vow, if you will. We are connected here—” he punctuates this point by slotting the rest of his length inside, and your legs involuntarily close around him to keep him there— “and soon here when life develops within.”

One hand splays across your stomach to pat it with fondness. You choke on your helpless whimper when he rocks his hips once, experimenting with the movement. It’s awkward, but it reminds you that he’s inside. So close to your womb that in just a few more thrusts he might—

“No… No, please… Rollo, you have to—oh—have to pull out. Please pull out. Don’t wanna get pregnant…”

“Oh, but you would be so beautiful.” He breathes you in, savoring sex and floral fragrance. “If I’m allowed one miracle—just one for all the anguish I’ve endured—let it be this.”

You know not of what anguish he speaks, for he’s never verbalized it, but even so it can’t possibly be so agonizing that it would warrant such invasion.

The vise-like hold your velvety walls have on his cock is deliciously addictive. He groans while he ruts into you, his eyelids fluttering. He could be animalistic and cruel in his movements—ravish you as if the world is faced with annihilation and this is his final hour—but instead he settles for exploratory leisure. His hand fits into yours and he squeezes it gently. A feeble protest builds in your throat and so he swallows it with a hungry kiss, his mouth molding against yours.

Your nails dig into his shoulders when he draws back and slides in again, filling you deeper than before. You breathe between kisses, panting and licking into his mouth in even intervals. He does much the same, anchored to you in a way that is both temporary and yet so permanent.

The world narrows down to this single sliver of space, enclosed in a canopy. And in it, laid bare and fertile, the goat is sacrificed to the crow. Death cannot reach either one here. There is only the promise of new life, thrust upon the goat all at once.

You don’t have the willpower to object, for you’ve already found yourself entrapped, so instead you cry. Tears track down your cheeks; your mascara runs with it. Ruined. So, too, is your pitch-black lipstick, smeared along the edges of your lips and printed onto Rollo’s porcelain skin.

Rollo’s hips stutter to a halt and he holds you against him when he spills thick and hot inside. Nothing is wasted; it’s all emptied deep within. If you’re lucky, it won’t take. But if some mischievous fertility goddess has cursed you, you’ll wake nauseous in the coming weeks.

If you have anything worth praying for, it’s the former.

The both of you are panting in the aftermath, but only one is coming down from his glorious high. You remain unsatisfied, your peak not yet breached. Rollo rolls his hips once more for good measure before easing out. You crumple into the wrinkled sheets, frigid and still as a statue. Carved empty and hollow, yet stuffed with sin.

The crow has come. Though this time the gift of tragedy is something between boon and curse.

— — —

The curtains are drawn to let in sunlight. It filters in through frosted glass, each pane stamped with snow, and it blinds you the moment you try to open your eyes. You twist and turn in bed, feeling heavy with hangover. A splitting ache cracks your head in half, and you groan loudly.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you hiss, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes. “This sucks…”

You force yourself to wake after two more minutes of rolling around. Groaning once more, you sit up in bed. The canopy has been tied back in place, and when you glance sidelong at Rollo’s desk you notice something. A glass of water and a plate are waiting for you, seeming more enticing by the second. You throw the covers off, realize you’re nude seconds later, and promptly snatch them back. They’re wrapped around you like a comforting cloak. You stagger out of bed to check the contents. Two croissants, a single orange, a dollop of strawberry marmalade, and two tablets are arranged on the plate.

Hangover medicine, you realize, lifting one up to scrutinize it.

You peer around the room. It’s empty. And then you see the clock. It’s a little past noon.

“Oh,” you mumble, lowering into the chair. You clutch the blanket closer. “Rollo must be in class.”

Amidst the piercing migraine, which you quickly resolve by throwing your head back to swallow both tablets in a single gulp of water, two things occur to you. You’re in Rollo’s room. Naked. In Rollo’s room. Surely you must have spent the night after you returned from the party. Why are you naked?

But more importantly…

“Shit! My exam!” The excitement doesn’t help your current state, and you slouch in your seat, even more exhausted than before. “I completely missed it… Rollo’s gonna kill me.”

You scrub the sleep from your eyes and reach for a croissant, content with giving up. You don’t want to endure the walk of shame from Rollo’s room to yours. If anyone were to catch you, they’d certainly be left wondering.

As you nibble on the croissant, admiring the way Rollo’s arranged the contents of his room, you spot the edge of something beneath the plate. Perplexed, you push it aside to reveal a note. Penned in Rollo’s effortlessly pretty script, it reads:

I’ll forgive your transgression just this once if you’ll forgive mine. For now, get some rest. I’ve left breakfast here. Stay for however long you’d like.

You scowl at his attempt of ‘breakfast,’ and your stomach rumbles in dissatisfaction.

“Right?” you say to your stomach, clicking your tongue. “If anything, this is hardly a snack.”

But you’re grateful for his efforts. He cares. He always has. From the very first day you found yourself in this world, he cared.

While you peel the orange, pondering foggy recollections of last night, you begin to realize just how sticky you feel. As if someone’s slobbered all over you and left it to dry. The feeling persists between your thighs.

You pause momentarily, overcome with an uncanny sense of panic as you piece the puzzle together. The still-forming picture does not look good.

“Shit…” you whisper, haunted with a fragmented timeline. “What the hell did we do last night?”

You know. The deep, dark part of your brain knows, but you don’t want to confront it. Because Rollo wouldn’t, right? He couldn’t. He’s always done what’s best for you, so he wouldn’t.

Right?

[malaierba]

I kinda do believe that Toshiro IS afraid of being head of his household.

He's barely made any decisions of his own his whole life. Only time he did was to save someone he cared about. He's too used to the comfort of obedience, I think he believes it absolves him of participating in the activities of a household that does things in a way he disagrees with.

What kind of things you ask? Mainly how those bound to it are treated, I think:

He's angry at Maizuru when he learns about the flying hag that chased him as a kid being her doing.

He let's Izutsumi/Asebi go. There's two translations going around of the scene where Maizuru informs him that she's missing. I've seen bilingual Japanese users on twitter say that the one where he goes "She'll find her way back if she wants to" is more appropriate, it carries the intention of him letting her go. Saying "just leave her" is probably what a native English speaker assumed to be the more straightforward intention.

When he tells Laios about how Tade was probably in a very bad situation because she saw his dad (who he doesn't respect at all) as a saviour he says "I wanna speak to her". He doesn't because, passivity man, but, I get the feeling he wanted to tell her "he's still not a good person, Tade". I get the feeling he'd allow her to leave after Izutsumi if they were ever in a situation where he can actually be the decision maker.

He apologises to his party for dragging them down to confront the Faligon. Remember how that was all of those guyses first death in a dungeon? I've said this but. Man saw them get wipped. Childhood friend AND mom figure died in front of his eyes, and I know that's normal in a dungeon, but jeez. His mom-adjacent figure. His "MOM". idk I'd be messed up, unrelated but I think Laios is definitely suppressing how much it affected him to see Falin be eaten, be turned, be stabbed, etc etc. He's definitely an "I'll focus on problem solving to avoid looking at my emotions" type of guy.

During the fight he asks Laios "what about me is strong?". If you'll remember, Laios said that in the original party, Toshiro was in charge of finding an opening and dealing the killing blows. I wonder if he felt burdened, responsible for their failure then?

If he takes failure that hard when he's just following orders, I can see him feeling anxious about the prospect of failure when he's the one issuing them. It's probably why he comes across as so half-hearted with the whole "earn the right to be the next Head of the Clan" thing.

Not to mention, I remember seeing someone on X say, "the big gap between Toshiro and his baby brothers (13 years) is probably because Toshitsugu originally just wanted one (1) heir out of his arranged marriage to Toshiro's mom, since he actually loved Maizuru. But then he decided that Toshiro wasn't made of whatever was necessary to be a leader of their shady ass clan, so he had another two kids as backup".

If Toshiro is aware of that, fuck man, what kind of confidence is he going to have 😵

But, it's also a shame, right? Because he's explicitly empathetic. I think that's the meaning of him being shown playing with bugs as a kid, being coded as kind of softhearted. He empathises with things/beings he "shouldn't". But he's also obedient, he's always masking, so he has a hard time showing it explicitly. Honestly, the fact that he has that discussion about Tade with Laios is impressive imo, he trusts him and feels more comfortable with him than he lets on. He should NOT say the same thing to Maizuru or Hien, even though he respects them and cares for them.

If he had a bit of a spine, he'd be good for the people in the household. Probably bizarre in a way that even his dad can't predict, and maybe wouldn't like (he likes weirdos but only when it means chaos and fun it seems?). Maybe there'd be infighting. He just doesn't agree with the way his dad does too many things.

On the other hand, I also kinda think he should just take Tade and fuck off back to Melini lol. Become a bodyguard for Laios, help a bit with politics. What's for him in Wa anyway? An Estranged family and friends he doesn't fit with anymore. I think he'd be more likely to feel homesick for his friends in Melini than the Nakamoto household.

In any case I hope that Falin encouraging him to be more of an active participant of his own life has an everlasting effect on him. Even if he's afraid of shouldering that responsibility.

[witsserviceablesubstitute]

More Dark Rise and Dark Heir thoughts:

My prediction is that Will isn't a reliable narrator about his past self and the text is deliberately misleading about the relationship between Sarcean and the Light. Bait and switch foils are some of Pacat's favourite narrative tools and i'd be surprised (and honestly a bit angry) if it was as simple as the Dark King (with all his queer symbolism) equates to evil and the Lady (with all her Christian iconography) equates to good.

The biggest example of 'unreliable narrator Will' is how he already believes he's evil and that people are right to abuse and want to kill him. As we see with how all his thoughts about his mother in Dark Rise are loving, magnanimous, and illustrating a desire to avenge her death. Then in Dark Heir the reader discovered how abusive she was because of her belief in his 'innate evil'.

The point is, though, that Will isn't innately evil. No one is. Eleanor never had the right to treat baby Will as she did. Just as the Stewards never had the right to treat James as appallingly as they did. No one had the right to abuse and try to kill them. The Stewards created their own villain by treating James like a villain and that same principle applies to how everyone is treating Will.

Sarcean in his pov isn't good, but neither is he evil. He is Will. He's observant, artful, sneaky, scheming, smart, and uncommunicative. He's heartbreakingly loyal to those he loves. He rewards loyalty to him even if they turn on him later. He's ruthless and overly aware of how others perceive him. He craves control. He's obsessively and irrevocably in love with Anharion. I don't think Sarcean is some evil self separate from Will, Will keeps making all Sarcean's mistakes because they are, fundamentally, the same. I do think Will coming into himself and making better decisions will be in his accepting that Sarcean is not a separate person at all.

[threepandas]

Bad End: Chosen

I used to love Otome games.

Used to love the genre, predictable as it could sometimes be. It was bright. Fun. A colorful bit of escapism built on love and power fantasies. I read the books. Watched the animes. Engaged with the fandoms freely and with an enthusiasm I can barely remember now.

It was a lifetime ago.

Before I... before, like a monkey's paw wish, I got granted every OI fan's DREAM. I somehow, someway, died and was reborn. A genuine isekai all of my own. I laugh now... I really do... I was so fucking EXCITED.

I was a FOOL.

The world is not a story. PEOPLE are not characters. You can not push the "right" social imput buttons and have a happy ending pop out. Time moves as it always has and always will. Day by day. And? Just because you are HERE? Does not mean you are SPECIAL.

I was old enough to know that, thank the Gods. Or I would have made a likely terrible mistake. Probably a fatal one, by now.

How, you may ask? Surely if you are reborn, you are special! Important to the "plot"! HA. Ah yes, the all forsaken PLOT. That damnable thing, chaining out fates and making us dance, like toys, for the Gods amusement. No, I was merely a replacement part for one worn out and broken down. A soul that gave up.

This dance repeats, you know.

They aren't done with us yet. Not bored of us, all the twists and turns we might take. She could not keep fighting. Keep raging. And so she was replaced. Now I live... a changeling in her place. Knowing my role yet careful to defy it. But... oh...

Oh, how almost IMPOSSIBLE it is to defy it.

I am supposed to HATE her. The Protagonist. The Chosen One. Saintess and beloved. The God's special little thing. Showered in adoration and silks, pampering and protection. While we all DIE. In this, their STUPID fucking Holy War, that we CAN NOT WIN, against "The Dark".

How HELPFUL, my liege. How incredibly SPECIFIC. Is "The Dark" the demons that tore apart my squadron a fortnight ago or the undead that rose and devored an entire village of terrified innocents? How do we STOP them? END this infinite string of atrocities?

Oh? "Only the SAINTESS can push back The Dark"? Well then! It's a good thing she safely tucked away in the CAPITAL THEN, isn't it!? Far from the front lines where we NEED her! Thank the GODS she's getting her chance to play "fuck, fuck, marry!" with the nation's finest while we all DIE!

I remind myself again, desperately, I am not allowed to hate her.

If I hate her, I become an antagonist in this little play. Doomed to die a gruesome and needless death. My men need me. The people need me. The live and breathe and fear for their lives. At the mercy of cruel God's who do not care.

I almost... It is enough that I almost wish my Master was here. But no, HE stayed back at the Magic Tower. Lost interest in me the second the merest HINT that his beloved pet prophecy might be about to be fulfilled. I was his student for most of my life. Chased up and down that mind-bending hellhole for years, giving my everything to meet his every standard.

Does he even remember my name?

Ha ha... gods, as I stare down at the battle map, one of so SO many... I feel brittle. How long will we fight? How many of my men must DIE, before that God coddled BITCH gets off her ass and comes to do her JOB?! We've lost Redwell. Lakehill is covered in ghouls. And no one we sent near the forests of Mirth ever reports back.

But at least the crown prince is getting his fucking birthday party while his people starve. While they run for their lives. Cower from demons and the damned. Because his Twue Woooove~ can't be allowed to put her dainty little self in DANGER now CAN she?!

I'm seething. Furious. Nails digging into the wood on the table before me. I know I should be planning... but I just... gods, I just so ANGRY. So tired. How long can this continue? Am I going to die here, just so those fuckers can DRAMATICALLY "save the day" at the last second? As though they had not let thousands die? Only for it all to begin again? What am I supposed to d-?

Like a roll of thunder and an earthquake combined, the non-physical world SHAKES.

Weight. POWER. Like a mountain appearing from no where, to drop down upon us all. It is CRUSHING. And every bit as dark as being buried beneath tons on soil and stone. My legs nearly give out. My grip on the table before me the only thing keeping me up and alarm bells start clanging outside my tent.

This is it.

I don't know what's about to happen, but I can FEEL it. I... I can not possibly hope to win. It's over. I know, in my heart, I will go out there and fight. Die. Because I refuse to die cowering. Because maybe it'll make a difference for my friends, for the others, for those that yet live. Every monster I slay is one less they fight.

But... this is it.

It's over.

I wish I felt braver. Glorious and filled with light. A beacon of hope, perhaps. But all I can offer is fear and anger and SPITE. Locking my knees so I can stand. Blinking away the tears so I can grit my teeth and bare them. Grabbing my staff so can go a die with the others. Today I shall burn the world. I promised myself.

Take them with you.

Take every last one of those fuckers WITH YOU.

The battle is ugly. It always is and always will be. I heal where I can but kill faster the most can blink. Waves of fire. Blood turned to ice turn to shrapnel bombs turned to flying storms of blood ice shards. Wind attacks and void pockets. Puppets made of mud and rock and bits of armor. The blood of the fallen only making it all that much stronger, that much more terrible.

Magic in war hold no beauty.

I wish I never had to see it again.

"Grandlearner, you've been practicing." A rich voice observed from behind me, sounding pleased. "Good~"

Between one instance and the next, the crushing ocean of power moves between the far side of the battle field to right behind me. I move, spin. Fire my strongest short-range piercing in the desperate hope to gut the man now far too close. I... am effortlessly countered.

He didn't even have to move his hands.

There, standing in the heart of an open battle field, is a man in impeccable fomal clothes. Spotless, dispite the ash and dust, the blood and gore. Almost inhuman in his otherness, compared to the death and suffering surrounding him. He looks like a proper well-to-do gentleman ready for a stroll. The sort of ambiguously ageless bachelor that had haunted the royal university's halls every time I was sent there, to collect something for the Tower.

Too old to be some boyish flirt, too young to be a rougish mistake. It feels false. Mocking. Like a mask held up by some grinning beast. Something older then it seems, effortlessly blending in with the Power of the current age, all the better to play them like fools.

Then the words register and my blood runs cold.

"Learner". It's what a Master calls their personal magical students at the Tower. There are lineage, of a sort. Like bloodlines, almost. Since most never leave. A way to pass on your teachings. Your name and traditions. It's not like we often have the chance to have biological kids. Too busy with our studies. So it's considered effectively the same.

My Master's Master. Who was said to be one of, if not THE, greatest Mages of the last thousand years, possibly longer. Said to have simply vanished one day. Rumored to have "lost his mind" and left the Tower for places unknown after some great argument. Foremost expert on The Dark.

Now standing h...here. Right... Right here. With the enemy army. Of dark and terrible things. The very abominations he once studied "academically". Oh gods. It doesn't take much to put two and two together.

"I've come to collect you, my dear." He says, the very picture of charm as my men scream and suffer around him. As they fight for their lives against his monstrosities. As... as they LOSE. "It has come to my attention, that my unfortunate disappointment of a student has been neglecting his duties to you."

He sweeps his hat gallantly from his head, holding it against his heart at just the right angle, as though offering to merely take me for a stroll. Picture perfect etiquette. As though this were high society and not a warzone. The disconnect stuns me for long moments. "Collect" me?

He strolls forward. Expensive shoe leather somehow unstained by the terrible muck of the battlefield. The blood and mud, the spell water and ash. Amusement rolling off every line of his form, as I try to keep the distance between us. As I struggle against the sucking filth to keep my feet under me.

"I would like to say I am surprised... but honestly? I am not. He always WAS easily distracted by shiny trinkets of little worth. The shinier the better. Like an empty headed little magpie. Disgusting really, how little he values loyalty. I DID try to instill some values. Hard work. Good, honest, study. Some modicum of rationality..."

"It did not work." He sighs, stepping over the fallen body of my Cordelia, my reserve healer. Gods, please no, I told her to RUN... "Unlike myself of course. I, my dear, know EXACTLY what your worth. How you have been WASTED on that little ingrate. It truely has been a theme with him, hasn't it?"

"Tossing aside anything who doesn't fit his perfect little vision. His Master, his Learner, nothing is sacred to him. All he shall ever care for is his little divine tart, won't he?"

The grin that spills across his mouth is like poison through veins, it terrifies me. His face is arranged in a mask of pleasantry. But the look in his eye... that look was coldly covetous. The sort of hunger that would sooner kill than release its hold. It wasn't lustful, I was a child too him. An infant. But I was, perhaps, all that remained. The last piece of his lineage he could possibly still steal away. Corrupt.

I refused.

It... it did not matter much, in the end.

Every spell, he counters. Every attack, he matchs with effortless neutralization. The well of his magic is like the sea. Deep, dark, and crushing. I rage against it, even knowing I stand no chance. I... I have to TRY. I can do no less. Even as I slowly collapse.

Water and ice, electricity and transformation, wind and fire. I try to EXPLODE HIS ORGANS for the Gods sake. In the end, with nothing left, the well of my magic nearly bone dry... I swing at him. Put my back in to it. A staff is a staff after all. It even has a pretty hefty rock in it. It'd probably take out a few teeth.

He, of course, catches it.

Bastard.

He looks CHARMED. Utterly delighted. As though my defiance and struggle are some cute little game. The tantrum of an adorable child that does not wish to submit to their nap. The world swayed as my body begs me to just pass out. To escape within myself. Recover. My legs can no longer hold me. I glare. At last, long last, I let myself HATE.

If that BITCH had just DONE HER JOB. I would not be here, at the mercy of a mad man. While she frolics about, in her happy little tale of love and misunderstandings? I have suffered. People have died! The world has fallen to slow and crumbling RUIN.

Gloved hands cupped my cheeks.

"That's it, little one~ My precious child. Get angry. RAGE for me. Let Master see your fire~" thumbs stroked my cheeks. Looming and entirely too close. There is a glee in that eye, a madness. "We are going to set this world FREE. You? Oh dearest you are utterly PERFECT. Master will take care of everything, understand? All you have to do?"

"Is give in."

Next -->

[veturiusofserra]

when you know, you know | s. r.

𑁤 synopsis: in an interview she opens up about how easy it is to be loved by Spencer, sharing the story of how they met and how his love inspired her music.

𑁤 pairing: spencer reid x singer!reader

𑁤 words: 1.090

𑁤 disclaimer: This was 100% inspired by something my bf said a while ago, and I love the song. I hope you will enjoy it too <3

“As we reach the close of our conversation, one thing’s bugging me. In your song “Margaret,” there’s this line ‘when you know, you know.’ Like, how do you just know someone’s the one? I’ve been through my share of relationships, yet I haven’t experienced that kind of thing you sing about. In your song, it’s all so clear-cut, like you can predict the future. It reminds me of a kid believing in the tooth fairy – sweet idea, maybe not quite real. But that’s probably what makes the song so good. It talks about this perfect love where everything just clicks, and all your worries disappear. Maybe that’s what I’m still looking for, or maybe it’s just for some lucky people. Either way, your song paints such a strong picture of love that it makes me wonder if I’ll ever have a ‘Margaret’ of my own.”

“It’s funny, right? The answer everyone gives is so simple: “you’ll just know.” Like love hits you like a lightning bolt, destiny calls, happily ever after guaranteed. But maybe that’s the problem. We get this picture-perfect idea of love from movies and books, and then we miss the real thing when it’s right under our noses. We set these high expectations, these checklists of what “the one” should be like. And if someone doesn’t tick every box, we write them off. It’s like searching for a flawless diamond, forgetting that even the most beautiful gems have tiny imperfections. Because guess what? We all mess up. You make mistakes, I make mistakes, everyone does. Maybe that’s what makes a real connection so special – accepting someone, flaws and all. Speaking of which, there’s this story I wanted to share with you.”

“We're all ears!”, the interviewer and the crew smile with waiting faces.  

“For the longest time, I believed I was destined to give love, but never receive it.  Maybe because... well, let’s be honest, I can be a bit self-absorbed, lost in my own head and neglecting others. But even with the no love life mantra, there was always this yearning for a family, a deep desire for children I could call my own. The ‘what ifs’ terrified me, though. Would I be a good parent? Would they be happy? Could I provide for them? Eventually, I resigned myself to a life of music, making people happy through my art, having a few friends, maybe a tragically young death – you know, the artist’s curse. 

Then, I found him. We both know Penny, but run in different circles. He’s in law, I’m an artist – about as different as you get, except for maybe a shared love of fancy vocabulary. We met at Penny’s birthday party, and while he claims it was love at first sight for him, I just thought he was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. But that was it. He was too shy to introduce himself, and I was sworn off men at the time. Funny how fate works, right?  We never crossed paths before, but after that night, it seemed like everywhere I turned, there he was. That’s when I decided to take a chance, and boy, I was so scared!

All those stories about soulmates and butterflies? They weren’t for me. Anxiety had been my constant companion for as long as I could remember. Butterflies just meant another battle brewing in my head. What I craved was peace, a steady hand to anchor me until I was ready to set sail. So, I built a friendship with him. We shared secrets, dreams, and vulnerabilities. He turned out to be a brilliant mind, a walking encyclopedia with an IQ of 187. Yet, he never made me feel inferior. He found humor in my quirks, and we seemed to complement each other perfectly. The more time we spent together, the more his words resonated: “We were designed for one another.”

And then, it hit me. Love. Deep, unexpected, and all-encompassing. It felt effortless, a perfect fit. But fear gnawed at me. It was all so new, so unfamiliar. Just as I was drowning in uncertainty, Penny, our mutual friend, reached out. She had something to show me – “Margaret.”

“She wrote it?” she asked, intrigued.

“Well, she started it,” I clarify. “Inspired by him, she penned the first lines that night after the birthday party. She couldn't shake the image of his longing gaze, a sight she’d never witnessed before. It felt sacred, a raw glimpse into his heart. The initial draft, rough around the edges, went something like this: ‘just writing for a friend. My shirt's inside out, and penmanship is messy. He met her on the rooftop, and she wore white. He said, ‘I think I’m in trouble.’ He saw flashes of the future.” A gentle smile graces your lips. 

“Seriously, that’s adorable.”

I nod, a blush creeping up my cheeks. “Right? Her words sparked inspiration within me. I wrote the rest, my mind consumed by-”

“By him.” she prompted, leaning in.

“He made love feel simple. Loving me was effortless for him, a stark contrast to the struggle I’d always imagined. It was like breathing, a natural and easy rhythm. He helped me discover the light that had been hiding within me all along.”

“There’s a saying,” the interviewer began, “to be loved is to be changed.”

I smiled. “I prefer a different one: to be loved is to be known. Because maybe, just maybe, he saw the affection within me all along, the part I couldn’t quite see myself.”

“You are indeed full of affection,” she said warmly. “Thank you for sharing this story with us.”

“Thank you for listening. I know it's a cliché, but there truly is someone out there for everyone. You never know what tomorrow holds, but deep down, a tiny spark ignites within us, guiding us towards that love. Trust it.”

“That wraps it up for our interview with the lovely Y/n! But before we say goodbye, there's one more message for her. Can we play it, Jonah?” A nod later, the studio fills with the sound of a familiar voice.

“Hey there, love. Just wanted to say congratulations on the album! You poured your heart and soul into it, and I’m incredibly proud. But hey, can you come home soon? Two days feels like an eternity without you. Miss my other half. Love you tons, sweetheart. And everyone listening, stream Ocean Boulevard! Dex says hi to mom, too.” A meow erupts in the background, eliciting a laugh from you and the studio crew.

thoughts? or prayers idk

[kingkatsuki]

Sealed With A Kiss | Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Didn’t think I’d write anything for Bakugou’s birthday and then a random idea popped into my head and I wrote it all in one sitting. It’s been months since I’ve started and finished a fic, so please be kind! And Happy Birthday, Bakugou!💕

Summary: Not everyone wants the quirk that they're given. Ever since you were a child, you were cursed with a quirk where you’re able to see how someone will die when you kiss them. Unsure on whether your quirk is telling the future, or sealing their fate with a kiss of death, its safer for you to completely give up on finding love. Coming to terms over the years that you’ll have to watch all your friends get married and settle down, while you spend the rest of your life alone. That is, until you run into Bakugou Katsuki.

Warnings: 18+, minimal plot, mostly smut, no beta, praise, dirty talk, fingering, multiple orgasms, public sex, protected sex, not as angsty as I thought it’d be!

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader.

Word Count: 6.4k.

What would you do if you could tell someone the exact time and way that they’re going to die? Would you share that information with them, hoping that they can get their affairs in order and live those final moments to the fullest before kicking the bucket? Or would you keep quiet about it, holding onto the information as though it's a sordid little secret that needs to be buried and taken to your own grave?

Not that it matters anyway, because even if you held that information no one would believe you anyway, would they? Telling someone that they’re going to die in a car accident when they don’t even drive, or that they die during a snowstorm in July. It’s like people only ever believe what they want to hear, and it’s the same reason why even your best friend doesn’t know about your quirk. Imagine if you’d proved it, writing down your prediction and then waiting for it to happen. Counting down the days like you’re waiting for an exciting event, not waiting for someone to die. And then what? Someone dies and people want you to do it again, to prove that it wasn’t just a fluke. And then what? You’re kissing every single person that comes along just to tell them that they’re not going to make it to their next birthday?

Quirks should be a blessing, but yours was most definitely a curse.

“You know you really should start trying to settle down, you’re not getting any younger.” You could practically feel the disdain in their tone as you tried to avoid the question by taking a sip of your drink.

“You act like she’s going to die soon,” Your best friend Tatami laughed, shaking her head, “She’s got plenty of time.”

Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. You should scoff at the saying, but in this instance, it was very much true. The entire Hen party was made more awkward by the fact that you didn’t like any of your best friends friends’. All socialites that would give up your deepest, darkest secrets to further themselves and get their names plastered all over the latest tabloids. You were lucky enough to have known her since childhood, but it didn’t make it any easier.

Every wedding you’d attended in the last few years was even more elaborate and outrageous than the last like each bride competed to show that they had the most magnificent life. And every time you were stuck in an uncomfortable bridesmaid dress, trying to avoid the same string of questioning that you knew was coming.

“Come on, Tatami.” One of the girls rolled her eyes, taking a large sip of champagne, “Why don’t you try to set her up with one of your old school friends? At least then she’d be with a man with ambition.”

You felt irritated by them talking about you as though you weren’t even in the room, never mind sitting on the opposite ends of a table. They made it seem as though you were incapable of finding a partner like no one would ever want you.

“Or you could try one of those dating websites, I almost married a rich tycoon from Russia on there before I settled down with my husband. It’s funny how things work out.”

Of course, no one even bothers to ask me whether I want a boyfriend or not– never mind a husband. You rolled your eyes at the idea of flying out to Russia to marry a rich oil tycoon.

“I’m happily single at the moment,” You force a smile, your hand tightening against your glass, “

“They are right though, darling.” Tatami gave you a soft smile, “You have been single for quite some time. I’m not even certain I remember the last time you even mentioned going on a date with anyone?”

That’s because you hadn’t. Not since you lost your boyfriend all those years ago. Why would you try to look for someone again knowing what you know now?

Growing up you’d eagerly awaited receiving your quirk, but the longer it took to manifest the more you’d come to terms that you were one of the quirkless. It wasn’t until you shared your first kiss at sixteen that you realised that maybe things weren’t quite as they seemed. Everyone anticipates their first kiss, hoping it would be one of those special, perfect moments that you’d remember for the rest of your life. But instead, the moment you’d shared yours, you’d been struck with a horrifying premonition.

It felt like a dream at first, a moment where you’d pinch yourself and realise that everything had been concocted in your mind. The vision of your first love walking into traffic on a cold, snowy evening. The cars were unable to stop against the icy terrain as they drove straight towards him, the lights bouncing off the road to make it difficult to see pedestrians as he was knocked to his back. You’d even told him about it after it happened, laughing about how vivid your imagination was– but not even three months later and it's like your nightmare came true.

You’d told yourself it was a coincidence, that it could've happened to anyone and it was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Trying to heal your heart as you took time to recover from losing your first love until you met your next boyfriend. You were trying to allow yourself to be happy again, to forget the bad memories that haunted your past. Until it happened again– your first kiss with him gave you a vision. This time a villain attack endangered the city, your boyfriend was caught in the crossfire as a fire quirk ripped through his body and burnt him from the inside out.

It should’ve frightened you, much like the first time. But instead, you just felt numb. It was then you realised that you weren’t in fact quirkless, but instead of gaining a talent that was cool, flashy or useful to society– you inherited a curse.

Of course, there was no way you could explain your quirk to anyone, finding someone that believed you would be hard enough. But telling someone that you know when they’re going to die purely from kissing them? It sounded insane. Not to mention what it could do if the information fell into the wrong hands. Using the information for those dark, depraved benefits.

And to this day you weren’t even sure whether kissing someone showed the way they were going to die, or whether kissing them sealed their fate. Like you were the grim reaper handing out the macabre kiss of death.

Why would anyone want to be with you?

So it was easier this way, guarding your heart so you couldn’t feel the pain of losing someone you love again. A small price to pay to ensure that you didn’t harm anyone else, and the disappointed looks from your friends that you were still very much single were a small price to pay.

But you did feel alone.

Watching all your friends get married, settle down and have kids was harder when you knew you could never have those things. Maybe that's why it hurt even more. We always desire what we can’t have, after all.

“Let me set you up on one date and see how it goes,” Tatami’s annoying friend dipped her glass towards you from across the table, the champagne sloshing inside it, “I have this friend, not much of a looker, but he’s a quirk defence lawyer. It pays good money, and he’s looking to settle down–”

“It’s alright, I’m really not looking–” You felt awkward as each set of eyes around the table scrutinised you.

“Nonsense, he’d be perfect for you,” She continued, and you almost groaned as she pulled out her phone, “Let me text him now, I bet he could get you lunch in that new Sushi restaurant in the city.”

“Sorry, I just need the bathroom-” You almost shoved Tatami out of the booth as she stood up to let you out, her drink splashing as you tried to give her a reassuring smile before disappearing into the throng of people inside the busy nightclub. You weren’t even sure if you’d be able to find it back to your table at this point, but all you knew is you needed to get out.

The heat inside the club was suffocating, burning through you as you tried to find an exit. Weaving through the sea of people as you tried to remind yourself to breathe. Heaving a sigh as you noticed the sign to a smoking area as you followed the few people heading in the same direction. Stepping into the cool evening air is a welcome relief, the chill pricks against your skin as the heat slowly simmers down. Leaning against the rough brick wall as the back of your head knocks against it gently, closing your eyes to try and alleviate the irritation bubbling up inside you.

“Oi, you okay?” Your eyes opened into a glare to see the source of the voice, your nose scrunched in irritation at the blunt introduction.

A blond man stood a few feet away from you, cell phone in hand. The bright screen illuminated his face and cast a soft glow against his skin. You felt your heart betray you as it sped up at the sight of him, suddenly feeling self-conscious beneath his piercing ruby gaze.

“M’fine.” You mumbled, not about to dump all your issues on a random stranger.

“You don’t look fine,” He shrugged, glancing back down at his phone as he typed against the screen.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You sneered, your defences up.

“You just look pissed,” He smirked, and it only irritated you more.

Who did this fucking asshole think he was?

“Well I’ve got a random stranger bothering me, so perhaps I am.”

The answer has the opposite effect you were expecting as the blond beside you gives you a wide grin, shaking his head.

“Gotta be better than the desperate pricks inside there?” He tilts his head towards the club and you’ve gotta admit he’s right. You’ve been standing beside him for a minute and he hasn’t tried to buy you a drink or grab your ass.

“Guess you’re right.” You exhale softly.

“Whatever it is can’t be that bad anyway,” He shrugs, “You’re too pretty to be frownin’.”

You hate the way your heart throbs when he calls you pretty, it's pathetic really.

“You come here alone?”

Does he really think you’re that much of a loser to come to a club by yourself?

‘No, my friends are still inside.”

“So why are you out here alone?” He raises a questioning brow.

“Why are you here?” You crossed your arms against your chest defensively, turning the question back on him like he wasn’t doing the exact same thing you were.

“Got a big promotion today,” He shrugs it off like it’s nothing. Probably just another step on the never-ending corporate ladder to him, “My friends got me out to celebrate.”

“Is that why you’re standing outside on your own?” You shoot back, unable to miss the way his nostrils flare in irritation.

“Could say the same to you, sweetheart.” He scoffs, “Who’re you here with?”

“My best friend,” You smile softly, “She’s getting married.”

“Not very rowdy for a hen party.”

“Oh yeah?” You watch the way his tongue darts out between his lips to wet them, “You're not exactly the life of the party yourself, are you?”

“Just wanna go home,” He rolled his eyes, “My friends turn into assholes when they’re drunk.”

“Mine can be assholes at any time.” You were already expecting texts in the morning trying to invite you on a blind date you didn’t even want to go on.

“Dya want me to call you a cab?” The guy held up his phone, “I can get you a separate one if you don’t wanna share. It ain’t safe to be out here alone.”

“Very considerate of you,” You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop your heart from doing a little flip, “I can take care of myself.”

“Sure looks like it,” He scoffed, “That why you’re gonna hide out here for the rest of the night?”

“Shut up,” You almost pouted, “I’ll go back in.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He smirked.

“What’s your name?” You asked as he slipped his phone back into his black jeans pocket.

“Bakugou.” He answered after pausing for a second, “What's yours?”

You mumble your name and can’t stop your cheeks from scalding when he responds with a soft “Pretty.”

Standing in a comfortable silence between the handsome stranger you watched groups of people slowly leaving the club, some moving on to their next destination for the night and others trying to stop their friends from throwing up before they climbed into their designated cabs.

“Gonna take fuckin’ ages to catch a cab now, I hate this part of the city.” Bakugou groans, running his palm down the length of his face.

“You could go back in and party,” You shrugged, “I’m sure your friends are missing you.”

“Yeah? After you, sweetheart—” Bakugou made a mock chivalrous movement with his arm to invite you to go back inside first which you rejected. Moving back to stare into the sea of people with a small smile on your face, “Didn’t think so.”

You stood in a comfortable silence beside him for what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes. One of the first times in a long time that you felt yourself as you both listened to the rowdy cheers in the background.

“Do you ever just want to say fuck it and disappear?” You surprised yourself by speaking your thoughts out loud.

“Go somewhere where no one knows who the fuck you are or what the fuck you’re doin’?” Bakugou responded simply.

“Yeah.”

“All the time.” He murmurs.

“It just hurts when it seems like everyone else has their perfect little lives while you’re just waiting on the sidelines,” You sigh. Maybe it was easier offloading everything onto a random stranger, it wasn’t as though you had anyone else you could talk to, “It’s just lonely.”

“You don’t have to be lonely.” He replied as though it was the most simple answer.”

“It’s not that easy,” You shake your head.

“Who said it ain’t that easy?” Bakugou turned to face you, his frame towering over you as you looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Cause I’m always lonely.” You felt hot, pearly tears beginning to clump in your lash line as you thought about the nights you spent at home alone while all your friends were with their partners. The life that you’d always dreamed about, but never have. For once you just wanted someone to be there for you, with you, “It's just how it is.”

“You don’t have to be though, sweetheart.” He whispers.

“Yeah?” You murmurs, “Do you feel alone too?”

“Fuck,” He groans, leaning his forehead against yours as he stands with you for a moment, “C’mere.”

Bakugou took your hand in his as he walked you through the crowd of people outside the rowdy venue and down a dark dingy alley that was illuminated in fierce neon lights from the various clubs dotted along the high street. You followed behind him obediently as your heart danced against your ribcage, astounded by your daring behaviour. He could be a murderer or a psychopath for all you knew– just another stranger out looking for his next victim. But for some reason (maybe it was the liquid courage coursing through your veins) you felt safe with him.

He moves his hands to your hips as he pushed you back against the cool brick wall, slotting himself between your parted thighs as he looks down at you with crimson eyes. The scent of liquor was sharp on his breath as his lips hovered close to you, warmth fanning your face as he leaned to kiss you.

“No kissing,” You gasped as you tilted your head just in time to avoid his lips as he pressed a wet, scorching kiss against your jawline.

If he had an issue with it, he didn’t voice it. The only sound was a rough grunt rumbling from the back of his throat as his lips continued to pepper sloppy kisses along your neck. Your fingers swiftly carded through his messy hair, nails grazing his scalp as you tried to pull him closer. As though everything right now wasn’t enough, you needed more.

“Please,” You whine as you felt his teeth graze your pulse point, hips bucking as strong palms reached out to steady you. Keeping you still as he bit down on the supple skin hard, the sudden pain had you crying out for him as the ache blurred your vision. Or maybe it was the alcohol running through your system— warm lips suckling the fresh bite mark as you clench your thighs together in a feeble attempt to give your neglected clit some much-needed friction.

“Please, what?” He rasps against your neck, his tongue salving against the mark he’d left against your skin moments earlier.

This is the part where you should’ve stopped him. Making up an excuse about Tatami wondering where you are, or needing to get home and disappearing into the night. But you didn’t—

“Touch me,”

“You always beg random strange men to touch you, sweetheart?” He smirked, his hand reaching round to grab a handful of your ass, “Or am I just special?”

If only he knew how unlike you this really was, that no one had touched you so intimately in years. A thought that would’ve surely ruined the mood if Bakugou’s hand hadn’t slipped beneath your dress to cup your aching sex, the sensation had you gasping in surprise as the blonde smirked down at you.

“I’m just special, hah?” He answered his own question with a toothy grin, “Is that why your panties are dripping for me?”

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt this insatiable. Evenings spent at home with your toys felt nothing like the way his warm hands felt against your skin, uncaring that you were in a dirty alleyway as you found yourself grinding into his touch.

“Fuck,” You murmur, your head knocking against the cold brick as Bakugou presses the heel of his palm against your clit through the sheer fabric. A heat blazes through his touch and scorches you as you writhe against him, desperate to create a delicious friction as he smirks down at how salacious you look at this moment.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet, bet I’d slide right in.” He grunts, surprising himself at his blunt words. Blaming his audaciousness on the alcohol Sero and Denki had plied him with not long ago, the liquor flowing through his veins.

“Please,” It’s quite pathetic really, just how easily this man has turned you into this. You’d managed to go years without the touch of a man, and now you’d felt it for a moment you were unsure how you’d ever lived without it.

“Oh, fuck.” He chokes back a groan as he pulls your panties to the side, the skirt of your dress now shamelessly bunched around your waist as he notes the glossy strings of your essence that cling to the flimsy fabric of your panties, “This all for me?”

His fingers drag through your slick shamelessly, testing it on his fingers as he feels the heat radiating from your core. He spends little time circling your puffy clit before continuing lower, dipping one thick digit inside your tight hole. You wish at this moment that you’d worn slightly prettier panties than the plain black ones you wore right now, but if Bakugou had any issues with them he certainly didn’t seem to mind as he pumped his finger in and out of your core.

“Shit, you’re so sensitive.” He groans at the way your body responds to him, thrashing against him as he places more pressure on your clit.

“Please, Bakugou.” Your thighs quiver as he continues pumping his finger inside you, feeling the way your walls hungrily try to suck him in deeper, to take all he's got to give and more.

“Wish we weren’t in a dirty fuckin’ alley right now, princess. I’d have you sit on my face.” He groans, feeling the way your cunt clenches around him at his lewd words. You’d never wished something so bad in your life, tempted to tell him you didn’t mind if there was an audience if it meant having his lips wrapped around your clit.

“I don’t normally do this shit,” He groans, nuzzling your neck.

“Fuck strangers in alleys?” You tease as he gives you a playful smirk against your skin.

“Somethin’ like that.”

You groan as he adds another finger to join the first, stretching you open as your nails dig crescent-shaped moons into the base of his neck, leaving reddened indents against his skin as he growls from the slight twinge of pain. The sounds coming from your cunt are downright crude, echoing around the empty alley as he deliberately curls his fingers to press against the spongy spot inside you.

“Shit, you’re fuckin’ dripping.” Bakugou grunts, watching your creamy slick dribble down his fingers and settle into his palm, his thumb pressing sloppy circles against your needy clit as you shamelessly rock your hips into his touch. Greedily searching for the orgasm that he’s more than happy to give to you.

“Look at you,” He goads, “You’re so fuckin’ easy. This sloppy ‘nd I’ve barely even touched you. Is this all it takes, sweet girl?”

You don’t have the heart to tell him how long it's been since anyone touched you like this, that no matter how hard you try to replicate his touch after today, you’ll probably never feel anything like this again. It’s like he’s tempting you to say something, to give him a witty comeback. But you can’t, not when his fingers are stroking you in all the right places, stretching you out in preparation for what you know is soon to come. You spread your thighs further apart to give him more access, a movement that has a wide grin from ear to ear appearing on his face. Standing on shaky heels as he ensures you stay upright with a palm on your waist.

He knows when he’s found it, like a lost ship searching for the bright glow of a lighthouse to guide it home. Pushing his calloused digits against the same spot that he knows will have you coming undone.

“Right there, huh baby?” He coos, “Yeah, I know, I know. Such a pretty pussy.”

You must look debauched now, your tongue lolling out as you pant pathetically with your head knocking against the cold brick wall. Allowing Bakugou– a complete stranger– to do as he so pleases with you.

“Oi, you listening to me?” He growls, and you can’t even remember what he’s just said. So lost in your own bliss as he continues to press the same persistent circles against your clit, “Course you ain’t, so desperate to cum, hm?’

“Please, Bakugou.” You mumble, breaking off into a salacious moan as he increases his pace eagerly trying to push you over the edge. He’s watching intently as you writhe against him, dangerously close to your release as you pulse around his digits.

“Fuck,” He almost snarls, the sound sending shockwaves direct to your needy cunt as you feel yourself vaulting into your bliss.

His fingers don’t stop their ministrations, even as you're crying out for him and gushing all over them. He instead, increases his pace, determined to have you completely intoxicated on him before he's even begun.

“You’re so goddamn noisy, ain’tcha?” He scoffs, finally pulling his digits from your spent cunt with a crude squelch. Unabashedly holding them up to his lips as he tastes you on his tongue, groaning as though he's tasted the sweetest ambrosia as he cleans you off his skin.

“Please, Bakugou.” You slur, legs shaky from the intense orgasm he’d gifted you as he pulls his fingers from his mouth.

Bakugou’s fingers are quick to unfasten his belt, letting the heavy buckle hang as he dipped his thumbs into the hem of his boxers to pull them down along with his jeans. Letting the material settle around the curve of his ass, just enough to free his aching cock. The sight of it had your thighs quivering in anticipation, the bulging head an angry pink colour as it oozed pre from the slit. Dribbling down the underside as the veins that forked along his girth made him appear even bigger, the length of it drooped down from the sheer weight as you wondered how on earth he could keep something that size hidden beneath his jeans.

“S’big,” You murmur, biting down on your lower lip as your cunt throbs in anticipation. Even his balls look huge, thick and weighty as you watch him give himself a teasing pump. His wrist rolling as he smears pre along the length. Ready to ignore how damp and filthy the floor looks in favour of dropping to your knees to worship his cock as it deserves.

“Think you can still manage it though, sweetheart.” He grins, “I know that pretty pussy’s good for it.”

You’re almost disappointed when he pulls a condom out from his wallet in his back pocket, seemingly you’ve found the only man in the entire bar with a conscience as he rips the foil packet open with his teeth. Lifting one of your thighs up to press against his hip as his cock slips between your folds, the fat tip catching against your entrance as he sucks in a breath.

“Don’t do that,” Bakugou groans, “You’ll make me wanna fuck you raw.”

“Do it then.” You challenge, wondering whether he really is like all the sleazy men your friends end up with.

“Another time, baby.” He glowers back, pushing the tip of the condom against the head of his cock as he slides it down his length.

The first push against your tight entrance has the air stolen from your lungs, a dull ache from the stretch in your core as his thick cock slowly breaches your sex.

“Holy fuck,” He grunts, his fingers dipping into the fat of your thigh as he holds it against his hip, “You’re so tight.”

He smirks at how desperate you are to feel him inside you, trying to drop yourself down on his length as he gives a few, shallow thrusts. Your fingers dig into his skin to try and get him to give you more, rewarding you by thrusting all the way inside. One sharp rut is all it takes to have him sheathed inside you, your walls moulding to the shape of his cock as he takes a moment to cherish the sensation of you wrapped around him.

“Told you I’d slide right in, perfect fuckin’ pussy.” He groans, slowly pulling back as he glances down between you to watch his cock slide out of your warm heat before you take every inch again.

There’s not much you can do in this position except stand there and take what Bakugou’s got to give, his rough thrusts push you against the wall as he almost sweeps you off your feet. His messy pubes tickle your clit with every forward motion as your essence leaks from your needy cunt and dribbles down his heavy balls.

His scent is intoxicating, the saccharine tartness has you tugging him closer. Burying your nose into his neck to smell the mixture of cologne and his natural scent. It’s almost comforting as you cling to him a little tighter, trying to commit it to memory so you can cherish it when you inevitably end up alone after tonight.

“Oh, god.” You cling to his broad shoulders, holding him tight as he sets a brutal pace. The fabric of your dress catches against the rough brick behind you as he leaves a trail of kisses against your cheek.

The sensation is overwhelming, the pleasure rapidly building inside you as he continues thrusting into you with hard, sharp ruts of his hips. For once, the only thing you can think about is the white-hot pleasure coursing through you. The soothing ache from his cock stretching you open is almost cathartic as you let him use your body as he pleases, his rough hands groping at your exposed skin as he presses more scorching kisses against your jugular, sharp teeth nipping at your skin.

“Oh fuck, Bakugou.” You cry out, louder than intended as your toes curl from his harsh movement.

“Shit– You want us to get caught, sweetheart?” He groans, his palm reaching up to cover your mouth, “Can’t kiss you to shut’cha up, can I? So I’ll have to do this.”

And maybe it’s better this way, your lips warm against his palm as your lipstick smears against it. Otherwise, with the way he was looking down at you, you probably would’ve kissed him.

Your moans are muffled by Bakugou now, his pace unrelenting as he gives rough thrusts inside you. The lewd squelch vibrates around the empty alley and mingles with the loud thrum of bass that vibrates from inside the club. The loud bustle of voices only feet away as anyone could turn down and see you both in such a compromising position— not that it would be anything unusual. You certainly aren’t the first couple to fuck down this alley, if the empty condom wrappers and bottles are anything to go by, and you surely won’t be the last. But it’s been so unlike you to allow yourself to submit to your pleasure, to live a little.

“You still with me, pretty girl?” He groans, “Pussy feels so good. Can feel you clamping down around me.”

You whined against his palm, feeling the pleasure intensifying inside you as Bakugou continued his rough pace. Drunken patrons hollered boisterously as they left the bar causing him to shield your body with his broad back, taking his eyes off you to ensure they didn’t decide to come down the alleyway to interrupt you.

“Fuckin’ pricks.” Bakugou snarled under his breath as he stilled inside of you.

Your entire body felt as though it was on fire, hovering dangerously close to the edge of your climax as your cunt clenched around his thick cock. Causing Bakugou to suck a harsh breath through his teeth as he brought his attention back to you, the corner of his lip curling into a sly smirk.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I didn’t forget about you,” He groaned, languidly moving inside you, “Gonna make you cum so hard.”

“Please,” You mumbled, muffled by his hand as he began rolling his hips, the bulging tip of his cock catching against the spongy spot inside you with each pronounced thrust.

“Fuck,” Bakugou snarls, moving his hand from your mouth in favour of slipping it between your bodies to thumb at your clit. The sensation has your knees buckling as your weight drops, no longer able to hold yourself up. But he’s strong, keeping you pinned between his body and the wall as he keeps his unrelenting pace, “Come on, pretty girl. I know you’re close, can feel you choking me.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” It’s embarrassing really, how one man— a stranger, can have you coming undone like this in public no less.

“So fuckin’ noisy, shit-” He grunts, his ruby gaze intense as he watches you come undone.

Bakugou steals your climax from you, his thumb is unrelenting against your clit as he feels your cunt clamp down around him. The loud cry that spills from your lips has him wincing as he hopes no one’s decided to look down the alley for a free show— something that would certainly make the front page this very morning. He eases you through your high, the white spots that dance across your vision make it feel like you’re seeing stars. A sea of constellations against your eyelids as you succumb to the pleasure.

“You look so pretty when you cum,” He groans, his face buried in the apex of your neck as he inhales deeply, committing your scent to memory as he cherishes the way your cunt clenches around his cock.

Bakugou pushes his fat cock inside you, as deep as he can go. Until his balls are snug against the swell of your ass as he feels the tremble of your cunt coming down from your high. His warm breath scorches your neck as he gives himself a moment's respite before picking up his pace once more, greedily using your body to chase his own release. His palm pushes your thigh up higher against his hip, changing the angle as the swollen tip of his cock finds what it was searching for. The euphoria already surging through your veins is enhanced by the attention from his cock knocking against the same spot inside you over, and over, and over.

“Think you can give me one more, sweet girl?” He rasps, watching your thick lashes flutter as tears blind your vision.

“I– can’t,” You manage to get out between broken breaths, unadulterated pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Yeah, you can.” He coos, his thumb persistent against your clit as he ruts into the same spot inside you, “C’mon, for me?”

The sensation building inside you is almost painful, still overwhelmed from your last intense climax the pleasure still bubbling to the surface as Bakugou is unrelenting. It’s too much, and yet not enough at the same time.

“Don’t hold back, sweetheart.” He groans, “Cum for me.”

Your body feels ungovernable as you succumb to the pleasure, a cry of his name tumbling from your lips that he doesn’t try to silence as he holds your quivering body. Preventing you from thrashing as he clings to you tightly, fingertips creating divots in your plush thigh.

“Oh fuck, there we go.” He snarls primally, nostrils flaring as he gives a few final shaky ruts of his hips, spilling his release inside the condom with a grunt as you both bask in the aftershocks of your release.

You’re certain if he let go of you now you’d collapse to the dirty floor, your legs no longer strong enough to support your weight as you cling to Bakugou. And he holds you back just as tight, dropping your sore thigh in favour of wrapping his arms around your waist as he remains buried inside your fluttering cunt.

He can still feel you spasming when he finally pulls out of you, sliding the condom off his spent cock as he shamelessly throws it onto the ground. Fixing your panties before pulling your dress back down around your thighs to hide your modesty before he moves to tuck his wet cock back inside his underwear and buttons his jeans.

You hadn’t expected him to hold you so tenderly, as though you were the world's most precious porcelain. But you both stand there for what feels like forever, basking in the afterglow as you sway side to side.

A large palm raised to cup your warm cheek, the calloused pad of his thumb brushing against the soft skin as he tilted your head to meet his gaze. Leaning forward as his eyes crossed to stare at your pouty lips, closing the distance slowly until you placed a palm on his chest.

“No kissing.” You repeated, turning your head as Bakugou pulled back, squinting at you.

“Still?” Bakugou grunts, “Why the no kissin’ bullshit?”

You couldn’t explain it to him, especially not after this. Wondering if it would be easier to make up a lie about your breath smelling or being nervous.

“I just can’t.” You sounded pathetic, internally wincing at the pitiful tone of your voice.

“Yeah, why?” He continued, “You got a boyfriend or somethin’?”

He actually looked hurt as he asked the question, his crimson gaze searching your eyes for any kind of deception as you shake your head no.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Husband?” Bakugou pushes as you shake your head again.

“No.”

“Then what’s the fuckin’ problem?” He spits, slightly more harshly than intended.

“You won’t like it,”

I don’t want to know when you die. You think to yourself.

“Like fuck I won’t.” He scoffed, “Fuckin’ dumbass.”

Bakugou caught you by surprise when he wrapped his palm around your neck, holding you so tenderly as he ducked his head forward. Catching you even more by surprise as he placed his chapped lips against yours, his tongue instantly slipping past your parted lips to delve deeper.

Fuck.

The first time you’ve actually felt something for someone this had to happen. The premonition played clearly behind your eyes as you felt Bakugou’s tongue mould against your own, a deep timber groan vibrating against your mouth as he lost himself in the kiss.

Of course, whatever higher power couldn’t just let you be happy for once, you had to see the fate in store for Bakugou Katsuki.

Pulling away from your lips as his tongue poked out to taste your lipgloss, the corner of his lips curled into a smug smirk as you stared up at him in complete horror. This wasn’t good—

You’d hoped that his death would be a peaceful one, dying a natural death surrounded by his loved ones at a ripe old age. But it was anything but, the terrifying vision now imprinted onto your memory. And you wished he never kissed you, not only so he wouldn’t die but so you wouldn’t have to see this vision every time you close your eyes.

With one kiss you’d sealed his fate.

“Fuck,” He mumbled, his chest heaving as he tried to regain his breath.

You’d convinced yourself that as long as you didn’t kiss him, it would be okay— but now you’d seen the future you knew nothing would be okay.

Humans are such selfish creatures.

“Yeah, fuck.” You groaned.

[eriexplosion]

I do think Hunter is going to sacrifice himself in the finale. Specifically though I think he's going to TRY to.

One of the things that's made me think Tech is alive is that we haven't had the entire family truly together at any point - the whole show has been about family but they have never, ever been united as a full six person family. Someone is always gone, always missing, always sacrificed even though they have said over and over again that they don't want to leave their own behind.

And with all the heavy signaling around CX-2 he still looks very likely to be Tech. Sorry no one kills a guy that ambiguously and then accidentally puts a weirdly focused on assassin through several of the same scenarios and gives him a very close speech pattern just to be like "but in the end it was just some guy!" Like that's stupid, sorry to be blunt.

So. If CX-2 is Tech. And we get him back. And we finally have Omega back. And we have everyone on the same side again.

And then.

Hunter.

Tries to sacrifice himself for his family to make it without him.

Can't you just see Omega losing her shit? Don't you think she might go a little nuclear? Perhaps even find some of the force inside her to drag his ass back from the brink?

Hunter is going to try to heroic death and Omega is tired of watching it happen and she drags him back whether he likes it or not because this is the closest she's ever gotten to a complete family and she's not letting it go. That's my prediction.

[bookofbonbon]

the ground beneath our feet - aemond targaryen.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!reader (third person - no name used).

Warnings: Mention of suicide. Angst.

Summary: Your relationship with Aemond has fallen apart as the war wages on and you remain his prisoner.

Prompts: My love for you is as firm as the ground we stand on (Mary & George 2024).

Word Count: 863.

The hem of her dress dragged heavily across the darkened sand. The treacherous sea binding itself to the satin material as it rose to the bottom of her calves, reaching higher and higher as the tide came in. Each step harder than the last as her bare feet sunk further into the unsteady ground. With the shore disappearing, every new current was stronger than the last and threatened to drag her under if she wasn’t careful. 

But careful she was. Though she loved the sea as every Velaryon before her and now has, death by drowning was not high on her list of ways to die. Although, in times - such as right now - when she found herself under the steady gaze of her estranged husband, she wondered if she might let the sea consume her out of spite. Alas, it was too late as sand turned to stone beneath her feet.

Beginning her barefoot ascent to Dragonstone, she walked carefully as she made her way back to the looming castle, weary of the deep cracks in the foundation as the stone crumbled and created an uneven ground of the eroding path.

Careful more so, however, of the Targaryen Prince awaiting her company on the first landing of many. 

“Must you come out here every day?” Aemond drawls once she is within ear shot. 

Quick to anger, she feels her ears grow hot as her head snaps up from the ground. Gaze finally meeting that of the man who insisted on stalking her every move. Not once could he allow her to suffer his presence in silence. There was always something to be said. 

“Must you follow me out here every day? I’m not a child, you need not watch over me as if I am one.”

Her fury however, is met with indifference as Aemond regards her coolly. The one-eyed Prince having grown accustomed to her anger-fuelled outbursts at him- of course, that didn’t make them hurt any less. But, she was predictable and always ready to be angry with him and despite his efforts, there was no balm he could give to soothe it. So, if her anger remained the one thing that she would give then Aemond would take as much of it as he could get.  

“Had you not gotten into the habit of wading further and further into the sea, gazing longingly upon its depths as if you may opt into disappearing into it at any given moment then perhaps I would not feel the need to supervise you as if you were one.” 

There's a beat of silence. A flicker of hurt in her now glassy eyes that she tries to wash away with a thick swallow that Aemond tracks with his one good eye. He didn't like her hurt, he didn't want her pain.

“So, the sooner you begin acting within reason, the sooner you will be left to your own devices. It really is that simple,” he finishes in the hopes of raising her temper but, it does more of the opposite. 

She visibly flinches, Aemond’s dismissiveness of her suffering hitting the soft spot in the back of her throat. 

"Is it?" The question catches him by surprise, his back straightening as he stares unblinking at her. She hadn't endeavoured to ask him anything more than a mocking retort of his own questions since the war started but, there was a sincerity to her voice that demanded an answer. "Is it really that simple?"

“It is.”

Another beat as she silently regards him. 

“Do you love me still?” 

Aemond’s eyebrows furrow, scar pulling inward from the motion as he takes offense at the question. 

“Still? I never stopped. My love for you has always been as firm as the ground we stand on. It is yo-”

“So if you claim to love me so, then am I your prisoner or am I your guest?”

“Guest,” he speaks too fast, lying without thinking. 

“Guest?" she smiles sadly. "Guests may leave as they please, so can I? Can I leave as I please?”

Aemond’s throat dries. The question hangs heavy in the space between them as he flounders for something to say, mouth agape but no sound coming out; the winds whistle and the crashing of the waves the only thing to be heard.

“Answer me, Aemond.” 

The shake of his head is slight but not un-noticeable. 

Aemond didn’t want her pain but it is all he got as it spills over and onto her cheeks.

"I take no pleasure in your captivity," Aemond tells her softly.

But then a sound, a sound he had not heard for a long time - a laugh. It’s slight and it's broken and it's watery and one clearly reserved only for herself but, a laugh nonetheless as she gestures to the ground around them. 

At the deep cracks in the foundation, at the fragile stones that bowed and bent and broke and created an uneven and unstable ground of the eroding path with each passing day.

“Look around you, Aemond,” she sighs. The same sad smile stretched across her lips. “The ground is not firm, it has crumbled beneath our very feet.”

-

All fics are my own work - I have not posted my work anywhere else.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters/places mentioned above.

Do not copy. Do not translate. Do not repost.

bookofbonbon 2024. All rights reserved.

[vyzz-undercover]

pspspsps dinner time everyone

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3)

(5,700ish words) (im cooked)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon [again]

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions of virginity

•vague breathplay

•even more negligible aftercare

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•tumblr's pisspoor formatting as per last time

———————————————————————————————————

im once again doing a free magic show here and pulling a rabbit (this fic) out my ass. so, without further a-do the tagging... @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @pluvio-tea, @the-raven-lady, @bispecsual, @egrets-not-regrets, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @lemon-russ. let me know if anyone else wanna be tagged if i do a part three HAHAHAHHAHA i might double down on the comedy-of-errors and have Guilliman get involved. Not like a three-way with this particular fic, even if I'd love to slut papa smurf out. There's always another time and another chance to sexualise an old man :3

———————————————————————————————————

Cato finds you relatively easily.

Truthfully, you make no actual sport of it. But he's never going to pass up a cheap bit of entertainment at your expense.

At this time of the ship's cycle you're most likely to be in the east wing, pointedly the lower libraries. He knows this. He won't confess why or how he knows, though—so, fuck off.

You're lazy and predictable. To say nothing of the fact you're far too comfortable scuttling about his Father's vessel. If a hypothetical assassin ever could get onto the ship without being stomped into paste by him immediately, they'd have no problems tracking you down. You may as well be a sevitor running on rails for all your movements stay the same.

He notes you're not on the first level.

Nor the second.

You are on the third, in the leftmost quadrant.

In the restricted reading area.

You do have clearance—but the fact still irks him. Typically, this was for his more decorated brothers to catalogue Xenos. Typically, one needed to be accompanied to even access this level.

But oh, no—no, you're allowed.

You're allowed because you are a damnable leach of a woman. And also the bane of his existence, did he mention that? And you're—you're—tucked up in secure side-room, reading on a data-slate; half-asleep in a little blue robe and looking the pict of adorable sloth.

You don't notice him immediately.

Clearly too absorbed in your gerrymandering-for-servitors cheat-sheet.

And that annoys him even more.

Because, are you really that obtuse? So unassailable in your own mind that you're this blatantly fucking oblivious? He's an Astartes, damn it. Sure, he's in casual rest attire instead of clanking plate—but he's a large, two-and-a-bit meter tall trans-human war-machine standing in the doorway—and you haven't even noticed him. Ignorant like some little rodent chewing away at crumbs in it's hovel.

His Father's got a vermin problem on board, and the mice are stupid and bold and literate... along with rather cozy, apparently.

A finely woven navy throw is swaddled around you where you're lying on the chaise lounge. And the sight of you bundled up inspires a vivid déjà-vu of the last time you were alone with him with little more than a blanket over you.

Cato hesitates for a heartbeat, swallows down the sudden lump in his throat and sets his jaw.

He steps into the room and waves a hand over the laser-pad locking mechanism.

There's a fractional second in which you become cognisant to the sound of the shutter door closing and where you actively notice him.

Then there's a shrill scream as if you've pinched a nerve.

The data-slate goes flying, pelted at his head. But it hits the shutter door and clatters to the floor, far-off any hint of a good mark.

Useless woman.

Realising it's him a moment later, you heave out a racketing sigh.

"Throne of Terra, Ca—" you start, and it sounds like you're going to say his first name before you rightly correct yourself and say, "C-Commander, you scared me half to death."

He immediately sets about accosting you, "Have you been sitting here with the door open this whole time?"

"No," you nip out.

"You are aware that I can tell when you're lying?"

"I'm certain you can," your tone flattens in a way he's only ever heard you talk to particularly sleazy representatives with. It's not an honest exchange, it's double-speak. It's mocking. You're mocking him.

He grits his teeth.

You've grown more open in your defiance towards him as of late, certainly not because of any revelation or reason and it rubs him in a dangerous, new way. He's not about to let it slide, either.

"Is that so?" His words are sharp and accusative and he hopes—he hopes he'll get the delight of watching you cower like you usually do when confronted by him. "Have you been lying to me often, then?"

Half his hopes come true. You look away nervously and mumble something almost inaudibly, and he'd not have noticed if not for his far superior hearing.

It was, "...maybe," and all Cato can help but do being himself, is detonate.

"And what have you been deceiving me of, you scheming little whore?" He snarls, fuming—a dozen crimes and sins crowding his mind you might be tried for. Maybe he's been far too lenient to the actual reality of your evil. Finally, validation to corroborate his deviation—maybe you'll admit you're some Slanneshi fleshchanger, and that you intended to have burrowed so deep in his mind.

Nonetheless, you're nowhere near even close to fast enough to defend yourself. But it's not like he gives you the chance.

He's crossed the distance with a practiced speed. And quicker than you can even yelp, you are pinned to the lounge—a shackle in the form of his fist around your smaller throat.

The pressure is a limp handshake by his standards. You're not really choking. Just stifled slightly for good measure.

Still, it'd be a mere flex to break your neck. He could snap you like a stylus with what was to him, ultimately, nothing but a simple twitch of his fingers. And he would think more about the blatant contrasts between you both much longer if he wasn't far too distracted by the fact you even struggle prettily wantonly. Big eyes wide and glossy with animal panic. Involuntary tears gather at the corners as you register what's going on at last. The mad temptation to lick them if they so much as dare trail down your cheeks begins eating at him.

Some rational part of his rational mind reminds him he can't get the truth out of you when he's vaguely throttling you, though—and he lets you go begrudgingly. Instead opting for looming over you as you roll sidelong on the couch, breathing fast.

He crouches down to your level and grumbles, still absorbed in his raging.

"Speak," he barks, and pointedly grabs you by the chin.

"I–I hadn't actually—" you start, breathless as you mumble. "Actually, uh, laid with anyone, even though I nodded I sort of... had."

He's staggered at the statement, "...that's it?"

A vague lie of omission, but it's not the great corruption he sought to root out.

Then he actually thinks about what you've just admitted.

Like fog banished under a rising sun, his anger at the thought of treachery immediately dissipates into blistering revelation.

"Hold on, you..." Cato starts, baffled and completely knocked for a six, meeting your gaze slowly—genuinely stunned as he pulls his hand back fully. "I... I was the first?"

You look away cursorily, face reddening not only with your previous strains, but with embarrassment.

Now, that was the reaction of a guilty conscience.

Cato doesn't know what to do with the information. Nor does he really know what he feels.

He'd been the first. He feels like he's won something over his brothers. Therefore, fuck the lot of them—and fuck Titus, specifically. Even if he's not sure why. He truly couldn't believe it. There's success, sure—but then there's taking the laurels: whole and absolute. And this... this is exactly that. But oh, for some apparently vestal thing, you'd let him bully down to the hilt in your tight cunt; whining like a whore when he spilled himself inside you. Throne, it was almost suffocating to think back on it now. So willing to have your maidenhead taken, nevermind the fact you weren't the only one who'd had a new experience that day. But you didn't need to know that.

"Another notch to my mantel of victories then," he ultimately decides is the best thing to say, gloating to himself.

"Unbelievable," you sigh softly as you shakily sit yourself up.

But there's the problem again. The one tangible, constant problem with having laid you. It's made you mouthy. He only ever glimpsed your boldness when you interacted with other baselines in the past. You never sassed Astartes, or at least, he's never seen you do it. But now that stubbornness and unwillingness to back down in a political forum is on full display heedless of situation. As if you've suddenly become one of the auto-felating Imperial Fists—or any of Dorn's insufferable ball-busting scions, really. Worst of all, it's only managed to somehow make him even more enthralled annoyed with you than usual. You're still too good at quashing your anger, hard as it is to rouse. But he loves loathes that you bite the lure instead of shying off now.

"To think that I was the first—is your entire professional role not centred around charm? Would no one else have you with that rotten attitude you've been hiding?" he says, knowing he's being nasty, knowing he's twisting the knife; and absolutely praying for you to fall for it.

Cato watches a rainbow of emotions pass over your features, before you settle on one that makes you look like you ate something sour. He's hit a weak spot. But the sentiment holds true. His Primarch thinks you the best and brightest to sway planets? You couldn't even seduce some daft, drunken aristocratic fool to fuck you.

You, the prettiest baseline he's ever seen.

...maybe Guilliman is right in saying the Imperium has rolled belly-up with bloat.

"That's not—that's not why and you know it," you open your mouth and jumble your words briefly before getting out, "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who won't have a panic attack because of the several Astartes that insist on following you around?" You continue, raving and flustered, "Do you think anyone would get near me with you—or—or... maybe Captain Acheran, or the good Chaplain, let's say, breathing over my shoulder?"

"You should be grateful any of us waste our time babysitting you," Cato oafishly shoots back like a petulant child, brows furrowing, "You should be thanking me for doing the brunt of it."

Your nose scrunches up, "Pardon me, Commander, it's surely entirely my fault that we are both at the whims of our Lord Primarch."

He pauses.

Something about this interaction isn't stirring his temper like it should.

He should be absolutely livid with anger, or at the very least blowing your eardrums out with a 'shut the fuck up,' at full Astartesian line-command volume.

Yes, he should be seething, and yet he's not. To his surprise, he's actually feeling more enthused than anything.

This feels... exciting, almost.

"You've only grown the backbone to talk back to me because I fucked one into you," he remarks sharply in reply.

You sputter, and go red, robbed of your words.

"Or maybe this is mere performance," He adds with a sneer, tipping his chin up proudly.

You roll your eyes and let out a dramatic puff of air, "Y-You're such a..." you start, but your voice tapers off—and you look away, pouting.

"I'm a... what?" He taunts, leaning close.

You grumble, apparently feeling brave again; meeting his gaze and puffing yourself up.

"You're a bully," you hiss, clearly upset but undeniably frazzled enough to be somewhat ranting again as you add, "A bully w-who's so disgustingly egotistical you've convinced yourself you're some great conqueror or... something... j-just for having been in me, as if I've never put anything in myself before."

Oh, but wait, Cato likes the idea of that. He likes it so much he completely forgets to acknowledge the insults in your statement prior. He likes the idea of you suffering like he had been—alone, yearning—aching for something you didn't know the dizzying reality of. He can imagine you smothering your sounds, those blessed whines he's got memorised, into a pillow in that cushy little quarters of yours, squirming on your meagre fingers, or maybe cold silicon. You didn't need that lesser imitation now. Cato'd gladly fill that role. He'd glad to fill that hole, too.

Nonetheless, he immediately wonders who you were getting off thinking about.

He'd streak the length of the ship for it to've been him you'd been fucking yourself over.

"Who were you thinking of?"

You blink at the completely offhanded question, then start sputtering, stalling.

"What? I-I—" you stammer, "That's not important or relevant—I just... did it, it's—"

"Keep lying and see where it gets you," He cuts in, raking you with an aggravated frown, and oh, excellent, you're starting to relearn he's not fond of your half-truthing, finally.

You duck your head a little, cringing under his gaze, trying to scoot yourself backwards. But there's nowhere to go.

Cato realises belatedly that in the middle of your antics, the sleeve of your robe has started to fall from your shoulder. His brain short-circuits momentarily with the sheer amount of air that floods his head. Your warm, soft skin on display just for him. He didn't get to see all of you last time. He felt a good portion of you, yes—but he didn't get the chance to admire acknowledge the whole vista. Not because he was too desperate to rut against to try. Or because he was probably going to swoon like a fool if he did. Shut up, he's no coward. Afterall, his hands had been close to your chest, but now—now he can actually look.

He's going to absolutely ruin that lovely canvas you've given him.

"Nobody," you say softly.

"Groxshit," he snaps.

"Fine—" You swallow and start scrambling for a response, "Malum C-Caedo."

Cato genuinely cannot help but bark a laugh at that, "Spare me, you haven't even met the man, moron—you're only saying that because your most recent reading was on his last briefing," he rolls his eyes. "You forgot I was there with Guilliman when you were given it."

You look at him like a cornered little mouse, and finally—finally, your sleeve falls just enough that he's given a perfect view of one of your tits.

"You already..." you grumble softly. "You already know who, then, so I shouldn't even have to dignify this."

"It's me, isn't it?" He asks darkly, and while he tries to sound haughty, the fact he's thrilled by both the notion and the sight of your partial nudity ends up warping his tone into a vaguely manic chuff.

You glance aside and stammer loudly, "N-No."

No, you say—but he hears your little heart flutter. And sees your pupils dilate.

"I hope you're aware you can't lie to save your life," Cato drawls.

Your gaze snaps back to his, and for a brief second, your expression is flushed with embarrassment; until it changes to a sour little scowl.

"I'm not a bad liar, you're just an Astartes—" you start furiously, but check your flustered anger.

Cato smirks.

It's not a completely clean victory, but it's good.

It means his own lusting madness is at least reciprocally vindicated.

And at that realisation, Cato's impulse control violently loses balance; and he's painfully aware he cannot, for the life of him, contain the hungered almost purr-like sound that crawls up his throat.

You go back to looking transfixed at that, and he pauses.

There's something... pulling him in even more than before. He feels as if he's taken the bait, and the hook, and the line and sinker—hell, he's taken a good bit of the rod, too. Everything's a little too heated, and he's got an innate, intuitive feeling you're just as wound up as he is—wait. He breathes in deep and slow, and scents the air. Throne, he may as well have been cold-clocked at the temple by a Dreadnaut for all the innate information he suddenly receives. You're quite frankly drenched in want. You're getting off on this. Smothering him in a dizzying biological chant of hormones that scream—fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

He leans close, and puts a hand on the arm-rest; the other palm slowly moving towards your chest.

Your eyes follow it—but you voice no complaints nor rejections.

Justified now, he's ecstatic. And your skin is as perfect to the touch as he remembers.

His hand looks huge compared to the breast cupped in it, idly toying with the consistency of the flesh in his grasp. It's much softer and malleable than he thought it'd be. Almost like a water-skin. Thumb depressing your right nipple, before drawing a thoughtless circle.

You sigh lightly and relax a bit, and Cato takes that as another open invitation.

He uses the same hand to tug away the fabric from your other shoulder.

Quick as anything, he's practically stuffing his face against you without any real warning, ignoring your flinch at his haste. Cato's letting the urges he'd withheld in that wretched shack out. And it's so worth the wait. He groans, licks a fat band over your left breast, and worries at the perked little bud with his teeth until you're squirming; only to drag his attention up to nip at your fragile throat.

You're breathing hard, and you open your mouth as if about to speak—but ever spiteful, Cato rewards your attempt with the drag of his tongue and the press of his teeth; and that promptly shuts you up. The faint salt on your skin isn't half bad of a thing either, honestly. He rather likes it. It tastes like how you smell—and he's absolutely luxuriating in it. It makes it all the easier to map your chest from the curve of your breast to your collarbones, garnishing you with eager drags of his tongue and mouth-wrought bruises.

And now you're glorious. The marks on your skin are vivid—he's guaranteed you won't be wearing anything showy for a good while. No lovely vile plunging necklines for you to display to bastard dignitaries. Not unless you want to explain why they're Cato Sicarius sized. They'll also be a good reminder to you of exactly who's superior.

You're still too dazed by his efforts to realise the extent of his actions, but he knows exactly how hot and bothered it's made you. That honeyed reek of arousal is driving him insane.

Urged on, he digs a hand down and around your back and drags you off the lounge. Manoeuvring to turn so his back rests against the lip of the lounge, nigh dumping you before him on the rug.

"W-Why...?" You blink, stunned for a second before righting yourself and meeting his eyes. Cato's sat himself cross-legged, before letting them unfold, one tenting and the other splaying out.

"I did all the work last time," he starts impatiently, and leans up to grab you by the forearm; bringing your hand close close to the cradle of his hips, "Now it's your turn to do something for once."

...Cato's not sure you're actually listening, because he could've bet his helm you'd've become irate at statement that if you were. That, and you're glaring between his thighs.

Ironically, he also almost instantaneously finds he doesn't really care to continue the train of thought. Not when you trace the engorged bulge of him through the folds of his tunic. Groping at the base, before smoothing your palm to the rounded tip.

There's no accursed buttons between him and the open this time, thankfully—and that means he can simply tug aside the folds of his layered tunic and bare himself from the belly down.

His cock lays fat and heavy with blood, smearing precum as it moves from his navel to leftward on his hip when he straightens up.

You're staring.

He scoffs at your apprehension and says, "Alternatively, perhaps you can—"

A soft, "Shhh," leaves you.

He snorts like a big, angry stock horse, brow raised. No baseline, regardless of rank, would dare treat Cato like this; none would dare even think to treat to him like this. Except you now, apparently. You forget your station, your place. Making demands of an Astartes is nowhere near your clearance. Your best option is to implore, not command. Yours is to nod your pretty thick head and smile your fair rotten little smile and obey your betters.

"Did—did you just shush me, woman?" Cato's nigh instantly consumed by a rush of anger at the sheer audacity, sneering. "In what reality do you think you've any right to shush me? I'm Commander of the Victrix Honor Guard, Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of—"

Of... of something.

Suddenly your insolence is inconsequential to him. All that matters is the smooth glide of your dainty hand on his cock, and the sight of your thumb and pointer being unable to wrap around and meet given how thick he is.

You look up at him slowly for a second, before your focus returns to apparently sussing out how best to saddle him. It's a timid gesture, like you're anticipating overstepping—you're cautious.

He's about to remind you of the fact you've taken him before, so Cato's proven he fits and all this coyness of yours is arbitrary. But he guesses the point is moot when you're suddenly already stradling his hips.

With one small hand finding a place on his stomach, and the other holding his cock straight beneath the obscurity of your garbs, he feels you lower yourself enough to make contact; testing before offering a little more urgency.

With an agonisingly careful roll of your pelvis, the head of his cock catches against the soft ring of muscle at your entrance for a second.

He grumbles despite himself.

He can't watch his cock sink into you like last time thanks to the curtain of your robe, but at least he can certainly feel every millimeter of it happening.

Tight heat feels like a death shroud over his mind as he draws a blank on anything else.

And finally—finally he's stuffed down to the hilt—and oh, he's filled you to your end just like the last time. Throne, he's drunk off the spongy heat the thick head of cock is squared right up against.

This position's made your cunt just that bit shorter inside thanks to gravity.

You whimper, clearly trying desperately not to start shaking.

You start shaking anyways.

He's fascinated by the small, restless palms now pressed flat and trying to find a counterpoint on his broad, tunic'd chest. Soft and un-calloused aside from the small bump of a pen's rest on your writing hand. Everything about you is warm and soft. Inside and out, you're all his.

He exhales harshly through his nose and blinks, gaze shifting from your hands to your tits, then to your face.

You wear an even more flushed expression now, overwhelmed, with all your focus on him.

Right where it always should be.

"Hurry up," he grunts sharply.

You swallow hard, and promptly drop your gaze.

You, surprisingly, manage to lift yourself up despite your theatrics. And, little by little, he watches you strain up until just the tip of him is still buried in you.

Angling yourself, you keen, carefully sinking back down on his cock and reeling at the stretch again as you settle, ass meeting his dense quads with a soft plomf.

He can see you biting back a moan, pointless as the act is.

"Keep going," Cato grits out, "I didn't tell you to stop."

You frown halfheartedly, and your insides clench around him despite yourself.

You start a slow rhythm, the noise of colliding skin on skin echoes in his ears. Slick friction, and fucked-out, half-stifled cries. Your pace quickening. Riding him. Using him at your own leisure, like the precious wretched little thing you are. You repeat the same dizzying motion again and again, and again—rising and sinking up, down, up, down; until it's clear you've found an angle that hits something just right, sending you over the edge with a rattling gasp.

A low groan crawls up the back of Cato's throat and slips free without restraint.

He's barely able to cope through the tight squeeze of your orgasm around his cock; but he steels himself, winning the fight to not spill in you right then and there at that. No small thanks to the furious couple hours he'd spent earlier in the simulated night cycle furiously attending his urges.

You stop suddenly, seated to the hilt, trembling and oversensitive—grinding back and forth, nails digging into his pectorals through his tunic.

"Just... n-need t'catch my breath..." You whimper, and that debauched tone wreaks havoc through his mind. An unceasing urge to pound you to tears overtaking what little sense he has left. It's the ravenous fact that you, the little parchment-pushing temptress, are all tuckered out from cumming on him so quickly. He's preening at the fact he feels that good to you—oh, he's going to send you limping back to your quarters.

He wants to watch you break.

"You lazy little cunt, you can't do a thing right, can you?" Cato groans, your thighs twitching as he lifts you by the hips and makes you sink back down.

He gets the treat of seeing your eyes swim back in your skull, dumb with sensation.

Lulled by the reedy, oversexed moans slipping from you with each motion; and he can't help but start thrusting up, matching pace.

"Hardly even four and a half minutes—and you're a mess, absolutely useless." He heaves, dropping you to full-hilt for a second to manoeuvre you better. You're nigh but a gasping dead-weight, delirious.

If you're going to act the entitled bitch, he'll screw you into something alike submission. Which is exactly why he's then pulling out, shoving you against the lounge on your back; and moving your thighs to bracket his hips as he half kneels on the rug. Just to slide himself back inside, balls-deep in willing flesh. The only dignity he affords you then is the space to wrap your arms around and behind his shoulders. Which you rightly do without demand.

Hold on, was the unspoken order.

Then he's fucking you into the lounge like his life depends on it. He's glad to notice it's bolted down, but the damned thing creaks—nonetheless, he can barely even hear it over the perfect sounds you're making.

Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, barely holding back the noises that choke his own gullet.

"You're so damn lucky you're a nice tight hole," he rasps harshly, "That's all you're good for, hm? For me to fill?"

There's a gutting sort of beauty in the way you're looking up at him with open desperation. He's trying so hard not to fall victim to the siren call of it, but it's perfect vile and he can't help but fold. He'd kill for that look to never leave your face when your eyes fell on him.

"Fuck, I must be in your womb at this rate—would you like that? My load in your womb?" Cato says between a great lungful of air, only to start huffing madly to himself when you nod drunkenly. "Good, because that's exactly where i-it's going."

Mind reeling with every resounding sticky slap of his balls against you, paired with scorching wet slide of him pumping in and out of you. You're crying, all your sensibilities lost in the thorough pace he's ploughing into you with; trying to pull him in by tugging at his shoulders, but with your meagre strength it's merely a vague suggestion.

Still, he leans into it, if only to finally seize the chance to lap the tears off your cheek, and you sob; trying to turn nose to nose with him. Your pathetic pawing at his broad back only exacerbates the overwhelming urgency in his blood.

He's so close.

Bliss crests up like a tide inside him, building and building, stunned with how it makes him buck into you. He's dazed in a way he surely wasn't designed to be resilient against. He can't even shut his damn mouth to stop moaning—and only technically manages to do so when you cover it with your own the very second he's about to finish; your legs squeezing impotently down on his hips, trembling through another climax.

His nerves light up like an orbital barrage, body rocking against the pretty, willing thing below him that you are. He has no idea what's going on beyond that. Are you kissing him? Is that what you're doing? Half his brain is stunned by the idea and the other half is flooded by the rushes of pleasure in his system making his tendons cramp, ravaging him with the sound of his hearts thudding in his ears.

Working himself right into agony; he's tensing against you as he empties himself as deep as he can. His pace finally breaks pattern and staccatos as his mind leadens.

Lulled by the molten satisfaction that swamps him soon thereafter, Cato blindly tries to chase forward and keep your lips on his. Emphasis on tries. He thinks he likes it, foreign as the sensation and sentiment is. He's got his tongue in your mouth, but no real clue what to do beyond lapping further in like a man dying of thirst—and then, of course, you decide to start weakly thrashing for air, blunt teeth grazing against the invading muscle—so, with a miffed groan; he pulls away, drooling as he slumps front-long against you and the lounge with a rumbling sigh, letting his eyes close as he basks in the afterglow.

You're panting still, nosing against the nape of his neck—likely having difficulty respiring under his weight—but despite that, you're still twitching around his spent cock, just like last time.

Wistfully, he wonders if he could sleep with you stuffed full of him like this. Slotted together and absolutely buried in your cunt; reaming you out as far as your small frame will allow. He enjoys the idea of that, and of holding you close.

He listens meditatively as your breathing steadily evens out, a soft in-out rhythm he can hear start in your chest only to feel warmly dancing across his collarbone a moment later.

Your small hand glides up the back of his trapezoid and combs through the short hair at his crown.

He shivers almost immediately at the act, thoughts clouding. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, now. He can't really bring himself to do anything. He's locked in. It's like he's been sedated, or scruffed about the neck. Then your fingers trace the bare skin behind his ear, and he snaps from the trance enough to crack an eye open to glance down.

"Don't push your luck," he bites out automatically and leers away.

You immediately stiffen, and lurch yourself back—seemingly completely confused.

He's not exactly sure why he reacted that way either, but he's certainly not going to address it.

Ultimately, he opts to pull his cock out of you with scant decorum rather than linger on the topic. Then he settles into a kneel as he eyes the soaked-in stain below the bunched-up fabric of your robe.

"Well," he snorts.

And damn, it's difficult to hold a straight face at the overdramatic, painfully oblivious pout you shoot him.

So, Cato just continues watching you with a cruel sort of satisfaction as you sit yourself up shakily, and realise the mess.

You blanch, promptly shutting your legs and fussing—your ass is half stuck to the fabric of the lounge by your own slick and his spent when you move to stand on shaky, unsure legs.

He's aware of the fact you're after something to wipe away the aftermath. But he's far too content observing you struggle for the moment. Pleased, even. Especially when he's treated to the cringing gasp that slips from you when his semen no doubt starts dripping down your thighs.

You're panicking within seconds. He can hear your heartbeat quickening, plus the acrid tang of baseline stress hormones pervading the room.

There's nothing to spare. Unless you want to leave another smear across the lounge cushioning, but he doubts you'd go so low. He, however, has no such reservations—and yanks the plush velour padded square up to wipe his cock off. It's not as if he wasn't going to toss it down one of the incinerator shafts on the library's second floor anyways.

"Do—" you begin softly, but amend yourself, "Would y-you have anything... to..."

He stares at you, brows furrowed.

Floundering now, you waddle close and swallow harshly.

"To... wipe this up?" You finish, barely a whisper. He can tell you're sour at the fact you're stroking his ego and essentially too full of him to go anywhere.

Cato scoffs, holding up the seating cushion, "What? Too spoilt to use this?"

You cringe at him, "People have sat on that—hundreds of people, probably. I-I don't have your immunity to infection."

Cato cedes on that point at least, because he assumes being a baseline is hell. And so very not his problem, too.

Completely out of left field, comes the temptation to lick you clean. His mulish hind-brain reasons it's a brilliant idea, namely because you'd likely be squirming for him again. Even if he has no real idea of what to do beyond that. Lap at your clit, probably—he's not actually done any of this before except—well, except just slamming into you. He has the basic gist of all of this from biologis graphics and pornographic motionpicts. Yes, the latter are technically contraband on Ultramarine chapter vessels—Throne, he actually remembers when that was put into force. He was still green behind the ears when that'd happened. But those specific brothers had displayed it for abstract amusement, not... it's intended purpose—rather: 'Lo, look at this curiosity, brothers! See they're fornicating, how very so strange! Baselines am-i-right?'

Honestly, it's never actually anything heretical, except for maybe the terrible acting.

He'd deem that punishable by death.

Regardless, Cato's guessing the process of licking something can't really be some sage art form. Not like duelling, and fuck, he's stellar at that. He's stellar at almost everything, he reasons. So why not that? You're such a wanton little thing he'd probably make you finish on accident.

Yet he decides against it as soon as the logical part of his brain boots back up. Largely given the fact he's probably already going to have a hard time as it is trying to avoid others on his way to mask the stink of sex. His brothers have keen noses, it wouldn't be difficult for them to notice the smell of you on his way to his chamber if he's not careful. Let alone if it's smeared all over his face. Next time, however—

"Surely it's not that bad," he says off-handedly.

A surge of shame appears on your face as a red, blotchy belt across your cheeks, and you seem about to protest before he grumbles.

"Still, you really ought to find a solution," he remarks idly, and he notices the implication isn't lost on you.

You frown softly, and wrinkle your nose at him.

"Maybe some manners would help you achieve your goals," he adds, with a clearer spite.

Your frown grows nigh comically harsh.

Cato grunts wryly, satisfied at your annoyance and paws at the hem of his tunic—tearing a portion off and holding it out to you.

You grab the edge of it and tug, but he doesn't let go.

"And what do you say?"

"Thanks," you answer hastily.

He raises an eyebrow and pulls the torn fabric back towards himself ever so slightly, causing you to over extend closer to him.

His stare stays locked on yours, and he gets the treat of watching you dither and fluster under his focus momentarily before you amend, "T-Thank you..." you swallow, and break eye contact, adding; "Commander Sicarius."

"Was that so hard?" Cato scoffs, especially thrilled as he lets go of the scrap—eyeing you as you trot aside, and gingerly begin to wipe away the mess of satisfaction coating your thighs and rear.

When you're decidedly done, you stomp back over to him and hold out the soiled fabric.

He reaches for it, only to have it promptly pulled away.

Cato scowls, and takes a step forward into your space—only for you to inch forward into his.

You're tormenting him then, he decides; or rather he thinks. He's not sure. You don't look smug—you look... nervous? Your lips have drawn into a thin line and you keep glancing between his eyes and behind him randomly.

"What?" He huffs, narrowing his eyes.

"Lean down," you mumble, then quietly make the additional effort of throwing in a "...please."

Cato grumbles at the request but complies, and Throne, he's glad he does; because suddenly you're up on your tip-toes, your hand on his jaw—and your lips are on his cheek.

He blinks, dumb as a mule. It's over as fast as it started and he can't even begin to unpack the elation he's abruptly feeling.

Heedless of his dazzled state, you clear your throat with a bashful laugh—and then the rag is suddenly stuffed into his open hand. He's still frozen there as you practically rush out the room, scooping your previously flung data-slate up as you frantically wave the door mechanism open and vanish from view.

A long wheeze escapes his throat in the empty room, his face thudding with heat.

Oh, he's fucked fucked.

[kohabielnin]

Helo,hello , I really really enjoy your Truth and inference series, and I'm so happy that your request box is open.

/*excited noises

Can I request the whole truth and inference cast reacting to a modern reader?(I really think there should be more idv x modernreader fictions),thank you, thank you.😘

Of course, I love exploring more of the T&I universe so it always excites me to be asked something about

D.M/Désire Mélodis

• When he discovered it, it was as if a million new possibilities had appeared to him,

• If with the knowledge of the time, it was already dangerous, with modern knowledge then...

• Everyone realized that he was treating you better than he treated others, just so he wouldn't lose you to Mr. Inference,

• Tuberose got a little jealous when he realized that D.M was treating you well and Gatto was deeply afraid of that,

• Passing on the knowledge you have to D.M can be one of the most dangerous things to do, you can't predict what this man will do,

• In general, even though he has ulterior motives for you, he seems to treat you well because he wants to, not to get information out of you, he is a real mystery

Noir/Saphir Mélodis

• He found this extremely interesting when he learned,

• Just as he found it interesting, the concern came in threefold,

• He doesn't want D.M to find out for fear of what his brother might do to you,

• Crimson also helps you hide your secret, since according to herself, nothing will stop her from treating you like a little sister,

• Sometimes, out of curiosity, Noir asks what things are like in the modern world and never ceases to be surprised by his answers,

• According to him, he would love to see how everything will turn out, but he knows he won't live long enough for that, so he is content just listening to their stories

Gatto/Aesop Carl

• First he was shocked, then excited, and finally confused,

• What would a person from the future be doing in the past, he thought, but the excitement of learning new things about chemistry was greater,

• He asked, even in a shy way, for you to teach everything you knew about medicine and modern chemistry,

• I can say that I have never seen a Gatto as excited as he was while you explained and demonstrated everything you knew to him,

• Even Cat was fascinated by his knowledge after making a delicious salmon dish that she had never even dreamed of trying before,

• You and Gatto made a promise that this would be your secret and no one else would know

Mr. Inference/Naib Subedar

• He was very excited for several reasons and one of them was that with his knowledge of his time, he would get evidence to put D.M behind bars,

• Lady Truth scolded him for thinking about using you to get rid of D.M, then he apologized to you,

• To make up for what he wanted to do, he bought you a basket of sweets which he shared with White and Lady Truth,

• You taught Mr. Inference everything you knew out of your own free will and he learned much faster than you imagined,

• For him, meeting you was like a blessing from the gods, after all, even if you weren't someone from modern times, you were still a great companion for him and his friends, so he felt grateful for that

White/Saphir Mélodis

• When you felt comfortable telling him, it was his happiest day, even though he already knew,

• Every fraction of a second, this boy asked a different question,

• Even though it was tiring answering so many questions, seeing his surprised and interested look, it was worth all the tiredness,

• Whenever you finish answering his questions, q he will say that I would love to be able to see with my own eyes what you are talking about,

• Even if it feels sad in your chest to hear him say that and know it's a lie, you still smile and say, who knows...

• Of course he notices that you are sad and showers you with affection, after all, for him, seeing your sad face is worse than death

[merakiui]

Hello! Could I request flower bouquet from the miscellaneous menu.. And as for the dynamic, I'm quite indecisive on that regard, but I recall you saying it's fine to let you chose? Forgive me if I'm wrong. I'd like to order that with red velvet cupcakes & banana pudding from the midnight menu for Jade Leech, with an AFAB reader. If you are unable to do this, it is completely understandable. I hope your day/night goes well, and may you take care.

yandere!jade leech x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, non-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, kidnapping, slight angst, royalty au (princess!reader x butler!jade) note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

It’s well past midnight when Jade finds you in the garden. He spots you milling about aimlessly beneath a stone archway. Greenery twists up the rough surface; vines spotted with tiny flowers drape like fruit from a bough. Moonlight paints you in strokes of silvery magnificence, a breathtaking sight even the most skillful painter could never hope to replicate on a canvas. Even though it’s the middle of summer, there’s a fierce bite to tonight’s temperature. It’s in his nature to protect, a bodyguard and a butler in one, which is precisely why he frets when he notices you’re dressed in a thin nightgown and a silk robe.

You’re stunning regardless of your attire. He’s always thought so. A hopeless observation, for you have never belonged to him and thus those words will remain a scandal under lock and key.

“My lady?” He approaches with even steps, his voice a gentle whisper. Despite his best efforts, you still flinch at his sudden arrival. He bows respectfully, a hand held over his heart. “Forgive me for startling you. I noticed you weren’t in bed when I came to check on you, and so I thought I might find you here.”

“Am I really so predictable?”

“Quite.” He chuckles at the pout that twists on your lips. “Admittedly, my advantage is rather unfair. I’ve known you long enough to commit all of your habits and haunts to memory.”

“You’re too good. It’s not fair…”

“Is everything all right?” Jade moves to shrug his tailcoat off, aiming to drape it across your shoulders for extra layering, but you stop him. “My lady?”

“I’m not cold. Thank you, though.”

Jade nods slowly and slides his arms back into the sleeves. “May I ask what’s keeping you up? It’s unlike you to visit the garden so late.”

“It’s nothing major. Just thinking too much about too many things. If that makes any sense…”

He hums in acknowledgement. You fidget on your bare feet. Some days Jade thinks you’d wander to your death if it weren’t for him. Having suspected this, he made sure to bring your shoes. Guiding you to the marble bench at the end of the pathway, where the space opens into a clearing enclosed with shaped shrubbery, Jade lowers to his knees.

“A princess shouldn’t dirty her feet so carelessly,” he reminds you, taking hold of your foot and gingerly sliding your shoe on.

You frown at him. “Does it matter?”

“In polite society, yes, very much so.”

“Polite society is the worst. How am I meant to frolic in the flowers as the fairy tales intended if I can’t even take my shoes off for such a thing?”

“You may do so in your dreams.”

“It’s not the same.”

Jade gazes at your legs from where he kneels. Should his gaze climb any higher… He snuffs that thought before it can take root. “Perhaps not, but the world within a dream is lenient and lawless. You’re free to break every rule you desire.”

He offers you his arm and you take it. Lifting you from the bench, he walks with you and admires lush blossoms alongside you. Sweet is the night breeze, bringing recollections of a childhood that has long since fled. Watching you, future heir to the throne, from afar, an unimportant butler-in-training… You’ve always been his world—the center of his vision. The single flower in a garden infested with weeds.

What he’d do to pick you and put you in a pot of his own making. To keep you solely because it is the whim of a selfish heart caught up in foolish, one-sided limerence.

“What would you do? In your dreams, I mean. If you could experience any dream, what would it be?”

Jade peers at you, taken aback. “You’re asking me?”

“No, I’m asking the flowers.” Playfully, you reach up to pat his head. He leans down to meet your hand halfway, a smile gracing his features. How fervently he wishes you would touch him with more purpose. If only your individual stations were not so far apart. If only he could become your equal just for tonight and know rapture under your fingertips. “Yes, Jade, I’m asking you.”

It’s not a calculated risk, for he knows the outcome will never be in his favor, but he acts on impulse anyway. He seizes your hand. You flinch away, surprised by this forthright display, but he holds firm. He’s determined to see this through to the end, even if it lands him a heart more shattered than when he began.

“I would become a prince and marry you.”

Much to his chagrin, you laugh. “That’s quite the lofty dream. A funny one, too.”

He squeezes your hand, insistent. “That is the truth.”

“It’s not.” You meet his mismatched stare. “It… It’s not, right? Surely you jest.”

“I have always admired you, my lady.” Testing his limits, he brings your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. “Though you may be forever out of my reach and I may be but a mere servant, that does not stop me from loving you any less.”

Your face falls. There is no reciprocation to be found in your gaze. He suspected this from the beginning, but it does nothing to soothe the sting.

He grasps your other hand, hoping to bestow a kiss to it as well, but you jerk away so quickly that you trip over your feet and land in a heap on the grass. He doesn’t make any move to help you up. Not yet, at least. Lying sprawled on your back, you watch him with uncertain eyes.

“How long?”

“The day your father rescued me and brought me in—you offered your hand to me, and you told me I would never know the dangers of the sea again.” Jade stands over you, observing the many emotions flickering on your face, before lowering to your height. He straddles you with ease. “I had never known such kindness until then.”

“Ah, right… I remember that day. You were injured so severely they put you on bedrest. You had to learn how to walk all over again.”

“In spite of everything they told you about me, you visited me regardless. Every day, at every hour, to bring snacks and toys. To cheer me up. To wish for my swift recovery. To act as my crutch. For that, I am forever grateful.” His hands slide your nightgown up, and he feasts on the sight of your panties—on the way you draw your thighs together to hide from him. “I have always stood dutifully by your side, hoping to repay you for all that you’ve done for me.”

You look delicate in the grass, your robe slipping from your shoulders. Like a pinned butterfly or an angel having just fallen from the sky, you’re a sugared fantasy brought to life.

“Jade.” You grab at his shoulders and push back weakly; he doesn’t budge. “We… We shouldn’t. I can’t. If someone were to see—”

“They won’t.”

“Yes, but I—” you turn away from him, worrying your lip between your teeth— “I can’t, Jade… I’m betrothed. F-Furthermore, it’s not safe without…protection. You can’t.”

He smiles fondly, so sickly, stupidly enchanted. With the moon just behind his head, framing it like a hazy halo, you might mistake him for an angel. His actions suggest he’s anything but.

Lifting his index finger to his lips, he shushes you. “In that case, let’s play pretend for tonight—just as we used to—and trap ourselves in a dream.”

Your refusal falls on deaf ears.

Hands crawl along the expanse of your body, feeling everything within reach. He’s overjoyed to behold you, to press down on the space between your legs and savor your staggered breaths. You plead with him all throughout it, begging him to cease now and he’ll be spared. But Jade can’t. If it kills him, he wants to have died knowing he was on cloud nine.

This has always been his dream.

For tonight, he is neither prince nor butler. For tonight, he is simply a monster—the same monster your maids warned you against when you were little: “That cursed child is no good. He will bring ruin to your father—to you, Your Highness. You must keep away, for a child of the sea is a child of destruction and agony.”

The same monster who looked on with a single golden eye, lying in wait like the perfect predator and wearing the skin of a human to hide his true identity. The same monster who took to training as if it were second nature, honing his skills as a butler and a bodyguard. Hardening a heart that has never had the capacity to care for anything other than himself and the ones who have since departed.

The same monster who loves the human he ought to hate, for it is your kind who hunt the waters he was conceived in. Who spear merfolk with harpoons and feast on their flesh and eggs like it’s a sacred delicacy. Who arrange their skeletons in aureate frames. Who mount their taxidermied tails to the wall.

The same monster who, in some distant fairy tale, could have been a king if not for the devastation of his family tree.

Dewy grass sticks to your skin. The scent of moist earth envelops you in its verdant embrace. Jade sinks in slowly, holding you down by your hips. You squirm and cry, but he persists. He could be cruel and callous, rut into you like an animal instead of a lover, but he refrains. He loves you too much, and that hurts more than any pain he could inflict on you.

You dig your nails into his shoulders. If they were sharper, you might have been able to tear through his uniform. Sweet, soft moans spill from pretty, plush lips. He kisses you, adoring the hold your walls have on him when he rolls his hips to fill you deeper.

“Jade… Jade, please,” you ramble, breathing hot and heavy in his ears. It’s musical, the way you sing for him through your tears. “Oh, please pull out. I—aah—can’t… We can’t. Please, Jade.”

Perhaps it would have been easier to hate you and your father—detest the kingdom who has rendered his home an aquatic graveyard. Surrounded in a garden of exotic blooms, Jade thinks that’s impossible. Love born from hate is thorny, impossible to quell once it’s come to fruition. It’s dug its roots into his heart and given way to the most fearsome flower.

He should have killed you. He should have held that pillow over your face all those years ago when he snuck into your bedroom, silent as a shadow. He should have, but he didn’t—couldn’t. And now he’s here, towering over you without the pillow. His hands stray towards your throat, but instead of an execution he drags you against his chest. He can’t.

Years later and he still can’t fulfill his one and only childhood dream.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his eyes glittering. “How I wish you were as ugly as your heart…”

Raindrops spatter your face, a quiet downpour spilling from heterochromatic hues.

You fall apart beneath him, ruined in ways polite society would deem grossly impure.

Now we’re the same, Jade thinks, bowing his head when he reaches his peak. He groans lowly, his eyes squeezed shut. Monsters without homes.

Come morning, the palace is in a panic. The princess has vanished, seemingly whisked away into the night, and the only one who may have any information on her whereabouts has gone with her. Jade doesn’t worry.

No one will find you at the bottom of the sea, unrecognizable as a mermaid in an abandoned coral kingdom.

On his empty throne, he knows of no better place.