#if I ever draw angst it will kill me.

[miiwiio]

silly little sketchy comic I made . wallys outfit is the most annoying thing to draw ever I think . anyway YAY they're soooooooo <333

[dukeofthomas]

why does every reconciliation fic go like this

[itspileofgoodthings]

is everything terrible or is it just the damp of the first spring rain

[strawberryduckmenace]

Art dumping <333 (In free draw)

Inanimate Insanity

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Bfb/TPot

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ONE

[uraveragelonelysapphic]

Lavender

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: Nature had always been your life. How fitting that it could now cause your death.

Warnings: angst (with a happy ending!), mentions of vomiting and blood.

a/n: Hello hello! This is perhaps definitely ass, but I really wanted to write for these two because I'm hopelessly in love with them both. Please enjoy!

Hanahaki Disease 花吐き病 (Japanese) is a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings, or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear.

The natural world had always brought you peace. The softness of the grass under your feet, the gentle breeze blowing against your skin, the tender feeling of a flower blooming by your hand. You were a green witch, after all.

That was what had driven your family away. You had been 12 when you first sprouted a lily from your hand. You were more curious than scared; you had always sensed there was something that separated you from the rest of your family. Something about the earth’s treasures had always called to you. 

But even at your young age, you knew who you were living with. Sharing your abilities was a recipe for disaster; a sure fire way to have you outcast from your family.

So you did your best to keep your powers a secret, honing them in private, away from the watchful eye of your parents.

When you were 20, the inevitable happened. You were meant to be collecting berries for dinner when you had spotted a Willow Tree. It was worse for wear; you could feel it pleading for help as you approached it with a soft smile.

“It’s alright,” you soothed the tree as you gently placed your palms against the soil where its roots rested, “You’ll be alright.”

You closed your eyes, focusing on strengthening the roots as green magic pulsed out from your hands, through the soil, and into the tree itself, which began to heal instantly.

The snapping of a twig broke you out from your trance, turning your head to see your mother fleeing the scene. Your heart dropped as you quickly stood, moving to follow her.

She was too fast. By the time you had returned to your cabin, everyone and everything was gone. Your entire family had left you.

You fell to your knees in the middle of what was once your home, tears rolling down your face as you stared at the ground. Numb, broken, grieving.

You don’t know how long you stayed in that spot. You didn’t eat, you didn’t sleep, you just sat, staring, longing.

It wasn’t until a cold hand lifted your chin that you realized you weren’t alone anymore.

“Hello, darling,” a voice said softly, and you locked eyes with one of the most beautiful women you had ever seen. Her brown eyes were intoxicating, drawing you in. You tilted your head at her in confusion and intrigue. Who was she? What was she doing here?

“You’ve been sat here for a week, darling. No food, no water, no sleep. You’ll kill yourself if you keep up like this,” she said as she looked at you curiously.

Your eyes widened in realization. Death. 

She shook her head at you gently, sensing your fear. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not taking you. It’s not your time,” she said, stroking your hair gently. 

“Thank you, Lady Death,” you stuttered out, in awe of her soft nature, directly contrasting the connotation of her very existence.

She smiled at you in response. “You can call me Rio, sweet girl.” 

There was a moment where you two merely looked at one another before she looked away, taking on a rather stern expression. “But I feel the need to tell you, sitting here and mourning your abandonment will only hurt you. It’s not your time. So don’t let it be. Get up, you’re coming with me.”

You stumble away from her in confusion. “I thought you weren’t taking me?”

She shook her head. “I’m not taking you to the afterlife. I am, however, taking you in. You’ll be staying with Agatha and I.”

You knew that name. You had read about it during your private studies.

“Agatha? Like…’The Witch Killer’ Agatha? That Agatha?” you asked cautiously.

Rio cackled, extending her hand to you.

You took it.

And so began the years you spent with Death and her lover, Agatha Harkness. The two women were vastly different to their reputations that had preceded them. Sure, they both had a fierceness to them. They had to, in order to survive their daily lives filled with corpses and taking souls.

But, with each other, they held such a softness. Rio often came back from a long day exhausted and drained. Death didn’t tend to be a fan favorite, and people made it evident, shouting at her and berating her as she escorted the souls of their loved ones to the afterlife. But Agatha greeted her at the door each evening with a hug, simply holding her for minutes on end, whispering sweet nothings in her ear as Rio visibly relaxed into her hold.

And Rio returned the favor, treating Agatha with a love full of tenderness and warmth. Comforting her after each nightmare, preventing her from overworking herself, giving her soft apology kisses after any arguments.

Before long, you knew almost everything about the pair. You learned about Agatha and her son, and his loss which nearly tore Agatha and Rio apart. How Agatha was only a ‘Witch Killer’ to keep Nicky alive as long as she could. How Rio held such anguish and guilt at having to take Nicky’s soul. How Agatha once held it against her but now loved her as fiercely as ever.

The two were made for each other, and though they welcomed you with a similar softness to that which they showed each other, you chalked it up to them taking pity on a girl who was abandoned by her family. You knew they could never love you like they loved each other.

But that didn’t stop you from falling for them. It happened subconsciously; you never meant for it to happen. But when your heart panged in longing at seeing Agatha and Rio curled up in each other’s arms in the living room, you knew it had happened. It panged even further as you looked down, noticing a red carnation that had bloomed in your palm against your will.

You were determined to ignore it. Surely you could enjoy their presence without focusing on the way your stomach flipped when Rio smiled at you, or how your heart seemed to triple in size whenever Agatha would stroke your hair in affectionate greeting. But what you had to do became evident one morning.

“We’re headed out for a bit, doll,” Agatha said as you sat at the table eating the breakfast she had made for you.

You nodded. “Okay! Don’t stay out too late, I’m making your favorite for dinner, Ags.”

She beamed at you, making butterflies flare up in your stomach so violently they made you uneasy. “You’re a gem. Isn’t she just?” She turned to Rio, squeezing her hand gently.

“Oh, yeah, she’s the sweetest,” Rio replied, winking at you as you feel your heart beat faster.

The two bid you a final farewell before leaving for the day. As soon as they left, you began to feel an uncomfortable itch in your throat. You furrowed your brows, attempting to clear your throat to ease the discomfort, but to no avail. Eventually you began coughing. It was a cough that made you feel sick, made you feel like something was really wrong.

And when you coughed into your palm and saw the petals of daffodils, your suspicions were confirmed.

You had heard of Hanahaki disease but had always believed it to be a myth. Your heart dropped at the realization that your love for these women was going to kill you.

You had to leave.

So you did. You packed up that day and left, traveling solo for centuries as you studied the disease you suffered from. 

Luckily, it impacted witches differently than humans. As your lifespan tended to be a lot longer, the disease was longer lasting; escalating at a slower pace before killing you altogether.

For the first hundred years, it had mostly been a consistent burning in your throat and coughing up various flower petals. Miserable, but bearable nonetheless.

After those hundred years, it began to escalate at a quicker pace as the flowers bloomed quicker and sharper. After 200 years of this disease, you were weaker than ever before. Coughing constantly, a never ending sensation of your insides burning, vomiting flower petals and blood.

Yes, there was the option of surgery, but you couldn’t bring yourself to allow that option to become a reality. You didn’t want to forget the love you held for Rio and Agatha. They had shown you kindness and softness like none other. You would die before you let yourself remove the memory of them from your very soul.

And you were getting close. You knew your time was running out.

And so, after another long day of slowly dying, you stared up at the sky, longing for your loves, even though you knew it could never be.

It was then that you felt yourself being sucked into the ground beneath you, and you let out a yelp at the shock.

Before you knew it, you were clawing your way out of the ground, now in a completely unfamiliar place. You were on a path in a strange, dystopian-looking forest. You could feel the magic buzzing around you as you pulled yourself up from the ground.

“Who is that?”

“I thought we already got a green witch?”

You heard a gasp and looked up to meet a pair of blue eyes you had longed for night after night for the past 200 years.

“Agatha,” you said quietly, tears welling in your eyes before you could stop them.

A familiar voice said your name and you shuddered at the sound.

“Rio.”

The two women stared at you and you stared back, unsure of what to say.

“So, are you gonna introduce us to the new girl, or…” a witch in a pink dress asked and you broke your intense stare-down to introduce yourself by name to the coven of witches. 

“I’m a green witch,” you explained.

“We’ve already got one,” a teenage boy said, pointing at Rio awkwardly.

You knew well and good that Rio wasn’t here as a green witch, she was here on work business, but you didn’t want to blow what seemed to be a cover, and you also didn’t have a damn clue where you were, so you played along.

“Well, you know summoning spells, you never know how many you’re gonna get…” you tried cautiously, still feeling the gaze of your former housemates burning into the side of your head.

“Y/N, a word?” Agatha finally asked, and you gulp before nodding and following her and Rio to a secluded part of the forest.

“Hey guys…what’s up?” you asked with an awkward smile, trying to ease the tension.

Rio narrowed her eyes at you, crossing her arms. “What’s up is that you up and left 200 years ago without so much as a word to either of us. Care to explain?”

You tried to look to Agatha for support, but she wouldn’t meet your eyes. Your stomach turned at the thought that you had upset these women you loved so deeply.

You took a deep breath, staring at the ground. “I had some business to attend to. I didn’t want either of you to get wrapped up in it.”

“Was your business ‘killing yourself?’ You look rough,” Rio said, a teasing smirk hiding her worry.

“Thanks,” you rolled your eyes, some tension releasing from your shoulders at the knowledge that Rio wasn’t angry enough to ignore you.

“You left without so much as saying goodbye,” Agatha said quietly. She sounded so hurt, and you couldn’t believe you had brought this on the pair, but you knew they deserved to love each other in peace, not be burdened at being the cause of your death.

“Ags, I’m really sorry, I should’ve said goodbye, I just-“ you were cut off as a violent coughing fit shook you, causing both women to raise their eyebrows at you.

You turned away from them as you coughed a plumeria flower out of your throat. You quickly slipped the flower into your pocket and wiped a bit of blood from the corner of your mouth before turning to face the two witches again.

The eyes on you were soft and concerned, but you shook your head at them, shutting down their questions before they even asked. “I’m fine, just a cough.”

Rio opened her mouth to protest when a witch sporting orange streaks in her hair interrupted.

“I’m sorry to get in the middle of whatever this reunion is, but I think it’s time for our next trial.”

You furrowed your brows. “Trial?” You began to realize that you had no idea where you actually were.

“Duh, we are on the Witches Road, after all!” The teenage boy exclaimed, leaving you even more confused.

The road isn’t real. You knew all about the song that Agatha had used to lure her victims in. 

“Wait, but-“ you stopped yourself from questioning any further when you saw Rio subtly shake her head at you, a silent plea to not reveal the truth of the road to the group.

You nodded in understanding, deciding to save your questions for later. “Alright, where’s the next trial?”

You looked up to see the group staring at something behind you. Agatha and Rio were particularly fascinated by it.

You turned around and your stomach dropped. You saw a cottage. It’s covered in vines and moss, making it appear worn down. But you thought it was beautiful. Perhaps that’s because it was yours. And Agatha’s. and Rio’s.

You looked at the path leading to the cottage. It was covered in flowers. You took a deep breath.

You just got here and already you were being given a trial.

As you and the rest of the coven approached the cottage, you couldn’t help but turn to the women you desire the most for comfort. 

Rio had an arm wrapped around Agatha’s waist, her thumb gently stroking the witch’s hip bone. Agatha looked up at her, smiling in gratitude, and Rio pressed a soft kiss to Agatha’s forehead.

Your stomach churned at the sight, and you felt bile rising in your throat. You painfully swallowed it back down, cringing at the effect it had on your throat, already raw from the thorns slowly tearing it to shreds.

“You good?” The witch in the pink dress asked, and you nodded.

“Yeah. Let’s just get this over with.”

The inside of the cottage looked just like you thought it would.

Home.

The same furniture, same pillows and blankets, same decor on the walls.

Your eyes filled with tears as you remembered all the time you had spent here with the women you loved more than anything.

“Doll,” a gentle voice said, and you turned to see Agatha looking at you softly. She approached you slowly, holding a hand out for you, but you took a step back.

“I’m fine,” you said, brushing your face and continuing to move through the house.

“This is new,” you heard Rio’s voice from the room resembling your bedroom. 

You entered and were greeted with a tapestry on your wall. It showed 5 flowers. Below the woven flowers was a message:

The words she never spoke will slowly begin to choke. For if they never cared, a life cannot be spared.

“It’s my life,” you breathed out, staring in horror at the plants on the tapestry.

Rio nodded, running her fingers along the tapestry as she identified the plants.

“Lily. Rebirth,” she began.

“The birth of your powers, the birth of you as a witch,” Agatha identified.

“Willow Tree. Loss.”

“The loss of your kin. Being abandoned by those you called family,” Agatha continued.

“Red Carnations. Deep, affectionate love.”

Agatha went silent at this, her brows furrowing.

“Daffodil. Unrequited love.”

Rio and Agatha were visibly shaken by this point. What hadn’t you told them? You were in love? With who?

Rio snapped her head to look at you upon seeing the last flower.

“Plumeria,” she said grimly.

Agatha’s eyes were wide. “What does that mean?” 

Rio only continued to look at you.

“Rio, what does that mean???”

Her question was answered as you began to cough violently again, the sheer force of it bringing you to your knees.

Agatha rushed over to you in a panic. She looked at the rest of the coven in terror. “What’s happening to her?” she cried as you began to choke.

“The words she never spoke will slowly begin to choke,” the teenager said.

“Hanahaki disease,” the witch in pink breathed out.

“What the hell is that?” Agatha was crying now, watching as petals and thorns made their way out of your mouth covered in blood.

“A disease that affects someone facing unrequited love,” Rio said in realization.

As she put the pieces together she knelt in front of you in an instant, anger coursing through her.

“You left because of this,” she said, her voice low, “You thought we didn’t love you, so you left?” she asked incredulously.

“Didn’t want—you to—-see me die,” you gasped out, fighting for air as you began to cough up more and more blood.

“You’re not dying, Y/N. I won’t take you,” Rio choked out, her sorrow getting the best of her. 

“Better this way,” you managed, and Agatha choked out a sob.

“It’s not, doll, we love you, we love you,” she cried helplessly.

The whole coven stood in shock. The two women they feared the most were in the most pain they had seen since they began to walk the road.

Both women hold you tight, desperately trying to convince you of their love.

Rio grabbed your face to look at her. “There’s a reason I took you in that day, mi vida,” she whispered as tears fell down her face, “I felt pulled to you. I knew you would be special to me. Aggie and I love you so much, please believe me.”

She leaned in and pressed her lips to yours, ignoring the blood and petals and thorns and focusing on you. Just you.

When she pulled away you gasped, finally able to gather air into your lungs.

Relief was visible throughout the entire coven. They had only just met you, but seeing how your existence being threatened had brought absolute devastation to two of the most intimidating women on earth had shaken them.

As you began to breathe again, you sagged against Agatha.

“You’re okay, doll, you’re okay now,” she assured you as she gently ran a hand through your hair.

The door to the cottage slammed open, and the rest of the coven took it as their cue to leave, giving you three a moment to recover.

As you laid against Agatha, you looked at Rio with tired eyes. “Sorry for getting blood on you,” you rasped, causing the woman to roll her eyes at you.

“You’re such an idiot, you know that?” She scolded before taking both of your hands in hers. “I. Love. You.”

Tears filled your eyes at her earnest confession. “I’m so sorry I ran,” you began, your body shaking, “I saw the love you had for each other, and how much you had healed each other, and I couldn’t hurt that. I didn’t want you to see me die. It wouldn’t have been your fault,” you said brokenly.

Agatha shushed you, kissing the top of your head. “You shouldn’t have run. It would’ve saved us all 200 years of agony,” she said, and you hang your head in guilt.

But then you felt a cold hand lifting your chin. And suddenly you were 20 years old again, looking into the eyes of Lady Death herself. 

But this time, instead of looking at you with curiosity, she looked at you with something much stronger. She looked at you with love.

“But we’ve got you back now,” she said, smiling tearfully at you, “so we’re taking you in. Is that okay?”

Your body wracked with sobs as you nodded, and both women were holding you in an instant. Your back was against Agatha’s front as her arms wrapped around your waist. Rio straddled you, her arms wrapping around your neck as she pulled you close.

And out of the cracked wooden floor of that cottage, something bloomed.

Lavender. Healing. Love.

[nebulaafterdark]

The Rats (Pt. 3)

Aegon ii x Velaryon(Strong)! Reader

Summary: Aegon attempts to make peace with Rhaenyra after being forced to usurp her throne. Lucerys’ death complicates things.

18+ ONLY, MDNI. Targcest, smut, angst, violence. S2 SPOILERS

Part 1 | Part 2

“With free reign of King’s Landing, Aemond will focus his attention on the occupation of bast-” Aegon’s face flushes bright red. “Harrenhal.” He corrects himself, “and the extermination of house Strong.”

“What did you call it?” Daemon arches a brow.

“Harrenhal,” Aegon repeats.

“Before that,” Daemon prods.

Aegon sighs, looking to his wife.

“Bastardhal.” Y/N rolls her eyes.

“My brother’s term of endearment.” He explains, “a slip of the tongue.”

“Mmm,” Daemon hums. “Perhaps allegiance to your brother runs deeper than you let on.”

“I have left my siblings and abandoned my post to be here. I remain loyal to Rhaenyra’s claim and her line of succession. What else would you have me do?” Aegon scoffs.

“There are a number of things.”

“If you refuse to believe that Aegon is loyal to our queen, believe that he is loyal to me and I am loyal to my mother.” Y/N takes a protective step in front of her husband.

Daemon’s jaw ticks, frustrated and teetering near sanity’s edge. “You then, are responsible for his indiscretions.”

“I take full responsibility.” Y/N agrees, “he is here for me.”

“Perhaps he might further demonstrate his loyalty.”

“And how, do you suggest, I do that?” Aegon wonders.

“Deliver us your brother’s head on a platter.” Daemon sneers.

“Mother!”

“Am I wrong, Rhaenyra?” Daemon scoffs.

“That is enough!” The Queen slams her fist against the table. “Thank you, Aegon for the information you provided. We will coordinate with our army and send reinforcements to Harrenhal. We will send word to Cregan Stark-”

“By raven?”

“However I see fit, Daemon. Stay your hand.” Rhaenyra snaps. “You are all excused.”

Aegon is out the door just as swiftly.

Y/N flinches as it slams behind him.

Jacaerys remains stoic in the corner, saying nothing for a long while as his mother and step father begin bickering. “Sister,” he nods toward the hallway.

Y/N returns the gesture, following him out past the royal guards. “The nerve of him.” She is fuming as they begin strolling the grounds.

“That is Daemon.” Jacaerys breathes. “Pay him no mind.”

“It’s not as if I don’t want Aemond’s head. Luce is our brother, for the gods’ sake.”

Jace swallows, mouth set in a firm line. “He was our brother.”

Was…is he not anymore?

“In these dealings with Aemond, you must remember that killing him will not bring Luce back.”

“It would be even.”

“A son for a son was also even.” Her brother reminds her. “Your grievance with it hath brought you here.”

“I should have allowed the murder of a child?”

“I did not say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“What is even is not always right, I expect you know that by now.”

“Indeed.”

“Ravens will take too long.” Jacaerys laments, “but mother will not let us deliver messages anymore. It is a shame that our safety comes at the expense of other’s.”

Y/N draws in a steadying breath. “Pity.” She turns away, in the direction of her chambers. Aegon is waiting for her there, sipping from a pitcher of wine. “Did they not give you a cup, my darling?”

“Hmm,” Aegon hums into the container, “of course.” He lowers the pitcher from his mouth, “but this is faster.”

The princess puts a hand to her head.

“I am not a dog that’s been kicked, do not look at me that way. As if I am weak.”

“I love you and you are hurting.” Y/N sighs, “I do not know how else to look at you.”

Aegon mulls this over for a moment. “I did not mean to call it bastardhal.”

“I know that.”

“You are not a bastard.” He presses on, “I am sorry for ever calling you one.”

“You are forgiven.” It is nothing more than a word. It cannot harm her anymore.

“If no house would claim you, then I would.”

Y/N gives him a sad smile, “thank you, Aegon.”

“You think I jest? Or does it simply mean nothing coming from me?”

“It means everything coming from you,” Y/N takes a step toward him. “Forgive me if I have made it seem-”

“No,” Aegon shakes his head, “forgive me. I am lost in this. I mustn’t take my frustration out on you.”

Y/N cups his face in her hands. “If you are loved by no one, know you are loved by me.“

“Without you I have nothing.” He reaches a shaky hand out, stroking her hair, reverently. “I am nothing.”

She draws back, searching his eyes. “That is not true.”

“If you ask me to slay my brother, I will do it.” Aegon breathes.

Y/N presses her lips together. She had not asked, Daemon did. But Aegon does not bend to Daemon’s will, only hers.

“Please do not ask.” He murmurs with wide, sad eyes.

Y/N cannot stand to see him cry. It tears at the depths of her soul. She wraps her arms around him, “I will not ask.”

Aegon clings to her. “I would do it.”

“I know, my love.” Y/N presses kisses to the side of his face. She knows his sadness, the burden of being least loved by everyone else. Some part of him will always seek to win her approval, her affection… her love.

He is pawing at her then, at the laces of her dress. He does not know how to comfort her, nor himself. He knows how to bring pleasure so blinding it nearly drowns out the pain.

Y/N helps him remove his clothes, wrapping him up in her arms. “I love you.”

“As I love you.” He’s stumbling backwards then, hovering over her on the bed. Easing his cock into her.

She sighs, losing herself in the gentle rocking of his hips. There is no haste to reach their peak, taking what little comfort they can from each other.

It is not until his thumbs skate over her cheeks that Y/N realizes she is crying. Even here, on their marriage bed, there is no end to suffering. Only an end to loneliness.

————————————————————————

Y/N waits until Aegon is sleeping soundly to clamber from the warmth of his arms and dawn her riding gear. Dragonstone is quiet as she makes her way down to the dragon pit. Stormborn is nestled in beside Sunfyre, her light blue scales complement the golden hue of her companion.

“Where are you off to at this hour, your grace?” One of the keepers asks.

“I’m going to take Stormborn out for a bit of fresh air. The moon is beautiful this evening, don’t you agree?” Y/N smiles, tucking a bit of loose hair behind her ear.

“Indeed, Princess.” He eyes the sword, sheathed at her back.

“This is only a precaution,” Y/N lies, “we can never be too careful in these times.”

He nods, “I will saddle her.”

“Thank you, Marcelo.” Y/N nods, tugging on her riding gloves as she waits. Tapping at her wedding band, beneath the cool fabric.

“She is ready, your grace.”

“Thank you, again.” She says, climbing up onto Stormborn’s saddle.

“It is my great honor.” The man smiles, watching in wonder as the princess sets off across the sea.

Only a few torches are lit at the entrance of Harrenhal.

Y/N lands near the stone walkway, striding up to the tall hooded figure and ripping back his cloak.

Aemond turns to his assailant. “Y/N?”

“Take out your sword.” She demands.

“Lucerys death was a tragic mistake, a lapse in judgment I do not care to repeat.”

“I will not kill you with your back to me, I am no coward. You will face me, take out your sword.”

“For the sake of the gods, Y/N,” Aemond growls. “Do you aim so desperately to break my brother’s heart?”

“I will not allow the slaughter of innocent people. This ends here.”

“A brother for a brother it will be then, not a son for a son.” Aemond reluctantly withdraws his weapon.

Y/N charges him, in a blind rage, their blades meet, clanking together.

“You make a better sparring partner than most.” He draws his sword away, narrowly dodging her next attack.

“This is not a children’s game, I want your head!”

Aemond purrs, “you must earn it then.”

She sees red, swinging at him again, until his blade slices across her side and she has cut deep into the flesh of his leg. Bringing the Prince to his knees, with her sword at his neck.

“Do it,” Aemond insists, “you will not get another chance.” He stares up at her blade, dripping with his blood. The fear etched into her eyes, tresses of dark hair clinging to her sweat damp skin.

In this light, each of them resemble their brother.

The end Y/N desires is so near she can taste it, rising like bile in her throat. She chokes on it. “No.” She drops her blade from his neck, covering her aching side instead. “No.”

Aemond hangs his head. “I am sorry for that business with Luce. I lost my temper that day.”

“And I lost my…” No, she cannot say it, the pain is too great.

“Let me see your wound.” Aemond insists.

In her shock, Y/N obeys.

He tears across the bottom of his cloak, knotting the material firmly around her torso. Unbothered by her hissing protest. “This will hold until you reach Dragonstone. Go to Aegon, he will tend you.”

“You must leave this place.”

“You have my word.”

“And you must leave King’s Landing.”

Aemond smirks, “where would I go?”

“Anywhere.” Y/N suggests, “take Helaena and your children. We both know, she is too kind to bear the weight of the crown and our blood. Take her away so she might be happy…and free.”

“Do you not wish to be free from the weight of the crown?”

Y/N hesitates for a long moment. “I am the crown. I am my mother’s heir, her only daughter. I cannot abandon her, she has lost too much.”

Aemond swallows, “very well. Helaena will write you. You and my brother might visit, once we’re settled.”

“Perhaps we will.” She will never forgive him for Lucerys. They will never be as they were before Storm’s End. “You are my husband’s brother and husband of my dearest friend.”

“I am also your brother’s murderer. A title that trumps all, despite your best intentions. You are good, and kind, but human all the same.”

————————————————————————

“Aegon.”

“Hmm?” He reaches for his wife, blindly, stroking a hand over her dark waves. “What have you done to your hair, darling girl?” He grumbles, “it is awfully coarse.”

Jace bats Aegon’s hands away. “My sister is gone, you buffoon. Get your clothes on.”

“Jacaerys?” Aegon springs up, covering himself with the top sheet. “What are you doing?”

“Y/N is missing. The dragon handlers informed me that she left on Stormborn nearly two hours ago. Sunfyre has been yowling ever since.”

“Alert your mother,” Aegon demands, “raise the guard. Who on earth let the heir to the throne take a dragon from the pit in the middle of the night?”

“She is a princess, not a prisoner.” Jace reminds him, “I have a hunch as to where she went.”

“Harrenhal.” Aegon begins tugging on his clothes. The little brat bedded him and snuck off; again. “She will be a prisoner upon her return. I tire of these games.”

“You mustn’t be so harsh, my sister would go to the ends of the earth for you.”

“Yet she will not stay with me.” Aegon steps into his boots. “Surely she loves me so dearly that she flees at every opportunity.”

“Do not see it that way.” Jace sighs.

“I have no other way to see it.” Their chamber door swings open, revealing the woman in question.

“Aegon,” Y/N chokes. The blinding rush of battle is gone, leaving only her pain.

“Leave us,” Aegon waves a dismissive hand at his nephew.

“Y/N,” Jacaerys looks to his sister instead.

“I am well, brother.”

“You are bleeding.”

Y/N glances down at her wound, “perhaps you might go quietly to the maester and request milk of the poppy?”

“The maester should tend you,” he argues.

“Aegon will tend me, tis but a scrape.” Y/N insists.

Her brother squares his shoulders. “Very well, I will be back.”

“Thank you, brother.” Y/N forces a smile as Jace exits the door.

“What happened?” Aegon demands, squinting into the dim light as his wife stands before him, in her riding gear.

“I could not do it.” Y/N curses her own weakness. “I went to Aemond, I stopped him from taking Harrenhal and I let him go.”

Aegon shifts her garments aside to reveal the damage. A long bleeding gash, beneath her ribs. “Aemond did this to you?” He sits her down on the foot stool, pacing in the small space before it.

“We dueled,” Y/N admits. “I made my mark on him as well.”

“Gods be good.” Aegon breathes.

“If Daemon catches word of this-”

“You are injured. That is where my interests lie, not in the folly of men.” Aegon seethes.

“He has already condoned the murder of children. Helaena’s children, of all people. What will he do if he hears of this?”

Aegon passes a hand over his face. “Surely we cannot leave the wound open like that, it will fester.”

“I know,” Y/N nods. “We must seal it up, with a heated blade. We can do it here, no one need know.” She reaches for his cup on the dresser, chugging the foul liquid down for some relief.

“You’re asking me to…” his eyes dart to his dagger, abandoned near his boots. “No.”

“Aegon.”

“I can’t.”

“It will be quick,” she reasons. “It will scar, but it is on my side, you will not look upon it often.”

“That is what you’re concerned with,” Aegon snaps, “of all things, you think I care about the scar it will leave? That I might frown upon an imperfection?”

“I-”

“You are maddening.”

“I am sorry. I do not wish to fight.”

“It is unavoidable from what I’ve heard. Marriage causes strife and disagreements.”

“Not ours,” Y/N insists, “you are the only person who understands me.”

“I do not understand why you would put yourself in danger.”

“For you.” Y/N tells him. “So you would not have to choose between your wife and your brother.”

“I would choose you, imbecile.”

Y/N bares her teeth. “I couldn’t let you.”

“Why?”

“Because you are mine, Aegon! I protect what is mine.”

In the way of the dragon. And that, Aegon understands very well.

“Here it is,” Jace returns with milk of the poppy.

“Thank you,” Aegon takes the gauntlet, bringing it to his wife’s lips. “Drink all of it.” He demands.

“Is there anything more I can do?” The other man asks.

“Rest the blade of my dagger over the fire until it glows red, then bring it to me.”

Jace nods.

“First, might you find something for her to bite down on. Leather works best.” Aegon purses his lips, “bring me my belt.” One of them is still etched with her teeth markings from Laenor’s birth. He’s delivered two of their children, surely he can do this.

Jacaerys rushes to the armchair beside the bed, tugging Aegon’s belt free and placing it on the foot stool beside his sister.

Y/N curls her fingers around the harsh material. Her vision has doubled, swaying from side to side.

“Are you going to faint?” Aegon catches her face between his hands.

“I feel fine,” Y/N slurs.

Aegon taps her chin. “That is good, my dearest love. I am going to remove your shirt.” He eases the material over her head, leaving only the bindings to cover her breasts.

“The blade is ready,” Jacaerys calls, from the fire place.

“Open.” Aegon tugs at her bottom lip with his thumb until her jaw goes slack, taking the leather belt from her clenched fist and placing the strap between her teeth. “Bite.”

Y/N clamps her teeth around it.

“Good girl.”

Jacaerys approaches, handling the instrument with care.

“You will hold me around the waist, you are not to let go until I say.” Aegon instructs, waiting until she is wrapped around him in an awkward sort of hug. “There you go.” He pats her head before taking the dagger from her brother. He offers no additional warning before lying the blade flat across the expanse of her wound. The cut is a clean one, without jagged edges.

Y/N lets out a muffled cry.

“Shh,” he hushes her, holding the heat to her skin for just a moment more before tossing the dagger away. Gingerly withdrawing the belt from her teeth. Resting his forehead against hers as whimpers settle to deep breathing. “Are you alright?”

Y/N nods.

“If you dare leave me again, Gods help me, I will shackle you to my side.”

Y/N strokes a hand over the side of his face. “Yes, Aegon.”

“I do not jest.”

Part 4

Taglist: @minttea07 @callsignwidow @fallout-girl219 @syraxnyra @vickynephilim @jeondeluxe111 @geeksareunique @arya-brooke @7minutes-tomidnight @ninastyless @aleemendoza2425-blog @livingdead-reilly @whenmypartysover @darlingisntit @nayaniasworld @uniquecroissant @spacexdrago

[lay-z]

cotton candy clouds | 4

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samojede (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts and personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; slow-burnish; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff/domesticity; humour; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

Whenever Simon spares you a glance to remind himself that this new and strange arrangement is real, he finds you staring right back at him somehow.

Always making eye contact; holding his unwavering gaze with a silent expectation that makes his chest feel tight and his brain go numb, grappling for answers. Multiple times he's caught himself biting the tip of his tongue harshly to refrain himself from barking “What?” at you, demanding an answer in exchange for his cluelessness: What do you want from me?

He's building a mountain of expectations in his mind involuntarily while lacking the gear and a strategy in how to climb it properly. It's too high, and he knows he can never reach the top unscathed.

How can he possibly take care of you if he can barely take care of himself outside of what is required of him? He keeps himself fit, alive, able to function, always ready to follow an order and go in for the kill. That’s what he knows, what he’s comfortable with, but this?

Simon doesn't play house, doesn't know how to handle something so... domestic and delicate. He never experienced it growing up, never witnessed normalcy. If he would care about such things now, he’d have a wife or something akin to one, but he doesn’t–never even had a partner before, never bothered to believe himself fit for dating, for letting someone in like this.

Even the soft clothes you're wearing make him recoil; pastel colours having the opposite effect of red to a bull–so odd and out of place to him, and he knows the callouses on his fingers would simply catch on the fabric if he were ever to reach out to you for whatever reason, like a sheep’s fine wool catching on a thorn brush, scratching and tearing.

“What would you like for dinner?”

Simon blinks twice, thrice, before the question comes through his thick skull, vision slowly clearing despite him having stared at you for the past minutes while you were sitting on his couch patiently the whole time, eager as ever now that he willingly took you back to his flat again.

Why did you even sign the handlership without knowing him at all beforehand? Are you really that oblivious? That naïve? Or did the brass coax you into signing it?

“Simon?”

The way you keep saying his name so casually, makes his chest ache, makes him inhale sharply each time. What would he like for dinner? It should be such a simple question, but it seems like a puzzle to him–a thousand pieces, all in the same bloody colour.

“Why? Ya offering to cook for me, lass?” He snorts humourlessly. It's ridiculous. No one cooks for him unless he goes to the mess hall to get some grub.

“Of course, I'd love to!” You answer immediately, flashing a genuine smile. His eyes flicker to your tail when it starts to wag again and he curls his lips under his mask. Isn't he supposed to take care of you? What even is this bloody handlership? His brows draw together quizzically, making that deep crease reappear between them. Perhaps he should’ve read it before putting his signature on the damn paper.

Then he sighs in resignation. “Do whatever you want, just stay out of my room,” he replies and makes a half-hearted gesture towards the kitchen. “Not sure wha’s in the fridge. Been a few days since I went to the store,” he admits begrudgingly, kissing his teeth in annoyance when his stomach grumbles.

“Well then,” you say tentatively, tail stilling on the couch, “–why don't we go shopping for groceries?”

It’s already late afternoon, when Simon pulls up to the parking lot in front of the local supermarket in town with a truck he borrowed, deciding it’s better for his own nerves to take you somewhere else but the stores they have on base.

He just can’t bring himself to keep you on a leash around his peers, to parade you around wearing a pink collar around your neck with his rank and military ID number stitched into its leather–a ‘gift’ from the bloody gift basket Price had delivered to his flat along with the initial shock of your presence.

And, by god, he wants to drop the leash and run in the other direction as soon as the automatic sliding doors swoosh open and his boots step foot into the store with you in tow–a red shopping basket clutched in his other hand.

What an absurd picture it must be to other shopgoers–a behemoth with a skull mask and cargo pants buying veggies and snacks with a gorgeous hybrid woman on a pink leash and matching collar. Kinky, he muses unintentionally and grits his teeth, cringing at his own stupid thought. It’s then and there Simon decides to murder Price next chance he gets.

“Mummy, look!” A toddler exclaims, pointing at you as he peeks his head into the produce aisle. Simon’s eyebrow raises beneath his mask as the little boy approaches shyly, his wide eyes fixated on you. Civilians, especially kids and women, usually avoid him like the plague whenever he’s out and about in public, looking like, well–himself.

“Hello there,” you coo at the toddler, crouching down to his level while Simon keeps as much distance as the leash allows him to, knowing better than to interfere. “Are you looking for your mama?” You ask attentively, ears twitching as you look past the boy, already searching for his parents.

The boy shakes his head with a big smile, rocking on his feet. “Nu-uh, she’s–”

“Noah!” The frantic voice of a woman calls out. “I told you to stay by–” Her eyes widen, steps faltering briefly as she catches sight of Simon, who has already anticipated the reaction, slumping his shoulders to try and make himself look smaller, less threatening.

“He’s okay,” you chime in swiftly, straightening up to be on eye-level with Noah’s mother. “We were about to help him look for you, madam,” you assure her, and the boy giggles when you ruffle his brown unruly curls briefly. “Isn’t that right, big man?”

The conversation fades into the background just like Simon’s whole presence seemingly does as you go on to hold a friendly and effortless conversation with the mother and her son. Meanwhile, Simon doesn’t quite remember the last time someone approached him so casually and jovially, and he gets lost in his own rotten mind with flashbacks of the past again–seeing the ghosts of Beth and Joseph in these strangers in front of him, and his heart is gripped by icy tendrils of grief and melancholy until your laugh breaks through the vision, pulling him back to reality at once.

“Oh, no worries! I’m sure it is strange to see someone like me in a quaint town like this,” you chuckle softly, giving a small wave with your hand while Simon’s pale lashes flutter as he tries to follow the conversation once more after what he’s missed. He notices how the toddler is giggling, petting and hugging your fluffy tail while you continue talking to his mum like it’s nothing unordinary. “But working for the military has brought me to the strangest places where hybrids are either a common occurrence or completely rare and more like a myth,” you explain patiently.

And the woman smiles coyly, already smitten with your charms. “Well, you certainly are a looker if I dare say so, miss.”

Once Alice, as she'd introduced herself, and Noah go about their own shopping, Simon catches the odd look on your face, something akin to sadness or longing hidden behind your smile, before you rapidly blink it away as a grumpy-looking elderly man approaches you, asking for help as if you'd know your way around while Simon groans internally, already despising all the attention.

You really do turn heads in a rather positive way if you manage to make the most grumpy old geezer smile in a heartbeat.

“You always this chipper?” He gruffs as he watches you add a pound of butter and coffee creamer to the overflowing basket, not that he'd care about that. You've been nothing but mindful of prices and proper nourishment while strolling through the aisles.

“Hm?” Simon snorts, in amusement this time. There's no way you didn't hear him; he saw your plush left ear swivel in his direction. “Ya heard me jus’ fine, lass.” He mutters, grabbing a box of his favourite biscuits as he walks past them and shoving them in between the other goodies, feeling like a child sneaking candy into their parent's shopping cart.

“Oh, yeah,” you chuckle, keeping your eyes trained on the shelves with different brands of toast before grabbing a packaged loaf. “I guess I am.” Then you stop, glancing up at him over your shoulder, and Simon nearly bumps into you. “You don't like people coming up to us to chat?”

Simon's brows furrow. Us? “They wanna talk you, not me. 'm basically–” He shrugs, making a vague gesture at himself as the leash clinks in his hand.

“A Ghost?” You quip, beaming at your little joke while your tail swishes proudly.

“Right,” Simon huffs quietly. “Smooth.”

He's rather thankful for his balaclava as he continues trotting after you through the store, hiding the tiniest crack of a smile underneath the black cloth.

There’s a match on the telly, an ice cold bottle of his favourite ale on the coffee table on a coaster he didn’t even know he owned, though all Simon can really focus on is this bizarre situation he finds himself watching as you go about doing your own thing in his kitchen.

It’s almost mesmerizing, the way you rummage through the cupboards and drawers, taking out pots and bowls to your liking as if you own the place already, preparing a side salad while the steaks sizzle in the pan–all while you’re wearing that frilly, pale pink apron that you’d fetched from your suitcase earlier, the one that makes Simon wonder if one of your previous handlers is responsible for your peculiar wardrobe, or if pink simply happens to be your favourite colour.

He takes an absentminded sip of his drink when another thought pops into his head: What if you wear all of this hyper-feminine bollocks because people forced you to like it? What if they manipulated you into enjoying stuff to state their own perverted fantasies? Would you rather wear something else?

And Simon imagines it briefly–you wearing something cosy, perhaps one of his hoodies that would most likely swallow you whole. He takes another swing of ale and his nose wrinkles, though it’s not the bitterness making him squinch.

“Dinner is ready in five,” you croon suddenly, popping your head into the living room from the kitchen as the savoury aroma of steak and chips wafts through the flat, engulfing the usually sparse space like a warm, comforting blanket.

With a soft groan and a cracking knee, Simon gets up from his seat on the couch. The least he can do is set the table.

@lucienofthelakes @kakashiislut @jggykhug09090 @edgarapoecolouredglasses @kerst666 @whos-fran @d1zzy-r1v3rs @userinaliel666 @annoyingstrawberryballoon @vmaxis @tessakate @dneicjefx @sushiumex @yourfavreggie @cmbghost @brokexintroverted @mysterygrl555 @bunnybeaches @fmlmf @teapartydreams @nachofriess @slut-lmao @sweetnanah @kodzukenwhore @thefutureastronaut @arael-asuka @oliver-1270

[luvsupa]

“SHALL WE RESUME, MY LADY?”

tags: heianera!sukuna, trueform!sukuna x fem!reader, kissing, servants are bullies :(, BLOOD + KILLING, smut-ish (?), ANGST, readers called little one, my lady, my queen, sukuna lovessss reader but doesn’t wanna show it.

w.c: 1.8k

a/n:ITS BEEN LONG SINCE I WROTE PART 3 FOR SUKUNAAA, so pls read (part 1 + part 2) to understand this :p (or don’t 😔)

-part 1 was my first ever story so pls don’t mind the terrible writing 🤕

+ likes and reblogs are appreciative!!

for weeks now, since your intimate encounter with sukuna in his chambers, his words have echoed relentlessly in your mind:

“you belong to me, mind, body, and soul.”

unable to shake his haunting assertion, you find yourself lost in a fog during your duties, drawing the king’s scorn for your clumsiness—pathetic, he silently judges.

you’ve been desperately trying to avoid sukuna, feeling his ominous presence lurking near the servants’ quarters, dangerously close to your room. each night, you pretend to be asleep, hoping he won’t enter.

uraume and the other servants and concubines have noticed your distraction, their whispers and spiteful glances intensifying your growing distress.

just as you’re lost in your thoughts, walking towards the grand kitchen, you feel yourself being harshly pushed—nearly losing your balance. you turn to face the two brunettes who always accompany sukuna in his chambers.

“look at her,” one sneers, her voice dripping with contempt. “she looks even more pitiful than usual. you’d think she’d try harder, especially with tomorrow’s annual gift-giving ceremony.”

your heart drops, and you feel the blood drain from your face as the realization hits you—you had completely forgotten about it. shit.

the other brunette catches your expression and smirks, leaning closer.

“oh, you did not know?” she mocks, her eyes glinting with malicious pleasure. “did you truly forget? lost in your own little world? pathetic. do not think sukuna-sama has not noticed your incompetence. if i were you, i would be prepared to face his wrath tomorrow.”

before you can respond, the brunettes walk away, laughing cruelly amongst themselves. fear grips you as you stand there, contemplating the consequences of your forgetfulness. this time, he might seek to end my life.

sukuna spared your life once before, but now? you’ve truly done it.

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

morning arrives, finding you sleepless and anxious, having spent the night wrestling with decisions on what gift would appease the king of curses. regret gnaws at you—you could have been better prepared.

if only you had listened to uraume’s instructions, you wouldn’t be scrambling now to please sukuna.

a loud groan escapes you, not just from lacking a suitable offering but from the impending threat of losing your life in front of everyone.

your thoughts shatter as your door creaks open. uraume enters, carrying a basket laden with ceremonial attire.

“sukuna-sama will return soon from his mission,” uraume states matter-of-factly, approaching your bedside and handing you the basket. your gaze fixes on the black and gold kimono. “in the meantime, prepare your gift for our king,” they remind you, prompting your heart to skip a beat. you nod gratefully as uraume exits the room.

you linger, captivated by the elegance of the wooden basket. slowly, an idea begins to take shape.

i hope this idea will work…

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

you hurriedly slip into the black and gold kimono uraume handed you, the fabric draping elegantly over your curves as you smooth out its silk folds.

grabbing the basket, you rush out of your room, navigating through the crowded hallways filled with servants, concubines, and guards all preparing to present their gifts to the king.

anxiety grips you as the chatter rises, signaling the ceremony may have already begun. finally reaching the garden, you drop to your knees, swiftly gathering orchids, red camellias, and wisterias.

heart pounding, you carefully arrange the brightly coloured flowers in the basket, leaving space for more. glancing around the vast garden for inspiration, you freeze as you spot a familiar figure in the distance, surrounded by guards and soldiers.

shit.

your pulse quickens as sukuna approaches the estate. you force yourself to calm down, needing clarity to finish your task.

turning to the fruit garden, you ignore the dirt on your kimono as you hurriedly gather peaches, oranges, and pomegranates from the trees, arranging them neatly in the basket.

with your last-minute gift finally perfected, you hope he will at least appreciate the effort. as cheers and applause erupt, signaling sukuna’s arrival, you hasten back to join the line of gift-givers, heart still racing with fear.

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

the ceremony unfolds in a chamber unfamiliar to you, far larger than sukuna’s usual domain, filled with hundreds and hundreds of servants seated on comfortable cushions, rows of expectant faces awaiting the ceremony’s commencement.

as you wait nervously, you glance around at the lavish offerings others have brought—paintings, gleaming gold jewelry, fine silk robes, ancient artifacts, perfumes, and oils. in contrast, your basket of fruits and flowers seems painfully simple.

whispers and snickers ripple through the crowd, directed at your low-value gift, almost insulting to the king, as the laughter grew louder and more pointed. the embarrassment increases, now overwhelming you.

“silence.”

his voice cuts through the room like thunder, instantly quieting the chatter as all heads bow. only you remain defiantly gazing at sukuna from his elevated throne. he looks magnificent, his towering frame draped in a dark cotton robe that accentuates his scarlet eyes—those unsettling eyes that draw you in despite your fear.

“do you consider yourself more worthy than others to not bow?”

his voice pierces through you, shocking you out of your thoughts. you hadn’t realized you were staring at him so openly. a nearby servant nudges your head down forcefully, a silent command to acknowledge sukuna’s authority.

uraume then signals the first row to approach sukuna with their gifts. as he settles into his throne, one of his lower eye fixates on you with a chilling intensity, reminding you of the difference of ground upon which you stand.

the two brunettes, who supposedly despised you, were the first to present their gifts. all eyes watched as they offered lavish amounts of gold and diamonds to sukuna. you couldn’t help but notice the satisfaction that spread across his face, a subtle amusement evident as he casually placed the gift with one of lower arms behind him.

they took their places on either side of his throne, making way for the next in line. as the line shortened, your turn approached rapidly.

you watched with nervous anticipation as sukuna accepted one of the servants gifts— the beautifully sculpted artifacts and golden treasures—

slash!

the servant’s head was cleanly severed, a loud thud echoing through the room. gasps filled the air as the shock spread through the assembled crowd. some of the seasoned servants were used to sukuna’s impulsive acts, but this was the first time you had witnessed such brutality. blood splattered across his face, yet he remained unfazed, awaiting the next offerings.

you covered your mouth, stifling a scream of horror. the fear of becoming the next victim intensified as you compared your gift to the high valued gift he had just received.

how could he appreciate your offering if he did not enjoy the artifacts?

you were on edge, continuously hearing numerous slash and thuds that kept racing your heart. his gaze seemed to linger on you, intensifying your dread.

unaware that it was your turn next, you suddenly found yourself on the elevated floor, your gift clearly visible to all below. laughter erupted among the watching servants, their anticipation of your downfall.

you felt all four of his eyes fixated on you, observing your trembling form, your eyes flickering nervously as you struggled to stay composed. stepping cautiously over a puddle of blood, you nervously approached his throne.

with trembling hands, you presented the basket of flowers and fruits. below, the two brunettes knelt, their mocking laughter ringing in your ears.

sukuna silently observed the basket, his large hands delicately holding the tiny fruits. he plucked out peaches, pomegranates, and oranges with two hands while the other two hands carefully examined the flowers, bringing them to his nose to inhale their earthly fragrance. then, to your surprise, sukuna’s lips curled into a mischievous smile.

“little one,” he said in a low velvety voice that sent shivers down your spine. “you surprise me.” 

the crowd exchanged puzzled glances, uncertain of how to interpret sukuna’s unexpected reaction. the two kneeling servants looked up at sukuna in disbelief, their faces turning pale as they realized their own gifts, despite their value, had not elicited such a response.

sukuna carefully placed everything back into the basket, then lifted a ripe peach to his lips. his intense gaze locked onto yours as he took a deliberate bite, savouring the sweetness. loudly humming at the sweet taste.

unexpectedly, two of sukuna’s free hands reached out and gently grabbed your waist. you squealed in surprise at the sudden contact as sukuna swiftly spun you around, placing you on his lap with your back is against his chest. his third hand delicately tilted your chin, looking up towards him.

“‘kuna…” you began, mindlessly calling him by a forbidden nickname. but his lips cut off your words in a hungry kiss. the taste of peach lingered on his lips, blending with the sweet intensity of the moment. his kiss was fierce, brimming with a raw passion.

sukuna’s large hand snakes up to the crevice of your neck, and to your surprise, another mouth formed on his hand, trailing down to suck and kiss a sensitive spot on your neck. a soft moan escaped your lips, muffled by his kiss, and he grinned at your reaction.

the brunettes stared up at the two of you with utter jealousy, never having received such intimacy from their king. the entire room gaped in shock; they had never witnessed the king of curses succumb so readily to a mere servant.

sukuna then pulls away, leaving you dizzy from the closeness. his presence seems to envelop you, making you feel intoxicated by his mere touch. with a gentle touch, sukuna adjusts your slouched posture, his hands holding you firmly against his broad chest. leaning down, he kisses your ear softly.

“you will judge which gift is worthy,” he begins, his closeness making your head spin even more. “if anything displeases you, I will take care of it,” he murmurs, hinting at even more slashes. another hand snaking up to your neck, softly applying pressure to restore your stability.

if anything you feel a rush of arousal.

“i will obey your every command, my queen. i am yours to command,” he declares softly, causing you to whimper in response. gasps fill the room as they witness the king of curses submitting himself to you.

“shall we resume, my lady?”

[spider-stark]

THE BRIDGE

Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!Reader

Summary - Your wardship with House Blackwood was meant to bridge the chasm between your families. Years later, you return to Stone Hedge as the whispers of war spread—only for Lord Tully to call for a hunt.

Warnings - fem!reader, complicated sibling relationship, fighting, (probably excessive) mentions of blood, talks about hunting/killing wild animals, !angst!, adult language, reader def suffering from identity crisis, probably deviates from canon some, kieran burton fan cast for benji, all characters 18+

Word Count - 5.6k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

When Grover Tully, the Lord Paramount of the Trident, sent word for each of his bannermen to send forth a handful of their finest House members to a most desolate area of the Whispering Woods, no one thought it wise to object. 

“Lord Grover is an ornery old crow,” your father, Humfrey Bracken huffed as you readied the horses. “But you would do well to earn his respect.” He clamped a hand on your brother’s shoulder, pride gleaming in his eyes as he said, “Whatever he’s planning, I want you to show him that House Bracken stands strong. Understood?” 

Keeping his chin held high, Amos hesitantly mutters, “If you wish to impress Lord Tully, you might think twice about sending her.” 

Even with your back turned, you could feel the weight of your brother’s stare, his eyes boring a hole into the back of your head. 

Your father shrugged, a disinterested gesture. “Grover said to send our best,” he said, “and when it comes to a bow and arrow, no one's a better shot than her.” 

For the next day-and-a-half, you rode at a distance from the group your father selected—your brother, Amos, and two of your male cousins. And while they laughed and jeered and yapped, you remained stuck in your own thoughts, playing your father’s words on a loop. 

It’s the only compliment he’s ever paid you. The closest he’s ever come to acknowledging you as Bracken. 

You hate him sometimes, you think. For agreeing to peace all those years ago—for sending his only daughter to ward with his rival of all people. He must have known it was futile. Must have known that one girl could never bridge such an ancient chasm. 

He must have known—and yet he sent you anyway, only to call you back years later, tearing you away from the only home you had ever known and leaving you to feel like a stranger in your House. 

Grover said to send our best. 

Are you a Bracken, then? Is blood all that determines a House? 

No one’s a better shot than her. 

But your skill is that of a Blackwood, born under their tutelage. 

Deep within the Woods, a steady mist of rain falls from the sky, leaving your skin uncomfortably damp. In the distance, a low hum of chattering voices signal that the four of you are drawing close to Lord Grover’s camp—and that the other House’s have already arrived. 

Your thoughts shift, wondering who Lord Samwell sent to represent House Blackwood—fearing that you might already know the answer. 

A strange tightness floods your chest, coiling around your lungs. 

It’s been months since you last saw the heir to Raventree Hall. Many, many months—and you can’t help but think any reunion might end in bloodshed with Amos by your side. 

As if he heard his name ring through your mind, your brother slows his horse to gentle trot beside yours, cocking a neatly groomed brow at you. “Tell me, sister—were you always this dour?” He asks, feigning intrigue. “Or did half-a-decade with the Blackwoods simply drain the joy from you?” 

You don’t pry your eyes from the path ahead, refusing to look him in the eye as he continues without waiting for an answer. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised—a mere day with those insipid cravens would have me wishing to swallow my own blade.” Removing a hand from the reins, he pantomimed the act—gripping an invisible hilt and shoving it towards his lips, letting a dramatic choke rip from his throat. 

Riding a bit ahead, your cousins chortle at his jest, shooting amused glances over their shoulders. 

“No need,” you answer without thinking, your tone impassive. “Aly would have an arrow in your eye before the day was up.” 

Your cousins fall silent. 

Amos stiffens, jaw clenched tight. “She could try.” 

You know Black Aly would try if given half the chance—and you have no doubt that she would succeed, too. She was the one who taught you how to string a bow and sharpen arrows, how to aim and never miss. 

When you don’t respond, Amos pulls his horse in closer—as close as he can get without spookings yours. “Look,” he utters, low enough that your cousins can’t overhear, “I don’t know how things were done at Raventree—but you’re home now, and you would do well to remember where your true loyalties lie.” 

Again, you don’t speak. Don’t think, either. 

Amos sighs. “Your blood runs gold, sister. You’re a Bracken, through-and-through. Take pride in that—and don’t bring shame upon our name. Understood?” 

Strange. 

You had seen your own blood before—more times than you can count, actually. Scars mottle your skin like stars in the sky, a reminder of the years spent training and the memories of nights spent with friends who were supposed to be enemies. 

Never once had it looked gold to you.

Only red. 

“I understand–” a pause, a breath, a heartbeat– “brother.” 

Nausea twists your stomach. The familial title curdles on your tongue even as Amos grins at you. There’s nothing affectionate about the gesture—how could there be? He doesn’t know you. Not really. 

Blood or no, you’re little more than strangers to each other—and yet, even so, you can see he’s trying. Trying to know you. 

Ahead, the camp comes into view. Banners hang above tents: white for the Mootons, blue for the Pipers, purple for the Mallisters. 

And red—for House Blackwood. 

Amos gives you one last glance, a pall mimicry of what you believe is meant to be love in his eyes. “You’re home now,” he reminds you again, as if you need to hear it,“be glad for it.” 

With the Tully’s guards now in earshot, Amos doesn’t bother with waiting for a response. He snaps the reins, urging his gelding back to the head of your group, already bellowing his greetings. You watch him go, transfixed on the yellow-gold of his tunic—identical to yours. 

Approaching the guards, you tell yourself that your brother is what home is supposed to look like. That if you were to slice your veins, gold would pour from your wrists. 

Not red. 

After checking in with the guards and tying your mare up in the makeshift paddock, there was no time left to freshen up before you were expected to join Amos and your cousins. With all the Houses now gathered, Lord Grover wasted no time in calling you all to the heart of the camp. 

Still, you try to make yourself presentable—using your fingers to comb through tangled, windswept hair and smoothing the wrinkles from your gold tunic, careful not to disturb the ornate brooch pinned above your heart. 

According to the guards, everyone was given one upon arrival. “All Houses are required to wear them,” they explained when Amos pressed them on it, “Lord Tully’s orders.” 

They were all different, it seemed. Yours was a delicate thing, fashioned from silver and pearls in the image of a blooming dahlia, while Amos’s was clunky and shaped like the sun. He’s still fumbling with it when you finally push through the small crowd, taking your place at his side. 

To your left, separated only by a group of five Frey men, you feel the wary glances being cast your way. You almost turn your head—almost glance back at them, if only to see what they might do. What he would do. 

Would he even acknowledge you? Or simply look away? 

The answer, thankfully, is one you don’t have time to learn. A servant garners attention, dragging a simple, plush chair to the group’s center. Following suit, another two servants assist the aged Lord Paramount from his tent, guiding him into his seat. On his right stands his eldest grandson—and your favorite Tully. Tall and dark-haired, Elmo looks more fearsome than he actually is, sparing you a quick, discreet wink when he spots you. 

“You may all be wondering,” Lord Grover wheezes, his lungs fighting for breath, “why I have called upon you all today—the many great Houses of our land.” 

As he speaks, old, gnarled hands punctuate his words, gesturing out to the many men gathered ‘round. His fingers shake with effort, his shoulders bowed beneath the weight of his many, many years. But his chin remains high, and his tone commanding—if a touch quavery. 

“I hear rumblings,” he continues, “from the South-East.” 

Lord Grover’s eyes, milky with cataracts, shift in the direction, staring blindly into the towering trees of the Whispering Woods. Beyond them, even. 

“Whispers of a great danger brewing in the Crownlands—within the King’s own court, if rumors are to be trusted.” 

Your spine turns to steel. 

Those rumors, you know, are as true as they come. Over the past several months, they had moved through the realm like a venomous serpent. Slithering from mouth to ear, hissing tales of the two factions that now divide King Viserys’s council. 

The Blacks and the Greens. 

The rightful heir and the first-born son. 

And the very reason your father had called you home. 

“War is coming,” a deep, foreboding warning, “and should it reach the Riverlands, I wish to know that we might stand united in its wrath. That we will not allow petty rivalries–” a pointed glance at your brother, and then to your left where, without looking, you know the Blackwood heir stands–“to tear us apart from within.” 

A heartbeat passes. Then another. 

The forest holds its breath. Cradles the Lord Paramount’s words in the air, weaving them around the many great Houses of the Riverlands. 

You wonder if this is what strength looks like. What it sounds like. 

You fear you already know which side of the war Lord Grover’s strength might fall—and you pray that you’re wrong. 

Placing a firm hand upon his grandfather’s shoulder, Elmo takes a step forward. “In an effort to promote civility between our Houses,” he announces in a tone that demands respect, “we have arranged for a hunt.” 

Your brow furrows. A hunt? 

“You will be divided into two person teams, working with an individual outside of your own House.” His gaze shifts to you, dark eyes gleaming with mischief. “Teams have already been decided. Upon your arrival, each of you was given a pin—your partner will bear a matching one. And while there will be no winners or losers, you should know that once you leave camp, you will not be permitted to return without a trophy of some kind.” 

Discontent spreads. Low murmurs fill the air. 

Amos voices his frustration louder than the rest.  “And when is this hunt to take place?” 

Elmo grins. “Now.” 

Instantly, murmurs grow to shouts. 

“You cannot be serious, my Lord!” 

“It is already sunset!” 

“Is this a jest?” 

Elmo’s grin never wavers, unphased by the protests—and Lord Grover appears content to let his grandson contend with everyone's bickering, exhausted from what little talking he had already done. 

“Might I suggest you move quickly,” Elmo speaks over the crowd. Glancing upwards, he squints at the black clouds rolling overhead, an amused lilt to his voice as he adds, “Lest you wish to be caught in the coming storm.” 

With no more than a curt nod to the crowd, Elmo turns on his heel, already veering off in the direction of his own tent as servants begin to help Lord Grover rise. 

“This is absurd,” your brother grumbles. 

You ignore him. Storming right past him, you make a beeline for the fleeing Lord. 

“A hunt?!” 

Fond as Elmo is of you, you know better than to shout at the future Lord Paramount of the Trident. Your voice remains no more than a harsh whisper, even as you shoot daggers into the back of his head. 

“At night, no less! In the middle of a gods-damned storm! Have you lost your mind?” 

“What? You think it’s a bad idea?” He chuckles, keeping a steady pace. “Of all people, I thought that you might appreciate the challenge of it all.” 

You stay on his heels. “Who is he?” 

“Who is who?” 

Further from the crowd now, you grow bold. You reach out and snag his arm, forcing him to stop and face you. “Ignorance isn’t a good look on you, Elm.” You grind out, “Swear that you didn’t pick him to be my partner.” 

A wrinkle forms between thick brows, feigning innocence. “What makes you think that I chose your partner?” 

“Because I know you. You’re always scheming—jutting your big nose into places it very well does not belong!” 

Elmo opens his mouth—hesitates—and then frowns. “Am I truly that transparent?” 

“You may as well be made of glass, Elm.” 

His pout deepens, still dancing around your question. “Well, let's say that I did choose your partner—theoretically, of course!” Your eyes roll. “I think you would find my choice to be quite suitable. If anything, you might even thank me-” 

“This isn’t a game, Elmo!” Desperate now, you can’t stop your voice from rising. “If you paired me with him, then Amos will–” 

“Kill him?” Elmo ventures. 

“Yes!’ 

Pursing his lips, Elmo’s gaze falls somewhere over your head. “Well,” he sucks in a breath, “it seems we may be past the point of stopping that from happening.” 

Your mind goes blank, your thoughts scattering like shards of glass. 

You spin on your heel, head whirling around in search of Amos in the throng. Less than a second and you spot him—not because your gaze was drawn to the familiar gold color of your own House, but because of the wall of stark scarlet standing before him. 

Blackwoods. Two of them on either side of the Raventree heir. 

And Benji—his hands pressed to your brother's chest, roughly shoving him back into one of your cousins. 

“Do me a favor,” Elmo's sigh cuts through your panicked haze. “Keep the two of them from plunging a sword in the others’ belly, would you?” 

Any other time and you might have told Elmo off, cursed him for putting you in this position—future Lord Paramount be damned. 

But not now. Not when centuries of rivalry serve as proof that nothing is more dangerous, more unpredictable than this—

A Blackwood and a Bracken—your brother and Benji—standing toe-to-toe. 

Mindless adrenaline is all that thrusts you into motion. Mud splatters up the legs of your trousers as you practically run in their direction, demanding as soon as you’re in ear shot, “What is this?!” 

Amos doesn’t acknowledge you. Neither does Benji. 

Chests-puffed, they remain locked in their foolish staring match, neither of them willing to be the first to back down. 

Finally, one of your cousins sneers, “Seems that Benji-boy here thinks we’re gonna let him take you out into the woods.” 

A sharp, nasty laugh rips from Amos’s throat. “As if I’d let that happen!” 

“We’re partnered for the hunt, you imbecile.” Benji’s tone is that of lethal calm, even as he glares down his nose at your brother. You look to his chest—spotting the silver dahlia pinned at his breast. “If you have a problem with it, take it up with Tully.” 

“You think I’m stupid, Blackwood?!” 

Benji’s brow lifts a fraction of an inch, as if silently proclaiming—I just said so, did I not? 

Scowling, Amos juts his finger against Benji’s chest. “I refuse to give a Blackwood an opportunity to defile my sister!” 

Benji’s answering grin is something wicked as he purrs, “Oh, if I wanted to defile your sister, Bracken, I could’ve done so a long time ago.” 

Your pulse pounds—caught somewhere between offense and desire as Benji’s words echo in your head. 

Both feelings fade to fear when Amos reaches for the hilt of his sword, wrenching it from the sheath at his hip. In a blink, more weapons are drawn—your cousins holding swords, the Blackwoods holding daggers. 

Not Benji, though. 

Benji doesn’t flinch, even with your brother's sword poised at his throat, ready to kill. Something flickers in his eyes—a shift that you know all too well, sending ice skittering across your bones. 

“I won’t have this,” Amos seethes. “You will find another partner—or I swear on my House that blood will be shed!” 

Benji leans closer. Let the tip of the blade dig into his flesh, a rivulet of blood rolling down his throat. 

Red. 

“Is that a threat, Bracken?” 

You can hear your brother swallow—feel his panic as if it were your own, as if it was his fear coursing through your veins. Still, his voice remains steady. “Consider it a promise, Blackwood.” 

A blink and steel was glinting before your eyes. A single breath and Amos was out-maneuvered and out-matched—the clash erupting and subsiding in one seamless heartbeat, ending with your brother's sword in Benji’s hand. 

A shuddering breath slips from your brother's lips as Benji presses the steel to his throat, a perfect mirror of the position they were in just moments ago. 

“What’s the matter, Bracken?” Benji croons sarcastically, head hilting. “Do I frighten you?” 

There’s a lull to his voice—an eerie stillness that sends a chill scuttering down your spine. 

Amos was ignorant—to pick a fight with Benji, to think he might actually win it. But he’s your brother, too—and you know that if he were to be slain right now—right here—an even larger chasm will take the place of the one you were once meant to bridge. 

“Stop.” 

The demand is no more than a breath. A soft, terrified sound. 

Yet still, it makes Benji’s focus waver. 

“Leave him.” You force yourself to speak louder. Stronger. “Now.” 

You take a step closer—a hand outstretched, reaching towards Benji. His attention shifts, settling on you. He blinks—his stormy eyes, dark with rage, finally starting to clear. 

Benji’s movements languid as he steps away from your brother. Your cousins rush to Amos’s side as he stumbles back, frantically checking the heir of Stone Hedge for any sign of injury. 

They found none. Not even a scratch upon his throat, where his own sword had just hovered. 

Benji passes you the sword—a silent conversation passing between the two of you. 

You could have killed him, you glare. 

I could have—Benji agrees with a small, self-satisfied smile—but I didn’t. 

One of your cousins, bold and stupid, steps forward. “Is that all it takes to keep you at heel, Blackwood?” He glances between the two of you, his lip curling into a sneer. “A dog and his bitch,” he taunts, “how sweet–” 

A cry rips from his throat, cutting his insult short. You expect it to be Benji, having noticed the way his fists had clenched from the moment your cousin so much as looked at you. And perhaps it would’ve been—if your brother hadn’t grabbed the fool by the scruff of his neck, yanking him backwards and shoving him to the muddy ground. 

“Say what you want of him,” Amos tells your cousin, his voice gruff, “but you will mind how you speak of her.” 

You don’t know what to make of that. Of Amos defending you. Of knowing that if he hadn’t, Benji would have. Or that, even after that, Amos doesn’t quite know how to look you in the eyes, looking to the grass and the sky and anything that isn’t you. 

You’re a Bracken, through-and-through. Take pride in that. 

But did he take pride in you? 

If you wish to impress Lord Tully, you might think twice about sending her. 

“What’s done is done.” With a pointed look towards Lord Grover’s tent off in the distance, you say, “Now is not the time nor the place. If you wish so badly to fight, save it for when the war begins.” 

On one side of you, Benji remains silent, watching you with a curious glint in his eye. On the other, Amos hesitates. 

“I don’t trust him,” he says. 

You wonder if he doesn’t know how to say: I’m worried about you. 

“You heard our father,” you tell him, chin high, “when it comes to a bow and arrow, no one’s a better shot.” 

Perhaps there are things you don’t know how to say, too. Like: But I do. I trust him with my life. Maybe even with yours, too. 

Begrudgingly, Benji meets your brother's gaze, fighting the urge to scowl at him. “For years, no harm befell your sister under my watch—and you have my word that none shall befall her now,” he vows. “I swear it upon the Old Gods.” 

“And the New?” 

You consider stomping on Amos’s foot. 

Ignorant. To continue pushing— 

“Fine.” Benji’s brusque answer takes you by surprise. “Upon your false Gods as well, then.” 

Amos, to his credit, argues no further, only echoing the Raventree heir. “Fine.” 

For a fleeting moment longer, they stand there, eyes locked. Amos is the first to turn—the roaring tension dissipating into a hushed hiss as him and your cousins storm off. Benji stays, even as his own men begin to back off, as if listening to a silent command to go find their own partners. 

You look at him. And he smiles—a shy, awkward thing. 

“I’ll wait for you,” he says, a barely perceptible pause in his speech. “At the edge of camp—you can find me whenever you’ve gathered your things.” 

You open your mouth to speak, to say something—but the words take root in your chest, leaving vines to crawl up your throat. If you speak, you worry about what might come out. Worry it won’t be as delicate as the dahlia pinned above your heart—above his, too. 

So you close your mouth. Say nothing. Nod—and turn, trying to keep your legs from shaking as you walk back to the makeshift paddock to get what you would need for the hunt. 

True to his word, you find the heir of Raventree at the edge of camp, leaning against a towering oak and using the tip of his dagger to idly pick dirt from his nails. 

You brought only what was necessary—your bow, strapped between your shoulders, and a dark-leather quiver slung over your shoulder, stocked with already-sharpened arrows. 

Light rain mists over your face, the sky groaning with a low rumble of thunder. The forest floor squelches beneath your feet as you trudge towards him. Forever on-guard, Benji wastes no time in pushing himself off the tree, adjusting the dagger in his palm so that it can be easily plunged into another's belly if necessary. 

But then he sees you, dressed in Bracken gold with damp hair sticking to your cheeks, and looses a breath. Relaxing at the sight of you—his rival, according to centuries of precedent. Your rival, too, you suppose. 

Benji doesn’t look like your rival, though. 

Sheathing his dagger at his hip, you see no trace of the lethal Lord who, mere moments ago, was willing to go head-to-head with the heir to Stone Hedge. This boy—stuffing his hands in his pockets, a light flush crawling up his throat—is not Benjicot Blackwood, the heir of Raventree Hall. 

He’s just Benji. 

“Ready to go?” He asks when you’re closer, his voice a familiar caress so unlike the eerie lull it held earlier. 

It takes everything in you to erect an icy wall around your heart, colder even than Northern winds. You shove past him, your shoulder knocking into his as you go and earning a perplexed stare. “Let’s get this over with,” you snap, plunging into the depths of the Woods and leaving him to follow behind. 

Ten minutes pass. Twenty. 

Dusk crept swiftly through the Riverlands, casting a pall shadow over the Whispering Woods. Overhead, dark clouds seem to grow thicker, obscuring what little light the moon has to offer. 

A fool’s errand. An impossible task. 

That is what Elmo Tully had arranged—not a hunt. 

With the sun hidden beyond the horizon and a near-constant rumble of thunder, any animal in these Woods would either be asleep or hiding by now, trying to escape the incoming storm. To find a trophy to bring back to camp—even something as simple as a hare—was unlikely. 

Still, knowing the guards won’t let you back in without one, you keep walking. Keep plunging further into the Woods, praying to the Gods that you might find something to take back to camp. 

Twigs snap a few paces behind you, wet foliage squelching beneath purposefully heavy steps. A low, careless whistle tests your patience. 

With your bow hanging from your hand, you grumble, “You’re being too loud.” 

Benji feigns innocence. “Am I?” 

“Yes,” you hiss through gritted teeth, never slowing your pace. “Be quiet—unless you wish to scare off any game and spend the night sleeping on wet soil.” 

He chuckles—loudly. “Have you looked up lately?” Benji asks. “The sky looks as if it’ll crack open any minute now! Any animal with sense is hiding right now, anyway.” 

True. 

“Then we find one without sense, then.” 

Benji snorts. “The only thing without sense in this forest is Amos Bracken.” 

Without warning, you stop dead in your tracks—leaving Benji to nearly stumble into you. You cast a glare over your shoulder, cold enough that a chill seeps right into his bones. “You’d do well to keep quiet, Benjicot.” 

His lip curls, revealing a flash of slightly crooked teeth. “And since when do you call me Benjicot?” He asks, a ribbon of disbelief lacing his own name. 

Your jaw tenses, a muscle feathering there. 

I don’t know, you think, a pang of uncertainty cracking the ice wall around your heart. 

You reinforce ice with steel—turning fully now so that you’re face-to-face, dropping your bow to the ground by your feet. “I won’t let you speak of him that way,” you say, ignoring his question. “My brother is the heir to Stone Hedge–” 

A bemused laugh cuts through your words. “Oh, he’s your brother now, is he?” 

You speak over him, voice rising. “To insult him is to insult the whole of House Bracken–” 

“Fuck House Bracken,” Benji growls. 

He takes a half-step closer, towering over you with no more than a foot between you. You don’t falter—don’t look away. 

“I am a Bracken."

His head tilts. “Are you? Last I checked, you were practically raised on Blackwood soil.” 

“Perhaps,” you admit. “But my wardship is over–” 

Benji cuts you off. “Tell me, where was your brother all these years, then? Your father?” He doesn’t let you answer. “No more than a brisk-fucking-walk separating you and yet neither one of them cared to visit with the forgotten daughter of Stone Hedge!” 

You’re a Bracken—

“You don’t know them,” you protest weakly, your resolve crumbling. 

—through-and-through. 

“And you do?” He challenges. Another step, his chest inches from yours. Warmth radiates from his body, seeping into yours and melting melting melting. “Why did your father call you home?” 

His words are no more than a breath fanning across your cheek. 

Vulnerability permeates your gaze, bearing an unspoken truth. Because war is coming, you convey with no more than a flicker of your lashes, and fate has already decided my role in it. 

Benji’s lips tighten to a thin line—and you would’ve thought him ashamed of you, if not for the pain glimmering in his stormy-eyes, lined with silver. “Your father,” he utters, “he will declare for Aegon Targaryen—won’t he?” 

You’re a Bracken—

You debate the merits of telling him the truth. Of betraying the plans of your house. 

—Take pride in that. 

“Aegon Targaryen is the King’s true-born son.” You speak, though you know the words are not your own. “To sit the Iron Throne is his birthright.” 

The birthright of a drunken craven. 

The betrayal of a beloved princess. 

Benji blinks. Shakes his head, his tongue darting along his lips. “He called you home to fight. Humfrey Bracken’s forgotten daughter—useful at long last.” 

Rage coils in his tone. Instinct makes your muscles tense. 

Nothing is more dangerous than this, your thoughts whisper, a Blackwood and a Bracken, toe-to-toe. 

There’s nothing dangerous about the way Benji’s looking at you, though. His gaze soft and tender, calloused hands clenched at his sides—holding himself back, you realize. Not from fighting, but from reaching out to touch something he’s not certain is his. 

“Will you do it?” Benji asks, hesitant. “Will you fight for the pretender?” 

I don’t want to, you think. 

It’s your brother's words that slip past your lips. “I have no choice. My blood runs gold, Benji—a Bracken, through-and-through.” 

His brow furrows. Then a hand shifts to the sheath at his hip, sliding his dagger free. “Give me your hand,” he orders, nodding to where they hang at your sides. 

You remember his vow to your brother—that he would let no harm befall you. Even without it, you would’ve trusted him. Wholly. Unconditionally. 

You lift your hand and, without hesitation, he grips it on his own, pinning the steel tip of his dagger against your palm. 

You hiss—hand stinging as the blade drags along your flesh, leaving a thin, shallow cut. 

“You’ve always had one foot on either side of the boundary,” Benji starts, his words rushed. Carelessly tossing the dagger to the ground, he grabs your wrist tightly, lifting your palm up towards your own face. “But your blood,” he tells you, his eyes desperate, “has always run red.” 

It drips down your wrist—a rivulet of crimson, spilling between his knuckles as he refuses to let go. Red as the color of his tunic—as the specks of blood dried on his own throat, drawn by your brother's sword. 

Gold on your back. Red in your veins. 

A Bracken by name, but… 

“It’s not too late,” Benji says, his words slow and cautious, still cradling your hand in his. “You can come back to Raventree.” Thunder rumbles. Storm-cloud eyes fall to your lips. “You can come home.” 

You think of Amos. Of your brother. You’re home now, he had said, a shadow of love in his eyes, Be glad for it. 

But home was ancient stone, crawling with moss. Home was the deep, muddy moat that you always threatened to push Benji into when he was getting on your nerves. Home was Black Aly’s voice, scolding you whenever your arms were still too weak to string a bow. 

Home was a dead weirwood tree and a boy with stormy eyes. 

But duty… 

That was something else entirely. 

Closing your hand around Benji’s, your chest fills with water as the last of the ice melts. Hard steel turns impossibly soft, your feet shuffling until your body is flush against his—still-entwined hands pinned between your chest, trapped between fabrics of gold and red. 

Benji leans down, his forehead pressing against yours. There’s nothing dangerous about him. Nothing unpredictable. 

You know him—from the crook in his nose to the scar above his lip. From the lull of his voice to the weight of his steps. His quick temper and his shy smiles. 

High above, the sky cries out. Thunder booms, lightning cracks. Misty rain turns to a violent downpour. 

And he leans in, oh-so carefully. A trembling breath against slick skin, chapped lips hovering over yours. 

“You can come home,” Benji whispers, repeating himself. You can’t think—can’t breathe, as he utters against your mouth, “Let me take you home.” 

And he kisses you. A tender, desperate kiss—the kind that drives your lips apart with the sheer force of it. He tugs his hand from yours, slips it out from between your bodies and brings it to rest on the back of your neck, tangling his fingers in damp, rain-soaked hair. 

Restraint is no more than a breath in the wind. Desire curls in your stomach. Your pulse pounds in your veins, rich with red red red. 

But then there’s your brother’s voice in your head: I don’t trust him. 

And you know what he meant was: You’re my sister—my blood, red or gold—and I’m worried about you. 

You pull away, breathless and broken, one half of your heart lying on either side of the boundary stones resting miles and miles from here. 

Lips still close enough to brush against yours, Benji pants. “Say yes.” The love in his eyes isn’t a shadow. It’s a bright, blinding light. A proud declaration and a howling plea. “Say you’ll come home.” 

You look down—to the sigil embroidered on your tunic, to the still-drying blood on your palm 

An estranged brother and a forbidden lover. 

And you. 

The bridge to a great chasm. 

The futile remedy to centuries of enmity. 

You take a step back—reaching inside of yourself, pulling shriveled vines up your throat, knowing that the words hammering in your chest will be anything but delicate. That they’ll taste of rot in your mouth. 

“I’m not sure I have a home, Benjicot.” Pain echoes across his face, each syllable a rusted dagger in his heart. Another step back, grabbing your bow from where it laid in the mud, abandoned what feels like a millennia ago. “Not anymore.” 

When you turn to leave, thunder crashing overhead and a sob caught in your throat, you go alone.

The heir to Raventree Hall doesn’t dare to follow. 

You walk in silence, your bow hanging at your side. Behind you, there are no snapping twigs and no low, careless whistling. There’s only rain and—

A branch creaks overhead, halting your steps. Your bow is drawn in a single breath, the cut on your palm stinging as you  slide an arrow from the quiver slung over your shoulder, readying to shoot. You look up, drops of rain splattering against your cheeks as you scan the trees. 

There. 

Perched on a wet, mossy limb was a pair of beady eyes staring down at you. A raven, letting out a low, curious croak. 

A single shot and you could go back to camp. 

A single shot, you tell yourself, and your blood might finally run gold. 

A breath—and then the bow string goes slack. 

You slip the arrow back into the quiver.

a/n - does any of this even make sense? idk, you tell me lmao. overall, just wanted to play around with capturing the confusion that might ensue for a reader who has no clue where their loyalties lie anymore, lost in who they are and who they think they're meant to be--anyways, hopefully the ending makes sense to you because it makes sense in my brain

anyways

benji tag list (so sorry if I missed you!) - @jacaerysgf @lenasvoid @valdezthg @xzydra11 @snixx2088 @lianna75 @kennafild @ghostinvenus @heystaystray @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @a-song-for-ages

[gyubakeries]

𝗰𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗿𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀 | x.mh

a/n: A BREAK FROM ANGST!!! this is very much needed, and the idea had been brewing for a while hehe. skye ( @etherealyoungk ) thank u for being my enabler. ally ( @lovetaroandtaemin ) , kae ( @ylangelegy ) and a ( @chugging-antiseptic-dye ) thank you for beta-reading <333 also tagging tara ( @diamonddaze01 ) and serena ( @gotta-winwin ) because we all are deprived of happiness..... also i apologize for the lack of artist minghao, i just needed to feed my angsty brain SOME FLUFF

word count: 2k contents: minghao x f!reader , art teacher!minghao , best friend!minghao , single mom!mc , friends to lovers , she has a son named junseo , the biological dad dipped lol , junseo is 6 , swearing , light angst , fluff , crack

“sweetie, two times two is four, not six,” you sigh, repeating the words all over again when your son makes the same mistake for the seventh time. it’s been an hour since you sat down with his math homework, and you’ve only managed to finish five questions. out of twenty.

“oh fuck,” your son mutters, erasing out the crude 6 he had written and replacing it with a 4.

you blink.

“junseo, what did you just say?”

“fuck,” junseo repeats with a smile on his face, and somehow, it feels even more shocking than the first time he said it.

“okay, listen carefully to mom,” you sigh. “that’s a bad word. you’re not supposed to use it. ever.”

“why can’t i say it?” junseo questions, like every other kid his age.

“because it’s a bad word,” you state firmly. “where did you hear this?” you ask him. ever since junseo was born, you’ve taken a lot of care to make sure he doesn’t learn and use any explicit language. whenever your parents or friends are babysitting him, you make sure to tell them to avoid any movies or songs with heavy cursing in them for this exact reason.

“hao taught me!” junseo reveals. “in yesterday’s art class, hao spilled his dirty paint water all over himself, and then he said… the bad word!” 

your eye twitches.

“xu minghao, i will kill you,” you whisper under your breath.

“mom! you can’t kill hao! he’s my best friend,” junseo gasps, completely believing your words.

“start looking for a new one then, sweetie,” you tell him, and it takes another hour for you to calm a crying junseo down by promising him that you won’t actually kill minghao.

the math homework remains unfinished.

—

minghao, your best friend, has been in your life since forever. he was there when you were the shy, introverted girl in high school with no friends. he was there when you had a ‘hoe phase’ in college. he was there when you got your first job. he was also around to see junseo’s biological father vanish from your life the day he learned about your pregnancy.

before junseo, you’d jokingly complain that minghao had been in your life for too long. but now, seeing how your son has labelled minghao as his own best friend as well, you can’t help but be grateful for his presence.

having been friends for almost all your lives has also granted the both of you the ability to read each other’s expressions flawlessly, which is why when minghao welcomes you and junseo into his apartment for lunch on a saturday, he knows that your death glare means he’s in trouble.

“hao!” junseo exclaims, hugging minghao tightly as soon as he enters the apartment. “i got my new drawing to show you! i colored it the way you taught me.”

“i’m sure it’s lovely, jun,” minghao smiles, giving the boy a high-five. “how about you watch some peppa pig now, hm? your mom and i will go to the kitchen to finish making lunch, okay? then we can look at your drawing.”

“okay, hao!” junseo agrees easily, and you couldn’t be more thankful for how obedient your boy is. 

once junseo was distracted by the television, you drag minghao into his kitchen and face him with a stern look.

“do you know what junseo said to me last week?” you glare at him, and minghao gulps nervously.

“uh, no?”

“he got his math homework wrong, and unlike any other kid his age, he says, fuck,” you recount the events of the previous week. “when i asked him where he heard it, he told me that you said it in front of him during art class.”

“oh, so that’s what this is about,” minghao sighs with relief. “god, y/n, with the way you’re looking at me, it feels like i robbed your house or something.”

“this is worse, minghao!” you counter. “you know how particular i am when it comes to junseo and cursing.”

“i do know, and i’m sorry,” minghao winces. “but it was an accident! i would never do it intentionally. why are you getting so worked up over it?”

your anger dissipates immediately as you freeze in place. minghao deduces your body language as a sign of you hiding something from him.

“there’s something else bothering you, isn’t there?” minghao asks, his voice much gentler now. “did someone do something at work?”

you sigh, knowing that keeping anything from minghao was a futile exercise. “yeah, this jerk kept trying to hit on me, even after i told him i was uncomfortable. he won’t leave me alone, and it’s pissing me off.”

“why don’t you tell your boss about it?” minghao frowns.

“there’s been budget cuts at the company, and they’re looking for any reason to fire people,” you explain. “with junseo’s school fees getting more expensive, i can’t afford to lose my job now. the stress of it all has had me in a bad mood. i’m not even that mad about the cursing, i’m sorry i took it out on you.” you admit to minghao, feeling a lot more lighter after sharing your burden with him.

“we’ve had too many arguments to apologize over something stupid like this,” minghao chuckles, but then his expression turns serious. “but also, if you’re struggling with his fees, why don’t you let me help? i keep telling you that i’m more than capable of paying junseo’s fees—”

“i don’t need your help, hao!” you cut him off.

“why not?”

“because it feels like you’re doing it out of some obligation,” you tell him. “look, i’m really thankful that you were there to support me when junseo’s dad left and i had no one, but i can manage junseo on my own just fine. i don’t want you to help me out of pity and—”

“y/n, do you think that i’ve stuck around all this time just because i pity you?” minghao interrupts you, placing his hands on your shoulders.

your heart stutters when your eyes meet his, and you’re reminded of yet another problem in your life.

the crush on minghao you had back in college which has somehow developed into something more over the years.

you’re afraid to label it, because it means that it makes everything real. labelling the flutter in your chest and the tingling in your palms whenever minghao smiles at you or offers to take care of junseo on nights where you have to work over time would mean acknowledging that you did have feelings for minghao, which was unfortunately another luxury you couldn’t afford.

not when minghao definitely saw you only as a friend.

“i— i just don’t want you to feel compelled to help me just because i’m your friend,” you stutter, looking away from minghao.

“i only help because i care for both you and junseo,” minghao shakes his head, trying to convince you with the sincerity in his tone. “you two are the most precious people in my life, and i’d do anything to make sure you were happy. so just let me help, okay? there’s nothing wrong in asking for help when you need it.”

your eyes well up with tears embarrassingly quickly, and you duck your head so that minghao doesn’t have to see you like that. minghao is quicker than you, however, and he gently holds your chin to lift your face up.

“are you shy about crying in front of me now?” he teases, but his eyes reflect a look of concern. “we’ve seen each other through every phase of our lives, y/n. you don’t have to hide from me.”

his words are enough to make your tears spill over. you’re quick to wrap minghao in a hug, placing your head on his chest while his arms hold you by the waist. he doesn’t say anything; he just lets you cry into his shoulder as he gently sways you and pats your back.

“i’m sorry i’m such a wreck,” you sniffle, pulling away from the hug. before you can get too close, however, minghao is pulling you in closer, and the lack of an appropriate, friendly distance between your lips has your breath hitching.

“don’t you get it, y/n?” his voice carries a hint of annoyance. “i don’t want you to apologize for being a wreck. i don’t want you to hesitate to ask me for help. i don’t want you to think that i’m obliging you by being in your life. i’m here because i want you. i want to be here for junseo, but i also want to be here to take care of you. have i not made it obvious?”

his confession has your jaw dropping open. your brain has turned to mush, and you can’t find it in you to string together a coherent response.

just then, junseo is padding into the kitchen, and it has you and minghao scrambling away from each other immediately.

“mom, i’m hungry,” junseo complains. “can we have lunch now?”

—

lunch is an awkward affair— for you and minghao at least. junseo seems blissfully unaware of the uncomfortable tension between you and minghao as he slurps away on his noodles and shares stories from school. you feel a little bad for zoning out in the middle of his stories, but you can’t help but replay minghao’s words over and over in your head.

however, the moment you tune into the conversation again, you hear something else that makes your head spin.

“— and she was asking me if i had a dad, and i said yes. but the girl said i was lying because my dad never accompanies my mom for any of the events at school,” junseo blabbers. “so, i asked mrs. lee who a dad really is, and she said that my dad is my best friend and a person i trust the most. he’s also a person who loves my mom, but she has to love him back too, and i knew i wasn’t lying! hao, you’re my dad, right?”

you choke on your noodles and minghao’s chopsticks clatter against his plate.

“oh, fuck.”

“minghao!”

—

“i can’t believe it took junseo’s constant yapping for you to reveal your feelings for me,” minghao teases, and you shove his shoulder playfully.

“and i can’t believe you swore in front of junseo. again,” you roll your eyes at him, and minghao presses a kiss to your temple as he mutters an apology.

the kiss has the butterflies in your stomach flitting around restlessly; it is a new development after all. soon after junseo’s declaration of minghao being his dad, you dragged minghao back into the kitchen to have a proper conversation, this one involving the truth about your feelings for him, and him asking you to be his girlfriend.

you had expected some sort of dramatic shift. dating your best friend of fifteen years sounds like it requires some sort of drastic change, but it feels surprisingly easy. in fact, it doesn’t feel like much of a change at all, not when having minghao by your side feels as natural as breathing.

“i’ll be more mindful of my words,” minghao promises, and you lean into his embrace, curling up closer to him on the couch, when junseo plops down right between the two of you, tv remote clutched in his hands.

“we’re watching how to train your dragon today!” he announces happily, and you watch with a fond smile as minghao and junseo engage in an animated conversation related to the movie.

there’s a flutter in your chest. there’s a tingling sensation in your palms. they’re all tell-tale signs of an emotion you’ve been hesitating to label all this while.

love, your heart tells you later on, when junseo and minghao have fallen asleep on the couch, junseo’s hands gently gripping onto minghao’s shirt and minghao’s arms protectively wrapped around him.

you find yourself agreeing with your heart. this feeling, it can’t be anything else but love.

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[mariasont]

Give This Old Man a Heart Attack - A.H

a/n: incredibly self-indulgent per usual because i'm the biggest cry baby to ever exist

masterlist

₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x reader

summary: you make a mistake that almost gets you killed and hotch has a few choice words about it

warnings: slight angst, happy endings, established relationship, you're in trouble, suggestive ending nothing crazy, hotch is a sucker and gives in way too easily to you

wc: 0.9k

You were an idiot. You were so utterly stupid, and you could feel the heat coursing through you, prickling at your fingertips and scorching your ears. You had braced yourself for this moment all day, but the sheer anger in Hotch's eyes was something no amount of bracing could shield you from.

You were quite accustomed to his eerily tranquil expression, often misleading, like a wolf in sheep's clothing. Today though, you were the focus of that discerning stare. 

"Do you understand that gravity of your actions today?"

You were fighting every urge to cry. Confrontation had always been your Achillies' heel, a fact that seemed laughable given your line of work.

You weren't talking about the type of confrontation that came with gunning down unsubs or running into burning buildings. No, it was the intimate kind, the kind that involved the disappointment in the eyes of those you cared about, those you respected, especially him.

So here you stood, tears simmering at the edges of your vision, your hands fidgeting and folding over themselves, knuckles whitening with the pressure.

Your lips parted, ready to speak, to defend yourself, but the rising lump in your throat held the words captive. Silence seemed like the better choice, so you offered a nod instead.

Hotch's hand briefly obscured his face, thumb and middle finger pressing against the bridge of his nose, as he cast a handful of documents onto his desk. They landed haphazardly, a chaotic reflection of the mistakes you made on this case.

"You could've gotten killed." Each word was forced out between clenched teeth. Never a good sign. "In fact, you were this close."

You felt his assessment was inflated, but now was definitely not the right time to point that out. You swallowed the rising retort and cautiously shifted a fraction closer to the desk, eyes flicking to the closed door behind you.

"I'm sorry, Aaron," you said softly, voice betraying the slightest fracture. "It won't happen again."

The sound of your strained syllables caused his head to jerk up. Contrarily, you recoiled, bowing your head into your chest as you feigned interested in the carpet's intricate threads. It was an interesting color. 

You failed to register him circling the desk. Not until the space between you was nearly nonexistent. The toe of his shoes just within your field of view. They were semi-brogue oxfords. His favorite.

The accumulated emotions of the week finally broke through, your shoulders trembling as you frantically brushed away the mortifying tears with your sleeve, only to feel his hands on your shoulders, drawing you into his chest.

"No, no," you protested, but the resistance in your voice was absent in your actions, as you found yourself easily giving into the warmth of his chest. "Don't feel bad for me just because I'm crying."

He said nothing, just a faint hum that filled the space, the vibrations sending ripples across your cheek. 

"You—, you were reprimanding me," you paused to sniffle, "and I deserve to be reprimanded. I know what I did was stupid."

"It was." His hand lay on your back, thumb circling lightly through your dress shirt, nearly burning through the fabric. "But I'm not going to continue to berate you when I feel as though you've learned your lesson."

"You weren't berating me," you mumble against his shirt.

"I made you cry."

When you looked up, your saw the concern etched on his face, brows pinched, a frown marring his handsome face. His hands cradled your face, thumbs gently clearing the tears as you breathed out a sigh.

"I think you know me well enough to know that it doesn't take much to make me cry."

This was true. You kept your emotions were always close to the surface, whether from happiness, sadness, or sheer frustration. 

Once you had sobbed over the unequal lengths of your shoelace bows. Morgan then proceeded to ask if you had ever been tested for autism.

"It doesn't make it any more disheartening to see," he said, shifting his hands to rest on your shoulders. He looked tired and it made you want to cry all over again.

"Would you feel that way if I was Reid?" You asked. It was a loaded question. One you peppered him with often.

You had strived to draw clear lines between your professional and personal lives, but moments like this made it very difficult. 

He didn't even bother you with a response, and he didn't need to. You knew the answer.

Another quick look over your shoulder, and you pressed a swift kiss to his lips. There was a moment of hesitation from him, the stickler for rules that he is, but soon his restraint gave way, his hand seeking you with a desperate intensity.

He drew back just enough to study your face, like he was trying to commit every detail to memory, like he was making sure you were really there.

"You really scared me today," he confessed, your foreheads resting together as your eyes locked.

"I know."

"Please don't do that again," he implored, pausing only to plant another quick kiss on your upper lip. "This old man's heart can only take so much."

You beamed at him with a cheeky smile. "I can't make any guarantees."

As you headed for the door, he sent a quick slap to your ass, drawing out a bubbly giggle that vibrated through the room.

That old man's heart definitely might give out after what you had planned for tonight.

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna

[alllgator-blood]

FINISHED THAT ONE COMIC I POSTED ABOUT ALMOST 30 FULL DAYS AGO?? I FINALLY REMEMBERED IT EXISTED AND FINISHED IT. I HAVE SO MUCH I WANT TO SAY ABOUT MY LAMB NOW THAT THEY'RE FINALLY THE MAIN CHARACTER IN A LONG COMIC, BUT it went on forever so I put it below the cut.

While we're above the cut, I have a bunch of REALLy good asks I'll be trying to draw for soon. But keep an eye out for a poll coming up soon...cause now that this is out of the way, I want another big project to have in the background and I have Big Ideas for Big Angst Comics........

OH YOU CLICKED THE THING, NICE. OKAY. SO:

Have I ever talked about how my lamb works?? I need to do more with them but I'm a bishop enjoyer to an obsessive degree. The lamb operates on the same kind of level as kallamar did during the breakdown comic, but on a more permanent, more stable level. After being told to hide for their whole life, to never show their face and not even being given a name......being beheaded by four gods and recruited by a fifth forgotten one who claims they're the Chosen One just made the lamb think "OH! None of this is real. My brain wanted me to feel important before I died, and this is my dying vision. Okay, I'll play along >:)" and now they're the equivalent of when you beat a game and replay it while picking the funniest/worst options to see what'd happen.

USUALLY their decisions are clouded by the assumption that nothing they do actually matters, but they're still......a person who held things dear and had standards while they were alive. So they love hijinx, but aren't like leshy who launches people out of catapults for fun, or kallamar who sees mortals more as lab rats than people living their own lives. They'll do some things for the lolz but their humanity definitely shows through when dealing with someone like shamura.

I think they went into the bishop slaying quest wanting to hate shamura, assuming they were an irredeemable antagonist that deserved to be vanquished. They were told by narinder that shamura was the big bad, so they figured there was nothing to it beyond that. But then they actually MET shamura, who wasn't at all what they were expected to be. Every other bishop is just like "RAHH I'LL KILL YOU" when you meet them, and then shamura is the only person who actually tells you about what happened, speaks to you like a person and not an obstacle, and doesn't seem bothered about the fact they're going to die. So that got them thinking....hmm...perhaps these people are slightly more realistic than I anticipated. Still gonna kill them tho

I'm not sure the lamb hates the bishops, especially after the realization that they're a fucked up family acting out in desperation rather than logic. When you're born into circumstances you know will eventually doom you (like being a sacrificial lamb destined for slaughter) you kinda...lose the ability to care after a while. They don't really *forgive* the bishops for the slaughter of their people, and definitely enjoy bullying them and kicking them around now that they're powerless mortals- but the initial horror of being born to die has subsided. Now that they're presumably in some kind of afterlife, and have better, more fun things to move onto now that they're the ruler of everything- it's not worth it to hate those five forever.

I think *because* the lamb has only been a god very briefly and still remembers mortality well, that's why they're the one god who does things "because they're funny" but also is respectful of people like shamura. It's like when you're playing GTA V and you accidentally drive over a dog while trying to pull over and look at it closer. Is it a real dog?? No but you're still gonna feel bad!! So like I said, in the lamb's mind they have NO reason to care about any of these people or show them mercy, but the fact that they're not as detached from mortality as the bishops were makes them a benevolent god. I'll be doing a comic about this very subject in the future and it WILL be depressing >:)

Also. Unrelated. But if you read this far, I feel the need to justify why heket and leshy suddenly have boobs in this comic. I'm sure it's obvious that I headcanon the gods don't have sex characteristics cause like...why would they need those. I don't want to draw that. But as MORTALS they would probably need to have all their organs intact to function properly, so pour one out for shamura + leshy who probably completely forgot they were transgender until they woke up in mortal bodies. NOT SURE HOW KALLAMAR WOULD REACT, I think they're more just horrified they lost all their tentacles

I debated doing another silly comic about the concept but I don't want this blog to get too raunchy, so instead have this epic ms paint art (I CAN MAKE THESE JOKES, I'M AFAB TRANS I DESERVE THIS ONE THING)

[simp-ly-writes]

Save Me

─────── · · How Could You Refuse? (pt.5)

Pairing: Jayce Talis x Shy!Assistant!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: Jayce feels like he failed you, failed to truly do the good he wanted to for Piltover but with a taste for redemption, new and old faces appearing, and a war on the cusp of starting; he looks towards revenge as he battles with his original creation. You on the other hand? Well it appears everyone is out for your blood for one reason or another...

─ · · TAGS: female pronouns used, protective!Jayce (as in kills someone 😬), hurt/comfort and angst, blood, kissing, briefly mentioned nonconsensual touching, mentions of blood and death, reader is mentioned to have hair and is shorter than Jayce, S2: EP 1-7 spoilers! cliffhanger- to be continued.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 4,124

─ · · SERIES MASTERLIST

─ · · A/N: I so badly want to cut towards them being all cute and hot together 🫣 so freakin' bad but the angst before will make it feel that much better when it happens 😭

─────── · ·

─ · · Jayce tossed and turned in your bed last night, restless without the warmth of you beside him. He lived in your apartment, needing to feel that you were near when in actuality... he had no idea where you were...

─ · · When his mother visited him after the attack, she had to get enforcers to kick down your door to reach her son sitting amongst your blueprint covered floors doing his best to not let his tears stain your hard work.

"Jayce," Ximena Talis whispered, sitting down beside her son as he refused to look at her. "Tell me that I'm a bad person, that I failed, I lost myself, I am nothing." Ximena gasped, grasping on tightly, shaking her head and crying once feeling Jayce didn't move to hold her, just sat there.

"You are not lost, you are not nothing, you are my son, you are a leader-"

"Then why don't I feel like one?"

─────── · ·

─ · · Jayce stood a the front of the crowd standing alongside the remaining councillors, he was asked- was supposed to provide the speech yet he could not- not when he was the one that created this mess, not when he failed you.

─ · · Everyone watched as Mel slowly took to the stage, the microphone ringing before she cleared her throat. Tears welled in her eyes, catching in her throat but she persevered knowing that even though these words were hard to admit to herself, admit to the public, they needed to be heard. These people deserved to be remembered and as she looked down to Jayce, his eyes blank yet his outwards appearance still the perfect "golden boy" society expected of him.

But if you looked closer at the details of his outfit, you would find a wrinkled undershirt, a hair-tie of yours stretched around his wrist, and a spot of Viktor's blood on his boots he kept- forcing himself to remember what he had done.

Hearing a shuffling in the crowd, Jayce looked to see Vi and that young girl who had ran up to you both, the picture of what your future together could have looked life- Jayce felt sick. Blinking away tears as he watched the girl look around him to find you before turning up empty handed, she sobbed into her fathers shoulder and suddenly he felt thousands of eyes starring at him- shock and horror coating there features.

Jayce lowered his head as if to confirm their thoughts and not a sound could be heard as Mel continued her speech as everyone had yet another reason to grieve.

─────── · ·

─ · · You were shaking like a leaf in your spot, a gun pressed into your side. The whole cart-ride there the guard was playing with the safety, giggling every time you flinched 'so adorably.' They said you had the 'prettiest whimpers' the 'saddest, shiniest eyes' they had ever seen and what they all loved most of all? That you were Jayce's lover- his world. The perfect way at sticking it back on Piltover.

─ · · Another showed you the drawings they had planned for your corpse afterwards, your head on a stake so that 'Jayce could continue to admire you.' and you felt sick, you didn't want Jayce to see if you were gone, you prayed that they would just kill you in the Undercity, throwing your body into the bay without a hope of being found

─ · · "She would be a fun fuck, wouldn't she? Knees shaking, lips quivering, as you try and fit her-" you shut off your brain, ears ringing as you felt hands touch your waist that brought you back, "is your brain already going dumb? listen up." You wanted nothing more than to be in Jayce's comforting arms, to smell his aftershave in the mornings and be cuddled up by his desk by evening.

─ · · When you arrived at the venue, you were being ushered backstage and for the first time in your life, you hoped to be in the crowd, listening along. Mels speech was good but you had hoped Jayce would have been speaking at your funeral... perhaps that was a selfish thought of yours- wanting to hear your boyfriend speak in your final moments but that would be unfair to him

─ · · You stood still, hands bound behind your back and shackles around your feet. Your mouth was fixed shut with a metal mask, you closed your eyes taking in a deep breath to experience it slowly, listened to your heart beating and thought only about Jayce about every moment you loved and you were ready...

A scream sounded, you were used to the sound by now as your back got kicked falling into view of the crowd in front of Jayce. You could see him immediately stride forwards, grabbing an enforcers shotgun and taking aim before a figure emerged from behind a veil and the two exchanged shots. Mel was being forced off stage with the rest of the council members as you silently cried. There goes my peaceful death.

You tried to yell his name in mourning yet no sound escaped. You tried to get up yet a boot crushed your spine to the stage floor. Your hands stretched and grasped air, trying to reach out but never becoming successful.

You watched as Jayce was restrained, his muscles flexing as he tried to force himself out of the two mans grasps, he shouted your name over and over again, his voice becoming raspier by the minute. You could hear the chainsaw start as you were picked up by the hair on your head. "Are you ready Jayce? is everyone ready!" the voiced mocked, a drop of your blood spilling as Jayce growled and kicked, his eyes promised blood as Renni continued to speak, "your precious little love about to be all dead. But don't you worry my men had their fun with her before this, made sure she's truly going out with a bang! Don't you think it fair for killing my son? I get to take everything away from you in one fell swoop just like you did."

You knew their words about you to be untrue, just being used to dig into Jayce's heart but he took them as truth, watching you struggle, he wanted to kill, a part of you was also hurting for them, for their loss that you understood too well. Then suddenly, a red haired woman came into view holding Jayce's hammer as she swung it across their back, your kidnapper falling towards the crowd, towards Jayce. Your eyes went wide watching as Jayce's back was cut open alongside his shoulder, you gagged and gasped, hands shaking.

"Run... run!" the red haired woman yelled at you, slamming between your feet to split the shackles in two. Caitlyn waved her hand over, pointing towards an exist as you nodded your head and stumbled into a run. You turned your head to watch as Jayce yelled slamming a piece of scrap metal, bashing it against their skull- losing himself to the violence and you shivered.

─────── · ·

─ · · You were sitting in a medical tent, a guards hand shook as they hesitantly touched you, your eyes pleading that it was alright as they pulled the mask from your face and forced the restraints off your hands. You stretched out your jaw, twisting your wrists and testing your joints as they felt around your head and patched up your minor injuries... minor injuries. You thought back to Jayce's back and side but before you could ask, a freshly bandaged Jayce was stumbling towards you, the medical team rushing behind him, bandages in their arms and bags around their shoulders- worried but understanding once they saw you.

You could see as Caitlyn stood at the back, smiling and shaking her head with a scoff, "of course." Jayce held your face, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against your own. You felt his tears fall and stream down your own cheeks. You were hesitant to touch him seeing the blood dripping across his chest and the various wraps he wore. He pressed his lips against your own, "You're okay," he cried with a smile, "you're okay," he repeated, as if reminding himself you were real.

"Are you okay?" you asked, bringing a hand to touch his cheek. He stared up at you, "yes, I'm okay now. I'm okay." You nodded, unable to find words before gently removing your touch. "You have to finished getting treated, Jayce," you said in response to his pout before moving over on the table and offering him a seat. Jayce held your hand, watching the connection closely to ground himself as he got fixed up.

To your shock when you looked back up Mel and her mother Ambessa were now looking over you both. Mel's mother took a long look at you, analyzing you with disgust, "such a weak thing." You looked back down, gritting your teeth, and gripping Jayce's hand- forcing him to not say anything back.

─────── · ·

─ · · You and Jayce would sit and watch Viktor slowly healed yet as if the sight were too much for him at times, Jayce escaped to the forge. He had an endless pent up anger within him recently that you had never seen before- he wanted, craved revenge.

─ · · You sat in front of Viktor, taking notes by the hour to monitor his condition and heart rate. You gave up trying to track the arcane as it changed too quickly for you to keep up and all your journals had been filled by the first hour of your watching.

Your eyes grew heavy as you leaned on the desk in front of you, back feeling the moonlight as you closed your eyes until a grunt than a groan before a loud bang was heard and you bolted up from your seat to see... AN ALIVE VIKTOR?! You rush over to him, "Oh Viktor!" you cry out, "we're alive, we're okay," you sob to yourself gripping his cane before offering it to him.

"Jayce put you through this too?" Viktor asked, tone cold- angry as he looked you over. "No, no, no! I was kidnapped! Oh you must be cold and you really must eat too- I had no idea how to feed you!" you quickly explain rushing to grab your lab coat and offering it to your old lab partner. You listen to how his scoff echos as you take a cautious step backwards, allowing him space to dress, "Like being kidnapped is any better."

You shake your head with a smile, "what can I get you to eat?" you ask, turning back around before hugging a now clothes Viktor. His hand hover above your back, watching as Jayce stumbles into the room, looking at him and you in shock, tears welling in his eyes- "you're alive!" Jayce rejoices, coming over to join the hug.

"I'm not hungry I just feel a... pulse within me, regenerative but not unpleasant... you promised me... Jayce, that you would destroy the hexcore..." you take a step back, allowing the men to share their moment. You thought to have heard everything that happened in the lab, but this... this was all new information to you. You looked over at the wall Viktor emerged from, how to pulsed like an organic engine, you were tempted to look closer at it... touch it but just before you could, Viktor firmly grasped your wrist, "no... don't."

His words rattled in your skull as you held your head and whined. Viktor quickly let go, a part of him afraid as Jayce quickly ran over to you, checking if any of your wounds had reopened before looking back at Viktor, "I'm stepping down as councillor, we can all work together again. Where we belong all along!"

"I must go now Jayce," Viktor looks down at you, eyes filled with sorrow, "I was supposed to be dead but now... now I must figure out what I must do... alone."

"Do you think its easy? To leave when your whole city looks to you for salvation? To cling to principles when you think your girl and best friend are dead?! You were dying in my arms- she nearly got her head chopped off? I NEVER ASKED FOR THIS! and all you can think to do is walk away and leave?!" Jayce yells, his heart tearing just as it was healing. You bring a chair over, falling into it, not finding the strength in yourself anymore to plead. You just look up to Viktor, watching as his eyes shift in change as you blink your own, thinking to be seeing things, please, take care of yourself, is all you silently ask him.

He does not respond, turning his back, "goodbye." Is all Viktor says, the sound of his cane becoming quieter as he walks down the hall. Jayce looks to where Viktor once stood before turning to you, "I-if you are unsure about anything, just leave me now... I-I rather it all happen at once."

"Jayce," you whisper, standing and quickly striding over to the man holding his head and brushing the hair that falls into his eyes, I never did book that haircut. "I love you, I'm not leaving, I promise, at least not willingly," you try and joke as Jayce lets out a breathy laugh, just leaning into your touch, "thank you."

─────── · ·

─ · · You and Jayce silently clean up the laboratory yet decide to keep Viktor's desk as is.. maybe he will return after some time, you reassure yourself. Standing up on a ladder, Jayce supports the bottom, closely watching as put up another box into storage before picking you up on the way down and settling you on your feet and pulling you in for a kiss.

You smile into it, both giving each other this brief little moment of happiness as the kettle clicks off, you both had agreed to pull an all-nighter for old times sake but by the sounds of screws loosening and some whisper shouting coming up from between the floorboards. Jayce was shoving you behind himself and picking up his hammer.

"Jayce, you're injured!" you whisper-shouted angrily, placing a hand on his hip, trying to pull him back. He glared at you form over his shoulder, "like I would allow you to be taken away from me again," he huffs before turning back around, the end of his hammer shifting your hip so that you are entirely covered by his frame.

"SHHH!" the unknown voice sounds before a tiny head pops-up from the vent cover. The room turns blue as Jayce takes aim and your eyes close, hands covering your ears in preparation before feeling Jayce's hammer slam back down onto the floor. You place your hands on his hips, peering your head around cautious before seeing... the Professor and a young man? looking back at you.

"Professor!" you jump out from behind Jayce, swatting his hand away as he tries to reel you back in before you fall to your knees and welcome him in for a hug. "Its a wonder to see you again!" you smile widely, the Professor returns the short hug before giving you a smile then glaring at Jayce, "What in the devils name has gotten into you!" He points an accusatory finger towards your boyfriend as you stand and laugh.

Jayce gives you an unimpressed look, his palm opening, asking you to return to his side yet you don't return right away, crossing your arms with a mocking glare as he returns a truthful one. "Love that you have my side, babe," Jayce says in a dry tone, "Now why the hell are you two breaking into my lab? and who is he?" he questions.

The boy in question looks up at Jayce before settling on you and offers a wink that has you turning back to Jayce's side between his hammer and hip. "T-this is my new pupil Ekko... Ekko meet my former pupil Jayce and the very brilliant assistant (name)." You all share a nod.

"I apologize for the intrusion," the Professor continues to speak, looking between you and Jayce with curiosity. "I also always knew that you two would work out." It's now your time to scoff, "Hmm, sure you did prof." you begin leaning against Jayce's hammer, "Just like how you tried to marry me and Viktor during my first week." Jayce tenses remembering seeing you in the halls with Viktor when he had just started and before you two began working with one another.

─ · · Ekko continues to stare hard at you as if trying to pick you apart. Jayce and the Professor began their own discussion as you and Ekko shared a silent one, "Hey! Stop giving my girl the eyes," Jayce warned, kissing your cheek in an outwards display. You blinked- looking away, following Jayce's touch as he lead you back to your chairs and pulled you into his lap before presenting a cup of tea for you.

─ · · When the sample gets presented, you both jump to your feet taking your positions as you sit beside the microscope, journal ready and tool bag in your lap. You both smile at one another as Jayce reads you back what he's seeing, flipping through the pages you find your trials on plants when trying to help Viktor, your heart lurches in your chest.

You tap with your finger on a negative box from the results, looking at one another with a wince yet equal curiosity. "How is this here and there?" Jayce mumbles, scratching at his chin while looking at you, "Maybe its something to do with Viktor," you respond in a whisper, eyes searching one another's.

"Are they always like this?" Ekko whispers his questions as the Professor hums thinking back. "For the most part... yes."

"Sooo... whats the verdict?" Ekko addresses the group as you hop down from the desk, taking a look through the microscope. Jayce begins to explain Viktor's hypothesis of wild runes as you run back over to the storage and take out the books Viktor used.

"Sooo, you pissed the arcane off?" Ekko cuts Jayce off. Spinning around in a spare chair. "Well every action sparks a reaction~" Heimerdinger sings before spilling over your tool bag and starts cursing himself out, you giggle, helping to pick up the spill.

"SO! when's the wedding, I'm getting old you know," he asks, handing you the tools. You shake your head, "I don't think either of us have the room on our plates for that plus we've only been officially dating for a year-"

"WHAT! So this entire time you both have not been together?" you shush him before your shoulders sag, "Thats what I've been saying!" Jayce calls from across the room before conversation returns back to seriousness. "If this is affecting the underground then..."

"...the gates," you both whisper before looking up at one another. "Let me come with you and-" Jayce holds you against his chest, his answer firm, "no, stay here and find out if Viktor had anything else on the subject... I'll take them both down." You hesitate, hands resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

"Be sure to come back," you press your head against his heart. He places a hand on your lower back, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "I will. I promise."

─────── · ·

─ · · You watch as Jayce softly closes the door as you take to the shelves and look under the floorboards, you tare apart the lab in a deep search before hearing a rumble. Dust falls off the highest shelves as you take a few steps back and pause. The rumbling gets louder as you look towards the test gemstones all clattering in their storage casing. You gasp in horror as some start to rise, the room being painted in blue as you duck underneath a table, bracing your head between your knees. What have we done?

─ · · By the time he dust settles, a dozen enforcers have you pinned to the floor alongside a red guard. You shake and try and roll yourself away with no use. Ambessa stands before you, crouching down to pick up your head with a glare, her daughter was so close to having this city under her grasp... if only you were out of the picture. "You are to be put in trial and jailed for endangering the lives of innocence by experimenting with Hextech to the public. Yet you will provide me with answers and results, do you hear me, girl?" You feel yourself getting pick up by your neck, you choke and gasp for air as you feet dangle, you don't want to agree to her terms and yet, how could you refuse? - Jayce, please, forgive me. You nod and take a gasp of breath back, falling to your knees, hands delicately reaching up to your neck with a sob.

─────── · ·

─ · · When Jayce got consumed by the wild rune he was slammed into a dark Piltover and injured, staggering to his feet, he swayed in the foggy depths before seeing a dozen distant figures turning away from him, he called out receiving no response.

His already torn shoulder screaming out in pain, he did not have the strength to pick up his hammer as he stumbled after what he thought to have just saw. Horror and grief shocked his features as he fell into the arms of a screaming face, one that resembled you. He fell backwards, crawling on his hands and feet. no, no, no! This can't be real, Jayce begged, hands gripping into the earth, burying underneath his fingertips.

He stood, walking up closer yet you changed appearances, now a husk of an ivory sculpture- its neck craning to lean into his shoulder just as you would... the lifeless, faceless figure stared through him. An overwhelming sickness erupted from his guts as he hunched over coughing, stumbling towards a mountains edge to overlook what remained of the city before him and a glowing light in the distance.

─ · · Jayce ran back for his hammer, dragging it along with himself as he took to the streets, his head swung back and forth seeing shadows move, he saw that little girl again, this time she jumped for his neck as he swung back with a grunt, his shoulder giving out as he tipped back and fell... but all he could feel was air, see the sky becoming more distance and then... complete darkness

─ · · When Jayce had reawakened, every bone in his body felt cracked, every muscle bruise so much so it hurt to breath as he forced himself to roll over. Pressing a fist to his mouth to keep him from exposing his guts. He yelled up to the cave ceiling, water dripped to his forehead, he cried while treating his wounds, stumbling as he tried to climb but ultimately failed.

─ · · Jayce felt as his hair and beard grew out, his clothes ripped and tore. He had to dismantle his hammer, fingers bleeding from the sharp metal parts within that now scared his hands in order to fix his leg. Jayce swore to see you the longer he stayed in that ravine, saw you calling out to him above in the shadows. He felt your touch in his sleep, pretended to lay right next to you as the fire embers died part way through.

─ · · Time was lost to the man, he couldn't even recognize his reflection, he talked to a ghost of you in his mind, climb, fine me, please. I need you, you called out to him as he looked up and gritted his teeth. Please, Jayce, you begged as he gripped his hair covering his ears with a yell. PLEASE!

─ · · Day by day, ledge by ledge, Jayce climbed up from the chasm and using the remaining handle of his hammer, he forced himself back up into the light, I'm coming darling, I'm coming, he told himself like a mantra to keep himself somewhat sane. The only thought driving his every step forward without rest or water was the thought of your warm embrace, your lips against his, your laugh in his ear.

He made a promise to you and he was going to keep it.

─────── · ·

─ · · JAYCE TALIS TAGLIST: @sseleniaa @sunshiines-stuff @kiromiix @todorokishoe24 @w2momo @m-arj-1 @reid490

─ · · A/N: jayce stormin' in there all hot, sweaty and bothered afterwards AHHHHH the brainrot is intense rn that i'm attempting my first long-form smut fic in the next chapter...

─ · · SERIES MASTERLIST

[fanficsformyfaves]

She Got Away

Agatha Harkness x Fem Witch!Reader

WARNING: ANGST, SMUT 18+, Violence, Mentions Of Sickness And Symptoms, Mentions Of Murder, Lovers To Enemies To Lovers Trope, Agatha Uses Sex Magic To Give Herself A Cock, Rough Sex

PREFACE: Reader and Agatha were together back when they still lived in Salem, but when Agatha takes the coven's power and kills almost all its members, she fled, living only Reader alive

A/N: Flashback In Italics!

Marvel finally grew a pair and gave us the lesbian angst we deserved

And yes this was heavily inspired by Chappell's unreleased song 'Subway'

All I remembered seeing, as the last of my vision faded into darkness, was someone stashing me inside a hollow tree and growing vines shielding me from view. In the far distance, her silhouette turned to face me once more, before disappearing into the thick fog ahead.

I hadn't seen Agatha since then, but I was determined to find her. After everything we'd been through, the last thing I ever expected was for her to betray me the way that she did. She killed our coven and ran off like it was nothing. Like what we had was meaningless and insignificant to her.

From that day forward, I vowed to make her pay, if it was the last thing I did.

It took a while, but I managed to track her down in New Jersey. It became difficult when I couldn't sense her magic anymore, but I knew she was there. It was just a feeling I couldn't shake.

I walked down the lane of houses, wary of the eyes following me, when I arrive at the very last one at the end of the street. I take a quick glance through the window and that's when I felt my heart drop.

The woman I loved all those years ago. The same woman who made me feel like I was actually worth something, just to take it all away from me.

Amidst the blinding rage that coursed through my body was the agony I felt when I she first left. It was a knife twisting inside me with no way out.

Wanting to end this once and for all, I stormed the house by kicking the door open to find her huddled in the corner of her kitchen. She tried hard to mask her fear with a cocky grin, but of course I saw right through her.

"Well, if it isn't (Y/F/N). God, how long has it been?"

"Three hundred years, six months and six days"

"Awe, you kept count-"

She was interrupted by a dagger I threw her way. The blade striking the cabinet when she ducked.

"I see you picked up knife-throwing", she teased.

I lunge forward, grabbing the back of her head and slamming her into the wall. I wanted her to hurt the way I hurt. Only ten times worse.

She falls to the floor, holding her head, as I grabbed another knife, but before I could drive it into her chest, she stops me by my wrist.

"Remember pain? Kinda tickles doesn't it?", I said through gritted teeth.

I only managed to draw a drop of blood, before she reached for the chair and knocked me off of her. She gets back on her feet and makes a run for the door, when I use my magic to block off her only exit.

"I'm surprised you aren't using magic to get out of this one", I say, following her into the living room and blowing a fallen strand of hair away from my face.

She sighed through her nose, not taking her eyes off of me.

"Don't tell me you've reformed?"

"Another witch took my powers. The Scarlet Witch"

I scoff in surprise.

"So you finally got what was coming to you"

Her lips were set in a fine grimace.

"Well...almost. I'm just here to finish the job", I say, using my powers to launch her across the room.

She hits a glass case and falls to the ground with a thud, wincing. Just as I go to throw another one of my daggers, she holds a hand out.

"Wait! Wait", she pleaded, halting me.

"This isn't what you want. Me? Without power?", she chuckled nervously, carefully getting back up.

"This is- this is undignified! Don't you want me at my best?"

She stretches out the kinks in her neck, making sure not to take her eyes off of me.

"Admit it, you prefer me-"

"Horizontal? In a grave?", I cut off.

"Formidable", she answered.

"Come on, baby. You love it, the anticipation", she whispered, taking a step closer.

"Hm. That would be fun", I shrugged.

"Wouldn't it? Just...let me get my purple back and come find me after-"

"Not a chance in hell. Which is exactly where I plan on sending you. I promise to make it quick", I mocked, winding my blade back.

"Wait! Please!"

I roll my eyes, irritated with the stalling.

"Look. I hurt you, I'm not denying that", she swallowed thickly.

"But I didn't want to. I didn't have a choice", she shakes her head.

"You always have a choice. Like not killing our coven for example"

"You don't know what happened-"

"Or leaving me...when I needed you", I struggled to hide the hint of sadness peaking out from behind my anger.

Up to this point, I was able keep my composure, but the longer I looked at her, the more I felt the pain I'd been carrying around for years creep up on me.

"(Y/N)-"

"I woke up alone, surrounded by nothing but a pile of bodies and no one to turn to. You did that!"

Agatha bows her head, unable to hold my hurt gaze.

"I loved you, so so much", my voice was reduced to nothing but tearful whispers.

"So could you imagine just how much it killed me when you left? To find out it was all one-sided?", I hissed through gritted teeth.

"I did love you-"

"No, you didn't. You don't leave someone you loved behind"

I could tell that struck a nerve in her, when the brim of her eyes began to water.

"Why do you think I spared you and hid you in that tree? Hm? So you could exact revenge on me three hundred years later? Why not just finish the job?", her tone now angry at my accusations.

I was dumbfounded by the revelation. It was as if time ceased to move and the rest of the world disappeared around us.

"What?"

"I left to protect you. It was for your own good"

"That was you?"

"Of course it was. Everyone else was dead by the time I found you again"

My brows furrowed in confusion.

"What do you remember?", she questioned, mimicking my expression.

"I..."

"We were in the woods. I was confronting my mother about conspiring to kill me, when you showed up"

Suddenly, rushes of the past engulfed my vision. The grief of losing both my family and Agatha must've been too much for me to bare and caused my mind to distort my recollection of it.

I was walking through the forest, looking for my familiar, when I stumbled upon the empress and Agatha fighting.

"You were born evil", the empress snarled, as Agatha tensed at her tone.

"Empress? Agatha? What's happening?"

The empress turns back to Agatha with a look of disgust.

"No-", Agatha goes to intervene, but was interrupted by me getting struck with a bolt of magic.

"Obviously, I struck her back and when the other members overheard us, all hell broke loose. I was running and fighting for my life for hours"

"Why would she do that? Why would she try to kill you?"

"You heard her, I was 'born evil'. Finding out about the Darkhold was just the nail in the coffin"

Each missing piece of what happened finally began falling into place.

Back in Salem, a devasting sickness swept through the town and nearly claimed the lives of all its residents. Unfortunately, I was one of the unlucky few that fell victim to the disease's rampage.

It started with a fever and a few aches, but quickly escalated to me vomiting blood by the pint. I was bed-ridden for days and sure to die as there was no traditional spell to cure my ills, when Agatha made me a promise to keep me alive, no matter the means.

"I won't let you die", she sniffled, wiping the sweat off of my forehead.

"Agatha-"

"Don't. I'll find a way"

And that's what made her turn to Dark Magic and discover a book called the Darkhold. In the dead of night, whilst everyone was either asleep or nursing the sick, she snuck back into my hut and performed the ritual that restored my health.

"I don't know how she found out, but somehow she did"

I angrily wiped away the tears that managed to escape me.

"Let's say you're telling the truth about what really happened. You still left me", my voice trembled with each word.

"I couldn't risk people thinking you were involved. If they did, you would've spent the rest of your life running and you deserve better than that", she said, getting close enough to cradle my face in her hands.

I inhale, shrugging to get away from her.

"I don't believe you"

"Seems like you do"

Finally fed up with her mind games, I grab her by the throat and spun us around to pin her to the wall. I conjure another dagger and just as I raised it high into the air. This was it. The moment I'd been working towards for the last three centuries...only I couldn't move. She didn't have her powers, so I knew it couldn't have been her.

"You can't do it, can you?", she struggled.

"It's cause you know I'm telling the truth"

She was right. The realization knocked the wind out of me like a bat to my chest. I knew deep down, no matter how much she hurt me by leaving and how much I hated her for it, she only did what she had to...because she loved me. I took a shaky breath and felt another tear roll down my cheek.

She lowers the hand I held the dagger and cupped my face.

"That's it. Easy"

Once my hands were both to my side, she pulled me into a tight embrace, as I nuzzled into her neck.

"Oh, sweetheart. I missed you", she sighed contently.

Her own voice quivering at the feeling of my trembling sobs.

She eventually pulled away just enough to wipe my face dry and in that moment, my eyes poured into her baby blues.

I didn't know whether it was the adrenaline or the burden of the last few centuries being taken off of me, but before I could figure it out, I dropped the knife, grabbed her face and smashed my lips against hers. I backed her up against the wall, careful to guide her around the broken glass.

She quickly got to work on pulling my shirt off over my head and I followed suit, untying her robe. I couldn't help but take a moment to admire her hardened buds peaking through her nightgown.

"Missed me?"

"Shut up", I exhaled, pulling her back onto my lips, as she moaned at my man handling.

Once we were done ridding ourselves of all our clothes, she spun the both of us around to pin me now. She held my wrists against the wall and trailed her kisses down to my neck.

"You're so fucking pretty", she mumbled, painting my skin with shades of red and purple.

I whine at her nibbling down on my shoulder and throwing me around her waist. She takes us to the couch and I grind myself down on her lap, groaning at the sensation. As I returned the favor and left marks all up and down her neck, she mumbles something in Latin. Before I could question what she was doing, I felt something press against my core.

"Is that..."

"Really thought I forgot your favorite spell?", she grinned wickedly, running her hands up my waist to hold me in place.

"I always did enjoy fucking you raw"

I dive back into her lips and adjusted my hips to help her along. She grabs the appendage by the base and uses the tip to rub firm circles on my already aching clit.

"You're a mess", she chuckled, taking one of my nipples into her mouth.

"Please, take me", I moaned, grasping the back of her neck and bracing for her to stretch me out.

In one smooth thrust, she filled me to the brim, as I cried out. It was much bigger than I remembered.

"God, you were always so warm...and tight", she panted between each subtle thrust.

After giving me a moment to adjust, she started with a gentle pace, reminding herself to litter my neck and shoulder with kisses to soothe me.

"My sweet angel, fuck", she groaned.

As I began to ride up and down her length. Her eyes rake over my form and the way my hips dropped forward and pulled back over and over again. With each motion, her tip directly pressed into my g-spot, making her name fall from my lips repeatedly like a cursed hymn.

Her nails claw down my back, earning a wince.

"I'm sorry", she panted.

"Don't stop"

"I don't wanna hurt you-"

"I don't care", I whine, diving back into her lips and riding her faster.

She uses her biceps to hold me in place, ramming up into me harder.

"Agatha, fuck", I whimpered, holding onto her shoulders for dear life.

"That's right, baby. You're all mine"

My climax was fast-approaching and all I could do was fight it off as long as I could, until she gave me permission. Even after years of hating her, my body never forgot.

"I can feel you getting close", she moaned.

"Do it for me, come on, baby. I need you to come", she pleaded, reaching down between us to vigorously rub my throbbing clit.

I came with a scream that surely echoed throughout the neighborhood, but I couldn't care less. My vision momentarily faded to black, as my head fell back from the overwhelming pleasure that consumed me.

She held me against her, groaning as she coated my walls with her warmth.

"Fuck", she grunted, still thrusting into me to help us both ride out our orgasms.

Both spent and covered in each other's sweat and essences, we stay still for a while to catch our breaths.

"Miss me now?"

Too tired to think of a comeback, I simply nodded against her shoulder, hearing chuckle.

"Welcome home, baby"

[just-some-random-blogger]

Snow Angel

Daemon's Version

I'll angel in the snow until I'm worthy but if it kills me, I tried.

Gwyane's Version ❄ Daemon's Version ❄ Aegon's Version ❄ Aemond's Version ❄ Jacaerys' Version ❄ Cregan's Version ❄ Criston's Version

Daemon Targaryen x Snow!Reader | 700< | cw: fem!reader, reader is Lord Rickon Stark's bastard daughter, canon divergence, angst, violence, blood, war, death, typos, etc.

A/N: renee rapp my beloved

Though you were his wife by law, you were not by heart.

It did not hurt you, at least not anymore. You understood your place. You understood your duty; your duty was to your house, to your family, to him.

This was how you found yourself in the crosshairs of peril.

Daemon had been lost for days on end. He'd not given word ever since his proclamation to seize Harrenhal for the Queen— for his niece, his beloved niece. You knew why he was so eager to act. He so badly wanted to win Rhaenyra's favor.

They had not seen eye to eye lately, and one could say it was your fault. You were getting in the middle of their relationship, you, his wife. It felt as though there was not a soul in Westeros who did not know of their relations, and yet even in that blatant shame, not once did you ever bring it up to your husband.

Not once.

Why?

Because he saved you when you were wed. You had been promised to an old lord known to be a wife beater. You were told that it was the best match you would ever get, but then you caught the interest of the prince of Dragonstone, even if for a fleeting moment.

You thought that what you had was akin to desire, if not love, but it seems he only married you to spite someone that truly stoked such a thing within him. And now, you were sent to the North to remind your half brother of House Stark's pledge to that person, to Queen Rhaenyra. Your kin did not take kindly to that. But it was not Cregan that found offence in your appearance, but his men, some five of them.

Daemon dreams about this in Harrenhal. He dreams of five direwolves pulling you apart, limb from limb. He wakes up in a cold sweat because of it. When he rouses with word that a raven came telling of the conditions of his wife, he did not need to read its contents to be inspired to saddle Caraxes.

He makes his dragon land inside Winterfell and demands, "WHERE IS MY WIFE?!"

Cregan runs and meets him once he dismounted, leading him to your room.

His expression falls when he sees you. You were badly cut and beaten. You looked like you were ready to greet the Stranger. He grabs Cregan by his furs and hisses, "where are the men that did this?"

"I've sent them to the Wall," Stark raises a hand, indicating he did not want to fight.

"The Wall?" he shoves him away, "their heads should be on a sp-"

"They are my men. I will do with them as-"

"They outnumbered and ambushed my wife! You think they deserve the honor of keeping their heads?!"

Daemon was about to draw Dark Sister, until he heard a soft voice call his name. He turns to you, catching the way you stirred, and immediately comes to your side.

You weakly reach out a hand and he takes it. He is warm, a complete opposite to you. You feel lethargic but you manage to pull your lips into a semblance of a smile. You whisper, "you've come."

Your husband stares at you. He clutches your hand in both of his.

You rub his skin with your thumb.

He shakes his head, "I will exact your injuries of your attackers. They will regret the day they left their mothers' cunts."

You no longer have the energy to respond. You weakly smile at him before closing your eyes.

He stays with you until you fall asleep. He stay with you until he is told your eyes would no longer open again. He had to be subdued before he killed the maester that announced the news.

Cregan could do little to stop the prince and Caraxes from flying off to the Wall. He all but threatened to burn the whole of it down if your attackers did not come forth. And when they do, Daemon tells them to fight him or be fed to his dragon.

And so the fools attacked him, and were slain, and were fed to his dragon anyway. He flies back to Harrenhal after, and you haunt him in his dreams.

[osmanthus-wine-addiction]

15 Degradation

Zhongli x Reader / NSFW / Enemies to Lovers / Angst & past death / Set in the beginning of the Archon War / All the Yakshas and Guizhong are alive / Zhongli is called Morax in here / Reader served a god that was slain by Morax / Canon was hijacked for plot purposes

"Despicable…" You moan, back arching as he resumes tormenting you.

Your captor chuckles at your feeble attempt. "Say it with more conviction if you truly believe it to be true."

You despised this person, yet here you were, drunk on the pleasure he's been poisoning your mind with. The knife you had tried to pierce him with sat on the bedside cabinet like a harmless prop, forgotten.

He was the reason your people no longer had a home, forced to scatter like fallen leaves in the wind. Your god was one of the many that perished under his spear, leaving you to take refuge in the enemy's land. Rather than assimilate into the masses, you chose the path of vengeance. It was a fool's quest, because how could you, a mere mortal, hope to claim the life of a god? You were a fragile egg hurling itself at a boulder.

"You're nothing... ah... but a glorified killer..." You managed to say, but the words held little effect due to that pathetic moan.

How did you end up here, in a state worse than dead? Death was supposed to be the ending to your despair and the reward for your devotion. You were never afraid to die. During this brutal war, it was always lurking around the corner, stalking out its next prey. You were certain that if you failed, it would simply claim you next.

Your people were fierce and resilient, but the war had taken a toll on them. Many starved and were killed during violent clashes with other gods. Morax granted your god's dying wishes and welcomed them into the Guili Assembly with open arms. It did not take them long to forget that the livelihood and stability they currently enjoy was all because of the sacrifice their god had made. Even if every single one of them forgot, you were his high priestess. You had to remember on their behalf. How could you ever forget the humiliation on his face as he begged the enemy to have mercy on his people with his dying breath?

"Hmm…" He hums. "So much bitterness from such sweet lips."

Just like that, your mask was off. A few minutes ago, you were still uttering false praises to him, doing everything in your power to get into his good graces. Your lips were practically dripping with honey, thanking him for taking you in, so eager to repay him in the only way you knew how.

"You vile—Ah!" You cried out as he sucked harshly on your clit. The silk belt tying your wrists to the bed post dug into your skin as you struggled against it. "Just kill me, Morax!"

He paused, lifting his head from between your thighs, eyeing you with those bewitching amber eyes that seemed to glow in the dim light. His handsome face was covered in your glistening slick. Droplets of your traitorous arousal slid down his jaw, joining the sloppy mess below.

"That would be a pity. You've done nothing wrong, given that that the blood of the god you served is on my hands. In fact, I commend your courage to avenge him. The execution leaves much to be desired…" He pauses to draw his tongue along your wet slit. "But it was an honest attempt."

A moan involuntarily slips from between your lips as your body writhed from the stimulation. Why you had not yet been sentenced to death, you could only guess. A swift and bloody gash across your neck would've done it. If his goal was to coax a surrender out of you, his method was rather underhanded, but so was your approach, so you couldn't blame him.

You had tried to seduce the enemy and succeeded. Now you were just reaping the consequences of your actions.

"You…ah… You're wasting your time on me…" You managed to say in between whimpers.

The drag of his wet muscle against your sensitive walls had your back arching and toes curling. It was almost as if he was determined to return the deed, give you a taste of sweet release just as you had moments earlier. If he were not the person you were seeking vengeance on, you might’ve allowed yourself to enjoy this.

Your moans grew more desperate. There was no holding it in any longer. The pleasure was too much for you to contain. You could only let it overtake you, rushing out and right into his waiting mouth.

"The way you pleasured me, did your god teach you to do that? Did you pleasure him with this eager mouth of yours often?" He mused as he got up from between your legs.

"It was my honor to—"

You winced as he took the opportunity of you parting your lips to speak, pushing his fingers into your mouth and playing with your tongue which had nowhere to hide.

"I'm sure it was. I can see why he delighted in you." He tugged his fingers from your lips, tracing a wet trail along your neck, following with his lips.

"My loyalty will never be yours, Morax. Not now, not ever." You looked him straight in the eye.

He chuckled. "Overconfidence is a fickle thing, darling. Who's to say you won't change your mind? Do you truly believe your god would choose to leave you in the hands of someone as despicable as you say?"

You drew in a shaky breath as his lips hovered over your skin. His eyes watched you as you stubbornly averted your gaze. He was being infuriatingly gentle when you were just expecting him to treat you harshly and have his way with you. Instead, he took his time, teasing and seducing you. You drew in a shallow breath when his lips descended on your chest. His hand returned to your neglected pussy, finding your dripping folds and sinking between them. You instinctively pressed your thighs together. Moans spilled from your lips uncontrollably. Just when the surmounting pleasure was about to push you over the edge again, the god pulled away and withdrew his touch. Your mind was in tatters, shredded by the promise of pleasure that he had planted in your traitorous body. He reached down, thumb coaxing your bottom lip free from your bite.

"So reluctant." He mused, stroking the side of your face with the back of a finger. "I will hear it from you eventually, but I wonder what you will ask for. Will it be your freedom, or something else?"

"You'll set me free just because I ask?" You pant.

"If you promise not to repeat the foolish mistake you made tonight."

"I can't promise that." You replied right away.

Morax chuckles. "Understandable."

He gets up and pulls his robes back on. In a matter of seconds, the god is dressed as impeccably as before you had tugged off his belt, like you had never entered his tent.

"Untie me!" You demand him when it was clear he was about to leave.

"Have you changed your mind so soon?"

Your face grew hot as realization settled on you. Morax was not releasing you until you gave him your word. What a petty god. Your chances of succeeding now was nonexistent, not that it was ever probable to begin with. What was the point of keeping you tied up if he wasn't fearing for his life?

"I've already pledged myself to another god." You answered, unashamed.

"Your god is dead." Morax reminds you.

"It doesn't matter."

The god's brows furrowed.

"I will never serve you, Morax. You might as well kill me."

He never touched you after that day. You were still tied to that bed, but at least you were clothed. In fact, Morax had stopped visiting you altogether, probably moving his resting quarters elsewhere. The military encampment was alit with rumors of you. The soldier who brought you food and stood outside the tent tried to make conversation with you, but you refused to eat or engage with him.

Finally, after you had passed out due to lack of nourishment, Morax returned. When you regained consciousness, you were back on the bed and propped up against a stack of pillows.

"Is this how you repay the god you claim to be loyal to? By wasting your life away?" His deep voice was soothing to your ears, but you would never admit that.

"Why do you care?" You turned your head, refusing the spoon held up against your lips. "I can follow him into death if I want. Who are you to stop me?"

"The one your god, who you hold in such high regard, entrusted you to."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "Don't gild yourself Morax. You're just a cold-blooded murderer."

His hand froze in midair. So you might’ve gone a bit too far with that claim, but the words had already escaped your lips and it was too late to take them back.

Morax had many supporters and allies, unlike your god, who was perhaps too distrusting and proud to join forces with another. It wasn't until his death that he finally asked for help, for the sake of the humans who followed him.

"Do you truly think that lowly of me?" He asked you gravely.

"I'm just a follower of a dead god. My opinion shouldn't hold any weight." You smirked, but the expression looked pathetic on your gaunt face. "Why haven't you sentenced me to death yet? Could it be that the great Rex Lapis enjoys being ridiculed?"

"It's certainly not pleasant to be constantly cut by such a sharp tongue, but I must admit, your dedication to your god is quite touching."

"If you think keeping me alive is going to convince me to abandon him and follow you instead, you're awfully naïve."

Morax put down the spoon, laughing heartily at your words.

"That is a first. Naïve…" He repeats the bizarre word. "As the God of Contracts, it would be unfitting of me to punish you for honoring your contract to your god, despite his death freeing you from it."

"I never asked to be freed. You murdered him!"

Morax's eyed darkened as all laughter fell from his face. He sighed.

"I will free you. You may attempt to take my life as many times as you please, but I must warn you. If you fail, there will be consequences."

Your eyes widened in shock. Even the follower of an enemy god knew what these words meant. A contract with Morax was something to be coveted, but what on Teyvat was this one?

"What… consequences?" You asked warily.

"It will not be anything you can't handle. On the contrary, a few of my adepti have been restless as soon as they caught wind of your attempt on my life. They will not be so kind to you if you were to cross them so I advise you to keep your intentions to yourself."

Something was extremely off about this contract right from the beginning. You felt like a mouse lashing out at a bored cat. Morax's Overconfidence was expected. Your vengeance was a joke in his eyes, perhaps endearing even. The way he looks at you, as compassionate as his gaze was, it only added to your crippling guilt and sense of helplessness.

Almost every other night in your bed, you would curl up and weep as you relive the day your god was slain. Sometimes, you would dream of yourself kneeling in front of him, begging for forgiveness. He was dead. You, as his most devoted priestess, should be too. If he was evil, forced you to serve him against your will, made you commit atrocities that would have you clawing at your chest at night, then perhaps you would gladly serve a new god.

After being set free, you stayed in the Millelith encampment as Morax expected. His adepti, as well as the soldiers who were aware of what you had tried to do, were reluctant to accept your constant presence, but Morax ensured that no one dared to lay a hand on you. Eventually, you managed to befriend some of them and managed to learn some lesser known things about the god they followed. One of Morax's closest friends was the god of dust, a weak god if judging by power alone. She had forged an alliance with Morax early on and managed to combine their efforts as their people mingled and settled in the Guili Plains. Even the more reclusive adepti banded together, fighting the war alongside him. Though he was a powerful god, you couldn't deny that the Guili Alliance was much stronger than he could ever be on his own. There was only so much a single god could do. You couldn't help but imagine how different things would've been if your god had considered joining forces with Morax instead of challenging him, but alas all of these thoughts were meaningless with him dead.

"Bonanus, do you think those dead gods curse the land because they're bitter for being pitted against each other in this ridiculous dogfight?"

The hydro yaksha sighed. You always asked her questions like this, but she never minded. She was perhaps one of only people who was qualified to answer them.

"Not all gods curse the land." She said. "Havria never cursed the land either. Even though some of her own people died as a result of her death, it's very different."

He also did not lay down a curse when he died.

"I was one of the Yakshas that Rex Lapis sent to monitor the area after your god was slain." She continued after your silence. "Your god… He truly cared about your people. I can't say the same for all of the gods slain during this war. It was a pity…"

Every soldier at the encampment and most of the adepti called him Rex Lapis out of respect. You were the only one calling him Morax.

It's been almost a month since your last attempt. He was expecting it at this point. Maybe he even secretly looked forward to your attempts, curious to find out how you would go about it. Would the weapon be different? Or would you try to use poison? Each time, Morax seemed to be letting you get away with more, but each attempt would predictably end with your failure. If his adepti knew what was actually going on inside his tent, they would not be so friendly with you.

"Are you a masochist? Why didn't you stop me?" You yelled at him.

The pointed end of your hairpin was embedded in his flesh. You were bent over his body, one hand against his bare chest and the other one holding the pin against his neck. Blood was still seeping out from that gash, an unnatural glimmering gold compared to the vivid crimson that yours was.

"You won't be satisfied until you have this buried in my heart, won't you?" He asked you instead of answering your question.

The expression on his face was unbothered, as if you trying to kill him time and time again was just a minor inconvenience. You had him bleeding and pinned to his bed, but it was clear by how relaxed he was underneath you, this god did not feel threatened by you in the slightest.

"If you know that, why are you still letting me get this close to you? Are you an idiot?"

You tried to withdraw, but he had wrapped his hand around yours, preventing you. His hand maneuvered yours, guiding the tip of your bloodied pin right over his chest. The droplets of molten gold glided over his skin, trailing along his muscles.

"Go on." Morax dared you.

Your eyes widened, panicking. His grip was tight, painful even.

"Madman…" You muttered under your breath as you tried to pry his hand off.

The embellishments along the pin cut into your palm. It wasn't until an unsightly drop of blood slid down your wrist that he let you go, allowing you to drop the pin. It clattered onto to floor, echoing the obnoxious beating of your own heart.

You quickly untangled yourself from him, but couldn't escape. Every time, the punishment was the same as the first. He would always make sure you faced the consequences.

"I gave you the chance, dear. You did not take it." He reminds you as he pulls you back into his arms, trapping you underneath him.

Maybe it wasn't actually the attempt on his life that Morax was indulging in, but serving the punishment he promised you each time you failed. Why did you keep on trying even though the ending was never any different? You would never succeed, no matter how many times he let you close enough.

"I have given you every chance to leave, but you insist on coming back to me each time. What is it that you truly want?" Morax asks you.

"Why do you keep sparing my life then?" You could only deflect with a question of your own, because there was no rational answer to his.

"I would love to ask you the same." He mused. According to your actions, or rather lack of actions, you didn't even want to kill him anymore.

Morax brings your bleeding palm against his lips. A tingling feeling coursed up your spine. In a matter of seconds, the fresh cut was healed, leaving only a faint discoloration. He didn't even bother to tend to his own wound, which was still dripping. Splatters of his golden blood decorated your neck and chest.

He began to stroke your thigh, carefully parting your legs and guiding one over his hip. His fingers dipped into your wet heat, immediately tugging a gasp out of you. Your pussy clamped down on his long digit, shamelessly demanding for more.

You moaned softly as Morax grinded himself against your entrance. It felt so good, you couldn't help but wrap your other leg around his waist, pulling him closer.

"If you want it, you need only ask for it, dear."

"I'll n-never… betray…" You were still stubbornly clinging onto that shred of dignity.

"Oh, I certainly don't doubt that." He chuckled. The sound vibrated against your skin. Heat stirred underneath, giving it an alluring flush.

He added a second finger, pumping in and out of your squelching hole at an increasing pace. The friction was a lit fuse eating through your rational thoughts.

"Does it make you feel wretched if this doesn't happen under the circumstances of a punishment?" His lips brush against your ear, each word piercing through your foggy mind. "A traitor. That's what you are if you sleep with the enemy."

The lascivious sounds drifting from your lips, the trembling of your body, and the copious amount of slick dripping from your hole were all undeniable evidence of your arousal.

"Your body belongs to your god. It would be treacherous of you to allow me inside, won't it? Look at how tightly you're squeezing. I'm afraid this cunt of yours is not as faithful as your lips."

"Just… get it over with… Morax!" You cried out in exasperation.

"You have your limits and I have mines. I will not take you by force." He continued to torture you, riling you up in every way short of shoving his cock inside.

"With everything you've done…" You panted. "What's the difference?"

His fingers have been inside you. His tongue as well. He's seen and touched every inch of your skin and tasted the sweat and tears on your cheeks as well as the arousal between your legs.

"Say it." Morax demands.

You press your lips tightly together as he pulls out his fingers and rubs his hardened cock against your sensitive folds. Soft whimpers escape from you as his tip catches on your slit repeatedly, but never enters.

His deep voice climbs ever so slightly in pitch as he struggles to reign in the urge to shove his cock deep into you, fill you to the brim in a single brutal thrust. His hand wanders, finding your clit.

You moaned as pleasure ripples through your body. His hands gripped your hips, keeping you firmly in place as he coats himself in your slick.

"Just Look at how wet you are. Say that you want it. Please…" His warm breath tickles your skin while his face is buried in the crook of your neck.

"Are you… begging me…?" Surely you were imagining that breathless plea.

"I too can satisfy you." He whispered.

"Morax…"

"Say it!"

"You're unbearable." You groaned.

"Is that a yes?" He asked.

You nodded, writhing as you succumbed to his persistence. "Yes!"

Immediately, you could feel his tip pushing into you. Your moans filled the air as your walls stretched to accommodate his immense girth. Morax's cock bullied its way in until it was completed sheathed within you.

After months of wavering pretense, you could no longer keep up the act. The moment your affirmation left your lips, the depravity you had been holding back spilled forth.

"Gods you're tight." Morax hissed as you clamped down on him, restricting his movement. "Relax your hold, dear. Are you trying to squeeze the life out of me?"

"Wouldn't that be… just perfect?" You teased him against your better judgment.

You cried out as he plunged his cock into you after pulling out almost completely. Raw pleasure coursed through you like a tidal wave, drowning out everything except the sound of his cock moving inside you. The sensations had you bursting at the seams. Your mind was completely blank, your lips parted, and your skin flushed.

"Careful dear. I would hate to accidentally kill you whilst trying to bring you to a finish." He whispered against your ear after calming down a bit.

"That doesn't sound… too bad." You managed to say between moans. "For someone like me."

"You would like that, wouldn't you?" He grunts as he increases his pace even more. "To die while impaled on my cock, with my cum filling your womb? Your god would surely scowl in disgust if he knew how willingly, how well you're taking me right now, wouldn't he?"

"Morax… too fast…" You sobbed, fingernails digging into his arm.

"Is this already too much for you?" He cooed, reaching down to rub your clit. Despite his words, he slowed down to a gentler pace. "I expected more from you."

You glared at him, but the tears in your eyes only made you look all the more pathetic. "Even my god was more gentle when he—"

"If you want gentle, then I will show you gentle. There's no need to compare me to someone who's no longer able to fill this needy cunt of yours."

"Who's fault is that?" You seethed.

"Mine." He replied, stroking your cheek tenderly. "So allow me…"

This time, Morax held true to his word. Every thrust was painfully gentle and slow, so slow that you began rolling your hips upward to encourage him to go faster.

"F-faster…" You whined. "Please…"

With a barely noticeable curl at the corner of his lips, Morax quickened his place. His breathing also grew shallow again. You moaned softly, the pitch and urgency of each sound escaping your lips rose as he pushed you closer and closer towards the edge.

"I'm almost there…"

"Come for me, darling. I'll be right behind you." He coaxed you in such a tender voice.

You tensed, body convulsing as your walls clamped down on him relentlessly. Your arms wrapped around his neck as your thighs tightened around his waist. The thread inside you snapped, releasing a surge of warmth that gushed around his cock. He let out a groan, also reaching his climax. Thick, hot cum shot deep into your womb, painting your insides and mixing together with your own release, finally trickling out from where the two of you were still joined. He tugged himself free of your suffocating warmth, releasing a flood of cum. Even now, your walls were still fluttering, desperately clenching onto nothing. He almost had the urge to stuff his cock back inside out of pity.

"Rest now. Leave the rest to me."

Morax pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping around you from behind. The sound of his steadying breath drifted into your ear, lulling your tired body to sleep.

"I cannot bring back your beloved god, but I can promise you this. From this day onwards, every god I defeat shall be sealed away instead of slain. This war has resulted in too much grief, too much bloodshed. I too wish for its swift end. Forgive me for the wrongs I am no longer able to undo." He sighed, voice barely audible even though you were laying there right against him.

A drop of saltiness seeped into the silk pillow underneath your head. As a mere human caught in these tumultuous times, you had always known how lucky you were to be born in a village overseen by a merciful god.

The injustice that had plagued you for the past year ever since his death finally drained out of you, tear by tear. So Morax had killed an innocent god. Perhaps he had killed a dozen even. Did he have a choice? He did not call this war into existence. Perhaps there were higher gods even he was a mere pawn to, gods who had set this land ablaze with suffering and strife. He too was simply doing what he could to protect the humans who called his domain home.

The encampment gradually warmed up to you once you put down your burdens. Even Cloud Retainer eventually let go of her urge to 'quash' you when it became clear you no longer had the desire to kill Rex Lapis. The first to notice was Yaksha Bonanus, who you often spoke to about your past. You smiled often and found ways to be helpful within the Millelith camp. You were no adeptus, neither where you brilliant like Guizhong. If you were a great warrior like Xiao and Bonanus, perhaps you'd be helpful in that way. You were only decent with a sword when forced to use one. Tending to wounded soldiers and gathering herbs were tasks you had always been adept at, so you volunteered for that post. It was one of your responsibilities as priestess, before the god you served died. These were now your people and Morax was now your god.

You still refused to call him Rex Lapis, but he did not mind it at all. It turns out, a good many of his close friends still refer to him directly by the name Morax. That was something you would've never expected of the god you previously served. He was a proud god, so proud that you were never permitted to call him by name, despite being his closest confidant.

"Morax." The name tasted familiar, sweet even on your tongue.

It certainly feels different from calling your supposed lover 'My Lord' every time he takes you to bed. You stretch as you get up from Morax's bed. The encampment was always bustling, no matter what time of the day it was. There was always something to do and you were always filled with motivation. Ever since you started getting involved, you realized exactly how purposeless your life had been in the months following the death of your previous god. Morax had not simply spared your life repeatedly. He had saved it. Those memories were bittersweet now, but you were grateful for them. You would always be, for the rest of your life, however long it would be.

Author's Note: This took way too long. Got stuck because my brain kept screaming OOC. Finally ended up with something I liked so here you go. This list is probably going to continue into 2025 at this point. I kinda like having a list of prompts to draw from. Gets my brain worms going. Except when I get stuck of course, like with this one.