#like. what do you do when you go back to your own torture chamber and you're attacked for being the torturer.

[pocketgalaxies]

oh also still still STILL thinking about "people hate me because of you. and i'm a victim." just bc it's so simple and heartbreaking and unfair

[barbieaemond]

Lykirī

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

WARNINGS: loss of virginity, fingering, oral sex (f and m receiving), handjob, we ride him bitches, dom/sub tones if you squint

WORD COUNT: 8.9k

Author's note: an early Christmas gift for those who celebrate!! For those who don't, just a regular smutty piece. This was based on a request where wife!reader rides Aemond. Merry Aemondmas :)

MASTERLIST

taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @arcielee

"You are to marry the King's second son. Prince Aemond Targaryen."

Those were your father's words. Your sister had looked at you almost with pity and a hint of relief since that fate had befallen you and not her. You had simply nodded, accepting the fate decided by your father, just as thousands of other daughters before and after you would have done.

Your mother had come to comb your hair before going to bed, and without much ado, she had told you what would happen after the wedding, after the banquet.

"All you have to do is try to relax your nerves, and I promise it will be less painful.”

The thought had stuck in your brain until the wedding day. And the aura emanating from the prince didn't help. He was stoic to the point of looking like a statue, his posture rigid as a spindle, and there was something unsettling about him that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand when he took your hand to recite the wedding vows. Fear, but also a foreign giddiness prickling your skin upon feeling his calloused fingers around yours.

The banquet had not helped either. Prince Aegon had behaved like a court jester, drinking to the point of wondering how he could stand upright, poking his brother with cruel jokes about his eye and a whore who had made Aemond a man many years before.

You didn’t know what kind of unpleasant memories your good-brother had just summoned in his brother’s mind. That woman and her cheap perfume, that way it had clung to his skin, to his thoughts for days after his only ever trip to Flea Bottom.

Then the elder Prince had approached you with his breath stinking of Dornish and it was then that Prince Aemond broke his icy silence, standing up abruptly and looking down at you. "Come, wife. It is time for us to retire."

Prince Aegon had clapped his hands as if in front of a hilarious show, saying "Finally some fun! The bedding!"

The entire crowd present at the banquet had escorted you to the prince's chambers. The servants had removed your dress, leaving you in your underskirts; you had unconsciously covered your chest, crossing your arms to hide from the greedy eyes of the men peering in the doorway, Prince Aegon in the front row with yet another cup of wine clutched between his fingers.

Master Mellos invited you to lie down on the bed, and you obeyed, swallowing, while a host of servants shielded you from view as the Maester made his humiliating inspection.

"All is in order, your Graces," the Master informed the Prince and Queen. And that was enough for Aemond to completely slip the iron mask off his face and go straight to the door. "The show is over. Get out."

"Oh, come on, little brother. Let me watch, at least. I could give you some tips."

Aemond had towered over his brother, and from your seat on the bed, you were able to see the eldest brother shrinking by the moment. "This is not some common whore you're speaking of.” Aemond seethed “She is my wife, and you will owe her the respect she deserves. One more lewd word from your mouth, and I will rip your tongue with my bare hands. Am I being clear?”

"Gods, brother, are you already so cunt-struck?"

He never got an answer, only the door being slammed right into his face.

You stood in the middle of the room, torturing your hands as he looked at you from the door. He seemed unsure of what to do, until he cleared his throat and took a few tentative steps in the room.

“You could have some wine, if you wish. It may…help you.” He said, but as he said this, he seemed to regret his own words, given how his mouth twitched as if he had just tasted something sour. Memories could come just like that, sudden and sour.

“You must relax, my prince. Have some wine, maybe? No need to worry, I will take care of you just as a prince deserves to.”

“I’d like to keep my mind clear, my Prince.” You said, keeping your gaze down, hearing his fast and deep sigh. “Fine.” he said, straightening his back as a soldier. After all, wasn’t this just another duty?

It wasn’t just that though. You were his wife now, the future mother of his children. It was his duty and his right to claim you as his own.

“Lay on the bed.”

With your heart pounding in your ears, you did as you were told but when the mattress dipped under his weight, you did not expect to see him with his clothes still on, the eyepatch firmly in its place. More so, you did not expect the harshness of his gestures as he held your waist to turn you around. The air hitched in your throat as your face met the mattress and a strange sorrow gripped your heart. Did he not want to look at you? Did he not like you?

“Try to stay still and it’ll be over shortly.” he said. He was trying to sound reassuring, but his voice came out cold and flat. His fingers latched on your underskirts, hiking them up, filling you with embarrassment as you grow completely exposed beneath him.

Aemond knew what to do. He may not have been as depraved as his brother, but he was still a man. And once in a while, when his hands would not suffice, some maid or servant girl would’ve had to bear, quite keenly on their part, his intimate attentions.

As his hands began to glide on your thighs, you shivered and said “Wait…”

Slowly your head turned to look at him, cheeks red and breath slow and anxious. “Am I not allowed to look at you?”

Your words seemed to stun him for a moment. The mere thought of you wanting to look at him made him realize how wrong he was behaving. You were his wife, not a common whore to bend over and have his moment of bliss. He had even told Aegon. That was not his intention, but there was a gap between how he felt and how he acted, a limb severed by years of pity looks and feelings trapped in his mouth and swallowed.

Almost gently, he made you turn but once you were facing him, he pinned your wrists on the mattress, unable to touch him even if you had gathered enough courage to do it. You tried to brace yourself for what your mother had told you. But she had not told you that he would touch you there, that all your senses would go numb except for that one brand new feeling between your legs. But he seemed enthralled by it just as you, his mouth parting to let out slow puffs of air as you grow wet and swollen against his fingers.

Your breath was labored, coming out in soft pants that made your cheeks purple. More so because he kept circling his deft fingers on your core while looking straight into your eyes, reveling in the way you were answering to his call, in the way he was shaping your need, your desire.

“You never touched yourself, did you?” he asked in a husky voice.

You barely shook your head and his eye glinted with something dark as he brought his face close to yours “Good. I shall be the only one inside you.”

He swallowed your shaky breath with this mouth, kissing you for the very first time, apart from the shy, almost prude peck exchanged after the wedding vows. Your lips moved shyly, trembling with the coiling pressure between your legs. And just when you thought this heat, this delicious aching couldn’t grow more unbearable, he sticked a finger inside you, spilling a loud moan right against his mouth.

One of your wrists twisted in his harsh hold, willing to touch him, to grip on something, but he didn’t let you. “Easy…” he blew on your lips “Relax. It’ll feel good, I promise…”

It surely felt good to him, to feel the tightness of your cunt squeezing his finger. He curled it and you squinted your eyes, choking a gasp that made him smirk proudly against your jaw. “Gods, you’re so tight…” he breathed as he kept rubbing slowly against your walls.

“It’s—it’s too much—“ you cried out with pain and pleasure running together, breathing his scent of ash, leather and a hint of something minty.

“How will you take my cock if you can’t even take my finger?” He whispered with benevolent cruelty, moving his finger faster and deeper.

Certainly your mother had not told you of the obscene wet sounds you would hear, of the uncontrollable moans coming out of your mouth, of his soft growling next to your ear when his breeches became too tight.

He had lined the tip of his hard manhood to your entrance, catching your breath away as tried to still your nerves, but the pain came altogether. You felt like he was cutting you from the inside. Tears filled your eyes, squinting for the painful stretching. You knew he was restraining himself; he didn’t want to hurt you more than he already was. And you almost felt affection for him, most men would not have bothered.

Then he had started to move, you felt that stranger body rubbing over and over against your walls, and finally the pain soothed, but not completely. You could tell he was enjoying it, his ragged breath and faint moans told you so, as well as the curses hissed through his teeth in a language you guessed was Valyrian. And then he had stilled completely, gripping your hips hard and firm while you felt a hot wave pulsing through your core.

The next morning, you could barely sit down for breakfast, and your aunt had looked at you with concern and a hint of amusement in her eyes. She was a veteran at court, a long-time widow, and quite happy to be so. It was her who suggested your betrothal to the Prince.

"How are you feeling, sweet niece?"

"Awful." you said promptly, shifting your weight on the seat.

"Well, this is the kind of anguish all women must go through."

"I thought that was giving birth to another human being."

"Oh Gods, no. That is the ugly part. This is the good one," she said with a sly smile "I suggest you enjoy it as much as you can."

At the time, you didn't really understand what she meant. The first night with the prince had gone...well, you thought. But he certainly enjoyed it more than you.

The second time was better. Your muscles were still sore, but the pain was but a faint discomfort compared to the pleasure you felt for the very first time in your life.

The third time he went down on you, bringing you so close to the edge only to deny your release, with cruel enjoyment on his part, making you whine with shame at the loss of his mouth and tongue on your folds.

The fourth time he bent you down on the breakfast table, all things falling in a mess of cutlery. He had pulled up your skirts and lowered his breeches just enough to thrust in, unraveling a special spot deep inside of you that had you mewling like some primitive beast.

The fifth time he had you writhing in bed, hair stuck to your head with sweat and hands clenching the sheets while he had you peak three times in a row.

It was then that you started to think your aunt was right.

That was indeed the good part.

“Are you afraid?” he asks, with a soft taunt on the tip of his tongue. You drag your eyes away from the gigantic beast before you and almost scoff. That is enough for him to laugh, quietly, but still not quietly enough for you to not notice and wonder at the view.

It’s been merely one moon since you’ve been married to Prince Aemond, and you could count on the fingers of your hand the times you have seen him laugh. It was eerie at first, you feared all the things you heard about the One Eyed Prince were true. That he was cold as stone and just as hard. And he was. But the more you spent time together, the more you were able to make cracks, and let light through.

“I’m equally afraid as any little mortal of right mind would be in front of the largest dragon in the known world, my dear husband.”

His lips stay quirked up, but his eye widens, as it always does when you call him that. He steps close to you, a few of his long strides are enough for him to tower over you, and the ground below your feet shifts.

“Come.” He says, taking your hand, “I promise she won’t eat you.” This time you deliberately glare at him, and he raises an eyebrow. “Do you need some other kind of persuasion to trust me? Perhaps like the one I used this morning?”

The early afternoon sun makes his face almost hurting to watch, or maybe it's just his bold gloating that makes his appearance so exhausting.

“That was not persuasion.” you remark, hiding the tinge of red on your cheeks “It was coercion.”

“Hmm. You didn’t seem so hostile when I made you come twice before breakfast.”

"I was hostile to the chance of the maid assisting with what we were doing."

"The maid should know better than to enter while my wife is undressing."

His eye roams over you just as he had done that morning, hunger clouding it, making your insides shrink. "Perhaps it's best if she knew. Someone must be aware of how cruel my husband is." there's a soft tease in your tone—something you are still learning, but true nonetheless.

He had ripped your nightgown with his bare hands when the maid entered to help you dress. She fled hastily, but you barely spared a glance at her, already lost to the fierce claim of his hand between your legs. He had taken you, twice, and then ordered you to dress, forcing you to have breakfast with the Queen and the Princess with your thighs still sticky with sex, sticky with him.

And he had been there, sitting just in front of you, with a piercing and delighted gaze.

He pulls your hand, and you follow, getting closer to that living relic that is Vhagar, Queen of All Dragons. She raises her monstrous head and looks straight at you with her amber eyes.

It is the first time you step so close to her, and even if you thought about it a lot, your heart is pounding fast, and your breath comes out slow and labored. She's a dreadful wonder.

She flares her nostrils and smells you, making a low rumble which results in a gust of hot wind that ruffles your hair and skirts.

“Lykirī, Vhagar.” Aemond says quietly “Issa ñuha ābrazȳrys. Kostā pāsagon zirȳla.”

You look at him questioningly, and he answers. “I told her you are my wife. And she can trust you.”

You cast a curious look at the dragon and then back at him “Is that all it takes? You tell dragons to trust you, and they resist the urge to turn you into their meal?”

Aemond curves his lips and makes you step closer, standing behind you and guiding your hand on the old green scales. “It takes much more than that.” he whispers in your ear “You have to surrender to them, completely. A dragon is no slave.”

You feel the heat beneath your palm, but it’s not that that makes you swallow; it’s the heat of his breath on your neck, right into your ear, scorching his way into your brain and inflaming every thought.

“What does Lykirī mean?” you ask, and you hate how your voice cracks on the edges.

He smirks because he knows, he always does. But he does not answer. Instead, he pulls your hand again, and you follow, circling the beast until stopping before the intricate ropes that lead to the saddle.

“Aemond, I don’t think—”

“You are my wife and you will ride with me on dragon back.” He said, commanding.

Truthfully, you gladly want to obey; there is just a slight difference between picturing riding a dragon and doing it.

Even the climbing to get in the saddle is a challenge on its own, but he helps you until you firmly seat yourself in it. Aemond sits behind you, and you look around with widened eyes, as if you are looking down from the highest tower ever built, except this is a living one, made of fire and breathing fire.

He leans over you to grab the reins, and you tense, waiting with bathed breath.

“Dohaeras, Vhagar. Soves!”

She lets out a loud screech that makes your ears hurt, but you have no time to even register it because she's already moving. You grip Aemond’s arms and brace yourself against his chest when Vhagar lurches onward and opens her huge wings to take flight.

She goes up and up, above the clouds, and your head is dizzy, with fear, with euphoria, until you are laughing like a child, like you never did in your entire life. Aemond lets go of the reins and laces his arms around you, angling his head to look at you, his silver hair violently ruffled by the wind. “How does it feel, my sweet wife?”

There are no common words to describe it. Now you know why they say Targaryens are closer to Gods than men. No man could claim a dragon or rule the skies.

“I feel like I’m close to the Gods.” you say, and he tightens the hold on you “Dragons do not answer to Gods.” he says, burying his nose in your hair “Where does this leave us?”

You turn your head to look at him, and you feel like you are looking at one of them. And yet he looks like he’s beyond any God.

“Above them. Above the Gods.”

“Hmm.” He croons, breathing your scent through his nose, and then his right hand grabs your skirt and dips underneath, until you feel his cold fingers grazing your skin. “I will make you feel like one.”

He cups your core through your small clothes, and you whimper, gripping his arm harder. He feels your heat through his palm, hotter than Vhagar’s own fire, and he sets the fabric aside to properly touch you. “My sweet wife.” he whispers, sliding a finger between your folds “Always so ready for me.”

“Aemond.” You say, holding your breath, trying to oppose but your voice cracks, and your body with it, already answering to his call. You see clouds before your eyes, but it’s all a blur, all your senses are enslaved by his touch, rubbing lazy circles on your bud. Too slow for your liking, for your need. Your hips arch and buck, chasing his hand for more friction, and he laughs, darkly. “What is it? What do you need, sweet girl? Tell me.”

He takes your chin with his free hand and forces you to turn your head and look at him. His hold is ruthless, but his tone is almost pleading. “Tell me.” he orders and you feel like he’s smothering you, sweeping away all the air from your lungs. “I-I need more…”

“More of what?” he asks, stopping altogether. “Show me.”

You look him in the eye and swallow, heat inflaming your cheeks, but there’s no place for shame, not here. It is just a faint ghost passing through you, and then it’s gone. Your hand pulls the gown up, and you place it on his, like a feather. “Here.” You breathe on his mouth “Inside.”

The howling wind does nothing to muffle his growl, and then he’s kissing you, harshly, teeth clashing and biting your lips as he accepts your plea, sliding a finger inside of you.

A strangled moan escapes you, and he swallows it, darting his tongue in every corner of your mouth. He releases your chin only to grab your leg to further open them and then he adds a second finger, moving them deftly until reaching that special spot. Your head falls back on his shoulder, gasping loudly, digging your nails into his hand.

Your breath is ragged and fast, and you uselessly try to stifle moan after moan even if there are only the skies to hear.

“Don’t.” he says grazing your lobe with his teeth “I want to hear you. I want you to scream for me.”

Your mind goes blank, as does all your restraint. You feel the tide coming to crash you, hips moving on their own accord, chasing and chasing. And then you’re drowning in it, mouth falling open and flesh and bones clenching and trembling.

He grunts softly when your nails scratch his skin and his fingers slip out, glistening; he raises them to his lips and tastes every drop of you. Still panting, he takes your chin once more with his sticky fingers and licks your lips, so you taste yourself on his tongue.

Your head is still dizzy when Vhagar lands in a clearing in the King’s Wood, but this has nothing to do with altitude. Your limbs are heavy when he helps you dismount, your legs buckle. There is a tautness knotting your bones, itching your fingertips.

You wish to touch him, because you have never, not as a wife would touch her husband, not as he has done with you.

It is only a moon and yet he has taken you almost every night and every day. He has touched you everywhere, he has molded you to his liking, and you let him do it with giddiness, undoing yourself like clay in his hands. He had put his mouth on you, and you have discovered he particularly enjoyed it, because he has done that at the most inopportune times, even in some dark corner of the corridors.

And you wondered if you could do the same with him—not because you have to, but because you want to. You want to claim him just as he claims you, relentlessly.

And he really is. He is relentless, he doesn't give you the time to wander with your hands, to discover, to touch. Fire burns him quickly and you are ashes before you realise you are burning with him.

“I didn’t know my wife had claws.” He says at one point, while you are going back to the Keep.

You wake from your thoughts and turn, watching him raise his hand to show the red marks on the back of his hand, and the sight makes you almost proud—proud to have left a mark of you on him. But you want more, and he wants more. You know it; it takes a brief look at his breeches to know that he wants more.

You dart your eyes around, but there's no one. So, you stop. Trying to gather all the boldness you never had, you step closer to him and take his hand in yours. Your eyes look up slowly, glinting with uncertainty and bravery. "Then let me soothe your pain, husband."

Aemond’s eye widens, and the air around you turn heavy, forcing you to open your mouth to breathe. You take one more step and bring the back of his hand to your lips, kissing it gently while your eyes stay fixed on his face. The other hand goes tentatively to his chest and then slides down, and for once, just once, he’s the one answering your call. His eye darkens and his lips part when your hands bashfully grab the laces of his breeches.

But you should have known better. Targaryens and their desires. Doomed to take whatever they want, whenever they want, answering neither Gods nor men.

You barely blink and he grabs you by the wrists and forces you to the ground. Cold grass and bushes stinging your back make you gasp, but Aemond is already on you, watching you like a century-long thirsted man who takes a glimpse of a water spring, as if you could evaporate from his sight at any moment.

“Aemond, please.” you beg “let me—“

But his tongue is in your mouth, hot and scorching you alive. Your eyes flutter shut, and he hikes your skirts up, taking hold of your hips. You feel his bulge against you, hard and ready, and you can do nothing else than wait, pinned down like prey, all bravery a distant memory.

Suddenly he lowers himself down, lifting your skirts with haste until you’re completely bare half down. “No—Aemond, please I want to—”

“You want what?” he asks with a wolfish grin “Deny me your sweet taste? Iksā ñuhon, ābrazȳrys.” He said that already, you know what it means. You are mine.

“You belong to me. And this…” he swears placing your legs on his shoulders while looking at your aching core as a man who found the greatest treasure in the world. “This belongs to me as well.”

He runs his tongue up and down your wet folds, humming with delight as he tastes you and sees you squirm, arching your back on the stingy bushes. You moan loudly when he slowly swirls his tongue, not able to keep track of your hips starting  to move on their own, thrusting into his mouth and the sight of you like this, makes him even wilder, pushing him to open his mouth and put it entirely on your cunt, sucking harshly until anything before your eyes becomes blurred.

Your legs on his shoulders begin to shake and curl, caging him further against you, but just when you are about to come straight into his mouth, he pulls back. A weak sob leaves your mouth as your hips keep bucking against nothing and he smirks at that, untangling your legs from his shoulders, running his tongue over his lips, to taste what's left of you on him. You look at him through dazed eyes and a tinge of annoyance for the denied release. “What?” he has the boldness to ask with a sly smirk “Did you not enjoy it?” he runs his thumb on his glistening chin and swiftly licks it. "Hmm. I most certainly did."

“Aemond, please.” you claw desperately at his shoulders and forearms, forcing him to lie on you, feel something that could soothe the aching between your legs. He seems keen to grant you this mercy, molding his crotch against you so you can feel how hard and desperate he is.

“Please.” you beg in a thin voice.

“Speak it plainly, my love. I want to hear it from your pretty mouth.”

You look at him straight in the eye and what you say next is not a request nor a plea. Your mother would be ashamed of you, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You are not begging. You are demanding. “Fuck me.”

He doesn’t need more than a few moments to get his cock out of his breeches, and not a moment later he’s pushing inside of you, your back arching on the bushes and your throat fighting for breath. He groans and starts a relentless pace, lifting his weight from you just enough for him to look at his cock going in and out, the sight only pushing him to thrust harder and harder. “Look at you.” he croons, sweet and rough “You were born to take me, to be mine.”

Your face twists with pleasure, teeth biting your lower lip while he takes you higher and higher, higher than any sky a dragon could ever take you.

He soon becomes messy and sloppy, cursing under his breath, but you can barely hear him. Your mind is sluggish and everything comes muffled: him, the birds chirping on some tree, your wet flesh slapping against his in the lewdest and most blessed way.

He curses some more, and then he’s spilling inside you, his arched mouth opening and his eye closing like a man absolved.

And yet, he does not stop. He has not claimed enough.

“Māzis, dōna ābrazȳrys. Come for me.”

Your hand clutches something on the ground, something with thorns that pierces your skin with pain, but you can’t even feel that, because you are falling, legs trembling around him, and heart stopping for an endless moment of pure breathtaking bliss.

“Gevie.” he coos with his lips on yours, falling with his body on you, still clenching and pulsing around him. He stays right where he is, nesting inside of you, and now it is the only chance you have been granted to touch him. You put an arm around his shoulders, catching your breath, and look at the skies above, thinking you are indeed above them.

It was easy to explain the dirt and grass stains on your dress. It was a little less easy to explain the twigs in your ruffled hair when you and Aemond returned to the Keep only to meet the Queen Mother along one of the corridors. Alicent merely smiled at you with a tight smile and did not spare from giving a look full of daggers to her son.

"Seven Hells" you mutter when you go back to your rooms and catch a glimpse of the mess you are in the mirror.

Aemond stays on the threshold to close the door and grins, or rather, gloats.

You step out of your muddy shoes and start to pull the laces of your dress.

"What are you doing?" he asks, and you playfully glare at him. "Am I allowed to take a bath now? Or do you want me to go around all sullied? I fear there are no believable excuses for the state I’m in."

"You can tell them the truth." he says, walking to you and replacing your hands with his to help you pull the intricate laces.

You smile softly with your back turned before raising an eyebrow, asking "Which is?"

He keeps his eye focused on the dress, a slight furrow in his brow, and stoically serious, he says "That your husband fucked you in the King's Wood."

"I could tell the maid. I'm sure she won't be stunned after what she saw this morning."

He makes you turn so you can look at him, and the sight before you makes your heart sing. His eye roams on your face softly, a rare sight on him, always stoic, always sharp, like all the angles composing this beautiful sculpture of black glass.

You always thought of marriage as a strategic deal for men, and a way for women to prove their value to the world, giving those same men sons and daughters. But you care for him. And he cares for you. That look on his face is enough for you to know that he cares for you, not merely as a brood mare.

“Gevie.” he says, quietly, and he touches your cheek, softly, making you wonder how those same hands can be so delicate and yet so merciless at the same time.

“What does it mean?” you ask, even if you are sure he will not answer. You observed that when he speaks in High Valyrian he does it almost to himself, as if to protect something he does not wish the others to know.

But this time, he meets your eyes and lowers his hand. “Beautiful.”

You look at him with your heart pounding in your throat, and then you stand up on your toes, crashing your mouth against his, almost catching him by surprise. But he is all too deft at turning the game on his side, and a few seconds later, his hands are gripping your hips and his tongue is licking the roof of your mouth.

When the door suddenly opens, you pull back, spotting the same maid from that morning who, this time, can do nothing but suffer the Prince's wrath.

"Can't you just fuck off for once?!"

You hold back a laugh against his chest and the poor maid flees in a hurry. But when he pulls you to him, tilting his head to pick up where he left off, you step back and say, "I'm afraid the Queen has requested your presence. You should go, my dear husband. I promise that by tonight I will be completely clean."

"Tonight?" he asks, raising his eyebrow. "What is happening tonight?"

You shrug your shoulders and hold back a smile. "Innocence doesn't suit you, my Prince."

"Neither does you."

"I'm afraid this is your fault. You are sullying my soul as well as...everything else."

"You won't be of the same mind when you have my child growing in your womb," and he smirks, looking at you as if he's taking a sacred oath, and then walks away.

You finally manage to take a bath and change clothes, and then you go to visit your aunt. She spends most of her time alone, sipping tea in the gardens, partly because she can't stand the other court ladies, partly because the court ladies can't stand her. Truthfully, you cannot blame them, your aunt speaks plainly—too plainly at times.

You sit down with her for tea, which you end up swallowing like salt, because your aunt takes it with a whole squeezed lemon, and no sugar.

"I saw you with your husband earlier. I may be too old for new fashion but mud on your skirt and twigs in your hair seem a bit too brazen, even for me."

You stifle a smile, recalling what happened. If only she knew he was brazen enough to have you utterly undone on dragon back, thousands of feet up.

Your eyes go distant while you fumble with some tablecloth threads, but your Aunt stares at you piercely, and grabbing her cup of tea she says "I love that look on you."

"What?"

She sips the sour liquid and puts the cup down. "That look. The I'm in love look."

"I am not!" you counter, cheeks going red.

"Of course you are. I've watched you two. I dare say he's falling way faster than you."

You look at her puzzled. Many things have changed in a moon. And you are sure you are utterly infatuated with him. But you did not know what to think of what he actually feels for you, if he even feels something. You know he cares for you, you know he loves spending time with you. You know he's passionate, possessive, almost soft at rare times. But in love? That seems too soon to consider, or to hope for.

"It is too soon to talk about love."

"In fact, I did not, my sweet niece. Falling in love and love are beasts of different species. Why do you think we say "falling"? You can't stop from falling. To love a person is an entirely different matter. Love is a choice."

You let those words sink but you prefer not to question your heart right now. There is a reason you have come here to talk to your aunt, even if you don't know how to address the matter without melting from embarrassment.

But in the end, who could you ask for advice? Your squeamish maids? The Queen Mother? Definitely not.

"Listen, I...I wanted to ask you something..." you start "It is uhm...a matter of somewhat intimate nature."

"Ah, my favourites." your aunt says, beaming "I am all ears."

You shift uncomfortably in your chair and swallow another sip of that dreadful tea "My mother...she explained to me what would happen between husband and wife to...consummate the marriage. But she didn't tell me...well, everything else."

Your Aunt is quick to raise her eyebrow "I gathered that your marriage had been consummated by now. Thoroughly."

"Y-yes, of course. But I...discovered...that there are other ways for a husband to please his wife...and I was wondering if...if I could…do those same things to please him."

Your aunt looks utterly puzzled for a long moment, and then, almost stunned, she says "Oh Seven Hells, child. You are telling me you never sucked your husband off?"

A few court ladies walking near turned their heads, going white as sheets, while you, on the contrary, take a nice purple shade.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, prissies. We all did it eventually." she dismisses them, waving a lazy hand, and looks back at you. "You should do it, if you wish. Men love it. Your uncle used to ask—"

"I don't want to hear that, auntie, I'm begging you." you say squinting your eyes.

"Listen to me, child. Men love to think they rule everything, everywhere. But it is not always like that. And if you want to rule your husband's heart, you must rule in his bed first."

That evening, Aemond wanted nothing more than to lock himself in his room with his wife and forget all the hateful political talk he had had to endure at dinner.

You had not attended, and that had bothered him. Never would he have thought of marriage as anything more than a duty, yet there he was, wondering where you were, who you were with, and why you weren't in his rooms when he set foot in there.

"Where is my wife?" he asks the maid, and she keeps her eyes glued to the floor, saying "The princess spent the evening in the library, your Grace. She told me that she would be—"

"I am here," you say, appearing behind the young maid.

You see his chest sag as if a weight is leaving him, and he casts an icy glance at the poor maid "Out."

He is rarely kind to servants, but you can tell by his tense shoulders that something is wrong.

"Aemond, what is the matter?" you ask as soon as the door closes, walking up to him with a hand behind your back.

"Where were you? Why weren't you at dinner?"

"I was in the library."

"For four hours?"

"It was a tough read—"

He grabs your arm, gripping hour wrist harshly, and you flinch. "Aemond, I swear to you.” you say watching his eye on fire and a sneer twisting his mouth “You can ask Maester Mellos." 

Suddenly he lets you go, and looks down, closing his eye for a moment. But he doesn't apologize, he never does, and not because he is a Prince. It's just the way he is. He doesn't apologize, he doesn't say thank you, he doesn't say please.

"Aemond, what's going on?"

"I don't want to talk about it now. In fact, never. Not here."

You watch him carefully, and you nod as he moves to pour wine into a cup. You watch him gobble it up greedily, which is unlike him. So, you get close and move your hand from behind your back and say, "Anyway, I wasn't lying. I really spent four hours in the library...trying to decipher this."

You show him an old book, and the title catches his eye, cup held in midair. "Tales of the Dragonlords?" he asks frowning. "This is in High Valyrian."

"It is." you confirm as you move closer, and you steal his cup before saying, "Would you read it to me?" and you take a sip, of wine and courage.

He watches the liquid flow down your throat and then accepts the invitation, taking the book—the one he has read so many times he can recite it by heart. He opens it to the first page, but you say "No. Page 72."

There is a slight imperative tone in your tone of voice, and it thrills him, given how his eye glints under the candlelight. He drops it on the table, looking at you from head to toe, and says, "I'll read it to you later, sweet wife."

He steps closer but you back away saying, "Fine, then. I'll tell you what I understood so you can correct me or not." and at the same moment your own hands go up on your corset and you start pulling on the laces.

The gesture catches his eye like a moth to a flame and he stays silent as you pull all the laces and then slip off your dress, remaining in your underskirt. His gaze roams over you slowly, and with a soft smirk, he decides to play the game.

“Page 72, you said. How Dragonlords claimed Dragons.”

“Yes.”

"And why did it capture your interest? Do you wish to do it? Do you wish to claim a dragon?"

"I wish to conquer, not claim."

He comes closer and looks at you, breathing through his nose, restraining, always restraining, and then he's raising his hand to reach a lock of your hair falling on your shoulder, but you stop him, air as heavy as moss.

"The Valyrian sages say a dragonlord must surrender himself completely to the dragon. But it works both ways. The dragon must submit his will to their rider."

He looks at you without blinking, and you take his arms, guiding him closer until you turn and push him lightly on the bed. He sits and you slowly climb on his lap, knees caging his hips, heart is pounding in your throat like a hammer. You hear him taking a swift breath and pride pools in your bones because for once you have caught him off guard.

You can feel his crotch hardening by the moment, but the look on his face is not one of hunger or lust. It is pure and blessed devotion.

You wonder at the view, and your eyes roam on his face until...

"Can I take it off?"

There's no need to say what. His face goes hard as stone, eye looking away with discomfort, with shame.

"Please, Aemond." you whisper. "I want to see all of you. I want you to bare yourself to me as I did to you."

"It is not pleasant."

"I don't want pleasantness. I want you."

He stares at you for an eternal moment and then he caves.

A flash of sparkling blue catches you completely and you can do nothing but watch with lips parted, while he keeps his eye down.

You wrap an arm around his shoulders and lean your head against his to breathe one single word in his ear. "Gevie."

His arms are all around you, holding you so tight you might gasp for air. Instead you are smiling, breathing through his long silver hair. You are not sure if you aunt is right, if love is indeed a choice. You can't bring yourself to care because you are doing it already.

And then he's kissing you, seizing your tongue with his in a fierce consuming way. He slightly hikes up your hips, and his hand tries to slide between your legs, but you lace your fingers around his wrist, breaking the kiss with panted breath.

"No." you whisper, and he looks at you almost questioningly, mouth open and chest heaving.

"Lykirī."

His eye widens and you smile, secretly. "I know what it means now."

He smirks at this and does not miss the chance to be the ever diligent scholar. "But you said it wrong. The R is hard."

“Lykirī.” You say again, following his lesson, and in the same moment your hand leaves his wrist and goes down to his breeches. He dips his chin to look at it, at your hands unsure, and he too looks unsure.

“You don’t have to—“

“I want to.” You say, and your voice comes out firm and clear. “Please, Aemond. Let me…let me touch you.”

He realizes now that in all the times you have been lying together, you never managed to lay a hand on him. He likes to keep people at distance. Too many wrong hands have been on him. The Maesters’, inspecting, debating, healing without healing. That whore, taking what it was not hers to take, not yet.

But he wants you to touch him. He has dreamed of it, in any way a man could dream of a woman’s touch.

He looks at you for a moment, chest rising slowly, and then, without taking his eye off you, he pulls the laces of his breeches and guides your hand around his cock. You look down, exhaling a long breath at feeling his hard and hot flesh already pulsing.

He knows you don’t know how to do it, so his hands guide you at first, going slowly up and down, and the air comes out of his mouth slowly and labored. You look up at him, his eye is pitch black, lid growing heavy with pleasure, and your core clenches, desire pools in your belly and flows down.

He must hear the call of your body, because he releases your hand, still stroking him, and goes right between your legs. You gasp loudly, and he hums, delight dripping from his voice just as you are dripping on his fingers. He starts to pump his fingers and you can do nothing but moan, clutching his shoulders with your free hand, the other still around his cock, but the act is growing lazy, your mind can’t focus properly on what you are supposed to do.

“Listen.” he orders you, fingers moving faster and faster, and you do listen. Your soaked flesh coming undone at his scorching touch. “Who else has you like this?”

But this is a question he’s asking himself. Because no one else will ever have him bare like this.

“You. Just you.” you say hoarsely, eyes closing and hips rocking on their own accord.

“And who am I?” he whispers just as hoarsely, and yet his voice is like a whip on all your senses.

“My husband.” you cry, feeling the wave ready to drown you “Ñuha zaldrīzes.” My dragon.

You cannot care less about how you said it, because then your mouth falls open, nails digging into his shoulder while your trembling hips keep riding his fingers, clenching them like a vice.

Your head falls onward, leaning against his forehead, and you try to catch your breath. You watch his wet fingers go straight into his mouth while he looks at you, humming with pleasure. “You look so pretty like this.” he says with the ghost of a smile on his lips “I should fuck you in Throne Room with the whole court watching, so they know how pretty you are when you come for me.”

You laugh with your cheeks flushing, and he slides an arm around you, and you know he wants to pin you down on the bed and fuck you until you are muffling nonsense in the pillow. But this is not his game. This is yours, and even if you don’t know how to play, you will win.

“No.” you say, climbing down from his lap, and he looks at you with hunger and a tinge of thrilling curiosity. “It is my turn to claim.” You say with all the bravery you possess.

Not a moment later, you are going down on your knees.

Another small victory, because his eye widens as he had never done before, and you can see that this, the sight of you on your knees before him, is something he has been craving for, even dreamed of it.

His breathing is slow, and you are not even touching him.

You place yourself between his knees and you lean closer and closer, anxiety twisting your insides, but you want to do this. “Lykirī, nuha zaldrīzes. Surrender.” you take him into your hand, tugging slowly, and your lips linger on the tip, heart pounding in your ears and eyes fixed on him. “Lykirī.” You say one last time and then you are swallowing him.

He hisses loudly and his lips part, hands clutching the covers until his knuckles go white. He’s like burning metal inside your mouth—hot and hard. At first, you just taste him, running your tongue over the head, and he’s cursing under his breath. His hands twitch on the covers, restraining and restraining, but there’s no need. You take his hand while looking at him and you release it from your mouth to say “Teach me.”

It’s like you have just poured fire on more fire. His eye goes wild, he takes hold of your head and starts to guide you again, making your mouth engulf him once more and deep down to the base and then up to the tip again, filling the room with a wet gagging sound. You get the gist of what you’re supposed to do, so your head starts going up and down and up and down, and he actually moans for you, head falling back for just a moment before looking back, he can’t help but watch as you fiercely claim him.

You watch his chest heaving fast and your jaw is starting to hurt but you don't care, you are too absorbed by the view before you. You are too thrilled by the fact that, for once, you have made him speechless.

He's always so bold in the bedroom, so cruel in deciding when and how to give pleasure, and now he's utterly speechless. He can only curse without breath, and gasp and groan.

“Kelītīs.” he manages to say at one point, voice all husky and cracking. You don’t know that word, and you have no time to ask because in a blink, he’s slamming you onto the bed and he’s hiking up your skirt, but you get on your elbows pushing him on his back and climbing on him.

“I’m not done, valzȳrys.” you say feeling his hard length inflaming your core, so you lay your hips on it as firmly as possible. “I claimed, but I did not conquer.”

“You are fucking torturing me.” he points out, bucking against you.

“Conquests could last for centuries, dear husband. You above all should know that.”

“All I know now is that I need to fuck you.” he says placing both hands on the sheets to pull himself up.

“No, I will.” you promise, rocking your hips once more “This is my conquest, not yours.”

You keep rubbing your drenched core on his length until a sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead, and he's so hard he's leaking from the tip. "You are twisted, wife." he says with a dazed tone and you smile even if you can't take it anymore, but you rock some more, saying "I'm a quick study. And I'm learning from the best."

Finally, when you are so wet you are dripping on him, you raise just enough to slide his cock inside of you.

You gasp together and you brace on his shoulders to start moving. You both know you are not going to last long, so you start rocking your hips slowly, taking him to the hilt until you struggle for air.

“Move…” he orders but you just take the opposite road, slowing your hips in a delicious torturing way. “Do you know what else the Sages said? A rider must know their mount, feel their heat below them.”

But Aemond does not have a single drop of blood in his head right now to give you an answer, let alone play your game; he's just fire that burns and burns and burns and just like the Sages said, you can feel his heat, burning below and inside you. He grips your hips and starts to thrust inside you like the wild beast you are supposedly claiming, until you are moaning so loud your throat hurts.

“Yes—” he growls as you bounce on him “Just like that—you’re gripping me so well—fuck"

You both turn sloppy, a mess of sweaty limbs and teeth biting, clutching at each other with bruising grips, pulling at the roots of his hair when you’re about to fall from the highest sky.

"Come on, my sweet girl. Let go for me." he breathes into your mouth, forcing you to move even faster "Let go fro your dragon. Seal your conquest." And you do.

He follows right after, spilling inside while digging his teeth into your neck like fangs on a prey, muffling his loud groaning.

And you are smiling like a fool, a lovestruck fool, but most of all, a conqueror. 

Thank you so much for reading!! 💞💞

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 I LAUGH LIKE ME AGAIN (SHE LAUGHS LIKE YOU)

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: four years apart and the ultimate question is about to be answered: do you and dazai really still know each other, or are you clinging to a fantasy of the past? you decide to put it to the test with a game of wits and questions when dazai gets back to your apartment—but as the game drags on, dazai starts to wonder if maybe he was wrong. worse, if maybe he would prefer to be wrong.

(wordcount: 14.5k; ņsfw; fem!reader; port mafia executive!reader, jealous!dazai, possessive!dazai, smoking & drinking, unprotected sex, switch!dazai, switch!reader, undertones of angst (happy ending). lmk if anything is missing, im rushing to get this out!)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: guys here it IS - sorry it's late, but TRUST it's worth it. i'm so proud of this fic, genuinely one of the things im most proud of writing. this is technically a part 2 to he's my collar but can be read as a standalone

It takes far too long for Dazai to make it out of the Port Mafia headquarters, with both Akutagawa and Chuuya prowling about like the dogs they are. He wonders if you tipped either of them off—Chuuya, in particular—because the slug had been looking around like he was searching for someone. He thinks you’re entirely wretched for it, knowing that if he got caught, he’d be trapped in that damp and filthy torture chamber until he managed to finagle his way out, and he plans to make it known to you just how entirely displeased he is by the situation. 

The path to your apartment is achingly familiar, and the giddiness in his chest is something he hasn’t felt since the day he left. He knows that he should probably be more careful—he’s still in Port Mafia territory, your apartment spans the top floor of the easternmost building of the five towers—but he also knows that you’re the only one with direct access to the cameras in this building so he’s more reckless than he would’ve otherwise been. 

The floors tick up agonizingly slowly, Dazai swears that there must be something wrong with the elevator because it’s never taken this long before to get up to your place. His fingers thrum against his thigh, and his foot taps the ground impatiently. He paces from corner to corner within the small space like a caged animal. He thinks that maybe he should be taking advantage of the time alone, come up with some better excuses as to why he didn’t say anything to you before he left.

“I wouldn’t have left,” isn’t going to cut it. As true as it might be, it’s not the full truth, and Dazai knows you’ll be able to sniff it out in a matter of a few seconds with a clear head. He’s not walking into a cheerful reunion between old lovers, he’s walking into what’s about to be a stressful game of chess against a strategist whom Dazai has always considered a near-equal, a battle of wits against a woman whose whole life has revolved around political warfare. If he wants to keep his dignity intact and his secrets safe, he’s going to have to be incredibly cautious with what he says to you and even with how he reacts to what you say to him.

Still, he can’t help the giddiness. The excitement. He’s missed you. He’s missed you so much that it hurts. He’d thought that over time, the longing for you would go away, but it never did. If anything, it got worse because, over time, the pictures of you started to lack the soothing feeling they used to bring to the aching in his chest. Over time, he started to forget the sound of your voice and the sound of your laugh.

He’d known that you’d been sent away on foreign business not long after his last call to you, but he didn’t think Mori would actually keep you abroad for three whole years. He’d been hoping, maybe, that he could stumble into you one day. Or maybe just watch from afar, get close enough to hear the sound of your voice again. He’s been grossly denied of you for too long, and he knows that it’s of his own doing but that only makes it worse.

When the elevator dings, announcing his arrival on your floor, Dazai is sorely unprepared for the conversation about to take place. He steps into your penthouse, eyes drifting around the familiar vast space.

Like your office, not much has changed since the last time he was here. Your coffee table is still set down a few centimeters too close to the couch in the living room—the same couch he had his first kiss on with you when the two of you were sixteen and drunk on champagne celebrating a successful mission. You still hang your black jacket over a chair instead of properly on a hanger, it’s why it always has a crease on the back—he’d noticed it when you left your office, and he can’t help but smile slightly at the confirmation as his eyes linger on where it’s draped over one of your kitchen chairs. 

You tried to convince him that you’ve changed in the years the two of you have been apart, but Dazai doesn’t think you’ve changed much at all.

You’re leaning against the windows, looking down on the city—he knows you must’ve heard the elevator, but you haven’t bothered to look his way yet. There’s an indecipherable expression on your face and a glass of wine in your hand. You’re still dressed in your suit and Dazai notices there’s a glass of whiskey on the rocks untouched on the kitchen table. He shrugs off his trench coat and drapes it over yours, hoping that the scent of you seeps into it because he’s gone too long without it.

His fingers curl around the glass of whiskey you’d left out for him, and for a moment, he swears that he’s eighteen again. He’s making his way to your penthouse after a long mission with Chuuya, you’re expecting him—you always are—and he can never push away the fondness that squeezes his chest when he finds you lounging back on your couch, flipping through channels to find something to watch, a glass of his favorite whiskey set down on the coffee table next to where your feet are propped up as you wait for him to show up.

He wonders if you even care to remember what his favorite is. He wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.

He makes his way out of the kitchen and back into the living room, and he’s reminded that he’s not eighteen and you’re not waiting for him to show up after a mission because you finally look at him, and his breath catches in his throat.

He thinks you look a bit older now than you did four years ago—to be expected, of course—and there’s a coldness to your eyes that hadn’t been there before. Impossibly, he thinks that you’re somehow even more beautiful than you were when he last saw you, and he realizes again, throat tightening, that even after three years of no contact with you, he’s just as in love with you now as he was the day he left.

He knew it back then before he left, even if he never said it. When he was eighteen and could only feel any inkling of pleasure when he was with you; it wasn’t like he’d never tried to have sex with other people, he’d whore himself out for information at any given chance and slept around frequently after you started dating a civilian to distract himself from the bitter jealousy he felt, but he’d never known how good it was supposed to feel until he slept with you for the first time. When he was seventeen and could only ever feel comfortable in your presence, seeking you out at any given chance when he couldn’t handle being around people anymore; he’d curl up in your office with your orange blanket, napping as you did work, knowing that you’d keep people away from him. He thinks he might’ve even known when he was sixteen when the two of you first met on the streets of the Kanagawa prefecture.

He wonders if you even believed him when he said it earlier—he doubts it, you don’t seem too keen to believe anything he says, and he doesn’t blame you for it. 

But whether you believe it or not, it’s yours—that rotted heart of his, shriveled and shabby, riddled with holes and decay, half-eaten by maggots and worms it might be, but it’s still yours. He thinks that it was meant to be yours since the moment he was born, and it’ll be yours even after the two of you are long dead. He doesn’t know how he’s meant to go without you again—he doesn’t think he can. He knows that despite the tentative ceasefire, the Port Mafia and the Agency are still enemies, but he knows in his heart that he won’t be able to leave you again. Even just the sight of you has condemned him completely. 

Then you speak, and at once, his entire world falls apart.

“I’m leaving again in the morning,” you finally say, tone flat and eyes sharp and shrewd as you look over him. He reminds himself that this is not a reunion, that he needs to get his head on straight if he wants to make it out of your apartment in one piece, but it’s hard. “I was only brought back to smooth things over with the government after the whole fiasco with Fitzgerald and his American cronies. I’ll be leaving for Russia in the morning to meet with Tolstoy and Nabakov. Hopefully, gain some intel on Fyodor Dostoevsky’s plans before the man makes another move on the city.”

He… did not anticipate that you’d be leaving again so soon. Something cold and sharp latches to his heart, like jagged nails ripping it apart. He makes sure it doesn’t show on his face.

“Be careful,” he tells you quietly. “Dostoevsky… he’s not someone to underestimate. Just-Just be careful.”

You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed, “I’ve worked with Dostoevsky before. I don’t need you to warn me about him.” 

Your voice is cool. Sharp. Dazai sighs, knowing that anything he might’ve said to you earlier in the night is lost to you, and he doesn’t know if he’ll have it in him to bare his heart again, only for you to scorn it. He’s not meeting with you as he knows you—as his closest friend, as his lover; he’s meeting with you as the Port Mafia executive. Not the version of you that treats with allies, wining and dining them with glittering eyes and playful smiles as you use your ability to ensure they never turn on the Port Mafia; the version of you that sits at the round table with enemies, with a quick mind and calculating eyes as you decide whether or not they’re worthy of being absorbed into the Port Mafia or if Double Black will be sent out to eradicate them. 

“I told you everything I had to say back at the office,” Dazai tries, and he wonders if you’ll let him get away with it—he doubts it, but it’s worth a shot, and it will at least stall for a few moments as he tries to forcibly turn the cogs in his mind to figure out the best way of appeasing you. “I missed you. I… couldn’t say goodbye to you, not if I was to leave. I…”

I love you.

He doesn’t say it; he thinks he was only able to push it out earlier in the night in the heat of the moment, the orgasm-induced haze fogging his brain enough to let it slip out in desperation to make you give him a chance. And it worked because you gave him a second chance when you invited him back to your apartment, but Dazai doesn’t know how to make the most of the opportunity. He thinks he’s a fool for not preparing for this before getting here.

You click your tongue sharply, lip curling up in something close to disgust, and Dazai is glad he didn’t speak his ‘I love you’ because he thinks he might’ve actually cried if that was your reaction to him saying it.

“The only things you told me earlier in the night were half-truths and sweet talk. I didn’t invite you back to my apartment to hear you beg for another chance, Dazai,” you say coolly, and Dazai desperately misses the sound of his given name on your tongue. The corner of your lip curves up into a half-smirk, eyes suddenly glittering beneath the dim lighting of your penthouse as you add, “Although, I wouldn’t be opposed to it after we talk.”

He thinks the fact that you’re already considering an after might be a good sign. He can feel his cheeks flush a bit at your words, but instead of letting himself get rattled, he takes a step forward, well into your personal space, as he dips his face down so close to yours that his lips nearly brush yours as he speaks.

“I’d beg pretty for you,” he whispers, letting his voice drop an octave as his gaze tracks down to your lips. “I’d even get on my knees.”

Unfortunately, you are entirely unbothered by the proposition. “We’ll see, I suppose,” you say, and then raise your eyebrows, signaling for him to take a step back.

He does, and he feels distinctly put out and rejected by your reaction, but he sighs and asks, “What did you invite me here for then?” 

He very much does not like the way your eyes glitter now—shrewd this time, more amused, dangerous, as if you know the two of you are about to tread down territory that he’s going to be unfamiliar with. You nod for him to follow you into the kitchen, taking a seat at the head of the table and motioning for him to sit opposite you.

He does.

“We can play a game,” you finally concede. Dazai settles back against his chair, fingers still tapping rhythmically against his glass of whiskey, a terrible habit that Dazai has accrued whenever he feels cornered. Not a frequent occurrence, but damning when it is. Your eyes linger on them, and he knows you’ve pinpointed the tell. He forces himself to stop, but from the way your lips curl up, he can tell it doesn’t matter. “Ten questions each. Yes or no answers only.”

Dazai notices that you pointedly leave out any rule about the honesty of each answer—intentional, surely, so he probes.

“How do we determine the winner?” Dazai asks. He finally takes a sip of the fine whiskey you’d poured for him, and his question from earlier is answered. His favorite. There’s a warm feeling in his chest at the realization that you’ve remembered it even after all of these years.

Your lips curve up into a sharper and wider smile, teeth glimmering like knives beneath the soft lighting of your kitchen. The glass of wine in your hands is suddenly more reminiscent of a gun being pointed at him than your choice of alcohol, and he feels as if he’s already made some egregious mistake in your eyes.

“After we give our answer, the other has to decide whether or not it was truthful. In the end, we’ll both see how many the other got right. A test to see how well we still know each other,” is all you say in response. You’re mocking him and his insistence that the two of you are still the same, but Dazai intends to prove himself right. You tilt your head to the side and then say, “The prize is to be determined by the winner. I’ll ask the first question.”

Dazai winks, a lecherous comment already on his tongue about the prize, but the withering look you give him is more than enough to make it die before he can let it loose. He pointedly takes another sip of his drink and sinks in his seat.

He thinks that this should be an easy win. You’re quite the adept liar, but you’ve always had a glaring tell. Well, he amends, it’s glaring to him, at least. Not many others would be observant enough to catch it, and even if they were, only someone with an abundance of experience with you would be able to put it together. His gaze flickers up to meet yours, wondering if your lashes flutter right before you tell a lie. It’s such a simple and subtle tell, so casual that it took Dazai a year and a half to put together, but it was hard to miss once he did.

You hum to yourself as you give off the appearance of thinking about a question, but Dazai knows you better than anyone, and he’s certain that you already have all ten prepared, so he rolls his eyes at the faux show of uncertainty. 

“We both know you know what you want to ask,” he finally says. “Do us both a favor and quit with the theatrics.”

Your lip quirks up in amusement. “And here I was being gracious giving you more time to formulate whatever lies you’ll try to get away with,” you drawl, and Dazai nearly flinches.

“You know me so well,” Dazai sighs to hide how disconcerted he really is. “The question?”

You stare at him for a moment, and your lips curl up into a deceptively soft smile that almost throws Dazai off because, god, he’s missed you. And he knows you’re looking at him like this just for this specific reason because you’re a despicable bitch who knows that he’s always been easily unsettled when people show any semblance of affection toward him, but he can’t help the way he falters.

He tries to brace himself for whatever invasive question you’re about to ask regarding his reasons for leaving. Tries to prepare himself to lie cleanly because he’s sure you’re as aware of his tells as he is of yours. 

Then you ask: 

“Did you defect because of something Oda asked of you?”

Jesus. Right for the throat. You really don’t pull punches. 

Dazai’s throat tightens at the mention of his old friend, but he’s able to keep his expression clear of the sudden pain that your question brings on. You’re watching him carefully for reactions, gaze hawklike as you study his face, and Dazai is not about to let you pinpoint any more of his tells so early in the game.

He figures that this is an easy question; you already know the answer but want to hear the confirmation from his lips, so he decides to tell the truth.

“Yes.”

“The truth,” you say, an indecipherable expression on your face. He wonders if you want to ask what Odasaku asked of him, but that’s not part of the game and Dazai has no intention of answering that.

Be on the side that saves people. If both are the same to you, become a good man.

You might laugh in his face—Dazai Osamu, the Demon Prodigy, a good man? The idea is blasphemous, and he thinks it might actually hurt him if you scoff or laugh in response to hearing that, so he keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t give away more than he has to, hoping that you don’t just straight up ask him.

You open your lips to speak, and Dazai braces himself for the prying question, but instead, you only probe, “First question?”

He wonders if your whole first question and the implications of it was just a means of trying to throw him off because now he’s fumbling trying to remember what he wanted to ask you before you hit him with it. He wouldn’t put it past you to play dirty like that—bringing up his dead friend and his last request just to unsettle him to give you the edge.

“Did we meet during my underground years after I defected?” he finally asks, and yeah, he knows the answer to this question. The missing half of his ear and waking up in the old safe house he used to hide out at with you is more than enough evidence for him to come to a definite conclusion, but he wants to hear it from you.

“Yes.”

Dazai inhales sharply and then murmurs, “That’s the truth.” And then, more loudly and far more affronted, he accuses, “I can’t believe you shot half of my ear off.”

He expects you to toss him a wink and a sharp grin, unrepentant and even finding amusement in his offense, but instead, your expression falters for the first time since he’s arrived. Something strange crosses your face; for whatever reason, his words leave you conflicted and Dazai suddenly feels even more nervous than he already was because now he can’t help but wonder what he might’ve said to you in his drunken state. 

He supposes that’ll have to be another question, but first, he’s going to have to figure out how to phrase it to get a yes or no answer first, without being vague enough for it to be a waste of a question or easy for you to misconstrue.

You hum after a few moments, taking a pointed sip of your wine. Dazai watches curiously—you’re bothered still, you’re not even trying to hide it. He knows you have better control over your facial expressions than this, so he thinks maybe it’s a ploy to get him to start spiraling down a path of useless questions. Put off by his sudden inability to discern your schemes, a part of him wonders if maybe you were right because the him of four years ago would’ve seen right through you right now.

“I’m afraid it had to be done,” you sigh with faux regret, but he can tell from the way the smile on your lips doesn’t reach your eyes that you’re not into the banter. “Were you able to fulfill Oda’s request?” 

Fuck. This time Dazai can’t withhold the grimace that spreads across his face. He tries to keep his voice light with a deflecting comment, “My, bella, you’re really hitting with the deep questions tonight, aren’t you?”

You raise your eyebrows, tilting your head to the side as you wait for an answer, not giving him any room to formulate a response to your question. He finally sighs and shakes his head, taking a long sip of his whiskey. He wishes he had a pack of cigarettes on him, suddenly desperately longing for the pleasant burn of the smoke against his throat; he needs the buzz badly right now.

As if you could read his mind, you shift in your seat a bit and stuff your hand into the pocket of your slacks. It takes a few seconds but you fish out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, sliding them across the table over to him. If he wasn’t already so in his head over the question you asked, he’d make a quip over the fact that you still know him so well despite your insistence otherwise, but he only pulls out a cigarette and lights it, looking curiously down at the familiar brand.

“Since when did you start smoking these?” he asks quietly, eyes fluttering shut as he tilts his head back and takes a long drag of it. He exhales slowly and then adds, “Thought you liked the other ones, in the green box.”

“Teal,” you correct, and then frown a bit. “... Switched after you left.”

Dazai’s eyes flutter back open as his gaze focuses on you, wondering if the implication you left up in the air is something he can take at face value or if it’s just another way of trying to get him to lower his guard. But from the way you suddenly don’t meet his eyes, Dazai thinks you might be being honest: you switched because they reminded you of him.

Dazai’s chest suddenly feels heavy again.

“... No,” he finally responds to your second question. “Not yet, at least.”

“... Truth,” you say, and Dazai’s lips curl into a wry smile.

“Unfortunately.” The word slips out before he can stop it.

Your gaze flickers back up to him, curious, but Dazai doesn’t give you the chance to dwell on his comment, asking his next question: “Did I… admit anything to you that night that I wouldn’t have said while sober?”

His fingers tap rhythmically against his glass of whiskey, half-empty now; he’s anxious to hear your response.

“You did,” you confirm.

Dazai grimaces because that’s another truth, and that is not good. But just like how he doesn’t offer any context for his answers, you don’t either. He doesn’t know what he might’ve admitted or how you might’ve taken it—he’s going to have to waste another question on this topic.

“Truth,” he murmurs.

You hum and then ask, “Do you still blame yourself for what happened to him?”

“Come on,” Dazai complains sharply, tossing you a dirty look now. His jaw is tight. He wonders if you keep asking about Oda as some sort of sick revenge for him leaving, ripping open wounds that never properly healed so you can dig your fingers into them and twist around. You don’t look bothered by his outburst, waiting patiently for a response. He lets out an angry sigh, looking away and taking another long drink from his glass and another drag of his cigarette. 

He voices his first lie, “No.”

You let out a puff of air, rising to your feet and making your way over to the opposite counter, you grab the bottle of whiskey and bring it back over to him, topping off his now-empty glass before pointedly holding out your hand. He passes the cigarette over to you, tilting his head back to watch you bring it to your lips—a part of him longs to lean forward, to slide his hand behind your neck and cradle your head as he brings his lips to yours, inhaling the smoke as you exhale it, dizzy off the proximity to you, high off the buzz of the nicotine, just like the two of you would do when before he left.

He refrains, if only barely.

You exhale the smoke, a small cloud billowing around you—Dazai mourns the waste—and then you pass the cigarette back over to him. Your fingers brush his as you do, and a spark shoots through his arm at the touch.

“A lie,” you finally say, looking down at him with a frown. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. There was nothing you could’ve done to save him.”

“You don’t know that,” Dazai says tightly, averting his gaze from you as you make your way back over to your seat across from him. “If I’d been faster-”

“If Mori wants someone dead, then they’ll die,” you interrupt him, a grimace on your face as you look down at your wine glass. “Trust me, Dazai, there was no saving Oda Sakunosuke.”

Dazai pauses instead of snapping again, catching the expression on your face. Haunted, as if you’re speaking from experience. He tilts his head to the side and then asks quietly, “Are you talking about your ex-partner? Itou?”

If Dazai remembers correctly, he died on a mission when you turned eighteen. You never told him the circumstances, and he never asked, but it was the first and only time you ever broke down in front of him.

The corner of your lips tightens, “Is that your next question?”

Dazai barely withholds a frustrated sigh. 

“No,” he says quietly, and then asks, “Did I tell you why I couldn’t say goodbye? The real reason?”

He holds his breath now as he waits for your response. One way or another, this question is a double blade: if he did tell you why, then he’s at another disadvantage because he’s going to feel distinctly bare and vulnerable; if he didn’t tell you, he just admitted that he lied back at your office, at least partially. 

After what feels like an eternity, you finally say, “Yes.”

The truth. Dazai wonders when you’re going to utter your first lie, if you will, or if you’re trying to make some sort of point by being honest with him. He voices his answer and then waits impatiently for your next question as his mind races.

He desperately wants to know how you responded to him back then. Would you have come with him had he come to you before he left? Or would you have chosen the Port Mafia? He wonders if he should ask, make it one of his remaining seven questions, but he doesn’t know if he has the guts to hear your answer, so maybe he’ll just change the subject.

“Are you enjoying yourself at the Agency?”

For the life of him, Dazai cannot figure out your angle. First, the prying questions about Oda and now asking about the Agency. He doesn’t know what he expected at the start of the game—you’ve always been unpredictable, but even more so now. He’s never had such a hard time reading you or your intentions before.

He starts to feel even more doubtful, wondering if you were right.

Maybe he doesn’t know you as well as he thinks he does anymore.

But this is an easy question, so he says the truth with little hesitation, “I am.”

Dazai swears the corners of your lips curl up into a soft smile, but it’s gone so quickly that he might’ve imagined it.

“Good,” you say quietly. “I’m glad.”

Dazai’s lips part, a warm feeling spreads through his chest at the honesty in your tone. Desperately, he wants to know what’s going on—where’s the rage and the betrayal he expected from you? The hate? Why do you seem… okay with all of this?

Irrationally, he starts to wonder if everything from the office was just a heat-of-the-moment conversation. If now that you’ve had time to sit on your thoughts, you’ve realized… realized what? That you’ve moved on from him? That you don’t care what he does anymore? That you’ve accepted that he’s no longer a part of your life? The warmth in his chest disappears, edged away by a sudden coldness and desperation because he thinks he’d rather die than go back to a life without you.

Even more irrationally, he remembers the comment you made back at the office, the admission that you’ve slept around since he left. Oh god, what if you really have moved on?

He knows his next question.

“The people you slept with—were they all one-night stands?”

He doesn’t want to know the answer unless it’s a yes.

You raise your eyebrows at the abrupt shift in his line of questioning, and then, to his absolute horror, you say, truthfully, “No.”

“What do you mean no?” he asks angrily—he thinks if he was a bird, he’d be puffing his chest out in irritation. He feels antsy suddenly, he needs to move around. He starts tapping his foot against the floor, his fingers against the glass. And again, he thinks you’re a despicable bitch because you only look amused at his question as if he’s not beside himself with righteous fury.

“It’s not your turn,” is all you respond with, and Dazai has a distinct urge to throttle you. Then you ask, “Do you feel like you belong there?”

He halts.

His fingers freeze from where they’re tapping against the glass, his foot freezes mid-motion. His lips part as he’s confronted with the very question that he’s been struggling with for two years now. He wants to yes, if only to maybe be a little spiteful, to rub in your face that he’s somewhere good and he’s somewhere where he belongs, and it’s not somewhere with you. A cruel dig to get back for the aching in his chest at the thought of you being with other people, but he knows that you’ll catch the lie, and more importantly, he doesn’t want to hurt you like that.

Maybe he has grown a bit because the Dazai of four years ago nearly killed your civilian boyfriend when he found out that you were dating someone besides him and then promptly made a show of sleeping around to try to get back at you.

So, instead, he says quite honestly, “I don’t know.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Not a yes or no answer, but I suppose it works. How curious.”

He hates your cryptic comments. Pointedly, he side-eyes you as he takes another long drag of his cigarette. Already, it’s nearly down to the nub, so he puts it out on your table, ignoring the distasteful look you give him, and then reaches for another to light as he asks: “Were you in a relationship with any of them?” 

You roll your eyes at his prying, and he cannot hide the abject horror that crosses his face when you say, “Yes.”

“That better be a lie,” he complains, and when you look at him as if to ask if that’s really his guess, he makes a show of pushing out his bottom lip and looking away as he says: “I cannot believe you dated other people. Cheater.”

“We were never even dating, Daz-”

“Yes, we were,” Dazai protests instantly, entirely aghast at your words. “We absolutely were. What does that even mean? Of course, we were dating. Everybody knew it. Ask anybody. Ane-san knew. Gin-chan knew. Chuuya knew. Even Mori knew. We were so dating, you-”

“You never officially asked me to be your girlfriend, which is, unfortunately, the most fundamental step of dating,” you interrupt him, and Dazai stares at you in disbelief.

“I bought you flowers, we fucked exclusively,” Dazai complains, aggrieved. “We were definitely dating, and you definitely cheated on me because we never broke up.”

“If we were dating,” you emphasize the if very pointedly, and Dazai is distinctly put out by it, “then we broke up the day you left without saying goodbye.”

Dazai withers. He has no witty comment to return fire with, so instead, he just takes another sip of his whiskey, grateful for the combined buzz of the alcohol and the nicotine to distract him from the overwhelming guilt he feels whenever you bring up how he left you.

“Do you feel like you belong more with the Agency than you did with the Port Mafia?” 

Your next question is an amendment to your previous on, and it leaves Dazai just as lost.

He wants to belong with the Agency. He does. Desperately. He wants more than anything to feel as at home and comfortable in the light as he does in the dark. He doesn’t want to question his place among them anymore, he doesn’t want to wonder if he sticks out like a sore thumb. He wants to enter the office and feel like he doesn’t have to pretend to be someone he’s not, just so he can keep his place with them. He doesn’t want to have to fear at every corner that he’s going to revert to old habits, and they’ll see him for the monster that he is: a monster that should have never left the dark crevices that he crawled out from, a monster with blood so black that it strikes fear in even the most terrible mafiosos.

“No,” he admits the insecurity that’s plagued him to the one person he feels comfortable enough with to voice it aloud. He can’t bring himself to look up at you, wondering if the admission will give you some sort of sick satisfaction, if you’ll be happy that he’s not finding a place he can be comfortable in without you. Instead, he decides to rush to ask his next question: “The one you were in a relationship with, did you love him?”

He thinks that the question came across as far more timid than he meant it to be, and his eyes slide shut as he waits for your answer.

“There were multiple I had relationships with—” Dazai scoffs, of course, there were multiple. “—...but no, I did not.”

He lets out a soft puff of air, shoulders slumping a bit in relief. But his fingers are still tense around his glass, waiting for whatever question you’re going to ask next that’s going to dig deep into open wounds, stripping him of all of his masks and armor to force him to lay himself entirely bare in front of you.

“Did you really blow up Chuuya’s car before you left?”

His eyes fly open at the sudden change of pace in your questions, noting the smirk curling at the corner of your lips and the amusement glinting in your eyes. He accepts the olive branch quickly as he gives you a sharp smile and asks: “What do you think?” 

Your hand flies to your mouth to muffle a laugh, and the smile on Dazai’s lips becomes a bit softer as he watches you desperately try to get yourself under control. “You’re insane, you know that?” you finally say, still trying to bite back giggles. “He was so mad. Raged about it for weeks.”

Another question pops into Dazai’s head at the mention of Chuuya, and before he can consider whether or not he actually wants to know the answer to it, he asks: “Speaking of Chuuya, was he one of your trysts while I was gone?”

Suddenly, you are not laughing, and suddenly, Dazai regrets speaking.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Do not tell me-”

“He was,” you confirm.

Dazai’s glass of whiskey is empty. 

He grabs the bottle and drinks right from it, miserable.

“I think I would’ve rather been stabbed through the heart,” Dazai says mournfully, and though he keeps a faux-light tone with you, his throat feels like it’s swollen, and he feels a bit sick to his stomach.

He’s always been jealous of the bond you have with Chuuya. Absurdly jealous, even. You clicked with him quickly—you clicked with both of them quickly, and maybe it was a matter of the three of you being the youngest of the Port Mafia’s uppermost echelon, but Dazai doesn’t want to attribute it solely to that—but the way you clicked with Chuuya was different from how you clicked with Dazai. Two people so completely human locked away in the dark, clinging to one another to maintain some sense of normalcy; your and his casual humanity made Dazai’s lack of it irrefutable and glaring.

Regardless of the why, he never liked how close you were with Chuuya. 

Even before you were dating him—because you were dating him—a part of him had always felt sidelined whenever the three of you hung out together. Not because of either of your wrongdoings but just because it was hard for him to keep up with the two of you. He always felt a bit lost trying to, unable to follow along when the two of you would start laughing at jokes that he didn’t understand even when you explained them to him, when you would share glances with one another that spoke whole conversations he wasn’t privy to. The two of you got along in ways that Dazai would never be able to get along with anyone because there’s just something fundamentally wrong with him at his core. Chuuya, for all of his talk and fear regarding the question of his humanity, has always been so unfailingly human in ways that Dazai, to this day, cannot fathom to understand.

After you started dating him—because you were dating him—it only got worse because he’d see you with Chuuya and wonder if you were better off with someone like him instead. Dazai doesn’t know how to treat you right, clearly. He can’t even treat himself right; and Chuuya has always been the epitome of a gentleman, loathe Dazai is to admit it—Ane-san drilled that into the other boy where Mori only taught Dazai how to be cruel and unforgiving. The line between love and obsession has always been a terribly blurry one for him, and you have always wavered on either side of it—and Dazai, unfortunately, does not love healthily and obsesses so entirely that it would have most people running for the hills. 

For better or for worse, you’re not most people.

In his spiral of insecurity, he doesn’t catch the way your brows furrow as you put together some puzzle pieces. “Dazai,” you say suddenly, drawing him from his thoughts abruptly. There’s an accusatory look in your eyes that he really does not like. “Were you the one that booby-trapped my fucking apartment?”

Dazai snorts.

“You bastard,” you snap at him, and Dazai can’t help but bite the palm of his hand as a means of trying to stifle his laughter. “Mori thought it was a goddamn assassination attempt. He kept me under watch for weeks because of you. I couldn’t leave the towers without half of the Black Lizards with me.”

“Sorry,” he coos, not sorry at all. Dazai, because he clearly doesn’t know when to learn his lesson, then he promptly asks, “Am I better fuck than Chuuya?”

“Jesus Christ, Dazai, get off the topic of Chuuya and my sex life, it’s clearly only upsetting you,” you snap at him instead of answering the question. Dazai wants to argue and retain some dignity; he’s not upset, but then his entire world is shattered by your next words: “I am not answering this question.”

Dazai blanches. He can feel the blood drain from his face. He’d thought this was an easy question to make him feel a bit better. What do you mean you won’t answer? Does that mean Chuuya-

No. Dazai refuses to believe it.

 “No way,” he says, shaking his head. “He’s not a better fuck than me. You can’t possibly-”

“He’s not,” you finally say, and Dazai audibly lets out a sigh of relief. “But if you ever mention anything along the likes of that to him, you will never fuck me again, Dazai Osamu. Do you understand?”

Dazai is too relieved to even argue. “Yeah.”

“No more questions about my sex life,” you say firmly, and Dazai doesn’t respond, but he does agree internally because he doesn’t think his heart can handle any more scares like that. Your eyes sharpen again, and Dazai braces himself. “Were you the one to tell Mori I lied about being sick so I could skip out on the ball Mishima hosted when we were seventeen?”

Dazai’s eyes narrow right back at you and rather than answering, he shoots one of his own questions at you: “Were you the one to tell Mori I had his contact in my phone as ‘ignore’?”

You take his lack of an answer as an affirmative, correctly so. Dazai has no regrets about ratting you out to Mori because he was not about to attend Mishima’s event without you on his arm. He’d rather die. 

“You bastard, do you know the lengths I went to fake being sick? I wanted one night to relax without people breathing down my neck.”

“If I had to go, you had to go,” Dazai retorts petulantly. “I was not about to suffer with only Chuuya as company. You had no reason to tell Mori about the contact name besides to be petty. I fought with Chuuya for weeks because I thought he was the one to do it.”

You choke on a laugh. “Chuuya was so mad, he had no idea what you were talking about.”

“He tied me to a pole and swung me around for three hours,” Dazai complains, but there’s a smile on his lips as you burst into laughter, unable to stifle the giggles that spill from your lips.

“I know,” you wheeze, “I got it on video. We watch it sometimes when we’re bored and can’t find a movie.”

Dazai gapes, and you laugh harder, but for the first time in four years, Dazai finally feels… at home, he feels comfortable in his own skin again. He’s back in your penthouse, he’s drinking his favorite whiskey and smoking his favorite brand of cigarettes, you’re sitting at the kitchen table with him and laughing your head off at his expense, and for a moment, Dazai feels as if nothing has changed: he feels like himself again, eighteen and entirely enamored by the sight and sound of you, and you feel like you again, all of the doubt that had begun to rise to his chest as the two of you played the questions game long gone.

He falls in love with you all over again. Harder this time. Faster. He thinks he’ll fall in love with you again and again every day for the rest of your lives, each time more than the last, no matter how impossible it might seem.

He thinks maybe it’s not that he feels like he belongs with the Port Mafia more than the Agency. He thinks that it’s you. You’re the one he feels at home with. You’re the one he’s comfortable enough to be himself with. You’re the one he belongs with, always has, and always will.

After a few moments, you finally manage to get yourself under control, still giggling a bit as you look back up at him. Your smile is softer now, eyes gentle, more genuine than the smile you gave him before asking the first question. Dazai’s breath catches because when was the last time you looked at him like this—the last time anyone has looked at him like this? A warm feeling spreads through his chest; Dazai thinks he would stay in this moment forever if given the opportunity.

“Are you happy?” you ask quietly

Dazai blinks, startled, and an odd feeling spreads through his chest once your question registers. His lips part to answer, but no words leave them; he draws back as if he’s been slapped, a bit flustered and confused because that’s the furthest thing from what he expected you to ask. He wonders if you’d asked the last three questions to lull him into a false sense of security.

“I-” he starts to say but cuts himself off. “What kind of question is that?” 

He tries to deflect instead of properly answering, frowning, but you only raise your eyebrows, pointedly keeping your lips sealed to let him know that you expect an answer. He shakes his head and then sighs, bouncing the question in his head a few times before going for a cop-out: “When I’m with you? Always.”

You’re not pleased by his decision, frowning as you look away from him—he knows that’s not what you asked, not really, but you should have been clearer with your question if you wanted him to give you the answer you expected. But he doesn’t like the sudden disappointment on your face, it leaves his skin itchy and his chest longing for the soft look to return.

So he sits there, ruminating on the question. Is he happy? He should be, right? He’s saving people. He’s on the way to fulfilling Odasaku’s final request. He has a whole group of people whom he can rely on without having to fear being taken advantage of or betrayed at every corner. He’s happy.

But is he trying to convince himself of it? Why is he still trying to kill himself if he’s happy? Why is there a part of him that feels lonely no matter how surrounded he is by people? Why is it that when he’s at his lowest points, the only two people he wishes he could be with are you and Chuuya? Why does he ache for the days he’d spend dragging the two of you around Yokohama, causing trouble for Mori—the closest he’s ever felt to enjoying life?

“I don’t know,” he finally amends his answer, looking down at the bottle in front of him and the cinders of the cigarette dangling between his fingers. He lifts it to his lips again, taking one last drag of it as he tries to figure out what his last question should be.

There’s only one pressing question he has left, but he hesitates, unsure if he really wants to know your answer.

He forces it out anyway.

“Would you… would you have come with me back then?” His voice is quieter than he intended, cracks over ‘me’, and to your credit, you don’t react to the question, expression as eerily still as it was before, as if you’re considering your words.

A yes or no. It shouldn’t take this long for you to answer. Each second that passes feels like an eternity, and Dazai suddenly feels anxious, he doesn’t know why he asked this question because if the answer is no—if it’s no, then…

Finally, you let you a soft sigh, taking a sip of your wine as if to prolong his agony.

Your lashes flutter before you speak.

You lie for the first time that night.

“Yes.”

Dazai’s voice sounds far away as he says, “That’s a lie.”

“I guess you were right,” you say softly, but you sound so distant, like you’re on the opposite side of a long, empty tunnel and not sitting right in front of him. “We do still know each other decently well; you got them all right.”

Dazai doesn’t care. In fact, he would have gladly conceded a loss in this game, and he would’ve gladly admitted that maybe the two of you don’t know each other as well as you used to if it meant that he got the last question wrong because then he would’ve just given you a coy expression and asked if you’d let him get to know this new version of you too. You would’ve said yes, and he would’ve made quite the pleasurable night out of it for the two of you. Instead, he had to insist that nothing has changed, and now he has to come to terms with the fact that he was right and he had known you well enough back then to know not to ask you to leave with him because you would have chosen the Mafia over him. 

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice you approaching him until you’re leaning on the table next to him, index and middle finger coming beneath his chin to tilt his face up toward you. He looks up at you through his lashes, eyes searching your face, but he only finds another blank slate that he can’t read. His breath hitches when your hand slides from his chin to cup his cheek, and he can’t help the way that he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“I would choose you over so many things, Osamu.” You speak his given name for the first time in years, but he can hardly find any comfort in it because he knows he’s not going to like what you’re about to say. Your fingers card through the tips of his hair, brushing the dark locks behind his ear as your thumb sweeps over his cheekbone. “But not over the Port Mafia. Just like how you didn’t choose to stay for me.”

“It’s not the same,” he says, voice hoarse. “It’s-”

“It is,” you interrupt, voice deceptively gentle, and he thinks you’re entirely unfair because he can hardly focus with your touch distracting him. He’s missed it so much—he’s gone four years without it, without any type of touch that wasn’t him getting his shit kicked in by Kunikida or an enemy. “You didn’t choose to stay for me. I wouldn’t have chosen to leave for you.”

“Why?” Dazai asks tightly, and he hates that when his jaw tenses, you smooth your fingers over it, and he unclenches it immediately.

There’s a sadder look in your eye now as you give him a small smile. “You know why.”

Of course, he knows why. He feels the hatred deep in his gut as his mind draws back to Mori. Because that’s who the issue is. It’s not the Port Mafia. It’s not your friendship with Kouyou. It’s not even your friendship with Chuuya that’s the issue. It’s Mori and your undying loyalty to him. No matter how much you claim to despise him, bashing him every chance you get, sneering at him whenever he tries to treat you like his daughter, Dazai knows that when it comes down to it, you’ll always choose him. You’d throw yourself on a sword if he asked it of you, and not for the first time, Dazai wants to spit in the man’s face for making you feel as if you’re eternally indebted to him for rescuing you from that warzone so many years ago; for making you feel as if you’re nothing without the Mafia, nothing without him.

“You don’t owe him anything,” Dazai says tightly. “You have to know that by now—you don’t owe him anything.”

“I don’t want to have this conversation, Dazai,” you sigh, sounding tired. Your hand drops from his face, and Dazai longs for your touch again instantly. His fingers twitch from where they’re resting on his lap; he only barely stops himself from reaching out for you. You try to smile as you change the subject, but it hardly meets your eyes, “It’s a tie then. No prize for either of us, hm?”

Dazai is not so inclined to switch the subject. He wants to press on this now that he has the chance; he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to rip you out from beneath Mori’s thumb, but he needs to at least try… but you’re leaving again in the morning, and Dazai also does not want to ruin this night with you. He doesn’t know when he’ll get another.

So, instead, he matches your half-assed smile as he looks up at you and says, “I didn’t say you got them all right. You only said that I got them all right.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Did I get any wrong?” you ask, amused.

No.

“Yes.”

“Liar,” you say, but there’s a fond lilt to your tone as you let out another puff of air, the smile on your face finally reaching your eyes as you look down at him. The soft lighting of your kitchen casts a pretty glow over your face, your smile is so entrancing that Dazai thinks he could stare at it forever.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes out, the words slipping from his lips before he can stop them. “I’ve missed you so much.”

He’s sure he must look like a fool right now, entirely enamored by the sight of you, unable to even fathom drawing his gaze away. He wonders if you’ll protest again, call him a liar, and shift away from him.

You don’t.

The smile on your lips falls, and a wrecked expression crosses your face as your eyes search his. Your lips part to speak, and he waits with bated breath for whatever you’re about to say—he thinks that if you deny him again right now, it might completely shatter all of the walls he’d so carefully built to protect himself.

“I’ve missed you too,” you whisper as if you’re scared to speak the words out loud—and how can he blame you when the last time you dared to speak them, he hung up on you, never hearing from him again until tonight.

God, the guilt he feels whenever he thinks of you returns with a vengeance, so intense that Dazai starts to feel sick to his stomach. He can’t handle it, so he does the only thing he knows how to do to distract himself from it.

His movements are clumsy as he pushes himself up to his feet, nearly tripping over the leg of his chair, and his fingers feel clunky as he lifts them up to cup your cheeks. For a second, he fears that you might move away from him, but you don’t, so he leans in to press his lips against yours.

There’s no tenderness to his kiss. Dazai kisses you like he wants to consume you, lips sliding messily against yours, blunt nails indent crescents into your cheeks as he holds you close. Usually, he would be embarrassed by his blatant desperation and lack of finesse—he’s never been a sloppy kisser, when the two of you were younger, you would always let out pleased hums into his mouth, lashes fluttering as he worked his lips carefully against yours, tongue sliding against your own as he traces his name on it. 

All of his finely honed skill is thrown out the window now as he kisses you like a man who has been starved for years. He has been starved for years—the quick fuck in your office did nothing to quell the longing he’s felt for you the past four years. He could kiss you for hours. Days, even, and it still won’t be enough. Nothing short of an eternity with you would be enough to make up for the four years he’s been deprived of you.

He lets out a low groan into your mouth as you nip at his bottom lip, hands sliding from your face down to your hips. He’d take you here. Right now. But he remembers the last time he tried to fuck you on your kitchen table, it ended with him choking on the barrel of your gun as you yelled at him for being gross (“I eat on this table, you heathen!”) and he’s not particularly in the mood to set off your temper now that he finally has you in his arms again, so it’s with much restraint that he grabs you by the hips to walk you back into your bedroom.

He can hardly concentrate as your fingers twist the hair at the nape of his neck, soft moans slipping from his lips, muffled against your mouth. It’s only sheer instinct and muscle memory that has him making his way from the kitchen and down the hall. He can’t bring himself to separate his lips from yours for even a second. And he’s a mess because he’s not coherent enough to force himself to breathe properly through his nose, so his lungs are burning and his head feels a bit light, but he doesn’t care so long as it means he can keep kissing you.

Turn left, turn right, second door from the end of the hall. 

His fingers fumble for the knob of your bedroom door, pushing it open a bit too hard, considering the way he hears it slam against the wall and how you tug his hair hard in retaliation. He doesn’t care, moans a bit louder even when your nails scrape his stinging scalp, and you let out a derisive noise against his lips before biting down hard enough to draw blood.

The taste of iron makes a slow smile curl at his lips, walking you back toward the bed, and it’s only when your knees hit the edge that you finally pull away from him. “If you broke my door, you’re fixing it, Osamu.”

Dazai’s smile is lecherous. “I’m gonna break something alright,” he croons, relishing in the way you immediately roll your eyes at him. It’s all so familiar—he can almost pretend that he never left, that nothing has changed since the two of you were eighteen, dumb, reckless, and in love.

Before he can press you back against the bed, he feels your fingers drop from around his neck to his waistband, curling around his belt loops. In an instant, you’ve twisted the both of you around, and suddenly, it’s the back of Dazai’s knees pressed against the edge of the bed as you push him down onto the mattress. He hits the sheets with an ‘oof’ and a hazy smile, surrounded by the scent of you, drowning in the sight of you. He thinks he might be in heaven. 

You shift on top of him, straddling his waist; Dazai’s hands instantly come to rest on your thighs, sliding up the sides to grab your ass and pull you more firmly onto him. He groans when he feels you grind down against his cock, and god, he’s already hard just from kissing you. He hears you snort above him, but Dazai doesn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed.

His lips part in a silent moan as you lean down to ghost kisses along his jaw, hands sliding up his chest. He feels you wrap your fingers around his bolo tie and tug it, you let out a sharp noise of distaste against his skin before murmuring: “I hate this ugly thing.”

He lets out a huff of laughter that quickly breaks off into a moan when your lips trail to the spot behind his ear that always makes him writhe. His fingers bite into your hips, pushing you down on him as he rocks his hips up into you—shit, he might be able to cum just from this. His cock is straining painfully against his beige pants, twitching as he grinds up against your clothed cunt. He thinks maybe if he fucks his hips upward a few more times, he might be able to push himself over the edge, but as desperate as he is to chase his release, he refuses to cum anywhere but inside of you.

Plus, he thinks he’ll be shamed to hell and back if he finishes in his pants with you hardly touching him. 

“Then strip me out of it,” he gasps, lashes fluttering as your teeth graze his pulse point right above the edge of his bandages. Fuck, he’d give anything for you to bite down—riddle him with marks he can’t cover so he can flaunt them off to everyone who looks at him. Dazai knows that there are countless men and women out there who’d die to be able to be called yours, he wants them to know he’s the only one who can take that honor. “What’re you waiting for?” 

You hum and then sit back on his hips—he bites his bottom lip raw as you unintentionally put even more pressure on his cock. He’s half dazed out, not realizing that your grip tightened on his bolo tie until you straight up yank it off of him, snapping the string around his neck.

“No!” he complains, watching with wide eyes and parted lips as you fling the now-broken bolo tie off to the side of your room. “Noooo, why’d you do that? I’m going to have to order a new one.”

“Boo-hoo,” you say dryly, hardly paying attention to him as your fingers curl around the hem of his vest, pulling it up over his head, snorting when he lets out a puff of irritation as his nose gets caught around the collar. 

“This is so unsexy,” he protests, rubbing his nose. “Shouldn’t you be more gentle?” 

“Stop wearing so many layers of clothes,” you retort, but Dazai is placated when you lean back down to kiss the corner of his lips, lashes fluttering as his eyes slide shut. He lets out a pleased hum as you kiss down his jaw, nimble fingers unbuttoning his final layer of clothing. He wishes he wore an undershirt just to watch you huff in annoyance. His breath catches as you nip at his skin and then murmur, “This better?” 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, voice wavering as you get down to the last button of his shirt, sliding it off of his shoulders and easing him out of it. His body shudders as your hands slide over the bandages wrapped around his abdomen. Fuck, it’s been so long since anyone’s touched him beneath his clothes, even with the bandages still acting as a layer between the two of you, his nerves are on end, sensitive to everywhere your fingers touch.

He wonders if you’ll pull off the bandages—it’s a line that the two of you only crossed once back then, and although the idea of it has him brimming with anxiety, he longs for the feeling of your skin flush to his.

He almost feels a bit embarrassed when you sit back again to admire him as if there’s not a scar-ridden body hidden beneath the bandages. You look at him like he’s beautiful, like he’s not a monster disguised as a man, like he’s human. Dazai has always felt distinctly seen beneath your stare like you can see through all of the masks he wears and see him for him, and that has not changed over the past four years.

He’s missed the comfort of it. He has. It used to unnerve him back then, thinking someone could see him so clearly when he tried so hard and so carefully to hide himself beneath layers of impenetrable masks, but after going four years alone, with no one for him to turn to, no one he could look at and have them just know what he’s thinking… 

Yosano once mentioned offhandedly that to be loved is to be seen, and Dazai thinks the only time he’s ever been seen—truly seen, down to his core, deep in his soul—is when he’s with you.

It was a very lonely four years without you.

“I thought about you every day,” Dazai tells you softly, the grip on your hips easing up as he looks up at you. “Made a list of places I wanted to bring you and then burned it because I never thought I’d get the chance to be with you again. Stared at old pictures of you all the time, couldn’t sleep without thinking about memories with you. Drank your favorite wine just so I could pretend I was tasting it off your lips.”

You bring your hand up to cup his cheek, and Dazai leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut again. He kisses your palm, humming softly when your thumb runs along his bottom lip.

“There wasn’t a single day I went without you crossing my mind,” you admit quietly and Dazai’s breath hitches as he stares up at you, dark eyes wide and lips parted. He thinks he should say something, anything really, but it’s a lost cause. You don’t seem to mind, luckily, because you only lean down to brush your lips against his again.

This kiss is softer than the last, lips trembling against yours as your tongue dances along his inner lip. He thinks his cheeks might feel wet but he doesn’t dare acknowledge it; you don’t either, only using your thumbs to brush away the tears as they spill over his cheeks.

“Are you really leaving again in the morning?” he finally asks, and he hates that his voice cracks over the words.

You hum in agreement, still hovering over him, still running your thumbs along his cheekbone. His lashes droop shut, but he forces them back open as you speak. “I am. Bright and early. Flight leaves at six.”

His gaze flickers to the left, over to where your alarm clock is set up on your nightstand. 

12:35

He looks back at you, eyes swimming with desperation.

You give him a soft, wry smile. “We should make the most of the night then, hm?”

He doesn’t waste any time on that.

His grip on your hip tightens, and in one swift motion, he flips the two of you around, elbows resting on the mattress on either side of your head as he hovers above you. Your eyes glitter as you give him a coy smile, and again, Dazai falls in love.

Then, he ruins the moment.

“Tell me how you fucked Chuuya.”

Your smile drops. “Osamu, what the fuck?”

“Tell me,” he pouts, nudging his nose against your cheek and peppering soft kisses on your cheek and down your neck. His knees drop to the bed on either side of your hips, holding up his weight as he reaches down to unbutton your slacks, sliding them off your body. A smile flickers onto his lips as his fingers graze your panties—drenched, finally, evidence that he’s not the only one so affected by this. “Tell me. Were you on top? Did he take you from behind? Was he rough? No, it’s Chuuya-”

“If you care so much about how Chuuya fucks, Osamu, how about you go fuck him yourself?” you interrupt him.

Dazai gags.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he says and then returns to his mission, fumbling with his own pants now as he tries to yank them and his briefs off, unable to hold back the relieved sigh when he finally frees his cock, unceremoniously tossing them to the floor. “Tell me.” 

“Why do you care so much, hm?” you ask, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. “I told you that you were better.”

You’re only trying to deflect from the question and he almost lets you succeed, partially placated, but he stays strong, leveling an unrelenting stare onto you as he waits for your answer. You sigh heavily, and he knows he’s won.

“Not rough,” you say as if Dazai hasn’t already come to that conclusion. Chuuya’s had a crush on you since the three of you were sixteen. Dazai assumed he had grown out of it, but evidently, he was wrong, considering he took the opportunity to sleep with Dazai’s girlfriend—because you were his girlfriend—the moment Dazai was out of the picture. What a little snake. Dazai needs to vandalize his apartment again. Maybe set up a few more bombs. He’s only drawn back from his mental spiral when you start talking again: “He took the lead. Wanted to see my face the whole time, make sure I was okay.”

“How gentlemanly of him,” Dazai says—he’s not bitter. He’s not.

“It was,” you agree, too genuinely.

Dazai squints at you hard. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say. “You asked.”

“You don’t need to sound so wistful.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Osamu, I’m not wistful.”

“How-”

“Are we going to talk about Nakahara Chuuya all night, or are you going to fuck me?” you interrupt immediately, looking increasingly incensed. Dazai only raises his chin at you pointedly—you’re the one that slept with Chuuya. “Time is dwindling, Osamu.”

Okay. 

Dazai’s gaze flickers back to the clock and then back down to you, withering a bit under your irritated stare. He sighs and leans back over you to kiss the corner of your lips, fingers curling around the hem of your panties to slide them off your legs.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his kisses linger against your skin now as he drags his lips down to your jaw. “The thought of him being with you…”

It makes Dazai want to do terrible things. The part of him that he locked up deep within rattles at the bars of its cage, furious and bloodthirsty. The trigger finger he’s been so careful to tame twitches with a desire he hasn’t felt in four years. The thought of anyone being with you makes Dazai sick to his stomach—Dazai is the only one who should get to see you like this, be with you like this—but the thought of Chuuya being with you is so much worse.

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted, Osamu,” you tell him quietly, fingers intertwining with his hair as he nips at your neck. “No matter how much I slept around, nothing was ever able to fill the hole losing you left. Not even Chuuya.”

Dazai exhales, shaky—the guilt returns, and so does the doubt because what right does he have sitting here being petty about what you did while he was gone when he was the one who left you behind without so much as a word? His eyes flutter shut, he spares a few more chaste kisses across your throat before lifting his face back to yours, kissing you gently.

“Let me make up for lost time then,” he says softly.

He doesn’t hesitate now, one hand dropping down to your thigh, lifting it to wrap around his waist as he presses his hips into you. His breath shudders when his cock slips against your folds, a low moan spilling from his lips. He has to reach down to angle himself properly, tip pressing against your tight hole.

The fingers of his free hands are shaky as he lifts them to cup your cheek. “Look at me,” he says, heat spreading through his abdomen when he realizes you already can hardly hold your eyes open, quick breaths escaping your lips as you try to keep yourself from cumming already. “Look at me, I want to see you.”

Your eyes flutter open, lidded and heavy as you look up at him, and Dazai thinks that maybe he could cum just from the expression on your face alone, inhaling sharply as his thumb drags across your bottom lip. He thinks maybe he should try to get ahold of himself, fearing that if he pushes inside of you now, he might cum on the spot, but his cock is aching so badly that Dazai thinks he might die if he doesn’t feel your heat around him immediately.

It takes all of his strength to keep his eyes from sliding shut as he pushes inside of you, desperate to see the way your face twists and your breath catches. Your lips tremble, chest rising and falling rapidly, he can feel your thighs tightening around his waist, and Dazai groans when your heels dig into his lower back, forcing his hips flush to you, burying his cock deep in your cunt. He chokes, grip on your thigh bruising; his abdomen tightens, and his head feels light.

No way, he thinks, gritting his teeth as he tries to hold back the waves of pleasure threatening to tear through him. He hears you let out a huff of laughter beneath him, and Dazai would shut you up with a sharp thrust of your hips, but he’s still desperately trying to regain control over himself, so he thinks that’s maybe not the best idea.

His forehead drops to rest on the pillow next to your head, lips brushing your ear as he lets out a low moan. He can’t even savor the way you let out a full-body shudder, fingers coming up to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck. Fuck, you’re so tight—Dazai can feel your walls tightening around him, spasming, his breath is shaky, and he tries to distract himself by pressing his lips to your skin, mouthing messily at your skin, sucking and nipping and counting to ten as he tries to settle down.

But it’s hard with the soft sighs you’re letting out, the way your fingers catch on his tousled hair, tugging enough to make his scalp sting. His head is so fogged that he can hardly think straight—god, he’s missed this, he hasn’t had the comfort of letting himself go like this in… since he left, really. His mind is always turning, plotting out ten, twenty, thirty steps in advance in fear of making a mistake, slipping up and letting the rest of the Agency see him for what he is, slipping up and their lives being the price just like with Odasaku. It’s only with you that’s ever comfortable enough to finally let the cogs in his brain slow and shatter, lose himself in carnal pleasures, lose himself in you; it’s been four years since he’s last had a reprieve from his own brain.

But he only lets himself slip halfway—tonight isn’t going to be about him, it’s about you. He has four years to make up for and he intends on getting a good start on it tonight.

He pants quietly as he lifts his head enough to bite your earlobe, tugging it gently before pressing his lips to your temple. “I’ve missed this,” he admits, voice raspy and clogged thick with emotion. “I’ve-”

He can hardly get the words out, and his breath catches when your hands slide from behind his head to cup his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. He thinks he must look wrecked—he can already feel the sweat beading on his forehead, and he knows his eyes are probably glazed over. You still look stunning, a soft expression on your face as you look up at him as if he’s not buried to the hilt inside of you. 

Unfair, he thinks mournfully. 

“What're you still holding onto, hm?” you ask, and Dazai only barely registers your words, sinking into your touch as you brush matted hair out of his eyes. He can finally bring himself to roll his hips—experimental, slow, trying to make sure he can actually move before trying to fuck you. Then you sigh softly, and he’s too out of it to try to make out the expression on your face as you say: “You work yourself so hard… always have. I’ve got you, you can let go, Dazai. C’mon.”

“No,” he hums, but his voice is strained, evidence of his struggle. “Tonight’s about my favorite girl.”

“Favorite?” you tease, lifting your shoulders off the bed to ghost a kiss against his lips that nearly has his hips stuttering—the conversation so reminiscent of one that the two of you had at seventeen it almost makes him smile.

“Only,” he amends quietly, kissing your nose, then the corner of your lips, and then nipping your jawline.

Just when he thinks he’s good to actually start picking up the pace, intent on fucking the thoughts out of you until you forget about your stupid flight in the morning, he catches a suspicious expression on your face, one that has his eyes narrowing.

“What?” he asks dubiously; your eyes are glittering in a way that he knows from experience is dangerous. 

You don’t say anything, just look pointedly at your thighs, then up to his shoulders. Dazai tilts his head to the side, recognizing what you want, and after a moment’s hesitation, he slides your legs up above his shoulders, folding them to your chest, eyes nearly rolling back at the new angle. Fuck, his hips do stutter this time, breath hitching. He has to readjust again, mentally focus on not cumming on the spot, and then-

And then you say: “He had my legs like this.”

A trick. 

Dazai knows it. 

You’re trying to make him let go of the thin thread of self-control he still has. To give in. To let all of the gears in his brain finally fall apart for the first time in four years.

He knows it.

He falls for it anyway.

Dazai’s jaw tightens, gaze snapping down to you only to catch a goading look in your eyes, a sly smile on your lips that Dazai has every intention of fucking right off your face. He inhales sharply, one hand sliding up your body to grab your chin, blunt nails digging a bit too deeply into your cheeks.

“Yeah?” he says, voice rough. 

Your lashes flutter and lips part as Dazai pointedly jerks his hips up. Your breath catches over a moan, and Dazai knows that this new angle is affecting you just as much as it is him.

“Mhm,” you agree, and just like that, the thin thread snaps.

He snaps his hips into you so hard that your bedframe bangs loudly against the wall behind it, quickly setting a steady pace, nice and deep, quick enough that you can’t even get a breath of air to your lungs before Dazai is fucking it right out of you. Already, he’s so fucked out that his mind is in shambles, one hand settling on your hip to hold you in place as he thrusts his hips into you, hitting that sweet spot with each stroke while his other hand, still cupping your face, slides down to your neck.

He doesn’t squeeze—wouldn’t dare to cut off the pretty noises spilling from your lips, moans of his names, choked gasps and cries between each rock of his hips—but the fact that you trust him, him, enough to have his fingers wrapped around your throat is always a quick way make him topple over the edge.

His eyes dart down to your chest, realizing, very unfortunately, that you haven’t taken off your button-up yet. He nearly bites down on his tongue in frustration as his hand comes down to your chest, careful to keep the pace of his hips as he hooks his fingers around the first button just to yank down, popping off half of the buttons of your expensive dress shirt and haphazardly pulling it off of you to toss it to the side before fumbling with the clip of your bra.

“Osamu,” you hiss, and Dazai revels in the way your voice wavers with each thrust, biting back moans. “That’s the second-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence. Dazai tosses your bra over with your discarded shirt and dips his head down to wrap his lips around your nipple, tongue swirling around the sensitive bud before rolling it between his teeth, and you’re gone—Dazai lets out a muffled groan around you as your back arches up into him, crying out his name, walls tightening around him as you cum on his cock.

“Oh-f-hah-fuck,” Dazai gasps as he rests his head on your collarbone, grip on your waist tightening. 

He has to physically force himself to lift his head, bracing his forearm on the mattress next to your head, desperate to see the way your eyes roll back, he can already feel himself teetering over the edge—the lewd sound of skin-on-skin, the sloppiness of his cock driving in and out of your cunt, he can feel your cum dripping down his cock, smeared on his pelvis.

His hand slides behind your head, lifting it from where you have it pressed against the mattress. Beautiful—the only thought that can run through his hazy brain is of you and how perfect you are, lips swollen and bitten raw, parted as pitched moans escape them, tears spilling from the corner of your eyes as he fucks you through your orgasm and right into a second. He’s the only one that should ever get to see you like this, with your clever brain fucked right and dumb, body writhing against the bed as you cling to him.

He leans down again, trailing sloppy kisses against your neck, gasping as he starts to feel his high approaching.

“No one makes you feel like this,” he says, or maybe he begs, he’s not sure if he’s making a statement or pleading for you to tell him it’s the truth. “Tell me. T-shit-tell me.”

“No one,” you sob over another moan, and Dazai can feel your pussy fluttering around him—he wonders if he’s already fucked you into a third. Usually, it takes longer. “No one, Osamu, you’re the only one.”

And that’s the only thing he needed to hear to give him that final push. His steady pace shifts into a more erratic one, sloppy and desperate, as he chases a high that’s just out of reach. His moans are muffled against your skin, teeth scraping your collarbone, mind a jumbled mess of thoughts of you. He feels your fingers trembling as you lift them to his cheeks, pulling his face up to press your lips against his, and that’s all it takes: he lets out a wanton moan against your mouth, pressing your legs further into your chest as his hips still against your ass, finishing deep inside of you.

Spots dance in his vision, head buzzing and ears ringing; he swears his orgasm lasts an eternity, body shaking and shuddering above you, letting out breathy moans into your mouth. He can feel his cum dribbling out of you, pooling onto the sheets beneath the two of you, so much of it that you can’t even keep it all in you. 

He doesn’t let his lips leave yours once—the kisses are messy and sloppy, devoid of all of the finesse that the two of you usually have, teeth nearly clashing, tongues sliding against each other’s. 

It’s only when his vision finally starts to clear and his head feels less on the verge of passing out does Dazai finally trails kisses from your lips to your jaw and down your neck before he finally collapses on top of you, mind entirely gone, like he’s floating on clouds. He pants as he tries to catch his breath, eyes lidded as he absently trails kisses along your chest and collarbone. He thinks the world could be ending around the two of you, and Dazai wouldn’t even have the capacity to notice. For the first time in four years, he really, truly allows his brain to rest.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, eyes drooping shut as he lets himself be enveloped by your arms, drowning in the comfort of your scent.

He doesn’t want to know. He’s scared to look at the clock and check.

“Tonight was supposed to be about you,” Dazai finally complains, burying his face in your chest as he pouts.

You only let out a soft laugh above him. “We have the rest of our lives for that… You deserved a break, Osamu.”

The rest of our lives.

Dazai’s throat tightens, vision blurring a bit at the thought—he can only barely bring himself to respond, and the words that slip out are not what he means to say: “I never thought I’d get to be with you like this again,” he admits, voice hoarse. “I never thought-”

“I know,” you interrupt, voice quiet, a bit shaky. “... I know.”

Of course, you know.

He can’t bring himself to say anything else, so he doesn’t, sinking into your arms and allowing himself the comfort he’s deprived himself of for so long. He almost starts to drift off—and god, he can’t remember the last time he’s dozed off willingly, only able to sleep after drinking copious amounts of alcohol or taking an even more copious number of sleeping pills. It’s not until you speak again does he stir back awake from the brink of sleep.

“What did he ask of you? Oda, I mean,” you finally ask, fingers brushing through his dark hair, lulling him further to sleep.

Dazai thinks that you’re cruel, asking him while his mind is still fogged from the exhaustion following his high, and he’s still half asleep in your arms, trying to regain his bearings. The words slip out before he can think twice, forgetting his fear of you laughing at the idea of him trying to be a better man.

“He asked me to be on the side that saves people… if both are the same to me, he wanted me to be a good man.”

The words dawn on him too late; he can hardly bring himself to look up at you, scared that he’s going to find an amused expression on your face or a derisive sneer. He wouldn’t blame you, he’s thought the same about himself ever since he left the Port Mafia, doubt and self-loathing riddling him with every step he takes in the light. He waits for the scoff, he waits for the laugh, he waits for-

“... I think he would be proud of who you’ve become, Osamu. I think you’ve fulfilled his request.”

Dazai does look up at you now, feeling particularly vulnerable, still scared that he might find a mocking expression on your face but he doesn’t. Only an uncharacteristically soft expression is painted on your face as you look up at the ceiling, a genuine one—a small smile and a look in your eyes that makes his heart feel warm. You don’t notice him looking until he lets slip out:

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers. 

(I love you, he means)

“I’ve missed you too,” you say back quietly.

(I love you too)

[ladymercysletters]

Synopsis: Reader has just been given the all clear by the maesters to be with her husband again. There is however the issue that her husband has taken to leaving their chambers before she wakes in the morning, and only coming to bed well after sleep has taken her. Fed up with only ever seeing her husband briefly at dinner, where he is still deep in conversation with one of his bannermen or pouring over papers, y/n takes matters into her own hands.

Word Count: 3,656

Rating: 18 + NSFW (no minors!!)

A/N: I seem to have written a 1980's Mills and Boon. Though I do like the idea of Cregan as Heathcliff!

_____________________________

“Well My Lady” said the maester, putting his instruments carefully back into his bag, “I would say you are fully healed.” He congratulated, looking up at you as you sat on the edge of the bed.

“So I can? We can?” you asked eagerly and unabashed. You had been without your husband for so long and these last few weeks of healing from your latest childbirth had been torture.

“uh, yes. My Lady.” Said the maester bashfully, head immediately dipping down to hide the reddening of his face. You thanked the maester once more before he left, calling in your maids to run you a bath and dress you. Now that it was safe for you to enjoy your husband once more, that is exactly what you intended to do. For almost two moons now you had been parted from Cregan, or at least that is what it felt like. Since you had given birth, though you still shared a bed, you found that he would be already gone by the time you awoke – and in the evening when you would stay up late into the night reading to keep yourself awake for when he did return, he would still manage to only return to bed once you had been taken by sleep. The only reason you knew he did still sleep beside you, was because you could smell him on your sheets and would sometimes still feel his warmth in the space beside you.

You sat in the milky bath as your maids paraded various dresses in front of you. Mabel held up a pale violet crushed velvet dress; it was loose and skimmed over your curves, allowing your skin to breath whilst still catching the candlelight. You had almost decided on that when Florence pulled out one of your old favourites, it was a dress you had brought with you when you first moved to Winterfell after marrying Cregan, a deep blue layered dress with a creamy silk underskirt. You had had it made especially as you had heard of how cold the North was; golden bronze fur lined the low neckline before raising higher at the back. Your eyes lit up as you remembered when you first wore it. That was the dress to seduce your husband.

Mabel and Florence dried and dressed you, plaiting strands of your hair to curl around the crown of your head like a maiden and lacing the front of the dress as tight as it would go. Unfortunately, given your many children, the front would not do up as tightly as it once did. Mabel had suggested a modesty layer for your chest, surely to keep out the cold in such a warm dress. Florence just elbowed her and gave her a look as though she was missing the point.

--x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x--

Cregan yawned as he sat at his table, eyes drifting as he tried to stay awake. He had awoken early as he had every day since the birth of his latest child, dressing quietly and leaving before you woke. Every morning he’d stay and watch you a little: his wife, tucked up in the thick, soft furs of their bed, before tearing himself away. The maesters had come to him shortly after the birth. They had expressed deep concern over the struggle of this birth how weak you were. Given that you had fallen pregnant with this one only three moons after the birth of your second child your body had not been given a lot of time to recover, which they felt contributed to the long labour and your subsequent bed rest.

The sight of you weak in bed; skin drained of much blood and not even able to hold your babe as you had your others. Cregan had berated himself no end at your state, blaming himself and his recklessness that you almost died. So, he did the only thing he could do: he distanced himself from you, leaving your chambers before you awoke and returning only when he is sure you must have fallen asleep.

--x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x--

The first place you looked for your husband, you knew you’d find him, was the great hall. He was surrounded by his men at the high table, no doubt meeting to discuss what more they have left to de before winter comes. You glide into the room as the Lady of Winterfell ought to; nodding to the guards as they opened the doors before taking a slow turn about the room. One of your ladies in waiting came with you, arm in arm you walked slowly about the room, breathing deeply to allow your bust to spill a little over the soft fur neckline of your gown. Some of the ladies of court were scattered about the room: some sitting by the large open fire grate with their embroidery. Greeting them all you sat with them, moving your hair subtly over one shoulder to make the best of your exposed neckline.

Your eyes flickered over to the top of the room, where you see Cregan’s already on you. His brow is down as he looks up through his lashes; eyes raking over your body and nostrils flaring at the sight. Giving him a small smile you hold eye contact as you trail a light hand down your neck, watching as he huffs a breath and turns back towards Lord Burley. Slightly frustrated at his dismissal you stood again, this time walking towards Cregan and his seat. He watched appreciatively though subtly. He could see that dress you had on was one you had worn when you were first made man and wife, the bust was tighter than it had once been and Cregan steadied his breathing once more as he thought of your breasts, full of milk for his babes and practically pouring out of your dress.

“Husband” you greeted lowly as not to disturb him. You picked up the jug to fill his cup. Ever the stoic Northman he paid little mind to you as you greeted him, so you went a step further: leaning over him jut a bit too much you steadied yourself on his thick thigh as you leaned into him to pour his drink. Your warm scent filled his nostrils and his eyes fluttered closed, only opening to see the soft pure skin of your chest so close to his face that all he would have to do would be to lean a little closer to taste you.

Pulling back with a sigh you placed the jug down and drew your hand slowly up his thigh, just grazing his inside seem that wasn’t covered by leather, before retiring from the room. If he wanted to pretend he didn’t see you then you would do what you did best: be a nuisance to him.

--x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x--

You took some time before finding him again, taking tea with your ladies in one of the viewing towers whilst you plotted your next move.

The training yard was where you found him that afternoon. The winter had faded into a slightly less harsh winter, so you and your ladies were safe from having to wrap yourselves up too much as you sat on the viewing platforms. Cregan and his men had clearly been in battle for some time; even with the milder weather you could still see the steam rising from their bodies. You watched as Cregan swung his sword over his head, shoulders rolling as he brought it down onto the shield of the man cowering beneath him. You bit your lip as you watched his muscles move under his shirt. Thick fingers gripped the hilt of his family sword when several men approached at him at once. There was no denying your husband was a warrior: his broad back twisted as he fought from all sides, body turning with ease in his leathers and sweat dripping from his brow as grunts filled the arena. Moving over to where he had left a cloth you took a seat nearer the edge of the grounds.

Giving him your best sultry look you breathed deeply, making the most of your heaving bosom as he stopped for a break, his chest heaving as he strode towards you.

“Wife.” He growled, almost annoyed at seeing you again. You shot him a wry smile as you stood and took a step towards him. Picking the cloth from his hand you stepped up to him and swiped it over his brow, watching as his eyes closed. You leaned forward just a bit too close to be innocent as you trailed the cloth over the back of his neck for him. A low groan rumbled from Cregans throat as you massaged the back of his neck. “It is good to see you out and about my dearest.” He murmured, head tilted back at your touch to watch you down the bridge of his nose.

“Husband. The maester visited this morning.” You let your words drift. He knew what that meant.

“My darling” Cregan growled, cupping your waist “Are you sure?” you nodded, grinning widely at his unhidden enthusiasm. The breath he released almost contained steam itself as he looked you up and down. Your lips quivered to kiss him, but you restrained yourself; simply smiling once more as you left him to his training, his knights calling him back to practice.

--x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x—x--

You didn’t see each other again until your evening meal. Dinner was quiet. You ate with a few of his bannermen and their families: yourself and Cregan sitting at the head of the table. Though the grip of his hands around your waist had indicated his need for you earlier, you were disappointed to find your conversation at dinner lacking. Instead, he has been distracted by the lord to his left causing you to sit in a haff by his side. Bored, and ready to tease him some more you placed your hand on his thigh, just low enough to not garner any notice.

Your hand rested over the thick material of his trousers before pressing firmer into the flesh of his leg, slowly making your way up his thigh - the only reason you knew he noticed your hand was the subtle twitch in his leg when you pressed closer to the centre of them. Your gentle hand brushed at the thick length buried deep beneath his layers when his quickly slipped below the tabletop to stop you.

His head turned sharply to you, eyes glaring a warning. You had never been a brat before and he certainly wasn’t going to allow it now, in front of everyone. Your hand flexed under his grip as his attention was drawn from you again. Your fingers moved subtly to stroke him – his length thickening in his breeches as your fingertips managed to surround the head. His thighs snapped shut at the stimulation, breathing deeply to avoid making a sound.

Dinner could not end soon enough, Cregan thought as your hand finally retracted from him. His prayers weren’t answered though as, just as the meat was taken away, small plates of sweet treats were brought out whilst drinks were further poured.

Dates shipped up from Dorne were your favourites; split open and filled with honey and chopped nuts they were one of the few sweet things you had craved through your pregnancy. You sat sweetly and eyed him as you ate; slowly biting into the fruit and licking the sweet nectar dripping from it from your lips. Cregan only looked up when he heard a faint ‘oops’ fall from your mouth, only to see you swiping honey from your cleavage, failing miserably as the sticky mess just spread further.

Cregan’s eyes glued to where your finger swiped - watching with thickening breath as your pink tongue wrapped around your finger and sucked. His thick fingers flexed on his thighs as he fought his urge to pull you into his lap and bury his face in your full cleavage to assist you. The shine of the honey distracted him when Lord Tully approached his table to congratulate your new arrival. It was only at the sound of his title leaving your lips that Cregan snapped out of the spell you cast over him and looked up, flushed.

When the last of the trays was finally taken away the Lord of Winterfell announced that the day had been long and everyone should rest, ready for a longer day tomorrow. He only hoped that his subjects did not notice the rigidness of his voice, or the clenching in his jaw as he leaned over the table.

No sooner had you entered your rooms than he was upon you.

“You think you can torment me like that wife?” he growled into your ear, pressing you against your dressing table. “You tease me. All day. In front of my men. And you don’t think I will do something about it?” he pawed at your dress, ripping open your bodice and pulling at the strings holding the rest of your gown together. You were left in just your stays and shift: back pressed against Cregan’s chest as he held you in front of your mirror. His hand held your neck and turned your face to him so he could kiss you, swiping his lips from yours up to your ear. “Watch yourself” he whispered.

The hand that wasn’t wrapped around your throat trailed down your body, over your thin undergarments where his hand bunched up the light fabric moving up your inner thigh - eyes watching you quiver in his embrace. Two thick fingers slid to part your slick folds, his thumb stroking gently over your exposed clit. He continued the slow movements, holding you in place as the pressure barely increased. Only when he could feel you dripping over his fingers did he slip the first one inside you, soon followed by the second when he heard broken moans pour from your throat.

“There’s a good girl” He growled into your ear. Despite the teasing and constant, unrelenting, movements over your little swollen bud the first thick breech of his fingers turned your legs to jelly. Having been without any touch of your husband for so long the rough texture of his palms on your heated flesh and the firm consistent push of his fingers led you to scream into the air – begging your husband for release.

“Please.” You gasped. “Husband!” you begged for gods knows what. Cregan’s lopsided smirk into your fragrant hair was enough to tip you over. The promise in the dark blown pupils of his eyes forcing your first high in months.

Your body went limp against his front, his strong arms coming around your body to lay you on the furs spread out in front of the fire. The thick pelts moulded into the curves of your naked skin and if the buzz from your first high hadn’t made you dizzy enough, seeing the broad frame of your husband staring down at you as he stripped himself of his clothes made you feel as if you would pass out.

Cregan lowered himself down to you, pulling your frame the small way up to his to kiss you properly: the rough stubble that had grown on his face grounded your mind, bringing you back into the moment to feel his body over yours. His kisses were as firm as his fingers pressing into your back, lips trailing down your neck to mark you, inhaling your scent whilst small - deep blooms appear over the swell of your breast. Cregan continued to worship his wife - over your stays and moving the remainder of your clothes out of the way as he did so. His kisses never ceased, beard rubbing deliciously over your newly expose skin when he settled his body between your thighs.

“Now. Wife.” Cregan’s breath puffed out against your sensitive flesh. “The maesters said you were healed?” you whimpered a yes. “Fully?”

“Yes husband” your high tensed voices spoke out.

“Well then…” Though you knew it was coming the high gasping moan that left your lips still did so in surprise. Cregan’s broad tongue swiped through your folds, bathing his tongue in your wetness. His eyes rolled to the back of his skull as he drank you in for the first time in almost half a year. Hands still gripping both your sides they slid down to brace your shaking legs over his shoulders.

He ate you like a man tasting food for the first time, curved tongue pushing as far as it could go before his lips moved to focus on your still sensitive clit. He sucked gently as his tongue continued to play – mimicking the actions of his fingers earlier. The consistent stimulation was driving you insane; legs shaking in Cregan’s strong hands you sought stability by running your fingers through his long dark hair, gripping a handful at the base making him groan into you.

He re-doubled his efforts when he heard your heavy breath and mewls; nose pressing into your pubic bone and tongue lapping generously over you. Your thighs shook and tensed – your high rolling over you in waves. The rush of your flavour on Cregan’s tongue had him groaning into you, lapping you clean in big strokes as your breath softened and you went limp in him arms once more.

“Don’t think you can rest yet my love.” He growled, pressing soft butterfly kisses up your thigh and hipbone as he rose above you. “You think after all the torment you put me through today, you’re only going to come twice?”

Cregan rolled you over and pulled you back up against his front. Your head lolled on his muscled shoulder as you caught your breath, looking up at him through your lashes to see the strong jaw of your husband. His large warm hands smoothed over your rumpled smallclothes; soothing your heartbeat as you relaxed back into him, only to feel his fingers flex into the small openings of your stays and rip them in two from your body.

Discarding the remains of your clothes, Cregan spread your legs further over the haunch of his thighs – pulling you back to settle your slick folds over his cock. Rutting his hips lightly he pushed his hard length through your folds, slicking it in your juices and brushing against your swollen bud before moving just slightly to impale you on his full length.

The shock of the sudden intrusion pushed a shrill puff of air from your lips; the stretch of his girth so welcome. Holding your hips down against him as he pushed up into you, his thrusts strong and firm as his hold. His hips snapped up into you at a steady, fast pace – your hands grasping out to steady yourself as your breath never fully steadied.

Falling forward you finally gained enough strength to start pushing back on him, desperate to get him deeper into you if that was at all possible. Cregan’s broad back folded over you, caging you in as he went to town; hand coming down in front of you to find your bud as he felt you spasm and clench around him. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he flipped you over, propping your legs over his shoulder and pushing back into you in one smooth movement.

His thick length was always a stretch in any position, but the friction brought about by your legs flung over his shoulders was something else entirely. The sparks shooting up your spine with each thrust made you keen and grope at the soft furs beneath you. Cregan watched like a wolf above you. Mouth hung open slightly as he panted, his gaze dragged down your body; from your hair splayed out over the grey black fur beneath you, over your soft breasts bouncing with his thrusts, down to where you connected. He stared at where you connected, groaning as he watched his length plunge in and out of you, your lower abdomen bulging slightly with each movement.

He leaned forward then, face to face with you in a position that just allowed him to brush that spongey spot inside you. Sliding his hands from your thighs, up your arms, he gripped your wrists in one hand and held them above your head, pressing you further into the furs as your legs hooked over his thick hips. The both of you clung to one another as he rutted into you, your hips angling to ride him from below as you both hurtled towards your ends.

Your high came first, Cregan peppering kisses down your next and biting into the juncture of your shoulder whilst you clenched and fluttered around him. He came crashing after you; groaning into your ear and holding his hips steadfastly into yours as he pumped ribbon after ribbon of cum into you, balls drawing up as they drained.

Whilst you came down from your high you felt the weight of your husband slowly drop onto you as he melted into the touch of your fingers rolling up and down his spine. After a moments reprieve Cregan pulled himself away, settling down at your side and pulling the throw at the end of your bed off and over the both of you. You both relaxed into each other, watching the glow of the fire whilst you felt your husband’s presence next to you for the first time in months.

“Never leave me for that long again.” You mumbled, bringing his knuckles to your lips, pressing a reverent kiss to them.

“Never” he murmured. Pressing a kiss to the crown of your head in response.

[vivalarevolution]

𝓢𝓸𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓭

Feyd Rautha x Concubine Reader

Summary: Na-Baron never felt such hunger as when he was with her. He wanted to own her body and soul in every way. And she was more than happy to let him do anything he wanted.

A/N: This was essentially based on my fantasies and desire for Feyd Rauth, so forgive me if his characterization is not identical to movies or books. But nevertheless, I hope you will like it and you'll enjoy reading it.

Please remember that english is not my native language and mistakes can happen.

Story is a heavy smut , minors do not interact.  

-Don't take your eyes off the mirror, don't you dare turn away - he growled into her ear , biting her lobe seconds later, as his hands assaulted her exhausted flesh.

She thought she felt him on every inch of her body.

Her neck , her breasts , her shoulders , her ribs , her hips , her thighs , her calves. On each of them there was an invisible mark in the shape of na-Baron's hand that burned her skin so pleasantly that she never wanted the feeling to go away.

-Whatever you want…whatever you want my na-Baron - she mewled, focusing her gaze on the man behind her, on the way his once-blue eyes immerse into a darkness of desire, on the way the veins on his hands pulsed intensely and on the way the muscles under his skin tightened with every movement of his pale body.

-What did I tell you so many times before? - he said , in a dangerously low and cold tone , suddenly grabbing her by her neck , placing his long fingers on her jaw to point her face in his direction -In this chambers you will call me Feyd , when I tear off your clothes you will call me Feyd , when I push you against the wall and fuck you until your body submits to my will, you shall call me Feyd - he purred, looking intensely into her eyes, which held so much love for him that it made him obsessed with her more and more.

-Forgive me Feyd - she whispered into his mouth , letting her head fall on the man's broad shoulder.

-You want my forgiveness? - he asked , running his thumb over her full, reddened lips - Then beg - he demanded , tightening the grip on her throat.

-Feyd..ah! - she moaned as he slid his thick shaft out of her tight, hot canal only to push it back in, this time much more aggressively and deeply, making head of his member kiss her cervix.

-I'm waiting, darling - he growled, kissing the left side of her face, never stopping the torturous movements of his hips, which made her unable to form a single word -Is this how you want to beg for my forgiveness? I expected more from you - he confessed , inhaling her intoxicating scent.

-No...no - she denied , grabbing his large hand , which held her waist in a possessive grip , desperately trying to focus , at least for a moment - Please...forgive me Feyd...forgive me I beg you...I need you...oh I need you so much - she cried out , grabbing the nape of his neck with her other hand , trying to taste his lips - Please...I need you more than air...I need you Feyd - she mumbled , looking at him with half-closed eyelids , feeling that another orgasm was approaching inexorably to deprive her of the rest of control she had left.

Harkonnen in response joined their lips together , kissing her deeply , wrapping his tongue around hers , running his teeth over her lower lip ,biting it hard enough to taste her sweet blood on his taste buds , while his loins slammed roughly into her , making his manhood abuse her insides , reaching so deep that stars appeared in front of her eyes and her legs began to twitch uncontrollably , threatening to make her fall.

Feyd ,feeling his lover cumming and squeezing his member so intensely that he could not move , growled like an enraged beast , biting her shoulder , thrusting his hips against her , despite the resistance , marking her walls with black cum that dribbled lazily from her swollen folds , directly onto her wet inner thighs.

-My sweet pet - he said into the hollow of her neck , sliding his hand over her body trembling from orgasm -What did I tell you at the beginning? - he asked , massaging her ample breasts that were spilling between his fingers.

Woman looked at him with clouded eyes , fanatically trying to remember.

-Don't take your eyes off the mirror, don't you dare turn away - she whispered hesitantly , returning her gaze to the mirror , but it was too late.

-You seem to be breaking every single order of mine - he observed, trailing his hand along her curvy body - Maybe I should break you , so that you learn to obey me - he wondered, suddenly grabbing her long hair, positioning her head so that she was looking at her reflection and nothing else.

-Lord Feyd…-she began but was not given the chance to finish , when na-Baron attacked her exhausted body.

He tore out of her orgasm after orgasm. He pounded inside her more brutally and deeply with each climax, until his sweet girl was barely awake , full of his black, thick cum.

-I'm not done with you yet pet- he growled , pushing her onto black ,satin sheets.

The woman's body sank onto the mattress without a shadow of an objection. Her heart rumbled in her ears , while her lungs greedily took in air that hot and heavy made her consciousness slip between her fingers leaving behind a shell of her former self.

And in Feyd Rautha's opinion, his eyes have never seen anything more beautiful and sinful.

His hands were restless , touching her legs with the precision of a hunter who had captured his prey , and was now ready to feast . His mouth tasted her skin , savoring the softness and firmness of it. But he did not stop at her legs , no , he went higher , higher and higher , until his blue eyes rested on puffy womanhood , red from overwhelming pleasure and dirty from the amount of harkonnen cum that poured out of her center in excessive amounts.

His tongue ran along her folds , stopping at her clit, kissing and sucking it, making the woman trap him in a cage of her thighs, which he gladly accepted, embracing her hips, drawing her even closer to his pale face , making her scream.

His hunger was uncontrollable.

He feasted on her for hours, his mouth never stopping, too intoxicated by the addictive taste, that was dripping out of her, marking his face in the transparent liquid that he drank like nectar.

And when he finally was done , her mind was no longer present , and her body no longer listened to her. She was breathing heavily , her sweaty, naked body was shivering , while her doe eyes follow the man above her. Only when he chose to leave her bed , she decided to close them , welcoming the pleasant darkness.

But he didn't leave the chambers , he didn't go to the rest of his concubines like he had a habit of doing , no. Instead he returned to her , taking her limp body in his strong arms , hiding her from harsh outside world , stroking her naked back , while his lips kissed her cheeks decorated with dried tears.

-Mine - he whispered into her soft skin - Mine and mine alone.

[avoidthings]

kitchen’s closed | t. richmond

About: Terry catches you in the kitchen late at night and has his own idea of a midnight snack. [word count: 2.1k] Warnings: Explicit language. 18+ Readers Only. Oral (female receiving), Unprotected PIV (wrap your willy, pls). I had concepts of a plot. 

It was well past midnight in North Carolina, and you could hear the crickets and other critters abuzz outside of your bedroom window. You stared at the sliver of moonlight cast between your curtains, realizing the clutches of insomnia had sunk its sneaky fingers in you yet again. 

Your boyfriend, Terry, rarely stirred in his sleep, and kept a hefty arm draped over your waist every night. Being that he was ex-military, it was sort of ironic how heavy of a sleeper he was. Some evenings you tried to count the rise and fall of his chest instead of sheep, but rather than lulling you to bed it just disgruntled you. You wanted to poke the bear awake and damn him for leaving you so smitten. 

The room was quiet aside from the bustle of the outdoors, and you thanked God your man didn’t snore or else this would feel like a torture chamber. You flipped through the rolodex of your thoughts and landed on recapping your day; you went to work, Terry picked you up and made a stop at Kroger, then you two watched some sitcom reruns for a bit. House rules were to grab takeout after grocery shopping so neither of you had to bother with cooking something. 

All that thinking of food must’ve sent a reminder to your stomach. You exhaled as it grumbled. While very cute, you would rather not see Terry’s grumpy face should he discover his miso soup missing. You perked up at the memory of slipping a pint of ice cream in the shopping cart earlier. 

It was counterproductive, solving sleeplessness with sugar, but you hoped Ben & Jerry’s would be your saving grace tonight. You peered over your shoulder to find your boyfriend as sound as ever, eyes fluttered closed like a saint. 

After a silent prayer, you wriggled from his hold and toed out of bed. You pattered around the twilight of the room, starting your mission to the fridge. Past the master bathroom, the thermostat, (which nearly broke the two of you up), and to the far right of your living space was your destination. Thankfully, the range hood light was on so you weren’t too sore of eyesight. 

You opened the freezer and plucked out your reward. After grabbing a spoon, you settled in, sitting on top of the counter. The granite was cold against your bare thighs, your body only blanketed by a worn t-shirt that hung off your shoulders. 

That first mouthful was instant gratification and you nearly rolled your eyes back in delight. 

“Baby, what are you doing up this late?” You were startled by Terry’s voice, the tone more gruff from the interruption of his slumber. 

You were caught red-handed, spoon in mouth, so you shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Wanted something sweet.” 

He hummed. Terry made his way closer, no longer a distorted shadow in your peripheral vision. He had come to bed in only his sweatpants and socks. 

Terry had a glow about him, even in the dim of your surroundings. He slipped comfortably in your personal space, stepping right between your legs. You relished in the warmth. 

You had to look up even with the extra height the counter gave you.

“Sorry to wake you. I know you have to go for your run in the morning,” you said. 

Terry gave you a lazy smile and shook his head. “Nah, it’s fine. Everythin’ okay?” You nod wordlessly. 

“Hey!” You protested when he nabbed the pint from you, his hands quicker than your reflex to reach for it back. It was a battle you would more than likely lose anyway. 

He successfully hushed you by taking a scoop from the container to raise to your lips. 

“Open.” 

You held his gaze as you took what was given, inciting a groan that rumbled low in his chest. 

Terry obliged you once more and made notice of your tongue swiping to the corner of your mouth to catch what you missed. His own hunger dwelled in his underbelly. Between your job returning to the office and his growing trucking business, you haven’t made much time for intimacy as of late. 

“I think I’m in the mood for somethin’ sweet too.” The spoon and tub clattered by your side and he disappeared from your view. 

“Terry--” 

“Open,” he demanded once more, kneeling toward your feet, causing fire to crawl up the back of your neck. He did not take kindly to being ignored, and you wanted this to be an easy night, so you let your legs spread apart. 

He tossed one behind his shoulder, mumbling something inaudible to you. A kiss to your ankle, the inside of your knee, then your thigh. 

A yelp pierced the air when Terry’s large hands claimed the curve of your hips, tugging you closer to the counter’s edge. Your clammy palms braced themselves on the flat surface beneath you. You could feel his smirk and goatee rubbing on your exposed skin. 

Your breath quickened with the anticipation of what was next. His mouth ghosted over your center, blowing on your clit through your dampening panties. 

“Oh, fuck,” you shuddered. 

He was a merciless man, dropping open-mouthed kisses to your clothed center. He retreated as you tried to furl into his touch, reaching underneath your shirt to roll your nipple for more stimulation.

“You’re so fucking wet,” Terry inhaled your scent without shame. Finally, the cotton of your undies was torn from your pelvis to who-knows-where. You felt the coolness of the air over your exposed skin for a brief moment, the absence of touch not lasting long. 

You jerked, feeling his tongue swipe a slow strip up from your wet entrance, gathering your slick. He lewdly spat it back over your clit and sucked until you cried out. Terry ate you without abandon, with little regard for any manners, overtaken by his own greed. --

“I missed how you taste, baby.” Voice muffled in between your legs, his eyes flitted up at you, earnest as always. Terry’s grip maintained the underside of your thighs, keeping your legs spread so he could continue to steal all breath and sense from you. 

“Oh my God,” you moaned. Your brain and your body sounded an alarm, reeling with the increasing need for release. His name fell like a chant from your mouth. 

Two fingers pushing into you caused the band to snap, Terry immediately seeking the button that left you gushing. He was unaffected when your heel dug deep at his shoulder, urging his face further in your pussy as if it was possible. His fingertips sped in pace, turning your mewls into high-pitched squeals. 

Soon enough, your back bowed with the intensity of your orgasm. He tightened his hold, keeping you steady as the current flowed through you. “That’s my girl,” he kissed and licked you through it. Pleasure never reached a precipice when you were under his care, and you shouted to the heavens.

When your legs eventually deflated, your hands found his ears, rubbing behind them gingerly. A grunt slipped from his mouth.

Terry staggered to his feet, hooded eyes glazed over your heaving body. His teeth nipped between your breasts over your shirt, up to your collarbone and your neck. You hooked a leg around his waist, pulling him in to feel his erection prod at your inner thigh. 

Instinctively, he rutted up against you and you sighed. You were warm all over, sheeted with sweat and clenching around nothing, wanting only to be full of him. 

His lips left your jawline and found your mouth, luring you into a mind-numbing kiss. You cradled Terry’s face in your hands and took control, allowing your tongue to slot against his. It felt all the more indulgent, the lingering taste of chocolate on your lips mixed with your own arousal. 

He was still rubbing on your leg and it only intensified your need for connection. Like a minx, you curled into him, purring in his ear. “Terry, I need you. Please.” 

Your hands lowered to explore the solid planes of his body, all of its beautiful ridges and scars. He leant down so his forehead was touching yours. “Fuck, I need you too, baby. Been losing my damn mind about you,” he breathed.

Terry yanked at the waistband on his joggers and his dick sprung free. You two didn’t usually forgo protection but your cycle was around the corner, and desperation made your judgment very foggy. 

His fingers splayed under your shirt to grasp at your plush waist, thumbing the folds of your belly from where you sat. Terry pushed his way inside, coating himself to about half of his length. You sighed into his hold, legs locked at his torso, trying, and failing to meet him in the middle. 

Without much effort, he stilled your movements. Terry pulled out slowly, and slapped himself over your clit twice, leaving you to squirm pitifully. “Stop teasing and just fuck me, already,” you whined.

Terry did as told and burrowed into you in one, deep thrust. You ate your words in a choked gasp. His head cocked back as he felt your walls squeezing him, putting the cords of his neck on full display. 

Tucking your bottom lip between your teeth, you tried desperately to hold on to the thread of resolve you had left. Terry trampled on it when he set a brutal pace, drilling in you like you owed him something. Your ears were ringing with your own moans and the sounds of skin slapping against each other. It all felt like too much, far too soon. 

You pressed a hand to his chest feebly and whimpered. Promptly, he grabbed your trembling forearm and kissed the inside of your wrist. “I’m fucking you like you wanted, huh? Why you tryna run from me?”

“It’s t-too, m-much,” your words were slurring and you frowned through the pleasure, hoping he’d give you relief from his punishing strokes. That all too familiar storm brewed in your belly again and you couldn’t stifle any noise that left your lips. Each thrust brushed against that sensitive spot within you, and you try your might to stave off your climax. 

His stare was focused on you, utterly enamored by your carnal state. “Terry!” You wailed, slapping the countertop behind you and shifting to scoot away. The crack of his hand on the side of your ass rang loud and welled your eyes with fresh, salty tears. Terry landed a sweltering kiss on your lips to pacify you. 

He gripped you by the coils at the nape of your neck, and you blinked at him, huffing out shattered breaths. You wanted to ask him why he was fucking you like this, and what did you ever do to deserve it. But your brain could only compute expletives. You clenched and unclenched around him greedily, and his teeth clashed at the sensation.

“Stop holding back, I can feel it. Let that shit go.” And under his spell, you did, surmounting to a shaking ball in his arms. Your toes curled at his sides and his rhythm didn’t falter, his own release not far behind. You keeled with overstimulation, the air feeling sticky on your skin.

Terry’s hands abandoned your waist to cup your ass, bouncing you on his dick in hardy, final thrusts. You bite down his shoulder so you don’t scream loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. His head is buried in the crook of your neck now, sweat dripping on your collar. 

“‘Gonna make me cum all in this tight pussy, fuckk,” he groaned, ropes of his release starting to spurt inside of you. Your body was taut around him as his hips slowed to a halt. You were filled to the brim.

“My pretty baby did so good. So perfect for me,” Terry was panting like he just finished a mile-run, and still chose to sing your praises. He softened and pulled out, a part of you now missing. You sat there for a beat to catch your breaths, limbs still tangled together.

“Mm..’can’t stop shaking,” you whispered.

His actions had left you exhausted, drowsiness coated in every blink of your eyes. Terry separated from you for a second and he had his pants back on, scooping you up in his arms. You latched onto him like a bear, nuzzling into his chest.

If it was up to you, you’d pass out right there and crawl to bed in the morning. Something squished against his foot on his trudge out of the kitchen. 

“Shit, my socks are wet…what is that?” 

Ice cream.

--

Author’s Note: Just wanted to drop my contribution to the Terry Richmond industrial complex.

P.S. This was supposed to be Trainer!Terry but my hormone monster won. 

As always if you made it to the end, thank you bunches!

[okiedokrie]

INFERNO

Summary: The witch trials are in full swing, the church ordered for all witches to be burned at the stake. From morning until the night, you pray for those who turned their back against God. But a knock at your door startled you, the church, in desparation, accused you of witchcraft. Only then did you realize that your God has long forsaken you. Now, you make a deal with the Devil.

Characters/Pairing(s): Demon!Joshua X F!Reader

Genre: Smut, Angst, Horror

AUs/Trope info: Demon!AU, Contract Relationship

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: References to witch trials, religious terminologies, literally talking about giving birth to the anti-christ, killing everyone (im being serious), (smut warnings under the cut)

Rating: 18+

A/N: Dedicated to the ji to my han @nebulousbrainsoup

Smut Warnings: oral (f receiving), slight overstim, taking virginity, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie,

"Halt! You are being seized by the church. You will now confess all your transgressions to the light of the lord." The knights of the holy empire called out to you, that the one day you left the church to purchase food was the day you got accused of dark arts before your peers.

"Wretched witch, pay the price of your sins with blood and tears. Your crimes against our lord will not go unpunished. Come to the break of dawn in a fortnight, you shall burn at the stake as you will in hell."

The metal of the constraints dug into your skin, you aren't sure if the metallic scent in the air was rust, or blood, you couldn't hear the screams of those being tortured over the ringing of your own ears. You pray, this time for your own salvation; but seven days have passed and your god has not come to save you.

Whether it was desperation or disappointment, you couldn't tell. But something pulled you, so magnetic, the darkness that surrounded you was promising vengeance.

The sky grew dark as it was clouded in a tint of red as if the heavens bled for you, but your back is against them now, no god is here to save you.

"A soul most pure, intriguing, very intriguing." A layered voice said, it whispered, screamed, groaned, and moaned. You knew exactly who this was, the lord of darkness himself.

"Tell me, after devoting your life to your God, why have you come to beg for my mercy?" The shadows started to condense, each word was also a step towards you, the shadow now vaguely resembling the figure of a man.

"I beg of you, lord of darkness, spare me mercy for my God has forsaken me, give me salvation, and I will then devote my every hour to you, waking or not." You beg as you fall onto your knees, your skin breaking against the cold stone floor as your nails drag across the dirty floor, the grime building as filth under your nails.

He chuckles, "Let me make one thing clear, you call yourself a devotee, but when you are on the stage that is life, you are first and foremost, an actor." The voice echoed in the chamber you were a prisoner in, and the click of his heeled shoes ticked like a clock, "Good actors hone their craft, to captivate the audience. You may act like a devoted follower of the good lord, but you were promised to be mine. My mother of demons.”

He continued, voices condensing into a sound more fathomable, but still as sinister. “There is a seed of darkness in your purest of souls, feeding on the last of the purity in you. All I have to do is nurture it, and you will be mine.”

The darkness ripples and cracks around you, the air becoming hot, the smell of lightning invades your senses, overbearing, overpowering the reality you were accustomed to.

The voice speaks again, swirling into a deep masculine voice. His voice becoming more palatable to your much too human ears, you mind is no longer straining to comprehend the horror of his diction, “Which is why I will offer you a contract. Give what is most pure of you to me, and I shall protect you, give you the power to burn this earth to the ground, return them to me, and I will promise you a life of bliss by my side."

He steps into the dim red light, you see him now, a man dressed in a black suite that was much too modern for your time, his glowing amber eyes pierced your very heart as the smirk on his plump lips bared his fangs to you. His hand is outstretched to you, black lacquered nails and a glowing purple glyph etched onto the palm of his skin.

"Come now, won't you shake a poor sinner's hand?"

You jump from your place on the floor, grasping his hand, and with a firm shake, you say, "I do, I promise to answer your every beck and call, I will serve you, my lord."

You feel the mark on his palm burn onto yours, the pain was insurmountable, like all the ends of your nerves were burning, pain that you could feel in the very core of your being, but then, bliss.

The contract has been signed, the seal now is to take your purity.

Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper virgini, beato Michaeli archangelo, sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis, quia peccavi nimis.

The cathedral bells ring ominously, and a dark red tint paints the sky to warn the people below the heavens that the devil has taken hold of another poor, unfortunate soul.

The choir sang as the church bells rang, another soul lost to the dark hands of the devil. A path of sin paved with blood, sweat, and tears. Solemn was the tone of the town, a young maiden of the nobility embraced the devil himself, lost in his sweet kiss.

You embraced him, your body, mind, and soul now his. In every sense of the word, you gave your life to him. The people mourned and wept for you, their hearts heavy with the weight of this stain, this sin you left for them to bear as you will live forever in the dark bliss of the devil's tongue.

He kissed you passionately, his black heart almost beating for you, cold hands held you delicately, as if the slightest touch would break you, he laid you on the sheet that acted as your bed in this cell.

He trailed his hands slowly, starting from your knees to your thighs, the way his palms ghosted over your skin made goosebumps rise, he hooks his fingers to your draws, pulling the garment from under your skirt and discarding it to an unknown corner of the cell.

He stares down at your heat, golden eyes in a heated stare with your wet pussy, a flower yet to be plucked, dripping with golden honey as the lord of darkness blew the cold air into it.

He placed a delicate kiss to your knee, he was much more delicate than what you’d expect the lord of darkness’s intimate manner would be, trailing equally soft kissed down the length of your thigh to the apex of them, your sex clenching in anticipation.

His forked, long tongue licked a stripe across your heat, collecting your sweet essence on his tongue, he groaned at the contact to your velvet flesh, reveling in the feeling of unbridled lust.

You throw your head back, a coil in your stomach was starting to form was the lord worked his tongue around your folds, stopping occasionally to suckle on your clit, you thread your fingers in his hair, pushing his head closer to your heat in a desperate attempt for more friction.

He continued this gentle but dizzying pace with one goal on his mind, to taste the first and last time this flower tasted so sweet. The coil in your stomach was tightening almost painfully, the pleasure was insurmountable, pressure was building in a way that you never experienced before.

Then the coil snapped.

You throw your head back in a silent scream, your body shivering from the impact of such a powerful orgasm, he continues his ministrations on your heat, only this time avoiding your clit.

He licked your essence off his lips, he discarded his pants somewhere along the time he was between your legs, his firm hands took your legs and threw them over his shoulder, you catch his shoulder,

"Wait!" You plead, "my lord, your name, please give me your name." you say, the dark lord stared at you, but only for a moment.

He stares into your eyes, his amber gaze burning into your memory before he speaks again. "Joshua. Joshua would be more suitable for your human tongue." He said, as he finally entered you.

"Joshua-!" you gasp out, the stretch of his girth deliciously burned, his hard cock dragging into your heat with just friction that it didn't matter how wet you already were.

He rolls his hips in a slow and steady pace, taking in every new expression on your face and sound that you make. He bit his lip, holding back his own noises to savor the sweet sounds falling freely from your lips.

He picks his pace up after he notices you relax more, the force that his hips meet yours made your body rock upwards, shaking from the pressure that was rubbing against your walls.

"I'll breed you, your body, mind, and soul, all mine for the rest of time. I'll plant my seed into you, you'll bare the devil's children, mother of demons. My whore for all eternity." He breathed out, ragged from the force he was thrusting into you, you could only feel the rapid thumping of your heart over the ringing in your ears, your head was pleasantly empty, the only thoughts in your head was the delicious drag of his cock into you.

"Oh- Joshua-! It feels so good, oh- I feel it-!" You moan out, although you aren't sure if that's exactly what you said, for all you know, it could've just been babbling noises.

"Yes, cum around my cock, cream on it and milk it for it for all it's worth." he groans out, clearly also close to his release, his grip on your hips, dark talons digging into the skin and drawing blood.

Another coil snaps in you, this time, much more powerful. You can fill a surge of dark power being absorbed into you at the same time Joshua spills his seed into you, this dark force was hot, it felt like you had the power of a god swirling inside of you.

Out of breathe, Joshua looks at you, "by the break of dawn, you will no longer be human. Let the sleep take you, my dear, for the next time you awaken, your final waking place will be all of the new world. I promise you that."

He said as he placed a searing kiss to your forehead.

By the time the sun rose again, all the strength you had lost from being imprisoned here had not only returned to you, but you were now stronger, the dark flame burning under your skin fueled your anger, and an unholy boiling boils beneath the surface.

The cell, the dungeon, all the king's men, all the king's subjects, and the king himself, will not escape your inferno.

The only throne left standing is the one where Joshua sits, ruling over the sinners of the old world with you by his side.

[utterlyotterlyx]

Darkest Hour

For the ones who dream of being the only choice x

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary - Even if hating him is the answer to your problems, your Shadowsinger will always love you.

Warnings - mentions of torture, wing loss, angst, self hatred, depression, heart breaking fluff

The chill of the Night Court breeze drifted across your face, swirls of it scuttering across you bare, scarred back, soothing that roaring hot ache that rippled through your shoulderblades.

It was strange, to feel everything but nothing at all.

Chapped lips and a raw throat encased your rage, the rage that made you shake, the rage that made you tremble and turn cold and sour.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all.

Your wings. Your beautiful midnight blue wings with trunks of black membrane had been carved from your body, the last test to see if you'd break, to see if you'd give in to Beron's demands of information about Nyx, about Feyre, about the Made Archeron sisters. You gave them nothing, but it had cost you too much.

Only Rhys knew what had happened to you in that chamber after diving into your unconscious mind, even then the flashes of memory were too sickening to share, to the point that even he had gone pale, had gone so far to empty the contents of his stomach in the nearest empty vase.

He adored you. They all did. A little sister of the Inner Circle, so pure and full of light, a never-ending smile, a kindness no one would dare to taint. You were like a breath of balanced air, full of life and teeming with outspoken serenity. You were the safe place, the shoulder to cry on, the daybreak at the end of the storm.

Now, now you were nothing but an empty vessel.

It broke them to see you so pale, so lifeless, staring out of the window with bleak colourless eyes whilst you lay on you front to avoid irritating the still healing scars on your back. They shouldn't have sent you, they shouldn't let you go alone. They knew that Beron thought you were a monstrosity, they knew it and they let you walk into the Autumn Court unaccompanied regardless of their knowledge.

They had failed you.

Words hadn't left your lips. No food had been eaten, even those cakes you loved so much from the bakery went stale on your bedside table. All you did was stare out of that slightly ajar window, whimpering softly when someone tried to close it to keep any form of warmth within you.

Azriel was beside himself. Mirroring you, he hadn't eaten, he didn't sleep; all he did was drown himself in the deserved self loathing that came with the guilt of not being able to find you sooner, to save you from what you were feeling. Large bags of purple and onyx clung to the sunken skin beneath his eyes, he wasn't sure if you felt his presence in the room with you, but all he could do was watch as you slowly stretched your fingertips toward the window with a flash of longing in your eyes.

Then the monster within you had prowled out of its cage, and you turned cold and distant, only allowing Mor and Mor alone to tend to you, but even then you said little if anything at all and barely left the ice cold confinements of your room.

Everything hurt.

Breathing hurt. Moving hurt. Thinking hurt.

You didn't want to do it anymore.

Then, you broke.

The floor was freezing beneath your feet as you placed them onto the wood for what felt like the first time in months, you shakily stood, using one of the pillars of your bed to help you. It was so dark in there bar the slits of moonlight that kissed the ground at your feet, the stars shone brighter as you shuffled along the ground, you loose nightgown swaying with every step.

You had lost weight, you'd felt it drop from your body, and that wasn't just the weight of your former wings. It was you, slowly decaying before your own eyes with no willingness to stop it.

Warmth whooshed into the room once you opened the door, warm light pouring in from the hallway, and the sound of faint laughter drifted up the stairs. Silently, you moved further toward it, not making a single sound as you descended the winding staircase, halting a few steps from the bottom and watching their warm smiles and gentle laugher pool at the centre of their collective consciousness.

They looked happy. Happy.

Azriel felt you first, his head snapping to the right so abruptly that everyone else's followed. The room turned cold and you shuddered and the sudden change, and Azriel wanted nothing more than to go to you. Pale skin and lips greeted them, black-grey veins of exhaustion tugged at your eyes and cheeks, your chest struggled to heave in a breath, and you looked at them with such despair, such hatred, that he had to bite down on his bottom lip to stop it from wobbling.

You huffed out an incredulous breath, almost a scoff, "Enjoying yourselves?"

Rhys tentatively rose to his feet, sensing the conflicting emotions within you, sensing the kettle boiling over into searing hot anger, "Y/N," you saw his flattened hand in the air, he used it when he wanted to calm down a hostile situation, he was using it on you.

"Don't say that name," you had snarled, "I stopped being her the moment I lost them," you felt unworthy, you felt ashamed, "I protected you," your eyes darted to Rhys, then to Feyre, to Nesta and Elain, "I didn't give them a single thing and I'm the one who lost everything. For you. I wish I had given one of you over to him, I wish that I didn't have to give the only thing I had to protect people who wouldn't protect me," you were panting, you hands reaching over your shoulder and ghosting at the tips of the gruesome crescent shaped scars embedded into your shoulders.

A gentle tug pulled your attention away from them, they had all risen to their feet, looking at you with alarm and eyes laced with pity, and guilt. So much guilt. You attention shifted to your feet, to the little winged child that stood there, his bright eyes staring up at you with a tsunami of love, his tiny hand grabbing for you, and you indulged him, letting him take your finger in his hand and send warmth flowing up your arm.

Azriel swore he could see some of the colour return to your skin.

Azriel watched as that one touch broke you, you screwed your eyes shut and tears escaped from them, flowing down your cheeks as sobs stung at your chest, he wasn't sure if you could handle the pressure of them.

The night you were due to return was the supposed to be the night that Azriel told you that he was your mate, after 400 years of loving you and 60 years after the bond had snapped for him. He'd been so nervous to the point he'd enlisted Cassian and Elain to help him plan some elaborate evening for you. A hot bath with the lavender soak you loved so much, brand new books he had convinced the author to release early for you, your favourite chocolates, a bottle of your favourite wine, and a letter from him confessing his love for you. He knew how much you cherished letters. You'd kept every letter from all of them in the 400 years they had known you and loved you, they lay sleeping in boxes under your bed.

It hadn't snapped for you yet but you had unleashed all of your pain down the bond, not even searching for him, but feeling too much of the all-consuming pain that your soul was screaming for a moment of light. Just a minute of something else other than pain.

It nearly suffocated him.

Nesta moved to you, almost knocking her chair over in the process and wrapped her arms around you, shielding you by pushing your head into the crook of her neck. She ran her fingers through your limp hair, finding more knots than perfect glossy strands and felt herself breaking at how thin you had become.

"It's okay to be angry, Y/N. It's okay to hate us. It's okay," she whispered to you, turning her head to the side and pleading to Azriel to come to you.

He did without a moments hesitation.

Nesta passed you into his awaiting arms, night kissed mountains and cedar engulfed you, and you felt yourself relaxing into him as he rubbed soft circles into your back, relieving some of that aching tension that had become unbearable, "Hate me as much as you need to, I can take it. I can take all of your anger and darkness, let me take it."

"I'm so tired," you loosely wrapped your arms around him and sobbed, Azriel knew how exhausted you were, he could feel it in your trembling bones how close you were to passing out from the feeling.

"Okay," he moved to scoop you up into his arms, holding you so gently like he was afraid you'd snap in two in his hands, "That's something we can fix. One day at a time. We can do this."

Since that night, you felt lighter.

Months had passed, and thanks to Rhys and Cassian, you found your strength again. Thanks to Nesta, you found joy again. Thanks to Feyre and Nyx, you found passion again. Thanks to Mor and Elain, you'd gotten that innocent wonder back.

And Azriel, you had him to thank for it all.

He had been so gentle with you, coaxing you into physical therapy with promises of warm baths and healing creams, and making sure you ate and drank and found reasons to be happy again. The first laugh from your lips almost made him faint, it was accompanied by that sparkle in your eyes that he had missed too much.

Colour had returned to your skin, your hair had returned to its glossy hue, your smile was wide and bright, and even without your wings that he knew you missed, you were by far the most beautifully resilient creature he had ever seen.

You had closed the bedroom window, allowing him to light a fire and settle into his embrace whilst you both read your books. He had given you the one he was supposed gift to you and could have swooned at the smile you gave him.

"What do you think about mates?" It startled him, it made his heart physically halt in his chest and he moved his chin from the top of your head to look down at you. "Do you believe that there is a perfect half of your soul out there?"

"I do. I know it actually," he told you and you craned your neck upward to look at him properly, flushed cheeks and all.

"Yeah," you eyes twinkled, "How?"

"Because I know who it is I hope to see every morning for the rest of my life."

Your smile faltered, "Do I know her?" You shuffled onto your side, your book forgotten on the floor and arm tucked beneath your head.

Azriel mirrored you, settling into the space beside you, "Very well actually. She is bold and beautiful. Her laugh is the symphony of my dreams and memories. Her being herself is always going to be enough for me. It was inevitable really, to fall for her, it was beyond the scope of my control, the first time I saw her I just knew that she was the person my heart had been craving my entire life. She makes me laugh when all I want to do is hide away from the world. She makes it so easy to see the beauty in everything."

"She sounds perfect, Az," he noticed your sad eyes and the way you had curled up into yourself, but still holding on to every single word he said.

"And even when she lost everything, in a way I think it made me love her more, because even in the darkest hour of her life, she still managed to pull herself out of it, to feel and shine again," he turned to you, your brows furrowed and a small gasp floating from you, "I am completely, utterly, totally, in love with you, Y/N. You are the one my soul sings for," his shadows moved to you, curling around your face and torso, the inky tendrils kissing your exposed skin, "And I promise to love you no matter what life throws at us."

Tears pooled at your eyes and he grasped for you, rolling you onto you back so that his face was hovering above your own.

It happened then, that fairy tale snap you had never thought you'd own, the one you'd never thought you deserved. A split soul merging into one, singing in golden light as tendrils of thread sewed your hearts together, "I was so horrible to you."

Azriel shushed you, "I have loved you for 400 years, Y/N. You have been my light for so long, even when I didn't want one, you were there to pull me out," you cupped his face in your hands, "You have no idea how many lives you have impacted by just existing, I can't imagine a moment without you. I'll never tire of hearing what's going on in that strange little mind of yours. To put it in simple terms, there's not one part of you that I don't want, not a single part of you that I don't adore."

Tears fell from your eyes and he wiped them away, his body entangled with yours, "I don't know what to say."

"Just tell me that you love me. Tell me you're mine," Azriel pleaded, his hazel eyes glistening with a love you'd never seen before, not even between Feyre and Rhys, your soul pulsated with that freshly bound power and you sighed, pulling him closer to you.

Pressing your forehead to his you muttered the words, "I love you Azriel, and I am yours forever, in my darkest of hours and most beautiful of days. I love you."

brb sobbing x

[antiquarianfics]

Dark and Bloody Ground

So you violently murdered a man? So what? You did it in the name of love.

a/n: This is super loosely inspired by the song "Dark and Bloody Ground" by Ruston Kelly. Great song if you haven't heard it. Anyway, this is super gory and violent, but it's still a little fluffy... Hope you like it.

warning(s): Profanity, gore, extreme violence, sort of a hostage type situation, only kind of proofed.

note: I do not own Bucky Barnes or any other Marvel affiliate characters.

You do not have permission to steal or repost my work; however, feel free to like, comment, and reblog.

»»———-———-———-———-———-———-———-««

Blood. Blood everywhere. It’s on the ground, on the body, on your hands, on your face. The scene looks as if a toddler was given a box of crayons—all shades of red—and a coloring sheet. It’s horrific. Blood splattered, crayon scribbled—however you look at it.

Your breathing is erratic, heavy breaths shake your body as your lungs struggle to take in air. You’ve over exerted yourself, but you can’t find even a smidgen of a fuck to give.

There’s a dull ache in your knees where you’re sat on them; you lean back to distribute some weight onto your heels. Once your knees are slightly alleviated, you become more aware of the constant ringing in your ears, the ringing that has been constant since the moment you pulled your weapon. Then, you notice the soreness in your fingers and glance down to where your hands are clenched in fists, your knuckles busted and bruised. Looking around, you see a bloodied knife a few feet away: your gun is still in its holster.

You look up at the bloodbath in front of you—the dead men in front of you.

Did I even pull my gun?

The ringing in your ears is deafening, and you can’t focus on anything other than the carnage. Or, you can’t until you hear Bucky call for you. Wait. Bucky.

The moment your brain processes Bucky’s voice, it’s as if someone hits the fast forward button until your brain catches up with what is actively happening around you. The ringing squeals until it doesn’t; your head swivels until your eyes lock on their target.

“Y/N,” Bucky repeats. “Doll.” He slides next to you on his knees slowly, grimacing slightly as he moves.

Bucky’s eyes are filled with worry, his every movement cautious. He takes in your current state, but he saw the whole thing. He saw you kill the man who lay dead before you. He watched as the deceased attempted to fight back, how he got a few minor licks in, and how it was for naught. Still, though, Bucky is cautious as he looks at you--as he tries to make sure you're okay.

"Oh, baby," you say, voice low and hoarse. You smile softly and raise a hand to cup Bucky's cheek. "Oh, how I've missed you."

Bucky smiles sadly, his own hand reaching up to cup your cheek. "I've missed you, too."

"Are you okay?" You ask, concern palpable.

"I am now. You've got me, Doll."

You nod. "Yeah, I've got you."

Bucky looks around the facility he'd been held prisoner in for weeks. The drab appearance had changed quickly in your fury; he'd never seen you like that before.

—

Bucky coughed as the HYDRA operative kicked him in the gut. In most cases, Bucky would have already killed the guy, but he'd been starved and neglected for days, pumped full of a chemical that lessened the effectiveness of the super soldier serum, and his body thus has been struggling to fight off a nasty infection from a three day old stab wound.

"I'll ask again, Winter Soldier. Where is it?" The man in charge, an unassuming man in a pressed gray suit, asks in an even tone.

"I'll tell 'ya again," Bucky spits, "fuck. you."

"Very well. Again." The man waves his hand carelessly in a 'go ahead' motion.

The HYDRA operative kicks Bucky again. That's when the door to the torture chamber opens, and there you stand with a stolen keycard held to the door.

Your eyes land on Bucky on the ground, then they shift to the operative carrying out the torture, and then they settle on the man in the suit. Bucky knows you see red.

Taking a deep breath, you step forward and hit the button to shut the door behind you, stopping an escape. Then, in a flash, you've thrown your knife into the HYDRA operative's head. The operative drops, his body twitching slightly before stilling, and blood slowly begins to pool from his cracked skull.

The moment the knife leaves your hand, you step forward and swing at the man in the suit. The man side steps, lets out a 'Who do you think you are?' before being silenced by your fist to his jaw. You punch the man again and he stumbles backward; he quickly manages to get his footing and takes a swing at you. He lands a punch to your gut and one to your face, but neither deters you. You pivot around him as he lunges forward and then kick him in the back. The man falls to the ground, manages to turn over onto his back, and he is immediately met by another right hook to the face as you jump on him. You straddle the guy as you repeatedly hit him: you feel as the man's jaw cracks, as his cheekbone splinters. You're vaguely aware when each hit feels less solid, when the man beneath you finally stills. You feel weightless, a bit gone, as you slide off of the man onto your knees, sitting back on your heels.

—

"We gotta get out of here," Bucky says, shaking his head to rid himself of the thoughts of you murdering for him.

You nod and stand up with a light groan, grasping Bucky's hand and pulling him up with you. You let him wrap his arm around your shoulders, helping him walk as you make your escape.

—

Hours later, you and Bucky have not said much to one another. When you made it back to the jet, you were more worried about patching Bucky up and getting him something to eat than talking. Then, when he tried to say something, you shushed him and told him to get some rest. Now, though, as you're sitting next to his hospital bed in the med bay, and now that you know he's alright, you finally choose to talk about what happened.

"Bucky?" You say quietly, trying not to disturb him if he's asleep. You're hoping, selfishly, that he is.

"Hmm?" He hums, turning his head slightly and opening his tired eyes to look at you.

"I'm sorry. About today. I, uh. I know that was a lot..."

"Sweetheart, it's okay. You saved me. I should be thanking you; you shouldn't be apologizing."

You give him a tense smile.

"It's just. When I saw what they were doing to you... I saw red, Buck. I was so angry at them for hurting you, and I was scared. I just... I didn't think. But they didn't have to do all those awful things to you."

"I know."

"It makes me sick to think about."

"I know."

"You deserve so much better."

"I know."

You raise an eyebrow, disbelievingly.

"You do?"

"Well, I better. My girl violently killed two men because she thinks so."

You giggle. Despite everything, you giggle. Bucky smiles.

"Anyway," Bucky says, a light tone enveloping his words, "you know what they say."

"What's that?"

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," he teases.

"Especially when she has on her killing shoes," you laugh lightly.

"Mhmm. C'mere, Lizzie Borden." He holds out an arm for you as he scoots over to make room. You climb into the small bed with him, tucking yourself away into his embrace.

"I love you," you whisper.

"I love you, too," he replies, pressing a kiss into your hair.

[mythicmanuscripts]

RECOVERY [AEGON X READER]

Right so yesterday I answered an angsty ask about helping Aegon recover from the burns after Rook’s Rest and you all seemed to love torturing that little rat man so I’ve decided to babble about it more! Only this time, there will also be some NSFW content and some sub!aegon themes. I hope you lads enjoy!

NSFW sub!aegon x wife!reader below the cut!!

When Aegon wakes up, the maesters are standing over him. One of them is wrapping his arm in bandages, the other is holding a bottle of some kind. Aegon shoots up, crying out and trying to move up the bed. Well, he tries but he’s far too weak, the maesters immediately push him back down.

“Don’t move, your grace,” the one says, “you have been badly injured, you could make it worse by moving.”

Aegon doesn’t seem to care, and thankfully one of the servants in the room gains a braincell and quickly runs off to find you. The moment you enter the room, Aegon is calling for you, he relaxes and holds out his unburnt hand, desperate for his wife’s attention and love.

You take the bottle of ointment from the maesters, telling them to give Aegon the needed amount of milk of the poppy and then let you handle finishing dressing his wounds. The maesters aren’t pleased, but they can’t exactly disobey the queen.

The moment they’re gone you get onto the other side of the bed and lean over, giving him a soft forehead kiss. He lets you finish dressing his burns, and because it’s just the two of you he doesn’t hide how much is hurts. Once it’s finished, you get back into bed with him. You lie next to his unburnt side and allow him to turn and cuddle into you as much as he can. Even though he hisses in pain when you move too much or too quickly, he doesn’t want to move away from you, not even an inch.

Allicent and Aemond arrive soon after, both wanting to check in on Aegon. You see the fear in Aegon’s eyes when he sees Aemond, but you don’t question it then.

When they leave, you ask him what truly happened and he confides in you. As much as it breaks your heart to hear, you also aren’t exactly surprised, it’s an open secret that Aemond wants the crown.

He tells you that he doesn’t feel safe, doesn’t trust anyone here and he begs not to be left alone. And well, who are you to deny him?

When you try to retire to your personal chambers that night, Aegon whines and tries desperately to sit up. He doesn’t want to spend the night alone, doesn’t even think he can spend the night alone.

You’re too scared to sleep in the same bed as him for fear that you might turn in your sleep and run against his burns, which would be agonising for him. But, when you realise he’s really not going to be able to handle being alone, you grab two guards and have them move a comforts me couch into his bedroom.

You get a blanket from the cupboard and sleep on the couch. The servants are of course very shocked and very concerned about it but you promise it’ll just be for a few nights until he’s fine in his own.

(It was not for a few nights)

As he starts to recover, you start to see just how badly this has affected him, not physically but mentally. He’s getting stronger, he’s able to walk further and do more things himself, but mentally? He’s like a skittish little bird.

Every time the door to his room opens he jumps, when a servant puts something down too loudly he jumps, he flinches when the maesters try to inspect his burns.

You start to convince him to take walks around the castle to try and get him more at ease, but every little sound makes him anxious. He has no idea who to trust or what to do.

He gets better when you hold his hand though, and he really genuinely loves when you join him for walks around the castle. He knows he’s walking very slowly, too slow to be comfortable for someone not injured, but he’s so thankful that you’re walking with him anyway. He feels a lot better with you, and in a way it feels like alone time?

He’s always exhausted when he gets back to his room, but he’s also all smiles and even a few giggles when you help him out of his clothes and into more comfortable ones.

His smile drops the moment his mother or brother walks into the room though. Even though Allicent had no part in what happened to him, he blames her anyway. Not for him getting burnt, but for making him king? He blames her for not allowing him to run away, for not letting him give Aemond or Rhaenyra the crown.

When he tells you this, you kiss his head and remind him that if he wasn’t made king, you never would have married him. That makes him pause, and after a while all he says is, “Perhaps the crown is lighter than I thought.”

As he starts to get stronger and his skin starts to heal, he's able to get closer and closer to you. He genuinely nearly cries from happiness when he realises he can move to lay on his side. The moment he discovers this, he immediately curls up against you, resting his head against your chest.

You like that with him for a long time, the two of you whispering to each other and just being close. When you start to get tired, you try to gently shuffle away from him to go to the couch, because you don't want to risk hurting him in your sleep.

He instantly tightens his grip on you, whining and refusing to let go no matter what you say. You try to explain that you could roll over and hurt him, and he just holds you tighter, saying that's a price he's wiling to pay. He had been sleeping without you for far too long, and now that he was getting better he couldn't wait anymore.

You sleep better than you have in months that night.

When you wake up, Aegon is still in your arms, cuddled up against your side with his head on your chest. He seems to be moving in his sleep, almost rocking and it takes you a minute before you can realise he's hard, and gently trying to grind against you in his sleep.

Throughout his entire recovery up until that point, you had not done more than kiss him. Secretly, you thought that was very odd and worrying. Before Rook's Rest, Aegon would whine and cry if you dared to go three days without touching his cock. For as long as you've known him, he's always been very needy sexual and he would start to get jittery and unsettled if too long went by without you playing with him.

You had thought that when he started walking again, he'd also start trying to do something sexual with you. Of course you did not ask, because you didnt want him to feel pressured to do something before he was ready. You know Aegon, and you know if you asked then he would do it even if he wasnt ready because he so desperately wants to please you.

So when you realise he's hard and grinding against you in his sleep, you smile, thinking that maybe his body finally has the strength and energy to get turned on again.

You kiss the top of his head, gently running your hand down his unburnt side, letting your nails very lightly scratch his skin. This has always been his preferred method of waking up, and has never failed to him wake up slowly and then smile up at you.

When he starts to stir, you increase the pressure of your nails ever so slightly and it wakes him. He looks up at you, smiling and mumbling a good morning before pressing kisses to your chest and neck, wherever he can reach. He's still grinding against your leg, and at this point you're pretty sure he doesn't even mean to.

You kiss his head again before asking "Want me to help you feel good?" You would normally not even ask, knowing that he always wants you to play with him when he's like this. But because it's been so long and he's still so vulnerable, you ask him.

To your surprise, he goes completely stiff and then after a moment he tries to sit up.

"Aegon?" You ask, "What's wrong?"

He sniffles and mumbles an apology, and when you ask why he's apologising he says "You don't have to pretend to be attracted to me still."

Your heart breaks when you hear that, and you finally realise what has happened. Aegon probably was ready for things to get sexual once he was up and walking, but he thought you wouldn't want that?? He thought you weren't attracted to him anymore.

And well, you gently push him back down on the bed so that he's laying on his back and then you sit up right next to him, your hand going down his torso and towards his breeches. When you tell him that you are as attracted to him as you were the day you married him, he cums before your hand can even touch him.

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 16

part 1 | part 15 | ao3

cw: unsympathetic religious discussion, mentions of oral sex (istg if you’re under 18 i will send such a sternly worded letter to your legal guardian, go aWAY)

“So just, to recap…” Eddie says dully, digging a thumb into his brow bone like he’s got a headache coming on. He’s sitting on the floor with his back against a work bench — one knee drawn to his chest, the other stretched out long, nearly tripping Steve where he's pacing a hole into the concrete. He lets his head fall against the bench with a thunk, looks up at Steve and continues, “we just got abducted by two asthmatic freshmen—”

“Pretty sure Dustin's the only one with asthma.”

"Okay, and I’m pretty sure that doesn't fucking matter when we've just been kidnapped and forced to play the world’s shittiest version of Seven Minutes in Heaven!"

Eddie takes a shuddering breath, brings his voice back down an octave. "Sorry,” he says, then sighs morosely to himself. “Imprisoned by my own sheepies…”

What a goddamned drama queen.

“Sheepies?” Steve asks.

"Never mind,” Eddie huffs. “Just... I mean, Jesus Christ, is this really what's happening? This? This is really where my life's at right now?”

Steve’s been wondering that himself.

“It's an intervention!" Dustin screeches. "It's for your own good!” “I’m gonna intervene your head from your body!” “That doesn’t even make sense!” Steve gives the metal above him one final, fruitless shove, then sinks down on the steps and puts his head in his hands. Pinches the end of his nose. His voice is hoarse from yelling, his temples starting to throb. Eddie’s shaking beside him like a cat that fell in an ice bath. “Seriously,” he pleads, lowering his voice. “Let us out; this isn’t cool.” “We will, okay? We promise. Just talk to each other first. Please? Just fifteen minutes.” Aaand he's yelling again. "Fifteen— are you out of your mind??" He's about to say 'hell no,' or maybe 'go fuck yourself,' but then Dustin yelps, “U.S.S. Butterscotch!” 'U.S.S. Butterscotch.' It’s basically the Scoops Troop's 'Olly olly oxen free.' “Goddammit, dude, FINE!”

“....Yeah, that about sums it up." Steve runs a hand through his hair, sweeping his bangs back off his forehead.

Eddie gives him a worn-out stare. “Well, shit.”

“Yep.” He goes back to his pacing — back and forth, back and forth, like it's actually doing anything to calm him down. (It isn’t really. If anything it’s just making his lower back damp with sweat.)

On the floor, Eddie shivers and draws his other leg to his chest, chin resting on bony knees, arms wrapped around his legs. "Christ, it's freezing," he complains, rubbing a hand over his shins. "If we die of exposure before I get to exact my revenge on those little assholes I'm gonna be so pissed."

"Here—" Steve starts to shrug off his jacket to give it to Eddie, but then he remembers the pills he still has stashed in the left pocket and abruptly changes course. He turns to the storage shelves, scanning for anything that might be useful, and— "There we go."

He makes his way to a messy pile of old camping supplies, scoops up an armful of whatever he can find: sleeping bags, flashlights, a lantern, some old citronella candles. They won't do much for warmth, but they'll make the place a bit less Russian torture chamber, at least.

Eddie eyes him a little warily as he sets up a spot right beside him on the floor. He spreads one sleeping bag out for them to sit on like a picnic blanket; offers the other one to Eddie, who drapes it over his shoulders like a cloak, his long, dark curls spilling over the edge.

"You got a light?" he asks, arranging the candles and the lantern in a half-circle around them.

"Sure do,” Eddie says. His face lights up when he slips a hand inside his pocket. "Oh, hell yeah, baby! Look what else I got."

He pulls out a silver flask, flashing it at Steve, and Steve ignores the way the words 'hell yeah, baby' bounce around his skull like an echo through an empty cavern.

"A little insurance policy in case the dinner party was a bore." Eddie unscrews the lid; takes a wincing swig. "Would have taken boring over this, though. Think I might’ve gotten a little more excitement than I bargained for." "Yeah,” Steve laughs under his breath. "You think?"

Eddie passes him the flask, sets to lighting all the wicks while Steve takes a shot. The whiskey is cheap, and it stings on the way down, but it's nice. Warm. Liquid amber in his chest, glowing like the candlelight Eddie sparks to life.

Eddie settles down beside him. With the workbench at their backs and the warm tint to the room, it's almost cozy. Reminds him of backyard sleepovers with Tommy; a little fortress built for two.

“Do you think they’re still listening?” Eddie's eyes flit to the stairs.

“Probably." Steve takes another swig, gesturing to the shadows beyond their makeshift camp. "He probably got Suzie to help him bug this whole place."

"Ah, yes. The crazy hot, crazy smart summer camp girlfriend who totally exists."

"She does, actually,” Steve laughs, “if you can believe it."

"No shit?"

"I know, right? I mean, like..." He scratches the side of his nose. "She's Mormon and lives all the way out in Utah, so it's not exactly like... but, whatever. He's super into her, so—"

"Hold up. Dustin's dating a Mormon?" Eddie says it like he’s spitting sunflower hulls. "That's almost worse than her being fake."

“What, you got some kinda history with Mormons?”

“Oh, yeah," Eddie snorts derisively. "The Mormons and I go waaay back."

"Wait, for real?" Was Eddie in a cult? Because that would actually explain so much.

"Dude. No. Hell no. Those fuckers love to solicit the downtrodden, though. They show up at the park all the time.”

“Great,” Steve deadpans. Another wonderful amenity of the Forest Hills experience.

“Don’t worry. Wayne usually just crosses himself at them until they go away.” He makes the sign of the cross, his rings glinting in the light. “Catholic middle-aged men and LDS teens, now there’s some quality petty drama.”

“So you’re Catholic, then?” Steve asks.

“Jesus, Harrington. We’re supposed to be kissing and making up and you want to start a religious debate?”

No, he absolutely does not. He wants to make fun of Eddie, because, "That’s the second time you’ve mentioned kissing." Eddie’s cheeks go horribly pink; peach tint in the deep orange glow. “First you wanna suck my blood at dinner, now you’re talking about making out. What next?” Steve teases. “You gonna offer to suck my dick?”

He means it as a joke — a slightly rude one, sure; insinuating, but still. He expects Eddie to get it, to roll his eyes and play along. Ha ha, Harrington.

When he used to say shit like this to Tommy, Tommy would always just laugh and shove him off, tell him to go suck it yourself.

Only Eddie doesn’t laugh.

Eddie goes quiet. Runs his tongue over his teeth. He fixes Steve with one of those looks; the kind that make him feel like a burglar caught in a flood light’s beam. “Why?" he teases back. "Did you want me to or something?”

—

part 17

tag list below the cut comment if you want to be added to the next one

@acedorerryn @ahsokatanoss @angrydonutdestiny @annabanannabeth @anne-bennett-cosplayer @awolfstudio @bananahoneycomb @bronwenmarie @burymestanding @cheonsazu @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @courtjestermunson @cr0w-culture @cuips-not-cute @dauntlessdiva @dawners @dontwasteyourchances @eddie-munsons-missing-nipple @eriquin @estrellami-1 @evillittleguy @fandomfix8 @foolofentirelytoomanyfandoms @goodolefashionedloverboi @gregre369 @griefabyss69 @grtwdsmwhr @heartsong18 @hellion-child @hotluncheddie @jackiemonroe5512 @jaytriesstuff @kassifieddocuments @littlebluejane @lololol-1234 @marklee-blackmore @melonmochi @messrs-weasley @mrsjellymunson @mugloversonly @nburkhardt @noodle-shenaniganery @notsopersonalcharlie @novelnovella @pending-dope-username @perseus-notjackson @ppunkpuppyy @remosdeerica @runninriot @sadcanadianwinter

[katerinaaqu]

The Death of Odysseus

So...I decided to chop myself some onions today! This idea was in my head quite some time! I am planning a Part 2 of this but I believe this can also stand on its own! As the title says...

Telemachus was marching across the hall slowly and steadily while supporting the body of his old father. Surely the celebrations for the harvest were going very well and people were having fun but the new King of the Cephallinians had to excuse himself to escort his father to his chambers, for he had apparently drunk more than what he should have and needed his rest. He didn’t mind that little break. Telemachus was never fond of huge crowds anyways and he liked some quiet and solitude. Ever since his father finally came back home after his redemption trip he often spent more time with him than with the servants! He had so much catch up to do with him and so much to talk about and learn from him! As the years passed and Telemachus finally grew old and experienced enough to become king at his own accord, Odysseus gave the throne to him, just like his father before him had also done, and he promised to support him. For Odysseus himself, his life seemed to have been completed with happiness. After his son got married and he brought to this world his beloved grandson, Perseptolis, whom he named after the family tradition himself, his happiness was completed. He had nothing more to expect. He felt his heart was filled with happiness and calmness after a lifetime of worries, torture and ordeals! His son had grown, he was doing a marvelous job as a king, and his grandson was strong and healthy, growing every day! What else could he ask for! Odysseus was already 79 years old, just a few hours away of his 80th birthday. Age was taking over his body pretty fast, especially given the ordeals he had gone through; his bones were often complaining, his arms and fingers often suffered from stiffness and pain, especially when the nights were humid and cold but Odysseus welcomed that pain with happiness. He had grown old when so many others wouldn’t even dream of and he was generally healthy; he still had all of his teeth and most of his hair and his wits were sharp as always, not deteriorating by age. He would praise Athena every day of his life for this. Somehow he would hate to become an imbecile with age, or so he used to say, he would hate to become a burden to his son especially given the sorrows he had given him unintentionally all these years back. Telemachus chuckled as he fixed his staggering father onto his body better.

“Now, now, father!” he said playfully, “I swear to gods, the older you get the more like a child you act!”

Odysseus chuckled.

“Well, my son, I am now old man, I have no responsibilities anymore other than catering to my family’s garden and play with your son and dear grandson of mine; gods bless him! I believe I earned myself the privilege to act so!”

Telemachus rolled his eyes.

“Even so, you shouldn’t have drunk so much! In your age you should watch your health better!”

Odysseus once again chuckled and made a dismissive move with his hand.

“Oh well…” he said nonchalant, “Wine is one of the few pleasures I have left in this miserable world at my age, my son!”

“Oh, father!” Telemachus scoffed, “Come on now!”

“Either way!” Odysseus shrugged, “This year’s brew was just too good to resist! And you did very good job selecting it and choosing the perfect time for the sea water to be mixed in it! You made it hard to resist!”

“Father! You’re unbelievable!”

“Part of my charm, I’m sure!”

Telemachus couldn’t help himself chuckle softly as he led his father to his bed chamber, to his beloved olive bed. Initially Odysseus had given that as a wedding chamber to his son and his daughter-in-law but for the past few months Odysseus had made this request if he could live his last days in that room where he gave life to this family, where he used to share with his mother his nights and early mornings. Odysseus was devastated when Penelope died. He mourned her for weeks. However Telemachus saw also how calmly he took it. They both grew old and finally enjoyed their lives. That last tribute of Odysseus closing her eyes seemed simply to close that circle. Odysseus mourned but he didn’t despair. He greeted her death like an old friend and thanked all gods that it found his wife healthy and happy and that she died peacefully in her sleep. Penelope had also requested that she were to be transferred to her old bed a little before she died; this was where she had left her last breath. Therefore, after Odysseus made the same request, Telemachus feared his father had sensed his own death coming, thus making him even more careful and worried of him. His father was dismissive of it, of course, and in a way he was right; he wouldn’t be around forever, but to Telemachus the news of losing his father were too sad, too scary to comprehend even if it was the most normal thing in the world. Either way he now led his father to his bed, slowly and steadily and assisted him to it. Odysseus sighed in relief as he was placed upon the mattress and assisted out of his sandals by his son. His son often did this; he attended to him himself, not asking the servants to do things like this. It was as if he was trying to make up the lost time. He breathed deeply again as the bed sheets were paced above his body as well as a blanket his wife had loomed for him; his favorite. It pictured an intricate pattern of olive branches, moly flowers and waves circling a ship that roamed close to a mountain-like island. The ship had three figures standing on them embracing. Penelope had spent months on this blanket and she had given to him as a gift a few years before when he was complaining for the pains in his body from the cold. His father could hardly part with it lately. He even jokingly (or perhaps not so much) said that he wanted this blanket to be his funeral shroud, covering the sheet.

“Is it comfortable?” Telemachus asked

“Yes, thank you…” Odysseus whispered

His hand slowly touched Telemachus’s cheek, feeling the black, curly, bushy beard covering it along with his warm flesh. He smiled affectionately with moist, onyx-black eyes, perceiving those blue eyes of his wife’s to him. Yes, Telemachus was their pride and joy. He took the best out of both of them! He had his strength, his resilience and he had taken his mother’s eyes, her kindness…her wisdom… Yes, Odysseus was proud of what they had done. This pride was exceeding any of the labors he performed in any war; any praise he ever received in his life seemed insignificant before this result he had before him…

“You go back to the celebrations, my son…” he whispered affectionately, “Go back and have fun…don’t spend the rest of the night here with your old father… I will be fine…”

Telemachus scoffed softly, feeling strangely emotional. For some reason his own eyes felt almost watery.

“You silly old man!” he whispered cupping his father’s hand on his cheek with his own, “Anyways, are you sure you are okay? I can ring for someone to come and attend to you”

“Positive…” Odysseus whispered, “I am fine. I will just sleep. I am really tired”

Telemachus shook his head defeated.

“Fine, but please do not hesitate to call if you need anything”

He stood up to leave.

“Telemachus”

Odysseus’s hand holding his wrist made him stop. He turned to look at the old, white-haired figure of his father’s.

“Thank you…” the tormented king whispered, “…For everything…”

Telemachus half-chuckled, again not sure why he was so emotional all of the sudden. Perhaps he too had more to drink than he should have and it affected him.

“What?” he asked, “That sounded almost like a goodbye…”

Odysseus smiled. His smile was calm and his eyes were glistering in the moonlight.

“What an idea!” he whispered, “There is much life left in these old bones! I buried many much younger than me! I have plenty of years ahead of me!”

Telemachus chuckled.

“Rest well, old man” he whispered and kissed his father’s brow

Odysseus could only nod as he watched his pride and joy, his son who grew strong and healthy, leave the wedding chamber where he was born into, with his crimson cape waving behind him. He smiled as he was alone in the moonlit room…his eyes shedding two tears.

He knew it was a lie.

It was the last, white lie Odysseus of Ithaca was to say…his last goodbye to this world and he wanted to see them off all smiling and celebrating. He didn’t want his last memory to be of his son crying or closing his eyes. This was the last task he had to do himself; alone. He didn’t have much time left and he knew it…and yet he felt calm. He had fulfilled his purpose. There was nothing else for him… He was happy.

*

He was breathing heavily. His large chest (not as muscular as it used to be) was moving up and down with each breath. He looked up at the canopy of olive branches and smiled. His eyes then moved to the side, to the window that had a clear view of the sea… His eyes filled with tears but these tears wouldn’t shed.

“Death will find you at ripe old age…peacefully…away from the sea…or by its salt huh…?” he whispered chanting the words of Tiresias

Death was something he considered so many times in his life; both with aversion and fear as well as with wishful thinking. Now he felt calm. He could hardly understand how he had survived so long; how he lived longer than many other men of his time; longer than his beloved Penelope… Now he knew it was his time drawing near… There in his favorite bed, under his olive tree…looking at the sea that gave him so much happiness so much adventure and so much torment… He felt calm. He closed his eyes for one second lifting away the tears that had filled his eyes.

“Odysseus…”

The unworldly and yet somehow familiar voice brought him back to reality. He opened his eyes to see that tall figure he never thought he would see again in his life; one of the few people that he wished to have met again and never did. His tall, square figure shone with incredible warm light, dressed up in a fine armor incorporating intricate patterns of feathers instead of plates. His magnificent plumed helmet brought up his dark eyes and the beard that adorned his cheeks and chin. He had a sword to his hip just like he could remember. His skin shone like golden, his long, brown curly hair neatly falling down his back under the helmet. He smiled without wanting to at that rigid figure before him.

“Diomedes!” he whispered

Diomedes smiled.

“It is I, Odysseus…indeed…”

Odysseus chuckled in delight.

“Wow…” he whispered, “I heard you bastard turned into a god by rumors but, on my word, I never expected to see it with my eyes… Gods you look the same as I remember…you haven’t changed!”

“Nothing and everything has changed…” Diomedes said in his deep, soothing voice

A god then! Odysseus didn’t know if he had to feel proud or a bit envious of him! However after years and years he spent on earth and learnt humility in the most painful ways, his envy was reduced to minimum. Diomedes deserved it, if half the stories that reached his ears about him were true. Besides who would want to live forever like this? He had people waited for him somewhere else too…

“So…” Odysseus whispered, “If you are here…that means…I am dying…right?”

“Yes…” Diomedes whispered.

That was definitely Diomedes he remembered. He never beat about the bushes and always came straight to the point.

“And you came to take me…”

“I asked Lord Hermes for the honor…yes.” Diomedes replied, “I was assigned with this task.”

“I see…”

“Are you afraid…?”

“No” the answer was simple; direct, “I have lived a long life…I have seen my son grow, I held my grandson in my hands…I nourished him too, to become a young man, I held my wife as she breathed my name one last time… I have nothing else to live for. My time would come… Death does no longer scare me. Death is not unknown to me…”

“Do you have any regrets?”

Yet another direct question. He breathed in and out once, looking upwards in thought.

“I would be a liar if I said I had none…” he finally confessed, “Many good men found death by my hand…many wicked too… I did many things I am proud of and many others I would always carry with me… The lives that fell under my command; both friends and foes alike are always present at my conscious”

“The war of Troy…”

“The war of Troy” Odysseus agreed, “Ten years we fought. Ten years we bled. Ten years we killed…and killed we did!”

“You and I especially”

“Quite so.” Odysseus agreed. “They called you ‘Lord of War Cry’; they called me ‘Sacker of Cities’… The titles would haunt us for the rest of our lives…”

“We bore them all our lives”

“Yes…we did…” he consequently scoffed, “And look at us now! You a god…and I an old man in my deathbed…who would have thought!”

“Do you want to linger a bit further…?”

Odysseus looked around once more.

“No” he replied, “I have lived everything any mortal could live. I am tired, Diomedes. Please take me now…I have nothing else to expect…”

Diomedes smiled one of his known, half-smiles. Child-soldier to the end; a man born and raised in war.

“I am to accompany you to your journey for a little while”

Odysseus smiled again.

“The journey to the Underworld is not unknown to me…I have not many surprises to expect… But I appreciate it…”

Diomedes extended his hand to him.

“It is time…” he whispered, “Time to go…”

“Yes…” Odysseus whispered, “I have one last request…”

“And what is that…?”

“Can I see my homeland one last time as I go…? Please…do not deny me this last thing…”

Diomedes smiled.

“Of course…”

Odysseus cried. He felt the last tears run down his wrinkled cheeks.

“Thank you…”

He took the hand of his old friend and closed his eyes. Once more, the much-enduring Odysseus accepted his fate… The last thing he saw before his eyelids blocked his mortal flesh eyes was the canopy of his olive bed and a tiny glimpse of the starry sky beyond…

***

My oh my what have I done indeed!!!! And be warned I was writing this while listening to this amazing piece of music from anime Tasogare Otome x Amnesia! I never manage to go through without tearing up with that one! TT-TT

So according to the prophecy of Tiresias Odysseus would die of ripe old age peacefully but ironically the translation from the phrase "εξ αλός" can be both translated "by its salt" or "away/out of its salt" so either his death would come "by the sea" or "away from the sea".

Somehow I tried once again to combine them! XD as you know me I cannot help myself. So Odysseus dies "away from the sea" in his bed at night but "by its salt" for he drank wine mixed with sea water before his death. There you go!

The age was picked so that Telemachus would be in his 40s when this happens. In a way he is at the same age as Odysseus was when he was at the final wars of Troy.

Yeah I imagined Telemachus being almost a copy of his father too apart from some more height and the eyes of Penelope (which were chosen randomly to be blue)

Tlemachus's wife is not named because the two prominient theories is either he gets married to the daughter of Nestor's or to Nausicaa. I sometimes tend to lean towards the second one solely because I find it interesting but I leave it to your imagination.

Perseptolis being named by Odysseus was part of an idea discussed with @ditoob before how the grandfather or grandmother leaves the name to the grandchildren after Autolycus names Odysseus.

And Diomedes is here!!! Imagine if these two never met so many years and meet when Odysseus dies!!! The idea was too much stuck in my head to ignore! So yes lo and behold my idea of a small dialog between them.

I hope you like it!

[ramsayxme]

You've Been Watching Me.

You dried your dripping hands across the front of your horribly filthy skirt. Back home, you wouldn't even allow your lowest servant to wear such a filthy piece of clothing. Everything was different now, you sighed as you finished washing the last dish. You could still hear the loud laughter trickling in from the dining hall while you emptied the washing bucket down the drain. You didn't have servants anymore; you were the servant.

You didn't remember much about when Ramsay Bolton captured you, but you did remember you lost everything. You used to have your own warm bed to sleep in with layers and layers of carefully hand woven blankets draped all across, each with a beautiful design. You used to love to run your hand along the intricate designs that were woven with such grace, skill, and care...Now you fiddle with the loose twine that holds your skirt from falling down to your ankles. Not quite as beautiful.

You can't even begin to imagine what you look like now. Your long brown hair felt wiry and stringy but greasy and oily at the same time. Your eyes felt sunken from lack of sleep. You felt bony and scrawny, unable to remember the last time you felt the sensation of fullness in your belly. You sighed as you exited the kitchen chamber and into the hallway. There was one good bit about being captured, though. Your captor was a handsome monster.

Of course, you knew how horrible, vicious, and vile this man was. After all, you had witnessed it first hand a few times so far. Regrettably, there was something about him that peaked your interest. There was a slight sexiness to the way he asserted dominance and power, as if he had no fears in the whole world. You had studied Ramsay's face many times while he was asserting his power, and you had always noticed the way he lit up. It was obviously arousing for him to watch people squirm until they give in to him.

Last week, you had watched in the shadows while he tortured and mutilated the man who was formerly known as Theon Greyjoy, now just a broken pet named Reek. You felt yourself heat up just by watching him abuse his power and ever since then, you had fantasized about him using that power on you. You were obviously ashamed of this, but you knew it was just a fantasy and nothing more.

You finally reached your bed chambers, your bare feet chilled from the cold stone of the castle. You walked over to your small fire that was still glowing, and you climbed on your unstable 'bed' right in front of the stone fireplace. It was made with a plank resting on uneven stones and covered with a few pelts. It was wildly uncomfortable. Your room was tiny, but you weren't in it much. You were either doing your chores or sneaking around, trying to catch glimpses of Ramsay throughout the day. You liked watching him.

You were so unimportant to him that he never noticed you. You could just pretend to be sweeping the floor while he ate dinner, cleaning the linens while he screamed at another servant, or just simply laying low in the shadows like you did the other day. You felt your adrenaline rush when you watched him. You couldn't help yourself!

You began warming your ice cold toes by the fire, reaching down and rubbing them slightly. You were lost in your thoughts when you heard your door slam. As you jumped to turn around, you saw one of the other servants standing at your door. It was a scraggly looking boy, you guessed not much older than 15. "Oh. You scared me." You said, turning back towards the fire. The boy still stood at your door. "What is it?"

He looked down at the floor. "Ramsay has requested you." You felt your heart race in secret. "What? Why? I haven't done anything wrong." You had not yet turned back to the boy. "I don't know." He muttered, "He asked for you. Let's go, before he gets angry at me." The boy had just planted an idea in your head. Poor boy.

"I don't believe you." You smirked, still facing the fire. "Come on!" He begged, a little louder and much more desperate this time. "You know he doesn't like to be kept waiting, please..." You sighed and stood up to face the boy. "What do you imagine he wants from me?" You pretended to be too scared to go with him. The boy quickly shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, but we can find out. Please. Hurry." He was truly terrified. You felt excitement bubble up in you. "Fine." You finally agreed.

The boy led you down the hallway to one of the side chambers. It was similar to the dining hall but a little smaller. He pushed the door, causing a loud squeaking noise to fill the air. You stepped inside and saw Ramsay sitting at the table. He was alone. You felt a shiver slither up your spine, but it wasn't fear. You tried to look scared.

"That took... longer than I wanted." Ramsay said softly, his eyes staring into the young boy. You heard the boy shift his weight, obviously uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. She... she didn't want to come right away, she moved slowly." He whispered, his eyes glancing at your feet on the floor. You shook your head, determined to make Ramsay angry at the boy. You felt guilty, but you wanted to watch him get mad. "Not true, Ramsay. He got lost on the way. I tried to tell him to take a left after the dining hall, but he didn't listen to me."

The boy's jaw hung slack as he stared at you, realizing what you were doing. "I see." Ramsay said, his eyes still stuck on the boy. You watched Ramsay inhale deeply as he pulled his shoulders back. He was wearing a front buttoned vest with a wool long sleeve underneath it. His curly dark hair swooped over his eyebrows and his piercing blue eyes shifted around underneath. His jaw was strong as he grit his teeth. He exhaled his breath with the words "Come here", directed to the boy. He sulked over, slouching wit defeat as he approached Ramsay.

Ramsay reached out and grabbed a handful of the boy's horribly messy hair. He yanked him down to his face and whispered something into the boys ear. You couldn't hear what he said, but you felt yourself get excited watching Ramsay be so powerful. The boy shuddered as Ramsay let go of his hair, a smile breaking across his face. "Run along now!" Ramsay yelled, sending the boy running out the door. He swung it shut as he left, causing it to slam loudly.

Now, it was just you and Ramsay...alone.

"Yes, Ramsay, what did you need from me?" You ask, breaking the silence in the room. Ramsay smiles, his lips slowly unveiling his sharp incisors as he grins wider. "Have you enjoyed it?" He asked, his voice deep and quiet. You felt a wave of anxiety flow across your torso. "Enjoy what?" You asked. He did not answer you. He simply lifted his hand and gave a 'come here' motion. His eyes were peering at you from behind his curls. You swallowed a small bubble of nerves as you stepped closer to him.

He did not seem satisfied until you were at the other edge of the table, directly across from him. He looked up at you, his shoulders square and his breathing steady. You stared in silence for a moment before he began chuckling. "You do enjoy it!" He laughed. You still weren't sure what he was saying but before you could ask, he answered for you. "You've been watching me."

You opened your mouth to argue, but Ramsay kept going. "You think you're sneaky, but you're not, no you are far from it! Do you really think I don't know everything that happens around here?" He swirled his finger around in the air, indicating the whole castle. "I noticed you watching me the first time you did it. I saw you in the corners when I was..." his eyes rolled around as he was trying to find the right words. "...playing with Reek."

Again, you opened your mouth to speak. "You like it, don't you?" Ramsay asks more firmly this time. All you can do is slowly nod your head. He knows. He has known this whole time. "What exactly do you enjoy about it? Do you like hearing the screams of pain too? Or is it something else?" He asks you. His eyes are very intense. He is staring directly at your face and you feel your cheeks flush. "I...." "Speak up, dear. I can't hear you." He grinned.

"I like watching you... I don't really know what it is, but I like watching you be powerful." Ramsay snickers at this. "It is not the torture alone that you enjoy, but its watching me torture others? You like my power?" He asked you although his voice oozed with confidence that he already knew the right answer. You hesitated to answer, and with a ~shing~ you heard Ramsay unsheathe one of his knives from his belt, twirling it in his hand, and then pointing it at you. "Answer me." He demanded, his eyebrows raised.

Oh, Gods. You swallowed another bubble, but again, it wasn't fear. You felt a breathy whimper slowly escape your lips as you sighed. "Yes." His eyes seemed to light up to your response, and perhaps also the moan that crept out. "Wonderful." He said, still pointing the knife at you. "Come here." He demanded. You swiftly walked around the table and stood facing him at his side. Your breathing was quick, you were so close to touching him.

He stood up quickly, pushing the chair out from under him with a loud scrape on the floor. He turned to you, making direct and intense eye contact immediately. You felt your breath hitch in your throat. He slowly brought the knife up to your neck and pressed the tip of the blade against your throat. "Now," He began, his voice low and breathy, his face only inches from yours. "I want you to do something for me to show me how much you enjoy watching me. Can you do that for me?"

You gently nodded your head, staring into his hungry eyes. He pressed the knife against you harder, the edge of it barely nicking your jaw. "Use your words." He groaned through gritted teeth. "Yes... yes, I can do it..." You didn't recognize your own voice. It sounded smoother and thicker than usual. Ramsay dropped the blade on the table. "Are you going to do anything I say?" He asked, almost cooing at you. His lips were close enough to your face that if you barely leaned forward, you would be kissing him. You felt the warmth of his breath on your own lips.

"Yes, I will do anything you-" Before you can finish your sentence, his hand wraps around your throat tightly. You feel your airway cut off and watch his eyes widen as he chokes you. You reach your hands up and place them on the hand around your throat out of instinct. His eyes dart across your face, almost as if he is examining every tiny movement you make. You notice his breathing is steady and controlled even though his eyes are wild and his teeth are barred. He lets his grip loosen a bit, but doesn't completely let go. You want him.

You lean forward slightly, in hopes to kiss him. He doesn't allow you, his grip tightens when you lean. "What do you think you're doing?" He chuckles at your pathetic attempt of romance. "Are we making love now? No, I don’t believe we are." Ramsay just laughs at you as he releases your throat and sits back down in the chair. "Get under the table." He demands. You do not hesitate this time.

You crouch under the table and sit on your shins, the stone is hard on your knees but you can't seem to be bothered. Ramsay scoots his chair back so he can peer down at you, and you stare up at him. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat and your stomach. You watch him intently as his hands dip to his trousers and he unlaces his waistband, his gaze never leaving your face. You watch as he pulls on his trousers, releasing his erection for you. You sharply inhale, watching him do this is something you thought was only possible in your dark fantasies. He snickers as he pulls himself out of his pants completely, and interlaces his fingers before resting his hands on the table in front of him. He stares down at you with a dominant glare and you feel yourself melt slightly.

You sit eagerly on the floor, watching him as he raises his eyebrows at you. “Well? You enjoy watching me, now let me enjoy watching you.” You feel your stomach flip in your body with excitement. You scoot forward on your shins and place your head on his knee. You stare up at him and manage to whisper “I’ve been fantasizing about this for days.” He gives you a closed lip smile and nods. “I know. I can tell. Now, go on…” You take a deep breath in and stare at his erection. You can’t believe this is about to happen. You want to pleasure him more than you’ve ever wanted to do anything in your life. You reach your hands up and wrap one of your hands around the base of his shaft as you place your lips on the warm tip of his cock.

Slowly, you began kissing the head. You swirl your tongue gently as you allow your eyes to flutter shut. His head is soft and smooth, your tongue gliding across him with ease. You kiss deeper, allowing his entire tip in your mouth. You sense Ramsay take a deep breath, making your core heat up. You’re really pleasuring this powerful man. You feel so special and invincible. Your confidence seeps out of your body through your actions as you open your mouth wider and take in more of him. You were moving slow but with intention. You felt his cock in the back of your throat and you began bobbing up and down, methodically and determined. Ramsay sighed again, his hands must have left their spot at the table because one of his hands wrapped around your hair at the back of your neck. You felt the slight pressure on the back of your head as he placed his hand there, softly pushing your head down to ease his cock snugly in your mouth.

You continued to pleasure him, now allowing his cock to fully enter your throat. You started losing control as he began taking control, you knew this was bound to happen. You knew that Ramsay wouldn't actually give you full control. You felt him wrap your hair around his fist once, and then grip on it tightly. He pushed and pulled your head, using your mouth at whatever speed pleased him. It was uncomfortable for you, but you were more focused on the grunts and breathy sighs coming from his throat.

Without warning, he shoved his chair back and stood up; leaving you alone under the table with your dripping chin. "Get up." He growled, his grin proving that his demand was enticing. You stumbled to your feet and stood, your ass against the edge of the table. Ramsay smiled at you for a moment before diving his face into the crook of your neck. He yanked the fabric of your shirt down your shoulder, allowing the soft skin to be exposed to him. You sucked in a breath as he began kissing your neck eagerly with bites in between kisses. You felt yourself groan when he bit down a bit harder, which made him reach to your waist and squeeze your hips.

His hands snaked from your hips to behind your thighs as he lifted you, setting you down on the table. You frantically began pulling your skirt up, bunching it around your torso. Ramsay chuckled at this. "You're an eager one." He whispered into your ear before biting down on the flesh directly below your earlobe. A whimper escaped your lips. You realized your arms were desperately tugging at Ramsay's sleeves and the front of his vest. Gods, you were not very good at hiding your lust for him. He stepped back one step before yanking his vest open and tearing it off. Then, he pulled the wool long sleeve over his head. You gawked at the sight, his pale and toned frame heaving as he stared at you with a predatory glare.

He stepped forward again, pressing himself against your core. Your skirt was still bunched around your sides, fully exposing yourself. Ramsay's cock nudged at your entrance as he allowed his trousers to fall from his thighs to his ankles. You reached out in an attempt to allow your fingers to graze over his pale skin, but he stopped you with his own hands. He grabbed your wrists and tucked them at your sides. "Lay down. Hands under your lower back." You obeyed, slowly leaning backwards and tucking your arms underneath the small of your back. "Good." He quietly praised you.

He grabbed the same knife from the edge of the table and wielded it in his hand. He leaned forward, pressing it against your neck, the cold blade sending shivers down your body. He slid the knife under the neckline of your shirt and easily sliced through the filthy fabric, exposing your breast to him. He pulled the shirt open like a cloak and began kneading at your chest while he nudged at your entrance, his cock pressing against your needy core. The knife returned to your throat as he lined himself up with your cunt. His free hand still groping your body, squeezing and pulling at your soft flesh. He leaned forward, pressing his length inside you easily. You were clearly very aroused, as your body was slick and easy to enter.

You whined as he stretched you. He enjoyed your whimpers. He clenched his jaw as he began pumping in and out, not allowing your body to adjust. You cried out with a combination of pain and pleasure, and Ramsay simply growled in return. He continued to press the knife against your throat, the blade threatening to slice through your skin at any moment. He did not break eye contact while he began fucking you. His icy eyes bore deep into your own, causing your stomach to flutter with arousal. This was unlike anything you had ever experienced. Seeing Ramsay abuse his power was one thing, but watching him to do it to you? Incredible.

You felt yourself growing warm, your body fully adjusting to him and beginning to float with pure bliss. You must've gave your enjoyment away on your face, because Ramsay pulled his cock from you. You whimpered as you felt empty, and your eyes snapped open to see him take a step backwards. "Get up." He demanded. You brought yourself off the table and realized how sore your arms and shoulders were. You stood in front of Ramsay, your skirt falling back to its original length.

"I can't have you enjoying this too much." He cooed, shaking his head with disappointment. He brought the knife back to your throat. You swallowed as you watched his eyes scan over your face. His other hand grabbed your hands and he brought them to his wet cock, still hard. "Please me." He demanded as he grabbed the nape of your neck once again. "Yes, Ramsay." You obeyed. You began stroking his cock while he leaned into you. You were using your hands to please him while he kept the knife pressed against you and had your hair wrapped around his other hand. He turned your head to the side, giving him access to your neck and ear. He breathed against your ear, causing goosebumps to rip across your skin.

He kissed your earlobe as the knife pressed against your jawline. You were steadily and rhythmically using your hands to jerk him off. Your mind blurred as you pleased him. Your brain drowned in the sounds of his shaky breaths and moans between the kisses on your neck. You knew he was growing close to orgasm, the grip on your hair was extremely tight and the knife was pressed against your jaw firmly. You were afraid he would slice your throat without knowing.

His hips began thrusting forward, his body begging for more pleasure. He lurched a few times before his thighs tightened and the knife actually dug into your jawline. He came, releasing a groan from deep within his belly as he did. You were gasping for air just as much as he was, you hadn't realized you had been holding your breath. He came down from his climax and finally released your hair. He noticed the nick on your jawline from his knife and he chuckled. "I got a bit carried away, didn't I?" He reached out to your chin and pulled it towards him, allowing you to face him once more. He pressed his lips against yours, kissing your mouth for the first time. You felt your heart flutter. The kiss was too short. He pulled away and bent over to pull his trousers up.

"Go wash your wound. I may need you again later tonight." He grinned as he turned to walk away, leaving you a panting mess. You were desperate for your own release, feeling the sexual tension built up in your own body. You watched Ramsay disappear in the hallway and you looked down at yourself. Your open shirt hanging off your elbows. Your dress even dirtier than it was before, but this time you didn't really seem to mind as much.

[thelov3lybookworm]

Can I ask somthing? You can totally ignore this if you're not comfortable!! Can you write somthing like reader has been SA'ed before and az or cass or Rhys(your choice who) doesn't know this and tries to take things to 3rd base but reader gets really uncomfortable and tells them what she's been through so the bat boy comforts her saying he'll wait however long he has to for her, holding her and then goes all angry psycho on the person who SA'ed her.

(I was SA'ed a few years ago and the 'date' is coming closer that's why I just need somthing to keep my mind distracted. Plzzzz ignore this if you aren't comfortable with it!! I totally understand!)

Finally Safe

Summary: Reader is the youngest of the Vanserra's, but like Lucien, is the daughter of Helion. She has a pretty dark past that she doesn't even want to think about, and so, no one other than she herself knows about it.

When her mate tries to take things further in their relationship, everything she has kept inside herself comes spilling out.

•○●⛦●○•

A/n: Hi my love! I am soo glad that you sent this ask, it makes me so happy (this one is the first fic request I've received! I also feel extremely honored that you chose me for writing such a sensitive topic).

Also, I'm soo sorry that you had to go through that! I've never had any experience with SA or anyone who went through it, so I'm not sure if I can write something that really captures the depth of the situation, but I did listen to a few SA stories and podcasts ('Rotten Mango' podcasts, if any of you wanted to know) and I'll try my best with this.

Also, I've had this story idea for like a year now since I finished reading acosf, so I'm going with Azriel for this one.

Aaand I tried to make it as long as possible, hope it what you wanted to read.

Hope you like it! Enjoy!

Tw: mentions of SA, not graphic torture scene under '•○●⛦●○•', none more that I can think of, so let me know if I need to add anything.

•○🌑○•

Everywher her eyes went, there was darkness.

All she could hear, laughter, grunts and disgusting words spewed from equally disgusting mouths.

All she could smell was sweat, her own tears, and things she didn't want to think about.

All she could feel was the nauseating touches of a male she didn't know and the cool ground under her back.

All she could taste was the bile climbing up her throat.

She just wanted it to be over. She just wanted them to leave so she could curl up into a ball and cry herself to sleep.

Why?

She kept asking herself.

Why me?

She would probably never get the answer to it. And even if she did, she'd never understand how someone could do something as horrible as this.

Then she started screaming. As she always did.

•○🌑○•

Y/n jerked up, her chest heaving. She sat up, scooting back towards the headboard and pressing herself against it, tugging the blankets to cover herself as her eyes frantically searched around for any sign of movement in her chambers.

Of course, there was no one, but the fear never went away. Probably never would.

Long moments went by as she tried to calm herself, telling herself that she was safe. That she wasn't in that dungeon anymore. That she was far from it, she was in Day Court.

Her actual father's domain, apparently.

Soon after Amarantha had trapped everyone Under the Mountain, her mother had broken the news to her. That she wasn't Beron's daughter, but Helion's. And then, secretly, over the decades, Helion and Y/n had started to spend more time together. Her father was guilty that he hadn't been there for her when she was a kid, and so the two of them tried to make up for the time they had lost.

Y/n shook her head, laying down again and deciding to atleast try to get some sleep. There was going to be an important meeting in a few hours, and all the High Lords were going to arrive for the meeting. For planning the course of the war against Hybern.

She needed all the sleep she could get as it would be very stressful and she was supposed to be present as her father's Second in Command.

Still, she could not sleep. Knowing she would not be able to sleep anytime soon, she finally stood and made her way to the washing chamber when the watery rays of sunlight filtered in through the window.

She scrubbed herself raw in scalding hot water in hopes of washing away all the phantom stickiness she still felt on her body. After that, she got dressed in a white and golden flowy gown, the colours of Day.

Being the second of command of Helion wasn't the only reason she wrote this colours.

It would also be making a statement. That she had chosen Day Court over Autumn Court.

Beron knew she wasn't his daughter. He also thought that she was picked up from a dumpster. That's what Lady of Autumn had told him.

When she was pregnant with Y/n, she had stayed away from Beron for months, and when she returned, she returned with a newborn, saying she found the baby on the side of a road near a dumping ground. Beron didn't care as long as he was not concerned in the child's upbringing.

After Feyre had ended Amarantha's reign, Y/n had left the Autumn Court, making the excuse that she wanted to settle somewhere else.

And that's how she had ended up in Day. She had tried her best to convince Helion not to do this, as it could put relations between the two courts in jeopardy, especially as Beron would see it as a sign of betrayal. But he didn't care.

Y/n just prayed to the cauldron that the meeting would go without anyone dying.

•○🌑○•

She stepped into the airy meeting area, her dress fluttering around her feet.

The guards outside had informed her that the High Lords from Dawn and Summer Court had arrived quite some time ago, and Night Court had just come just moments before she did.

All eyes went to her, and all the Lords' eyes lit with recognition. She just gave a then a polite smile, before grinning at Rhys, who grinned back and pulled her into a hug.

"She was a friend Under the Mountain." He told his Inner Circle, pulling back from her. She nodded at the members that were present before her eyes landed on an Illyrian standing near a doorway, his eyes alert and on the High Lords.

As if sensing her gaze, he glanced at her. And when he did, everything in the world stopped. At least for Y/n.

Snap.

Her body locked up, her eyes widening. She stared and stared at him. She vaguely heard her name being called, but she couldn't process it.

"Y/n?" Her father touched her arm and she jerked back, gasping. She looked up at him, her eyes frantic. He had a confused smile on his face. She took a deep breath, pulling an indifferent mask on.

"Yes?"

"Are you okay? You look alarmed." She swallowed, glancing at the winged male to see if he had felt it too. By the confusion lacing his featured, he hadn't. She tried not to let her disapointment show.

"Yes. I'm fine."

Her father nodded, unconvinced as he gave her a look that said we'll talk about this.

Then she felt a tap on her mental shields. She opened a pathway and let Rhys in.

What is it? He questioned.

She thought for a moment before answering. Mate.

His eyes lit up and he smiled. That's amazing.

She nodded and walked to her seat, plopping down on it.

As everyone waited for others to arrive, Y/n couldn't help but keep glancing at the male.

Beautiful. He was beautiful.

As the meeting progressed, she kept chiming in with her suggesting but not really paying attention, completely avoiding looking at Beron. She also learned that the male's –her mate's– name was Azriel. She knew she had heard the name before, but couldn't place where.

But she would, soon enough.

•○🌑○•

"My dear, what happened back there?" Helion asked as soon as he and his daughter were alone.

She turned to him helplessly. "He–he was–is, my mate."

His brows furrowed. "Azriel?" When she nodded, a smile as bright as the Court he ruled over spread across his face. "You found your mate! You must tell him! Oh Mother, I'll hold a ball in your honor. I–"

"Dad. Who is he?" She would've called him father if not for his very pouty request that she call him dad. Father sounded too formal, according to him.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. How could I forget! He's the Spymaster of the Night Court."

Her jaw dropped. "The feared Spymaster of Night Court?" He nodded happily. "Then should we not be scared? Doesn't he have... quite the reputation?"

"That he does, but from what I've gleaned from my centuries, he's a sweetheart with people he cares about. Atleast, that's what Rhysand has been telling me. If he's lying, I'll be very sad."

Y/n couldn't believe it. One of the most feared male in all of Prythian was her mate. Her gods darned mate.

She didn't know how she would tell him, considering she had never had an interaction with him. Still, she'll have to figure it out.

Because, feared or not, he deserved to know.

•○🌑○•

After the war.

She had realised that any one of them could die at any moment after the war, and then she'll feel guilt for not telling her mate about the bond. And so, she wanted to get to know him first. She had no idea how she'd do that, but her father did.

The war was over, but that didn't mean that everything was fine. And so, under the excuse of strengthening ties with the Night Court, her father had sent Y/n to help in Velaris. Of course, when she had called his bluff, he had acted innocent and declared he didn't know what she was talking about.

So now, it had been a week off her staying in Velaris, and she hadn't had any sort of conversation with Azriel except for a few polite smiles here and there.

She was in a room right next to Azriel, which Rhys claimed had nothing to do with their bond.

She huffed and turned onto her side, trying to fall asleep.

That was when she felt a panicked tug on the bond. She practically flew out of her bed and into Azriel's room to find him writhing on the bed. It was pitch dark, his shadows frantic.

She quickly made her way towards the bed, realising he was having a nightmare. She gently placed her hand on his bare shoulder, tying to wake him up because she didn't know what else to do.

She shook him slowly so as not to startle him, but when he didn't wake up, she put a little more force into it.

Which was, she realised a little too late, was the wrong thing to do.

One second, she was kneeling on his bed trying to wake him up. The next, she was pinned on the mattress, Azriel snarling in her face, one of his hands wrapped around her throat, the other clutching her hands above her head. But that wasn't what caused her breathing to grow shallow or her instincts to scream at her to flee.

No. It was the fact that she was helpless as she was pressed into the mattress.

Dark dungeons.

Beron's Second in Command sneering at her.

Her screams.

She couldn't breathe she couldn't breathe she—

Suddenly, the weight was lifted from her body, her hands free and the grip around her throat vanishing. She gasped, scrambling to sit up and scoot away from Azriel, who was kneeling in front of her with a horrified expression.

"I– I'm so sorry. I didn't mean–"

Y/n shook her head, trying to find her voice. "It's okay." She rasped.

"Did I hurt you?" She shook her head. He seemed to think for a moment. "Did I scream?" When she shook her head again, his eyes narrowed. "Then how did you know I was having a nightmare?"

She paled. "I just thought you– I didn't..." She knew lying to him would be futile, he was a damned Spymaster for a reason. So she swallowed and told him the truth. "I felt it."

She did not meet his eyes, though he stared at her. "How?"

She stayed silent. A few moments passed before she sighed and tugged on the bond. Gently at first. When he gave no reaction, she tugged harder.

He gasped, leaning forward and clutching his chest, staring at her with wide eyes. It felt like eternity had passed before he finally spoke.

"How–how long have you known?"

She looked at him as she cleared her throat. "Since the High Lords' meeting. Before the war."

"That's why you kept staring at me. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I wanted to get to know you first. I was scared."

He seemed to have regained his composure as he nodded. He stayed quiet for a moment. "Do you– do you want the bond? It's okay if you don't want it. Want me. I know my reputation isn't... the best."

"I want this Azriel. I just want to get to know you more before we accept the bond."

A smile stretched across his face, stealing Y/n's breath away.

"Then... how do you feel about getting dinner tomorrow?"

She smiled. "I would like that. Very much."

•○🌑○•

It had been a few months since that night, and Azriel and Y/n had been courting each other traditionally, like they would have if they weren't mates.

They took it slowly. Just last month they had shared their first kiss.

They had told each other everything about their pasts. She knew all about Azriel and he knew all about her. Except that one thing that not even her father knew. It wasn't as if she didn't want to tell him. She just didn't know how to.

As she knocked on the door to his new home, she wondered if she should tell him today. Better late then never, right?

He opened the door, an instant grin spreading on his face as he opened the door wide.

"Welcome home love." He mumbled, kissing her temple as she passed by him. She smiled and set the box in her hands on the corner where the other boxes were. "Dinner's ready."

He had recently bought this house for the two of them. His stuff was already here, and the box Y/n had been carrying was the last of her belongings.

When she had insisted that she could bring her stuff herself and didn't need him, he had declared that he'd be cooking dinner then.

They sat in comfortable silence as they ate. After the plates had been cleared away, he forced her to sit and relax while he did the dishes.

So as she sat on the kitchen counter, she told him of the new book she'd been reading. Soon enough, he had finished his work and was standing between her knees, leaning on his hands on either side of her hips, listening diligently as she finished her story.

"And that, my love, is how they got their happy ending." She flicked his nose.

He sighed. "I wonder if I'll get my happy ending tonight."

She giggled. "And what do you think your happy ending will be?"

"Just a few sweet kisses from my sweet sweet mate."

She laughed and kissed him. He smiled into the kiss.

It was amazing and dreamy, like she had always imagined and wanted her life with her mate to be like.

But the dreaminess of the moment soon started summoning her nightmares as Azriel's hand started to inch higher on her thigh, his other hand tugging her towards the edge of the counter.

Panic flared in her as she placed her hand on his chest, trying to push him away gently.

But then his hand brushed the waistband of her pants, and she pulled away with a gasp, her chest heaving. "No."

His brows furrowed as he searched her eyes. "What happened, darling?"

Tears formed in her eyes as those memories started creeping up on her. "No– not yet Azriel. I–I can't–"

Seeing those tears, his face softened with understanding. "Hey, its okay. We can wait. There's no hurry. Can you tell me what the matter is? Is it something I did?"

She shook her head, taking a deep breath. "A century ago, I was still living in Autumn Court. Beron's Second in Command hated me, for no other reason that I existed, apparently. He was always trying to get me executed or imprisoned. One time, he succeeded. He convinced Beron to throw me in the dungeon because I was being rebellious, according to him. A few days in the dungeon would discipline me. And–and that he would personally look over my imprisonment." As her voice broke on the last part, Azriel's hands clutched her own and squeezed.

She swallowed. "He... he did overlook my imprisonment. Quite personally too."

He searched her eyes, his face hard. "The guards? They did nothing?"

She laughed, tears streaming down her cheeks. "They enjoyed watching him... discipline me." She wiped her face with her sleeves. "I'm so sorry, you have to wait because of me–"

He shushed her. "One thing I always want you to remember is that it wasn't ever your fault. It was his. Never apologise for someone else's mistakes." She sniffled as he pulled her into his arms, her head resting on his shoulders as she wound her hands around the back of his shoulders. He clasped the back of her neck as his other hand rubbed her back. He then carried her to their new bedroom, while she clung to him like a child, all the while murmuring about how it wasn't her fault.

He sat her down on the bed, helped her change into her night clothes before laying her down and settling down next to her. She lay her head n his chest, breathing in his calming scent.

"Can you tell me his name, love?"

"Orvyn."

She could feel him nod. She wondered why he asked, but couldn't think straight as sleep started creeping in.

She would ask him tomorrow, she decided.

•○🌑○•

Azriel's pov.

He was alert as the footsteps became louder and louder, until that bastard came into view. Azriel wanted to gut him like a fish, but that would not calm his rage. So he calmly stepped out of his shadows, only enough that he could be heard without having to shout.

"Orvyn?" He questioned. The blonde male turned, squinting to make out who had called his name. "Are you the Second in Command?"

Azriel watched as his chest puffed at the mention of his title. "Yes. That's me. Who might you be?"

Then Azriel stepped completely away from the darkness concealing him and smirked. He prowled closer, noticing how fear entered Orvyn's eyes, and how he refused to back down.

But while he was busy staring at the Spymaster, he failed to notice the shadows winding around his legs and arms. When Azriel was close enough to him, he whispered. "Your death."

Orvyn's eyes widened as he opened his mouth to scream, but before he could even take a breath, Azriel had winnowed the both of them away to the dungeons. The place where his mate had been kept.

•○●⛦●○•

As the darkness cleared from his vision, he found that his shadows had already bound Orvyn to the wall, keeping him standing. Some of them held his hand next to his head while some had bound his mouth so he couldn't scream. And some had already gone to keep an eye on anyone who might be coming near, sealing the ears of the guards nearby.

Azriel smiled at Orvyn as he whispered. "Where shall we start?" He pulled out Truth–Teller and placed it near his fingers. "Here? I think that's a good idea."

And then, as slowly as he could, he cut off the bastard's fingers. The stench of piss hit the air. "What is this? I thought you were supposed to be very brave and powerful. What happened now? If you're crying and pissing yourself now, I wonder what you'll do when I carve your dick out. I'll do that, then maybe even take your eyes as souvenirs. What do you say? Oh, and also, I want you to know that I'm not doing this because I'm being paid for it or anything. I just found out you assaulted my mate. Remember? Her name was Y/n."

His eyes were wide in recognition as tears started streaming down his face and Azriel clicked his tongue. He pulled out another ordinary dagger from his array of weapons and stabbed it in his thigh.

Then he placed Truth–Teller on his face and set to work.

•○🌑○•

Y/n's pov.

She groaned as she blinked the sleep from her eyes and stretched her hand out in search of her mate's warm body. But all she came across were cold sheets.

She was confused as she sat up and looked around for any indication of where he might be. He would have left a note if he was going for work. Maybe he was in the kitchen.

So she got up and waddled down the stairs, hunting for her mate. But she couldn't find him anywhere in their home.

Where was he?

Just then, she heard the front door opening and she rushed to meet Azriel. She had already expected him to be out, and he had returned now. Maybe he'd been running some errands.

What she hadn't expected was for him to be covered in blood.

"Cauldron boil me! Are you okay? Are you hurt?" She asked, trying to usher him into the bathing room.

"What makes you think I'm hurt?" He raised an eyebrow.

She faltered. "Well, first of all, you look like you just took a swim in a pool of blood. Forgive me for expecting the worst." She began turning on faucets and filling the tub for him, adding oils into it before turning to him. Hurt or not, he would want to take a bath.

"I could have been doing my Spymaster things." He said, stripping and stepping into the water, sighing.

"Whenever you leave for work, you leave a note. Where were you, Azzie?"

"Just having some fun." When she continued to glare at him, he finally told her. "Hunting down bastards." She raised a brow. "Second in Command. Orvyn."

Her eyes widened. "What did you do to him?" He ignored her. "What did you do Azriel?"

So he told her everything in detail, so much so that she wanted to gag even as pride surged in her for her amazing mate. When he finished, he stood and toweled off, coming to stand in front of her.

She sighed. "Don't you think this could strain the already fragile relations between Night and Autumn? Beron could decide to attack–"

He grasped her jaw and tilted her head back as he leaned closer. "Y/n, I do not care about any of that."

"Are you sure? I remember you saying that you would do anything for this Court."

"Night Court is important for me, but not as much as you and your happiness. The whole of Prythian could go to hell if it meant you would be happy. Just say the word and I'd set the world on fire for you, my love."

Wetness gathered in her eyes and she furiously swiped at them. He pulled her hands away, smiling softly. "I don't want to cry." She choked out. He laughed and pulled her in for a hug. She wrapped her arms around him so tight she wondered if he would choke.

But he didn't do anything other than hug her back just as fiercely.

And finally, after all these years, Y/n felt like she was safe. Nothing could hurt her as long as she had her mate.

And she couldn't ask for anything more.

•○🌑○•

Taglist: @eos-princess

[loggiepj]

To Love A Lannister

chapter 16 | chapter 17

"The wedding will start in an hour, Your Grace," Cersei's handmaiden announced when she knocked on her chamber's door. The Queen Mother was at the balcony overlooking the fields of Sunspear and the neighboring ocean, gaze fixed ahead on the ship that will bring them home after the wedding.

"I'll be out in a minute," Cersei replied, making the girl bow and left in a hurry. She drank a mouthful from her cup of wine, staring blankly ahead.

She knew she shouldn't be intoxicated during her daughter's wedding, but it was the only way she knew how to remain approachable around the Martells during the event, especially around you.

Her nails dug into the wooden rail as she tried to control her fury. Why did you have to keep the truth from her? Why did you have to betray her this way?

When another servant entered the room saying, "A raven came from your brother, Your Grace."

She motioned for the servant to come forward and hand her the scroll.

The Lannister woman's lips ticked upward into a smug smile the moment she unrolled and read the contents, knowing she could only trust her family and no one more. She knew Jaime would do everything to ensure the throne's safety. Their son's safety.

"I would like to be escorted now to the garden," Cersei said to the servant, as she placed the empty cup on the nearby table.

~~~

It was total torture to look at the woman you loved and couldn't do anything about it. You hadn't talked to Cersei since that very night, and you terribly missed her. Failed attempts to talk to the Queen Mother had been your task since then, but Cersei had always found ways to escape you.

Haunted by nightmares causing sleepless nights, you were so close to give up on Daenerys and surrender to Cersei alone. But you wanted to give your sister a chance. She was your own blood.

The wedding was held in the Water Gardens, where Trystane and Myrcella first met. And there Cersei sat at the royal seats, looking so elegant and beautiful in her shiny red and gold flowing dress, looking everywhere but you.

It was cruel to see how she completely ignored you as if you were one of the Dornish servants. Even others could tell the unspeakable tension between the two of you, it even caused an issue when you tried to explain the situation to Oberyn.

It's easier this way, Y/n, was what he said to you.

Maybe you and Cersei weren't just for each other. Just like two parallel lines, close but never meant to be together.

~~~

“Let it be known that Prince Trystane of House Martell and Princess Myrcella of House Baratheon, are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”

As you watched the couple go through their lines, the corner of your eyes caught a sliver of unusual movement. One of the Dornish guards was acting out of the ordinary, even its uniform was poorly worn. You decided to ignore it, you had no time to think about decency at a time like this.

“I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days,” Trystane said as Myrcella spoke her line, “I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

There was a burning sensation in your gut telling you something was wrong. So when you looked back at that guard, he was no longer where you had seen him last, and had seem to neglect his position.

Your eyes began to search around. Until one corner, you finally saw him at one of the palace's balconies. Adrenaline filled you the moment you saw him nock an arrow that was pointed down towards Myrcella.

You made a run for it and jumped in front of the girl, pushing her to the ground as your arm took the hit. You let out a pained yelp, but you knew you need to act fast.

The attack brought a commotion amongst the guests, sending them scurrying towards the exits. Fighting then ensued.

With an injured arm, you unsheathed your sword as you yelled at Trystane to protect Myrcella, before heading towards where Cersei was seated.

As expected, the enemies had cornered Cersei, as if it was their plan all along when they managed to execute the poor Lannister guards protecting the woman. You fought your way through as you defended the Queen Mother, metals clashing against metals, blood splattering everywhere.

And when the last one fell down, you grabbed Cersei's arm as you led her to safety.

Another guard, who you knew was one of the Sand Snakes, blocked the exit. You let go of the Lannister woman as you fought against him valiantly, avoiding his attacks with mere luck.

"Cersei! Get back to the palace!" you shouted, pointing towards another hidden exit as you swung at the enemy. "Trystane's guards will protect you."

You couldn't paint Cersei's face. She looked so helpless as she was when you fought against the Mountain. She hesitated to leave your side. But the Queen's safety was the only thing in your mind at that moment.

Another pair of Sand Snakes came running from the exit, making you yell at Cersei again. "Leave now!"

This made the woman move and run towards the door you pointed. Thankfully, the Dornish guards had managed to eliminate the enemies in the garden and came to help you.

But the help you thought would be provided to you after defeating the Sand Snakes was the opposite, as the Dornish guards only pointed their spears at your throat, making you drop your weapon to the ground as surrender, confusion filling your head.

They tied your wrists behind your back then pulled you back inside the palace. Fear continued to grow inside you, knowing the inevitable.

~~~

"I can't believe you'd betray me like this," Doran began. "My very own blood."

Oberyn was kneeling before him, his hands tied up behind his back the same as yours. Ellaria, your guardian father and some of the Martells and Sands accomplices were kneeling next to Oberyn and you.

The outdoor courts were seldom used in trials. Today would be the exception, knowing what the Prince had on his mind.

Your eyes searched for the Lannisters women and found them safely beside the Prince's guards, Myrcella beside Trystane, and Cersei behind Myrcella.

"The Lannisters are the true enemy, brother," Oberyn replied. "You knew that from the start, yet you're the one who betrayed us."

Cersei's cold face as she avoided your eyes made you lose any hope to what was happening at the moment.

"I expected better from all of you, but to harm a young girl in my land, is treason enough," Doran said. "We don't harm young girls in Dorne."

"Girls are always harmed everywhere," Ellaria interjected, her voice cold as she glared at the Lannister. "Tell them, Cersei! Tell them how you have one of our daughters in your cells, captured against her will!"

It made you glance back at the woman. Surely Cersei had her own reasons for doing that. But knowing Cersei, she could just be a hateful woman.

The woman only maintained a cold facade, unaffected by the accusations. Doran went on as if nothing happened.

"You knew what this means, right?" Doran stood, motioning towards his trusted guard who immediately headed to the weaponry to retrieve his sword. "Any act of treason is punishable by death."

Everyone who witnessed expelled murmurs of disbelief and wonder. Shedding blood in Dorne was unknown for ages. But Doran had gone mad.

You swallowed nervously as you stared at the ground. This is it. Your death.

"How could you?!" Oberyn protested as he was the one being pulled forward by one of the Dornish guards, then Ellaria, then you.

You saw a movement from the corner of your eye, Cersei walking towards Doran as she whispered to his ear things you couldn't hear. Doran only waved her away, dismissing her. Cersei's stature changed as she went hectic.

"Any act of treason," Doran reiterated, ignoring the Queen Mother. "Is punishable by death. I have told Y/n about it—"

"She protected me!" Myrcella countered, stepping beside her mother. "She took the shot!"

"A shot she knew was happening!" Doran said.

"She had no idea! She's not involved with our plans!" Your guardian father stood, making everyone silent. "Have mercy on her. If not us, just her. . . Your very own daughter!"

Shocks filled the entire court. Cersei's eyes went back to yours then back at Doran, disbelief displayed on her face.

Doran only froze, his eyes finally meeting yours.

"Have you never wondered? What with the multiple times you spent with Rhaella in the Capital as she was being punished by the Mad King, comforting her, and protecting her?" your guardian father continued.

"Rhae- . . . Rhaella said," Doran stuttered now avoiding your eyes. He almost staggered back without the help of his cane. "Rhaella said she lost her child. Our child."

"And why do you think she did that?" Oberyn butted in. "It's because you had gone mad, brother. She was planning to tell you before before she left for Dragonstone. But she said you had changed. You supported the Baratheon's assassination plans to execute all Targaryens just to secure your land in Dorne. You were involved in the slaughter of Targaryen blood, if I do so recall. She only protected your own daughter from . . . you."

"She . . . is no daughter of mine," Doran hissed. "Our child was unborn."

Your eyes shutted on their own, fighting back tears. You had been rejected before but never like this, causing tremendous hurt not yet encountered. By your real father. By Cersei. By the entire Martells.

Cersei could see you avoiding everyone's gaze and somehow she felt the urge to go to your side and comfort you. She was mad at you for lying to her, but not to cause your own demise. She couldn't live to the thought of losing you like this.

You didn't deserve it. She knew deep down inside you weren't involved in the attack. She wished she could convey this message to you, if you could only lift your head and look back at her. But you didn't meet her gaze anymore.

Oberyn then moved forward. "Then let us leave in peace. If not us, just let Y/n leave. She doesn't deserve your wrath. She's innocent. Just because she's partly Targaryen doesn't mean she's like the Mad King."

"No!" Doran was fuming. "I will not stand to false gossips! You're only prolonging the execution, distracting me." He looked at his trusted guard. "Proceed!"

Cersei immediately stepped forward, holding Doran's arm."Stop this nonsense! King Tommen would not agree to this! They should be given trial in King's Landing!"

"I do what is pleased in my own land, Lady Cersei," Doran insisted, brushing her hand off him.

"If this is still your land after King Tommen finds out what you did," Cersei threatened coldly. "He could have you beheaded for acting on your own without consulting his counsel."

Trystane came forward with Myrcella. "Father, Y/n saved my betrothed. At least, she deserves a fair trial."

The commotion were getting loud as you all that were acquitted guilty were being dragged into the pits waiting for execution. You were pushed to the ground by one of the guards, making you close your eyes as you waited for cold steel against your neck, as you waited for the end.

It didn't come. There was a beastly growl coming from a distance that made everyone freeze and look at the sky.

"Nymeros," you whispered, opening your eyes as you lifted your head to look up.

Nymeros appeared at the courts, flapping its wings against the ground before it landed right in front of you. When it roared in anger, the Dornish guards stood back, the weapons of some even slipping from their hold.

The guests were frozen for another second before they all scattered to run away from the pits.

Doran then ordered, "Attack!"

But the attacks were only extinguished by flames when Nymeros blew towards them, Dornish soldiers running ablaze screaming in pain.

When it moved forward towards Prince Doran, Doran only cowered in fear.

Then Nymeros looked at the Lannisters, at Cersei, snorting breaths of smoke her way. Cersei had never been terrified and amazed at the same time. She couldn't find herself to move. Dragons, the witch had said.

But Nymeros didn't attack her as the dragon continued to smell the Queen Mother, who only stood her ground.

"Nymeros!" you called, making the dragon look back and turn towards you. "Leave them be!"

Cersei then realized it was you, the reason the dragon didn't attack her. It was your dragon.

"Leave us, Y/n," Oberyn said beside you. "Leave for Dragonstone. Queen Daenerys, your sister, will be waiting for you."

"I can't just leave you all here," you answered.

When Doran had ordered another attack, Oberyn then insisted. "You're our only chance! I will convince my brother, don't worry about us!"

"Just go, Y/n!" your guardian father yelled and you could see he was holding back his tears.

You immediately climbed unto Nymeros' back when you saw a long huge spear being readied by the Dornish guards, preparing for the attack.

Your eyes met Cersei's one last time, and you knew then she was sorry as you also were. Sorry that love wasn't enough for the two of you who were not meant to be together. A lion and a dragon were not a good pair.

"Sōvēs!"

Nymeros then jumped and flew to the sky, away from Sunspear castle, away from Dorne. Away from Cersei.

Author's note: I truly appreciate your continued support in reading my stories. You can help me create more stories by supporting my writing thru this link. Thank you so much. ❤

[sugurugetofavoritemonkey]

◤✞ 𝖄𝖔𝖚'𝖛𝖊 𝖓𝖔 𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖆

𝖍𝖔𝖜 𝕴 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉

𝖕𝖚𝖒𝖕𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙 ✞◥

Alucard x female reader

Synopsis : A moment shared between a human, you, and your vampire lover, Alucard, could not go on without a bite or two during a quiet night in your chamber.

Smut : biting, fingering, vampire, blood drinking, in this universe Alucard don't transform the reader for plot purpose, Alucard could be a warning but he's quite soft in this.

1 400 words

Tonight, your lover Alucard, came as usual to your room, easily getting comfortable on your own bed.

The dark haired vampire was laying on his back with his legs spread lazily, your form on his lap.

And it was an understatement to say that no space could be seen between your warm body and his cold one.

« You know, my dear, over the time of our countless...intercourses, I noticed something fascinating. Aren't you curious? », Alucard deeply laughed at the thought of it.

He found himself touching your pulsating neck with his gloved thumb, pressing lightly on an apparent vein, his eyes turning dreamy at the sight of your quickening pulse due to his intimate actions, a menacing smile appearing on his pale figure.

« Well, it seems that when I'm granting you pleasure, your blood is acquiring such an exquisite taste, akin to ambrosia ».

You struggle to breath properly with the presence of Alucard. His scent was everywhere on you, already marking you as his. All you could do was to let his skilled fingers dance across the side of your neck and his gaze exploring the deepest parts of your soul.

After a short moment, Alucard decided to unbutton your brown shirt, exposing half of your cleavage to his hungry red eyes, allowing you to breathe a little easier.

« Are you scared ?, he laugh when he knows he’s wrong, « I should probably say aroused, am I right ? »

You bite your lips in frustration, Alucard always took pleasure in torturing you this way, like a predator with his prey, not giving you what you want - need - the easy way.

Where was the fun in that ?, he thought.

That’s when the dark haired man decided to remove his white glove with the help of his pointy teeth, his hand soon finding its place between your thighs covered in the short skirt from the Hellsing corporation, your little white cotton panties hiding just below it. His pale hand not wasting any time in tearing off the soft garnement, the last wall between you and him. And his smile grew even bigger at your delectable scent.

"Fuck, I can smell your arousal from here", he breathed deeply while his head rested on the cushions behind him for a second.

« Please Alucard, do something, I need… », you stop yourself from finishing your sentence, not wanting to give in to him. But that’s not like the vampire will let that slip.

« Come on, sweet human, if you say it, maybe I’ll indulge you », he whispered, surprisingly sweet in your ear. Not without a little nip at your earlobe, making you hiss quietly at the sensation of his sharp canines.

« I…need you Alucard, please, please do something », you take his hand in yours to place it just on top of your pussy, « I need you here », you looked at him in the eyes, pleading. That’s all he ever wanted, to know that you needed him.

It doesn’t take long for him to slip inside you two of his fingers, already thrusting them at a decent speed, making you gasp at the sudden entrance and letting your fingers grasp tightly his red ribbon and shoulder.

« You really are a good girl when you want to », you can hear him say directly into your ear.

Alas, patience isn’t a virtue that belonged to Alucard, thus the thrusts of his fingers only grow quicker by the seconds, he’s harsh with his movement, his free hand holding you firmly against his figure, not wanting you to move away from him.

Alucard’s mouth doesn’t take long either to glide across your neck, but he doesn’t bite you just yet. No, Alucard has learned over time to savor his meals, but you’re not just a meal to him, you were more than that. He couldn't explain it nor could he comprehend what that feeling was, but the only thing he knew was that you were different for him.

It’s almost like he was teasing himself with your blood, like a long awaited reward that he could only get when you reached your climax. After all, this said reward only grows in taste with wait. Also because he knew for a fact that even behind the innocent facade that you tried to maintain, you relished in the addicting sensation of his fangs breaking your skin to give him what he oh so crave.

Hence, while Alucard is fingering your sweet cunt in the most passionate way, you can feel him licks at your neck in the first place, letting his tongue tracing random patterns on it or just giving it simple licks to display his never ending hunger for you.

When his fingers begin to apply pressure on your sweet spot, he changes to kiss at your throat, whether it be small innocent pecks or open mouth kisses on your skin, giving you a pretty hickey, colors akin to his vibrant eyes.

It’s when he adds a final third finger into you, increasing your pleasure as well as the volume of your moans, that Alucard begins to nip at your skin, eliciting little whines from your throat when his fangs only graze at your sensitive skin, teasing you for the final act soon to come.

Just as Alucard feels you clamp impossibly tight around his fingers, his thumb circles around your clit to make you reach your peak. Your face hidden in the crook of his neck to cry out his name, warning him that you were oh so close. The signal for him to finally get his present.

His hand that was previously digging into your waist moved to grasp your neck firmly yet tenderly in a way, his cold palm wasn’t forceful but was instead here to hold you still.

His lips found their way once again close to your ear, « I can feel you clenching me incredibly hard right now », he laughed darkly at your whining form, « Stop making me wait and come for me, so I can have my well deserved meal », he finished with a toothy grin.

Alucard doesn't need to wait any longer to feel your release coat his fingers while you whimper in his chest, the vampire quickly digging his fangs into your neck harshly, having waiting so long to taste you, was starting to make him impatient, Alucard could finally enjoy this moment at its finest form.

The bite itself brought you a mix of immense pain and pleasure, extending your climax even longer than it already was.

And Alucard clearly didn't want to hold back.

Your blood was slowly falling between the crease of your chest, while Alucard was drinking from you, audibly moaning at your divine taste, his jaw closing a little harder on your neck to get as much from you as possible, drinking the substance like it was some sort of essence giving him life.

Alucard then wondered what his favorite element was when biting you ? Was it the blood itself ? Your peculiar taste ?

Or maybe all the memories that you’ve shared together that were tied to it ? The ones that were appearing in his head while you offered him a part of your soul. Maybe a bit of everything, he would suggest.

After drinking enough of you, Alucard removed himself from your throat with a content sigh, licking clean all the red substance from your skin, and wiping his mouth and cheeks with the back of his red sleeve.

When he regained his senses, you were still shaking a little in his arms due to your intense orgasm. When Alucard saw this, he took your chin in his grasp to make you look at him, gently capturing your face in his hands, looking at you with gentle eyes and kind smile. You were the only person to see this rare side of Alucard.

« You're the first one where I struggle to stop drinking from, the first one to make my resolves crumbles, and the first one that I care about in this world »

With that, the dark haired vampire put his lips on yours, kissing you with so much force and passion that your trembling form eased into his own while Alucard was holding your body close to his.

And at this moment, you could feel that nothing nor anyone could harm you in any way, when his presence around you was this strong.

Author Note : I'm incredibly happy to write for my favorite husband Alucard, I hope I did him justice ❤️ There will be more to come about him, I know I've made him a bit soft in this but hey even tho he's a beast (and we love him for that) it doesn't mean that he can't chill from time to time ;) It's my first smut in a long time so I hope I did good, tell me if I did a mistake somewhere, I'm accepting all feedbacks, and wish that you enjoyed 🩸