#my beloveds (clenches fist of rage)

[kalashnikovlobotomy]

favorite flavor of rusame ? i think im a big fan of "i want to tear your head off🤬" and "i wanna tear your head off☺️☺️"

our braincell is connected ive been tagging them as variations of this dynamic for ages now. this is still one of my fave gayposts... but i have multiple favorite flavors🤤 im a big fan of being forced to overcome their differences to defeat a bigger evil (i unironically love paint it white soo much and a rusame piw confession comic was one of the first arts of them i posted) and right now i just looove a mutual "worst guy you know is also a beloved source of warmth you come back home to after a long horrible day (half of it was caused by him)". i probably like more variations as well i just get embarrassed to wall of text super hard. but i loove to.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

The Telling Truth: When 'Show, Don't Tell' Doesn't Apply (You Don't Always Have To Show, Don't Tell.)

Hey there, fellow writers and beloved members of the writeblr community! 📝✨

Today, I want to talk about something that's been on my mind lately, and I have a feeling it might resonate with many of you too. It's about that age-old writing advice we've all heard a million times: "Show, don't tell." Now, don't get me wrong – it's great advice, and it has its place in our writing toolbox. But here's the thing: it's not the be-all and end-all of good writing. In fact, I'd argue that sometimes, it's perfectly okay – even necessary – to tell rather than show.

First things first, let's address the elephant in the room. The "show, don't tell" rule has been drilled into our heads since we first picked up a pen (or opened a Word document) with the intention of writing creatively. It's been repeated in writing workshops, creative writing classes, and countless craft books. And for good reason! Showing can create vivid, immersive experiences for readers, allowing them to feel like they're right there in the story.

But here's where things get a bit tricky: like any rule in writing (or in life, for that matter), it's not absolute. There are times when telling is not just acceptable, but actually preferable. And that's what you all will explore today in this hopefully understandable blog post.

Let's start by breaking down why "show, don't tell" is so popular. When we show instead of tell, we're engaging the reader's senses and emotions. We're painting a picture with words, allowing the reader to draw their own conclusions based on the details we provide. It's a powerful technique that can make our writing more engaging and memorable.

For example, instead of saying "Sarah was angry," we might write, "Sarah's fists clenched at her sides, her jaw tight as she glared at the broken vase." This gives the reader a clearer image and allows them to infer Sarah's emotional state.

But here's the thing: sometimes, we don't need or want that level of detail. Sometimes, efficiency in storytelling is more important than painting an elaborate picture. And that's where telling comes in handy.

Imagine if every single emotion, action, or piece of information in your story was shown rather than told. Your novel would probably be thousands of pages long, and your readers might get lost in the sea of details, losing sight of the main plot or character arcs.

So, when might telling be more appropriate? Let's explore some scenarios:

Summarizing less important events: If you're writing a story that spans a long period, you don't need to show every single day or event. Telling can help you summarize periods of time or less crucial events quickly, allowing you to focus on the more important parts of your story.

For instance: "The next few weeks passed in a blur of exams and late-night study sessions." This sentence tells us what happened without going into unnecessary detail about each day.

Providing necessary background information: Sometimes, you need to give your readers some context or backstory. While you can certainly weave this information into scenes, there are times when a straightforward telling of facts is more efficient.

Example: "The war had been raging for three years before Sarah's village was attacked." This quickly gives us important context without needing to show the entire history of the war.

Establishing pace and rhythm: Alternating between showing and telling can help you control the pace of your story. Showing tends to slow things down, allowing readers to immerse themselves in a moment. Telling can speed things up, moving the story along more quickly when needed.

Clarifying complex ideas or emotions: Some concepts or feelings are abstract or complex enough that showing alone might not suffice. In these cases, a bit of telling can help ensure your readers understand what's happening.

For example: "The quantum entanglement theory had always fascinated John, but explaining it to others often left him feeling frustrated and misunderstood." Here, we're telling the reader about John's relationship with this complex scientific concept, which might be difficult to show effectively.

Maintaining your narrative voice: Sometimes, telling is simply more in line with your narrative voice or the tone of your story. This is especially true if you're writing in a more direct or conversational style.

Now, I can almost hear some of you saying, "But wait! I've always been told that showing is always better!" And I completely get it. I'm a writer myself and prioritize "Show, Don't tell." in my writing all the time. We've been conditioned to believe that showing is superior in all cases. But we can take a moment to challenge that notion.

Think about some of your favorite books. Chances are, they use a mix of showing and telling. Even the most critically acclaimed authors don't adhere strictly to "show, don't tell" all the time. They understand that good writing is about balance and knowing when to use each technique effectively.

Take, for instance, the opening line of George Orwell's "1984": "It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen." This is a perfect blend of showing and telling. Orwell shows us it's a bright, cold day (we can imagine the crisp air and clear sky), but he tells us about the clocks striking thirteen. This immediate telling gives us crucial information about the world we're entering – it's not quite like our own.

Or consider this passage from Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice": "Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character." Here, Austen is clearly telling us about Mr. Bennet's character rather than showing it through his actions. And yet, it works beautifully, giving us a quick, clear insight into both Mr. Bennet and his wife.

The key is to use both techniques strategically. So, how can you decide when to show and when to tell? Here are some tips:

Consider the importance of the information: Is this a crucial moment in your story, a pivotal emotion, or a key piece of character development? If so, it might be worth showing. If it's more of a transitional moment or background information, telling might be more appropriate.

Think about pacing: If you want to slow down and really immerse your reader in a moment, show it. If you need to move things along more quickly, tell it.

Evaluate the complexity: If you're dealing with a complex emotion or concept, consider whether showing alone will be enough to convey it clearly. Sometimes, a combination of showing and telling works best for complex ideas.

Consider your word count: If you're working with strict word count limitations (like in short stories or flash fiction), telling can help you convey necessary information more concisely.

Trust your instincts (Important): As you write more, you'll develop a feel for when showing or telling works better. Trust your gut, and don't be afraid to experiment.

Now, let's talk about how to tell effectively when you do choose to use it. Because here's the thing: telling doesn't have to be boring or flat. It can be just as engaging and stylish as showing when done well. Here are some tips for effective telling:

Use strong, specific language: Instead of using vague or generic words, opt for more specific, evocative language. For example, instead of "She was sad," you might write, "A profound melancholy settled over her."

Incorporate sensory details: Even when telling, you can include sensory information to make it more vivid. "The room was cold" becomes more engaging as "A bone-chilling cold permeated the room."

Use metaphors and similes: These can help make your telling more colorful and memorable. "His anger was like a volcano ready to erupt" paints a vivid picture without showing the anger in action.

Keep it concise: One of the advantages of telling is its efficiency. Don't negate that by being overly wordy. Get to the point, but do it with style.

Vary your sentence structure: Mix short, punchy sentences with longer, more flowing ones to create rhythm and maintain interest.

Remember, the goal is to create a seamless narrative that engages your reader. Sometimes that means showing, sometimes it means telling, and often it means a artful blend of both.

It's also worth noting that different genres and styles of writing may lean more heavily on one technique or the other. Literary fiction often employs more showing, delving deep into characters' psyches and painting elaborate scenes. Genre fiction, on the other hand, might use more telling to keep the plot moving at a brisker pace. Neither approach is inherently better – it all depends on what works best for your story and your style.

Now, I want to address something that I think many of us struggle with: the guilt or anxiety we might feel when we catch ourselves telling instead of showing. It's easy to fall into the trap of second-guessing every sentence, wondering if we should be showing more. But here's the truth: that kind of constant self-doubt can be paralyzing and ultimately detrimental to your writing process.

So, I want you to understand and think: It's okay to tell sometimes. You're not a bad writer for using telling in your work. In fact, knowing when and how to use telling effectively is a sign of a skilled writer.

Here's some practical ways to incorporate this mindset into your writing process:

First Draft Freedom: When you're writing your first draft, give yourself permission to write however it comes out. If that means more telling than showing, that's absolutely fine. The important thing is to get the story down. You can always revise and add more "showing" elements later if needed.

Revision with Purpose: When you're revising, don't automatically change every instance of telling to showing. Instead, ask yourself: Does this serve the story better as telling or showing? Consider the pacing, the importance of the information, and how it fits into the overall narrative.

Beta Readers and Feedback: When you're getting feedback on your work, pay attention to how readers respond to different sections. If they're engaged and understanding the story, then your balance of showing and telling is probably working well, regardless of which technique you're using more.

Study Your Favorite Authors: Take some time to analyze how your favorite writers use showing and telling. You might be surprised to find more instances of effective telling than you expected.

Practice Both Techniques (Important): Set aside some time to practice both showing and telling. Write the same scene twice, once focusing on showing and once on telling. This can help you develop a feel for when each technique is most effective.

Now, let's address another important point: the evolution of writing styles and reader preferences. The "show, don't tell" rule gained popularity in the early 20th century with the rise of modernist literature. But writing styles and reader tastes have continued to evolve since then.

In our current fast-paced world, where people are often reading on devices and in shorter bursts, there's sometimes a preference for more direct, efficient storytelling. This doesn't mean that showing is out of style, but it does mean that there's often room for more telling than strict adherence to "show, don't tell" would allow.

Moreover, diverse voices in literature are challenging traditional Western writing norms, including the emphasis on showing over telling. Some cultures have strong storytelling traditions that lean more heavily on telling, and as the literary world becomes more inclusive, we're seeing a beautiful variety of styles that blend showing and telling in new and exciting ways.

This brings me to an important point: your voice matters. Your unique way of telling stories is valuable. Don't let rigid adherence to any writing rule, including "show, don't tell," stifle your natural voice or the story you want to tell.

Remember, rules in writing are more like guidelines. They're tools to help us improve our craft, not unbreakable laws. The most important rule is to engage your reader and tell your story effectively. If that means more telling than the conventional wisdom suggests, then so be it.

As I wrap up this discussion, I want to leave you with a challenge: In your next writing session, consciously use both showing and telling. Pay attention to how each technique feels, how it serves your story, and how it affects the rhythm of your writing. You might discover new ways to blend these techniques that work perfectly for your unique style.

Writing is an art, not a science. There's no perfect formula, no one-size-fits-all approach. It's about finding what works for you, your story, and your readers. So embrace both showing and telling. Use them as the powerful tools they are, and don't be afraid to break the "rules" when your instincts tell you to.

Remember, every great writer started where you are now, learning the rules and then figuring out when and how to break them effectively. You're part of a long, proud tradition of storytellers, each finding their own path through the winding forest of words.

Keep writing, keep growing, and keep believing in yourself. You've got this!

Happy writing! 💖✍️ - Rin T.

Before you go, why not join us at The Write Right Society? We're a supportive Tumblr community where writers lift each other up. Whether you're a newbie or a pro, we'd love to have you! Share your work, get feedback, and connect with fellow wordsmiths, writers and aspiring authors. 

[st4rg8te]

A Captured Dragon (BL)

Yandere! Half-brother X Crown Prince! Reader

[tw: graphic depiction(s) of violence, obsessive behaviour, betrayal, imprisonment, gaslighting, non-con kissing, incest!!!, teeny tiny bit of feminization]

✦✧✦✧

“You have done nothing to deserve that title. You were only lucky enough to be born the King’s son.”

A lot of things in life were beyond your control. 

But fate had been kind to you, gifting you a life that most could only dream of. Born into the royal family as their beloved Crown Prince, the world bent to your will from the very moment you drew your first breath. 

Spoiled, indulged, and never once tested by struggle—perhaps you were destined to fall from the start.

✦✧✦✧

✦✧✦✧

It’s getting harder to tell the days apart.

The world around you blurs into a cycle of sleepless nights. Your mind is a fog, heavy with the weight of guilt and fear. Each hour blends into the next, until time itself feels like a punishment.

The nightmares don’t help either.

Every time you close your eyes, they come—haunting, vivid dreams where blood stains the corridors and screams pierce the air. The sounds of blades slicing through flesh, of bodies collapsing onto blood-soaked floors, echo endlessly in your ears. It is relentless. 

You see the palace engulfed in flames, your servants and people—those you’ve known your entire life—crying out in terror as they are cut down by the cold steel of soldiers.

In every dream, you stand helpless, watching as they beg for mercy. Your people reach for you in desperation, their faces twisted in agony, but you can’t move. 

In every dream, at the center of it all, is him.

Daewon.

Your half-brother.

While you grew up in the limelight, basking in the affections and adoration of others, your half-brother was cast into the shadows. Born from a lowly maid, his very existence was a blemish on the royal family's image. He was the son who would never be acknowledged by his father—neither loved nor remembered.

Despite that, you had treated him kindly.

When did everything go so wrong?

After the slaughter, you were taken away and imprisoned. The room you were kept in was dark and empty—there was no light, or any warmth. It was a far cry from the luxury you were used to.

Occasionally, food and water would be brought to you—a guard would come every few days, sliding bowls of stale rice and cloudy water across the floor without a word, without so much as a glance in your direction. You felt like an animal.

But worse than the silence of your captors were the visits from Daewon.

You hated those days the most.

“Brother.” His deep voice sends a shiver down your spine. You can’t make out his face within the shadows.

So you bury your head further into the damp pillows, hiding from the monster in the room.

It isn’t long before you feel the bed dip under his weight, the chain on your ankle rustles against the sheets. He kneels beside you, leaning close enough for you to smell the faint traces of blood still lingering on his robe.

“You haven’t been eating,” Daewon’s voice was soft, almost tender, but you could hear the dark amusement laced beneath it. “Is the food not to your liking?”

You keep your eyes shut tight, fists clenched under the thin blankets.

It'll all be okay. Soon enough, he would leave you alone.

Cold fingers brush against your cheek, and you flinch. He chuckles at that, a low, mocking sound that makes your skin crawl.

“Did you know that these meals are what I had to eat as a child?” He whispers, his breath hot against your ears.

You briefly open your eyes, glancing at the food scattered across the floor, remnants of your earlier fit of rage—destroyed, just like everything else in your life. 

“There were many days when the servants never even came. My mother often gave me her share, just so I wouldn't starve." 

You grit your teeth—

"Why don't you just kill me already?"

The words hang in the air, and a suffocating silence stretches between you.

But then, Daewon's firm hand suddenly grips your chin, forcing you to meet his dark gaze.

“Kill you?” A cruel, guttural laugh escapes him, sending a shiver down your spine. “But death would be far too easy.” 

“No... you have to live. You’ll live and endure. Just like I did.”

He had lived a life of invisibility, where no one cared to look beyond the stain of his tainted blood—no one, except you.

And the thought of it drives him mad.

His hand falls from your chin, trailing down until it rests against your chest. With that simple touch, your spirit breaks just a little more.

You hate him—hate him more than you’ve ever hated anyone. 

Without any warning, you feel the press of his soft lips against your own. His body heat seeps into yours as he forcefully pulls you closer and presses you flush against him.

You are too tired, too hungry to resist.

"No, stop—" You protest breathlessly, the words barely escaping your lips as your mind reels, still foggy from the kiss. A dizzying mix of shock, confusion, and disgust floods your senses.

"This is wrong, we can't—"

"They will never fully accept a half-blooded bastard like me as their king."

“What?” You swallow hard, blinking up at the man.

"But surely, they'll accept a 'bride' from the royal family.”

The realization hits you like a punch to the gut. 

Before you can react, his lips crash against yours again, harder this time, more possessive. The taste of him—bitterness and control—invades your senses completely.

A twisted smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and you finally understand.

This is a debt of suffering, a price he intends to collect over and over—until you were broken.

"Don’t worry. For everything you’ve done for me, I'll repay your kindness tenfold."

✦✧✦✧

[A/N]

This was not proofread, sorry for any mistakes!

[thehusbandoden]

He Doesn't Realize How Much he Needs You Until You're Gone Part One- Dabi

A/n: 100th writing I've posted :3

I hope you like it haha.

General info:

Genre: pure angst \\ wc: 2,425 \\ female reader \\ posted: 06/06/24

Warnings!: arguing, neglect, pure angst, crying, yelling, screaming, hurt, feeling betrayed, injuries (reader gets burned- not by Dabi), pushing your partner away (both parties), feeling worthless, feelings being discarded, mention of therapy, thoughts of leaving, thoughts of death, fear of a loved one dying, numbing your emotions, Dabi raging (burning things), leaving, partner being very tsundere, mention of blood (Dabi's tears), regret, guilt, becoming a husk, I think that's all haha. Pls lmk if I miss anything! <33

I will post two endings, one with angst and one with fluff. Lmk if you want to be tagged!

Tears roll down your cheeks as you spam Dabi with texts. You had just gotten into an argument with your beloved when he stormed out, cursing you out.

"Please." You quietly plead, your voice broken with sobs. "Don't leave me."

All of your texts remain unread. All your calls declined. You were having a panic attack by now, yet nothing seemed to get the villain's attention.

Just as you're about to completely lose it, you hear footsteps. Your freeze, listening with an indescribable intensity. The window opens. Your eyes dart to the activity.

Familiar black combat boots peek through the gap, falling to the floor. Your eyes travel up the familiar torn jeans, the worn out t-shirt, the burned neck, the crooked frown, and finally to the comforting turquoise eyes.

You let out a sob of relief as you see your Dabi standing in front of you. He looks down at you, grimacing.

"What happened to you?" He scoffed.

"I-I was worried." Your voice was hoarse and broken from your sobs.

"Worried?" He grunts. "You're more idiotic than I thought." He groans, grabbing the sandwich you made before the argument.

"I-I thought you were leaving me."

"I'm not gonna leave ya. No matter how annoying you are." He scoffs.

Annoying....

Your mind repeats the word several times, your face stiffening as you numb your emotions.

"Sorry..." you mumble.

"Don't start that pouty crap." He scoffs, shooting you a glare. "I'm tired of you being such a bother. I have so much to deal with. Your pathetic emotions isn't on my list."

You quietly fold your arms, moving to the couch. You watch Dabi silently, taking deep breaths to contain your emotions.

"I'm leaving for a mission tonight. I'll be back before next week."

His voice was less harsh, but nowhere near as warm as usual.

"O-okay.." you mumble, fidgeting with your sleeves. He rolls his eyes with a scoff, stomping into your shared bedroom.

~~

"I'm leaving now, brat."

You scramble to your feet, swiftly moving to his side. You lean up, hoping for a kiss as you ever so slightly pucker your lips.

You know your husband. He will notice... won't he?

His cold eyes move down to your lips. He grunts, turning around and leaving. "See ya later, brat. Don't be pouting when I get home, you hear?" He mutters, hauling himself through the window.

He always came in and out through the back window... it would be bad if your neighbors caught a highly wanted villain in your apartment.. hence the sneaking.

You've lived together for over a year now, you've moved four times now.

"Wait-" you call out, reaching out to your husband. His cold gaze burns into you.

"Um- a-aren't you going to... going to.."

"Spit it out, woman."

"Aren't you going to.. kiss me?" You blush. Dabi scoffs.

"Don't expect needles privileges after your attitude yesterday."

"Attitude?! Do you mean our argument?" You protest.

"Here it goes again." He groans. "You're always complaining and refusing to take accountability."

"Thats nonsense." You clench your fists, trying to suppress your emotions. Tears burned your eyes, but you refused to let them shed.

"What's nonsense is your attitude. You can't even keep me around now can ya? Your attitude always drives me off! I wonder why I ever married you in the first place. You give me attitude and then act like I'm the victim. Pathetic."

Tears well in your eyes. You bite your lip. "I won't ask for anymore from you." You whisper.

"Good. Keep it that way." He lands outside, shrugging his shoulder before walking off with an nonchalant attitude.

You close the window, leaning against the wall as you try to slow down your breathing. Tears fall down your cheeks as you curl in a ball, feeling hurt, angry, betrayed, and worthless.

The days pass by as you wait for Dabi to return. You didn't hear from him, and he was gone far longer than he said he would be. Every text was left unread, every call ignored, every voice-mail left un-listened to.

Eventually, you stopped trying. You got a therapist, and ended up deciding on what was best for you. When he comes home, if he doesn't treat you better, if he doesn't even listen or try to change, its better for you to leave. Even if it was just for a little bit.

Days turn into weeks, and weeks blur into months. Many nights you lay awake, doubting yourself. Doubting your worth.

It killed you inside. Your self esteem plummeted. You stopped going to therapy. All you wanted was your husband. Your husband's love, his validation, his touch, his mere presence.

Curled in a ball, you stared at the wall with a blank expression. Horrid scenarios went through your head as you imagine your poor husband alone, injured, and dying.

Tears blur your vision as you imagine him already dead, his loving soul leaving this world without even telling you goodbye. You hadn't even gotten a kiss. Or an I love you.

The tears don't stop. And they didn't as the hours slowly pass by. You felt like ripping your hair out, screaming, hitting, throwing things- anything to get your mind off of your husband's doomed death.

The window opens. Your eyes dart towards the unlocked glass pane. Combat boots pokes through. You gasp in relief.

A worn, exhausted, injured, and in pain figure follows the boots. Revealing your beloved, Dabi. You let out a small sob, launching yourself at him.

You close your eyes in relief as you feel his warm chest, the familiar staples bringing you comfort. As you move to open your eyes you feel a hand to your shoulder, your backside hitting the floor.

You look up in shock, Dabi looking down at you in disgust.

"I thought you said you wouldn't ask anymore from me." He scoffed. You grab your arm, holding it to your chest.

"I-" you start.

"I really don't want to hear it. Just let me rest." He groans. You slowly lift yourself off of the floor, silently moving into your shared bedroom.

You curl in a ball, hiding under the sheets. You hear him walking around outside of the room, silently listening. Tears blur your vision once more. You cover your mouth, tightly closing your eyes.

You shake with sobs, doing your very best to stay quiet. You can't help but feel worthless. Tears stream down your cheeks as you listen to your husband's familiar footsteps, glad he's safe at the minimum...

Hours pass by as you cry yourself to sleep, your stray tears staining your cheeks.

~~

Dabi's POV

Dabi strolls into your shared bedroom. "Oi, make me a sandwich will ya?" He grunts. Yiu don't move, irritating him.

He moves to your side, snatching the blanket. "I said-" he stops as he sees you asleep, tears stained on your cheeks. A strange pain dtabs at his chest. Shaking it off, he drops the blanket.

Staring at you, he gently cups your cheek, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle kiss. He pulls away, caressing your cheek. "I've missed you. Even though you're a pain." He whispers before pulling away.

~~

Your POV

The next morning

You blink open your eyes, rubbing at the lingering sleepiness. Yawning, your eyes lazily run over the room. The curtains were hiding the small bedroom from sunlight, the entire room encompassed in darkness.

Sitting up, you rub your puffy eyes once more. Dabi was no where near sight. Sighing, you absent-mindedly trace the bruise on your arm where you fell.

Your heart aches as you remember your therapist's words. This isn't healthy. It needs to stop...

The door opens, revealing Dabi. "Finally awake, sleepy head?" His voice wasn't the cold growl like last night, but it was no where near gentle.

You nod, timidly. Afraid of upsetting him once more.

"I'm starving. Want to make breakfas..?" This was his way of asking you to. If you agreed, there would be no thank you, for you "wanted" to.

If you said no, he would be irritated for a while. He won't cook, no matter how many times you beg him to while you're away, so he will oftenly go without eating if you're unavailable or refuse to cook.

Biting your lip, you nod. He gives you a short grimace, something similar to a small smile before walking out. Standing up, you yawn, stretching your arms. Your eyes ache from all the crying, but you push that to the back of your mind.

You walk out to the kitchen, beginning to cook. You feel Dabi's eyes on you, but you don't pay much attention. You were guarded, unsure why he's acting so differently this morning. Cautious of unleashing the monster once more.

"Dabi?" You murmur. He grunts in response.

"I talked to a therapist when you were on your mission..."

"A therapist? What for? Did you leak my identity?!" He snaps.

"No, I didn't. I was really struggling for a while and needed someone to help me."

"So you relied on a stranger?!"

"You wouldn't answer. I called, texted, I left voice-mails."

"Oh so you think that your crappy attempt to get my attention justifies getting help from a stranger!? Was he a guy?! Were you sleeping with him?!"

"What?! No! I would never!"

"Then what were you doing with them?!"

"I was getting help for my mental state, Dabi!"

"Oh poor baby, you think being lonely justifies that?!"

"You're being unreasonable. Dabi she told me it was best for me to leave you if you keep treating me like this. I'm telling you this so you can wake up and change. This isn't okay." You snap, taking a deep breath to calm yourself.

"Leave me?!" He laughs. "You wouldn't. You can't live without me."

"You've been making me live without you for months, Dabi. You don't tell me you love me, you don't show me affection, I'm lucky just to have you not yell at me!"

"You're being dramatic." He spits. "You're a spoiled brat. I've been working my arse off for you and you're this ungrateful."

"You've been working for revenge! It's not for me, it never was! I have my own job that pays for all or our bills Dabi!"

"You're listening to a stranger's advice and plan on leaving me?!"

"Only if you don't change Dabi!"

"You knew what you were getting into when you married me, y/n. Stop playing the victim."

"You didn't treat me like this when we first married."

"Keep telling yourself that." He spits, putting his jacket on.

"Where are you going?!" You cry, the food far from recovery, you hazardously shove the pan into the sink, burning your hand. You cry out in pain.

"Y/n!" Dabi yells, hurrying your side. He aggressively graps your hand, making you cry out once more. "Idiot! Why did you hurt yourself like that?!"

"Just leave me alone!" You try to yank your hand away but Dabi yanks it back.

"Stay still!"

"Let me go Dabi!"

"Y/n just sit still!!"

You push him back, protectively pressing your injured hand to your chest. "I said to let me go!"

Dabi's face scrunches up as he looks down at you. After a few silent moments he turns away. "I'm over you and your dramatic act." He mumbled.

Walking to the door, he pulls his combat boots on. "Don't leave!" You cry, coddling your burning hand.

He ignores you, moving to the window. "Dabi! If you leave without us finishing this I'm leaving."

"Go for it. I don't need you. I never did." He sneered.

Your heart throbbed as your beloved husband jumped through the open window, not looking back. Falling to your knees you break into sobs.

You cry over the absence of your beloved, you cry over the pain, and you cry over the dreaded feeling of being completely alone.

You don't stop for hours. It goes on and on until your completely out of tears, numb to the feeling of utter loss. Your hand aches. Your eyes aches. Your heart aches.

It all just- hurts.

You slowly drift to sleep, the cold kitchen floor being the only thing that grounds you from the pain of betrayal.

~~

Dabi's POV

Three days later.

Dropping from the window Dabi nonchalantly glances around the room. It seemed unusually cold an empty. Paying it no mind, Dabi hazardly tossed his jacket and boots towards the front door.

"Y/n, I'm home." He calls, running his hands through his greasy hair, his roots were growing out. Rolling his eyes, he opens the fridge. It was... empty.

"Y/n!" He calls once more, huffing in annoyance. "I get home and can't even eat?!"

No response. "For Pete's sake you petty brat! Get out here!"

Silence.

Anger fills his being before he remembers your words before he left. A strange pain shoots through him, his eyes widen as he runs into your shared bedroom. Everything of yours was... gone.

His heart quickens as he searches the entire house for you. Nothing. Not even a trace. His breathing quickens as he pulls at his hair. Taking a shuddering breathe, he shakes his head.

"You'll regret this y/n... you'll be back and I'll laugh in your face!" He chuckles, losing a bit of his sanity. "I DON'T NEED YOU! YOU'LL SEE!" He screams, activating his quirk as he knocks over a chair. He let's out a scream, lighting anything and everything in sight on fire.

Months pass by. Dabi has turned into a shell, simply surviving. Work, sleep, work, sleep, work... a "good" day is when he remembers to eat or drink. A shower or change of clothes is out of mind.

Walking through the streets, he walks inside the charred apartment. Stepping inside, he closes the door. He doesn't care about his identity anymore, or anything really.

His turquoise eyes scan the apartment, his eyes landing on a photo of you and him. His heart strangely aches once more. "Y/n..." he murmured, his fists clenching.

Falling to his knees, he lets out a broken sob. His eyes burn, tears would be running if they could. Blood drips from his charred tear ducts. He falls to the floor face first, nothing but his beloved wife on his mind.

How could he be so stupid?! He lost the one thing in this world that actually loved him. Grasping his phone, he dials your number.

Please. Please pick up... please... I need you...

~~~~~

Part two (coming soon) | alt. ending (coming soon) lmk if you want to be tagged!! <33

Dabi's masterlist | Masterlist | Navigation | Tips<3

Reblogs make me smile (bonus points if you tag) and comments make my day!!

~~~~~

Do not copy, repost, nor plagiarize my work. Ask before you translate or use my work in any way, minus reblogging. 

[beckyninja]

Hope

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warnings: So. Much. Angst.

Description: Guilliman mourns his beloved's "death".

Oof, this was a rough one to write, even though it's short. I've really put this poor blueberry through the wringer.

(This is a continuation of my Guilliman x Reader series. To find the previous chapters, check out my Masterlist.)

Guilliman observed the rage in Captain Takahashi’s black eyes as if from a great distance. Dimly, he registered her voice as she bent over the holographic star map.

“We will come to the beginning of the Wards in a few standard hours’ time.” She gestured with her left arm, the right ending in a bandaged stump just below the elbow. “I’ll need a moment to observe the maelstrom and discern the patterns, before I can begin imparting instructions.”

The Chief Navigator stood at her elbow, double-jointed fingers steepled before his gray lips. “These ‘Wards’, you say? They are a… maze, in the Warp?”

“And out of it.”

“How is this possible?”

Guilliman let his gaze drift between the two.

The Captain’s eyes remained fixed on the map. “You’d call it, Archeotech. The secrets of its creation have been lost to time though, thank the Light, TerraNova’s original colonists preserved the knowledge of its maintenance. I am no engineer, but every school child learns how our forebears scattered mechanical ‘beacons’ of a sort behind them as they fled the Machine War.” 

Pressing her remaining hand to her lips, she gave a single, tearing cough. A medica in a charred uniform, half her face bandaged, stepped forward.

“Captain, you should return to the infirmary for your next round of anti-rads.”

Captain Takahashi waved her away. “In a moment, Lieutenant.” She returned to the star map. “As I was saying, these ‘beacons’ emit frequencies that twist both the Warp and Realspace, bending reality and unreality into a knot of ever-shifting pathways. The Wards.”

The Navigator’s white eyes widened. “As a child I heard rumors… stories of Navigators caught in such knots… driven mad….” His head jerked toward the Captain. “How do your people pass through such insanity?”

“Few ever do.” The Captain’s lips tightened. “But for those who must, we are taught to recognize the patterns in the maelstrom, our reflexes sharpened to make split-second navigational corrections. It is a brutal process, and in the last few decades has mostly been delegated to new navigational computers.” A sharp snort. “Mine, which now happens to be charred debris in the void.”

Something rose inside Guilliman, clawing at his shield of detachment. “You made promises, Captain Takahashi.”

Every soul in the room, even his Ultramarines, flinched. The TerraNovan Lieutenant cowered back against a wall. 

The Captain trembled a moment, then turned to face him. “I did. And I will keep them, Lord Guilliman.” Her eyes rose to his face, but did not meet his gaze. “I am of the last generation of naval officers trained to manually navigate the Wards. I will see your fleet through.”

“Some would call your actions treasonous.”

Her eyes managed to meet his. “All those to whom I swore oaths of service betrayed me, Lord Guilliman. Because of them, hundreds of my crew are dead. Not just proud voidsmen and women of our Navy, but the families who sailed with them. Children. The ship we called our home lies a broken corpse.”

Her eyes dropped away. “I failed them. And I failed the only one of our royal family for whom I felt any true loyalty. Let them call it treason.” She clenched her one fist.

“I call it vengeance.”

For a brief moment, a flicker of understanding passed between them. Primarch and Captain. He felt himself nod before turning away and exiting the room.

He moved without conscious thought, feet following patterns drilled into him long before his ten thousand year stasis. Corridors, doors, people all passed in a blur. The cacophony of the ship morphed into a meaningless babble. Vaguely, he registered the heavy tramp of ceramite boots behind him.

Too late did he realize his destination.

The door to your quarters stood before him.

No….

His hand reached for the control panel.

No…!

He watched himself enter the code, heard the hiss of sliding metal as the portal opened into darkness.

Stop….

But his body refused to obey. Or, perhaps, it obeyed some urge far more powerful than conscious will. He heard himself ordering his guard to remain outside, and stepped through the door…

…into memory.

Your scent rose all around him, overwhelming, choking. It shattered the frigid defenses he’d erected around his mind and hearts. It stabbed. It soothed. He loved it. He hated it.

He stumbled forward, hands pawing blindly until they met the bed. His knees buckled. He crashed to the floor, hands still tangled in the sheets that smelled achingly of you. 

You…you…you…you….

You, standing before him for the first time, single heartbeat fluttering like a bird in his ears.

You, face earnest as you advocate for the home and people you care for.

You, giggling at one of his ill-timed, foolish jests.

You, laid out beneath him, eyes shining as you tell him you love-

“No…,” Guilliman groaned, “stop. Please….”

The memories ceased, replaced by something far, far worse.

You, dressed in purest white, standing before him at the altar, pledging love and faithfulness for the rest of your days.

You, blushing fiercely, as he presents their new Lady to the cheering crowds of Macragge.

You, panting his name as he worships your perfect body.

“No, no, no!” He buried his face in your sheets, only for the concentrated fragrance they carried to unlock his most searing fantasy.

You, glowing with joy as you bounce a golden-haired child on your hip, your belly growing round yet again.

“Pater! Pater!”

“Come, Roboute! Work will wait. Come spend time with your family, my love!”

Roboute Guilliman, Primarch, Lord Regent of the Imperium of Man, wept.

He did not weep as he had as a young man when Konor Guilliman, his true father, lay dying before him. He did not weep as he had when, after his reawakening, he discovered the memorial to Tarasha Euten deep within the Fortress of Hera.

Even in those times, he’d known there to be a future beyond his pain.

But now….

Fabric tore as his fists clenched around the sheets. He raised his eyes to find one of the innumerable skulls carved into every surface upon the ship. A grisly symbol of the deity supposedly watching over them all.

“Why?” His voice felt ripped from the bleeding center of his being. “If you have the power people say, why do you use it to torment me?” 

He staggered to his feet, still clasping the torn sheets. “Have I not given enough? Did you find me undeserving of even the smallest modicum of happiness? Why, then, did you let me feel it, only to rip it away?”

His next words came as an agonized roar. “Why did you give me hope?!”

The very cruelest of punishments.

Guilliman looked down at the shreds of fabric in his hand. “What did she do to deserve your ire?”

But, deep within, he knew the truth. The Emperor had not doomed you. He had. His love was a poison worse than any follower of Nurgle could concoct.

Hadn’t everyone he ever cared for died?

“I am sorry. Oh Throne, I am so sorry, my love.” Once again, he buried his face in your fragrance. “Forgive me. Please, forgive me.”

He knew he tortured himself. He also knew he deserved it.

Vengeance and rage could only light his steps for so long. He would destroy all who had taken you from him. And then their fire would flicker out, leaving him with nothing but a cold, lonely trudge into the gray of the future.

At the thought, all strength left him. 

Roboute Guilliman curled onto the floor, knees tucked to his chest, whimpering like a child left alone in the dark.

…ping….

His eyes snapped open.

…ping…ping….

He clawed to his feet, chest heaving in great gasps. 

…ping….

Guilliman hurtled from the room, nearly bowling over Cato Sicarius. The Commander’s queries went unheeded as he crashed through the great gilded doors at the end of the corridor and into his personal office.

ping…ping…ping…

There, on his desk, lay a small vox receiver, gifted to him by Captain Takahashi. The unfamiliar device was set to receive one specific frequency from one specific source: a miniaturized beacon set into a band of gold and sapphire.

A band he’d placed upon your finger minutes before you left the Macragge’s Honor.

“If you need me, press the largest gem in the ring. A beacon will activate.” He’d grasped your chin, ensuring you looked into his eyes. “And I will come for you.”

Ping!

The receiver lit with a pulsing, golden light.

And hope, that cruelest and most enduring of flames, ignited in Guilliman’s hearts once more.

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@bispecsual @kit-williams @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus @lemon-russ

@justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye @bleedingichorhearts @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @mooniequeen

@passionofthesith @noncon-photobomb @sinistermojo @b-rabbitboss @vyzz-undercover

@missmannequin @rivalriotrenegade @iloveoutlinesiswear @jaghatai-khock @hatsubara-8chan

@justanothermemestrider @meervalv0 @grimdark-raccoon @garlickedbreads @riokunova

@ailujsenutna @emiemiemiii @astrohymn @synfiction @soul-of-leya

@n0cturn4 @mgrm99 @seirensou @zamzmak @elita1

@ilovewolvezz @primordialsneeze @summersong2262 @nereidof40k @ahrianee

@sunsetlobster

Please comment if you'd like to be added/removed from the Taglist.

[22ayla21]

Is it possible to get part 2 where Mydei search reader and finally they reconcile after he solved the issue with Katretos based on that one anon request about Krateros ask reader to leave Mydei because she's not good enough for him? That story is so good! 🙏🏼

The Unavoidable Conversation

The mentor knew his student would come to him, but quickly realized he shouldn't have interfered in Mydei's relationships.

Katreros was ready. He knew his student wouldn't let this go unnoticed.

When the door to his chambers burst open, he was sitting at the table, calmly studying maps and tactical schemes.

Mydei entered, and even the air in the room seemed to tighten.

"Close the door," Katreros said calmly.

"I'm afraid, after your words to my beloved, I want to do more than just close the door," Mydei's voice was cold, but a storm raged in his eyes. Katreros slowly raised his head.

"I did what I thought was right."

"You decided for me who is worthy to be by my side?"

"I protected you, as your mother commanded," the mentor's voice remained even, but Mydei saw his fingers clench into a fist.

"Did you protect or try to control?"

Katreros was silent for a long time, then sighed.

"Kremnos is a people of traditions, Mydeimos. You understand that her origin..."

"I'm not interested in traditions that require me to give up my happiness."

"You are selfish."

Mydei smirked, but there was no amusement in his eyes.

"And you forget that I am not a child who can be lectured without consequences."

Katreros clenched his teeth but remained silent.

"You were my mentor, Katreros. A friend. A person I trusted. And you betrayed that trust," Mydei's voice became quieter, but the threat felt stronger. The mentor turned away, resting his palms on the table.

"I will not apologize for wanting the best for you."

"Then you will have to accept my choice," Mydei crossed his arms.

"And if I refuse?"

"I need you, Katreros," Mydei said unexpectedly calmly. "Kremnos needs a strong commander. In my absence, you will lead the army. But if you continue to interfere..."

He stepped closer, forcing the mentor to look up.

"I will punish you in a way you cannot escape."

Katreros understood.

Mydei could banish him. Deprive him of his rank. Humiliate him publicly. But the worst thing for a warrior would be to stay and watch his world change—and not be able to stop it.

The mentor closed his eyes.

"You are truly the son of Gorgo."

"I know."

Silence fell between them.

Finally, Katreros clenched his fists and nodded.

"I understand, prince."

Mydei turned and left. And for the first time in a long time, Katreros felt like he had lost.

[beautifulplaceofyouth]

A LESSON IN ORDER

summary - Mephisto was injured protecting you during a mission, leaving you distraught. Upon returning to base, your dangerous boyfriend, Sylus, is more amused than angry by the situation and relishes the opportunity to punish you, which he thoroughly enjoys while you are restrained.

pairing - Sylus!possessive!boyfriend x Reader

(nsfw+18) - Very dominant in this one, a lot of teasing and banter (angst & sweet), reader is very sassy and mouthy but also weak for Sylus and his control, dominantxsubmissive dynamic, includes a little punishment, spanking, he is not really angry but maybe you will hate him a little how sadistic he is. Also, he is masochist (he likes pain). Experienced!reader, male!receiving, female!receiving, raw slow vaginal & rough sex, creampie, intense orgasm edging, nipple play, reader cries a lot because of it, they play a silent game (wink, wink), energy evol usage for restraining, praise kink, neck and shoulder biting (leaves bloody marks), pet names(sweetie, kitten, little minx, little bird, little temptress, baby, darling), a lot of dirty talk, a sweet aftercare in the end. They love each other a lot.

w-20k - So. Don't. Come. At. Me. Again. I carried away with this one also. I just couldn't stop. Sylus is my second baby.

Masterlist

The rhythmic tick-tock of unseen machinery was the only sound that dared to break the suffocating silence of Sylus's base. Each tick was a hammer blow against my already fraying nerves as you paced the worn metal floor of his bedroom. Shadows danced in the corners of the room, stretching and contorting familiar shapes into monstrous figures. You felt the weight of guilt pressing down on you, a suffocating blanket woven with failure and fear.

"Sylus, I… I really didn't mean to. I swear! I was fighting the Wanderer, and he just… he lunged, and Mephisto tried to intercept, and…" Your voice trailed off, a pathetic whimper lost in the vastness of the room. You couldn't bring yourself to finish the sentence, the image of the Wanderer's attack flashing before your eyes, a stark reminder of your inadequacy.

Sylus remained disturbingly calm, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within you. He was lounging in his favorite chair, an old, dilapidated thing that looked as though it had been salvaged from a forgotten battlefield. He was gently stroking Mephisto's head with the tip of a small screwdriver, his movements precise and deliberate. "And?" he finally asked, his voice dangerously soft. "Kitten, you’re making me dizzy with all that pacing. Just breathe."

Breathe. A simple instruction, yet impossibly difficult to follow. Your lungs felt constricted, starved of air. "And… and he got clipped! It was my fault. He was protecting me, like you asked him to and... now look at him!" You gestured wildly towards Mephisto, the anger and frustration finally bubbling to the surface.

Sylus sighed dramatically, a theatrical display that did little to assuage your anxiety. He finally looked up, one eyebrow arched in amusement. "Look at him? He's got a scratch on his wing. Hardly the end of the world. Though, he does look quite pathetic, doesn't he?" There was a hint of a smile playing on his lips, a cruel twist that sent a shiver down your spine.

"A scratch? Sylus, that's more than a scratch! It's a gouge! He could've been seriously damaged!" You protested, your voice rising in desperation. The thought of Mephisto, Sylus's beloved creation, being irreparably harmed because of your mistake was unbearable.

Sylus chuckled softly, the sound sending a fresh wave of guilt through you. "Oh, Kitten, always so dramatic. My precious Mephisto is tougher than he looks. Aren't you, boy?" He gently adjusted Mephisto on his arm, his touch surprisingly tender. "He took a hit for you. A true testament of his loyalty."

"That's what I'm worried about!" You exclaimed, your hands clenching into fists. "You sent him to protect me, and he got hurt because I screwed up. I’m supposed to be able protect myself you know!" The shame was a bitter taste in your mouth, a constant reminder of your failure.

Sylus's voice took on a teasing edge, a dangerous glint appearing in his eyes. "Are you saying that you don't appreciate my concern for your well-being? Did I overestimate your abilities out there alone, sweetie?"

"Of course, I appreciate it!" You snapped, stopping in your tracks, frustration bubbling over. "It's just… it's embarrassing! And I hate that Mephisto got hurt. It was reckless of me, I should’ve seen the attack coming to begin with!"

Sylus set Mephisto down carefully on the workbench, his movements deliberate and slow. He then turned to face me, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. "Reckless? Hmm. I think I’m starting to understand. Are you more upset that Mephisto got hurt, or that you’re now indebted to my adorable tin bird? Or perhaps…" He stepped closer, his eyes locking onto yours, “are you afraid of owing me something?"

You took a step back, unnerved by the intensity of his gaze. "Sylus, don't be ridiculous." But even as you spoke the words, you knew there was a grain of truth in his accusation.

Sylus closed the distance again, cornering you gently against the cold metal wall. "Am I? Because it seems to me, kitten, that you're more concerned about your pride than about a little mechanical mishap." His voice was a low purr, a dangerous rumble that resonated deep within your bones.

You looked away, unable to meet his intense gaze. Your voice softened, betraying your vulnerability. "I'm worried about both. I don't want you to think I can't handle myself, and I really don't want Mephisto to get hurt because of me."

Sylus gently cupped your cheek, forcing you to look at him. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the darkness that often swirled within him. "Relax, kitten. Mephisto will be fine. A little welding here, a bit of polish there, and he'll be good as new. And as for you…" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur that sent shivers down your spine, “I already know you can handle yourself. That's one of the many reasons I'm so… attached."

A small smile flickered across your face, a fragile bloom of warmth in the cold, harsh environment. "Attached? Is that what we're calling it?"

Sylus grinned, a flash of predatory delight in his eyes. "Possessed. Obsessed. Madly, irrevocably head-over-heels. Take your pick, kitten. Now, come here. Let's get you cleaned up. And then you can tell me exactly how you handled that Wanderer. I want all the details."

You crossed your arms, the leather of your jacket creaking softly, and arched an eyebrow, doing your best to project an air of nonchalance I decidedly didn't feel. "Why?" You asked, the word clipped and perhaps a little sharper than intended.

Sylus's grin widened, a predatory gleam entering his red ruby eyes. They were the color of spilled blood and burning embers, a dangerous invitation you both craved and feared. "Because, kitten," he purred, the sound wrapping around you like a silken noose, "knowledge is power. And because picturing you covered in shimmering Wanderer dust, fighting tooth and nail… it’s… stimulating."

Your breath hitched. He saw more than you wanted him to, felt more than you were ready to admit. The Wanderer dust. It clung to everything, a glittering residue of battles fought and lives taken. He also lived in danger but he was too much attuned to your inner demons. The whispers of your darkest desires.

He stepped closer, the air thickening with a palpable tension. "I want to know exactly what they saw, what they felt, when you were dismantling them. Every blow, every parry. Paint me a picture with your words, and then… perhaps I’ll paint one on you." He ran a finger lightly down your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. The touch was feather-light, almost innocent, yet it sparked a fire deep within you, a primal response you couldn’t control.

A shiver ran down your spine despite yourself. It was a reaction born not of fear, but of anticipation, of a forbidden thrill that pulsed through your veins like a drug. You tried to maintain a defiant stance, but your voice was a little breathy, a betraying whisper. "You’re incorrigible."

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through you, shaking the foundations of your carefully constructed composure. He closed the distance between you two, stepping closer until his heat enveloped you. His breath warmed your ear as he whispered, "Only for you, sweetie. Now, tell me. Did you enjoy yourself? Be honest. Did you feel… powerful?"

The question hung in the air, laced with a challenge, a dare. You looked away, trying to regain some semblance of control, trying to piece back together the shattered fragments of your resolve. "It was… necessary," You mumbled, the answer a shield, deflecting the truth that threatened to overwhelm you.

He wouldn’t let you hide. Sylus reached out, tilting your chin up with a gentle yet insistent pressure, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark pools, swirling with shadows and secrets, reflecting the turmoil within your own soul. "Necessary, yes. But also… exhilarating? Don’t deny it. I can taste it on your skin. The thrill of the fight. The edge of danger. It suits you."

His words were a brand, searing themselves into your flesh. He saw the darkness within you, the part you tried to keep hidden, the part you feared. And he wasn't repulsed. He was… intrigued. More like thrilled.

"No wonder, you almost succeeded to kill me the first time we met," he grins, remembering that day very well when you got captured in N019 zone.

Swallowing hard, you tried to push him away, to break the spell he was weaving around you. "Stop it," You pleaded, the words barely audible.

His voice dropped to a husky whisper, a silken caress that sent shivers dancing across your skin. "Stop what? Telling you the truth? Showing you what you crave? You may pretend to be demure, but I see the fire in your eyes. The hunger."

He leaned in, his lips hovering just above yours, close enough that I could feel his breath ghosting across your skin. The scent of ozone and something darkly intoxicating filled your senses, stealing your breath and clouding your mind. Strands of his white hair, as fine as spun moonlight, fell across your forehead, a delicate contrast to the storm raging within you.

"Tell me one thing…" he murmured, his voice a low growl that reverberated through your bones. "Did you think of me while you were fighting?"

The question was a trap, a carefully baited hook designed to snag the truth from the depths of your soul. You fought against it, against the vulnerability it exposed, against the power he wielded over you.

The truth slipped out, a confession whispered against his lips. "Maybe…"

His lips finally met yours, a slow, deliberate kiss that started as a tentative exploration and quickly deepened into a possessive claim. He pulled you closer, his hands sliding around your waist, molding your body against his. The kiss was demanding, a silent command for surrender. Your senses reeled, the world fading away as you succumbed to the intoxicating heat.

The kiss intensified, Sylus's hands moving to explore the contours of your back, tracing the curve of your spine, igniting a firestorm with every touch. He broke the kiss, gasping slightly, his breath ragged against your lips.

"Come," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "The details can wait. I need to feel you close, kitten."

He swept you into his arms, effortlessly lifting you off your feet. The air crackled with anticipation, the weight of unspoken desires pressing down on you two. The world outside faded away, blurring into insignificance, leaving only the burning connection between you, the magnetic pull that drew you together with irresistible force.

He carried you towards the bed, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze a silent promise of pleasure and pain, of dominance and surrender. He gently placed you on the soft, velvet covers, his eyes still locked on yours, holding you captive in their crimson depths.

"Let me show you what I mean by possessed," he murmured, his voice a silken threat that sent shivers down your spine.

His hands, gentle yet firm, reached for your leather jacket, pulling it off, the next was the buttons of your shirt, his eyes meeting yours with each deliberate movement. He discarded his own shirt, the muscles of his chest rippling beneath his pale skin, a stark contrast to the darkness that clung to his soul. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, his words a seductive whisper.

"Tell me what you want. Let me worship you."

The words were a key, unlocking a hidden part of you, a part you had long denied. You wanted to surrender, to lose yourself in the darkness he offered, to taste the forbidden pleasure he promised.

But a flicker of doubt, a whisper of conscience, still remained. "But Mephisto…"

He dismissed your concern with a wave of his hand, a predatory smirk playing on his lips. "He will not disturb us, sweetie."

Even as he spoke, you heard the distinct sound of a door slamming shut, followed by the flapping of wings. A dark shadow momentarily crossed the room as Mephisto, his familiar crow, departed. With a surge of his energy, a crimson mist materialized, gently restraining your wrists, pinning them above your head. Sylus’s smirk widened, a triumphant glint in his ruby eyes. "Where were we? Ah, yes. I will thank you on his behalf.”

Confusion warred with terror. “Thank me? What do you mean?” You stammered, your voice barely a whisper.

The smirk widened, revealing a flash of sharp, white teeth. “For giving me an opportunity to give you a punishment, of course.”

Your heart lurched. “Wait…what?”

He leaned closer, invading your personal space, the scent of ancient leather and something indefinably…otherworldly… filling your nostrils. “You didn’t think I would let that slide, did you?”

“But you said it was fine! And…he just got a scratch.” The words tumbled out in a desperate rush, clinging to the hope that this was all some terrible misunderstanding.

Sylus’s eyes hardened, the predatory glint intensifying. “I lied. He was upset. Terribly so.”

“But you sent him to protect me! It wasn’t really my fault that he got hurt.” The protest sounded weak, even to your own ears.

He advanced closer, his breath ghosting over your skin, sending a shiver of both fear and an unwelcome thrill of anticipation. He was so close now, you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle tension in his muscles.

“Wasn’t it?” he murmured, his voice a silken whisper that seemed to coil around you like the crimson mist. “You knew the risks. You knew what creatures lurked in the shadows. And yet, you went anyway. He acted on my order, and he got hurt. That reflects back on me, doesn’t it?”

He raised a hand, his fingers long and elegant, and trailed a single digit down your cheek. The touch was surprisingly light, almost delicate, against the weight of his words. It was a calculated move, a deliberate contrast designed to unnerve you, to keep you off balance.

“So, a lesson is in order,” he continued, his voice a mesmerizing drawl. “A gentle reminder that actions have consequences.”

“But…a punishment? After everything else?” The question was a plaintive plea, born of exhaustion and a desperate yearning for respite.

Sylus’s eyes darkened, becoming pools of impenetrable obsidian. “Don’t mistake my earlier…inclinations for weakness, sweetie.” The sweetness in his voice was gone, replaced by a chilling edge. “I can desire and discipline in equal measure. Perhaps it is the combination that truly fascinates me.”

He paused, tilting his head, studying you with an intensity that felt like being dissected under a microscope. “Tell me,” he purred, his eyes boring into yours, “which do you find more enticing: my worship, or my control?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. With a swift, decisive movement, he released your left wrist, freeing it from the crimson mist. The sudden freedom sent a jolt of relief through your arm, but it was quickly overshadowed by the stark reality of your continued captivity. He didn’t release the other. The remaining bond felt more significant now, a symbol of your complete and utter dependence on his will.

“Such a difficult choice, isn’t it?” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that vibrated through your very bones.

He used your freed hand, the one that should be pushing him away, to trace the line of your jaw, his touch both gentle and possessive. The sensation was maddening, a confusing blend of fear and undeniable attraction. His touch intensified the dark desire you had been trying to ignore. His fingers moved to cup your face softly, his warmth seeping into your skin. His thumb brushed against your lower lip, a subtle, suggestive caress that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek. “I make the choices for you…just relax, and submit.”

His gaze burned into yours, an undeniable intensity that both frightened and excited. It was a look that promised both pain and pleasure, dominance and devotion. He was offering you everything and nothing all at once, a twisted paradox that both repelled and seduced.

He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours, close enough that you could feel the faint rasp of his smooth flesh against your own skin. The anticipation was almost unbearable, a dizzying blend of dread and desire.

“Now,” he commanded, his voice a soft, dangerous whisper. “Tell me you understand. Tell me you accept the consequences.”

The words hung in the air between you, a heavy weight that threatened to crush you.

He watched you with a lazy, playful smirk, his crimson eyes glinting in the low light as he rubbed the inside of your wrist with his thumb teasingly. A shiver traced its way down your spine, the simple touch sending sparks of anticipation through your veins. The air around you crackled with unspoken desire, thick with the promise of something dangerous and exhilarating.

You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat, “I accept the consequences…”

His smirk widened, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth that seemed unnaturally sharp in the dim light. A predatory glint danced in his eyes, acknowledging your surrender, your willingness to play his game. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice dripping with unspoken promises. It was a reward, a validation for your obedience, and it ignited a fire within you that both terrified and thrilled you. He slowly pushed your freed wrist back into the crimson mist, enveloping it completely once more, reasserting his control.

You whimpered softly after the praise, the sound barely audible, yet it seemed to echo in the silence between you.

The sound seemed to please him, a low purr rumbling in his chest as he observed the slight quiver in your lips. His thumb continued to trace lazy patterns on the inside of your wrist, applying gentle pressure, a subtle reminder that you were captive, willingly or not, within his grasp. The crimson mist swirled around your wrist, a beautiful, deadly shackle.

“Sylus…” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper, a plea for something you couldn't quite define.

"Yes?" His voice dropped an octave lower, becoming almost hypnotically soothing, yet carrying the same underlying darkness that both intrigued and frightened you. "You're doing so well, kitten. Taking orders like a good girl..." He continued the mesmerizing motion of his thumb, knowing full well the effect his words had on you, how they chipped away at your resistance, leaving you vulnerable and wanting.

“What will you do?” you finally managed to ask, your heart pounding against your ribs.

"Hmm, what do you want me to do?" Sylus paused his actions, tilting his head slightly as if genuinely curious. But you knew better. The question was laced with a dangerous allure, tempting you to voice your darkest desires, to surrender completely to the intoxicating power he wielded. "Would you like me to keep you trapped here, under my control?"

"....."

"Cute how you go silent," he whispered, a knowing smile curling his lips. "The truth is... you trust me more when you don't know what's coming next." His other hand trailed down your arm slowly, following the line formed by the energy bonds. "Should I make you more comfortable?"

You nod, the anticipation building within you like a storm gathering on the horizon.

"Interesting choice," Sylus purred, his smirk widening. With a flick of his wrist, the crimson mist shifted, the bonds loosening slightly around your wrists. It wasn't freedom—not quite—but it was significantly more comfortable than before. The mist now felt like velvet rather than iron chains, a subtle shift that sent shivers down your spine.

"Thank you," you breathed, the words barely audible.

His smirk softened slightly, a flicker of something akin to tenderness in his eyes. "You're too easy to please," he muttered softly, watching how you tested your newfound mobility. Your wrists were no longer stretched painfully high, now dangling loosely at your sides. He continued rubbing the inside of one wrist possessively, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles. "Do you know how to ruin this?"

"What do you mean?" you ask, your voice laced with a delicate tremor.

"Simple," Sylus explained, his eyes glinting mischievously in the dim light. "You could struggle, try to break free, make this whole situation difficult... But instead, you lay there quietly, accepting your fate like a well-behaved little bird." He chuckled softly, leaning in closer, his breath warm against your skin.

You whimper, the sound involuntary, a reaction to his nearness and the intoxicating power he held over you.

"Yes, that's it," he praised darkly, his breath ghosting over your ear, sending another wave of shivers through your body. "You're so good at being helpless and submissive. It's almost... adorable." His hand moved up, gripping your chin firmly, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

"Sylus…." You moan, your voice laced with a desperate plea.

"Mmm, and that's the best part," he whispered, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip, sending a jolt of electricity through you. "You can't help but react to me, can you? Your body betrays you every time." He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart race. "Want to know a secret?"

"Yes," you whisper, the word escaping on a breath.

"I love it," he confessed, his voice barely audible, a velvet caress against your skin. "Your reactions, your whimpers, your submission—it's intoxicating." He finally closed the distance between you, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips before pulling away just as gently, leaving you breathless and wanting more. "You make this too easy, kitten."

You moan, your body aching with a desire that both terrified and thrilled you. "Sylus…you’re torturing me…”

"Good," he hissed, his eyes flashing with a possessive fire that made your pulse quicken. "That's exactly what I'm doing. I'm torturing you with my presence, with my kisses, with the knowledge that you're completely at my mercy." He gripped your wrists tighter, the mist responding to his silent command by constricting slightly, a subtle reminder of the power he wielded.

You whimper, biting your lip in a nervous tick you can't seem to control. It's a habit Sylus has made abundantly clear he despises.

"Stop that," he snaps, the command sharp enough to make you flinch. He releases your wrists, the sudden lack of restraint almost disorienting. Instead, his hand rises, fingers pressing against your jaw with a force that borders on painful as he pries your mouth open. "Show me your teeth," he demands, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

You obey, your lips parting to reveal the pearly white daggers within. He studies them for a long moment, his gaze intense and unnerving. "Now, bite my finger instead."

Confusion furrows your brow. You hesitate only a heartbeat before complying, sinking your teeth into the pad of his finger. It's not a hard bite, more of a gentle pressure, a test. Yet, Sylus lets out a low groan, a sound that vibrates through you not from pain but from a dark, unfamiliar pleasure.

"Better," he murmurs, his finger still caught between your teeth. "Much better than biting that sweet little lip of yours." He slowly withdraws his finger, his eyes lingering on the faint indentations left by your teeth. A strange, predatory satisfaction gleams in his gaze.

“Yeah? I bleed everyday on missions,” you protest, the words tumbling out in a rush, a desperate attempt to break the spell he's weaving.

"That's different," he replies, his tone turning stern, the playful edge vanishing. "Those are battle scars, proof of your strength and resilience. This... this is something else entirely." He brings his finger to his mouth, sucking on the faintly marked skin. A shiver crawls down your spine. "This is a mark of your submission, your willingness to obey me."

“Fuck…Sylus…are you going to punish me for real or?” The question hangs in the air, thick with a mixture of fear and a perverse anticipation.

Sylus smirks, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. He lets out a soft chuckle, the sound echoing in the suddenly silent room. "Soon, very soon," he drawls dramatically, his lips curling into a wicked grin. Well now, aren't you eager? he purrs, the thought seeming to resonate in your mind, his voice dripping with amusement and a dark promise. “Such an impatient little thing.”

Your eyes trace the landscape of his naked chest, a familiar path of admiration you've tread countless times. Muscles ripple and flex with every breath, a constant distraction that pulls you away from the world and into the captivating realm of his physique. When his face, with its sharp angles and knowing eyes, becomes too much, his chest and abs offer a haven, a beautiful distraction.

Sylus, ever aware of your gaze, smirks, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. He subtly flexes, the defined lines of his abdomen contracting under your focused attention. "See something you like, kitten?" he purrs, his voice a low rumble laced with playful mischief.

"Yeah, my boyfriend's abs," you reply, your voice devoid of any false modesty. There's no shame in appreciating what's yours, especially when it's as breathtaking as this.

His laughter is a deep, resonating sound that fills the room, genuine but with a possessive edge. He closes the distance between you, his presence a palpable force. One hand trails lightly down your cheek, sending shivers down your spine. "Well, your boyfriend's abs seem to be enjoying the view of your lips too," he whispers, his breath warm against your skin, a tantalizing promise of intimacy without the immediate touch.

A giggle escapes you, bubbling up from the depths of your amusement. The situation is ridiculous, yet utterly captivating.

"God, you're so cute," he mutters, catching himself before a genuine smile graces his lips. He watches you laugh, the sound infectious and unrestrained. It's a far cry from the moans and whimpers he usually coaxes from you, and the contrast intrigues him. "You know what else your boyfriend has?" he asks suddenly, his voice dropping an octave, sending a delicious shiver down your spine.

"Big dick?" you retort, a playful smirk tugging at your lips.

Sylus' eyes widen in momentary surprise before he throws his head back and releases a hearty laugh, the sound echoing through the room. "Fuck, you're something else," he chuckles, wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye. "Yes, your boyfriend has a big dick," he confirms, still chuckling, reveling in your audacity.

Giggles erupt from you again, the sound as bright and effervescent as a sparkling spring.

He joins in your laughter, the moment feeling strangely… normal. A fleeting glimpse into a world where you're just two people sharing a joke, stripped of the power dynamics, the expectations of a dominant and his submissive when you two were in a bedroom setting. "But do you know what else he has?" he asks, his laughter subsiding, replaced by a serious undertone that makes your heart skip a beat.

You look up at him, your playful mood shifting, a question in your eyes. "Hmm… you tell me."

He reached out and grabbed your chin, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. "A possessive streak a mile wide," he said, his eyes boring into yours, holding you captive in their intensity. "He's the kind of man who'd kill anyone who looked at you the wrong way."

"Is that so?" you purr, a thrill dancing along your spine at the thought.

His gaze intensified, the pressure of his thumb increasing as it slipped into your mouth, gently pressing against your tongue. "Yeah, that's so," he growled, the sound resonating with a raw possessiveness that made your knees weak. His other hand wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, not threatening, but simply holding you in place, marking you as his. "Fuck, look at you, all submissive and sweet."

Your eyes glazed over, the world around you fading as you focused solely on him. You sucked on his thumb, the motion instinctive, drawing him further into your intoxicating spell. A contented purr rumbled in your chest, a sound that was both innocent and utterly carnal.

Sylus groaned as you sucked his thumb, the vibrations sending a jolt straight to his cock. He stroked your throat gently, feeling your pulse race under his fingertips, a frantic rhythm of desire echoing his own. "Fucking hell, you're perfect," he muttered, mesmerized by how readily you submitted to him, how easily he could claim you.

Slowly, deliberately, Sylus withdrew his thumb from your mouth with a wet pop, the sound lingering in the air. He admired your slightly parted lips, the delicate sheen of moisture reflecting the light. A smirk played on his lips as he noticed your glazed eyes, the undeniable proof of your surrender. "You know, every time I think I've seen the last of your submission, you go and prove me wrong," he whispered, his voice thick with admiration and desire.

You smile, a slow, knowing curve of your lips. "Your girlfriend is the best, isn't she?"

He smirked, a flash of amusement lighting up his eyes as he shook his head. "Of course she is," he agreed, leaning in to kiss your neck softly, his breath ghosting against your skin. "She's smart, strong, beautiful, and most importantly, incredibly submissive to me." He hummed against your skin, the sound a low, possessive rumble. "I'm a lucky man."

You purr, the sound a promise of pleasures yet to come, a testament to the undeniable power you held over him.

A shiver ran down your spine at his purr, his grip on your throat tightening ever so slightly. "You make this too fucking easy, you know," he whispered, his teeth grazing your earlobe, sending another jolt of electricity through you. "One cute little sound from those perfect lips, and I'm ready to throw away everything for you."

You moan, the sound desperate and pleading. "Please…punish me like you wanted to. I can’t hold it…"

Sylus smirked, the expression predatory and knowing. "Impatient, aren’t we?"

"Please…" you try to tug free of the red mist bounds that held you captive, his energy an invisible, inescapable cage. The power of his hold on you was intoxicating, terrifying, and undeniably thrilling all at once.

His eyes darkened, the red swirling within them, your struggle only fueling the fire in his veins. He watched your body squirm, testing the boundaries of his energy bindings. They tightened around your wrists and ankles automatically, as if enjoying your futile attempts to break free. "Goddamn," he growled, his voice lower, rougher, and far more dangerous than before.

Another moan escapes you as he leans down, his breath hot against your skin, and bites the sensitive flesh between your breasts, your bra and jeans still offering a frustrating barrier.

He bit down harder, marking you as his. You cried out, your back arching involuntarily, the sound echoing in the dimly lit room. He watched your breasts strain against the lace of your bra, practically begging to be freed. His hands itched to tear away the fabric, to feel your bare skin beneath his fingertips. He pulled back just enough to see the angry red mark he'd left on your pale skin. His smirk was sinful, possessive. "Look at you."

You pant, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The anticipation was almost unbearable.

His gaze slowly raked over your body, lingering on your heaving chest, the way your hips moved restlessly against the bindings as you tried to get some semblance of friction.

"Sylus, please…" The word was a broken plea, a testament to the control he held over you.

Sylus chuckled darkly, the sound a low rumble that vibrated through you. Your desperate pleas were stroking his ego more than any physical touch could. "Fuck, listen to you beg," he murmured, watching your body writhe in the confines of his energy. "You'd let me do anything right now, wouldn't you?"

You nod, your breathing heavy and shallow, your eyes locked on his. The answer was a silent, desperate promise.

His grin turned feral, his energy snapping with excitement. "Words, sweetie," he demanded, voice firm. "Tell me how desperate you are for my punishment." His eyes glinted with sadistic intent, eager to hear the dirty words spill from your lips.

“Please….punish me Sylus. Because I didn’t hurt Mephisto,” your sarcasm drips out anyway. He was hurt because Sylus ordered him to protect you but he got hurt by a wanderer and now he wanted to punish you for that. You knew he clearly enjoyed that as an excuse to torment you like this.

His shoulders shook with silent laughter. Damn your smart mouth. He loved it. His expression darkened again, "You know what kind of punishment you deserve?" He asked slowly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he held back laughter. Your smart-ass answer had him less murderous and more amused.

“What kind?” You raised an eyebrow, challenging him.

His eyes narrowed, a playful glint sparking within them. "The kind where you can't sit comfortably for a week," he suggested, his tone laced with fake menace. He loved seeing your defiant expression; it always made punishing you more satisfying. "Or…"

“Or?” you prompted, curiosity piqued despite yourself.

He smirked, the corner of his lip lifting in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. "Or the kind where you scream my name so much you lose your voice." He watched your cheeks darken with a predatory satisfaction. His smirk widened. "Answer me honestly, kitten. Would you prefer sore ass cheeks, or a sore throat?" he asked softly, finding amusement in your blatant embarrassment.

You groan, a sound that was equal parts exasperation and reluctant anticipation. "So this is how you will play this time."

He leaned back, arms crossing over his chest in a posture of relaxed dominance, eyes gleaming with undisguised curiosity. "And how would I play this time?" he inquired, already knowing your answer. He loved these mind games with you, the push and pull of wills, the battle of wits. It was half the fun, the delicious prelude to the storm. "Will you keep being mouthy and sarcastic?"

“You love it when I talk back,” you smirk, mirroring his own expression. The game was on, and you were ready to play.

He barked out a surprised laugh, leaning closer again. "Fucking right I do." His voice dropped to a whisper, a dangerous rumble that vibrated against your skin. "Nothing turns me on more than your smart-ass comebacks. Especially when I have you restrained."

“Har, har, har,” you deadpan, trying to mask the shiver that ran down your spine. His nearness was intoxicating, the scent of leather and spice clinging to him, a heady mix that always made your pulse race.

His eyes crinkled at the corners again, amusement dancing within their depths. "You're asking for it now," he warned, his voice low and laced with promise. He loved how you never backed down, always gave him lip, even when you were clearly flustered. He wondered how long he could draw this out, this delicious back and forth, before he snapped and silenced you with his mouth. "Last chance," he breathed, his gaze intense, locking onto yours.

A sigh escapes your lips, a mixture of exasperation and surrender. You knew you were playing a dangerous game, pushing him to the edge, but the thrill of the chase, the anticipation of his touch, was too tempting to resist. “Fine. Sore cheeks,” you blush, the admission escaping before you could fully process it.

He threw his head back and laughed, a genuine sound that echoed through the room, a sound that always sent a flutter of warmth through your chest. "Fucking hell," he chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. He loved how you could go from sarcastic and defiant to blushing and vulnerable in an instant. It was a constant surprise, a never-ending source of fascination. "You know I'm going to enjoy this," he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.

You nod slowly, meeting his gaze head-on. “I know.” You knew his enjoyment would be your pleasure too. The sting of his hand against your skin, followed by the overwhelming wave of desire, was a sensation you craved, a release you both needed.

His eyes darkened intensely, the playful glint replaced by a raw, possessive hunger. The way you accepted your punishment so calmly, yet blushed adorably at saying ‘sore cheeks’, had him wanting to both spank you raw and kiss those red cheeks until they were flushed even brighter. "Such a brat..." he muttered, his energy snapping with barely controlled lust, the air thick with unspoken desires.

“So?” you retort, tilting your chin up defiantly, even as your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew you were playing with fire, but you were willing to get burned.

Sylus couldn't resist the brat comment, a smirk tugging at his lips. "So fucking what? You're about to get your cute little ass smacked, and you answer with 'so'?" He tsked, shaking his head, but the amusement was still evident in his eyes. "Such a rebellious mouth on you," he murmured, tracing the curve of your bottom lip with his thumb, a silent promise of things to come.

“As long as you fuck me afterwards,” you whisper, the words a blatant invitation, a challenge thrown at his feet. You watched as his expression shifted, the surprise quickly giving way to a blazing inferno of desire.

His smirk faltered, eyes widening slightly before darkening with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. Fuck, you always knew how to push his buttons, how to ignite the fire that burned between you. "Mmm, and if I don't?" He challenged, voice low and husky, a dangerous glint in his eyes. He wanted to hear you beg, wanted to see the desperation in your gaze. He wanted to break you, just to put you back together again.

You growl, a primal sound that rumbled in your chest, a sound that betrayed the depths of your desire, the raw need that consumed you both. “Don’t…” The word hung in the air, a plea, a threat, a promise of the pleasure he knew you both craved.

He chuckled darkly, the sound a low rumble that vibrated through the air, as he savored the way you so readily stumbled into his carefully laid trap. "Don't what?" he purred, his voice laced with a playful menace. He leaned in closer, the heat of his body radiating towards you, stealing your breath. "Don't fuck you after I turn your ass red? Don't give you what you want, what you so clearly crave?" His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours, watching as a storm of frustration and blatant, undeniable desire flickered within their depths. He knew he had you exactly where he wanted you.

“Sylus…I swear…if you just…” you started, your voice a low growl, a warning that he was dancing dangerously close to the edge.

"If I just what?" he mocked, the air around him crackling with unrestrained power, an energy that mirrored the tumultuous emotions swirling within you. He thrived on this, on seeing you lose your carefully constructed composure, on witnessing the raw, untamed possessiveness that flared when he threatened to withhold the very punishment, the very pleasure, you so desperately craved. "You're so easy to rile up," he chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down your spine, a potent cocktail of amusement and anticipation. He was a master puppeteer, and you, his willing marionette.

You slammed your eyes shut, a desperate attempt to regain control. "Nice thoughts. Nice thoughts," you chanted under your breath, a mantra of self-preservation.

Sylus erupted into a deep, rumbling laughter that shook his entire frame. It was a sound that both infuriated and ignited a fire within you. He knew exactly what you were doing – desperately trying to quell the rising tide of anger, trying to deny him the satisfaction of seeing you utterly undone. But your efforts only fueled his amusement, only intensified his desire to push you further. "Nice fucking thoughts, huh?" he drawled, the words dripping with suggestive intent. The air thickened with unspoken desires, with the promise of a fiery encounter that neither of you could resist.

You nodded curtly, your lips pressed into a thin line, the mantra continuing to flow from your lips, a fragile shield against the onslaught of his teasing. "Nice thoughts, nice thoughts..."

He watched, a predatory gleam in his eyes, as you lay there, a picture of frustrated restraint. The image of you, so close to the edge, repeating your mantra like a prayer, was almost unbearably alluring. He couldn't resist the urge to dismantle your defenses, to shatter the facade of control you were clinging to so desperately. "You know what nice thought I'm having?" he asked, his voice a silken whisper that promised both pain and pleasure.

You cracked open one eye, a glint of defiance flickering within. "What?" you challenged, the single word hanging in the air, a gauntlet thrown.

He smirked, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips that sent a jolt of electricity through you. Leaning in so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, he whispered in your ear, his voice a husky rasp that sent shivers down your spine. "I'm thinking about how red your ass is going to look. How you'll squirm and wiggle, trying to avoid each smack, each stinging kiss from my hand. And how fucking hard I'm going to be by the time I'm done, knowing I'm the one who put you there."

The air crackled with unspoken tension, with the raw, primal energy that flowed between you. Your carefully constructed walls crumbled, revealing the desire that burned beneath the surface.

"Then what are you waiting for?" you breathed, the words a husky whisper, a surrender to the inevitable.

His smirk widened into a full-blown grin, a predatory expression that promised a world of delicious pain. He loved this, the way you could transition from controlled restraint to unbridled desire in a heartbeat. "Eager much?" he teased, but his words were already belied by his actions. His hands, strong and possessive, reached for your waist, and with a fluid motion, he flipped you over onto your stomach.

"Shit!" you yelped, the unexpectedness of his strength stealing the breath from your lungs. He was a towering figure, a formidable presence at 6'2 feet, his power amplified by the potent magic that flowed through his veins. You were no match for him, and the knowledge of that only added to the intoxicating thrill.

He chuckled darkly, the sound echoing in the small space as he positioned himself over you, his large frame effectively caging you in. "Language," he scolded playfully, his voice a low rumble against your ear. And then, with a deliberate slowness that bordered on torture, he began to pull your jeans off, each tug a promise of the pleasure and pain that awaited.

He tossed your jeans aside, the denim landing in a heap on the floor, leaving you exposed in just your delicate underwear. A low growl rumbled in his chest as he ran a large, calloused hand over the thin fabric, tracing the curve of your ass with possessive intent. "So fucking cute," he murmured, the words thick with desire, before delivering a sharp smack that echoed through the room, the sound a stark punctuation to the heavy air.

"Sylus!" you gasped, a mix of surprise and breathless indignation in your voice.

He laughed, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through his chest and sent a delicious shiver down your spine, even as you felt your body tense beneath his touch. "Quiet," he ordered, his voice laced with playful dominance, before delivering another stinging smack to your other cheek. A rapid series of sharp slaps followed, each one landing with a satisfying thud, making you squirm and cry out in a mixture of protest and burgeoning pleasure. The rhythmic sting filled the air, your protests growing weaker with each impact.

After what felt like an eternity of tantalizing pain, Sylus paused, his breath hot against your skin. He rubbed his large hand over the warm, reddened skin of your ass, his touch both soothing and provocative. "Already so pretty and red," he murmured approvingly, his voice a husky whisper that sent shivers of anticipation through you. He gave one cheek a possessive squeeze, his fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. "Think you've had enough yet, brat?"

"Yes…yes…please," you begged, your voice a broken sob, the word tearing from your throat. The humiliation and the pleasure warred within you, leaving you breathless and desperate.

His expression darkened, the lust in his eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart pound. He loved making you sob like this – your ass flushed and sensitive, your body wracked with delicious little shudders. It was a raw, primal connection, a dance of power and submission that both terrified and thrilled you. He decided to be merciful, but not without a final, teasing flourish. He spanked you hard two more times, each impact eliciting a sharp yelp, before finally stopping altogether, the silence that followed almost deafening.

"Holy moly," you gasped, your breath coming in ragged pants. The air felt thick and charged, every nerve ending on high alert.

Sylus chuckled darkly, a sound that sent a fresh wave of heat rushing through you. He reveled in the sight of you gasping and panting, your cute little ass bright red from his playful punishment. He ran a hand over the warm, tender skin, making you jump and whimper at the sensation. "Shh, kitten. It's over now," he murmured, his voice softening, the edge of dominance replaced with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

He gently lifted you and helped you sit on his lap, carefully positioning you so your reddened bottom rested on his strong, supportive thighs. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you trapped against him in a comforting embrace as he nuzzled his face against your hair, inhaling your scent. "You took your punishment well," he murmured, his fingers gently carding through your hair, untangling any stray strands.

Now, a bit tired and definitely sore, you snuggled against him, your body seeking the comfort and warmth he offered. A soft purr rumbled in your chest, a subconscious sign of contentment and trust.

He smiled softly at your trusting purr, the sound a balm to his soul. One hand continued to card through your hair, a soothing and repetitive motion, while the other stayed firmly on your waist, preventing you from moving too much and aggravating your tender bottom. "Tired little kitten," he cooed softly, his voice laced with affection. "Does my baby need cuddles?" The question hung in the air, a silent promise of comfort and closeness, and you knew, without a doubt, that in his arms, you were safe, cherished, and utterly loved.

The words escape your lips, a soft, almost desperate plea. "I want you…" you murmur, the sound thick with sleep and longing.

His breath hitches, his expression instantly darkening with a raw desire that makes your heart flutter. He absolutely loves it when you're like this—relaxed, vulnerable, completely and utterly at his mercy. A possessive hand tightens around your waist, drawing you closer, while the other gently tilts your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze. The heat in his eyes is a tangible thing, burning away the last vestiges of sleep. "Want what, kitten?" he rumbles, his voice a low, seductive growl that sends shivers down your spine.

"You," you breathe, the word a feather-light caress against the charged air. The single syllable encapsulates everything: your need, your desire, your complete surrender to him.

A shadow of conflict crosses his face, warring with the blatant lust that still shines in his eyes. "You're too sore for that, baby…" His tone is firm, laced with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He wants you, gods, how he wants you, but the thought of causing you more pain is a palpable restraint. He knows pushing your bruised bottom too soon would be selfish, cruel even. Instead, he buries his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent, trying to regain control. "I should put some cream on your ass," he murmurs against your skin, the words more a penance than an offer.

"No…you promised," you whine, the protest escaping before you can fully form the thought. The memory of his promise, the reward dangled after your…punishment, flares between you, a shared secret that ignites the already simmering tension.

He sighs, the sound laced with a mixture of exasperation and surrender. He had, indeed, promised. A smirk, devilish and utterly captivating, tugs at the corner of his lips despite his best intentions. "Damn brat, holding me to my word already?" he teases gently, the words light, but his eyes blaze with a reluctant desire that threatens to consume him. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, a silent promise of things to come.

You nod, unable to articulate the depth of your need. The only thing you can focus on is him, the scent of his skin, the warmth of his body, the promise in his eyes. You are desperate, utterly and shamelessly, for him.

He groans internally, the sound a guttural rumble that vibrates against your own skin. He knows he can't deny you, not when you look at him like that, your eyes wide and pleading, reflecting the inferno that burns within you both. "Stubborn little thing…" he murmurs, the words affectionate, laced with a helpless fondness. He shifts you in his lap, adjusting your position with painstaking care, making sure you're as comfortable as possible despite your protesting muscles. "Alright, baby. But you'll tell me if it's too much, yeah?" His voice is rough with concern, and you know he means it. He would stop at the slightest sign of discomfort, your pleasure always his priority.

You nod, the movement small and eager, your eyes locked on his.

Slowly, deliberately, he begins to unbutton his pants, his gaze never leaving yours. The anticipation is a tangible thing, stretching between you, thick and heavy with unspoken desires. Once unbuttoned, he pushes his pants and underwear down just enough to free his hard, erect length, the sight of it a potent visual promise. He lifts you slightly, his hands firm and steady on your waist, positioning you so that his hardness is pressing against your sore, reddened bottom. The contact is electrifying, a sharp, delicious ache that makes you gasp.

"Panties…" you manage to whisper, the word a breathless plea.

He pauses, his breath catching in his throat. In his haste, driven by the overwhelming need to feel you against him, he had forgotten about your underwear. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face. He slides a hand beneath you, his fingers tracing a teasing path around the delicate lace of your panties, the light pressure sending shivers of anticipation through your body. "Want these off, sweetie?" he murmurs, his voice low and husky, dripping with restrained desire. The question is rhetorical; he already knows the answer.

You nod, the movement small and frantic, unable to articulate the urgency that consumes you.

Slowly, agonizingly, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, dragging them down inch by painstaking inch while maintaining unwavering eye contact. The teasing is exquisite, a deliberate torment that drives you wild with need. "Eager little kitten, aren't you?" he chuckles softly, the sound a low rumble that vibrates against your skin, before finally freeing your panties completely. He tosses them aside, the small scrap of lace a testament to the intensity of the moment.

"Maybe…" you lick your lips, the gesture unconsciously seductive, your eyes wide and glazed with desire.

The sight of your little pink tongue darting out to lick your lips was enough to make his carefully constructed control crumble. He gripped the base of his erection, knuckles white, fighting the urge to simply take you right there. "Open your mouth, baby," he finally managed, his voice a strained rasp that barely sounded like his own. "Show me how much you want me."

You didn't hesitate. Climbing down from his lap, you knelt between his legs, your eyes locked on his.

His breath hitched. He watched you, his eyes darkening with a raw, possessive lust. The reddened imprint on your bottom was a blatant reminder of the passion simmering between you, a tempting invitation he was finding increasingly difficult to resist. He ran a hand through your hair, the possessive gesture a silent command as he guided you closer. "That's a good girl," he murmured, his voice thick with desire, each word a velvety caress. "Now take me in your mouth."

Anticipation thrummed through you. You eagerly opened your mouth, welcoming him inside, the heat of him a familiar and intoxicating pleasure.

A deep, guttural moan, ripped from the depths of his being, escaped his lips as you enveloped him. One hand remained tangled in your hair, subtly dictating the rhythm, while the other gripped the pillow, a desperate anchor against the rising tide of sensation. "Fuck, kitten..." he breathed, each word a ragged exhale. "That feels so good... so fucking good." He could feel every slick, teasing movement of your tongue, a masterful dance that sent shivers of pure pleasure coursing through him.

A moan bubbled up from your throat, an involuntary response to the exquisite pleasure. You loved the taste of him, the way he filled your mouth, the sheer perfection of his shape.

Those moans, vibrating against his length, were a potent aphrodisiac, sending electric shocks down his spine. He began to slowly thrust in and out of your mouth, his eyes fixed on the mesmerizing sight of your lips stretched around him. It was almost too much, the raw eroticism of the moment threatening to shatter his remaining control.

You lifted your gaze, your eyes meeting his.

His eyes, blazing with crimson intensity, locked onto yours. The red deepened, reflecting the inferno raging within him. A low growl rumbled in his chest, his grip on your hair tightening almost imperceptibly as he guided your movements with increasing urgency. "You look so fucking sexy down there, kitten," he groaned, the words raw and honest. "Those pretty lips wrapped around my cock..."

A gasp escaped you, a mixture of pleasure and a slight gag as you accommodated his increasing length. The sensation was overwhelming.

The slight gag that escaped you ignited a primal fire within him, a surge of possessive satisfaction. He reveled in the knowledge that he was a force, a presence too substantial to be fully contained. You were pushing your boundaries, stretching your limits, all to please him. His hands, firm yet gentle, cradled your head, holding you captive as his hips surged forward, burying him deeper into your welcoming throat.

A soft whimper escaped your lips, a sound that resonated within him, igniting his desire further. His crimson eyes locked onto yours, piercing and intense, as he thrust again, the back of your throat meeting his insistent advance, eliciting another involuntary whimper, another delightful gag. The sounds were intoxicating, driving him to the brink. He could feel the tremors of your struggle, the desperate fight for breath, the tears that streamed down your face as you strained to accommodate his impressive length. "Good girl..." he rumbled, the praise a silken caress against your skin.

The unexpected clench of your core in response to his praise sent a jolt through him. A smirk, slow and knowing, played on his lips. "Does my good girl like being used like this?" he purred, his voice a low, husky rasp that vibrated through your very being. He continued his deliberate rhythm, granting you fleeting moments to gasp for air between each deep, penetrating stroke.

A moan, involuntary and raw, escaped you, followed by a hesitant nod. His smirk deepened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He gloried in your willingness, your eager acceptance of his dominance. You were his good girl, taking him with a fervor that bordered on reverence. He pulled back slightly, allowing you a precious moment to breathe deeply, before offering himself once more. "Answer with words, baby," he commanded softly, the underlying steel in his voice unmistakable. His hips snapped forward again, eliciting another gag, another desperate gasp.

"I-" you began, the word strangled by his imposing presence.

He paused, holding you firmly against his length, silencing your attempt to speak. The air caught in your throat, the pressure building, and a desperate whimper escaped. He reveled in this power, the ability to restrict, to control, to elicit such raw, primal reactions. "Say it," he growled, his eyes now burning embers of crimson desire.

A growl, low and guttural, almost escaped your lips, a testament to the intoxicating blend of pleasure and frustration that coursed through you.

The almost-growl sent a fresh wave of excitement coursing through him. He loved witnessing your unraveling, the desperation that bloomed in your eyes. Releasing his hold, he allowed you to pull back, to gasp for breath, the air burning in your lungs. His length glistened, slick with your saliva, a testament to the intensity of the moment. "Again," he demanded, his voice firm but laced with a gentle undercurrent.

"I will choke you with my mouth if you don't let me speak," you hissed, the words a promise and a challenge, a spark of defiance in the face of overwhelming desire.

His eyes widened in a delightful surprise at your sudden assertiveness, a genuine thrill sparking within them. He adored those moments when you stood your ground, even in the smallest ways. The hand that had been gently guiding you released its hold, granting you the space to speak your mind. "Oh, really now?" he challenged, a playful smirk dancing across his lips, the familiar curve hinting at the delicious game you both were engaged in.

"Yes," you breathed, the word laced with a delicious blend of defiance and desire. "I love when you use my mouth, but don't piss me off." The air crackled with unspoken promises and playful threats, a tantalizing dance of power and submission.

A deep, genuine laugh erupted from his chest, the sound resonating with pure, unadulterated amusement. He reveled in your duality, the way you could seamlessly transition from sweet surrender to fiery defiance. With a tender hand, he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch softening, becoming almost reverent. "Noted, my little angry kitten," he murmured softly, the words a caress against your skin.

You leaned into his touch, a smile blossoming on your face as the tension eased. It was a shared moment of understanding.

The sight of your relaxed smile warmed him from the inside out. These pockets of tenderness, even amidst the passionate storm you created, were precious. Guiding your head back towards his waiting length, his touch remained feather-light, almost hesitant. "Now," he whispered, his voice a low, husky command, "be a good girl and use your mouth like you just threatened."

A choked laugh escaped you, the sound a mixture of amusement and arousal, and you eagerly got back to work.

His heart hammered against his ribs as you laughed, then reverently took him into your mouth once more. He watched, mesmerized, as you weaponized your earlier threat, taking him deep and sucking hard, leaving no room for doubt. His hips instinctively arched upwards, seeking more of your skilled ministrations, craving the exquisite torment. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." he groaned, the words raw and unbidden.

A soft hum vibrated from your throat, the sound resonating against his skin, sending shivers of delight through him. A low "Mmph" escaped his lips, his body twitching in response. He watched your head bob with skilled precision, your hair cascading around your shoulders like a silken waterfall. It was in this moment of exquisite torture that something shifted within him. "Sweetie?"

"Mmm?" you responded, your voice muffled, the sound a tantalizing invitation.

He gently threaded his fingers through your hair, his touch both possessive and tender. "Can I ask you something?" he asked softly, his hips flexing in a silent plea. "It's important..."

You paused, looking up at him, your eyes questioning.

His dark eyes met yours, filled with an unexpected vulnerability. He saw in your gaze the perfect blend of pleasure and trust, a potent combination that stirred something deep within him. "Would you... would you mind using your teeth?" he asked quietly, almost shyly, his voice barely a whisper. "Just slightly..."

You almost laughed as you pulled your mouth away from his cock, "Is my bad Sylus is a masochist? This is a first.”

His deep laugh rumbled through the room, a warm vibration that tickled your senses. He knew you were teasing him, playing your little game. "Answer the question first, smartass," he countered, a mischievous grin dancing on his lips. "And yes, kitten, I might be a masochist. Haven't you figured that out yet? I thought I was being obvious."

You grinned, a spark of playful challenge in your eyes. "Oh, I've figured it out. Remember the first time I bit your shoulder when you fucked me hard? That was the first clue, genius." A blush crept up his neck, a telltale sign of the pleasure he was trying, and failing, to hide.

His grin widened at your brazen observation. "You're catching on quick, kitten," he praised, his voice laced with a husky timbre that sent shivers down your spine. He traced the curve of your bottom lip with his thumb, his eyes burning into yours. "And I do like it. It's a good kind of pain, a pain that makes me feel alive." The air crackled with unspoken desires as he refocused, his gaze intense. "Now, back to my question. Are you going to do what I want, hmm?"

You nodded slowly, deliberately, letting the anticipation build in the space between you. "I can do that," you breathed, your voice a low hum.

A visible shudder of excitement ran through him as you agreed. You could feel his cock twitch against your leg, eager for your touch, already imagining the delicate scrape of your teeth. "Carefully now," he murmured, his voice thick with need, guiding your head back down with a gentle hand. As you took him in your mouth, he let out a sharp hiss, his fingers tightening slightly in your hair, a clear indication of the control he was already losing.

You sucked him deep, your focus absolute, your intention to drive him wild. You teased him, pushing him closer to the edge, carefully scraping your teeth along his shaft, savoring the sensation.

A sharp intake of breath escaped Sylus as he felt your teeth gently rake against his sensitive length. It was exquisite torture, a delicious pain that sent shockwaves of pleasure through his body, making him arch against you. His hips jerked involuntarily, pushing himself deeper into your welcoming warmth. "Holy fuck..." he groaned, the words barely audible.

You wanted to smirk, wanted to revel in the power you held over him, but you kept going, deepening the kiss, intensifying the pressure.

His eyes rolled back slightly, pupils blown wide, as you continued to work him with your mouth, the careful scrape of your teeth driving him further into a frenzy. He could feel the pressure building in his core, his body tensing with each rhythmic movement of your head. "Just... like... that," he gasped out, his voice strained and breathless, barely recognizable.

A moan escaped your lips, vibrating against his skin, a primal sound that fueled the fire burning between you.

The vibration of your moan around his length was nearly his undoing. It sent a jolt of pure pleasure straight to his core, and he felt his release rushing towards him like a tidal wave. "Gonna... gonna come," he warned, his grip on your hair tightening slightly, a silent plea for you to hold on as he prepared to spill himself in your mouth.

You opened wide, a silent invitation, ready to receive his offering.

A low groan rumbled from his chest as he felt your mouth open wider, an unspoken invitation that sent a jolt of pure, raw pleasure through him. He surrendered, his hips bucking against you as he came undone, a torrent of hot seed spilling into your waiting mouth. Through half-lidded eyes, glazed with ecstasy, he watched as you accepted his offering, swallowing gently, reverently. The sight was intoxicating.

After long moments suspended in blissful afterglow, Sylus descended from his peak. He gently detached you from his softening length, his chest heaving with exertion and profound satisfaction. He looked down at you, a soft, contented smile playing on his lips. "Perfect little kitten..." he murmured, the words laced with affection and a hint of possessive pride.

You grinned, a playful glint in your eyes as you climbed back into his lap. "Care for round two? But this time," you purred, nuzzling his neck, "we both get to come?"

His arms instinctively wrapped around your waist, securing you against him as you settled back into place. His hands, large and warm, rested possessively on your stomach. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, his fingers splaying out as he spoke, "Deal. But this time, I get to add a little challenge..."

"Yes?" you breathed, anticipation coiling in your belly.

His red eyes darkened, the lust that flared within them now laced with a mischievous spark. "No hands. Only mouths and hips," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, sending shivers down your spine. He could already feel his length thickening again, pressing against your inner thighs, a blatant promise of things to come. "And no sound. Try to be quiet," he added, the challenge clear in his tone.

You groaned, the prospect both thrilling and daunting. "Then you need to restrain me. I can't… that's…" The words trailed off, unable to fully articulate the storm of sensation he was about to unleash.

He laughed, a deep, knowing sound that vibrated through your body. He knew you were right. You were too loud, too responsive. The thought of you waking the entire base with your unrestrained moans was… undesirable, to say the least. He pulled you closer, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your neck, sucking softly. "One more condition," he murmured against your skin.

"What else now?" you whined, your voice laced with playful exasperation.

He hummed against your neck, his arms tightening around you possessively. "I'll restrain you with my energy evol. It'll keep your arms trapped behind your back." His voice dropped to a dark whisper, a promise of delicious torment. "And if you break it… punishment," he added, his grin evident in his voice. "Agreed?"

You swallowed hard, the anticipation building to a fever pitch. "That's easy if you use your energy evol... but sounds?" The very thought of remaining silent while he pleasured you to the edge of oblivion seemed an impossible feat. The thrill of the challenge, however, was too enticing to resist.

His nod was a possessive claim, his lips still fused to the sensitive skin of your neck. Then came the subtle shift, the caress of his evol as it manifested, tendrils of pure energy weaving around your wrists. They bound you, not with harshness, but with a gentle, undeniable strength, holding your arms captive behind your back. "Shh... no more talking," he murmured, the words a silken command against your skin.

A whimper threatened to break free, a tiny sound of rebellion that he seemed to savor. He smirked, a flash of predatory amusement in his eyes. He knew this restraint, this enforced silence, was a potent cocktail designed to drive you to the brink of madness, a delicious blend of frustration and burgeoning pleasure. With his free hand, he guided your hips, a firm but persuasive touch that aligned you perfectly against the hard, throbbing evidence of his desire. "Remember," he whispered, his voice laced with teasing promise, "quiet... or else."

Your eyes, wide and pleading, were your only answer, a silent promise offered in supplication.

"Such a good kitten," he praised, the words a soft caress that belied the intensity of the moment. His hands, firm and knowing, guided your hips downwards, a slow, torturous descent. You could feel the slick heat of him, the thick, insistent pressure against your entrance, a prelude to the inevitable. "No noises now..." He lowered you further, inch by agonizing inch, testing the strength of your resolve, the limits of your silence.

The need to cry out was a sharp, burning ache. You bit down hard on your lip, the metallic tang of blood a small sacrifice in the face of overwhelming sensation.

His eyes darkened, pupils dilating as he watched your struggle, your valiant attempt to maintain control. He raised your hips just a fraction, prolonging the anticipation, before lowering you again, a slow, deliberate slide that filled you inch by excruciating inch. This was torture, exquisite and refined, a shared torment that stoked the flames of your desire. No sound, no touch beyond the searing connection between you – it was an exercise in restraint, a symphony of pent-up energy threatening to explode.

A silent plea formed on your lips, your gaze locked on his.

Understanding flashed in his eyes, a flicker of concession amidst the storm. He granted your unspoken wish, his lips descending to capture yours in a deep, possessive kiss. His tongue traced the delicate curve of your bitten lip, then plunged into your mouth, a silencing invasion that muffled any sound that might dare to escape. All the while, he maintained his deliberate pace, lifting and lowering you slowly, the rhythmic friction building with each controlled movement.

You closed your eyes, a wave of dizziness washing over you. The scream was trapped, a silent prisoner clawing at your throat, desperate for release.

He reveled in your silence, in the frantic desperation of your kiss, in the way your body clenched around him in a silent plea. He could feel the tremors of your building climax, the feverish heat radiating from your skin. It empowered him, fueled the fire within him, made him throb even harder, even deeper inside you. "That's my good girl... keeping quiet," he murmured against your lips, the words a husky praise that sent shivers down your spine.

Your eyes rolled back, your world narrowing to the feel of his mouth on yours, to the exquisite torture of his controlled movements. You kissed him back with a ferocity born of desperation, a frantic attempt to swallow the moan that threatened to shatter the fragile silence.

His arms tightened around you, a possessive embrace that stole the air from your lungs. His kiss deepened, a hungry claiming that swallowed any sound threatening to escape your lips. You tried to stifle your moans against his mouth, a futile attempt that only fueled his desire to keep this silence game going. He tasted your restraint, the suppressed passion, and it made him ache to break you.

You shifted, taking control, your movements initiating a slow, deliberate ride. He felt you helping him, guiding him deeper, and his hands instinctively gripped your thighs, lifting you, urging you higher. You rode him slowly, painstakingly, trying to maintain the fragile quiet, each movement a silent scream. He loved it, the challenge, the exquisite torture of your enforced silence. It was a game of wills, and he was determined to win.

The pressure built, a crescendo of sensation that threatened to shatter your control. You bit your lip, harder this time, a sharp sting that drew blood. A thin trickle escaped, a crimson testament to your struggle.

His eyes widened, a flicker of concern quickly replaced by a dark, possessive excitement. He reached up, his touch feather-light as he licked away the blood, his tongue lingering on the tender flesh of your lip, before gently sucking it into his mouth. The metallic tang was intoxicating, a forbidden flavor that heightened his arousal, pushing him closer to the edge. "So stubborn," he murmured against your skin, the words a low, husky growl.

The tears came then, unbidden, unwanted. They welled in your eyes and spilled down your cheeks, a stark contrast to the silent inferno raging within you. You wanted to lash out, to whimper, to scream from the overwhelming pleasure and the exquisite torture of his control.

He caught a tear with his thumb, wiping it away with a tenderness that belied the burning intensity in his gaze. His heart hammered against his ribs as he felt your desperation, the raw need to cry out, to surrender to the sensations consuming you. He was so close, the silence, the tears, the palpable tension pushing him relentlessly towards the brink.

You looked at him, a silent plea etched on your face, your eyes begging for release.

He held your gaze, his breath catching in his throat as he saw the raw vulnerability in your eyes. He knew you were at your limit, teetering on the precipice, desperate to shatter the silence with a moan, a whimper, anything. He leaned in, his voice a low, guttural growl against your ear that vibrated through your very core. "Just a little longer, my kitten."

You closed your eyes, more tears forming, and bit down hard on your wounded lip, the pain a sharp counterpoint to the throbbing pleasure that resonated deep within you. You felt his hard length filling you, stretching you, igniting every nerve ending. Just a little longer. But how much more could you endure?

He felt you tensing around him, every inch of you a live wire against his skin as you rode him, a silent storm brewing. Your teeth worried your already wounded lip, a desperate attempt to contain the sounds clawing their way up your throat. He could feel the tremor in your body, a frantic bird beating against its cage, and the slick trails of tears tracing paths down your face. This exquisite torture, the dance between pleasure and pain etched on your features, was intoxicating.

He watched you, a silent observer of your beautiful torment. Your skin glistened, a canvas painted with sweat, the gentle rise and fall of your breasts a mesmerizing rhythm. Your lip, bruised and swollen from your relentless bite, was a testament to your struggle. The tears were a silent symphony, a visual echo of the battle raging within you. He was teetering on the edge, the need to surrender to the moment almost overwhelming.

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his.

His gaze was a dark abyss, unwavering and intense, locking onto yours. He saw the raw desperation swimming in their depths, the fragile dam holding back a torrent of unshed tears. He saw the agonizing fight for silence, the near-impossible task of containing the explosive pressure building within. He knew you were on the precipice, about to shatter into a million pieces, a scream or whimper the only escape from the exquisite agony.

Without warning, his hand shot out, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck. He surged upward, his lips crashing against yours in a fierce, possessive claim. His tongue, a demanding invader, pushed past your injured lip, silencing the scream that had been building, a pressure cooker about to explode. He was the valve, finally allowing you to break, to surrender to the overwhelming tide of tension and pleasure.

A strangled cry escaped your lips, muffled, desperate, as you shattered.

The sound was swallowed by his mouth, a secret he claimed with a savage tenderness. His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer as you convulsed against him, a broken dam unleashing its fury. The silence shattered, replaced by the violent release of your body. He held you captive in the kiss, a deep, soul-searing connection as you sobbed and screamed silently into his mouth, the tremors of your release echoing in his own body.

He watched, mesmerized, as the pleasure consumed you. Your body bucked beneath his touch, a silent tempest raging within. But no sound escaped. Your head was thrown back, eyes squeezed shut in exquisite agony, your mouth a perfect "O" of breathless release, yet utterly, achingly silent. He pulled back slightly, needing to witness the entirety of this raw, untamed moment. A guttural sound rumbled in his chest. "Damn..."

He removed his arms from around you, his hands now roamed down your sides, his fingers finding purchase on your ribs in a possessive caress. He watched your ragged attempts to regain control, your chest rising and falling in silent hitches, tears slicking down your face – a testament to the overwhelming power of the silent climax.

Gently, he framed your face, his thumbs tenderly wiping away the relentless tears. He was utterly captivated, enthralled by the primal intensity of your unspoken pleasure. The way your body trembled, convulsed, without a single sound crossing your lips was both a delicious torment and the most erotic thing he’d ever witnessed.

He lowered his forehead to yours, his breath ghosting over your lips, mingling with your voiceless gasps. He felt the frantic pulse of your heart against his, the frantic thrum beneath your skin. Part of him yearned to hear you scream, to revel in the sounds of your pleasure, but he was equally intoxicated by the potent, silent explosion.

Your eyes met his, pleading, desperate. A silent entreaty for mercy, for a flicker of compassion. You couldn’t fathom his anger over the crow incident. It wasn’t your fault he’d been injured defending you. Was he really this furious?

He searched your gaze, the desperation in your eyes a physical ache within him. He understood your silent plea for leniency, for comfort after the tumultuous, unspoken release he’d just unleashed. A sigh escaped him, his thumb tracing the outline of your bottom lip, gently soothing the slight rawness he’d inflicted.

His expression softened, the harsh lines around his mouth fading. He knew, logically, that you held no blame for the damn crow. The realization slammed into him – he’d been venting his anger, taking out his frustration on your body. He wasn’t even mad at you. Why was he punishing you like this? The harshness bled from his voice, replaced by an uncharacteristic gentleness. "Sweetie..."

Your head dropped forward, the movement almost enough to break the silence, almost enough to unleash a choked sob.

He watched you drop your head, the silence nearly shattering with the small, choked noise you emitted. A stark realization hit him then—how utterly unfair he'd been. He'd been channeling his anger, his own inner turmoil, into your pleasure, using you as a release. A curse escaped his lips, barely audible, as he gently lifted your chin with his fingers. "Hey..." he murmured, his voice suddenly laced with concern.

He saw the raw emotion swimming in your eyes, the way you were desperately trying to hold back a sob. A pang of guilt twisted in his gut, the realization of his actions hitting him hard. He had been using you, and it wasn't fair. He softened his voice even more, trying to soothe the hurt he'd inflicted. "Look at me, kitten," he whispered, his eyes locking onto yours.

You look at him, a silent plea etched on your face, your eyes wide and vulnerable.

He gazed into your desperate eyes, the intensity of his own anger dissolving in the face of your obvious distress. With a soft sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his regret, he brushed a stray tear from your cheek, his touch impossibly gentle now. "I was never angry at you, sweetie. Not even a little bit," he confessed, his voice low and sincere. "It was not your fault. I just... I wanted to make this more interesting for us."

You glare, the fire in your eyes flickering despite the lingering vulnerability.

He actually chuckled softly at your glare, a hint of amusement returning to his features, his thumb lingering on your cheek. "Would you rather I'd been gentle and boring? At least I gave you the best orgasm of your life..." He paused, realizing he'd managed to anger you despite the pleasure he'd just given. "Okay, okay..."

He held up his hands in mock surrender, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the glare you were still sending his way. "I know, I know. I was an ass. Using your gorgeous body as a punching bag for my amusement. Not cool," he admitted, his eyes searching yours for any sign of forgiveness.

You keep silent, the question hanging in the air: Was the game still on, or had he crossed a line?

He watched you carefully, his playful demeanor fading as he tried to gauge your mood. The smirk vanished from his lips as he realized you were still processing everything that had just happened. He leaned back slightly, giving you space to breathe, but kept his hands gently on your waist, a silent reassurance. "Are we still playing this game, kitten?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of uncertainty.

You shake your head, the plea in your eyes intensifying, begging him to stop, to understand.

Feeling guilt creeping in, a heavy weight in his chest. He groaned softly, misinterpreting your silence for a moment, but then understanding dawned. He knew his limits, and he knew when to stop. His touch softened, becoming even more tender as he cupped your face gently in his hands. "Okay, no more games for now," he promised, his gaze unwavering, a silent vow to be better, to be what you needed him to be.

You sharply exhale, a ragged, loud breath ripping through the tense silence. "Fucking shit," you hiss, the words laced with a frustration that claws at your throat.

His eyes widen, just a fraction, at the unexpected outburst from your sharp tongue. A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound laced with amusement and, strangely, affection. He finds your cursing endearing, a chink in your carefully constructed armor. He watches you, his heart warming at the display of your raw emotion. "Well, someone's feeling feisty now..." he murmurs, his voice a low, seductive rumble.

Without warning, you grab his throat, your fingers tightening just enough to remind him who's in control. You lean down, your breath hot against his skin, and sink your teeth into the tender flesh of his neck. A possessive, hungry bite that ignites a fire in his veins. As you start riding him again, a primal energy surges through you, a tempest of anger and desire.

A low groan escapes his lips, a sound of mixed pleasure and surrender as you suddenly take the reins. Your teeth sink deeper, drawing a bead of blood, in a kiss that's more a declaration of war than affection. His hands instinctively grip your hips, his fingers digging into the curve of your flesh as he feels the sudden, intoxicating movement. He can taste your frustration, your pent-up rage, channeling into this raw, untamed act.

You growl, a feral sound that vibrates against his skin, and move faster, pushing him closer to the edge.

His fingers dig deeper into your hips as you unleash your fury, each thrust more desperate than the last. He can feel the intensity building inside you, a volatile cocktail of passion and defiance. He moans, completely overwhelmed by the sudden shift in dynamic, the raw power emanating from you. "Fuck..." he breathes, his voice barely a whisper.

You let out a loud, unrestrained moan as you finally release your teeth from his neck, the metallic tang of blood filling your senses. Relief washes over you, the silence finally broken. "Sylus..." you gasp, his name a plea, an accusation, a confession all rolled into one.

As soon as you release your hold, his head falls back against the wall with a soft thud, his muscles tensing in anticipation. He can feel the beginnings of a shattering orgasm building, your moans – raw, untamed, electrifying – echoing in the small space.

"You punished me for no reason!" you hiss, the words laced with a wounded vulnerability that cuts through his haze of pleasure. You drag your inner walls up and down, milking every last drop of sensation, a silent demand for retribution.

He gasps sharply as you tighten around him, the pleasure almost unbearable, bordering on pain. Your accusation hangs in the air, heavy and charged, a challenge he can't ignore. He pants heavily, struggling to find the words, the breath, to answer you amidst the overwhelming sensations. "I... fuck, I know... was unfair... ah!"

You clench, a final desperate squeeze, and cry out as the wave of release crashes over you, your body convulsing with the force of it.

The world exploded around you as you clenched him, your cry a raw, untamed sound ripped from your throat. A tidal wave of his own pleasure crashed over Sylus, his body seizing as he moaned, the sound raw and guttural. He felt you, tight and pulsing around him, milking every last drop as he poured his essence into you, a fierce, primal connection forged in the heart of ecstasy.

You stared up at him, breath ragged, chest heaving.

His eyes fluttered open, meeting your gaze. Your bodies were slick with sweat, pressed together as if trying to merge into one. He saw the wild tangle of your hair, the flush high on your cheekbones, the swollen curve of your lips parted in desperate gasps. And then he saw the storm brewing in your eyes, the serious set of your jaw. His throat constricted. He swallowed hard, a cold dread creeping into his veins. You were furious.

"Sylus…"

The name hung in the air, heavy with unspoken accusations. He remained silent, bracing himself. The anger radiating from you was palpable, but beneath it, he saw a flicker of something else, something wounded. Guilt, sharp and immediate, stabbed at him. He knew he’d pushed too far, used you as an outlet for his own dark desires. "Yeah?" he managed, the word a mere whisper.

"You sadist," you hissed, the accusation a venomous sting.

His eyes widened, a flicker of shock quickly replaced by a complex emotion he couldn't quite decipher himself. He opened his mouth, then closed it, searching for the right words, but finding none. A heavy sigh escaped him, his shoulders slumping with the weight of your condemnation. "I... I suppose I am," he admitted, the words laced with a weary resignation.

"Huh? That's your response?” You glared, incredulous. "I almost died from the silence game, you know? I almost stopped breathing."

He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the gesture revealing a vulnerability you rarely saw. The gravity of your anger finally seemed to register, the playful smirk vanishing, replaced by a serious, haunted look. He met your fiery glare head-on. "What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry? Because I am. Truly."

You released a long, shuddering sigh, the fight momentarily draining out of you.

He mirrored your sigh, feeling the full weight of his transgression settle upon him. His grip on your hips loosened, becoming less possessive, more a gesture of surrender. "Look," he said, his voice rough with remorse, "I crossed a line. I know that now. The silence game… pushing you that far? It was fucking irresponsible of me."

The fight had left you. Everything had left you empty. “Yeah…”

He saw the hurt shimmering in your eyes, a silent accusation that pierced through his carefully constructed walls. Guilt, sharp and unwelcome, surged within him. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he gently cupped your face. His thumb brushed softly over your cheekbone, a tender caress that felt clumsy and inadequate. "I'm really sorry, okay? I let my own demons cloud my judgment. I never meant to truly hurt you, to put you in that kind of danger." The words felt hollow, failing to capture the depth of his regret.

You rolled your eyes, a familiar gesture that usually brought a smile to his face. This time, however, it felt like a lifeline. “Okay, don’t be so dramatic. I’m still alive,” you said, your voice laced with a playful exasperation. You leaned closer, the subtle shift in your posture sending a jolt of electricity through him.

His heart rate kicked up a notch as you closed the distance between you. He could see the beginnings of a smile dancing at the corners of your mouth, a flicker of light in the lingering shadows of the moment. Relief, vast and overwhelming, washed over him. "Yeah, yeah, you're still alive. Barely," he countered, his voice a low murmur, laced with a hint of teasing affection.

You laughed, the sound a melody that chased away the last vestiges of tension. It was music to his ears, a sign that perhaps, just perhaps, he hadn't completely shattered the fragile bond between you.

He smiled softly, the expression reaching his eyes and softening the harsh lines of his face. He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping securely around your waist, a silent promise of protection. "You know, for someone who was almost killed by me, you're surprisingly calm right now," he said, a hint of wonder in his voice.

“Not literally killed,” you corrected, your tone light.

"Semantics," he murmured, nuzzling his face against yours, inhaling the familiar scent of your hair. "The point is, you were close to breaking point. You were pale, shaking, on the verge of passing out..." A dark chuckle rumbled in his chest, a reminder of how close he had come to losing you.

You sighed, a soft sound that vibrated against his skin, and snuggled closer, seeking the comfort of his embrace.

He smiled to himself, his arms tightening around you in response. He rested his chin on top of your head, inhaling your scent like a man starved. "You're really not mad at me anymore, huh?" He needed to hear you say it, to banish the lingering fear that he had irrevocably damaged what they had.

“I can’t. Not the type to hold grudges for long,” you mumbled against his chest.

He chuckled softly, his fingers splaying out on your lower back in a possessive gesture. "Lucky for me, I suppose. Most people would still be giving me the cold shoulder after almost driving them to the brink of insanity with silence."

“Maybe your two henchmen would,” you quipped, tilting your head back to look at him, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

He laughed, the sound a deep rumble that vibrated through his chest and sent shivers dancing across your skin. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes, a delightful contrast to the possessive fire that still burned beneath. "Oh, darling, they're definitely still sulking in the corner. I swear, I could practically feel the vibrations of their disapproval when I dared to suggest you’ve been monopolizing my attention lately. They were practically trembling."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound light and breathless. "Are you jealous, Sylus?" The question was teasing, trying to get some reaction out of him.

He scoffed, a theatrical display of indifference. He tried to maintain a neutral expression, but the playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed his amusement. "Jealous? Hardly. Let those two lovesick puppies vie for your attention. It's quite entertaining, really. Like watching a pair of kittens trying to catch a laser pointer."

"Hm," you hummed, unconvinced. Your eyes narrowed playfully, enjoying his little performance.

He noticed your skepticism, his grin widening into a full-blown, devilish smile. "Besides," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent goosebumps erupting on your arms, "if anyone should be jealous, it should be them. After all," he tightened his grip on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, "you're currently sitting in my lap, naked, your skin flushed. And thoroughly fucked by me, not them."

You gasped, a mixture of shock and embarrassment flooding your senses. "Sylus!" you protested.

He laughed, the sound dark and husky as he nuzzled into the curve of your neck, his hands wandering possessively over your bare skin. "What? It's the truth. They're probably out there, pacing and imagining all the things they wish they could be doing to you, while I’m the one actually doing them. Satisfying your cravings and moans."

"No," you insisted, a touch of genuine disbelief in your voice. "They're too loyal, too… nice. They wouldn't have thoughts like that."

He stared at you, his eyes widening in mock astonishment. He realized, with a jolt of amusement, that you were serious. You honestly believed his men were that innocent. He threw his head back and roared with laughter, a sound that shook the very room and made you jump slightly. He pulled you close again, his eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth.

"What's so funny?" you asked, a little flustered.

"You," he chuckled, playfully ruffling your hair. "You genuinely think my men aren't fantasizing about you? Sweetie, they're grown men, not eunuchs. They probably have whole scenarios planned out, detailed and… explicit." He laughed again, the sound a delicious rumble against your ear.

You winced, feeling your cheeks burn. "Don't be gross," you mumbled, burying your face in his shoulder. "That's impossible."

He grinned at your shocked expression, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Oh, it's completely possible. I've caught them staring at you with some rather telling looks. Trust me, if they could act on those fantasies without me killing them, they probably would."

You slapped his chest playfully, a blush creeping up your neck. “Okay. Stop.” The image of the two, always so eager to please, made his words just ridiculous. They were like brothers to you, the twins.

He laughed again, a rich, warm sound that vibrated through you as he caught your hand and pressed it to his chest, right over the steady rhythm of his heart. "Alright, alright, I'll stop. You're too easy to tease." He paused, his expression softening, the mischievous glint fading slightly. "But seriously, don't be so naive, darling." His thumb traced circles on the back of your hand, a silent warning.

“They are like two puppies, like you said. They are not like that.” You insisted, trying to brush it off. Luke and Kieran. Puppies, loyal and harmless. Right?

He raised an eyebrow, a slow, deliberate smirk tugging at his lips. "Puppies that would rip out the throat of anyone who threatened you, given the chance." He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear, sending a jolt of electricity through your veins. "And believe me, I've given them plenty of opportunities to show their... loyalty." His voice was a low purr, thick with unspoken meaning.

“Yeah, yeah.” You said, trying to sound annoyed.

His smirk widened mischievously. He knew he was getting under your skin, stirring up desires and uncertainties. He pulled back slightly, his eyes glinting with unspent mirth. "You really want to believe they're just innocent puppies, don't you?" The challenge was clear in his voice, the unspoken dare to ignore the truth he was laying bare.

“They are. Now, drop it,” you demanded, deciding the best defense was a swift offense. You leaned in, kissing him deeply, a deliberate attempt to distract him. And then, you lifted your hips, a small, teasing movement, and moaned softly when he slipped out, leaving you momentarily bereft.

He groaned softly, the sound rumbling in his chest, his eyes darkening with renewed desire. He gripped your waist, pulling you back down onto him slowly, deliberately, a low growl escaping his throat. The world seemed to narrow to the feel of his hands on your skin, the heat radiating between you. "You know how to change the subject," he murmured against your lips, his voice husky and thick with lust.

“Hey! I was pulling out.” You protested weakly, though the truth was, you’d been playing a dangerous game yourself. The initial protest was just that, initial.

He chuckled darkly, a wicked smirk playing on his lips as he held you firmly in place. "Was that before or after you moaned like you didn't want me to slip out?" He teased, his hips giving a slight, deliberate thrust to emphasize his point, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“Sylus,” you moaned, his name a breathy whisper against his lips, feeling your core clench in anticipation of round two.

His smirk widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes as your breathy, needy whimper filled the air. He felt the subtle clench of your muscles around him, a delicious betrayal of your carefully constructed facade. His grip on your hips tightened, thumbs digging possessively into the soft curve of your flesh. "You keep saying my name like that, little kitten, and I'm going to keep doing this," he breathed, each word a promise of escalating pleasure.

"Oh, Sylus!" you purred, the moan a deliberate weapon, laced with playful defiance.

A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating against your skin as your husky invitation hit its mark. His fingers dug into your hips, a possessive anchor as he began to move. Slow. Deliberate. Each movement a calculated torment, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that bordered on feral. "Keep mocking me, little minx," he growled, his voice a husky rasp. "See how long you last."

A giggle escaped your lips, a spark of exhilaration igniting within you. But before you could savor the moment, the world shifted abruptly. A gasp caught in your throat as he flipped you with effortless strength, the sudden change in position stealing your breath. He withdrew almost completely, the agonizing anticipation drawing a whimper from your depths, before slamming back in, hard and deep. The cry that tore from your throat was raw, untamed. He gripped your thighs, spreading them wider, an offering to his escalating dominance. Each thrust was a sharp, exquisite burn, his smirk turning predatory as he drove you closer and closer to the edge. "You were laughing," he accused, his voice a low rumble.

"Sylus! You—" you gasped, trying to form a coherent protest, but the words died in your throat.

He silenced you with a powerful thrust, cutting off your rebellion with a surge of overwhelming sensation. His voice, a command whispered against your ear, sent shivers down your spine. "Shut up and take it. You started this." He leaned over you, his body a warm, heavy weight, a cage of muscle and desire. He moved with a relentless rhythm, stealing your breath, your thoughts, your very will. "You know I can't resist when you tease me like that, little temptress."

A hiss escaped your lips, a frustrated sound of surrender.

His grin widened, wickedly pleased by your response. The sound fueled him, a confirmation of his power. He knew you were strong, resilient, but he was determined to break through your defenses, to show you the true extent of his control. He shifted his angle, a subtle change with devastating consequences, hitting a spot that made you gasp, your body arching involuntarily. "Is that too much for you, my little wild kitten?"

"No," you breathed, the word a ragged whisper against his skin.

A possessive growl vibrated in his chest, a sound of pure, primal satisfaction. He continued to target that sweet spot, each thrust a calculated assault on your senses, his body grinding against yours with a relentless, demanding rhythm. He leaned down, his lips finding the sensitive curve of your neck, nipping and sucking at the vulnerable skin, sending a jolt of electricity through your veins. "Then stop making those fucking noises," he murmured against your flesh, his breath hot and ragged.

"Sylus! Oh, yes!" you whimpered, abandoning all pretense of control, the pleasure too overwhelming to resist.

He chuckled darkly against your neck, his breath sending shivers down your spine. He felt your whimpers vibrate against his lips, a delicious confirmation of his effect on you. He knew you were trying to provoke him, to push him further, and he was more than willing to oblige. His hips surged forward, burying himself to the hilt, a raw, primal connection. "Keep pushing me," he growled, his voice thick with desire. "See what happens."

You gasp, a sound quickly turning into a strangled choke as he relentlessly finds that sweet, aching spot within you. His rhythm intensifies, bordering on demanding, each thrust stealing your breath. Your body betrays you, trembling uncontrollably as your inner walls clench around him, a desperate plea for more.

Your back arches instinctively, offering him the vulnerable curve of your neck, a silent invitation he can't resist. A primal fire ignites in his eyes as he descends, teeth grazing then sinking into the sensitive skin where neck meets shoulder. He bites down, a possessive mark sealing your fate as his hips continue their merciless dance.

"Sylus!" The sound tears from your throat, a mixture of pleasure and surrender.

A low growl rumbles against your skin as he sucks harder, feeling your body convulse beneath him. He knows the mark will bloom into a bruise, a visible claim for all to see. Driven by the raw taste of you, his movements become frantic, desperate. "Is that what you wanted, little bird?"

You want to deny it, to feign control, but the exquisite torment he inflicts steals your voice. A moan escapes instead, a broken sound. "Yes! Please, Sylus…"

A dark growl vibrates in his chest, his pace turning brutal as he senses your impending release. He slowly releases your neck, leaving a crimson testament to his claim. His hand now encircles your throat, not to harm, but to possess, to brand you as his. "Look at how beautifully you break apart for me," he whispers, his voice thick with triumph.

The moment his fingers close around your throat, your eyes roll back, vision blurring as a sob is ripped from your chest. Your release crashes over you in violent waves, each pulse of pleasure echoing his name. Your inner walls contract around him, desperately clinging, trying to capture every last drop of his essence.

"Sylus, please…" you sob, voice fractured.

A dangerous grin spreads across his face, understanding the dual meaning behind your plea – both surrender and insatiable desire. His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around your throat as he continues his deliberate, deep thrusts, chasing his own oblivion. "Too sensitive, little bird? Should I stop?" he taunts softly, a challenge laced with the promise of more, knowing full well he won't.

"Fuck, no!" The words are breathless, desperate.

A dark laugh escapes him as his hips slam forward again, relentlessly hitting that spot that shatters your senses. His thumb presses gently against your windpipe, a subtle assertion of control. "Language," he chides softly, his voice a velvet whisper laced with raw, untamed dominance.

You meet his gaze, pupils blown wide, and whisper, "Sorry…" the word a breathless offering.

His hips stilled for a heartbeat at your whispered plea, a possessive thrill coursing through him at how completely undone you were in his arms. He leaned down, the ghost of his lips teasing yours as he resumed his slow, deliberate rhythm, stretching out the exquisite tension that bound you both. "Apologize properly," he murmured, his voice a husky command that vibrated against your skin.

"I'm sorry that I cursed, Sylus! Please…" You whimpered, the word catching in your throat.

His eyes darkened, the pupils expanding with a desire that mirrored your own. God, he lived for these moments – your vulnerability, your sensitivity, the desperate apology on your lips. His thumb traced a possessive circle on your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "Please what?" His voice dropped, a silken thread laced with a dangerous edge. He knew the venomous words you wanted to use when you were being bad. 

"Please… more! Fuck me harder, like you want to kill me!" you gasped, the words ripped from your soul.

A flash of raw triumph ignited in his eyes at your desperate command, a wicked smirk curving his lips. "There's that filthy mouth again," he purred, as if admiring a rare and precious thing. Then, without preamble, he surged into you with brutal force, each thrust a shockwave that reverberated through your entire being. His fingers dug into your yielding hips, anchoring you as he set a relentless, devastating pace.

A strangled cry escaped your lips as you teetered on the precipice, the world dissolving into a kaleidoscope of sensation.

He watched, mesmerized, as your body arched off the bed, a taut bow pulled to its breaking point. A primal scream tore from your throat, your inner muscles clenching around him in a desperate embrace. Your cries were his fuel, pushing him closer and closer to the edge of his own control. He knew he bordered on brutal, on the edge of violence, but your response – god, your exquisite, shattering response – was his addiction.

The smirk widened, a predatory glint in his eyes, as your cries abruptly ceased, replaced by a breathless silence. Your back arched even further with each savage thrust of his hips. He felt the subtle tremors that racked your body, the telltale signs of another involuntary climax. He slowed his pace fractionally, his grip on your hips gentling, a possessive caress replacing the harsh demand. He knew the power he held, the ability to elicit screams or whimpers with the barest touch.

"Sylus…" you moaned, your voice a shattered whisper.

He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear as he continued to move inside you, the rhythm slower, more deliberate, but no less intense. "Yes, sweetie?" His hands slid from your hips to your breasts, thumbs circling your aching nipples, coaxing another soft moan from your lips. "Am I too much? Too sensitive, are you?"

You could only nod, the sensations overwhelming, consuming.

His smirk widened, predatory and knowing. He was fully aware of your heightened sensitivity, each nerve ending humming from the aftershocks of pleasure. His thumbs, previously firm, now traced feather-light circles around your peaks, a deliberate torment. He knew the exquisite torture of a gentle touch, the potential to shatter you all over again. His voice, a low rumble, barely a breath against your skin, cut through the haze. "Answer truthfully, little bird. Do you truly wish for me to stop being rough?"

Your gaze, unfocused and glazed with lingering ecstasy, locked with his. The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken desires. The word 'stop' felt foreign, a betrayal of the pleasure still thrumming within you. A desperate denial escaped your lips, barely audible. "Don't stop, please. Please."

A flash of surprise, quickly replaced by wicked amusement, danced in his eyes. The raw vulnerability in your plea was an intoxicating offering. He leaned closer, the heat of his body a palpable promise. His lips grazed your ear, sending shivers down your spine as he purred, "You crave this, even with your delicate state? Such a naughty thing you are."

A choked laugh, a mix of delight and breathless anticipation, bubbled from your throat. The sound only fueled his fire.

He chuckled softly, a sound that vibrated against your skin. The maddening circles continued, drawing you further into the vortex of desire. Teasingly, he whispered, his voice laced with possessive pride, "Look at you, teetering on the edge, nearly broken, and yet... you still yearn for more."

A primal growl rumbled in your chest, fueled by the exquisite torment. The submissive haze shattered, replaced by a surge of demanding need. "Then give me what I want," you snarled, your voice thick with raw desire.

His grin widened, a flash of pure, carnal hunger. This was the you he craved – untamed, demanding, desperate. He surged forward, his hips impacting against yours with brutal force, stealing the air from your lungs and forcing a strangled cry from your lips. "Like that?" he growled back, his fingers digging into your sides, claiming you as his own. "More, little bird? Do you beg for more?"

"More!" The word ripped from your throat, a desperate plea, a surrender to the inferno he had ignited.

His smirk hardened into a dangerous line. He knew the precise chords to play, the secret places to touch, to drive you to the brink of madness. Roughly, he wrapped your legs around his waist, tilting your hips upward, granting him deeper access. He began to thrust, each stroke a brutal, possessive claim. His voice dropped, a low and guttural promise of pleasure and pain. "Look at you," he commanded, his gaze burning into yours. "Utterly mine."

He watched, mesmerized, as your back arched off the bed, your mouth forming a silent scream, a testament to the exquisite torment he was inflicting. The rhythm became relentless, a punishing cadence that pushed you closer and closer to the precipice. Sweat dripped from his brow, slicking your chest, a fragrant offering as he surveyed the landscape of your body, marked and flushed with his touch.

"Shit, shit, I'm coming!" you screamed, the sound raw and untamed, a final surrender to the overwhelming pleasure.

The smirk playing on Sylus's lips deepened, a predator's delight in his eyes. He was acutely aware of your body's frantic response – the frantic flutter in your core, the desperate bounce of your breasts, the silent scream trapped in your parted lips. A surge of possessive satisfaction coursed through him. With a brutal snap of his hips, he found your deepest, most sensitive spot. A low growl rumbled in his chest. "Like this, little bird?" he murmured, the question laced with a dark promise as he repeated the motion, each thrust hitting harder, deeper.

A sob escaped you as the first wave of release crashed over you, your body a taut string about to snap.

His relentless hips continued their work, expertly prolonging the exquisite torment. He felt the tremors racking your entire body, your helplessness a stark contrast to the power he wielded. Reaching down, his fingers found and pinched your clit, sending you spiraling into another, even more desperate climax. His voice, a mere rasp against your skin, was heavy with possessive triumph. "So many marks... skin singing... so sensitive... utterly mine."

"Don't... don't torture me," you gasped, the plea weak against the tide of sensation.

A dark chuckle rumbled in his chest, an acknowledgment of the delicious cruelty he was inflicting. He knew exactly how close you were to the edge, and he reveled in it. His pace gradually slowed, the movements becoming languid but no less intense, drawing out the agonizing pleasure. "This," he murmured, his breath hot against your neck, "is what happens when you demand more, kitten." His fingers found your nipple, teasing and pinching, drawing another moan from your depths.

"How... how can you hold on?" you managed, a frustrated growl escaping your lips. It was always this way. He possessed an inhuman stamina, capable of pushing you past your limits while remaining frustratingly in control.

He blinked, a flicker of amusement in his eyes at your ragged question. With a self-satisfied smirk, he confessed, "Years of practice with energy manipulation. I can delay my own pleasure... indefinitely." He rolled his hips slowly, deliberately drawing out another desperate moan. "But looking at you... dripping, trembling, covered in my marks..."

"Oh god... just let me die then," you whimpered, the words a plea and a surrender.

A soft laugh escaped him, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against your skin. His eyes gleamed with dark amusement as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Not yet, kitten. Not until I've had my fill." His hips moved with agonizing slowness, each thrust a deliberate promise of prolonged bliss and exquisite torture.

Hours blurred into an eternity. He explored every inch of you, every nerve ending, pushing you beyond the boundaries of pleasure and pain. You were a canvas of sweat, tears, and his essence, your body a tapestry of hickeys, bruises, and possessive handprints. Consciousness flickered, your mind lost in a haze of repeated climaxes.

He gazed down at your limp form sprawled beneath him, a sigh of complete satisfaction etched on his face. The air was thick with the scent of sex and the echoes of your cries. With a final, languid thrust, he groaned, finally succumbing to his own pleasure, his release deep and powerful within you.

"Sylus..." you sobbed brokenly, the sound barely audible as you felt the hot rush of his climax, a final claiming.

His eyes snapped open, a primal growl rumbling in his chest as your voice, a mere whisper, breathed his name. "Sylus..." The sound, broken, utterly spent, and laced with the lingering echoes of pleasure, was a symphony only he could orchestrate. He watched you, slick with his essence, a masterpiece painted in shades of exhaustion and bliss. A surge of possessive satisfaction, raw and untamed, coursed through him. "Say my name like that again," he commanded, his voice a low, guttural invitation to oblivion.

"Sylus…no more," you begged, the words barely audible, a plea lost in the aftermath of their tempestuous encounter.

He chuckled, the sound breathy and laced with a dark amusement, as he slowly withdrew, leaving you achingly empty. His fingers, calloused yet gentle, traced patterns on your flushed skin, a stark contrast to the ferocious passion that had consumed them moments before. "No more?" he mocked softly, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. He knew the truth - you were his, utterly captivated by the dance of pain and pleasure he led.

You managed a weak shake of your head, every muscle protesting the movement. You were a canvas, painted with the evidence of his dominance.

He leaned down, brushing a tender kiss against your forehead, a surprising gesture that belied the predatory gleam in his eyes. "Looks like my little kitten is finally broken," he murmured, his voice a low, teasing rumble that vibrated against your skin. He reveled in your surrender, in the knowledge that he held you captive in a web of desire.

"Sylus…" you breathed again, his name a helpless sigh.

A predatory grin stretched across his face, his eyes gleaming with undisguised pride at the sight of you, utterly vulnerable and undone. He propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze sweeping over your trembling form. He ran a hand through your tangled hair, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Too much for you, hmm?" he teased, his thumb tracing the swollen outline of your lips.

"Yeah…" you murmured, the word a fragile whisper.

His cock twitched, a silent testament to the power you held over him, even in your wrecked state. "Such a pretty mess," he murmured, his voice thick with desire as he traced the dark bruises blooming on your throat, his personal signature of possession. He knew you'd be sore for days, a delicious thought that sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine.

"Can we have a bath?" you asked, your voice laced with exhaustion.

He chuckled softly, his expression softening as he saw the raw need in your eyes. He helped you sit up, his strong arms encircling you protectively. "Of course," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. He stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms, and carried you into the opulent bathroom. He lowered you gently into the steaming bath, the water fragrant with scented oils and swirling with bubbles.

You managed a grateful smile, the tension easing slightly as the warm water enveloped you.

He smiled back, the predatory edge momentarily softened by a genuine tenderness. He lowered himself into the bath behind you, pulling you back against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, his hands resting possessively on your stomach. "Comfortable?"

"Yeah. You seriously wrecked me this time," you giggled, a faint, exhausted sound.

His chest rumbled with dark laughter as he nuzzled against your hair, the sound vibrating through your very being. "And I enjoyed every second of it," he admitted, his voice a low murmur against your skin as he traced lazy patterns on your stomach. "You screamed my name so nicely…" A gentle kiss landed on your shoulder, a promise of pleasure and pain intertwined. "But you're right – tomorrow will hurt."

"Then I guess, if I have no missions tomorrow, I will stay here. I don't want to fall down on my face on my way home," you breathed, the memory of your legs trembling beneath you still fresh.

He threw his head back, a deep, resonant laugh echoing through the room. "Smart choice," he chuckled, his grip tightening, pulling you flush against his warm body. "You'll barely walk straight tomorrow morning," he warned darkly, nipping softly at the sensitive skin of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. "How many times did I make you come?" The question was a husky caress, a blatant challenge.

A blush bloomed across your cheeks, hot and undeniable. "I lost count," you confessed, burying your face in his chest to hide your embarrassment, but also reveling in the possessive hold he had on you.

His grin widened, mischievous delight coloring his features. "Lost count, huh?" He purred, his hands gliding up your stomach, the anticipation building with each inch until he was cupping your aching, swollen breasts. "At least ten," he murmured, his thumbs circling your nipples, coaxing them to harden. "And that's just the ones I remember."

"I think it was more," you drawled, a hint of playful defiance in your voice, even as your body throbbed with renewed desire.

He chuckled deeply, amused pride lacing his tone as he gently rolled your nipples between his fingers, sending jolts of electricity through you. "Maybe closer to fifteen," he mused, clearly enjoying the way your exhausted body trembled at his touch. "You came so prettily for me that I lost track too."

You sighed, a sound of utter contentment, and leaned against him, purring like a sated kitten. All your muscles were screaming, your nerve endings alight, but you felt utterly at peace.

He hummed softly at your purr, wrapping his arms around you even more possessively, a silent declaration of ownership. "You get all sleepy and purring after I wreck you," he noted softly, a smile playing on his lips. The next thing you knew, he had shifted you slightly underwater, your legs parting almost involuntarily as his fingers found your entrance once more. You jumped softly, a gasp escaping your lips. "Still sore, kitten?" The question was laced with both concern and a hint of wicked amusement.

"I feel like falling asleep any minute now," you mumbled, your eyelids heavy, the world beginning to swim around you.

He chuckled softly as he gently probed your sore, swollen opening, a possessive exploration that, despite the ache, still managed to ignite a flicker of desire. "You really are broken," he murmured, his fingers slowly pushing inside, testing your limits as he saw your eyes drooping. "Can you stay awake a little longer, sweetie?" His voice was suddenly soft, soothing, laced with an almost tender concern that made your heart ache.

"Mm, why?" you managed to murmur, clinging to the last vestiges of consciousness.

The warmth of the water embraced you, a stark contrast to the fire you'd just endured. "Because I want to wash you properly," he whispered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against your skin. His fingers, still slick with your essence, moved with agonizing slowness, a deliberate tease. "And you need to drink some water. You're exhausted from all that screaming." His hot breath ghosted against your ear as he spoke, his free hand a solid anchor around your waist, supporting your trembling form.

“Okay…” you managed, a weak smile gracing your lips. Relief washed over you in waves, chasing away the lingering echoes of pleasure and pain.

He was meticulous, reverent. Each stroke of his fingers was a balm, a soothing promise against the soreness that throbbed within you. Then, with effortless strength, he helped you sit up, his body a warm shield behind you. He brought a glass of cool water to your lips, the glass clinking softly against your teeth. "Drink," he commanded gently, his voice laced with concern.

You leaned forward, welcoming the cool liquid as it cascaded down your parched throat. You drank with a desperate eagerness, each swallow a testament to the depths of your earlier abandon.

He watched, a possessive glint in his eyes, his arms a secure cage around you. He didn't stop until the second glass was empty, then, with the pad of his thumb, he wiped the stray droplets from your chin. "Good girl," he murmured, nuzzling his face into the curve of your neck, his voice thick with emotion. "Now, stay awake a little longer, okay?"

You could barely manage a nod, your body heavy with exhaustion, but you knew you wouldn't refuse him anything.

A soft smile bloomed on his face, transforming his features. He picked up the soft cloth, lathering it with soap until it foamed white and fragrant. His touch was feather-light, each movement deliberate and tender as he washed your shoulders, your arms, the delicate curve of your collarbone. He lingered on your breasts, circling the areolas with exquisite care, teasing without pushing you over the edge.

“You get so sweet every time like this,” you murmured, your voice husky with contentment. The lingering tension in your muscles began to melt away under his ministrations.

He chuckled, the sound a low vibration against your back. His fingers traced intricate patterns on your ribcage as he moved lower. "You make it easy to be gentle," he whispered back, his voice a soothing balm. He washed your stomach with agonizing slowness, his hands halting, trembling slightly as he approached the delicate curve of your hips.

“Are you nervous?” you asked, feeling the tremor in his touch. His hesitation was a stark contrast to his earlier dominance.

He paused, his hands still resting lightly on your hips, and drew a deep breath. "A little," he admitted quietly, his voice barely audible. "I don't want to hurt you again. You're so sensitive down there..." His fingers traced a hesitant path along the swell of your hip, carefully avoiding the most sensitive areas.

You smiled, a spark of mischief flickering in your eyes. “If you wash it carefully, it will be fine.” The challenge was implicit in your tone.

He nodded slowly, the corners of his lips curving upward in a hesitant smile. With a visible effort, he steeled himself and carefully continued washing lower. "Right," he murmured, his hands moving with a newfound delicacy as he cleaned your thighs and knees. As he reached your shins, he paused, glancing up at you with a playful smirk. "Almost done," he breathed, the promise of something more lingering in the air.

You met his gaze, smirking back, anticipation building once more.

He took deliberate care, his touch lingering as he washed your feet and toes. Each stroke was a promise, a slow dance against your skin, drawing out the anticipation before he dared to cleanse the most sensitive part of you. A breath hitched in your throat as he moved higher, his touch tender and reverent as he washed you with exquisite care. He finally set the cloth aside, the silence thick with unspoken desires. "Alright, sweetie," he whispered, his voice a low, grounding rumble that vibrated through you, "All done."

A smile bloomed on your face, gratitude and something deeper swirling within you. "Thank you," you breathed, the words barely audible.

His answering smile was warm, a sunbeam breaking through the clouds. With effortless grace, his strong hands scooped you up, lifting you from the warm water. The soft embrace of a fluffy towel enveloped you, and he held you close, burying his face in the curve of your neck. His breath ghosted against your skin as he carried you, weightless, from the steamy bathroom into the dimly lit bedroom. "Time for bed, kitten," he murmured, his voice thick with affection.

Your heart fluttered at the endearment. Settling onto the soft mattress, you looked up at him, your eyes searching his. "Will you sleep with me?" The question hung in the air, a fragile offering.

He needed no further invitation. Crawling in beside you, he gathered you into his arms, a haven of strength and warmth. "Always," he breathed against your hair, holding you tight. He felt you melt against him, instinctively seeking his heat. A knowing smile played on his lips. "You always want to cuddle after a bath,"

"Because you’re so big and cuddly. So warm," you murmured, burrowing deeper into his embrace. His presence was a comforting anchor, a shield against the world.

A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest, and his arms tightened around you possessively. "Flatterer," he teased, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles on your back. "Though I must admit, I do enjoy being your personal heating pad." He pressed a tender kiss to the top of your head, inhaling the clean, sweet scent of your freshly washed hair.

Your eyelids grew heavy, the day's tension melting away in his arms.

He watched your eyes droop sleepily, a sense of tender protectiveness washing over him. He carefully adjusted his hold, making sure you were completely comfortable. Spreading your dark hair across the pillow like a silken veil, he loved seeing you like this - peaceful, unguarded, and completely trusting in his care.

Listening to your soft, even breathing, a deep sense of contentment settled within him. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his voice a soft murmur against your skin. "Goodnight, my little kitten." And with that, he closed his own eyes, letting sleep claim him, holding you close and safe within his arms throughout the night.

Taglist : @mcdepressed290

[ilsanslut]

Can i please request some jealousy headcanons for Kaiser and shido with a female s!o? Smutty too if that's alright.Thank you!

꒷♡꒷ GREEN-EYED GAZE!

♰ featuring: michael kaiser + shidou ryusei (separate) [blue lock]

♰ note: VAMPIIE WRITE UNDER 1.5K WORDS CHALLENGE (IMPOSSIBLE). i got carried away making the headcanons and decided to write blurbs to go alongside them but they are both LITERALLY the length of fics.... ANYWAY ryusei’s section may or may not be based off of my interactions with my jealous!ryusei shidou bot teehee. yall know how i already feel about him in ANY type of situation, but adding a jealous michael on top of that??? . . . yall hear something purring or is it just me—

sypnosis: hey siri play jealousy by monsta x! wc: 4.9k content/trigger warning(s): 18+. smut. fem/fem-bodied reader. SHIDOU RYUSEI. jealous!ryusei. jealous!michael. possessive!michael. possessive!ryusei. mean!ryusei. degradation. unprotected sex. rough sex. big dick!michael agenda! tummy bulging. locker room sex (michael). dacryphilia (ryusei). Tit-slapping (ryusei). spanking. choking. creampie/breeding. cursing. dirty talking (ryu likes to call u mean names when he's horny). groping. hair pulling. sweet n vulnerable ryusei at the end :((. ꒷꒦

MICHAEL KAISER

❥ it should be noted that Michael is not prone to becoming envious. i mean, why should he? he’s handsome, wealthy, extraordinarily skilled at football, and he has you as his beloved girlfriend that he loves to show off. what more could he ask for? in fact, one might contend that he was the target of envy more than anyone else. ❥ at least, that’s what he thought until he noticed you talking with his teammate and sworn rival, isagi yoichi at one of their games. ❥ it wasn’t like he was afraid that the inferior little shit was going to take you away from him. on the contrary, michael could not even begin to describe the sensation of emotions he was experiencing within. it was as if a tumultuous storm of emotions raged inside of him, ones he could not quite pin down. ❥ hatred directed at Isagi? betrayal at the fact that you would so openly talk and dare to laugh with his rival when he was right here? angry that if he spoke about it right then, he would come off as a cowardly fool who lacks self-confidence? ❥ he’s deathly silent, menacingly brooding, and unbelievably furious. he couldn’t help but enviously glower at the two of you with so much intensity that it was a miracle that you didn’t have a hole lasered into your back. ❥ but he could not just idly stand by and do nothing, especially after that little shitstain dared to touch your shoulder. that was his last straw.

“K-Kaiser . . .” Ness' voice jolted him out of his reverie, and the innocent brunette unintentionally fell prey to one of Michael's infamous death glares.

Alexis tried his hardest not to flinch in the face of such wrath, but it was nearly impossible. Instead, he quickly averted his gaze, fearful of further infuriating his King, and motioned to the water bottle in Michael's hand, which had been unknowingly clenched so tightly that the cap had long since burst free, drenching his fist and shorts. Michael clicked his tongue, dropping the poor bottle to the grassy field, his deadly gaze returning to you and Isagi, now laughing about something else that he could not hear because he was too far away. Without saying a word, he extended his hand to Alexis, who hastily used his handkerchief to dry the wet skin.

“. . . I noticed them too.” Alexis murmured quietly, glancing briefly in the direction that Michael was glowering, but not for long since he knew not to look at you without his permission. However, it was at that precise second that he saw Isagi brush something off of your shoulder, which caused his breath to hitch and Michael's murderous aura to flare with ferocity.

“—He’s dead.” Your lover snarled, snatching his hand away from Ness and marching right over to where the two of you stood.

You were not aware of Michael's impending form, but Isagi was made very aware when his eyes met the ace’s murderous ones that were fixed solely on his form. When you noticed the striker's sudden silence, you turned to see what he was looking at, but before you could, you felt two strong arms wrap around your shoulders and pull you into an equally strong body. With the scent of expensive cologne and the familiarity of the rose-thorn tattoo wrapping around his forearm, you knew immediately that it was your boyfriend. Oblivious to the silent staredown between your lover and his rival, you continued to babble innocently.

“Oh hi, love! I was wondering where you were.” You commented, craning your neck up so that you could look at him. He would meet your gaze with a tight, unassuming smile on his lips, always a master of emotional disguise. The fire in his eyes, on the other hand, was undeniable. His smile was like a mask, meticulously crafted to conceal his true emotions, but it had begun to crack. You were no idiot. You could tell that he was upset. At what? You didn’t know.

“ . . . Were you now, liebchen?” You could not unhear the underlying malice that tainted his words, no matter how warm he tried to make his tone, nor could you ignore the cat-like narrowing of his eyes.

“Mhm! I was meaning to come back to you when Isagi and I started talking about ‘My Neighbor Toroto’, the Studio Ghibli movie!”

A stupid-looking movie. One that you still had yet to watch with Michael since every time you tried, he dismissed it with the notion of it appearing too childish for his tastes.

“Who knew that we had such similar tastes?!” You giggled as you turned to look back at Isagi, with Michael taking the opportunity to continue his malicious staredown at the striker. This time, he rested his head on top of your chin to prevent you from catching him.

“ . . . It that so?” His tone was grave, and his words were accentuated with a firm squeeze of your shoulders.

An awkward silence would ensue as neither man uttered a word, seemingly attempting to assert dominance over the other through mere looks alone, until it was abruptly broken by Raichi summoning Isagi. Once he was gone, you had little time to react as Michael's grip would release your shoulders, instead seizing your wrist to tug you along until the two of you were off the field and into the rest of the stadium.

“M-Michael?! What are you—”

“—Shut up.”

His tone was curt—rude—something that told you he demanded absolute silence, and you listened. There was hardly anyone on the way to the locker room since everyone had already filed into the arena and into their seats, and both teams had already taken the field. Once there, Michael dragged you inside, locked the door, and shoved your back against a locker’s steely face. In an instant, he was leaning over you, his forearm resting above your head while his other hand cupped your jaw, deft fingertips squeezing your cheeks as he forced his lips onto yours. It was passionate, possessive, and, above all, dominant, as if he refused to be opposed—as if he were trying to completely and irreparably erase Isagi’s name from your tongue. You adored it; his kingly persona was one of your favorite aspects of him. It was more reminiscent of his behavior on the field than anything else.

“Don’t ever look at him again.” He would mutter breathlessly against your lips, pulling away so that he could peer into your eyes—deep oceanics, half-lidded. His fingers squeezed your cheeks, causing your lips to pucker. Using this grip, he shook your head gently back and forth, relishing in the way your pretty eyes blinked up at him through your lashes. “Do you understand me, liebling?”

You nodded, your eyes wide and doe-like, just the way he liked them. A wolfish grin overtook his features, tapping your cheek twice with the hand that previously held you taut, “Good. Girl.” Both words were pronounced with a tap.

His lips were back on you, this time on the cheek he had lightly slapped. Soft brims kissed hot trails down your neck, becoming sloppy and possessive with each passing second. Sharp incisors and pointed canines would attack the sensitive flesh by the time he reached your collarbone, gnawing, lapping, and sucking at your delicate skin until he left deep marks and you mewling in his wake. Your digits went to grab his blonde tresses, threading your fingers through the soft strands, when his hand came to your wrist, snapping on the joint and pinning it beside your head against the locker.

The silent command was straightforward. Don’t touch him. This was a punishment.

Pulling away momentarily, he admired his handiwork. Your previously subtle flesh was now ridden with purplish and red blotches—some lined with teeth marks—all over your exposed neck and collarbones. You could not possibly hide them, especially since the two of you were now in public and all of your makeup had been left at home. Smirking triumphantly, he grabbed both of your shoulders and spun you around, pressing your chest and cheek against the smooth steel. It was at that moment that you caught the nameplate that was etched onto the locker: Isagi Yoichi.

Michael seemed to notice your realization, chuckling to himself as he flipped your skirt up above your ass, bringing his hand down on both of your cheeks once and then twice, making you croon each time. He ripped your panties down your thighs until they pooled around the backs of your knees, all the while reaching beneath his boxers and shorts to pull out his cock, which was already hard and tip drooling with pre. He wasted no time lining his cock up with your soft folds, pushing into you in one single, hard thrust that had your knees going weak and you nearly sobbing from the immense pleasure. He kept you steady by grabbing your bicep from behind, using his weight to press you against the locker.

“You feel it, don’t you, liebchen?” He grunted, thrusting shallowly and languidly against you as though he were trying to fit every inch and then some into you. “Feel how deep I am in this tight cunt? My pretty little pussy? Hm?” His other hand wrapped around your front, pressing right against your womb as his thrusts grew deeper—longer. Each drag of his cock along your walls was tantalizing, leaving you a whimpering, drooling mess. You could feel him in your tummy, your slightly chubby pocket of flesh on your lower abdomen pressing into his palm. His thrusts grew faster and more ravenous as they began to mimic the fire that had previously been ignited in him only moments prior on the field. It was almost as if he were trying to get you to feel how you made him feel—what you did to him to make him just so fucking crazy for you—and you did. Loud and clear.

Your voice echoed off the locker room's concrete walls like a mesmerizing siren's song, only for his ears to hear. Moans of pleasure, pleas for more, his balls slapping your clit, and your ass bouncing off his hips—it was all too much for you.

“M-Micha, I-I can’t! Too much, plea— AHN~! —please slow down!”

Your cries went unheeded; if anything, they seemed to fuel him to pummel your poor little pussy even harder, ramming you against the locker at an unforgiving pace. He used the arm he held in a vice grip as leverage, pounding into you like a battering ram at a pace that made your brain go numb and your body clench around him as you felt your orgasm approaching.

“You can and you will. No one could ever make you feel this good, could they? Hit that sweet—” He paused, hips stuttering, as he delivered a particularly rough and targeted thrust to the squishiest part of your walls, causing knees to buckle beneath you and cunt to gush around him. “—There it fucking is. Hit that sweet, sweet spot inside of you like I can, huh?”

“N-No! No one–mphf! No one but you, Micha!”

“Not even Isagi?”

“G-God, not even him!”

“Goddamn right, meine königin.”

You would finally come apart against the lockers as Michael let go inside of you, both of you breathlessly moaning in unison. One thing about Michael is that when he came, he came a lot. Every time, without fail, thick, hot ropes of steamy, milky cum invade your womb and bloat you full of his seed. It was heavy too. It was a miracle you had not gotten pregnant by now, given how much he would pump into you.

Even now, as he pulled out of you, thick globs of his white release would leak from your sopping cunt. However, before a single drop could spill to the floor, he moved to grab your panties, which were around your ankles, and pull them back into position to stop any more from escaping.

His hold on you would soften as he became aware that you were still frail from your adventures. He would tenderly spin you around so that his lips would again touch yours, this time more tenderly. Unfortunately, Ness's familiar voice calling you both—more specifically, Kaiser—through the door interrupted your enjoyment of the moment. You knew he had heard what had happened between the two of you—possibly even more—due to the stutter in his voice.

“Uh, a-are you two done in there? Kaiser, the game is going to start soon, and Noel is going to put that Hirori kid in your place if you aren’t on the field in the next two minutes.”

“The hell he will.” Michael grumbled against your lips, placing another quick peck on them before he finally pulled away.

“Duty calls, emperor.” You teased him, lightly pushing at his chest.

He caught your wrist and pulled you into him in a way that always made butterflies arise in your tummy. “Are you coming out there with me, dear?” It was clear from your quivering and unsteady legs that you weren’t going to be able to do any type of walking any time soon.

“Ah, such a hassle.” He commented playfully, scooping you up into his chest, bridal style. “The things you do to me~.”

SHIDOU RYUSEI

❥ this is ryusei we’re talking about here. the same man who’s not afraid to set someone on fire if they even so much as look at you. it should come as no surprise to anyone that he gets jealous easily. that being said, he’d never be one to admit it. instead, his jealousy presents itself in the form of possessiveness and protection. after all, you're his, and you know you’re his. ❥ think of him as a protective doberman, a perfect guard dog. if anyone, more specifically, a man gets too close to you, ryu will loom over you and all but glower, snarl, and howl curses his way until the male gets the hint or has his neck stomped on. ❥ you could not count the number of times you had to physically restrain him from knocking someone’s lights out, especially after that one foreigner asked you for directions and ryusei responded by grabbing him by the collar, strangling him, and barking at him to "get lost." ❥ oh and god forbid anyone dares to flirt with you. you’d need the strength of jesus and all of his disciples just to keep your murderous boyfriend at bay—even then, it might not be enough. ❥ it’s never immediate, though; it takes a minute for it to click in his head what’s going on. moreso, a moment of “is bro serious right now?”. when these moments occur, for once in his life, he’s silent. he looks between you and the fucker who has the audacity to approach you, his eyes narrowed in a glare promising lethality. it almost seems as though he is testing the waters to see if you will speak first or if he will have to. in the end, though, it’s always him. ❥ so what could possibly go wrong when he brings you to his u-20 team banquet?

Angry does not even begin to describe Ryusei's current state of mind. He was enraged—furious, even—by the events that had occurred earlier in the night. You see, the two of you have been together for a little over six months now. He enjoyed bragging about you, and you enjoyed being with him. You were his lock screen, the source of his brainrot, the majority of his entire instagram page, and the absolute apple of his eye. So it would only make sense that when he was made aware of his team banquet in celebration of their big game that he would invite you to come along with him, right? God, how he regretted that decision.

All eyes were on you two the moment you walked into the banquet. Because it was a formal occasion, you wore a sexy red gown with an open thigh slit similar to Jessica Rabbit’s and a deep v-cut that exposed your cleavage and ended just at the tip of your sternum. Not to mention that the back of the dress was low cut enough that your lower back dimples were visible to all. Needless to say, it was no surprise that you were the center of everyone's attention—despite the fact that some of the others had brought their girlfriends with them.

However, anyone who dared look at you for too long would be met with Ryusei’s fury—everyone except for Sae Itoshi, who stared shamelessly at you with desire burning in his eyes. Somehow, you hadn’t noticed this. Due to his high regard for him and the fact that he was the one who gave him a second chance at football in the first place, Ryusei felt as though he could not confront his junior about it. Not to mention that you and Sae already had a pre-existing friendship before the events of Blue Lock. The two of you were essentially inseparable throughout the entire evening, conversing, laughing, eating, and even drinking together while Ryusei was left behind to stew in his festering emotions.

You two have just returned to your apartment after what was a riveting night for you and a torturous one for Ryusei. Now that the two of you had returned home, shortly after locking the door, Ryusei would turn to you with his infamous grin on his face, but the predatory glint in his eyes told a completely different story. He was seething, his gaze piercing right through you.

"You and Sae seemed awfully close tonight, huh? Ya' never told me you two were so 'buddy, buddy'.”

You paused, gazing at your boyfriend with an incredulous stare as you picked up on his accusatory tone. He was, in a sense, correct. Even though you two got along really well that evening, all of your interactions were completely innocent. Considering that you two had been friends for as long as you could remember, this was the first time you had seen him since junior high, when he left for Madrid. What were you supposed to do? Ignore him the entire time?

"What do you mean, Ryu~?" You would inquire, calling him by his nickname in a way that came close to disarming him, but he remained steadfast and scowled as he observed you take your heels off of your slender feet and set them on the shoe rack next to the door.

"You know damn well what I mean, sweetness. He'd retort back, his hands becoming stuffed in the pockets of his slacks as he towered above you. "You can put on your whole innocent 'I was just being nice' act all you want, but I’m no idiot, Y/N."

I’d beg to differ. You thought as you sauntered further into your shared apartment, the buzz of the alochol in your system flickering in and out as Ryusei began to sour your mood. You could hear him following you from behind you due to the sound of his socks shuffle across the wooden floors, much to your dismay.

“We’re just friends, Ryu.” Exasperated, you sighed and made your way to the master bedroom with every intention of taking off this dress and your makeup, taking a hot shower, and then going to sleep.

“Oh, just friends~!” He mimicked your tone crudely, his quick palm darting forth to snatch your elbow to prevent you from moving further. He whirled you around with surprising strength, shoving you backwards into the wall beside your shared bedroom non-too-kindly, drawing a gasp from your lips. His hand seized your jaw, slender digits squeezing harshly against your bones, making you whine aloud. He leaned closer to you, the tip of his nose brushing against your own at the scent of faint alcohol and mint wafted onto your face. “Don’t play coy with me, attention whore. I saw how you looked at him all night—practically eye-fucking him."

There was an undeniable fire in his eyes, accentuated by his downturned brows. His fuschia irises burned into yours as your eyelids narrowed into thin slits, boring into the core of your being. Sharp canines and pearly incisors were slightly exposed as his upper lip curled into an angry snarl. Excitement gathered between your legs as your 6'2" lover scowled down at you, forcing you to unavoidably squeeze your thighs together—an action that didn’t go unnoticed by Ryusei.

“Ohoho, what do we have here?” He commented, his knee sliding between your thighs as a ferocious grin spread across his lips. Due to the height difference between you, his knee was perfectly positioned against your panty-clad folds, causing your clit to needily throb against him. “Could it be that you did this on purpose, you little minx? Got me all hot an’ riled up just so that I could fuck ya’ up a little bit, huh?”

The hand on your jaw moved down to your neck, his lithe digits wrapping around it before squeezing. With each passing second, his grip would grow more unforgiving. Your delicate hands encircled his wrist, your back curved into his chest from the wall behind you, and your hips jolted across his knee, eliciting a contented moan from your lips. That was sufficient proof to him that you were, in fact, becoming aroused by this.

“Dirty little bitch.” He growled, a chuckle rising from his lips, before closing the gap between you two and smashing his lips against yours. It was rough, filthy, and full of teeth and tongues smashing against one another in a desire-filled exchange between two people who were both far too ravenous for their own good. Your hands were all over him, and he was all over you until his large palms came to rest on the backs of your thighs and hoisted you into the air, causing you to squeal against his mouth. His brims smirked against yours as he carried you over to your shared bed and placed you atop your silken sheets and plush mattress.

He was on top of you again before you could react, his deft fingers grasping the arms of your dress and pulling it down your body in one smooth stroke, leaving you completely nude before him. He tossed his head back, groaning at the sight of your body and sinful curves, feeling himself practically straining against his boxers. He wasted no time stripping out of his own clothes before diving back onto you, his tongue and pointed canines making quick work of the delicate flesh of your collar bones and neck, leaving visible marks in his wake. While doing so, his hands snatched greedy handfuls of your breasts, squeezing and groping at the engorged sacks as cunning fingers pulled your nipples taut. You keened under his body, fingers grabbing at the roots of his hair and tugging, a silent plea for him to give you more—one he heeded with a few particularly rough slaps to your breasts.

“Greedy slut.” He snarled, rising to tower over you once again, calloused fingers massaging the plump skin of your breasts that he had just brutalized. “Y’want more, huh? I’ll fuckin’ give ya more.”

Sliding off of the bed, he grabbed you by your ankles to take you with him and flipped you around so that you were on your stomach. Assuming he wanted you on your hands and knees, you began to rise to your knees, however, he placed a fiery smack on your rear that had you crying out in both pain and pleasure.

“Nuh uh, keep that pretty ass down here, baby. I’ll fuck ya just like this.” He muttered through gritted teeth, pulling you back down so that your toes bore most of your weight on the floor and you were still pressed flat against the mattress.

Before you could regain your composure, you felt Ryusei pressing a hand firmly against your lower back and his cock sliding into your wet folds in one full push. You gasped, already breathless from the intrusion and the feeling of being so full that you didn’t even know what to do with yourself. You sank against the sheets, your fists balling the material next to your head as you moaned curses into the sheets.

“Nah, baby, that won’t do.” His fingers threaded themselves through the root of your hair, forcing your head up from the bed. “Let me hear how I make this pretty pussy feel, yeah?”

“R-Ryu, y-you’re too big—”

“—The hell I fuckin’ am.” His pace increased, becoming brutal and unrelenting. Every time his hips touched yours, you felt him miraculously strike deeper and deeper areas within you, bullying his fat cock in and out of your helpless cunt as if he were trying to punish you. He was.

“Bet if—ngh! Bet if I was fuckin’ Sae, this pussy would take his cock with no problem, huh? Y’wish it was him fucking you, baby?”

He was barbaric and cruel, channeling every ounce of rage and jealousy into his furious thrusts that pistoned into you within an inch of your life. You enjoyed every second of it. Your mouth remained agape, drool threatening to pool over your soft brims as a chorus of unapologetically pleasured cries and moans escaped your open maw. Without even trying, he hit every spot inside of you as though he knew you in and out—no one would ever be able to replicate how his cock made you feel, not in a million years. That’s one of things you loved most about you.

A sharp smack to your rear snapped you from your fucked-out haze, a cry escaping your lips as Ryusei used the grip on your hair to yank your body flesh against his chest, his lips snarling into your ear, “Answer me, bitch.” He snarled through clenched teeth as his thrusts grew erratic, sloppy even. The distinct pleasure moans he used to emit between his words had evolved into almost feral snarls and grunts, as if you were being ravaged by a beast rather than your lover.

“Tell me the truth, you wish you had another cock fucking you this good, huh? Making you— fuuuck! Making you gush around this big dick, huh, princess?”

“N-Noo, ah~! O-Only want you, Ryu! I only want you!” You babbled through tears of overstimulation as the hand that was previously grabbing your hair was now holding your neck, pressing you taut against him.

“Yeah? Y’love me and my cock that much, sweets?”

“Oh God, yes! I-I only love you, Ryusei! O-Only you, baby!”

“Thaat’s my fuckin’ girl. G’on. Make a mess on me, pretty.”

By the time you gushed around his cock, you were hardly able to stand. Ryusei's powerful arms helped you maintain your balance so he could finish the last few thrusts inside of you before coming undone, spilling ropes of hot milky cum inside of your dripping cunt. The sheer volume of it was too much for you to hold, squelching around his cock as he now languidly thrust inside of you, fucking you both through your highs.

When he was completely spent, he let go of you and pulled away, letting you fall gently to the mattress beneath you. He collapsed beside you onto his back with one arm covering your back and the other resting on his forehead as you writhed around lazily in the moment. Even though he usually could not think of anything other than falling asleep and how great his orgasm felt after having sex with you, you could tell by the unmistakable pinch of his brows and his intent gaze on the ceiling that he was still thinking about something.

“Somethin’ the matter?” You inquired softly, concerned by his sudden silence. You fashioned an arm pillow to rest your head on while looking at him. He didn’t look at you, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly in his throat. “. . . Did you mean it?”

Now it was your turn for your brows to furrow as confusion etched itself onto your features. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows so that you could at least meet his gaze, to which his fuschia hues would give in and finally meet your own. He looked bashful, unsure—it was unlike him. If you squinted, you were certain that you could make out the faint tint of pink tinging his cheeks. His gaze darted away from your own and off to some random corner of the room.

“Yanno . . . about lovin’ me.”

A wave of emotions came over you when you realized that, as you were at your highest, you had unintentionally confessed to him. A sudden warmth filled your heart and permeated every fiber of your being, spreading like a delicate dance of butterflies in your stomach. You said you loved him. Every word you said was genuine.

You shuffled over on the bed so that you could climb partially on top of him, resting your head on his shoulder as you guided his head to meet your gaze again, your thumb gently stroking his cheek. “Of course, I meant it, Ryusei. I love you now, and I always will.”

His eyes held a tenderness that you did not even know he was capable of, his gaze softened, and his brows rose as if he had been suddenly struck with love. He loved you just as much as you loved him.

“What was that, babe?”

“I said I love you, Ryusei—”

“—I know.” He grinned suddenly and cheekily as he encircled you in a bear hug, squeezing you into his arms and pulling you up onto his naked form. “I just wanted ta’ hear ya say it again.”

“. . . I love you too, Y/N.”

ⓒ vampiie 2023 — all rights reserved. please do not repost my work outside of tumblr, modify, or translate my work in any form/means. please do not share my work with tiktok or any other site.

[darlingsblackbook]

Beneath the Ashes

Diluc Ragnvindr x Reader

Summary : All you want is to help and fight alongside your lover but all it causes is arguments. Words are said, feelings are hurt and you storm away but will you come back?

Warnings : angst, arguments, blood, sad moments >:)

A/N: This is my first piece for Diluc, my beloved♡

There will be a part two soon!

The slam of the door rings in my ears, but it’s not enough to drown out the argument still raging in my head. The cold air hits me as I step outside, sharp and biting, but I barely feel it. My heart is still pounding from the shouting, from the words that cut deeper than I’d ever imagined they could.

“I’m not some child, Diluc!” My voice had cracked, raw with frustration. “I don’t need you to protect me like I’m some helpless idiot!”

“You don’t understand,” he’d shot back, his voice edged with a rare, ice-cold anger. “You’re too reckless. This isn’t just some petty mission. This is real danger. I won’t risk you getting hurt because you want to prove a point!”

There it was, that condescending tone. That same look he always gave me when we fought—like I was a fragile thing to be coddled, to be kept safe. It made my blood boil, made my fists clench at my sides.

“And what about you?” I had spat, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “You throw yourself into danger every damn day. You think that’s fair to me? To anyone who cares about you?”

Diluc’s eyes had darkened then, his jaw tightening. For a moment, I thought he was going to back down, to let me in. But instead, his voice turned cold, a chilling contrast to the fire always burning beneath his stoic exterior.

“That’s different.”

I had laughed, bitter and hollow. “Of course it is. Because it’s always different when it’s you. You get to play the hero, sacrifice everything for the sake of Mondstadt, but gods forbid I want to stand by your side.”

“I’m trying to keep you safe!” His voice had risen, a rare crack in his composure. “Do you think I want to do this? That I want to push you away? But if something happened to you, if—” He had cut himself off, his fists clenching. “I couldn’t bear it.”

“So that’s it? You just expect me to sit here in this mansion, waiting for you to come home, hoping you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere? You want me to be okay with that? With being left behind every time?”

His silence was deafening.

“I’m not a fragile flower, Diluc. I’m not one of your servants or your… your responsibilities.” My voice had trembled with the effort of holding back the storm of emotions threatening to break free. “I love you. I want to fight with you, not against you. But you… you won’t even let me in.”

He had looked at me then, his eyes hard, distant. The walls he always built around himself had gone up higher, stronger. And when he spoke, his words were like daggers, each one sharper than the last.

“This isn’t about love. This is about survival. If you can’t understand that, then maybe you don’t belong here.”

I’d felt something inside me shatter at those words. The pain had been so sharp, so sudden, that I couldn’t even speak for a moment. I had stared at him, at the man I loved, the man who was supposed to trust me, to stand beside me. And all I saw was a stranger.

“Is that really what you think of me?” My voice had come out small, barely more than a whisper. “That I don’t belong here? That I’m just… in your way?”

His silence had been the final blow.

Without another word, I had turned and walked out, slamming the door behind me. I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to see if he would stop me, if he would finally say something, anything to make me stay.

But he didn’t.

°•♡•°

The wind howls through the trees as I stumble along the path, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. My side aches from the cold, the pain still fresh from the fight. I should have grabbed my coat, but I’d been too angry to care. Now, every step feels like a reminder of how badly things went, of how shattered everything is.

His words keep replaying in my head. Maybe you don’t belong here. I never thought he could say something like that to me, that he could push me away so easily, as if all the time we’d spent together didn’t matter. As if I didn’t matter.

I bite back the lump forming in my throat. I’m not going to cry. Not now. Not after everything. If he wants to push me away, fine. Let him.

But the truth is, I’m not angry anymore. I’m hurt. The kind of hurt that sinks deep into your bones, that makes you question everything you thought you knew. And I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know how to make this better, or if it can even be fixed.

I don’t realize how far I’ve gone until the sound of twigs snapping behind me jolts me from my thoughts. I look around, but the darkness has swallowed everything, leaving only the faint outline of trees swaying in the wind.

I freeze. Something feels wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I slowly turn around, heart thudding in my chest. At first, I see nothing but the dark outline of trees swaying in the wind.

Then, a shadow moves.

It happens too fast. A blur of movement, a sharp pain as something—or someone—grabs me, pulling me off the path. My scream is cut off by a hand clamping over my mouth.

Suddenly, a sharp pain explodes through my head, and the world tilts. I barely register the blow before I’m knocked to the ground, my knees hitting the dirt hard. The breath is forced out of me, and I taste blood in my mouth.

Panic floods my senses, but before I can react, a hand grabs my hair, yanking me back. I cry out, my voice barely more than a choked sob, but no one hears. There’s no one around.

I can barely process what’s happening, the world spinning as I struggle to push the assailant off. There’s more than one. Three—no, four figures, cloaked in darkness, their eyes glinting maliciously in the faint moonlight. Fatui? Bandits? It doesn’t matter. They’re here, and I’m alone.

My mind races, the fear choking me. Where’s Diluc? Would he even come if he knew? Or would he let me bleed out here, alone, because I wasn’t supposed to be out here in the first place? Maybe you don’t belong here. His words echo in my mind, cruel and sharp.

I was so hurt, so angry, so distracted by the fight I had with Diluc that I had not been paying any attention to my surroundings. I had not been paying attention to the possibility of enemies following me.

How could I have been so stupid? How could I have made such a mistake after my whole speech about being able to take care of myself and wanting to stand by Diluc's side?

I kick, I claw, but it’s not enough. I can’t stop shaking, the cold and fear gripping me in equal measure. One of them pulls out a blade, and I feel it cut into my side, a sharp, searing pain that makes my vision blur. I gasp, the knife sinking into my skin. Everything goes white with pain, and I feel the warmth of my own blood pooling under me.

My breath comes in ragged gasps, and I can taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. They say something to each other, but the words are distant, muffled by the rush of blood in my ears.

My vision blurs, and the world tilts again, the cold ground rising up to meet me as I fall. I hear the faint sound of footsteps, of voices, but it all fades, growing distant

I think I call his name.

Diluc.

But no one’s coming.

•• </3 ••

When I open my eyes, it’s to the sound of someone shouting my name.

“Y/N!”

It’s him. Diluc.

I try to move, try to sit up, but the pain in my side flares up, and I can barely breathe. His arms are around me in an instant, lifting me from the cold dirt. His face is pale, his eyes wide with something like terror.

“Don’t… don’t move,” he says, his voice shaking. “You’re hurt. You’re hurt…”

I try to speak, but the words don’t come. My throat feels tight, raw, and I can barely focus on anything but the warmth of his arms around me, the way he holds me like I might slip away at any moment.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it. Please, stay with me. I can’t—” His voice cracks, and I feel something wet hit my cheek. His tears.

I want to tell him it’s okay, that I understand now, but all I can do is reach up, my fingers brushing weakly against his cheek. He catches my hand, holding it tightly as if it’s the only thing keeping me here.

“I’m so sorry.." I sob as tears run down my cheeks as rivers. I yelp as sharp pain pierces my side, the slight movement of my crying causing immense pain. "Y-you were right-t...I kept telling you I c-could take care of myself and f-fight- still I-" My voice is barely a whisper.

His grip tightens, his eyes full of pain, of fear. “Sshhh, don't say that, dont worry about that now. I can’t lose you. I should’ve never… I shouldn’t have said those things. I was scared. I was—” He stops, choking on the words. “Please, y/n, just hold on.”

But I’m so tired. The pain is fading now, replaced by a numbness that spreads through me, pulling me under.

I hear him calling my name, but it’s distant now, fading with the rest of the world. And then, there’s nothing but silence.

♡

Meow meow meow meow...meow meow meow meow meow...

[lovely-p-issues]

Calypso put the new flowers in the vase.

It didn't matter how much water she poured in or how often she changed the plants - the flowers always wilted after a few hours and nothing of her magic could prevent that. She didn't understand that. Just like she didn't understand a lot of things that had happened since her Beloved had shown up on her island.

The late dinner was slowly cooling, the smell wafted throughout the house and the last wisps of steam were disappearing somewhere in the air. She was used to waiting for him. To waiting for him to turn up in her bed at night, for him to join her in the warm springs of the island and rest in her embrace, for him to give up those childish dreams of Ithaca and burn all those tools he was trying to hide from her.

She had waited so long. She could have waited a little longer.

‘Oh darling, this looks just amazing.’

It wasn't Odysseus' voice. Odysseus never sounded so cheerful.

She turned and clenched her fist, and the candles in the room flickered.

At the head of the table, where she usually seated Odysseus, sat a strange man.

No, not a man.

A god, smiling at her with his teeth bared. He sprawled comfortably in a chair, holding a chalice in his hand, Odysseus' chalice, into which she had not yet had time to pour wine. However, the intruder seemed not to mind as he took a sip from it without taking his eyes off her. In his other hand he held a strange staff, entwined with two snakes. He rotated it in his hand, as if slightly bored.

‘This place is not for you, Hermes,’ Calypso growled, and the candles went out completely.

She noticed with anger that the Lilies of the Valley, which only an hour ago had tempted her with their fragrance in the meadow, had begun to bow to the ground. The petals were covered in spots.

The Messenger of the Gods only laughed heartily. Something about that joy made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. He waved the Caduceus, and the candles lit up again, but this time with a rosy glow. She gritted her teeth.

‘So you remember me? I shouldn't be surprised, I can make an impression, after all I am-’

‘Uninvited. And unwelcome.’

‘Funny, I don't recall you being bothered by not being invited when the waves tossed a certain wanderer onto the shore.’

She turned.

‘I enjoy his company.’

She had work to do. She placed the pot over the hearth.

‘I don't doubt it, darling. Tell me, though, does he enjoy yours?’

The wind wailed and hit the shutters. Out of the corner of her eye, Calypso noticed that the petals of the buttercups had fallen on the table. She had to restrain herself from shouting.

‘He will learn to enjoy it. I have time, all the time in the world. His wife cannot say the same. Even his son will eventually turn to dust. And he will finally be able to move on.’

'Ah, so you put your trust in the workings of Chronos, the god of time. A touching method, mortals claim, but even they can tell the difference between it and a vain hope. How long has it been, darling? Seven years, if I count correctly?'

She slammed her hands on the table, glancing at him over her shoulder.

‘Oh, please, what is seven years?’

‘For us?’ waved the Caduceus between them. ‘Nothing. For them?’ he waved his hand towards the window. ‘It's a bit more complicated.’

‘Why do you care? Why couldn't you fly over my island without looking back, like you always do?’

‘For many reasons. If only for the fact that, as you know, I am the god of travellers. What kind of a patron would I be if I didn't make sure that such a determined man didn't make it home?’

‘He is home.’

Although Hermes took a compassionate tone, his face remained sullen.

‘A lie doesn't suit your eyes, darling.’

She clenched her fists and furrowed her forehead.

‘I won't let you-’

Hermes was no longer sitting behind the table. He was hovering over her, and his eyes, though hidden by the shadow of his helmet, glittered with rage.

‘You will let me speak, for as the Messenger of the Gods, I speak not only with my voice, but also with the voice of Zeus, the King on Olympus. You will let Odysseus go. You will end his torment. You will let him sail home. You will give him everything he needs for the journey. And then you will come back here and learn to live without him.’

Calypso didn't think she could still be afraid of anything after all these years. She took a step closer and raised her head so that their noses nearly touched.

‘He's going to die.’

Hermes tilted his head.

‘Let me worry about that, darling.’

His voice was cheerful again.

He moved away from her and began to play with the dried flowers.

She stood in silence, afraid that if she opened her mouth she would start to cry. Finally, she quieted the storm in her chest.

‘What if I convince him?’ she looked at the god, a challenge burning in her eyes. ‘What if he decides to stay?’

‘Then I will be more than impressed, darling, even as a god whose one of his myriad talents is deft eloquence.’

Hermes moved closer to her. In his hands he held a garland braided with petunias, monkshoods and yellow carnations. Fatal was a crown for the queen of Ogygia.

She had not brought those flowers. She took one last look past the set table and the cold food. The only flowers she had brought herself that had not fallen from their strength were yellow roses, the scent of which now made her choke.

Hermes adorned her head with a garland in the gentlest of motions.

‘Go on, Calypso. I shall watch.’

The wings rustled and Calypso was alone. Again.

___

I hope you enjoyed a little dangerous Hermes c:

[kckt88]

Imzadi VII

Summary:

Aemond finds new allies and the seven kingdoms rejoice as the new King and Queen are crowned.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Language, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Oral Sex, Fingering, P in V, Rough Sex, Semi Public Sex, Knotting, Mentions of Death, Blood, Violence, Conspiracy & Aegon is a Drunken Idiot.

AEMOND x O.C NIECE

ALPHA/BETA/OMEGA DYNAMIC

Word Count: 8414

A.N - 'Imzadi - Beloved'

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole @zenka69 @aemondsbabygirl @aphroditesblunt @iamtoriasworld @persephonerinyes

Aemond thundered through the corridors of the Red Keep like a man possessed, the air around him heavy with fury. His fists clenched, his gait relentless, and behind him trailed Lucaera, and Aegon.

“Aemond, please—don’t do this!” Lucaera begged, grabbing his arm, her voice tight with panic.

But he shook her off with a low, animalistic snarl, the Alpha Prime inside him fully unchained, feral and pulsing with rage.

The audacity. The violation. Someone had dared to lay hands on his Omega.

He soon reached a heavy wooden door—and pounded his fist against it hard enough that the frame rattled.

There was a beat of silence and then from the other side then the sounds of a muffled string of curses.

The door slowly creaked open—and there stood Daemon, shirtless, his silver hair a tangled mess, and a sheen of sweat across his chest.

In the bed behind him, Rhaenyra sat up, quickly pulling the sheets around her bare body.

Lucaera wrinkled her nose as she realised what her mother and stepfather had obviously been doing before, they were interrupted.

Aegon burst out laughing. “Well-this is awkward.”

Aemond didn’t say a word as he clenched his fist punched Daemon in the face.

The force sent Daemon stumbling back, a snarl ripping from his throat.

Before anyone could blink, the two men were tangled in a violent brawl—fists flying, with snarls and growls echoing through the chamber as they crashed into furniture and dragged each other across the floor.

“AEMOND, STOP!” Lucaera screamed, yanking at his leather tunic, but it was a futile gesture.

The strength of an Alpha Prime far outmatched her own.

“I SWEAR—IF IT WAS YOU—I’LL KILL YOU!” Aemond roared, one hand around Daemon’s throat.

Lucaera turned desperately to Aegon. “Help me!”

Aegon blinked at her, then spotted a jug of wine. “Best let him get it out of his system. Ooh, wine. You don’t mind, do you, sister?” he asked as he poured himself a goblet and slumped into a nearby chair, swirling the liquid lazily as he watched Aemond and Daemon fighting.

Lucaera turned to her mother—Rhaenyra still in bed, the covers clutched to her chin, her expression torn between horror and exasperation.

Then Lucaera did the only thing she could think of. She let out a distressed whine.

Aemond froze mid-strike, his hand still raised, his Alpha Prime instincts reacting instantly to his distressed mate. His grip on Daemon loosened slightly—

—and Daemon used the momentary distraction and slammed his fist into the scarred side of Aemond’s face.

Aemond howled in pain and fell to the side, clutching his face.

“AEMOND!” Lucaera cried, rushing to him. She dropped to her knees, cradling his head in her hands, his body trembling with pain and fury.

Rhaenyra, now fumbling with her robe, shouted, “What in the seven hells is-Aegon, avert your eyes, you filthy wretch!”

Aegon only snorted and sipped his wine. “Bit late for that sister-”

Daemon hauled himself to his feet and strode to the bed, yanking Dark Sister—from its scabbard. He turned and pointed it at Aemond.

“Kepa daor!” Lucaera snapped, rising between them, her voice cutting the air (Father, no).

Daemon raised a brow. “Sīr ziry iksos kepa arlī iksis ziry?” (So, it’s father again, is it?).

Lucaera turned to her mother. “Muña, kostilus-” (Mother, please).

Rhaenyra, finally covered, stepped forward and pressed a hand to Daemon’s arm. “Ñuha jorrāelagon, keligon” (My love, stop).

Daemon looked ready to argue, but the weight of Rhaenyra’s gaze tempered him. He did however make sure to jab Aemond in the chest with the tip of Dark Sister—just enough to sting—then tossed the blade onto the bed.

Aemond with the help of Lucaera staggered upright, face tight with pain, eye locked onto Daemon.

Rhaenyra turned to him; arms crossed. “Now. What in the seven hells is this about?”

Aemond tore off his eyepatch. The sapphire glinted coldly in the candlelight, and Rhaenyra faltered at the sight before steeling herself again.

“I want your shit of a husband,” Aemond growled, “to look me in the eye and tell me that he had nothing to do with the attempt on my life and the kidnapping of my Omega.”

Rhaenyra gasped. “What?” She whirled on Daemon, who raised his hands defensively.

“It wasn’t me,” he said quickly. “I swear. Ñuha idaña perzys-” (My twin flame).

Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes at Daemon for a moment before she nodded and turned back to Aemond. “Tell me everything”

Despite the throbbing ache in his eye socket, Aemond recounted it all—the proposed attempt on his life, Lucaera being taken, the rescue and how the attackers had claimed they acted on Daemon’s orders.

Daemon scoffed loudly, his arms crossed. “And you believed them-that I would stoop so low?”

Lucaera stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. “He had his reasons. But, after careful consideration, we know now you weren’t behind it.”

Daemon grunted. “Let me guess. That green Hightower cunt?”

Aemond and Lucaera exchanged a look.

Daemon barked a laugh. “So, the withered old fuck’s gotten more ambitious. Let me guess—because you’re not easily manipulated, Otto thought he could force your hand by other means?”

Rhaenyra moved toward her daughter. “Did they hurt you, my sweet girl?”

Lucaera took a step forward—but Aemond grabbed her hand and tugged her gently but firmly behind him. He growled low in his throat.

Lucaera met her mother’s eyes. “No, Mother. I’m fine. Aegon saved me-”

Daemon snorted and looked at Aegon, who was slouched in the chair, halfway through the jug of wine. “That drunken whore?”

Aegon rolled his eyes. “I may be a drunken whore Uncle, but at least I have eyebrows-”

Aemond growled and Aegon gave him the middle finger before he resumed his drinking.

Rhaenyra glanced between them all. “So, Otto’s responsible-”

Lucaera nodded. “Larys Strong is involved as well.”

Daemon sneered. “The Clubfoot and the Cunt, conspiring against the crown. Why am I not surprised?”

Rhaenyra turned to Aemond, her voice laced with an almost mocking sweetness. “Well then, Your Grace—what do you intend to do about this?”

The sarcasm in her tone hit like a slap—but Aemond didn’t flinch.

He took a deep breath. Daemon and Rhaenyra, they were his kin—and they were dragons. And it was far better to fly with dragons than to burn beneath them.

“I intend to make my grandsire, and that fucking toad pay for their treachery- and no doubt there will be others, but I can’t do it alone-”

Rhaenyra exchanged a look with Daemon who nodded she then stepped forward and held out her hand.

Aemond stared at it for a long moment, and he felt Lucaera press closer to him.

Then, slowly, he took it.

Together, they would rip the traitors from the Red Keep—root and stem.

Aemond’s low growl rumbled again, but Rhaenyra ignored it entirely. With quiet determination, she stepped forward and gently cupped Lucaera’s face in her hands, her thumb brushing softly over her cheek.

“My girl,” she whispered. “I have missed you.”

Lucaera’s eyes welled. She looked into her mother’s face and barely found her voice. “Gaomagon ao vēdros nyke, muña?” (Do you hate me, mother?)

Rhaenyra’s expression broke into a tender, almost pained smile as she tucked a loose strand of Lucaera’s dark hair behind her ear. “Dōrī ñuha dōna riña, kesan va moriot jorrāelagon ao.” (Never, my sweet girl. I will always love you.)

Lucaera swallowed. “Then why didn’t you come to my wedding?”

A flicker of tension passed between Rhaenyra and Daemon. They exchanged a look before Rhaenyra said softly, “We were never asked.”

“But I did write you a letter,” Lucaera said, eyes wide with confusion.

Rhaenyra shook her head. “I never received a letter.” She leaned closer, her voice warm but firm. “Lucy- look into my eyes. See the truth. I’ll admit I was hurt by your decision to align yourself with my brother. But I would have come to your wedding. Strife or not.”

Lucaera searched her mother’s violet gaze—and there, she found no deceit. Only pain, and love.

Turning to Aemond, she said quietly, “My letters. I gave them to Maester Orwyle. He said he’d sent them.”

Aemond sighed, lips curling in bitter understanding. “Another whose interests align with my grandsire. I dare say your letters were tossed into the fire the moment he had the chance.”

“But why?” Lucaera murmured.

Before Aemond could answer, Aegon rose from his chair, wine sloshing dangerously in his goblet. “Isn’t it obvious, good sister?” he slurred, voice drunken but disturbingly clear. “Our grandsire saw to it that you were isolated from your family. No one left to turn to. Just us. Makes you to control”.

Lucaera scowled. “I’m not a thing to be controlled.”

Aegon huffed a drunken laugh. “No, but like me and everyone else in this fucked up family you’re a piece to be moved about the board. For someone else’s gain.”

Aemond stepped forward, jaw tight. “I think you’ve had enough wine.”

Aegon spun slightly, pointing his cup at him. “Not nearly enough, brother. Why don’t you tell our sister how she was never going to be Queen? That our grandsire’s been scheming since my birth to crown me instead. Until, of course, you presented as Alpha Prime, and—poof!—suddenly your claim took precedence over mine.”

Lucaera turned sharply to Aemond, stunned. “What is he talking about?”

Aemond’s eye flickered. “Nothing. He’s drunk. A cur.”

“I am,” Aegon said with a shrug, “but I speak truth. That slippery old cunt—what was it used to say? ‘It wouldn’t matter if she were Jaehaerys himself reborn.’ He was never going to let a woman sit the Iron Throne.”

Daemon snarled lowly. “Not his decision.”

Aegon belched. “Isn’t it, though? He’s been whispering in noble ears for years. You should’ve seen him the day Aemond presented as Alpha Prime—almost pissed himself in excitement. And when he took the only Omega to mate?” He gave a drunken flourish toward Lucaera. “An undeniable claim to the Iron Throne. No Beta woman could ever contest that. Not even the named heir.”

Lucaera shoved Aemond in the chest, her expression full of betrayal. “You knew.”

But before Aemond could answer Daemon interrupted with a dry snort. “The whole fucking realm knew. The cunt wasn’t exactly subtle.”

Lucaera turned back to Aemond, her voice shaking. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Aemond sighed, jaw clenched. “Because I wished to spare you from it.”

Rhaenyra’s face was pale. “So, I was never going to be Queen.”

Aegon took another sip, expression grim. “Not if my grandsire had anything to do with it.”

Rhaenyra’s voice hardened. “Alicent. Did she know?”

Daemon scoffed. “Of course she did.”

Aemond shook his head. “Not at first. It was only after I presented that my grandsire grew bolder.”

“What does it matter?” Aegon muttered. “He told her you’d kill us all to secure your claim.”

“I would never see harm come to any of you,” Rhaenyra snapped, her eyes flashing.

Aemond scoffed. “Just like you never insisted I be ‘sharply questioned’ to learn where I heard slanders against your children? Don’t lie to me, sister. It’s unbecoming.”

Rhaenyra’s face fell. “Mayhaps I was mistaken to use such words. But I would never see your lives forfeit. I am no kinslayer.”

Aegon laughed and staggered forward, wrapping a clumsy arm around Rhaenyra’s shoulders. “AHA! Knew it was all piss. You’re not so bad after all, sister.”

Daemon’s eyes darkened. He growled and shoved Aegon back. “Keep your hands to yourself, or I’ll see you lose them.”

Aegon giggled. “Somebody’s cunt-struck.”

Daemon took a step forward, but Rhaenyra raised a hand. “He’s drunk. The wine’s addled his mind.”

Aemond rolled his eye. “Not really. He’s like that when he’s sober too.”

Lucaera held up her hands. “Look, this isn’t getting us anywhere. You’ve all agreed to work together. Digging up past grievances won’t help.”

Daemon gave her a sardonic glance. “What do you suggest? We all hold hands and dance around in a circle?”

Lucaera snapped, “Don’t be a cunt.”

Daemon blinked, then smirked—equal parts surprised and impressed.

Rhaenyra stepped forward. “So, what do we need to do?”

Lucaera took a deep breath. “As much as you may not like it, you need to accept Aemond as k=King. And that goes for you too father.”

Daemon’s face twisted into a scowl, but then he nodded slowly. “Concessions will need to be made. I won’t have my wife, or our children cast aside.”

Aemond stepped forward. “I’m sure we can make an agreement that benefits us all.”

Rhaenyra raised her chin. “I want possession of Dragonstone. And Jace, as my heir, will inherit it after me. Luke will be confirmed as heir to Driftmark. My sons with Daemon will be granted positions of high honour at court.”

Daemon opened his mouth, but Aemond raised a hand. “-Don’t worry, uncle. They won’t be carrying shields and cups.”

Lucaera huffed a laugh. Daemon shot her a glare, and she shrugged. “Private joke.”

Rhaenyra stared Aemond down. “Those are my terms, brother.”

Aemond turned to Lucaera. She squeezed his hand. Through their bond, he felt her relief, her hope, and her understanding.

Aemond looked back at Rhaenyra. “I accept your terms sister.”

Aegon, swaying on unsteady feet and slurring through a dazed grin, raised his empty goblet high. “So, what happens now?” he asked no one in particular.

Daemon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You go to bed and sleep off the wine.”

“Excellent idea, Uncle,” Aegon beamed, turning on his heel and making straight for the bed Rhaenyra had not long vacated.

But before he could throw himself into the covers, Daemon grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back.

“Not in our bed, you fool.”

Aegon whined as he stumbled. “But why not? Maybe we could indulge in a cheeky threesome—I've always found you pretty, sister—”

Daemon’s growl rumbled low and dangerous.

“Fine, you're pretty too, Uncle,” Aegon added with a lecherous wink.

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes and turned to Aemond. “You need to deal with our brother.”

Aemond exhaled sharply and crossed the room, grabbing Aegon by the back of his tunic and dragging him away from Daemon’s increasingly murderous glare. “I’m about to be crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms, and still I’m forced to deal with this wastrel.”

Aegon sagged heavily against Aemond’s taller frame. “You know, brother,” he mumbled with a drunken smile, “You’re a fine-looking man.”

Aemond shoved him into a chair with a groan and muttered, “I’ll deal with him in a moment-But we need to figure out what happens next.”

Daemon stepped forward, all seriousness now. “That’s simple. You keep this quiet. No one outside this room can know what’s been discussed.”

Aemond nodded. “And we need my grandsire to believe his plans are working.”

Rhaenyra agreed. “As soon as you leave this room, order the Red Keep locked down. No one in. No one out.”

“That’s a good idea,” Lucaera said. “After an attempt on your life and the kidnapping of your Omega, you’re bound to be furious. So, a lockdown would be the natural thing to do, to ensure my safety—and our pup’s.”

Aemond turned toward her, placing a protective hand over her stomach. Rhaenyra’s face softened at the sight.

“My sweet girl,” she murmured. “You really are with child. I suspected-but I never dared to hope.”

Lucaera smiled, hand over Aemond’s. “I carry Aemond’s child.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes filled with emotion. “Oh, my sweet girl. Congratulations.”

Daemon nodded once, firm. “Congratulations, nephew.”

Aemond gave a small, awkward smile, unused to such open warmth. “Thank you.”

Lucaera’s feelings of happiness and joy radiated through their shared bond and it made Aemond shiver.

However his gaze soon sharpened again. “When should I deal with my grandsire and the other traitors?”

Daemon grinned, dark and eager. “Your coronation. Tell your cunt of a grandsire to organize it for a week’s time. That way we will have enough time to root out every single one of the curs-”

Aemond arched a brow. “We?”

Daemon nodded, deadly serious. “Yes, we. You and I shall work together to see every single one of those traitorous cunts lose their heads.”

Rhaenyra interjected, calm and calculating. “But you’ll need to play your part, Aemond. We can’t afford for Otto or that pet toad of his to grow suspicious. You need to act—furious and vengeful. Let the whole court see how incensed you are that someone dared to touch your Omega.”

Aemond growled, voice like ice. “That won’t be difficult, sister. I can assure you of that.”

Daemon tilted his head. “Out of interest, what happened to the bodies of the attackers?”

“Both dead,” Aemond said coldly. “Hidden in the overgrowth in the gardens.”

Daemon nodded, impressed. “Explains why no one's raised an alarm yet. You need to move quickly. Dump your piss-drunk brother back in his chambers, then head back into the gardens with Lucy and build the scene. Spin whatever story you need to make it believable.”

Aemond nodded, moving to haul the snoring Aegon from the chair and over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

Before they left, Lucaera rushed forward and wrapped her arms tightly around her mother. “I love you, mama,” she whispered.

Rhaenyra smiled softly, stroking her daughter’s hair. “I love you too, my sweet girl. There’s still much we need to talk about, but it can wait for another day.”

Lucaera nodded, then turned to Daemon. He eyed her for a moment before stepping forward and pressing his forehead gently to hers.

“Tala,” he murmured before stepping back, the corners of his mouth twitching into an amused grin at the sound of Aemond’s unmistakable growl. (Daughter).

With that, Lucaera and Aemond departed—Aegon slumped over Aemond’s shoulder, his snores making him sound like a dying boar.

As the door shut behind them, Daemon turned to Rhaenyra, his grin deepening.

“So,” he said, voice low and rough with suggestion, “where were we?”

And he leaned in to kiss her.

After Aemond had unceremoniously dumped his drunken brother back into his chambers—leaving him face down, snoring and drooling on the velvet cushions—he turned to Lucaera, silent and tight-jawed, and led her down the stone corridors and out into the still, moonlit gardens.

The bodies of the attackers were still where he had left them, hidden in the overgrowth—twisted limbs and bloodied faces barely visible among the hedge shadows.

Without a word, Aemond dragged them out, positioning them where they would appear to have fallen mid-attack.

One at the base of a tree, another slumped near the pathway, blade still in hand.

Aemond straightened and looked at her. “Ready?”

“I am,” Lucaera said softly, then frowned. She reached up, fingers grazing the side of his face, where Daemon’s strike had landed hard. “You’re going to bruise.”

“Good,” Aemond said, a cold fire in his eye. He closed it for a moment and summoned the storm again—remembering the fury that had consumed him at the thought of her being taken, her or their unborn pup harmed.

That rage still burned in his chest, hot and sharp, just controlled enough to be used.

He wrapped an arm tightly around her shoulder, pulled her close, and then, staggering slightly to mimic panic and desperation, he bellowed, “GUARDS!”

Lucaera immediately began to tremble, tears springing to her eyes. When she clung to him, sobbing, it was with such natural intensity that Aemond himself almost believed the terror was real.

Her performance was flawless.

A rush of footsteps echoed from the Keep.

A group of guards burst into view, panting. “Your Grace—what’s happened?”

“My Omega was taken, that’s what’s happened!” Aemond roared. “Useless, the lot of you—I should have your fucking heads!”

The Kingsguard bowed and apologized profusely, stammering excuses. Aemond snarled, “Where is Ser Criston Cole?”

“Abed, Your Grace,” one said. “He ordered the Night’s Watch to—”

“Useless cur!” Aemond bellowed. “Summon my mother, my grandsire, the entire council. NOW!”

“But, Your Grace, it’s—”

“I don’t fucking care! Wake them. Their King demands it. And summon Maester Orwyle—I want my Omega checked immediately.”

The guards scrambled into action, and soon Aemond and Lucaera were flanked on either side, escorted swiftly through the Red Keep.

As they moved, Lucaera sobbed into Aemond’s shoulder, and he whispered praise softly into her ear. “You’re doing well, my love. Keep it up.”

Not too long after they had reached the council chambers, it was chaos.

Maester Orwyle was there, checking Lucaera over. Alicent hovered nearby, wringing her hands and picking at her fingers.

Otto and Larys stood with Jasper Wylde and Tyland Lannister, whispering to one another, their smugness just shy of gloating.

It took everything in Aemond not to draw his sword and run them through.

Criston Cole, pale and sleep-creased, loitered beside Alicent. Aemond’s eye burned as he stormed around the chamber.

“So, tell me” he thundered, voice cracking with fury, “Where were the esteemed members of this council while attackers threatened their King and endangered the life of his Omega and heir?”

Tyland, looking uncomfortable, muttered, “But. Your Omega wasn’t killed, Your Grace-”

With a snarl, Aemond seized the jug of wine from his hands and hurled it against the stone, shattering it into shards.

“SHE COULD’VE BEEN!” Aemond shouted. “My pup is my legacy. My pup will be heir to the Iron Throne!”

Aemond then stormed towards Criston, eyes blazing. “And you—where were you?”

Criston shifted, clearly ashamed. “Abed, Your Grace-”

“ABED!” Aemond spat. “While my Omega was being stolen from under your nose? Fucking useless-”

He turned again and hurled a wooden chair across the room. Alicent flinched. “My son,” she said, trembling, “I know you are angry, but you must calm down—”

“Calm down?” Aemond echoed with a cruel laugh. “I could have lost her. I could have lost my child.”

Otto stepped forward, his tone clipped and even. “Now is not the time for blind accusations, Your Grace. We will discover who—”

“-Who did this?” Aemond snarled, cutting him off. “Who would dare, except the bitch Queen of bastards and that smug cunt of a husband of hers?” He slammed his fist against the table.

“Aemond-” Alicent started, but he was beyond listening.

“They’re still here-” he growled, pacing like a caged dragon. “Sitting in my Keep. Laughing at me-THEIR FUCKING LAUGHING AT ME -”

He hurled another goblet—it missed Jasper Wylde’s head by inches.

Larys limped forward. “Your Grace. What of the attackers?”

Otto answered, “We would do well to extract whatever information we can—”

“Too late,” Aemond snapped. “I killed them bith. They laid hands on what is mine.”

Otto tried again. “We must be cautious—”

“Cautious?” Aemond snarled. “You warned me of schemes, and I didn’t listen—and now this.” His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms.

Jasper raised his voice, cool and steady. “A King may have more than one enemy, Your Grace. It would be wise to determine if this was indeed your sister, or if the serpent lies closer to our own bosom.”

Aemond’s eye locked onto Otto, rage thrumming behind his ribs. He wanted to strike him down. To watch him bleed.

But instead, he turned to Jasper, voice like steel. “Perhaps you’re right, Iron Rod. It could be anyone. Anyone in this room.”

Otto cleared his throat. “Lord Jasper is correct in one sense—there is still much we do not know. We must determine what happened. And whether anyone else is in danger.”

“No one else is in danger,” Aemond said coldly. “They came for me. For my Omega.”

He drew in a deep breath, then barked, “I want this entire place on lockdown. No one enters. No one leaves.”

Otto hesitated. “And Rhaenyra? Daemon?”

“Arrange my coronation. One week from today,” Aemond commanded. “And my first official act as King will be to deal with the traitorous cunts who dared to conspire against me and threaten my family.”

Alicent rose. “Aemond, please—”

“I do not wish to hear it,” he snapped. “See to it that Rhaenyra, Daemon, and her bastards are watched. Closely. I don’t want them fleeing to Dragonstone. I want them caught unawares.”

He turned to Maester Orwyle. “Assuming my Omega and our pup are well?”

Orwyle nodded, nervous. “As well as I can see, Your Grace.”

“Then we are moving to Maegor’s Holdfast. I want the chambers that once belonged to my father prepared. All our belongings packed and delivered within the hour.”

Otto opened his mouth. “Your Grace, we must—”

“In. The hour,” Aemond said, voice like a sword’s edge. “Do I make myself clear?”

Otto bowed stiffly. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Good.” Aemond turned, pulling Lucaera into his arms, holding her close for all to see. He pressed his forehead to hers, uncaring of the council’s watching eyes.

Let them see. Let them understand. She was his.

Aemond pressed a kiss to her forehead and whispered, “Come, my sweet. Let us retire for the night. I wish to hold you close-”

Lucaera nodded, still trembling, still clinging like a frightened child.

As they left the council chambers, Aemond caught it—a fleeting glance, a flicker of smugness.

Otto, exchanging a triumphant smirk with Larys Strong.

Aemond’s fingers tightened around Lucaera’s waist.

Let them smile now.

Their time was coming.

The narrow passageway within the bowels of the Red Keep was damp, shadowed, and humming faintly with the echoes of footsteps far above.

Aemond leaned against the cold stone wall, his arms crossed, tension simmering just beneath his skin. Daemon stood next to him, the flickering light from a hidden sconce casting his smirk in gold.

"I must say, nephew," Daemon drawled, voice low and mocking, "I'm impressed. You've managed to keep up your little charade around that cunt you have for a grandsire. I was convinced you’d run him through the moment you laid your eye on him."

Aemond huffed, giving him a pointed glance. “I do know how to restrain myself when necessary, uncle.”

Daemon's lip curled. “Pity you didn’t show that restraint when it came to claiming my daughter.”

“Stepdaughter,” Aemond corrected, evenly. “And surely a man like you would understand what it’s like to be enraptured by one’s mate—no matter if yours is only a Beta.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “It matters not that I wasn’t the one to sire Lucaera. I helped raise her. She is my daughter. As for Rhaenyra-” he tilted his head, voice softening with something dark and wistful, “-we were always meant to burn together.”

Aemond hummed, quiet and contemplative. “A notion I share with Lucy—mind, body, and soul. We are one.”

“Such a wondrous thing,” Daemon murmured. “To see a man brought to his knees by a woman.”

Aemond’s lips curled faintly. “A position I do not mind.”

Daemon chuckled—a low, amused sound. “A sentiment we both share, it seems.”

Before either could speak further, there was a sound—movement, footsteps shuffling against stone. The two men melted deeper into the shadows, hidden in a curve of the passage.

Through a slim sliver in the stone, they peered into a small, torchlit room just off the hall. Otto Hightower entered first, followed by Larys Strong, Jasper Wylde, Tyland Lannister, and Maester Orwyle.

Tyland grumbled immediately. “Why are we meeting in this wretched room?”

Otto’s voice was clipped. “Because my grandson has increased the guard patrols. We cannot risk being discovered.”

Jasper asked, “And the coronation? All is in place?”

“All in hand,” Otto replied. “Aemond will be crowned in the Dragonpit. He will wear the Conqueror’s crown.”

“And his Omega?” Jasper asked.

“She will be crowned alongside him, as he wishes,” Otto said coolly. “She’ll wear the crown of Queen Rhaenys.”

Tyland frowned. “And your plans for the Omega, Lord Hand?”

Otto exhaled through his nose. “No longer feasible. You saw how Aemond reacted to her simply being taken. Imagine his anger at her death-”

Aemond stiffened where he stood, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Daemon raised a finger to his mouth. Shhh.

Larys spoke next, “Indeed, putting the only known Omega to the sword, especially right after she births the King’s heir, would be-ill-advised. It seems she is the only one capable of tempering His Grace’s more volatile instincts. Far better to keep her alive.”

Otto nodded. “Her kidnapping served its purpose. Aemond’s anger was a powerful tool to direct suspicion elsewhere. But we tread carefully. He is no fool.”

Tyland’s voice followed, casual and poisonous. “Speaking of foul play—how fare Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon? They remain in the Red Keep?”

Otto nodded. “They linger. Rhaenyra would not flee—it would only make her look guilty”

Orwyle spoke next. “And the King how does he fare?”

“As well as can be expected,” Otto replied. “Though he refuses to leave the Omega’s side.”

Jasper gave a small huff. “And when it comes time to execute her mother and stepfather, how do you expect her to react? That sort of loss could fracture the marriage.”

Otto waved the concern away. “Her feelings are of no consequence. She need only spread her legs and give Aemond his heirs.”

A growl rumbled in Aemond’s throat. Daemon’s elbow jabbed him sharply in the ribs. “Later,” he whispered. “There’ll be time for retribution.”

Tyland added, “But what if the princess is disinclined to perform her duty after such a loss?”

Otto gave a sharp nod. “Then Aemond can always use her heats to his advantage.”

Jasper blinked. “Her heats?”

Orwyle took over, tone clinical and detached. “ Research has indicated that Omegas experience periodic heats—periods of heightened desire and vulnerability. They often suffer cramps, confusion, and are emotionally volatile. They seek comfort from their Alpha and are extremely fertile.”

Jasper frowned. “And how often do these occur?”

“It is difficult to say,” Orwyle replied. “She is with child now, so it is unlikely she’ll have another heat until after the babe is born.”

“And she would be more receptive to the King’s advances during this time?” Jasper asked.

“Most certainly,” Orwyle confirmed. “Ideally, the King would be secluded with her for the duration, laying together multiple times to ensure conception.”

Otto nodded again, a faint smirk twitching at his lips. “And while the King is indisposed with his Omega, we govern the realm.”

From the shadows, Aemond’s eye blazed. His omega, his mate, being reduced to a mere tool for breeding and control.

His heart thundered in his chest, fury flooding his limbs. Every word they spoke carved another notch of betrayal into his bones.

Daemon’s hand clasped his arm, voice low and firm. “We’ve heard enough.”

Aemond gave a sharp, silent nod, his body taut with murderous intent.

The passageway opened silently behind the great tapestry depicting the Doom of Valyria, and Daemon stepped through first, and Aemond followed close behind, his single eye immediately scanning the room—and at the sight before him, a growl began to rise in his throat.

There, perched comfortably on one of the plush settees, sat Lucaera nestled between her brothers, Jace and Luke.

His fists clenched instinctively, his body taut with possessiveness. Jace was laughing softly at something she’d said, and Luke leaned in close, a teasing smile on his face.

They were too close. Too familiar. Too casual with his Omega.

A low, dangerous growl rumbled from Aemond’s chest before he even realized it. Lucaera’s head whipped around at the sound, her laughter dying, but her eyes softened when she saw him. She rose quickly, placing herself between him and her brothers.

 “Lykirī ñuha zaldrīzes” (Be calm, my dragon).

Aemond’s eye didn’t leave her brothers as he crossed the room and seized Lucaera around the waist, and crashed his lips to hers.

The kiss was heated, almost desperate, his hands cradling her face before sliding down to the curve of her lower back. Her brothers sputtered in indignation behind them, but Aemond ignored them entirely.

Lucaera melted into him, sighing against his mouth, her hands tangling in his hair. When his mouth left hers, he trailed his lips down her neck, where he breathed deeply, the scent of apples, cinnamon, and milk filling his senses.

His Alpha Prime trilled in deep satisfaction—the scent of his pup lingered beneath her skin, a subtle thrum of life only he could feel through their bond.

His breath ghosted over her skin as he whispered, hoarse and thick with need, “Jaelan ao ñuha dōna” (I want you, my sweet).

Lucaera grinned against his cheek, her own need crackling along their bond. Her lips brushed his ear as she answered, “Pār emagon nyke-” (Then have me).

Aemond groaned low in his chest, fingers tightening at her waist. The bond between them burned with want—need—and his restraint thinned with every passing second.

Then someone cleared their throat.

Aemond turned his head slowly, his glare shifting to Daemon who stood by the wall with his arms folded, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“I can smell the lust on the pair of you,” Daemon muttered, his nose wrinkling. “Best that you retire for the night before the both of you give in right here, which is something I have no desire to witness.”

Without waiting for any awkward farewells, Aemond took her hand and turned, guiding her swiftly back into the secret passage, the panel closing behind them with a soft thud.

The moment the wall closed behind them, silence wrapped around them like a cloak.

They moved through the narrow passage in a shared rhythm, footsteps nearly soundless, though Aemond’s fingers gripped hers with increasing tension.

When he judged the corridor to be empty, he led her through a portrait passage, emerging just beyond the shadowed halls of Maegor’s Holdfast.

But the Alpha Prime inside him had lost all patience.

Every breath he took of her scent sent fire licking down his spine. Her pulse was fast, her own need simmering across the bond, curling around him like smoke. Her pupils were blown wide, lips parted, skin flushed.

He couldn’t wait.

With a low, possessive growl, Aemond shoved Lucaera gently but firmly into a darkened alcove. His mouth was on hers in an instant, demanding, reverent, worshipping.

One hand tangled in her hair, the other rested over her belly, possessively protective.

“Mine,” he whispered against her lips, the word trembling with reverence and hunger. “All of you—mine.”

Lucaera’s breath hitched, her hands sliding under his tunic, fingertips dragging over the heat of his skin. “Yours,” she echoed. “Always yours.”

Aemond growled as he spun Lucaera around and pressed her face against the wall, with one hand on the back of her neck and the other quickly unlacing and pushing down his breeches, along with his small clothes just enough to free his hard leaking cock.

“You’re mine-” rasped Aemond as he nudged her ankle with his foot, signalling for her to open her legs wider.

His body covered hers as he sucked and licked the delicate skin of her neck, leaving red marks in his wake.

Lucaera moved her head to the side and moaned loudly as she felt Aemond’s teeth digging into her mating mark.

Not having the patience to properly prepare her, Aemond spat into his hand reaching down to run it up and down the hard length of himself, eyeing Lucaera with an animalistic hunger, a smirk on his lips as she bent forward for him.

He rucked up the dress she was wearing and pulled aside her small clothes guiding himself to her entrance, she barely has a moment to adjust before he is pressing his cock forcefully inside and stretching her brutally, causing her to squeal.

“FUCKING TAKE IT!” spits Aemond.

Lucaera can’t think of anything but the intense pounding thrusts that greet her, causing her to wail and moan, causing the tears to form in her eyes, before running down her cheeks.

Aemond sets a brutal pace, his hips crashing into hers, his fingers digging into her hips as he pushes and pulls her against him.

His cock reaching deep inside her, the sting of being stretched by him now giving way to a pleasurable ache.

Then he withdraws from her and spins her around, lifting her into his arms, his mouth pressed against hers as he quickly thrusts back inside her.

“YES! YES! AEMOND!” screams Lucaera.

“FUCK!” shouts Aemond as he feels her cunny clenching around his cock.

“P-Please. Oh Please. Yes-yes” babbled Lucaera ignoring the pain in her back as the force of Aemond’s thrusts kept slamming her into the wall.

“That’s it-” encouraged Aemond his gaze rooted to the place where they were joined, transfixed by the sight of her cunt stretched around his cock.

“Oooh-please-please” muttered Lucaera.

But then, his thrust begin to slow, and he withdraws from her, making her whimper in frustration.

But Aemond ignores her as he lays her on the floor and falls to his knees.

Sliding his hands up her legs, bunching the fabric of her small clothes in his hand before he rips them from her body.

“Aemond” shrieked Lucaera as he takes hold of her legs and hooks them over his shoulders, his mouth quickly descending on her cunny.

Ravenously, he pressed into Lucaera’s core with his tongue, in and out, much faster than his cock ever could.

Still gasping, Lucaera clutches at his head with one hand, her other digging into the fabric of her dress.

Aemond withdrew from her soaking wet core and lashed hard at her pearl with his tongue, pulling on it with his lips. He was hard, fast and brutal, alternating between her assaulted bundle of nerves and drinking deep from her cunt.

Lucaera ground down on Aemond, hard; his tongue speared deeper inside her, and she felt the warm curl of her peak approach.

Aemond growled, deep in his throat. The vibration of his vocal cords rippled through to his tongue and Lucaera gasped; she felt every vibration keenly. Her body tensed for her peak– But Aemond pulled away from her and smirked, his chin shining with her slick.

“A-Aemond” gasped Lucaera, the tears of frustration spilling down her cheeks.

“Be a good Omega and take what I give you” said Aemond as he reached for the tie’s on the front of her dress before he grew impatient and tore it open, leaving her breasts bared.

A loud moan erupted from the back of his throat at the sight of Lucaera’s perfect breasts, he leaned forward and took one of her rosy nipples into his mouth, sucking on the stiffened peak before he bit her.

“Ooooh Aemond-“ whined Lucaera as she writhed against him, he smirked as he released her nipple and moved across lavishing the other one with the same attention.

“P-Please- Alpha-” sobbed Lucaera as she felt his hard cock sliding against her folds.

“Hmmm” growled Aemond as he sheathed himself inside her.

“God. Yes. Aemond” moaned Lucaera.

He began to thrust in and out of her in a series of deep achingly slow thrusts.

“Your cunt is dripping, it's so beautiful” sighed Aemond.

Slowly thrusting back and forth. Over and over, withdrawing further each time, until his cock entirely withdrew from her warm wet entrance.

“Tell me you want me-“ growled Aemond as he ran the head of his cock through her wet folds.

“I want you” exclaimed Lucaera.

“Tell me you need me” whispered Aemond as he sheathed himself back inside her.

“I need you-“ muttered Lucaera as one of Aemond’s hands slid up her body and wrapped around her throat.

Aemond smiled and then began to fuck her in earnest, his fingers digging into the flesh of her throat, using her as leverage as he repeatedly plunged his cock into her cunny, over, thrilled to hear Lucaera’s loud moans of need echoing around the alcove.

His thrusts, brutal and unrelenting, the stone floor harsh against her back.

“Peak for me-” breathed Aemond.

Lucaera screamed as her desperately needed peak exploded from her body, making every limb tremble as her body bucked around Aemond’s cock.

Gods, he could feel his knot forming, he needed to spill his seed, but not like this.

So, with his cock still nestled inside her, Aemond manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, resting against the wall with Lucaera on his lap.

“Give me another-I want you to come on my cock again” growled Aemond.

Lucaera quickly unclasped the fastenings on Aemond’s leather tunic and ripped open his cotton under shirt.

She ran her hands over the defined muscles of his chest, her nails digging into his pale skin.

“That’s it-mark me fucking harder” growled Aemond, his eye rolling into the back of his head as Lucaera ran her nails across his skin.

“Oh” gasped Lucaera as she rolled her hips against Aemonds.

“That’s it, baby, take it. Take all of me-such a good girl”.

Aemond placed his hands on Lucaera’s hips and marvelled as she as she bounced on top of him.

“S-so good-Aemond-Oh Alpha-” whimpered Lucaera.

“I-I’m never leaving this sweet cunt-” moaned Aemond.

Lucaera slid her hands around the back of his neck and coiled her fingers into his silver hair as she moved her hips against his, his cock hitting the sweet spot inside her perfectly.

“A-Aemond” moaned Lucaera as he moved his hand to her breasts and once again took one of her nipples into his mouth, his teeth gently grazing the rosy bud.

“Let go baby, I can feel you clenching around me” exclaimed Aemond, as he moved to the other breast.

Lucaera’s thighs began to burn, and her knees were grazed as she felt her second peak approach.

“AEMOND” screamed Lucaera her vision going white as she came around his cock.

“That’s it-FUCK” groaned Aemond.

“Y-yessss Aemond, I want it-give me your knot-” babbled Lucaera.

“Take it-take all of me” moaned Aemond his fingers digging into Lucaera’s waist as he moved her faster upon his cock.

“Yes-yes-oh please-oh please” wailed Lucaera as Aemond forced his knot inside her.

 “FUUUCCCKKK” roared Aemond as he exploded. His cock throbbing and twitching as he spilled his seed inside her, collapsing against the wall, breathing hard.

It took a good while for Aemond to regain his senses. Meanwhile Lucaera had collapsed against him, her face pressed into his neck.

The bells of King's Landing rang loud and triumphant, their booming chimes echoing through the stone streets.

Crowds of smallfolk surged like a tide toward the Dragonpit, their voices raised in anticipation, joy, and something close to awe.

The air was thick with incense, and the raw heat of dragons curled in their pens below, their growls and low roars, a constant hum beneath the rising excitement of the masses.

A hush fell, sudden and powerful, as a voice rang out, strong and clear.

“On this most joyous of days,” proclaimed Otto Hightower, his voice magnified by the vast acoustics of the pit, “-we gather to witness the coronation of a new King!”

The crowd erupted into rapturous applause.

Then came the sound of marching boots—precise andrhythmic. A formation of Gold Cloaks entered the Dragonpit, their armour gleaming beneath the light of the torches, the banners of House Targaryen unfurling above them.

They moved as one, forming a clean, ceremonial path down the centre of the pit as the trumpets sounded.

A moment later, the Gold Cloaks drew their swords in unison, holding the blades aloft, creating a sharpened archway of steel. As Aemond and Lucaera appeared hand in hand, and the crowd stilled,

Each sword was lowered behind them as they passed beneath the archway.

Otto’s voice boomed again “It is your great good fortune—and privilege—to witness this. A new day for our city. A new day for our realm. And a new King to lead us.”

Aemond’s grip on Lucaera’s hand tightened, both of them drawing strength from the bond between them. Together, they began to ascend the stone steps.

To the left stood Alicent, dressed in green, with Aegon and Helaena beside her. Ser Criston Cole, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, and Larys Strong stood behind them, their expressions carefully neutral.

To the right, Rhaenyra stood pale but proud beside Daemon, his jaw tight, his hand never leaving the hilt of Dark Sister.

Jace and Luke flanked their mother with Baela and Rhaena standing close, while Cregan Stark, Jeyne Arryn, Borros Baratheon, Corlys, and Rhaenys—watched with varying degrees of approval. Behind them, the Kings Guard stood like statues.

Alicent stepped forward first. She kissed Aemond’s forehead with a trembling hand, then turned and placed a kiss gently upon Lucaera’s brow as well.

She stepped back, gesturing for them both to kneel.

The High Septon, in full ceremonial regalia, stepped forward, dipping his fingers into a bowl of blessed water and pressing his thumb gently to Aemond’s and then Lucaera’s foreheads.

“May the Warrior give them courage. May the Smith lend strength to their sword and shield. May the Father defend them in their need. May the Crone lift her shining lamp and light their way to wisdom-”

Otto, eyes gleaming, was handed the Conqueror’s Crown—dark and heavy, forged of Valyrian steel.

“The crown of Aegon the Conqueror, passed down through generations-”

He lowered it upon Aemond’s silver head.

Then, he was handed another—smaller, elegant, and silver—

“The crown of Queen Rhaenys, passed down to grace the head of a new Queen-”

Otto lowered the crown to rest upon Lucaera’s brow.

Aemond could feel her anxiety through the bond—He squeezed her hand gently, a whisper in her mind: I’m here.

“Let the Seven bear witness,” Otto cried, voice reaching the highest rafters, “-that Aemond Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne!”

Lucaera turned her head, her eyes seeking her mother and stepfather.

Rhaenyra was shaking her head and Daemon stood like a statue of wrath, his grip on Dark Sister getting tighter.

Aemond rose, pulling Lucaera up with him. Together, they turned to face the crowd.

Otto's voice rang out once more.

“All hail His Grace—Aemond, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm! All hail Her Grace—Lucaera of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!”

The bells rang louder, thunderous.

Ser Criston Cole stepped forward, armour gleaming.

“Aemond the King!” he declared.

The crowd erupted in thunderous applause.

“Lucaera the Queen!”

Even louder now—cheers echoed off the stone walls.

The dragons below howled and roared, their voices joining the chorus—as if even they, in some ancient knowing, gave blessing to the moment.

Then Aemond reached to his belt and removed the Valyrian steel dagger. He turned to Lucaera, his eye soft, reverent.

“This belongs to you-” he said, holding it out.

Lucaera shook her head. “Aemond, no—”

He cupped her cheek, thumb stroking her skin with gentle reverence. “Hush, my Queen. Viserys handed it to you. It’s only right that it rests with you—until our pup comes of age-”

His hand then moved to her stomach. She gazed into his eye for moment before nodding.

Aemond then unfastened one of his belts and wrapped it around her waist, buckling it snugly, allowing her to attach the dagger at the waist.

Aemond then unsheathed his sword andraised Blackfyre high above his head.

Then—

The thunderous sound of cheering and clapping rose up from the masses of smallfolk, their voices echoing from wall to wall in celebration.

“LONG LIVE THE KING. LONG LIVE THE QUEEN”

A few minutes later, Aemond sheathed Blackfyre with a slow, deliberate motion, the soft scrape of Valyrian steel sliding into its scabbard echoing in the quiet that followed the last echoing chant of ‘Queen Lucaera’.

The once-roaring Dragonpit fell silent—a hush heavy with anticipation, the eyes of many fixed on the newly crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Aemond turned his head slightly, meeting Otto Hightower’s gaze.

The old man stood with his hands calmly clasped in front of him, a small, knowing smile curling his thin lips. He nodded, clearly expecting praise, expecting reward.

Expecting his grandson to act as the puppet he believed him to be.

Aemond smirked.

But when he turned back to the crowd, the smirk vanished. His face stern, resolute, and unyielding.

He raised his voice, clear and strong, cutting through the still air like a blade.

“As King, I promise to govern the laws of the land I rule and protect the people of this realm. I will fight for you when necessary and defend you when needed.”

A ripple of cheers and applause moved through the crowd, but Aemond raised a hand—calling for silence.

“However,” he continued, voice steel-edged, “in my first act as King, it saddens me to say this reign begins not with joy alone but with justice.”

Murmurs of unease began to rise.

“There are those who conspired against my ascent. They plotted and schemed in the shadows, hiring assassins. They sought not only to take my life, but dared to lay hands upon my Omega, and our unborn pup.”

A thunderous wave of boos and outraged cries burst from the crowd.

Angry shouts—“Traitors”, “Hang them!”, “Death to those who would harm the Queen!”—rang through the air.

“The ones responsible,” Aemond went on, “will be charged with treason. And they will be executed-”

“It was not my intention to begin my reign in blood,” he said, voice softening only slightly, “but I will do what is necessary to preserve the safety of my Queen.”

Beside him, Lucaera squeezed his hand. Her touch was grounding. Calming. And yet, through their bond, he could feel the pride radiating from her—burning bright through the flickers of fear.

Aemond drew a breath.

He turned, slowly, to where Otto stood—still smirking. Still oblivious.

Otto shifted slightly, glancing at Daemon and Rhaenyra, no doubt believing Aemond was about to call them to account. Perhaps even looking forward to it.

But Aemond’s voice rang loud and clear:

“Bring the first traitor forward—”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“Lord Otto Hightower-”

TBC

[aegonsvhagar]

Down on Your Knees Before the King

𐙚 Rafe Cameron has everything he could ever ask for; rich parents who do whatever he wants, an entire community under his thumb, an expensive car, freedom to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and he's about to be crowned King of Midsummers. The only problem? You aren't being crowned his Queen. But that's okay. Rafe has a plan for everything.

𐙚 Dark!Rafe Cameron x Reader (tw: blood, murder, rafe is insane... 'coked up rage monster', noncon, unconsenting fingering)

(A/N: inspired by this gem)

Rafe had everything he could ever want in life. His father owned a successful construction company that had never been doing better, his step-mother a well beloved philanthropist. His sisters, determined to stay out of his way. And because his parents and sisters all traveled a lot, Rafe was able to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

It also helped being the big man around figure eight, everyone either feared him, or worshiped the ground he walked on. Both he was most content with.

Midsummers was coming up in a few weeks, and he obviously had King in the bag. The only real issue was you.

You and Topper had just begun dating only months ago. It started off by you falling after rushing back to your friend’s table at the country club. Rafe had laughed, along with some of the other guys.

But Topper had rushed over to you and made sure you were okay. And ever since then you've been hand in hand.

It disgusted Rafe.

Until one night, that is.

It was a grimey frat party in the next town over, Rafe got invited and was allowed to bring others. But when he invited Topper, he didn't expect him to bring you.

It wasn't until Rafe had found himself at the end of a cruel prank by someone he considered at least a friend, the person who had invited him.

Rafe excused himself to the bathroom, his pride already hurt, not wanting to lose his reputation.

As Rafe stared down the white substance aligned on the handheld mirror, you had accidentally stumbled in, a little drunk and immediately you gasped.

“Get the fuck out!” he demanded.

You stand there for a few lingering seconds before you shut the door and locked it.

“Are you okay?” you hiccuped, squatting so your eye to eye with him.

Rafe’s eyes darked and pressed his forehead to yours. “Get the fuck out.”

“No. You're upset.” you shook your head. “When my mother was alive-” hiccup “-she'd stay with me til I was better.”

“Won't Topper be missing you?” he pulled back and said, voice laced with venom.

“He's…busy.” you murmured.

Rafe knew Topper was seeing Sarah behind your back. But you simply pretended he wasn't. You were so scared of being alone, Rafe had gathered.

“I'm here for you. I always thought of us as friends.” you sat down, rather clumsily and rested your head on his lap.

Rafe didn't know what to do. He froze.

“You're so nice…Rafey.” you slurred. You looked up to him. “What happened to you? Why are you upset?”

“People are assholes.” Rafe said softly, putting his hand gently on your head.

“M’sorry.”

You had fallen asleep, and he had to carry you out. When he had gone inside to retrieve Topper, he found him with his dick deep inside one of your best friends.

Rafe had driven you to his house, laid you down on his bed and covered you with a blanket.

As he sat at the end of it, he thought over all of the reasons he hated you. He had come up empty however. Then he began to think of all of the times Topper had openly cheated on you, and his fists clenched.

You weren't the bad guy, Topper was. You were…you were an angel. His angel.

He looked over at you, and his dick became immediately hard. The way he laid you down, caused your skirt to come up only slightly, where he had been able to see your panties.

You were his now, so touching you wouldn't be wrong…right?

He slid his hand up your leg and you sighed softly.

“Shhhh.” he whispered, “You're such a good girl aren't you, fuck Topper.”

Rafe pressed his fingers against your clothed cunt and rubbed hard. You whined and grinded down in your sleep, sweat already making the hair to your forehead stick.

“All for me right?” Rafe smiled. He licked his lips and began to lick down your neck. He humped the bed beneath him slightly, everything was just too much for him in the moment.

Even if you're not conscious, it's better than he could've imagined.

Despite you being fast asleep, Rafe didn't let up, finally pulling your panties down and shoving his whole face to your cunt. He lapped like it was his last meal, letting his nose rub against your clit. His hands gripped your thighs with an iron hold, there will be bruising tomorrow, something you wouldn't be able to explain.

When you came, you finished hard and whimpered in your sleep. Rafe spent the next 5 minutes lapping your juices up.

After he sat up, Rafe had decided you were his. Topper can go fuck himself.

After that night, Rafe slowly got you to himself. He turned your friends against you, even your parents began to question the daughter they had raised. Rafe had gotten your last friend to somehow convince you that Topper had assaulted you when you found yourself bruised. All the while planning for midsummers, but what you didn't know, is you would be crowned his queen.

God he loved you. You would be together in the end.

Or so he thought.

The night of midsummers was supposed to be you and him. But miraculously, Topper was able to convince you that he hadn't even been with you the night you were 'assaulted', those bruises not from him. So you decided you'd have a good night, and then dump Topper after. You deserved one good night, after all and this was an important event.

But Rafe didn't see it that way.

Rafe stared into the mirror, his eyes wide and dark black bags hanging from them. See, some boys are rational, but Rafe was not. He stares into the mirror, thinking only one single thought. There's at least seven fucking reasons his crown isn't as good as got, so as he stares into the mirrors, thus went his plot.

You had been knocked out, something slamming you into the bathroom mirror before everything went dark. Your eyes slowly open, pain shooting through your entire face.

“I’d like to thank everyone who voted for us-”

Your vision is blurry, you try to move but your limbs are still throbbing in pain. Something weighing on your head. You use all of your strength to raise your hand and touch it. It feels like a crown. A tiara.

“I could never truly ask for a better queen.”

You slowly look over to the voice. Despite being blurry, you can see the red covering his beautiful blue suit. He has the other crown on his head and he's talking to an invisible audience.

“Rafey.” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, and there's liquid leaking from the corner. It tastes salty.

“My queen!” Rafe exclaims. “You're awake. Isn't this just great baby?”

You look at him, your vision clear enough to see his deranged face. You attempt to stand, before Rafe roughly pushes you back onto the floor. You fall back with a sharp thud and your crown falls into a nearby pool of blood. When you look at it, all you can do is let out a bloodcurdling scream that is definitely going to take your voice tomorrow.

Topper lays in the pool of his own blood, his drained eyes looking at you. A knife still sticking into his heart.

“Down on your knees before the king!” Rafe screams. Then he turns back to his adoring invisible crowd and takes a bow.

[dark-and-kawaii]

༺ 𝐿𝑜𝓈𝓈 𝒪𝒻 𝒜𝓃 𝐻𝑒𝒾𝓇 ༻

Raphael

Summary: Raphael returns to his boudoir only to discover that you’ve lost his child, and it wasn’t from natural causes. His rage spirals when he finds it was due to a fellow follower of his…

Notes: I suck at summaries But I loved how this turned out so I hope you do as well!!!

Pairings: Raphael × f!Tav/Reader

• Hurt I Angst I Miscarriage | Ascended Raphael | Raphael Gets His Revenge

Ao3

As Raphael returned to his domain, an unsettling sight awaited him in the heart of his boudoir. There, amidst the opulence, was Haarlep, his personal incubus, cradling you in their arms within the large bath. Raphael's eyes scanned the water, a macabre blend of red and clear, tainted by the presence of blood. His gaze then shifted to his beloved little mouse, your hair clinging to your face, your skin glistening with sweat, and your breath laborious as your eyes remained closed.

But it was the sight of the tiny wrapped figure beside you on the bath’s edge, drenched in blood, that sent Raphael's rage spiraling to new heights. He didn't need to uncover it; he knew within his very core that his heir, his precious child, had been stolen away. With such a great loss, for the first time in centuries, his heart felt heavy.

"What happened?!" Raphael's voice seethed with malice, his clenched fist emphasizing his anger. Haarlep, usually insolent but now treading carefully, moved away from you and gently positioned you against the steps of the bath, ensuring some comfort. Approaching Raphael, Haarlep’s concealed their voice in a whisper so that you couldn’t hear, "It would seem that your dear tav has gone and lost your little pup-," Haarlep began, only to be interrupted by a warning glare from Raphael, “The lady of the house has miscarried," The incubus finally confessed.

Raphael's rage intensified, his words laced with venom, "I see that, you insolent creature! How did this come to pass?!" Aware of the consequences should they misstep, Haarlep treaded carefully, knowing their fate might just mirror Hope's in the basement.

In a snap, Haarlep summoned a cup, presenting it to Raphael. "Korilla brought this to my attention. A glass of deceit, a venom ever so sweet. It's tainted with juniper." Seizing the cup, Raphael brought it to his nose, confirming the presence of the insidious poison. It dawned on him that an intruder had violated his sanctuary, contaminating his precious little mouse, with this abhorrent act. Even as a devil, he recoiled at the thought of snuffing out the life within a mother's womb. This transgressor would pay a heavy price, both their soul and flesh, as Raphael vowed to exact a merciless retribution upon them.

It only took a couple of hours, but Raphael manages to track down the culprit, Korilla, once a cherished follower, always by his side. Yet, for reasons unknown, she had chosen to betray him in the most vile of ways… As Korilla returned to his domain, Raphael awaited her, leaning casually against a pillar, his arms crossed in a display of controlled dominance. His face, seemingly normal, concealed the depths of his wrath. When she finally approached, he began to circle her like a predator sizing up its prey, his gaze never wavering.

“Tell me, dear Korilla, how was your day?”

Her voice was filled with falsehoods, twisting a tale to make it seem as if though she were gathering clients for him.

"Ah, ah," Raphael interjected, his tone laced with a sadistic delight. "The truth is far greater than that feeble lie of yours." His features twisted with a mix of disgust and fury, his nose scrunching in disdain. And in a snap of his fingers, the very cup from which you had sipped appeared before them.

"Justify this to me! Why I stumbled upon what is undeniably my possession, nestled within the grasp of Haarlep, grieving for the loss of my own flesh and blood? The stillbirth, wrapped in a cloth stained with the taint of blood!” He condemned her for the atrocious deed, declaring, "You invaded my sanctuary, forcefully snatching away my child from the very womb that belongs to me!”

Korilla stood her ground, her calm demeanor unwavering. "I did this for your own sake," she asserted. "That mortal was tainting your path to becoming the next ruler of the Nine Hells. I'm sorry, but it needed to be done."

“You thought you were acting in my best interest, did you?" Raphael's scowl shifts to a smile, "Your feeble attempt to protect me has only sealed your fate."

Korilla trembled, her once defiant spirit now reduced to a mere flicker of fear. She had underestimated the power and ferocity of Raphael's love for you, and now she would pay the price for her treachery. But even in the face of imminent punishment, a spark of hope ignited within her, "Raphael, you cannot blame me for this," Korilla pleaded, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and desperation. "I did what I believed was necessary to protect you, to protect House Hope.

Flames consumed him, "Your time has come to an end, Korilla,” Raphael growled, his voice resonating with a deep, otherworldly tone. "But fear not, for your sister shall keep you company as I flay you and adorn my abode with your entrails.”

As his true form emerged. He transformed into a monstrous fiend with wings unfurling from his back, a tail lashing behind him, and a wild mane of fire cascading around his head. His once simple horns morphed into a complex crown of infernal bone, framing his snouted face. Two additional faces erupted from his cheekbones, giving him a total of four menacing, orange eyes. His entire being radiated with the glow of infernal flame, and fearsome tusks jutted forth from each of his mouths.

Raphael approached, his towering figure casting a haunting shadow over Korilla. His claws extended, glinting ominously in the flickering light. He reached out, his talons grazing her trembling skin, causing her to shudder in fear and anticipation. With each touch, a searing pain coursed through her body, a mere taste of the agony that awaited her.

[autumn-foxfire]

"I find the act of murder disgusting and unforgivable," Shinichi said with a whisper, "To steal away another person's life... I can't imagine ever bringing myself to ever do so." He sees Kaito in his mind's eye. Kaito, who picked up the mantle of a ghost for the sake of justice, who put himself on the front lines so no one else would have too, taking bruises and bullets so he can finally put the souls stolen by evil to rest, whether the harm comes from the dark who stole a boy's innocence or from the light who view him as nothing more than a nuisance instead of the hero he truly is. "I didn't think I'd ever be able to understand how one comes to feel that way," Shinichi continued. His fists were clenched so hard that his nails were digging into his skin and drawing blood. He stared Toichi straight in the eyes, the rage of a demon burning bright inside his own blue eyes, and he sees Kaito, his love, his moon, who had cried against Shinichi's shoulder when he finally shared his burden he had been made to shoulder by himself for too long. He sees Kaito, pale and broken, as his parents show him a ghost and tell him he's real. He sees the mockery they made of his beloved and feels nothing but a fury too strong for him to contain. "Yet," Shinichi spits at the man, the monster who was behind Kaito's nightmares, "looking at your smug face, it's taking all my will power not to snap your pathetic neck and put you back in the grave where you belong."

Yes, this is ooc, but Kaito deserves to have someone protect him from the monsters that are his parents and Shinichi is such a good person for that because he's constantly faced with the darkness of the world and you can see his anger when he doesn't understand how people can be so horrible, especially to those he loves.

[bl00dlight]

Ghostly Flame

Aemond Targaryen x OC sister x Alys Rivers {NSFW}

Warnings ● more carpet munching, graphic language, general smut and filth, implied homophobia, age gap, dubious consent, violence against female character, heterosexuality, Aemond being depraved as fuck and lowkey the worst, oedipus complex, full blown targcest, mentions of Madame Sylvie (sorry yall), Alys Rivers being a trick ass bitch, not proof read

Word count ● 4.7k

Author's Note • Long awaited. It's finally here. Holy fuck it's actually... like insane how long this took for me to dwell on. I'm not gonna spoil anything but this one is a bit gross. In a good way. Sick sick sick.

Masterlist / Ghostly Flame ● Part I

Part II

The sight on the Prince Regent's bed was indeed, not a mere dream. He stammered as a flood of emotions suddenly whipped against his skull.

As he entered, Aemond's face darkened and the breath in his lungs all but vanished. Hs let fist slowly curl, though his eye was transfixed on the two women, watching as his paramour's mouth moved against his sister's skin. Despite it all, the disgust and rage that was brewing; for a brief moment he enjoyed the sounds and sight before him.

And yet, Aemond knew it was but a vile sin, a betrayal of both his bedmate and beloved sister. Still, the sight stirred heat within him.

Alys continued in her ministrations, her tongue moving with precision, seeking to please and to tease the princess. The witch was so engrossed in the task before her that she hadn't noticed the door or the figure which loomed in the shadows.

The sounds of his sister's mewling was enough to drive him over the edge. The prince clenched his jaw, he stalked towards the women and spoke, his voice ringing in the quiet of the room. "Alys."

Just like that the sounds of their pleasure had come to a deadened stop. Slowly Alys pulled away, and turned towards Aemond. Daera opened her eyes with a flash, her body jolting with fear and suddenly the humiliation rang true.

Aemond's own heart was hammering in his chest, his mind racing with thoughts he had never dared admit aloud.

"Tell me," Aemond whispered, his voice rough and low. "Do the both of you take me for a fool?"

Alys bowed her head and spoke gently, "My Prince, I..."

"Silence." Aemond sneered, stalking towards Alys. His fist soon met with her raven hair, gripping at it as he forced her head up at him. "I have had my fill of your vile tongue."

A silence brewed before he suddenly shoved the woman back to the ground. Alys winced as he body hit the floor with a startling thud. Daera shook, her hands in her head as she had pulled the sheets upon her bare flesh out of modesty. It was comical, still she seemed to care of propriety, even though her own brother had seen her in such a state.

Aemond grunted, raising a hand up as though he was to strike the woman before him. Alys stayed deadly still upon the ground, gritting her teeth, awaiting his hand to make contact with her flesh. Though he felt his rage stir he swiftly pulled his hand away. He could not strike her, no, instead he launched and gripped her arm, forcing her upon her feet.

"You dare humiliate me? You dare bring such shame upon me? Defiling my own blood, my sister! Upon the very bed I let your treacherous head lay, no less!" Aemond's lonesome eye was narrowed in a maelstrom of emotions, anger, betrayal, jealously, humiliation.

Yet in truth, he felt one thing; weakness.

Alys glared at him, speaking oddly calmly, "Of course not, your grace..."

"Then speak, bastard! Speak on the sight before me... of you upon my sister and why my eye was witness to it! Speak to why you... why you dare go against me, after all I have done! I spared you, or do you forget?" The prince gripped her flesh sternly and his gaze faltered as he felt sorrow bloom.

Daera looked away, she couldn't bare the scene before her. Couldn't bare what she had done, she hadn't even known what led her to do it. She had no excuse, no reason. It seemed to have happened before she had any idea it was occurring.

The princess wiped her tears, her heart aching. "Brother..." she muttered weakly, sorrowfully.

Aemond turned his head sharply, "I SHALL HEAR NOTHING FROM YOU!" He snapped at Daera, forcing her back into submission.

His gaze came to Alys once more, whom at this point was holding back a low snicker. Her hands came to his chest, and a low hum was earnt from the prince at her soothing ministrations.

"You are not so tempting as to distract me. I see you for what you are... a snake in my own den." He lowered his tone, as his hand came to her raven locks and gripped them.

Alys gave him an incredulous look once more, "You... you do not mean such things, I have been nothing but faithful, my prince."

"Yet your mouth was upon my sister? You think that faithful?" Aemond retorted swiftly, fastening his grip.

"I... I do not deny how such may seem an act of betrayal. But it was in service to you, your grace." Alys flinched as his hands laced themselves in her hair forcefully. Her voice still measured.

"Do not dare speak such folly-" His temper flared as Alys spoke over the Prince.

"It is not folly... I have brought her, swayed her senses so they may receive what is so deeply suppressed within her. She had not come for me, my prince. She came for you." Alys' voice like a siren song, she let her hands run to his cheeks. Gently stroking at his sharp features.

Silence beckoned for a moment, as Aemond found himself lured by the witch's words. Her eyes gazing with reverence upon him, yet there was a glimmer of something else. Something she had seen.

Slowly, Aemond's grip upon her hair eased flattening to cup her head, "What do you see?" He muttered, his eye scanning her carefully.

Daera's sobbing had eased now, and she watched with baited breath as her brother and the witch spoke before her. She noticed the tilt of Alys' head the low chuckle as she leaned in to Aemond's ear, muttering something unknown.

There was a noticeable shift, the sharp line of his jaw hardening as he eased into her touch. Daera caught a low hum from him, an inquisitive one as Alys nodded.

The prince turned to his sister, her trembling form. No doubt her mind already a place of torment for her. His gaze scanned over her pale flesh, silver hair - so much like his own. Though she looked more like their mother in her features. Melancholic round eyes, full lips; a soft cherubic face. She was a woman grown and yet, still appeared so much like the docile girl she once was in their youth.

Aemond leaned down, his silver hair catching in the moonlight as he gazed upon his sister sternly. His hand gripped her wrist.

"I ought to punish you." He said firmly.

Daera instantly weakened at his words, her head tilting, tears streaming as she simpered, "Brother..."

His hand suddenly clasped her cheek, silencing her whining, "Do as I say."

The Princess's eyes searched his lonesome one, her gaze coiling in uncertainty. She shook her head, disturbed by his sudden change of demanour. Her heart thundering as she knew whatever was to occur, was something she ought to be fearful of. She felt the need to beg, to plead for forgiveness. Though she remained still.

"I do not blame you, for failing to resist my Alys' charm. You are but a woman... you stand little chance against her, for even I find my resolve wavering in her wake." He slowly rose to his feet, and Alys came to him, slowly unstrapping his leathers from his chest.

"You are not... mad with me?" The Princess whimpered, squeezing her nails into her palms. Allowing the pain to distract her from her shame.

"What Alys has seen.. changes the matter." Aemond spoke with a new found clarity, though there was a bitterness that lingered upon his tongue.

Daera shook her head in response, she looked at Alys, whose hands were upon his breeches, unlacing them. Before she could continue he pulled her hands away from him. "No." Aemond muttered, slowly turning to his sister.

Daera found herself trembling once more, her eyes watery, desperately searching for answers as she whispered, "Seen what?"

It was the uncertainty in her eyes which made Aemond look away, his gaze narrowed upon the ground as he mumbled to Alys, "I cannot..."

The witch let her hands cup his face once more, soothing the fear he felt within him, "You can... and you will, desire has sown it's seed long bef-"

Aemond swiftly gripped her wrists, interrupting her, "Do not presume to know of my desires! She is my sister..."

The raven hair of Alys fell upon her pale shoulder as she turned to face the princess before her. Aemond's eye wandering for a moment upon her bare flesh... her breasts.

Daera looked into the green landscape of her eyes, flashes of them lingering between her thighs caused a spark of shame within the princess and she looked away. Alys chuckled softly, turning back to Aemond.

The witch leaned in, her hands coming back to his jaw, one slowly trailing down his neck. She hummed, smiling softly as Alys whispered to Aemond, "You are the blood of old Valyria, your grace... fire courses through your very flesh. A fire I have felt lick at my womb and that shall lick upon hers..."

Aemond's gaze met his paramour's in an intense exchange of understanding and trepidation. Though he was soothed by her gentle touch upon him, soothed by the wisdom her foresight granted him. She was right, it was not as though he held no desire for his sister. He had merely suppressed it. Why long for something that shall never be his to keep?

Their mother never sought to the betroth them, so Aemond simply focused on matters of duty; of becoming a formidable force in battle. Though he could not embrace Targaryen tradition entirely, he sought to expand upon it in other ways. He would seek to become a fierce dragonrider. A man of skill, for his legacy would be his own.

As he gazed upon his sister, he felt the sudden urge to comfort her. The tears that rolled upon her cheek meant for a greater challenge. He would not force himself upon her, but he could not deny the fire set ablaze in his blood when his eye wandered her flesh.

She was to be his destiny it seemed... and if Alys' vision proved true, the mother to his true born heir.

He stalked towards her, and once again found himself reaching over. As he extended his hand to cup her cheek she flinched, and Aemond merely persisted.

Daera however, was not so much aware of what Alys and Aemond spoke of. If anything she was still mortified by the fact her brother had seen her indulge in such sin.

Her gaze widened at the feeling of his palm upon her fleshy cheek, "Please... forgive me...I know I have tainted myself in the eyes of the Gods, but you must let me seek absolution from you. My resolve has grown weak, I see it now... I..." The princess mumbled, fanatically searching her brother's stoney gaze as he watched the trembling of her lips.

Silence beckoned, and Aemond remained still. His eye scanning over her, his thumb rubbing against the plushness of her cheeks. Her eyes that wore sorrow so beautifully, just as their mother's does. Large, comforting eyes... for a moment he felt a sense of boyish peace dawn upon him. Remembering how once, Alicent would gaze upon him with concerned filled eyes.

Though he had not spoken to his mother in many moons now, could not bare the sight of her. It was in Daera's simpering expression he found a small sense of comfort. She was but a piece of home. Though his youth was not always a happy one, there was peace. There was... a familiarity which made him wish to crawl within his sister's arms and pretend nothing bad had befallen them.

"Brother..." She whimpered, begging for him to say something; pulling the Prince from his thoughts.

Daera's eyes were caught by the familiar saunter of Alys' bare frame. She came to Aemond, leaning down as her thin, pale fingers tucked his silver hair behind his ear. Gently she cooed, "Go on, my prince... take what is yours."

With that Aemond glanced briefly and Alys, and then slowly looked back upon his sister. He moved now, shifting his weight to crawl upon the bed. His hand still gripping at her cheek, and the other now finding her waist, pulling her from the sheet and forcing her before him.

Aemond gazed softly, tentatively, at her. His hand moving to her silver curls; her hair so similar to her mother's. His fingers twirled a strand delicately, as though it were made of glass. He suddenly brought his face near her, his cheek grazing hers as he buried his nose within her locks for a moment. He breathed in, closing his eye. The familiar sweet smell of honeysuckled flesh filling his senses.

The princess was in complete shock, she had never known such affections from her brother before. Her eyes widened, her gaze meeting Alys', who came to the bed, sitting at the end as she removed Aemond's boots. Soon, her pale hand reaching over to stroke Aemond's hair gently. The princess furrowed her brow, positively unfurled by the scene before her. Her tears had all but come to a halt, not for the fact shame had left her, but for the fact she was overwrought by the absurdity of it all.

Aemond pulled back slightly, and both he and his sister let out a sharp breath. Her eyes wide, watching him carefully as he gently grazed his nose upon her cheek. His hand coming to her lips. Lips which were too, like Alicent's; swollen and quivering.

His eye, narrowed upon her and he caught her discomforted demanour. His fingers moving from her lips to cup her cheek as he muttered, "If it is absolution you seek, then let us not allow what transpired to be in vain. So, do as I say."

Daera though confused, did not protest. She nodded and heard her breath catch within her throat as he hummed slightly. Aemond brought his other hand to her cheek. A look of determination filled his eye though he seemed conflicted.

His gaze locked upon her lips, he wanted to kiss her, wanted to touch her. Though he knew not how to. Aemond grunted again, unsure of himself. An awkward tension rose as he stammered like a boy. The Prince huffed, looked down as humiliation coiled in his belly. He felt weak, he felt the fool.

He had, in truth never been with a woman as young as Daera. Though she was but a year younger than he. She was unlike Alys... unlike Madame Sylvie. Both of which had known the ways of initiating pleasure. He had never had to worry of such things, for both women brimmed with the confidence only within a mature woman, to take charge. Neither were coy, nor demure. Neither stuttered nor flinched when presented with his desire. Neither seemed so... shocked by his forwardness, nor hid behind maidenly virtue, nor looked upon him with judgement. They were women whom he felt safe with, secure with. He did not have to wear the mask he had crafted so precisely for himself. Did not have to act with the hard faced confidence of a man. Aemond could be unsure, with Alys and Madame Sylvie. He could let go of his masculine fortitude and be a boy once more.

But this was not the case with Daera. He could not help but find the judgement in her eyes, enraging. Already he thought of the million ways she may be laughing or repulsed by him. Already he thought of how she would reject him if he were not willing to do as had been taught men are to do. Take charge.

He could not falter with her, could not be seen as weak.

"Alys..." He muttered lowly, his head turning slightly as to call his paramour to guide him.

The witch continued stroking his hair, cooing softly as she gave him a knowing look, "As you would me..." Her voice soft, knowing he would understand her implication.

Aemond gave a small nod, his gaze then returning to his sister. A look of determination yet also... fear in his eye.

Daera had watched the interaction transpire as though she were but a mere spectator in her body. It hadn't felt real at all, it all seemed like an elaborate dream, and betwixt the moonlight and shadows of Harrenhal, he wasn't fully convinced it wasn't.

The princess found herself sharply returned back to reality as the feeling of her brother's breath upon her neck made her flinch. His fingers gently moving the strands of her silver curls away, before the soft and warm sensation of his lips met her neck.

Daera went to protest, but was met with the cold palm of Alys upon her other cheek, her fingers lacing in her hair as she pulled the princess' head to one side. Exposing more of her neck for Aemond to place his lips upon.

Alys smiled softly and gently stroked the coil of worry lines upon Daera's face.

"That's it." The witch lulled gently, slowly encouraging Daera to lean into her brother's touch. To which the princess slowly raised her hand to Aemond's silver strands, her fingers coiling into his scalp, earning a low groan.

She closed her eyes, focusing on the sensation of his lips moving up her neck, his hands now moving upon her bare body, falling between her plush breasts, down onto the soft planes of her belly.

It was not long before she felt Alys' lips press into her own, a small whimper leaving the princess.

It was that sound which egged Aemond further, he kissed up Daera's jaw, hoping to siphon more of those sweet sounds from his sister. He felt the familiar touch of Alys upon the band of his breeches, already unlaced. Her cool hand shuffling them down, before reaching in, palming his stiffened length. The sudden feeling of his paramour's hand upon him made him groan. Though he swiftly pulled away from the soft flesh of his sister, his head turning to Alys' sharp face.

"I shall do it myself." His words a quiet yet sharp command.

Alys conceded and resumed her position behind him, gently she stroked his silver tresses. Slightly annoyed by his barking at her tonight. Though she supposed he probably still seethes over her seducing Daera so easily.

The princess was terribly lost in the moment. She had eased to her brother's advances and slowly, his hand came to move her head towards his and pressed into hers gently. Daera whimpered and he pulled away, catching a breath. It was with that kiss that her blood had been set ablaze by him. Suddenly, her hands reached up, catching his cheeks in her palms and attempting to force her lips back into his.

Aemond, pulled away slightly, if not only to tease her for her eagerness, but also to remind him he must remember she had not ever been touched by a man. She was unwed, a mere maiden and similarly to him, probably starved for affection.

A dark desire bloomed as he noted her pleading gaze, a sense of control he did not get with his older lovers. It felt good to be the one whom was bestowing another with affection. Filling a lovelorn void with her that he himself shared. He found her stammering endearing, familiar in a way.

He pulled back again, if not to see how her pretty face coiled in desperation. Just as his would. His hand moved to the back of her hair, gripping her strands roughly, her head tilting back before he spoke lowly, "Tell me you desire it."

Daera's eyes beamed with a sudden awakening desire. Her cunt growing warm, as she whispered, "I desire it."

Aemond's jaw clenched, his voice soft, "Do you want me?" His eye wide, expectant.

Slowly, the Princess let her hands move into his hair as she furrowed her brow, as if he had to ask, she thought. Her voice equally soft, needy, "Yes, brother."

It was those very words which set his lips to hers again. He forced his breeches from him, Alys aiding. Aemond let his knee pry Daera's legs apart, his hand moving to finally touch what he knew would already be ready for him. His fingers grazing her wet core, just as their lips upon each other grew far more intensive in their ministrations. Daera was again, shocked by how wet everything felt, and his fingers sliding between her cunt made her mouth open slightly as a moan left her.

He pushed her down, and his head turned to guesture for Alys to get behind Daera. The witch did so, moving so that her legs were parted where Daera's head lay between. Aemond looked down upon his sister then up at his paramour. His eye narrowed as he let himself slip a finger into Daera's entrance.

A sudden moan left the princess and her hands gripped at his upper arms, she found her head tilting back as a simpering gasp left her. His other hand guiding her knee upwards as he pushed two fingers within her. Slowly stretching her. His eye caught Alys again, who herself had seemed to find the ordeal so pleasing, her own hand worked upon her. He watched as she circled her cunt, then slowly fucking herself with her fingers. Though Daera hadn't noticed, she was too busy writhing beneath Aemond as his fingers had grown terribly fast.

Suddenly he stopped, pulling his fingers from her, his gaze still harsh upon Alys as she pleased herself. His jaw clenched as he had remembered the sight he had walked in upon.

Daera found herself letting out a small whine as he had stopped, she looked up at him, when she was met with his hand clasping her cheeks. Aemond spoke with a swift determination in his tone, "You will tend to Alys as I ready you."

Daera had opened her mouth to speak before Aemond interrupted, "Turn around."

With that, Daera had found herself most shocked, though slowly, hesitantly she turned to her belly and moved towards Alys.

Aemonds voice rang in the thick silence of the chamber, "Tell her what she might do." He said lowly to Alys, his gaze too busy scanning the vast expanse of Daera's pale back, her plump rear and fleshy thighs.

Alys hummed, titling her head, her hands coming to Daera's cheeks to pull her forward, "I shall take the girl's mouth." The witch spoke smugly, her hand pulling at Daera's hair as she lowered the princess' lips to her cunt. "Slowly, my pet..." Alys cooed. "With your tongue."

Daera all but whimpered as her mouth met the soft, delicate folds of Alys. She was not sure how to go about it, but she started with slow, languid licks, hoping she might gauge where Alys was brought pleasure. The witch hummed and chuckled with pleasure, her hips slowly circling as she pressed Daera's mouth upon her cunt further. She instructed the princess lowly, and soon Daera was using her tongue to circle Alys clit, winning groans from the older woman.

Aemond had found himself oddly transfixed by the sight, his paramour instructing his sister. It was as though he was watching himself in a way. Though the sight of the two woman before him, was far more thrilling than he had anticipated. Alys' head tilted back, forcing Daera to move quicker, and Aemond slowly pryed apart her thighs. His fingers finding Daera's soaked core.

He grazed her clit, winning gentle moans from her as his other hand kneaded her rear. Alys, moaned again, her peak dawning as she cried, "The prince watches us... sweet girl. He watches with reverence."

Her words sparked a quick hum from Aemond as he found himself focused on Daera again. He leaned down, his chest pressed upon her back as lewd sounds of the two women filled the chamber. He moved his sister's hair to the side, exposing her neck and back. Aemond pressed gentle kisses into her, his hands trailing her soft flesh.

As he went to kiss her again, Alys had pulled Daera's hair harshly, forcing Aemond to lose his grip slightly. He looked up at his paramour, watching as she rolled her hips on his sister mouth, chasing her endless peak.

She was indeed a woman of great fortitude, but this was not about her pleasure. This was about legacy, this was about himself and his sister... and their duty to House Targaryen. Aemond's hands wrapped around Daera's waist, suddenly pulling her away from Alys' cunt.

The witch's eyes opened swiftly, and she gasped. "Your grace?!" She barked, almost like a mother would towards her child.

Though Aemond paid little attention to Alys as he laid Daera down upon her back again. "You've had your fill." He muttered.

The raven haired woman scoffed, "So I get nothing then? I brought you the girl-"

Aemond raised his hand, his tone aloof as he gazed down upon Daera. "Leave us." Aemond spoke lowly to Alys, he was too transfixed on the way Daera had brought her hands to his cheeks.

"My Prince..." The witch begged. Alys let her gaze grow wide and discontented.

"Hm.." Aemond looked up to the older woman, his gaze unwavering, stern, "You may go."

It only took one disgruntled look from Alys before she gave a nod, biting her tongue as she moved away from the bed. She dressed herself once more and left without any protest. After all, she was but under his mercy.

The silence in the room was startling, Daera's eyes widened, and her hand came to Aemond's eye patch, though he forced her hand away. He did not say another word as he settled between her legs. Aemond moved her hand to clasp his length, guiding her hand up and down to ready himself.

His lips met hers as he moved her legs to wrapped around his hips, and slowly, Aemond let his cock graze her folds. Both of them moaning at the sensation. He felt his resolve weaken, and with that, he pushed into her entrance ever so slowly. Giving her time to adjust to him.

Her core tight, so tight he felt himself wince as he tried to push further. Daera squeezed his arm making him force her hands to his cheeks. "Calm yourself." He said lowly.

Daera obliged, she closed her eyes, trusting the sensation that currently stung with pain would soon dissolve and it did. He eased himself into her, and Daera marvelled at the sound he made when he had finally pushed within her. All that could be heard from her was a deep gasp, her head tilting back. As he rocked his hips, fucking her slowly, her hands laced into his hair and his face buried into her neck. Daera suddenly began to moan softly, wantonly as the sensation became more and more pleasurable as her core loosened. She began to feel herself relax, and he slid in and out of her with ease. Aemond at this point was all but lost, he kept moving into her, his hands cupping her face as he moved between his face in the crook of her neck or kissing her harshly. His moans growing more intense, their names flying from the other's mouth. Panting and cursing filled his chamber, alongside low growls as he relished the feeling of her warm cunt upon him.

"Sweet sister..." He grumbled, nodding as his peak was soon to come. "Have me." He said, almost sweetly against her flesh. He wanted to bury himself in her, hold her tight. And that he did, their bodies flushed firmly against each other and Daera had instinctively began to rock her hips against his.

She moaned, grappling at his hair as she whispered, "Aemond... my brother..."

It was her soft coos which triggered him to come fiercely within her. His seed causing an odd warmth to spread within her. As the moment diffused, the heat between them had caused both of them to become flushed, panting gently as they lay entwined upon the bed. The shadows enclasping them both, yet in their arms both found a sense of peace. Daera coiled into him, her head resting upon the top of his.

Aemond laid upon her, letting her arms wrap around him, her soft flesh against his taut frame felt like bliss. He breathed out, speaking softly against her skin, "Alys... she.." Aemond stammered breathlessly against her neck, leaving small kisses.

Daera raised her brow, her hands coming to his hair, gently grazing his silver tresses. The moment felt beyond intimate, she felt a strange tie to him. One that had been all but lost to their distant youths.

He let his hands gently carress her face, his cheek nuzzling against her own as he whispered softly, cooingly into her ear,"She see's a silver haired boy upon the throne... a boy who comes from the flesh of two dragons. The mother... a great beauty, the father... a feared warrior. Of darkness and light, joined by a ghostly flame of longing. Separated by time, brought together by blood. It is us... sweet sister. Alys sees us."

[loki-cees-all]

Ch. 1 - Against the Wall {Against All Odds - TVA!Loki x Female Reader Longfic}

Cee's Loki Fic Masterlist / AO3 Link / Against All Odds Masterlist / Next Chapter

Pairing : TVA!Loki x Female Reader

Summary : The first interrogation of X-5 doesn’t go as planned, and Loki needs to blow off some steam. He returns to 1977 for a drink, and discovers that not only have his actions have left you abandoned by your date to his movie premiere -  but it’s also your birthday. 

Thankfully, Loki knows just how to solve both of your problems. 

W/c : 4.4k words

Content Warnings : Smut, p-in-v, semi-public sex, strangers to lovers, ruffled tuxedo appreciation

Author's Note : This one is dedicated to my beloved and beautiful friend @infinitystoner as part of our Glorious Birthday Bash. Our ask boxes are open, so get those questions in!

18+ Only - Minors DNI

⊱ ── ༓ ── ⋅•⋅⊰ ──  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ∙ ⋅  ── ⊱⋅•⋅ ── ༓ ── ⊰

Loki was absolutely seething. The Hunter X-5 - Brad, or whatever he wanted to be called, was not just uncooperative in answering their questions about General Dox’s plans - he was a complete asshole about it. And even though they knew he would be, it was still impressive just how quickly he managed to rattle all three of them and completely derail the interrogation. 

It was enough to make Loki afraid that he was losing his touch, that his edges had softened too much. But after the catastrophic events he’d endured over the past few months, what else could he expect?

After leaving the interrogation room with Mobius and B-15, Loki had stormed away, his eyes blazing with fury and his fists clenching until his knuckles were white. He just needed a moment to calm himself down, to regain control of his emotions. 

Truthfully, what he needed was a break, to relieve some tension and come back to his problems with a clear head. If only everything would just stop trying to implode for five minutes, he might be able to do that. But the weight of everything he needed to fix was slowly crushing him to death instead. 

And that asshole thought it necessary to throw the death of Frigga in his face and call him a villain - all in the same breath. The audacity, the nerve of that man to speak to him like that - when genuinely, truthfully and in every sense of the word, Loki was only trying to fix, not harm. 

Loki pushed himself further down the endless corridors of the TVA, and the anger radiating through his skin alerted the unassuming TVA employees to continue minding their own business as they slinked past him. Loki’s heavy footsteps echoed off the pristine floors and elegant walls, and he foolishly thought that maybe they’d take the hint and turn around to take a different path towards their destination. But just as soon as he would find himself alone in the hallway, another one would appear, and Loki’s rage would elevate just a little bit more. 

Norns, was there nowhere to even think in this place?!

Soon, Loki found himself in another alcove with another elevator, that inevitably led to another floor with even more corridors and TVA employees who were just trying to do their jobs in the face of a Temporal Loom meltdown and total destruction. It wasn’t their fault; it was the only thing they knew how to do. 

There had to be an exit around here somewhere - a courtyard, or a sidewalk, or something - any place Loki could go and not be reminded of all of this. But how long would it take him to find it? 

Too long. And more likely than not, a new crisis would emerge before he could even reach it. 

As he paced back and forth across the granite floor, Loki’s hands alternated between raking through his hair, clenching at his sides, and resting on his hips. His mind raced uncontrollably, and his chest heaved to keep enough oxygen mixing with the blood flowing through his veins. He was starting to feel trapped, doomed, cursed. 

Loki took a deep breath to steady himself, and as he closed his eyes, his thoughts shifted to the beautiful woman he’d seen earlier that evening. Her stylish dress, pale amber and loosely cinched around her waist, had been far too enchanting to be wasted on a date to a silly movie premiere. She was much too good to be on Brad’s arm for the evening, and Loki wondered if he had even bothered to learn her name…

But ultimately, it didn’t matter. Loki didn’t have the time or the space to clear his head, and he certainly didn’t have the time to waste on thoughts of a woman he’d never see again. He was just going to have to carry on, to power through the stress and brain fog and dread, like he’d always done. 

Resigning himself to return from where he came, Loki shoved his hands in the pockets of his pea coat and turned on his heels to head back to Mobius and B-15 and the interrogation of Brad. But he stopped as his fingers brushed against something, and his brow furrowed as he pulled the TemPad out of his pocket. 

Loki couldn’t remember how or when it got there. He turned it over in his hands carefully, running his fingertips across its smooth edges and polished wood grain as he considered his options. 

With this, he could easily find a place to think, and he could return just moments after he left the interrogation room. And with the branches of the Sacred Timeline already diverging wildly out of control, no one would ever know he had left.

Loki quickly glanced over his shoulders to make sure he was alone, and he flipped the top screen of the TemPad open. The previous coordinates were still typed in, still active.

All he had to do was press a single button and walk through the Time Door. In another moment or two, he could return to the Zaniac premiere and finally have the drink he so desperately needed. 

And maybe Brad’s date would be willing to share that drink with him…

⊱ ── ༓ ── ⋅•⋅⊰ ──  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ∙ ⋅  ── ⊱⋅•⋅ ── ༓ ── ⊰

Date : June 18th, 1977 [Sacred Timeline]

This was not how you thought your birthday would turn out. 

Dressed to the nines, after hours in the salon chair getting your hair done and days of planning your outfit down to the perfume kissing the insides of your wrists - all so you could be abandoned by that jackass before the showing of his film even started. 

What made it worse was you didn’t even want to be here tonight, with this Brad Wolfe - a man no one had ever heard of before six months ago but was suddenly basking in the spotlight of directors clamoring to hire him and starlets begging to be seen with him. 

You could have been out with your friends celebrating your birthday, but your agent had insisted that this would be much better for your career; he was definitely going to be getting a very unpleasant phone call in the morning. 

After Brad disappeared, you sat yourself at the bar and ordered a drink; it was less humiliating than the press seeing you alone inside the theater, which would have surely been the only headline in tomorrow morning’s paper. 

You briefly thought about calling your friends to meet up at The Roxy, which had been the initial plan for the evening, but ultimately decided against it. Nothing could salvage the evening now; maybe you’d have better luck next year. 

The ice from your second drink had all but melted, and after the leftover contents were consumed, you were ready to get out of there. The exciting climax of the movie would be happening soon, and once again the lobby would be swarming with press and London’s finest celebrities, not to mention Brad - who had probably found another woman to have clinging to his arm during the film. You didn’t need to see that. 

As you thanked the bartender with a warm smile and placed a generous tip in his jar, your thoughts returned to the two men Brad had been talking to just before he disappeared. One of the men, the older gentleman, seemed pleased as punch to be there, but the other one - the tall, dark and devastatingly handsome one - seemed like he’d rather be literally anywhere else; it was exactly how you felt about this ridiculous event. 

And God was that scowl on his face sexy; but then again, everything about him was positively delicious. His piercing green eyes had threatened to set the room ablaze as he looked around the room, and when he wasn’t scowling, he was smirking. 

It was a very confident smirk, and he deserved to have it. He certainly knew how to wear a tuxedo, and you were sure he looked even better underneath it. 

Just thinking about it was enough to make your heart race, and the warmth of arousal was beginning to unfurl itself in your core. It was too bad the most gorgeous man you’d ever seen had left already; perhaps you would head to The Roxy after all, to find someone to take you home tonight…

“Leaving so soon?” 

Your breath faltered as you turned to see him standing next to you. He looked exquisite - casually leaned against the bar, one ankle crossed over the other, and one hand in his pocket as he raised an inquisitive eyebrow in your direction. You couldn’t believe this was happening, that he had appeared so suddenly and he was looking right at you. 

“I suppose that depends on whether something exciting is about to happen here,” you replied with a shrug and met his inquisitive expression with one of your own. 

The man chuckled and cleared his throat as he turned his attention to the rows of liquor displayed behind the bar. “And I suppose you wouldn’t think helping me decide on a drink would be very exciting…”

His voice was smooth as silk - polished and refined, and it made everything he wasn’t saying so much more intense. You could see his eyes in the mirror behind the bar, hungrily roaming up and down your form as he paused, and you knew he was thinking about all the things he wanted to do tonight. 

And when he turned back to look at you, it was like you were the only other person in existence, like you were the only thing that mattered. “…or would you find that exciting?” 

That look was sinful, intoxicating, teasing. It made you forget all about wanting to get out of there before the movie ended. It made you want to do anything to keep his attention, and so you sat back down on the barstool and crossed your legs as you leaned closer to him. 

“Surely a classy man such as yourself knows what he likes to drink?” you replied, hoping he enjoyed being teased as much as he enjoyed teasing. 

The man laughed again and shook his head with a charming smile on his perfectly-crafted face. If you didn’t know any better, you would have believed a God had sculpted his features with a careful and delicate hand, that only something majestic could have styled the dark curls on his head. He was perfect, and you were dying for him to ruin you. 

“Well, I’ll be honest - I just wanted to know what you were drinking, so I could invite you to have another with me.” 

He didn’t wait for a response, and immediately unbuttoned the jacket of his tuxedo as he sat down next to you. His long legs were splayed wide as he gazed at you, and he had the kind of thighs you wanted to sink your teeth in. 

The white shirt underneath the jacket was stark white and perfectly pressed, save the ruffles running vertically from his throat to his waist. There weren’t too many men that could pull off that look with the same confidence and charm, and you found yourself wondering who he was and what he did for a living. 

He had to work in the entertainment industry - fashion, maybe? Another actor? You wanted to know everything about him, from where he grew up to how many different ways he could make your toes curl. 

“What a clever, classy pick-up line. I’m truly impressed,” you murmured playfully as you beckoned the bartender over. 

The man narrowed his eyes, and his perfect lips curved into a teasing smirk. “I believe it worked, did it not?” 

You shrugged innocently, bringing your fingertips to fondle the necklace dangling around your neck. His gaze followed your fingers with a hungry expression, and he opened his mouth to say something else when the bartender interrupted to take your order.

“Yes, me and my new friend…” you paused and tilted your head at him, a silent plea for the man to finally introduce himself. 

His expression shifted briefly to uncertainty, as if he wasn’t sure that he wanted to give you his name at all, before resuming his confident demeanor as he met your gaze once more. “Loki. Pleased to meet you.”

“A pair of Slow Screws for me and my new friend, Loki,” you smiled at the bartender before returning to your new companion for the evening. “That’s quite an interesting name, Loki. Scandinavian?” 

“Something like that. And you’ve got quite an interesting drink order,” he replied, leaning closer and sliding his arm along the back of your chair. “Tell me - do you usually share Slow Screws with complete strangers?”

His voice was low and husky, vibrating at all the right frequencies and sending shivers of excitement down your spine. It took all of your willpower to not mount him on the spot. 

“Only when it’s my birthday, and I’ve been abandoned by my jerk of a date,” you answered, though truthfully you were glad he disappeared if it meant you got to know this man a little better. 

Loki’s brow twitched and he looked away; it was an odd reaction, one you hadn’t anticipated. Did Loki know something about why Brad had left, and was he not expecting you to bring it up? 

The bartender returned with your drinks, and you were grateful for something else to focus on for the moment. Freshly-squeezed orange juice and gin swirled around the tall glass as you brought it to your lips and took a not-so dainty sip. 

Loki glanced over and smiled as he followed suit, then set his glass down and began tapping the bar-top with his long and surely skilled fingers. “You know I, um…was speaking with your date earlier, and I promise he didn’t ditch you. Something very important had come up, and…”

Loki glanced over at you again, his green eyes sparkling as if a thousand distant worlds were burning up inside them. He had an unparalleled mysterious aura around him, like the weight of the entire world was resting on his broad shoulders. 

“If he sent you here to keep me company in his stead…” you interrupted, brushing your fingers across the back of his hand as he tapped mindlessly on the bar-top. “…then I’m glad he left.” 

That seemed to be enough to make him forget about all of his earlier troubles, and a confident smile graced his features once more. “Well, I couldn’t leave a beautiful woman all alone on her birthday, now could I?” 

Loki rotated his hand underneath yours, and his fingertips lightly traced along your inner wrist, sending your heart rate skyrocketing. He leaned closer to whisper against your ear. “So how does the birthday girl want to celebrate then, hmm?” 

Your breath hitched, and it felt like the rest of the world stopped except for the two of you. You wanted to spend your evening dissolving into pleasure, screaming his name, breaking your bed - but this man clearly loved innuendos and teasing; it was foreplay for him, just as much as it was for you. 

“Well, I’ve always wanted to try…a Slow Comfortable Screw Against The Wall,” you answered softly, knowing he would understand that you didn’t necessarily mean the drink. 

Loki’s arm slipped around your chair once more, dragging his knuckles down the back of your arm. “Is that how you like it?”

Your eyes widened, and your heart thudded painfully in your chest. But it was worth it if it meant he’d do it, so you nodded as you bit your lower lip. 

“Slow…and comfortable?” Loki continued, whispering softly and letting his lips brush against the cartilage of your ear. 

Swallowing back a moan was the hardest thing you’d ever done. Your thighs pressed together, squeezing them against your already wet cunt and nodded again. 

“What about against the wall? Do you like that too?” Loki brought his other hand up, tracing the angle of your jaw with his fingertips and turning your face closer to his. 

Your lips parted as your nose brushed against his, and you silently pleaded for mercy. Your pussy was already throbbing and clenching around nothing, and if you didn’t get out of here soon, you were going to explode. 

A simple yes was all you could manage, and Loki immediately took action. He pulled a few bills from his pocket and tossed them on the bar as he stood up, and you absolutely could not believe your luck - that he came back, that he wanted you, that he was going to take you exactly the way you wanted. 

You quickly followed him to standing, and your knees almost buckled underneath the weight of the adrenaline and hormones carving their way through your veins. Loki placed his hand on your lower back and guided you swiftly through the crowd that had returned after the movie’s end. 

And you didn’t even turn your head as you passed by reporters milling about in the lobby, wondering where the hell Brad Wolfe was. 

As you stepped outside, Loki’s hand slipped from your waist to grab your hand and pull you after him. You thought he was going to lead you to a cab, but instead, he turned down the alleyway beside the theater. 

“Wait - where are we going?” you giggled in anticipation as he squeezed your hand. Did he have his own vehicle parked somewhere back here?

Loki turned around and yanked you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist as he continued backing down the alleyway. “I’m giving the Birthday Girl what she asked for. Remember?” he murmured against your lips as his hands splayed wide on your hips. 

You couldn’t take the wait any longer and crushed your lips against his. Loki’s groan was deep and powerful as he eagerly returned the kiss. His lips tasted like gin and lust, and his hands gripped you tightly, pulling you all the way against his body. 

Your hands found the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, pulling on the material as you parted your lips around his. He eagerly slipped his tongue between them as he started to walk you backwards.

Loki towered over you, even with your heels on, and soon his lips were moving down to your neck, sucking on the delicate skin as his hands slid down to squeeze your ass. You gasped, and immediately started to unbutton his tuxedo jacket. 

He hummed an approval against your neck, and his hands grasped your ass harder, making you grind your hips against his. “I thought the Birthday Girl wanted it slow and comfortable, hmm?” 

“Changed my mind,” you whispered breathlessly, opening the jacket and untucking his shirt from his pants. “I need you now…” 

Loki grinned as he pushed you against the wall, trapping you between the firm, cold bricks and his firm, warm body. “Ah, so you’re an impatient Birthday Girl,” he growled against your lips.

This new tone, so wild and animalistic compared to the opulent and sophisticated one he had used back at the bar, was more than enough to make you forget that you were in public, that he was a stranger, that if anyone saw this then your career would be over. But you were being driven by pure lust at this point, and nothing else mattered anymore. 

Your lips met again, moving frantically against each other as your tongues and hips writhed together. It was incredible that your bodies and minds were already so in sync with each other - when you moaned against his lips, he’d groan against yours, and when you gasped, he’d exhale in a deep hum that threatened to drive you insane. 

He pulled the strap of your dress down as you untied the knot of his bowtie and began to loosen the buttons of his shirt. Loki kissed his way down your neck and you arched into his touch, even as your hair snagged on the bricks behind you. 

You quickly slipped your arm out of the strap, and Loki slid the top of your dress down to your waist, exposing your breasts. Your nipples hardened from arousal and the cold evening air, and Loki leaned down to take one between his lips. You moaned out loud in response, encouraging him to keep going as you spread your legs to grind against his thigh. 

His tongue flicked against your stiff nipple as he sucked, and your fingers curled tightly in his hair as you hooked a leg around his waist. Your hips gyrated wildly against him, soothing your aching clit as you chased a release. 

“Oh, yes. Keep going, love,” Loki groaned against your skin and shifted his hands to keep you balanced on one leg, gripping your hips tightly as he brought his face back up to yours. 

He pushed his leg further between yours, watching eagerly as you continued grinding against his thigh. You gasped and moaned breathlessly, each one louder than the last as the alleyway faded away and all that remained was the stranger bringing you ethereal levels of pleasure. 

“Yes, that’s it. Come for me, dear,” Loki rasped as he brought his lips over to your ear, and his teeth nipped at the cartilage as he spoke. “I’ll give you more - as many as you wish…” 

You could barely hear him as blood pumped frantically through every vein and every nerve ending prepared to fire off, but it seemed as though he was getting as much pleasure out of this as you were. What a blessing this was - it was your birthday, and this man only wanted to make you come. 

You gasped as your orgasm washed over you, sending endorphins and molten lava through your veins. Your fingers dug into his neck and shoulders, and your leg shook and wobbled as you died and reborn anew. 

Loki moaned with you as you came, his hands grabbing your hips to keep them rolling against his thigh. Your eyes rolled back into your head and unintelligible whimpers of pleasure tumbled from your lips. And just as the orgasm started to fade, his hands slipped around the back of your thighs to lift you up. 

Somehow you managed to lock your arms around his neck as he held you in the air, and he hooked his forearms underneath your knees as your bare back scraped against the brick. It hurt so good, and you buried your face in his hair, breathing in his scent and savoring the way he was going to ravage you. 

Loki grabbed your ass as he rolled his hips against yours, both of you moaning in unison at the skin-to-skin contact. His heavy exhales washed over your skin as he panted against your jaw, and you were still trembling from the aftershocks of the first orgasm when his cock slid inside you. 

He groaned in pleasure as he pushed deeper within your soaked cunt, and your toes curled inside your shoes. You hadn’t even seen his cock yet, but you could feel just how perfect it was, how perfect he was - and you couldn’t help but squeeze as he bottomed out inside you. 

“Such a tight and lovely little thing,” Loki hissed as he started to thrust, slowly at first but quickly increasing his pace. His hips rocked back and forth, and your fingers scratched at his scalp to beg him to keep going. 

He held you in the air, easily supporting your entire weight as he drove himself into you over and over. It was like magic, he was like a benevolent God of Pleasure, and you would forever worship the ground he walked on as long as he continued doing this to you. 

You buried your face against his shoulder to muffle your cries of pleasure as he filled you up, and his lower back arched as his thrusts became frantic. You moaned his name and he moaned yours, and his fingers gripped you tightly as yours dug into his neck. 

“Yes! Come for me, darling!” Loki growled against your ear as he adjusted your hips, pulling them away from the wall. His thrusts became urgent, and this new angle allowed him to move deeper, pressing against the most sensitive flesh that other men could only dream of reaching. 

You crossed the threshold again, coming even harder than you did the first time. Loki grunted like an animal as he made his final pushes inside you before following you off the edge. Your thighs shook as his hips bucked, and your muscles squeezed every ounce of pleasure out of him. 

The sounds he made were sinful, and it was almost enough to keep you going. Neither of you were on Earth anymore; floating in the cosmos, higher than you’d ever been before, your hips writhing and mouths gasping for air as you came together. 

You don’t know how long you stayed like that, but eventually your bodies became still, and you could feel his lips pressed lazily against your jaw and his eyelashes fluttering against your cheek. “You have no idea…just how much…I needed that…” he murmured breathlessly. 

You could feel the gravity of his words bringing you back down to the ground, and while you didn’t know what he was referring to, you wished that you could. “I’m glad you convinced me to stay for that drink then…” 

Loki chuckled to himself as he pressed his forehead against yours and carefully pulled the strap of your dress back to your shoulder. His fingertips were delicate as they traced along your collarbone, and as his eyes traveled up to meet your gaze, you could see a thousand lifetimes of sadness hiding behind them. 

“Thank you…for the drink, and the birthday present. Maybe we can do this again for your birthday…” you continued with a smile, hoping to be able to see him again soon. You didn’t know if he needed the reassurance, but you wanted to give it to him anyway. 

He didn’t respond at first, and you gently caressed his cheek. This evening was too magical to not let it happen again, and you prayed that he felt the same. 

Loki’s expression was one of anguish as he turned his head to kiss your palm. He let out a heavy exhale, and forced himself to look at you again. 

“Yes. Maybe we can…” Loki smiled as he gazed into your eyes, and your heart ached as he leaned down to kiss you once more. 

⊱ ── ༓ ── ⋅•⋅⊰ ──  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ∙ ⋅  ── ⊱⋅•⋅ ── ༓ ── ⊰

Cee's Loki Fic Masterlist / AO3 Link / Against All Odds Masterlist / Next Chapter

Click here to be added to my Loki fic tag list! 💚