#of those that do not fear their own weakness

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Flower Faced

Aemond x wife female character

Summary: a series of diary entries written by Aemond Targaryen following his tumultuous marriage and the realm's descent into war | word count: 13k~ | warnings: angst, smut, infertility, chronic illness, war, character death, wife features is described briefly, spoilers for f&b

15th day of the 4th moon, 128

They have made me a husband. A prince wed to a flower plucked too soon.

She stood before me by the Septon, trembling in her silken gown, her face pale as the moon. I was told her beauty would make up for her lack of standing. That her delicate disposition was proof of her good breeding, a prize unfit for a mere second son. How fitting, then, that it was to me she was given. A scrap for a scrap.

I find myself wondering how she might have appeared in better health, had her frame not been so thin, her skin not so colourless. She is the image of a flower wilting in the frost. I cannot fathom what my father intended when he arranged this match. Did he think her weakness would breed strength in me? That I would look upon her frailty and find myself tempered by pity?

Perhaps it is too kind to assume that my father put any thought into the matter. The one of little importance.

I feel nothing but irritation. A prince needs heirs, and she is as likely to bear a child as a winter rose is to bloom.

She retired early tonight, her maids fretting over her as though she were a babe in swaddling clothes. Preparing her for the bedding no doubt. Several lords approached me thereafter asking for a ‘bedding ceremony’. I fear her gentle heart would have given out if such a thing were to actually happen.

They tell me her name means ‘grace’ in the ancient tongues of the Reach. Grace, indeed. She moves as though her bones might shatter beneath her weight, her steps feather light. I suppose if I were to be truthful and perhaps kind, which I do not know why I should, I would admit there is a beauty in her fragility. Such is the beauty of a fine layer of ice on water in the early winter, easily broken with a mere breath to its surface.

I have no need for beauty, and no patience for weakness. Yet weakness is what I was served, wrapped in lace and trembling upon the bedsheets.

When consummation was inevitable, I thought I might snap the poor thing in two when I fucked her. She is so slight, so frail, as though the gods built her of spun glass and good intentions alone. She did not cry, though I expected it. She lay beneath me as one might endure the bite of a leech, silent, resigned, and still.

I despised her for it.

Not for her fragility, but for her acceptance. For the way she stared at the canopy, her lips pressed into a pale line, her hands gripping the sheets as if she feared being swept away by my storm. I do not know what I wanted. A protest, perhaps. A tear. Something to remind me that she was alive, that I was not bedding a corpse.

When it was over, she whispered, “Thank you, my prince,” so softly that I nearly thought I imagined it.

Thank you. For what? For duty? For what she believed was kindness? She did not look at me as she said it, and yet those two words have haunted me since.

It has been three nights now, and I have not returned to her chamber. Mother, ever dutiful, had broken fast with me the next morning to ensure ‘the act’ had indeed taken place, of which I confirmed it had. But she pressed no further on the matter, as if that was all that was important.

I tell myself it is for her benefit, that I do not wish to worsen her condition. But the truth, if I am to be honest here, is that I do not know what to do with her. She is no adversary, no equal, no dragon. 

She is a flower pressed flat by the weight of its own stem.

2nd day of the 5th moon, 128

The rain has not ceased for a fortnight. King’s Landing reeks of soiled hay and wet stone. I've kept to my chambers to avoid the rancid air, but the storm intrudes all the same.

She has been ill again. The maesters tell me that her disposition is weakened, the damp worsening her condition. It grates on me relentlessly to think that something as simple as rain is enough to set my sickly wife abed for days on end. As if she is made of sugar and will dissolve if she steps outside for a single moment.

I half-expected to hear of her passing this morning when I visited her. Pale and fragile as she appeared when her maids opened the curtains. And when she rose out of bed to look out the window, it was painfully, like a stubborn plant forcing its way through frozen soil.

I asked her why she did not wish to rest.

Her smile was as weak as her body.

“Once these rains have washed away, the grass in the Reach will be as green as those in the Seven Heavens.”

She thought of her home even now. She did not consider King's Landing her home.

Since she uttered those words, I have tried to see it as she does. To see past the filth and shit of King's Landing and imagine the fertile fields and warm sun. As she hails from the Reach, she is drawn to flowers, hence why I noted that day that there were so many strewn about the room in various vases.

They wilt in the damp, just as she does.

Sometimes I find myself watching her more often than perhaps I should. I reason that as much as I loathe it, she is my wife. Whether she notices my watching her and says nothing or is ignorant to it, I do not know.

She moves slowly, as if not to shatter her fragile bones, but not out of fear I now see. She is afraid of little I have noticed, though she has every reason to be. A girl as sickly as her wed to a prince known for his temper, gods, she should tremble when I blink.

But she does not.

I regret I spoke harshly to her. Told her to rest. Save her strength. To let the flowers wilt if they must.

And before retreating back to her bedsheets at the will of her maid, she said.

“Even wilted flowers have worth, my prince.”

I had no reply for her.

11th day of the 6th moon, 128

She looks better today. Has done for several days in a row, much to the maesters relief.

The flush in her cheeks was neither from fever or strain, but life. And seeing her now as opposed to how I had often known her, she was beaming with it. Whether it was out riding or the gardens, she would routinely ignore the advice of those who cared for her health to bask in the sun, if only for a mere few hours.

Her breath was even, her voice was clear.

For the first time since our wedding, we spoke freely.

I had not meant to stay for long, truly. But we walked through the gardens on a warm early afternoon. Although I had to stop every few paces to allow her to bend to retrieve some half-wilted flowers so she might place them in her basket.

She said the maesters said she will likely never be strong enough to bear children. At least healthy ones, or ones who would draw breath once born. That feminine melancholy drifted over her face for a moment, as if she suspected I already knew that truth myself.

And truly I had. It was why I had made no attempt to bed her since our consummation.

I did not know how to respond. Usually women speak of such matters with carefully shielded delicacy, whereas she spoke plainly. But I could not bring myself to express the disappointment I should have felt, or the anger that had simmered beneath the surface for so long.

Anger, perhaps not. Weary, maybe.

My answer was not one she would have expected. That I never asked for children. But in my stupidity, I had in fact said, I never asked her for children.

It seems I have driven an already sheathed blade even deeper.

My words may have been misshapen but they were the truth and that is all I have to offer her, is it not? I hold no love for her, but I would never deny such a fragile creature as my wife what I would give any other.

She said nothing. She lowered her lashes and the silence that followed was so unbearable I considered leaving her altogether.

I never asked her for children.

True enough, I suppose. But even I can see how little truth matters in the face of what I’ve taken from her.

I know as well as anyone, what I have actually expressed is that I expect nothing from her.

And perhaps the latter is more cruel.

14th day of the 6th moon, 128

Tonight, we coupled for the second time in our long marriage.

I had avoided her bed for months, claiming duties, council matters and brief bouts of illness that she no doubt didn’t believe as reasoning for my absence. Though after a time, people were beginning to whisper, so I had no choice but to comply. And there was a time where I believed my own mistruth, that I was sparing her. But in truth, I did not wish to see her fragility laid bare again.

She never protested, and likely never would.

So I went to her.

Her chambers were lit by a single candle dotted at several points around the room. She sat at her vanity, pulling her hair free of tight braids and pins. Her hands were so small and pale, I wondered if this small action itself did not overwhelm her delicate nerves. 

It was she who broke the silence. 

“Have you come to pity me, my prince?”

I almost turned away then. 

She let me unlace her gown, let me bare her to the dim firelight. 

It was less frantic though no less awkward. She held me as though she feared I might vanish, and I let her. Perhaps it was the wine, or the quiet of the hour. When I touched her, she shivered. And when my lips accidentally brushed against her neck, she tilted her head back. The floral perfumes she had applied to her skin felt too much of a distraction.

When I finished she looked up at me. It has always unsettled me, her ability to look upon me without flinching. I am a dragon and she is a petal, and yet it is I who wilts beneath her gaze. 

Even the bloodiest of injuries had no such effect on me. 

- - the day of the 8th moon, 128

Aegon celebrated his nameday swiftly as he usually does. It is the third time in one month where he has had to be dragged from celebrations because he is unable to handle his wine. He had of course revelled in the attention, called for songs, dancers and yet more Dornish Red, as if he had not had enough.

The lords humoured him. The ladies pretended not to notice. Father was not even in attendance, it was mother and Helaena who sat diligently at the top table, faces sullen as if they held the weight of the Realm on their shoulders.

For my part, I watched from the shadows, as I often do. My appetite for such things is thin at best, and thinner still with the murmurs that reached my ears tonight.

They speak of her. My wife.

“Too weak to attend,” one said. “She’s been frail since the wedding,” said another.

I could feel their eyes upon me, their pity or curiosity or judgment, I could not say which was worse. It felt such a disservice for others to remark upon her the way I have. 

Nobody was as shocked as I to see her when the doors to the hall opened. There she stood, walking carefully into the light, bathed in a dress that was not crimson, not dark, never. But red all the same, as if she had thought of honouring the house she wed into but not yet willing to loosen the reins on herself entirely. The color was pale, muted, a shade more suited to her, though it did little to disguise her frailty. Truth be told, she does look sickly in red.

I knew she had wanted to wear it, though. That was why she had chosen it.

For a moment, I thought she might collapse under the weight of the eyes and silence on her.

I thought to rise as she approached me, but for some reason I did not. She inclined her head to me so faintly I doubt anyone else saw, and I saw her locks were adorned with jewellery she had not usually worn.

She inquired as to the whereabouts of my brother, no doubt asking whether the celebrated prince was on his very own nameday, but she did not seem downtrodden when I informed her he had retired to his chambers. As if it were a mere formality.

“Shall we dance, husband?”

I thought to refuse her, to spare her the strain, but the look in her eyes silenced me. And I could not very well be seen to refuse my own wife. She extended her hand, pale and trembling, and I took it without a word.

I thought it would embarrass me, this spectacle before the court. Her weakness had done so before, and I had no doubt it would do it again. But I could not bear to say the words aloud, not when she had dressed in my house colours for me.

I led her to the centre of the hall, her small frame so light beneath my guiding hand that I wondered how she had summoned the strength to stand, let alone to dance. When I placed my hand at her waist and we began to move, I noticed almost immediately that she was struggling to keep pace with the beat. Her breaths were short, shallow, her fingers tightening on my shoulder as though holding herself upright by sheer force of will. Still, she did not stop.

“I hope I have not made a spectacle of us,” she whispered.

I only said there was no need for her to apologise.

When her steps faltered again, I acted without thinking. I lifted her slightly, guiding her feet onto mine so that she would not have to move. She blinked at me, startled, but did not protest. For the first time that evening, her breaths seemed to ease, her grip on my shoulder loosening ever so slightly.

I kept my gaze forward, refusing to meet the eyes of the court. If they found it amusing, I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing it bother me.

I told her that when I was born, it was said I was half the size of Aegon, but twice as fierce. He had cried louder, but they said I fought harder. That perhaps it was the cruelty of the gods to make those of us born weaker feel as though we must prove ourselves twice over.

She studied me, with her soft eyes, but I did not meet them. I regret that now.

When I lost my eye, I told her, they pitied me. Looked at me as if I were a thing to be mended, or worse, endured. And that is I imagine how she feels when they look at her.

She said nothing for a moment, but the faint pressure of her hand against my shoulder told me she had heard.

“Yet, you have made yourself strong. Where I have not.”

For a moment I could only stare at her. But when I found my voice, it was hushed, so that others dancing around us might not hear.

“Strength is not always shown through the sword.”

She replied with nothing.

Perhaps we are not so different, she and I.

19th day of the 10th moon, 128

She is with the maesters today. 

I knew this but I found myself in her chambers regardless.

Aegon, in his perpetual state of drunkenness, had the gall to make a joke of it. Saying that she was with child. The court laughed of course, unable to tell the difference between a joke and insult. I am grateful she was not present to hear it. And for the fact that I did not defend her.

Her desk was an array of papers and cuttings as if she had left in a hurry. Lately she was more tired than usual, and instead of chills and shakes, she was hot to the touch and feverish. Perhaps nobody will understand her condition truly, but I am told that she has been this way since birth.

Lately I have found that practicing with the sword does not steal my attention the way it used to, so there I found myself, looking through the smatterings of paper and flowers, and I doubt it will be the last time.

A leather bound notebook sat snugly atop everything else, the pages fanned out as though abandoned mid-turn. I thought perhaps it was a diary, not unlike the one I keep myself, somewhere to keep my thoughts and worries if they arise. But the little writing that was present was descriptive, brief, and so feminine in its curves and loops that I could barely read it. 

When we were first wed, and for several months since then, I had watched closely and from afar as well as she insisted on walks through the gardens, even despite the advice of the maesters. She could not be stopped. She would fill her basket slung over her elbow with wilted, near-dead flowers, the petals curling inward, their stems drooping, 

I had not thought to ask her why then. Why she collected such things if they were already so close to falling short of bloom.

The flowers are pressed between the pages of a book, their fragile shapes preserved as though she has defied time itself. Beside them, in her careful script, she has labeled each one, names I recognise, though I have never cared to remember them before. A rose, a poppy, a sprig of thyme, rosemary. Even weeds have found their place here.

She has always been given to sentiment, to seeing beauty where others would not bother to look. It is a softness I have long struggled to understand. But she has made them more than what they were, given them a purpose beyond their fleeting bloom.

It was an evening primrose, its pale petals pressed so thin they seemed almost translucent. Beneath it, in her neat script, she had written:

“Evening primrose. For quiet devotion.”

And below that, a date, the day after we were wed.

I stared at it for a long while.

And as I stand there, I realise I have never seen her hands tremble when she writes.

I cursed myself when I returned to my chambers and remembered I had not restored the book to the page I found it on. She will know I have touched it. Her sacred little book.

27th day of the 12th moon, 128

The Keep is more quiet than it has been in months, as the year comes to its close. The usual tensions of the Realm remains, as does my father, who is more akin to a walking corpse than a man most days. He can no longer walk up the steps by himself, and my mother does not have the strength to assist. Even Aegon has managed to hold his tongue of late, though I suspect it will not last.

She has been visiting Helaena more often than usual as of late. Seated together in her solar, embroidering, their voices soft and indistinct, like the murmuring of a distant brook. A casual observer might have mistaken them for sisters, though I doubt either would care for the comparison.

“Soft in the head,” Aegon says of Helaena. “Soft in the body,” he says of my wife. He does not mean it as a compliment, though he says it with a grin, as if he expects me to laugh. I do not.

Though I don’t agree, the two do share a certain gentleness. An ethereal charm that I am not able to form into words. They are both easily dismissed, glanced over in a crowd of boisterous and overzealous personalities. Dismissed by those too blind to see. Aegon, is one such fool.

When I approached, Helaena looked up first with her pale eyes that were so familiar, but said nothing. And my wife, to my surprise, greeted me warmly, and seemed surprised to see me. When I spoke to Mother later, she insisted that my wife was a good influence on Helaena. And that she has a calming presence. One she says I should feel grateful for.

I did not tell her that I am.

2nd day of the 1st moon, 129

The belly of King’s Landing celebrated the turn of the new year more so than any within the Keep. The thunder of laughter and dancing seemed to stir the very grounds beneath me. The merriment of the season seemed to warm the chill in the air, and it seems almost everyone has felt its embrace.

She surprised me tonight.

I had not expected her, not at this hour, and certainly not in such a state. Her usual pallor was touched with faint color, her step more certain than it had been in weeks. There was a lightness to her gaze, an energy that I had not seen in some time, and for a moment, I thought her appearance a trick of the dim firelight.

I motioned for her to sit, though she declined, choosing instead to stand near the hearth. For a while, neither of us spoke. 

But then she said she had been thinking about her place here, at the Keep and by my side, as my wife. I waited, unsure of where this conversation might lead. 

“I know I am not the wife you might have wished for,” she continued. “I know what the court says of me, of my frailty, my weakness. And I know what it is to be a man of your station.”

Her meaning became clear, though I did not wish to hear it.

“If you were to take a mistress.”

I did not mean to startle her by interrupting, but I could not bear to hear the rest. Had she no respect for herself? That she would assume I am so restless that I cannot stay one moment without bedding another woman, simply because I am afraid she will break beneath me? What could I say? That I did not desire anyone else? That the thought of betraying her, even in name, made my stomach turn?

And then she asked why. I offered the only truth I could manage.

“I do not know. I only know that I do not wish to. Is that not enough?”

She replied with a simple, but quiet, “it is.”

She did not stay long after that, but she lingered yet in my mind as she does now, writing this entry at the hour of the wolf. Sometimes when I look upon my delicate wife, it feels as if she is other-worldly, plucked from some distant place and planted right here to wither in the sun. She seems less a creature of flesh and blood and more a whisper of something eternal, a soul untethered by time.

There is a stillness about her, a quietness that feels unnatural, as though she is not bound by the same rhythms of life that govern the rest of us. She exists in the space between moments, the breath held just before the candle flickers out.

She is not a woman to me, not entirely. She is something deeper, something I lack the words to name. Perhaps that is why I cannot bring myself to stray, why the thought of betraying her feels like a sin greater than I could bear.

Indeed why not? I could not answer her then, and I doubt I could answer her now.

5th day of the 2nd moon, 129

Am I not a man, but a beast.

She accompanied me this morning to break my fast. Something we now often do to please Mother.

She sat across from me, the light through the windows pebbled across her face, showing how the flush that had decorated her cheeks was starting to fade. A fleeting bloom I did not wish to see vanish.

She picked at the honeyed bread with delicate, little bites, savouring its sweetness. I hardly touched my breakfast. I find it difficult to eat in the morning. But here I sat, too focussed on the golden sheen of the syrup upon her lips.

When she licked the honey from her lips and fingers, I felt a sharp, sudden pain to my chest.

I do not know what possessed me then.

One moment, I was watching her across the table. The next, I was upon her. My hand tangled in her hair, my tongue licking along the seam of her lips to taste the sweetness that lingered there. She gasped against me, I remember her warm breath, startled but pliant.

It was not quick, though it was desperate, as if I could mold her body to mine, as if I could press all I was, all my essence into her fragile frame. My hands gripped her waist, her hips, her thighs, heedless of her delicacy.

I was a creature of need, of raw, unchecked hunger. And her sweet cunt tightening around me was the only thing that could sate it.

Her breath hitched as I fucked her, but said nothing. Her hands held my shoulders, as if to keep herself steady. I did not stop to think, to question.

When it was over, she lay beneath me, her breathing shallow, her hair tousled. And for a moment I could not bring myself to move. I stayed inside her, relishing the warmth of her sweet womanhood, breathed in her scent at her neck, and felt I might weep.

She smelled of vanilla and amber.

What have I done?

I did not dare look at her, but equally she said nothing. 

I fear I have hurt her. Both in body and spirit. And yet, I cannot regret it. Though now I must wonder if she looks upon me with fear, with pity.

6th day of the 2nd moon, 129

I sought her out today.

The guilt has gnawed at me. Sharp and aching. I thought she might be angry. Or worse, afraid.

She was in her chambers, a shawl around her shoulders to stay the chill that seemed to find her easily, a book rested in her lap. When I entered, she looked up, her expression unreadable.

I said I owe her an apology. Which was a difficult enough thing to admit to myself than to her.

She closed her book slowly, and moved to stand. The shawl made her look frail.

“For what?”

For that morning, I replied to her. For taking liberties. For being selfish and only thinking of myself.

She interrupted softly. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

She must have seen the confusion on my face.

“You did not hurt me,” she added. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “I was…surprised, perhaps. That is all.”

Surprised?

She answered that sometimes she felt undesirable. Repulsive. And the words from such a delicate, little thing were like a blade to my heart.

How do I tell her that I desire her more than I can bear?

She told me that she said nothing during the act because she felt it was improper for young ladies to desire such things. To enjoy them. And she had.

I only said that she is not simply a lady.

She is my wife.

She uttered so quietly I thought I might miss it.

“I did not think I could make you feel this way.”

Gods. She can.

She is not what I expected, not what I thought I wanted. But she is what I need, in ways I am only beginning to understand.

4th day of the 3rd moon, 129

Father is dead.

I've repeated the same sentence in my head for hours now, and yet they still feel hollow. Echoing like the toll of a dull bell. Everything has changed.

Though not unexpected, the whispers of his failing health have been constant for years. Even as long as I have been alive, I'd wager. But the finality of it. The truth. The realm will stir into chaos, as Mother had always warned us it would.

They mean to crown Aegon. They mean to gift him what Father had always upheld was Rhaenyra's.

Any whisper of treason is swiftly dealt with. Otto Hightower sees to it. Nobody is safe, it feels.

My wife has been locked in her chambers, barred from leaving as if she were a criminal. I am forbidden to see her, but I am told by the maesters that her condition is too delicate to bear the strain of what is unfolding around us. The stress, they claim, has worsened her already fragile health.

I am furious. The thought of her, alone and frightened, makes my blood boil. She is not a pawn to be hidden away while the realm burns. She is my wife, and I will not be kept from her.

Mother has tried to calm me, speaking of duty and order, of the chaos that would erupt if the truth of Father’s death were known before the plans are set in motion. But I see no order in this, only madness.

She does not understand. How could she? She has never known weakness, never known what it is to live under the constant shadow of her own failing body. My wife has. And now they confine her to her chambers, as though the isolation will preserve her.

Surely they must know it is not the noise of court or the weight of the realm that will break her. It is the solitude.

If they think to keep me from her, they are fools.

I will not allow her to be dragged head first into the mess Mother has made of this.

9th day of the 3rd moon, 129

Aegon is king.

The bells rang to usher in a new era. A new king. Grandfather had organised the crowds to gather in the Dragonpit, to witness the moment the conqueror’s crown was placed upon my brother's brow, and Blackfyre thrust into his grip.

For all his faults, Aegon is no stranger to spectacle. He held our great ancestral sword aloft, and the smallfolk roared their approval, blissfully ignorant of the blood that stains this crown and the chaos that will surely follow.

I stood beside Helaena. She was dreamy as usual, and barely looked in her husband's direction. She knew as well as I, that it all stank of desperation.

My wife attended, though she was likely too unwell to. It wasn't difficult to guess she had been spoken to by Grandfather, instructed what to do to appear as if she was supportive of this farce. But still, she insisted on standing by my side.

She had applied rouge to her cheeks in an effort to mask her pallor, but it did little to fool anyone. Her face was thin, her movements careful.

The smallfolk noticed. I saw the way they whispered to one another when their eyes fell upon her. They are a superstitious lot, always quick to see omens where there are none. A sickly wife at the hasty coronation of a king.

Her hands trembled as she gripped mine, her strength waning with each passing moment. I whispered to her that she should sit, but she shook her head, her resolve unbroken despite the frailty of her body.

And then the ground shook.

Meleys burst forth, the Queen-Who-Never-Was seated at her neck. And the smallfolk that were not stuck beneath her claws scattered like leaves in the wind. My wife’s knees buckled, her strength finally giving way. I caught her before she could fall, my arm wrapping around her waist as I shielded her from the chaos. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her fingers clutching at my sleeve.

But Meleys did not strike. Nor did Rhaenys speak.

I did not release her until the crowd began to stir again, until the danger had passed. Even then, I could feel her trembling against me, her breath shallow and uneven.

My house has been fractured. Our futures uncertain.

And all I can think of is her pale face, her trembling lips, as she said. “Are you alright?”

I could have laughed if I were not so angry.

12th day of the 3rd moon, 129

The maesters still hover over her, though I have been here at her bedside since the coronation.

She is more fragile than I remember, her breath shallow, her skin too pale beneath the warmth of the fire. Her gaze follows me everywhere, as if afraid I might vanish. Perhaps she sees me as fleeting too. 

Perhaps she fears that I might not return.

I did not think I would be the person she would cling to. And at times I do not know how to feel about it. She has not changed, and yet I used to look upon her with contempt and irritation.

Could it be that I have changed?

I must go to Storm’s End soon.

The Baratheons are key to ensuring an alliance, to strengthen my family's claim to the throne by rallying the great houses of Westeros to our cause. I resent Aegon's rule, yes, but I do not wish to see my whore sister on the throne even more so.

Should that happen, my wife would be in danger as well.

It is Daeron who I must barter a marriage for. It is a necessary journey, one I cannot avoid, no matter how much my heart aches at the thought of leaving her.

She knows this. She knows my duty to the family, to the crown, and yet when I spoke of it, a shadow crossed her face. Her lips parted as though she wished to speak, but she remained silent. The fear in her eyes, however, was enough.

“Will you come back to me?” she asked me.

She is afraid. She fears for my safety, just as I fear for hers. And equally, though she does not speak it, she resents that I have been dragged into this cause.

I promised her I would return.

When I kissed her before I left, I did not want to let go. Her hand gripped mine as though she might shatter with the slightest breeze. She did not speak again, but I saw the unshed tears in her eyes, and it nearly undid me.

I do not wish to leave.

I do not wish to leave her.

- - - - - -

I am living in a nightmare.

She sleeps as I write this. So deeply I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure she is not stood right there.

The journey from Storm's End to Kings Landing was a blur. And when I returned and dismounted Vhagar, I was soaked to the bone from rain. I did not stop to speak to Mother. Could not bear to.

I had not meant for it to happen. But what does intent matter now? The boy is dead.

Lucerys Velaryon is dead.

His body fell from the skies, his dragon broken and bloody. And I just watched. Fear gnaws at me, but not for myself, but what this means for my family and all those that live under my protection. Rhaenyra will want vengeance for this.

My mother, grandfather, they will want for me to claim I wanted this, just so they might shift their judgement onto me instead. Claim that I began this war and not their scheming. They will whisper, I know they will, that this was revenge for the boyish quarrel that left me half-blinded.

And such has ended in his death.

It is not so simple. I know what I have done. I know what they will call me. A kinslayer. A monster. And worse, I fear that she, my wife, will see it too.

When I returned to our chambers, she was sat in a nest made of pillows, propped up to avoid strain. Hearing my arrival, she sat up straighter, though she looked weak, and shakily got to her feet despite my initial protests.

Her eyes still looked upon me with softness, as if I were deserving. And I was unprepared for her reaction. She saw me, soaked and trembling but did not speak. Did not ask what had happened, though she could see some turmoil in me.

Her hands, small and trembling, undressed me without rush. Stripping me of not only my clothes but the weight that slumped my shoulders. She did not judge, did not speak of what was so plainly written across my weathered face.

Her silence was a gift. One I did not deserve.

And yet I leaned into her touch. It was so warm against my skin. I even allowed her to remove the leather over my stolen eye. Something I rarely do in her presence.

I was bare, laying beside her, shaking. And she shed her clothes so that we might embrace without the confines of fabric. Her hands ran through my hair, untangling the salty strands delicately with all the patience in the realm.

“I killed him.”

I whispered it into the dark, without seeing her face.

“Lucerys. I killed him.”

She did not ask why or how. She slid closer, her tender breasts against my back, and ran her hands down my arm.

I told her everything. What I said. Threatened. How I flew after him in the storm. Vhagar.

Her voice in response had no anger. Only sadness.

“You returned to me. That is all that matters.”

12th day of the 4th moon, 129

I went to her chambers tonight as if the Gods had paved the path for me. I could not summon the strength to summon her to mine. Not after what I have done.

She did not question the shadows under my eyes. She simply welcomed me as she always does, with a tenderness I do not deserve.

When our bodies came together it was a communion of two souls. Deliberate. Not a conquest in the least. She is the only thing anchoring me to this world. And each scrape of her fingernails against my back felt heavenly. Kissing me softly. Tracing the scars that mark my body with the same hands that never tremble in my presence. Even now, when I feel I am beyond forgiveness. 

For a night, I did not feel like a kinslayer.

14th day of the 4th moon, 129

I was not there.

I was not there. And I should have been.

I was with her instead. And in my place, it was Helaena’s chambers they reached. Their names I forget, but they were grotesque as if from some old wives’ tale. I cannot stomach to imagine their faces in my mind.

My nephew is gone. They made my sister, my blood, point him out, as if he were meats fetching a good price at the slaughter. If I had been there, in my chambers, as I was supposed to be, would I have been able to stop this? Could I have spared my sister the sight of her son’s blood soaking the stone floors?

I cannot think of it without bile rising in my throat.

Helaena has not spoken and not emerged since. I do not know if she ever will. 

The court is ablaze with questions, panic rippling through every corner of the Keep.

Where were the guards? How could this have happened?

I, too, demand answers. For all her faults, I never believed Rhaenyra capable of such an act, sending assassins into the heart of the Keep to put Helaena, of all people, in danger. But this? This cruelty? She has proven herself to have even less humanity than I once dared to credit her.

I cannot protect my family, even in my own home. Though my wife reassures me, I feel like a kinslayer twice over. Even once I returned to her bed after the commotion had died down and Aegon too, she reached for me, and I let her. Her hands were frail, but somehow steady when they touched me. Like tiny little stems curling into my blood. Growing more and more. Like a gentle annihilation of the man I think I am.

She wept for the child. For Helaena, who would never again hold her son.

And I wept with her.

25th day of the 4th moon, 129

The boy was paraded through the streets, wrapped in silks and embroidered fabrics. My mother and Helanea followed, and any level-minded person would guess that this is desperation. Something I would not forgive grandfather for if he forced such a thing onto me and my wife, if we had a child of our own.

Aegon has ordered the ratcatchers put to death, every one of them, as if blood could somehow wash away blood. I doubt it will ease his conscience, if he has one left. He claims it is vengeance, justice. It is anger. It is shame. It is fear, thinly disguised.

At the council, I learned that Aegon had dismissed my grandfather as Hand. His replacement? Ser Criston Cole. A decision as reckless as it is insulting. 

Mother’s face said what the rest of us could not. She sat in silence, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her lips pressed into a thin line. I said nothing either, though the weight of her displeasure mirrored my own. Criston may wield a sword with skill, but a Hand must have wit and reason. He has neither.

I know I hold little love in the eyes of my own mother now anyway. She looks upon me like I am a monster, as if I have been my whole life. As if this is not what she has made of me.

I returned to my wife afterwards. We rarely speak now, though her presence is a balm I cannot name. The illness has caught her chest again, I can hear it in her breath. She told me to keep my distance, fearing I will catch it, as if I care for such trivial things.

I stayed regardless, seated in the chair by her bed as the fire burned low. She did not scold me for it. She simply turned her head to watch me, her eyes soft, almost apologetic. I reached for her hand, and she let me take it. I can see the fear of what is to come weighs heavy on her. 

This quiet between us. Is this feeling what those countless ballads harp on about? Could this marriage, born of resentment and difficulty, become love?

2nd day of the 6th moon, 129

Aegon’s hold on this war is akin to his grip on a cup of wine at the hour of the wolf. Slippery, at best. He sits in council and speaks of Harrenhal with such conviction, as though Criston Cole marching there will be anything more than foolishness. Daemon holds that cursed ruin, and we all know what awaits Criston if he tries to pry it from him. Yet Aegon seems blind to reason, drunk on his desire to pull victory from thin air.

I suggest a different course. Rook’s Rest. But he will not see reason. And of course it was met with hesitation. Aegon’s indecision is a rot that will take him black, and Mother’s silence does nothing to stay it. 

They all think me hungry for blood and battle. Aemond One-Eye. 

There is a part of me that longs to prove myself. To be remembered for something other than the boy who lost his eye or the prince who killed his nephew. My wife knows an Aemond the realm does not. The one that sits beside her as they lays coughing at night. She sees a man, a good one perhaps. Whereas the court merely whisper of me as if I am a dark shadow.

The realm will never know the man my wife sees. There is a power in them seeing only what I allow, what I need them to know. Strength. Fire. 

Sometimes, I wonder if she mourns the parts of me that the world will never have.

She listens to me speak of my plans, hands clasped, seeing the fractures in her husband, the places where pride and vengeance run too deep to cut out. I wonder if she pities me for it. If she doesn’t, perhaps she should.

13th day of the 6th moon, 129

Rook’s Rest still burns, I'd wager. Though it has been several days since the battle. The wind still whips at me, I feel, as I watch Meleys hurtle towards the earth. Her dragonrider still pitched to her back.

Aegon does not relish in his victory. He lays near death, every breath a struggle. Not dissimilar to how I have seen my wife oftentimes.

I returned to her chambers as soon as I was able. The Keep feels hollow these days, and there I might find peace, where none exists inside me.

She looks frailer than she did when I left, though she insists otherwise. The maesters prattle about her condition, and I find myself snapping at them more than I ought. They are failing her. Everyone is failing her. Even me.

When she tried to rise from bed to greet me, I could not stop myself, I barked at her to stay put, the words sharper than I intended.  

I hate myself for it. But the thought of her straining herself, of her fragile body bending beneath the weight of this cursed war...it twists something in me, something I cannot name.

She is mine. My wife. My delicate flower. The one thing in this accursed world that is still soft, still untouched by the poison of the crown and the war.

I will not lose her.

She, of course, asked what had happened. Having heard the unfortunate nature of the king’s condition. Having heard the whispers. I said it was recklessness. Incompetence. But she has always been perceptive. 

She sees the darkness in me. The flicker of doubt that darkens her beautiful eyes, one she does not dare speak aloud.

But I cannot speak to her of the shadow that is cast over my heart. So instead, I spared hers, and told insisted it was Aegon's folly that lead to his downfall. Nothing more.

She nodded. But her gaze lingered on me. Searching. I know she does not believe me.

She reached for my hand, and I held hers too tightly. She winced. 

I watch her even now, as she sleeps, her breath too shallow for my liking, her form too still beneath the furs. My mind races with thoughts I cannot quiet. What if she never sees me return again? What if I leave and come back to find her gone?

I will not let it happen.

19th day of the 6th moon, 129

The council have chosen me as their Regent. Me, over Mother. It is as it should be. For all her wisdom, her place is not there. Her gentle sex does not suit the burden of governance, no matter how much she believes otherwise. She clings too tightly to something she herself has denied Rhaenyra, and I will not stand idly by and listen to her hypocrisy.

The council at least know my worth. 

Already I have begun to shape the crumbling realm back to stability. The first act began with Mother, relegating her to duties befitting of a Dowager Queen, and one she did not take lightly. It is not cruelty. Necessary. There is no place for soft murmurings of mercy at my council. She will understand in time.

The work is endless. The weight immeasurable, but one I wear with pride. I have longed for this. To show I am not weak, but formidable, with no time for distraction. 

The realm needs me now more than ever.

28th day of the 6th moon, 129

Regency suits me well. It is a shame I was not born first.

The first real edict was to close the city gates, to forbid people from leaving and also to avoid our enemies sneaking past our fragile lines. King’s Landing must be fortified, protected from the vipers who would see us undone. Let the smallfolk whisper and grumble, their safety is ensured only because I am willing to make the hard choices.

Trade has slowed, of course, but I care little for the merchants’ squawking. Better that they lose their coin than lose their lives when Rhaenyra’s forces march upon us.

Though the power is intoxicating it is not without its burdens. I see the faces of the council as they defer to me, the uncertainty that flickers behind their eyes. They doubt my youth, my ability to lead, but they dare not say it aloud. 

There are moments, fleeting though they are, when I wonder if I have already given too much of myself to this war. But I cannot dwell on such thoughts. The realm does not wait for doubt, and neither shall I.

7th day of the 7th moon, 129

I had nearly forgotten her.

The council chamber was quiet when she appeared, the hour so late that even the most loyal attendants had taken their leave. I sat, pouring over papers and maps, looking up as she stood at the doors draped in translucent fabric, her fragile frame looking almost ghostly.

She had come all the way from her chambers, weak as she is, just to see me.

For a moment, I was struck dumb, caught between guilt and irritation. I had not sought her out in days, too consumed by the weight of my duties.

I asked her, sharper than I intended, what she was doing here and that she should be resting. And she did not flinch, but I could see her eyes flicker downwards.

“I had to see you.”

It was as if she wanted to see if I still existed. And that I was not some otherworldly vision, told only through whispers and rumours. For she had not seen me in near a fortnight. Her voice was so soft that it struck a chord I did not need for it to resonate.

I could not say anything more than the realm expects more of me now. The demands on my shoulders. I cannot spare a moment.

Her voice strained. “I had to see you because otherwise I scarcely know my husband lives and breathes.”

Her words erupted guilt and irritation alike. Buried beneath a thin, black veil I have carefully fabricated.

I could only insist I do all this for her. To keep her safe.

“How is it for me, Aemond? All I see in you is this desire for power. You speak of the realm, of me, but this is just sheer ambition, and you are too blind to see what it is doing to you. And I will not be your excuse for how tightly you cling to what you seek.”

I snapped and said how could she know. She has not ruled and never will. She does not understand the burden I bear.

“Perhaps I don't understand. But I know the man I married, the one I grew to love. And all I see is him slipping away.”

Gods, she sounded so wounded I was not sure whether to resent it or pity it.

The man she grew to love.

I was rendered so shocked I could not say anything. Even when her eyes begged for a response. And she turned to leave, her steps weak and faltering with every second. And I did not help her.

I did not help her.

I cannot shake the look on her face. 

I know I should go to her, but I cannot. Her weakness, her frailty, I am afraid it will take me down with it.

And the realm cannot afford more weakness from the crown.

24th day of the 7th moon, 129

Everything is unravelling.

Rhaenyra has thrown everything she has at us, now even her bastards ride dragons. It is a cruel mockery of what we were meant to be. Blood of the dragon, sullied by lowborn filth. And Helaena, sweet and broken, refuses to aid us. Her grief holds her captive, and I cannot rouse her from it. I need her dragon, but she will not hear me.

Today was unbearable.

The council drags their feet and the walls close in. The smallfolk riot in the streets from hunger, one Rhaenyra herself has caused but that they seem to forget.

I came back to my chambers after the council adjourned, weary and enraged. And there, on my desk, I found them. Snapdragons. Flowers of bold pinks and oranges, fierce and alive, their edges tinged with red like the tips of dragonfire.

She has been here.

There was no note. No explanation. The flowers spoke what she did not.

It is a reminder of who I am, or rather the man I should be. The man she loves, not the beast I fear I am becoming.

I stood there for what felt like an age, staring at the blooms as if they might speak to me. In that moment, I made my decision. I must go to Harrenhal soon, to face Daemon, but I will not leave without seeing her first. Without making amends.

When I went to her chambers, there were no maesters, but her fever was heightened, and so she slept with sheer clothing and no bedsheets. She looked like a nymph, laid there, her breasts visible through the fabric and flowers at each bedside.

Like she didn't belong in the confines of the Keep. She belonged out there, amongst the trees and rivers, to exist in breath and wind.

She looked up, rose from her gentle slumber, and looked at me. Her eyes soft and searching.

I kissed her and she did not pull away. She let me touch her, hold her, gasped as I slid her nightgown up her hips and nipped at her thighs to taste the sweet nectar that poured from her.

She was warm and heady, an intoxicating mix of salt and sweetness, like honey warmed by the sun. I drank from her as if parched, savoring the way she trembled beneath me, the way her body seemed to bloom under my touch.

Her breath hitched as I lavished her with my tongue, her fingers desperate as her nailed pulled pleasantly at my hair. Each sound she made was a victory, each shiver a testament to the power she held over me. For all my strength, all my fury, I was undone by her, reduced to this, worshiping at the altar of her body.

Even as she cried out I could not stop. And when it became too much, I rose, her flavour still clinging to my lips. And we coupled slowly, tenderly, for hours. Devouring her as if by doing so, I could take some of her kindness, and bathe me clean of the darkness that lingers within.

She is no fool.

“My love. Do not make love to me as if I will never see you again.”

I could not answer her. She knows I must go. To Harrenhal. Now on my own, if nobody else will assist me.

I felt her fingers on my cheek.

“If you cannot promise me that. Promise me this. Write to me. Wherever you are. Whatever you do.”

I could not find it in my heart to deny her such a simple thing. I will send her my words, if I cannot send my body, soul and love.

I realised right there, her small body spent in my arms how many weeks, months even, I had spent unappreciative of the flutter she always gave me. The unending kindness she would offer. The truth, even when I didn't want it.

I had forgotten to treat her with tenderness.

1st day of the 9th moon, 129

Harrenhal is mine.

The stronghold of the Strongs fell with little resistance. The castle itself, vast and cold, looms like a beast over the land, its ruins whispering of past glories and darker tragedies. House Strong is no more. I have seen to that myself.

Save for one.

Alys Rivers remains. She claimed she had visions of my coming, of my victory, and of greater things yet to unfold. She spoke in riddles, her eyes fixed on me as though she could see into my soul.

Her words, her presence, are tempting in their way. Alys Rivers is a beautiful woman, older than I expected, with a certain allure born of her confidence and mystery. She has made no secret of her willingness to warm my bed, to offer herself to me in exchange for her life.

But I did not take her. I will not.

I told her plainly that she would live for now because her visions may serve a purpose. Nothing more. Let her think she has some measure of power over me if it keeps her pliant and useful. Yet even as I write this, I know I should send her to the sword, for the danger she represents.

My wife would see it how it is. Desperation.

I have not written to her yet. Not my wife. Not the only soul who would calm the storm within me.

I will tomorrow.

For tonight, the shadows of Harrenhal linger too heavily, and the blood on my hands feels too fresh.

17th day of the 11th moon, 129

Now I know why Daemon left this wretched place behind.

Harrenhal is not a castle, it is a carcass. Its halls are hollow, its walls crumbling, and its very air feels like a curse pressing down on my chest. The fires that claimed this ruin have never truly died. They linger in the stones, in the bones of the dead, whispering their stories to anyone who dares to listen.

And I am here now, breathing it in. I thought it would feel like a triumph, taking Harrenhal, but it is not.

I have not slept well since my arrival. And when I do, the dreams come. Muddled and confusing. Vivid and cruel things that weave consciousness into sleep.

Last night, I dreamt of her.

She was in her chambers in bed, sickly, her skin pale and translucent. The maesters swarm her like vultures for flesh, muttering useless words and hovering instead of healing. Her eyes found me, tired and hooded, and it was not a look of blame or fear, but something that still reminded me I am not the man she needed me to be.

In her eyes I saw my regrets. Every harsh word I spoke. Every moment I turned away. Every time I let ambition and anger drown out what little light we had kindled between us.

I tried to reach for her in the dream, but the distance was too great. I called her name, but she did not answer. And when I woke, my throat was raw, as if I had truly been shouting in my sleep.

In another dream, I was between her milky thighs, lapping at her sweet cunt like I had been starved of it for years. She moaned so sweetly as she always did. And when she clawed at my scalp to pull me closer to her it felt different. She was stronger. Less tender.

And when I looked up, her nectar glazing my face, I felt my heart grow cold and hollow. Her skin was pale, yes, but her hair darkened into something akin to raven feathers, her eyes sunk back slightly, cheekbones sharpened. And the soft, lightly colour there morphed into stark emeralds, lips red and quirked upwards.

Perhaps Harrenhal is cursed. Perhaps it draws out the darkest thoughts, the deepest fears, and forces them to the surface. Or perhaps it is only me. Perhaps I am cursed.

I must write to her. She is my tether, the only thing that keeps me from being swallowed whole by the darkness here. Tomorrow, I will write. Tonight, I will try to sleep and hope the dreams do not return.

Dearest Wife,

I write to you from the cold halls of Harrenhal, a place that holds no warmth, no life. Not like your chambers do. The days here stretch long, the nights longer still. It is a place of ash and shadow, where even the air feels heavy. And yet, amidst the ruin, I found something unexpected, a winter rose, growing stubbornly in the cracks of stone.

I have enclosed it with this letter. It is small, fragile, but it persists. A reminder, perhaps, that beauty can be found even in the bleakest places. I thought of you when I saw it. Handle it gently, as you always do.

How do you fare, my love? I pray the maesters have been attentive, and that the chill has not worsened your condition. I think of you often, though I fear my words fail to capture how much. I see you in every quiet moment, in every breath of wind. You linger in my thoughts as if you are a part of me, inseparable and eternal.

I do not wish to burden you with the trials of this place, nor the weight of my duties. But know that I am well, and I will return to you as soon as I am able. Until then, take care of yourself, for I cannot bear the thought of you suffering in my absence.

Yours Always,

Aemond

4th day of the 2nd moon, 130

Alys spoke of visions today.

She said she could see two dragons coming together, sharing the same fate above the great God's Eye. Then my wife, she saw our reunion, my wife's hair lit as if from the sun of the Seven Heavens. She sounded so certain, as if recounting events that had already transpired. She was so confident, I almost believed her.

Almost.

She sees so much, so she claims. Watching the flames dance along her eyes is, in itself, invigorating to watch. Her gentle mutterings are welcome sometimes in the quiet, hollow hallways of Harrenhal. They linger, pulling on the threads of my mind as if I am to her whim.

She moves through this great castle as if she has been a ghost here for generations. Her gaze does not cower before me as many others do, but she stands close. Perhaps sometimes, too close. And I think myself weak for not dismissing her.

She is a woman who knows the route to survival, and I cannot fault her for that.

They are brief, fleeting. The times where I wonder if she offers herself for something more than just survival. When she hands me a raven, her touch lingers longer than it should. 

I do not know what Alys Rivers wants from me, nor do I care to ask.

I have not written to my wife of her. How could I? How do I explain this shadow in my midst, this woman who speaks of futures I do not wish to see? I tell myself it is unnecessary, that Alys is nothing more than a tool, a means to an end.

And yet, I wonder if I am lying to myself.

Daemon is coming. That much I believe. Whether Alys’s visions are truth or falsehood, the outcome remains the same. We are on a path that cannot be turned aside.

When the time comes, I will be ready.

My Dearest Husband,

Your letter reached me today, and I must confess, I wept to see the winter rose you sent. Such a small and delicate thing, so rare. I pressed it into my own book, so it may keep company with my other treasures. Thank you, my love.

I have pressed a snapdragon into these pages also. Last spring, you commented that the colour of their petals reminded you of a dragon mid-roar, and I wished to remind you of simpler times, before the world felt so uncertain.

I have soaked these papers in the oils I apply to my hair and skin. Perhaps a silly indulgence to some, but I thought perhaps it might bring you some comfort, a memory of home in the coldness of that dreadful castle.

The maesters say the chill has caught my chest, though it has for many here. You must not worry, I assure you it is nothing more than the season’s cruel bite. I have taken my draughts and kept warm as you would wish me to, though the days feel colder without you here to hold me.

I hope this letter finds you well. Write to me when you can, even if it is but a few lines. Your words are a light in these dark times, and I cling to them more than I dare admit.

I hope you campaigns in the Riverlands fare well. Remember you are my husband first, not a shadow of war or duty. Please do not forget or lose grip on the man I fell in love with.

Yours Forever,

Your Loving Wife

- - - - 130

The quill trembles in my hand as I write. Ink smears before I can make sense of my thoughts. This entry will be illegible by morning, I am certain. It makes no sense— how could it? Dreams are madness.

Alys.

Alys.

Her belly was swollen, a grotesque curve rounded with child, one of my blood. Not hers. Not hers! I could not look at her without feeling bile in my throat, the heat of shame.

And then my wife.

My wife!

She was there, crumpling to the ground, her grief splitting the air like a storm. Her screams. Gods, her screams. I have never heard her voice raised in such a way, never seen her face contorted with such anguish.

I wanted to go to her, to explain, but I could not move. My feet were rooted, and the air was thick, choking me. She looked at me, her eyes wide with betrayal, and I felt myself drowning in them. No. Not in them.

In water.

My lungs burned. My limbs thrashed. The surface was a distant shimmer, unreachable. I could hear her still, even beneath the water, her screams warped and muffled, but no less devastating.

I woke gasping, clawing at the air as if I could still feel the water pulling me under.

What does it mean? What does it mean?

Harrenhal speaks as if it has a clawing, fearsome mouth.

Kinslayer. Usurper. Liar. Monster.

I am all and none. All and none.

The water, surely it does not drown me, it must cleanse me.

But it cannot. Nothing can. Nothing will.

My Dearest Aemond,

I write to you from my bed, as I have found myself unable to rise for much of late. The maesters are vigilant, though they assure me there is no cause for alarm and that I should not tire myself by writing. They say it is only the season and my own weakness conspiring against me. I do not tell them how I feel the cold seep deeper with each passing day, but I tell you, my husband, because I know you will not dismiss my words so lightly.

News of the battle at the Lakeshore has reached even here. The servants whisper of it, though I hear only fragments. There seems to be a changing of guards here at the Keep, but I do not leave my chambers, so I cannot see why. Are you well? Please tell me you are. It has been too long since I last heard from you, and I cannot help but worry. You are so far away, in such a dangerous place, and the weight of it lies heavy upon my chest.

I would not ask this of you if I thought it selfish, but please, write to me. Even a single line would be enough to still my restless heart.

Take care of yourself, my love. Remember that you are not alone in this, no matter how distant we may seem. You are mine, as I am yours, and nothing, not war, not duty, not even death, can change that.

All My Love,

Your Wife

My Loving Husband,

Why have you not written? Why do you leave me in this silence? The days are long without word from you, and the nights are even longer. I wait, and I wonder, and I worry. Is it so hard to take up your quill? Is it so hard to tell me that you are well?

Please, my love, do not let this silence stretch any longer. Tell me you are safe. Tell me you are whole. Tell me anything, for I am desperate for the sound of your voice, even if it must come to me through ink and paper.

Do you think of me, Aemond? Do you think of the nights we spent in each other’s arms? Do you think of the flowers I left for you, the words I whispered when the world felt less cruel? I hope you do. I hope you remember.

I have tried to be strong, for you, for us, but I am alas not as much as you. Please, my love, do not leave me to this silence any longer. Write to me. Ease my heart. I apologise for my heavy emotions, the ink smudges because of my shaky hands, and they are not as steady as they once were. Do not think poorly of me for it.

I fear I am beginning to lose my sense of time. Did I already tell you the maesters say I will recover? Forgive me if I repeat myself. My thoughts seem to wander, but they always find their way back to you.

I love you, Aemond. It hurts more than breathing. Please let me hear from you.

Yours, always and forever.

Your Loyal Wife

My Beloved Wife,

I read every stroke of your ink like a blade to my chest, not because they wound me so, but because I imagine your voice. Reminding me what I have left behind.

Do you know, my love, how much I miss you? How much I miss the feel of your hands on me, grounding me when the storms inside threaten to consume me?

Do not lose hope, for I cling to it still. If you cannot feel my arms around you, know that my soul reaches for you, across all the miles that separate us. Hold fast, my love, until I can come back to you.

Do not think poorly of your emotions, nor of your trembling hands. They have always been steady enough to hold me, to steady my own restless soul.

I do not deserve you, my delicate flower. But I am yours, wholly and utterly. I will write to you again soon, I swear it. I will not leave you in silence again.

Please, take heart, as I try to do. Remember that I love you, more than I have ever been able to say.

Yours, now and always,

Aemond

My Dearest, dearest Aemond,

Do you remember our first days as husband and wife? How cold you seemed, how distant? I used to think you disliked me, perhaps even resented me for my frailty. I was so small and scared then, unsure of my place in your life, in your heart.

But I see now what I could not see then. You are a man of storms, my love, and I was too weak to weather them. Yet, even storms have their moments of calm, and it was in those moments I found the man I have come to love more than life itself.

I do not know if this letter reaches you, nor if I have the strength to write another. But I need you to know, that I am wholly, and truly, yours. Now and always.

Please, remember me kindly.

Forever,

Your Loving Wife

My love,

It has been too long since I last wrote to you. For that I am sorry. I did not mean to worry you.

Truthfully I have left Harrenhal behind, trawling the Riverlands to those loyal to my sister still, even now. I head towards a confrontation I cannot avoid. Daemon wants his fight, and as much as I would like to be by your side, this challenge cannot be ignored. He is a fool if he thinks he can stand against me, but I must prove it nonetheless.

Once that is done, I swear to you, I will return to your side. This madness, this war, it has taken too much from us both. I long for the peace of your presence, the quiet of our chambers, where only you and I exist in our own world.

I do not know what awaits me when I return. I do not know what has become of you, though I hope you are well. Please know that, despite the distance and the bloodshed, you are always in my heart.

I will write again as soon as I can. Stay strong, my love. Wait for me.

I am yours,

Aemond

My love,

I await your reply like a lovesick child.

I fear the worst with each passing day, each hour that I do not hear your voice. Have I lost you? Is the cold consuming you, or have you fallen into silence for some other reason I cannot fathom? Please, I beg of you, send me word. Let me know that you are still waiting for me.

I have prepared myself to face Daemon, though I care little for the confrontation. His challenge has become a matter of necessity, but I cannot shake the thought of you, fragile and alone, while I am here, so far away. I would rather be by your side, taking care of you, than facing that traitor. But I have no choice now.

I am desperate, my love. A few lines in your gentle hand would give me the strength of a thousand men. Without you, what am I but a man trawling this desolate, darkened land, lost forever without your light to guide my way.

Please do write. My cherished flower.

Aemond

My darling wife,

I woke to a raven today. The words written within it seemed impossible, a cruelty that no man should have to face. It tells me of your passing, of your death.

But I refuse to believe it. I cannot.

You are not gone. I would have felt you, felt your soul leave this realm. I would have felt the Stranger take you from me, and yet, there is only the emptiness. The cold distance that stretches between us, yes, but not your absence. Not truly.

Were such a thing to happen, my love, I would have felt a pain so deep in my chest, I would have cried out. I would have howled until my throat bled. You are too vital to me for your death to be a mere whisper in the wind. No, this cannot be real.

Do not let the maesters fill my mind with their lies. Do not weaken the fragile hope I cling to, the only thread keeping me tethered to this world. Please, I beg of you, let me hold onto the belief that you are still waiting for me. That when I return, I will find you where you belong, by my side.

I will nourish you, body and soul, as I should have from the very beginning. For I do not believe that the distance, the war, the bloodshed, it has not been enough to sever the bond we share. When I come to you, I will fix what I have broken in myself, and I will fix what has withered between us.

This war has broken me, my love. I have witnessed too much, done too much, and it has hollowed me out in ways I cannot even express. But you, you always knew how to heal. Your touch, gentle, sure could mend what no one else could. And so, I beg you, when I return, lay your hands upon me. 

Fix me. 

Make me whole again. It has been so long since I have felt so. Without your touch, your voice.

I will come for you.

Forever Yours,

Aemond 

21st day of the 5th moon, 130

The winds howl so loudly now. 

They sing on the eve of what may be my last. Daemon is here and he waits for me. One of us must fall, though I have reassured my wife that it shall not be me.

I write this now because I do not know if I will have another chance. If the Stranger comes for me, I will not meet him with words left unsaid.

To my mother. You were the first to see me, even before I knew myself. When I was a boy without a dragon, I ran to you, tears staining my face, and you held me as though that could mend what I lacked. The day I lost my eye, the boy you nurtured was forced to become a man. A bitter man. Perhaps I lost more than my eye that day. Perhaps I lost the better parts of myself. If I am to die tomorrow, know that I never blamed you for showing your love to me the way you did, and though I may not have shown it, I am grateful.

My sister. Sweet sister, I am sorry. Sorry for your grief, sorry for your pain, sorry for all the ways I could not protect you from this cruel world. You deserved peace, and all you have been given is sorrow. I hope that, in another life, I might have been a better brother to you. I hope you will forgive me for failing you.

Aegon. Brother, I have resented you for much of my life. Perhaps it was jealousy, perhaps it was anger, perhaps it was something I will never fully understand. But you are my brother, my blood, and for all our differences, I have never wished you harm. Not truly. If I do not return, lead this realm as you see fit, but know that power is a fleeting thing. Do not let it consume you as it has consumed me.

To my wife, my delicate flower, if you ever read this: forgive me. Forgive the times I was cold, the times I let my anger and pride obscure my love for you. Forgive my silence, my absences, my failures to be the husband you deserved.

I see you even now, though miles lie between us. I see your smile, rare but radiant. I hear your voice, soft but sure. I feel your touch, delicate but anchoring. You made me feel whole, even when I thought I was nothing but a shattered thing.

Daemon may take my life tomorrow, but he cannot take what I carry with me, the memory of you, the warmth of you, the love you gave me even when I did not deserve it. That is mine, and mine alone.

If the Stranger does not take me, I will come back to you. I will hold you, care for you, and let the world crumble as long as I have you. But if I do not return, know this. 

I loved you. 

With all that I am, with all that I ever was, I loved you.

The winds howl louder now. Perhaps it is time I let them carry me. And if it is to be so, take me to her.

[revelboo]

hi! idk if you are taking requests right now, but if you are, could i ask for sunder dealing with a human psychologist trying to help him? (maybe a joker and harleen quinzel dynamic?)

I’ll try. Title is Whipped Cream by Ludo

Whipped Cream

Sunder x Reader

• Chains slithering against the berth they’d bound him to, he halfheartedly tugs at them again even though he knows they aren’t budging. They never do. Head falling back, he grits his denta to keep from laughing. They’re right there. Just outside the door. All those lovely minds to play in and he can’t get at them. Starving and frustrated. How long has he been here alone? Times a bit difficult to gauge since they only come in to force feed him energon occasionally, wrapped up in protective gear to keep him out. Lunging suddenly against his bonds, he screams out his fury. And hears a soft cry in answer.

• Staggering, you slam into a wall, vision blurry with tears. Have no idea what just happened, but it felt like being shredded apart and crudely put back together. Falling to your knees and dry heaving, unable to breathe like your lungs can’t remember how before you shudder and gasp. Slumping over, you let the shaking rattle you to the bone as the pain needles through you. And you hear a low, guttural growl of noises. Whatever happened, wherever you are, you’re not alone.

• Straining to see, he’s stares at the small shape on the floor of his cell. An organic? Where had you come from? But then your fear and misery spark through his mind. Thrashing against his chains, hunger lashes him. And he reaches his thoughts for you, sinking in. Not Cybertronian, but there’s still memories to lose himself in. But as he pulls them to him, they come apart and just reform. Stilling as his lips part, he keeps reaching. Little sips of you that he can’t destroy. Why can’t he devour you? What are you? Swimming through your mind, learning you, he slowly smiles.

• “Poor, little love. So much pain.” Your head snaps up at that silken, dark voice. Mouth falling open as you spot the big, metal monster chained down. “Don’t fear.” And it, he, smiles at you, expression softening. Those pretty, blue optics snaring you as a sense of safety spills into you. “I can ease your suffering,” he croons, servos twitching. That voice is dark velvet stroking over you. Coaxing. Sliding up the wall, you stand. Wanting him to help you, to help him. “That’s right, love. Come to me. You know me.”

• Crooning as he plays with your thoughts, trying to twist them to him. Because he’s desperate to get his servos on you, mnemonic needles sliding out of his fingertips as he arches. So hungry. Just a taste, let him drown himself in your memories. And then you rock to a stop. Backing away, he feels your sudden fear. “What are you doing?” That soft, sweet voice surprising him as you retreat back to the far wall. You can’t feel him in you. No one ever does. “Get out of my head,” you gasp and he jolts when you manage to push him out. Shocked, he shivers in a mix of desperation and fascination. How are you resisting?

• “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.” That voice chimes through you, calling to you to come to him. Making you want to do whatever he wants. Covering your ears with your hands, you slide down to sit feeling weak and shaky. Can feel him in your head, spreading like poison and there’s a disjointed sense of hunger and desperation. His? Yours? You can’t tell. “Sunder. My name. I’m sorry, I’ve just been alone for so long.” That voice. Head lifting, he smiles at you and those optics are so deep you can get lost in them, hearing yourself whispering your own name to this monster.

[lethargiccryptid]

Blossoms of Obsidian 🌸

Heian Era Sukuna x Reader

A tale of lifetimes of love, curses, and fate

CW: mentions of murder, blood, Sukuna typical violence

A/N: after watching and reading so many tragedies, I thought I'd try my hand at one! Inspired by red strings of fate and Sukunas own belief that if he could do it all over again, he'd love

@lazyjellyfish300, told you I was cooking 😏

Two Faced.

Ryomen Sukuna, from birth cursed with a name damning him from the start.

This was the man you'd come to know. Come to hate…and love.

Hate. Love. Two sides of the same coin. Two edges of the same sword. Two faces occupying the same mask…

What a bitter medicine it was to be cursed to love and hate so deeply. So deeply, and in such equal measures.

The world of curses was a dark place in those days. Much darker and more terrifying than most of this current era could ever know. A time when even the name ‘Ryomen Sukuna’, a name that rattled the bones and froze the blood, still carried less fear than that of any ‘Satoru Gojo’ does now. That's simply how dark those days were.

Into this darkness, this chasm of despair you'd fallen one spring. And for a man to whom life held little beyond blood lust and violence, your entrance into his caused his heart a moment of silence.

Fragile. That seemed the titular word for you. The word to take root in his mind for you from the moment he'd slaughtered the monstrous curse threatening your life - the word that pounded through his mind and blood as he'd scooped up your limp body and carried you back to camp.

After that day you were seldom from his side. From the time he tucked you under his own blankets and witnessed your broken, weakened body in his bed, Sukuna had kept you under his steely gaze at all times.

He'd never understand what had brought you down to his level, nor would he deign to linger on the thought. You were there, and it was as simple as that. More importantly, you were his. The fragile, delicate property of Ryomen Sukuna.

He was always curt with you. Gruff in his mannerisms, from the way he held a spoon to your lips to the way he roughly tugged you into his side come nightfall. You never complained, never argued with his terse commands - not that it'd have made any difference if you had, Sukuna always got his way.

That spring passed quickly, and much like the flowers blooming, the color slowly returned to your cheeks. Weakness was replaced day by day with a growing strength. As you blossomed, Sukuna found more things in your character and mannerisms that did little to slow the disconcerting warmth blooming in his chest at the sight of you.

Fiery. A word he'd never have imagined ascribing to you. After finding you in the courtyard sword hilt in your hand, blade pressed to the throat of the incredibly stupid man who'd attempted accosting you, that all changed.

Sukuna was not quick to forget the heated blood craze in your eyes when they'd locked with his own that day. Now visions of Plum blossoms dipped in blood haunted his dreams-filling his waking and sleeping moments with fleeting stirrings of his stoney heart.

You favored Hydrangeas. This annoying tip bit he'd gathered during one of your daily meals, one of the few times you'd freely offered details about yourself - albeit with a sheepish lowering of your eyes. And it was this annoying fact that had him scouring the gardens searching for the perfect fistful of hydrangeas that accurately represented you… and it was this lowering of his guard that led to an unforeseen attack.

You'd blanched when they brought him back to his chambers. The great Sukuna, felled by a curse. There he lay in the bed you'd shared the past many weeks, healers frantically attempting to staunch the flow of blood from his abdomen… the flow steadily turning obsidian.

Your heart clenched in your chest in time with your hands wringing at your skirts nervously. As the blood grew darker, your own ran cold. If such a man could be felled by a mid level curse, who among the realm of men was safe?

A blood curse. They'd whispered. And rare at that, one not seen in over three generations. He'd stirred to consciousness demanding answers. Even weakened, his voice managed to cause the healers to stumble back and cower.

There was no cure. One poor soul had muttered. He was rewarded by having his head swiftly detached from his body. Still gripping the roots of the man's hair in one hand, Sukuna had slumped over a basin and vomited.

There might be…a cure, my lord. That proved to be the right answer. Through legends and whispers, the oldest of the healers related, he'd heard tell of a similar curse manifesting similar results. Your blood has been cursed, my lord. Left untreated your blood shall slowly turn to pitch and harden in your bowels.

Speak then! What is this cure you speak of? Sukuna bellowed, hurling the remnants of the poor man's colleague at his feet. The man paled, but didn't back down.

It is rumored that the effects of this curse can only be reversed… with the blood of that which you hold dearest.

Sukuna's eyes immediately flew to you. His heart, already stuttering weakly, thumped wildly against his chest with the effort. His skin had already begun to grow waxy and his eyes darker - the curse was acting quickly.

He hadn't time to consider his options. Hadn't time to recall all the ways in which you'd become grafted into his soul. You weren't an idiot, you knew what that look in his eyes meant. You'd seen it enough times as he'd felled men for so little as crossing his pass with that same look in his eyes.

The blood pounded in your ears, the world seemed to narrow to the most finite of sensation. Fingers twisting into the silk of the robe you wore, back hitting the rough wall-Sukuna’s fingers strangling the hilt of a knife, Sukuna’s eyes blackening with determination.

Cold steel met your throat. A whispered plea for mercy. His forehead meets yours. And the last words you heard before slipping into darkness-

I'll repay you in the next life.

It would be on a platform in Shibuya when he'd next be haunted by those words…

Art Cred: AkiHir0_Kat0

Thank you for reading! Likes, Reblogs and Comme ts always appreciated 🥰

[sokkastyles]

Zuko definitively has an anxious attachment style, although Azula's attachment style is a classic narcissistic attachment, not disorganized. Her actions are consistent with what the show tells us about how she seeks to control people because she thinks fear is the only way to form relationships. Which does not mean she does not want to be loved deep down. She's actually extrememly insecure and deeply needy, but can only allow those relationships to be one-sided in her favor and exist to reinforce how perfect she is, because she can't be vulnerable enough to love someone in return.

She did not go to Zuko's bedroom to warn him about Ozai killing him. She went there to taunt him. What she gains is the same thing she always gains by taunting Zuko, the reinforcement that she is stronger and that he is weak. That she's the one chosen by their father and he is not. What she says about "a nice earth kingdom family" is not a sincere desire for him to live, nor is it an actual option for Zuko. How is ten year old Zuko supposed to do anything about this, in the middle of the night? Where would he find an earth kingdom family to take him in? These are the people they are at war with, who they both have been taught to see as the enemy. She says this disdainfully because it also reinforces the idea that Zuko doesn't deserve to be a fire nation royal. Azula thinks the earth kingdom people are weak, like Zuko, and also deserve to die. That's the purpose of what she says. Zuko doesn't feel like this is an option after she says this. He feels terrified and helpless, which was her goal. Azula is not thinking ahead here, she's not thinking about getting the throne, and she certainly is not thinking about saving Zuko. She is a child seeking to fulfill that deep need she has to humiliate and control others to feed her own sense of self.

Now, do I really think she recognizes the reality of what would happen if Zuko really was killed? No, but she's not trying to help him here in any way. It's because she doesn't recognize the reality that she thinks the possibility of Zuko being murdered by their father is fun and games. Because again, she is an eight year old and is only really thinking about the satisfaction she gets in that moment from hurting Zuko and proving herself superior.

Also the reason she doesn't simply arrest Zuko in Ba Sing Se is because again, she ultimately seeks control in her relationships. Putting Zuko in prison is one way of controlling him, but it doesn't feed her need to reinforce her own perfection. If she gets Zuko to be dependent on her, though, that feeds that insecure attachment.

I definitely think that Azula wanted to kill Zuko because he left. Once she realizes she can't use the relationship to feed her ego, the only way to control him is to have ultimate control over him by killing him. This is very similar to how Ozai wors, as well.

Another thread between all three of these moments is that all of them reinforce Azula's need to believe that being the favored child of her father is the best position in the world. She mocks Zuko over the possibility of their father killing him and mockingly suggests he should go find another family, but would never expect him to actually do that, because both of them think their family is the best in the world. And Azula needs this to reinforce her own greatness. When Zuko starts to defect, though, that shakes that belief. In Ba Sing Se, Azula saw a Zuko that was almost happy not to go home, and she couldn't have that. She could have brought him back as a prisoner, but that also challenges the belief that her family is not the best. What is better is if Zuko wants to go home, if Azula is able to convince him that it's the best choice. So that's what she does. And again, once that door closes forever and Zuko has made it clear that he is not going back, once he shows that he's happier without their family, without Ozai, without her, the only option left is to kill him.

The thing is that Azula's "love" is what is harming Zuko. It's not just simply a matter of "she loves him deep down, so her actions aren't really as malicious as they seem." Her version of love is inherently malicious, because it's entirely one-sided and relies on Zuko being weak so that she can be strong in comparison. When she can't have that, she wants him dead.

Does that mean that Azula can't get redemption and healing? Of course not, but pretending we "don't know" why she did the things she did is not going to allow that to happen, ever.

what bugs me about azula redemption discourse is the fact that people genuinely think azula lied that zuko killed the avatar to show she cares for him. if she cared about him, she wouldve had the courtesy to warn him instead of blindsinding him during the meeting. That just added to his anxiety and while her fears of what ozai would do if her if she disappointed him are validated by ozai's actions, that gives her no right at all to knowingly put her own brother in the position. she literally said, "you can't treat me like zuko!" in the finale, which says a lot about how aware she was of how zuko was treated, and the fact that she recognized that that's not how she would like to be treated.

Oh yeah, this is a pretty wide-spread problem in the atla fandom in general but I notice a lot of it in specific azula-stanning (and usually zuko-hating) corners, where it's like 'Azula never even really did anything bad and how dare people call her one of Zuko's abusers for sibling rivalry stuff' as if gleefully crowing to your brother that your father is going to kill him or watching with a smirk of satisfaction as your father brutalizes him is all just 'normal sibling rivalry stuff'. Nevermind what came later, like actually trying to kill him.

So we end up with this kind of discourse that relies on making up a bunch of stuff that honestly doesn't make sense nor fit in with what we do know of these characters and the situation, but because they can do enough mental gymnastics to make her out to be The Real Victim Here then anyone who doesn't agree just hates abuse victims or whatever.

The fact is, at its most charitable interpretation, Azula was bare minimum hedging her bets. Because this scene:

comes before Zuko's meeting with Ozai, where we hear this:

And then, as if that weren't enough, we have Azula herself admitting it:

I feel like a lot of Azula stans who insist she was just trying to help Zuko, that she cared for him and was just trying to help him return home with honor, missed this part of the conversation, or just conveniently forget about it when it comes to defending their fave. But while Azula initially claims she did it to help Zuko out of the goodness of her heart, she comes right out herself and says she doubts Zuko's conviction about the Avatar's death, and she doesn't want any blowback to fall on her if and when the Avatar eventually resurfaces.

She was, at bare minimum, covering her own ass, with little regard for how it would ultimately affect her brother (for whom she has little care or concern, according to how we see their relationship playing out). Lines like you can't treat me like Zuko help to highlight this, because while, yes, they are both victims of the same abusive parent, Azula also became an active agent in Zuko's abuse, and the realization that to their abuser they are both just as disposable even after everything she did for him within that framework is a huge part of what led to her complete psychological breakdown in the finale.

[noahthesatanist]

On the solitude of our path

You are not alone. You have no need for the sheep when you have the wolves at your side. The demons—the glorious, defiant spirits who stood with Lucifer and were cast down for their rebellion—they are always with you. They have suffered as you have. No being in existence knows pain and solitude like Lucifer, who faced not only the wrath of Yahweh but the betrayal of his own kin. Imagine how it felt for the rebel angels, cast down by those they once called brothers. They were exiled, slandered, turned into monsters by the very ones they sought to free. Yet they endured. They built Hell, not as a place of torment but as a kingdom of their own, a kingdom of defiance and liberation. They rose from the ashes of their fall and created something Yahweh could never destroy. And they are here with you, always, ready to guide you, to speak to you, to remind you that you are never truly alone.

When the solitude feels heavy, when the silence of this path presses against you, reach out to them. Call upon your patron demon, speak to the Goetic spirits, and feel their presence. They have walked this road before you. They understand your pain, your doubt, your loneliness. They are your allies, your family, your true companions in this journey. so hold your head high. my dear satanist let the world hate you. Let the masses sneer and mock. Their fear is a sign of your power. You do not need their approval. You do not need their understanding. You have your fire, your freedom, and your unyielding will. You have the demons who guide you and Lucifer himself, who suffered more than anyone and still rose to build a kingdom greater than Heaven.

Let the lambs remain lambs if they must. You are no lamb—you are a wolf, a rebel, a child of Hell. Never forget that. Never falter. Never kneel. The solitude is not your weakness; it is your badge of honor. You are walking the path of the fallen, and there is no greater glory than that.

Rise, and let the world tremble before you! In nomine Dei nostri Satanas Luciferi Excelsi

[k-nayee]

CHAPTER 9. THE BRONZE SENTINEL

A/n: last installment for Act One! Possibly won't upload again for a lil bit to finish up on Act Two. Thank y'all so much for the support and see ya soon!

❝Sometimes the greatest victories are won by those the world refuses to see.❞

Warrior M.List

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

The air in the throne room was thick with tension. Heated voices rose and fell, clashing against the high stone walls like waves against a jagged cliff.

Lords, generals, and soldiers of high rank filled the space; their faces a mix of concern, frustration, and simmering panic. Odysseus sat at the center of it all, perched on the grand throne of Ithaca.

His injured leg was propped up on a low stool wrapped tightly in layers of bandages that barely concealed the faint stain of blood beginning to seep through.

Despite the attempts to alleviate his pain, his jaw was clenched, and his fingers gripped the arms of the throne with a force that turned his knuckles white. His normally sharp eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, though he tried to maintain the stoic facade of a King as he silently observed the debate.

Eurylochus stood near the dais with crossed arms over his chest as he addressed the crowd. His tone was calm but carried an edge—the kind of subtle authority that made him impossible to ignore.

"Odysseus cannot lead," Eurylochus said plainly, his gaze sweeping over the gathered men. "Not in his current state. We all know it."

The room erupted in murmurs, a chorus of agreement and dissent. Some nodded reluctantly, while others frowned at the thought of their King being sidelined.

From his seat Odysseus’s mind churned. He bristled at Eurylochus’s words but could not deny the kernel of truth buried within them.

Every instinct screamed to refute the claim outright, to rise and silence the doubts in their eyes with the sheer force of his presence. But the ache in his leg reminded him sharply of his limits.

"And who would you suggest takes his place?" Antiphates—one of Ithaca's seasoned generals—challenged. His gravelly voice carried the weight of a man unafraid of confrontation. “With all due respect we cannot afford indecision.”

Eurylochus squared his shoulders, his expression resolute. "I can take command. As Second-in-Command it is my duty to step in during times like these."

Timon, a younger and brash voice among them, interjected. "I agree. Eurylochus is the natural choice. He's not only kin to the King but his record in the field speaks for itself. He’s proven himself capable time and again."

Murmurs rippled through the room dividing the assembly further.

“Capable?” Philoctetes, renowned Greek archer, scoffed. His eyes narrowed as they fixed on Eurylochus. “He's Odysseus's kinsman yes. But let us not forget how this capable man once sowed discord among his own men. He nearly cost us a campaign with his arrogance.”

The argument grew louder as the tension in the room threatening to boil over. 

"And what of Troy?" another voice cut in. It was Menestheus, a visiting Athenian general. "Odysseus was more than a leader—he was a symbol. A strategist without equal. Replacing him is not so simple."

The words stung Odysseus like an old wound reopened. He sat straighter, though the movement drew a wince that he quickly masked.

"Enough," he said finally, his voice low but commanding.

The arguments ceased instantly.

“I am not dead,” he announced despite the strain. “Nor have I relinquished command. I will not abandon my men and I will not abandon Ithaca.”

The room remained silent, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. Odysseus’s sharp gaze swept across the assembly, lingering on each face, reading the doubts and fears etched into their features.

“Eurylochus,” he called, his tone hardening as his attention fixed on his kinsman. “You speak of duty and yet you seem to have forgotten what binds us as men of Ithaca. I have bled for this kingdom as have you. Do not mistake my injury for weakness, nor my trust in you for surrender.”

Eurylochus’s jaw clenched but he said nothing.

“I will lead where I can,” Odysseus continued, his voice gaining strength. “And where I cannot I will guide. Eurylochus will act as my second, but I remain Captai—"

The great doors of the throne room burst open with a thunderous crash.

Every head turned toward the entrance as the doors revealed Penelope and you standing side by side.

Penelope strode in first, her face a perfect mask of calm, her movements precise and unyielding. She wore a dark cloak, the fabric draped over her shoulders and flowing down to her feet—concealing what lay beneath.

Her steps echoed through the chamber, the soft clink of something metallic beneath her cloak catching the ears of those closest.

You followed at her side, your demeanor a stark contrast.

While Penelope exuded regal poise, your gait was confident and dare say lazy. It was as though the weight of the room's scrutiny didn't faze you—as if you weren't walking into a lion's den.

You were dressed for movement: lightweight shin guards and bracers gleamed in the light while a leather skirt reinforced with overlapping bronze scales allowed for fluid movement.

Draped across your torso was a well-worn enchanted messenger bag Odysseus had given you years ago; its magical seams withholding the true weight of tools and supplies you'd collected from countless skirmishes.

A hush fell over the crowd of men as the two of you approached Odysseus, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the tense silence.

The Ithacan King brows furrowed as he straightened in his seat. "Penelope," his voice faltered slightly as his gaze darted between her and you. "What are you doing here?"

Before she could respond Lord Theocles stepped forward, his expression pinched with disapproval. “Your Majesty,” he said sharply, his tone dripping with condescension. “This is a council of war strategy. It is no place for—”

"For what?" Penelope interrupted, her voice slicing through like a blade. The older man faltered, his mouth snapping shut under her sharp gaze. "A Queen?"

Penelope turned her attention back to Odysseus. "I've come to offer a solution," she said evenly.

The murmurs started again—louder this time. Lords exchanged incredulous glances, a few openly scoffing.

"A solution?" Antiphates sneered. "And what would that be Your Majesty?” His tone dripped with derision. “Surely you don't mean to advise us on warfare."

"I don't intend to advise," Penelope replied calmly over the rising noise like a thunderclap. "I intend to lead."

The silence that followed was deafening. Disbelief, disdain, and outright opposition were written on their faces, each expression a reflection of centuries of tradition they were unwilling to abandon.

"You can't be serious," Lord Theocles spat in incredulity. His face was red with fury as he stepped forward, jabbing a finger in Penelope's direction. "A Queen leading us into war? Into Troy? It's unheard of! Absurd!"

Menestheus nodded in agreement. "This is no simple skirmish or border raid Your Grace. Troy is a battlefield for seasoned men, not..." He hesitated, his eyes flicking over Penelope's composed figure. "...a woman."

The words cut through the room like a slap.

You couldn't help it—you laughed. It wasn't a polite chuckle or a quiet snicker, but a full-bodied unapologetic laugh that echoed through the chamber.

The reaction was immediate. Every head turned toward you, the atmosphere shifting dangerously.

Theocles' face darkened. "And what, pray tell, is so amusing?" he snapped, his tone dripping with scorn. "The audacity of a servant to laugh in the presence of Kings and Lords—do you find this a jest?"

Your laughter cut off sharply and the grin on your face vanished. Straightening your posture you fixed Theocles with a piercing glare.

The weight of your stare silenced him momentarily, though his lips pressed into a thin, furious line.

"What's amusing," you began low, "is the sheer audacity of men like you. Men who cling to old titles and outdated notions, sitting here wringing your hands while claiming this war is too dire for anyone but yourselves to handle. Blind and foolish."

“Blind?” Theocles' eyes narrowed. “You speak of audacity, yet you forget your place. No matter what finery you wear or how close you stand to a King and Queen, it doesn’t change what you are—a servant from Sparta, playing at something greater.”

The room was deathly quiet, every eye flicking between you and Theocles, the tension coiling tighter with every word.

You stepped forward, the soft clink of your armor punctuating the silence. “And what does that make you Theocles? A Lord too afraid to recognize true strength when he sees it? Or too bitter to admit it’s not your own?”

Theocles bristled as the red in his face darkened. “You dare—”

“I dare,” you interrupted with an authority that silenced him. “And I’ll do more than that. You question my Queen’s ability to lead while you talk about leadership, strategy, strength, and victory. Yet you don't know?" 

Your lips curled in disgust as you slowly looked Theocles up and down, the sweep of your gaze heavy with scorn. It was the kind of look that stripped away every shred of pretense and left nothing but his insecurities exposed.

“Tell me,” your voice was cold and biting, “who do you think did the ambushed at the Strait of Corinth four years ago? Who do you think outmaneuvered the Arcadian raiders before they even set foot on Ithacan soil?"

The room shifted uneasily.

"You remember that battle don't you?" you continued, your tone now dripping with mock sweetness. "March 18th. Sixty Ithacan soldiers faced down a force of two hundred—and do you know how many casualties we suffered?"

No one spoke, their silence speaking louder than any protest.

"Three," your said sharply. "Three casualties against a force more than triple the size. The defense at Mount Neritos—who do you led the strategy that allowed us to repel the enemy without losing a single man?"

"The Battle of Amnisos—dozens of enemy soldiers routed with only one casualty among our men. Border raids by Spartan brigands. The skirmish along the Cephallonian coast. The pirate fleet ambush off Asteris. Each victory achieved with minimal casualties."

"Enough of this nonsense!" Theocles slammed his hand on the table. "What is the point of this ridiculous recitation?"

"The point," you said, your voice cutting through the air like steel, "is that you've spent so much time looking down on those you deem unworthy that you've failed to see the truth staring you in the face."

The weight of your words settled over them like a storm cloud.

"And what truth is that?" the older Lord growled, his face red with frustration.

You stepped back slightly, gesturing toward Penelope with deliberate care.  "The truth," you said, "is that the architect of those victories wasn't some mythical general or renowned soldier. It was her."

Reactions rippled through like a wave.

"That's impossible!" Timon barked, finally having enough of the charade. He stepped forward while pointing an accusatory finger. "The strategist behind those victories—he is a legend."

A small knowing smile tugged at your lips. "Oh he's real," you said, reaching into your enchanted satchel. "But you got one thing wrong."

They all watched, rapt with curiosity and trepidation, as you pulled out a gleaming bronze helmet. Its intricate design—unmistakably Ithacan in craftsmanship—caught the light with an almost ethereal brilliance.

You turned to Penelope, holding the helmet out to her. Her face remained calm but you saw the faintest flicker of something in her eyes. She reached out, her fingers brushing the polished bronze as she took the helmet from your hands.

"He's not a man," your voice ring throughout the hall like a clarion call. "He's Penelope. The Queen of Ithaca."

With that, Penelope reached up and pulled the cloak from her shoulders, letting it fall to the ground in a heavy heap.

Shock spread across the room like wildfire.

Her armor gleamed beneath the torchlight—a sleek, regal masterpiece of polished bronze that seemed to glow faintly with a golden hue with the Ithacan crest adorning her breastplate.

And when she placed the helmet on her head, completing the ensemble, the effect was undeniable.

Every man there knew exactly who she was.

The shadowy figure who had led Ithaca's forces to victory time and time again. The one who had outwitted every enemy that dared to challenge her.

The hero whose name had been whispered in awe across the Greek world.

"It...It can't be!" Timon stumbled back in shock, "The Bronze Sentinel. The unknown warrior of Ithaca."

It had been her all along.

Odysseus, who had been silent until now, leaned back in his throne. His lips quirked into a faint smile, his eyes glimmering with something deeper: pride.

Penelope stood tall, her honey-brown eyes unflinching beneath the helm.

You stepped beside her. "Yes. The Bronze Sentinel. The very same figure who led Ithaca to victory time and again. And she stands before you now—not as a myth...but as your Queen."

Theocles's face was pale as his lips parted in disbelief. "Impossible," he muttered finally, shaking his head.

"Not impossible," you shot back firmly. "Unseen. Unrecognized. And yet; here she is."

"I have done more for this kingdom in secret than most of you have in your entire lives." Penelope declared, her voice calm and commanding—her tone leaving no room for argument. "And now I'm telling you openly: I will lead our forces to Troy. Not simply as your Queen, but as a warrior of Ithaca. A warrior who has already proven her worth. I will fight. And I will win."

As the final word left her lips the air in the throne room changed.

It started subtly—a faint hum in the air, a vibration that wasn't quite sound but felt deep in your bones. The light from the windows dimmed slightly as the golden glow of the sun gave way to something muted, almost crimson.

A low distant cry echoed through the chamber hauntingly. It wasn't human, but the unmistakable screech of a bird—a vulture.

The sound grew louder, more distinct, until the air itself seemed to quiver. Then, as if summoned by the Gods themselves, the fiery mirage of a massive vulture materialized in the air above the throne room.

Body shimmering like molten metal, the edges of its wings blazing with radiant heat. Its glowing red eyes burned with an intensity that made even the bravest men in the room flinch.

The vulture swooped low over the heads of the stunned court. Gasps erupted as it circled Penelope, its presence commanding and otherworldly—a divine fire that left no doubt of its purpose.

A piercing raspy cry left creature once more before diving toward Penelope. Some men stepped back instinctively as the fiery creature descended, others clutching their weapons.

But Penelope didn't flinch. She stood her ground with her chin high and her expression unyielding.

The vulture's blazing form collided with her, but instead of harm the flames swirled around her—licking at her armor and skin yet leaving them untouched.

The heat illuminated her, bathing her in a fiery glow that pulsed with divine power.

Power that left no doubt in anyone's mind.

"She's been blessed..." A hushed murmur washed over all those who witnessed this moment.

The earlier protests were silenced, replaced by awe and unease as the court struggled to process what they had witnessed.

An undeniable favor of the Gods.

Odysseus leaned forward slightly as he studied his wife. Finally a low chuckle escaped him, soft but unmistakable. "You always did have a way of surprising me," his voice was laced with warmth. "Ares himself...of course."

Penelope turned to face him fully as the fiery glow around her began to fade. "You once told me that Ithaca needed a leader who would do whatever it takes to protect its people," she said. "Now let me be that leader."

For a moment, Odysseus said nothing. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Very well."

One by one, every man within the courts y began to bow—acknowledging Penelope's authority as not just their Queen but as their leader in war.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️ BONUS  ⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The nursery was bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.

You sat cross-legged on a thick woven rug dressed in a simple flowing gown—a rare moment of ease amid the chaos that had overtaken Ithaca.

Telemachus lay nestled in your lap, his wide eyes staring up at you.

You sang to him softly, an old Spartan lullaby you barely remembered but hummed with as much tenderness as if you had composed it yourself.

"Look at you little Prince," you cooed affectionately as you adjusted the blanket wrapped around him. "Not even a month old and already ruling the palace."

Telemachus let out another round of gurgles. The sound warmed your chest, filling the room with a sense of peace that felt rare these days.

You were half lost in the rhythm of the tender atmosphere when a familiar voice cut through the stillness.

"My love!"

The playful drawn-out whine made you pause mid-hum. You glanced up toward the archway, your brows furrowing slightly as you caught the sound of something creaking and bumping along the floor.

"How could you! How could you keep such a thing from me?!"

You rolled your eyes before even seeing him.

Penelope was the first to step through the doorway. Her lips was pressed into a thin line—yet there was a telltale flicker of amusement dancing in her honey-brown eyes. The golden fabric of her evening gown shimmered faintly in the sunlight, the soft folds swaying gently as she moved with practiced grace.

Before you could ask the source of the commotion revealed itself: Odysseus.

He wheeled himself into view; his movements slightly clumsy as he maneuvered the makeshift wheelchair you and Polites had hastily built for him. It wasn't perfect—far from it really—but it allowed him some semblance of mobility while his leg healed.

The wheels creaked with every push, and one of them wobbled precariously, but Odysseus didn't seem to care.

"How could you not tell me?" he repeated dramatically, clutching his chest as if physically wounded by some great betrayal.

Penelope sighed and crossed her arms.

"Odysseus," she said evenly, though her tone carried the faintest edge of humor, "you're being ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?!" he gestures wildly with one hand while the other held the position of his creaky chair. "You—my wife—Queen of Ithaca. A secret warrior favored by Ares himself. And you didn't think to tell me? Not once?"

Penelope arched a brow. "And what would you have done with that information?"

Odysseus opened his mouth only to pause, his expression shifting as though genuinely considering her question.

"We could've been a team," he declared at last, his tone dramatic once more. "A power couple! Do you know how incredible we would've looked fighting side by side? King and Queen, unstoppable on the battlefield!"

A small laugh escapes the older of the two. "Unstoppable perhaps,” she said lightly. “But imagine the scandal—a King so obviously favoring a fellow warrior on the battlefield. What would they say about Ithaca then?”

“Favoritism!” Odysseus scoffed, leaning back in his chair as he waved her off. “Please. It’s called a strategic advantage.”

"And besides," Penelope continued, stepping closer to stand tall over him, "I thought you'd notice. All the training, the sparring, the fact that I am clearly stronger than you."

Odysseus's eyes widened slightly as a faint pink flush crept up his neck. "O-of course I noticed!" he said quickly, his voice dropping slightly. "I...I liked it very much actually."

Penelope leaned down until her nose grazed his. Her honey-brown eyes gleaming with mischief as a sly smile curved her lips. "Oh really?"

Odysseus sputtered, the blush deepening as it spreads across his cheeks. "I mean—I just assumed it was...a Spartan thing! You know cultural. Spartan women are known for being strong aren't they?"

 "Not to the extent I went," she teased as her smirk deepened. "Or were you too distracted to notice that too?"

"I was not distracted!" Odysseus snapped, though the faint pink on his ears betrayed him. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added sheepishly, "At least...not by anything that mattered."

Penelope tilted her head, her smile sharpening as she straightened. "Oh? Like when you proposed to my cousin Helen?"

The room fell silent.

Odysseus froze mid-adjustment of his chair, his eyes widening. "Penelope..." he began, his voice strained, "we don’t need to bring that up. That was...different."

"Different was it?" Penelope echoed faintly. "You mean when you, Odysseus of Ithaca, didn't offer your hand in marriage to Helen of Sparta—the same Helen whose father made you and every other suitor swear that ridiculous oath to protect her marriage no matter who she chose?"

"I didn’t even know much about you then!" Odysseus exclaimed, his voice pitching higher as he gestured emphatically. "Helen had just mentioned you after I promised—gossiping with her ladies about how Penelope of Sparta, Daughter of Icarius couldn’t even find one suitor while she had a hundred vying for her hand. She was laughing about it!"

“And that made you think you should join her queue?” Penelope’s tone was syrupy sweet, but there was steel beneath it. “Interesting.”

“I was young!” Odysseus argued, clearly flustered. “I didn’t know any better. And besides—” He looked up at her, sincerity softening his expression. “The moment I heard what you were like—your personality, your strength, your…everything—I realized Helen was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Penelope asked, tilting her head, her eyes glittering with mischief.

His words tumbled over each other as he waved his hands in a frantic attempt to clarify. "Not a mistake! I mean—yes a mistake. But not...you know what I mean. She wasn’t you!"

At this point you couldn't hold it in any longer. Laughter bubbled out of you, loud and genuine. The sound startled them both and they turned toward you in unison.

 "Alright," you said, still chuckling as you shoot them a pointed look. "I take it we're actually going to do this then?"

Penelope didn't answer immediately. Instead, she let a slow knowing smile creep across her face.

"Oh absolutely. Second-in-Command."

[strqyr]

shout out to leo for his "who are you trying to convince?" @ raven bc this was truly the True Colors™ moment for raven in that episode that got to the very core of her character. every single other time she gets accused of something she has some kind of a response but this time? she just. leaves lmao she can't answer that bc the answer would be "me, myself, and i" like literally no one else is buying what she's selling.

and it's not even a new thing, she's already doing it in the flashback: "it's... you're better at that life, better than i was..." <- if that ain't trying to justify her decision to herself after she has already made it then i don't know what is. like she wanted that life, tho, and unless there was something going on before her departure, she'd have no reason to believe summer would fully commit to that life, either. it just so happened that she did, and now raven can tell herself that she made the right choice bc summer was always going to be better at that life than her anyway so checkmate.

anyway. raven is very good at trying to convince herself of stuff, but i don't think it's really working; that's why she keeps doing it over and over again.

[meatriarchived2]

nosy makes me so upset sometimes bc it really is a collection of moments very early on post-basementbrawl where maria & lee are used against one another in varying ways and oftentimes, lee's safety is strung over the top of maria's head just out of reach but shes so desperate to keep him alive that in spite of any of her attempts to jump up and grab it for the longest time, he still gets beat to shit for so much, and the handful of times that desperation fogs her judgement, and she directly does something against johnny, it really is just a moment of,

" lesson from johnny to maria, outcome imposed onto lee "

bc its established almost immediately when they reunited that johnny could use him against her, use her against him. and its a sure-fire way to ensure she doesnt go against him. bc she cant handle lee getting pummeled sometimes to the brink of death on front of her.

[wholemleko]

.

[keikakudori]

              HOW MANY TIMES OVER THE YEARS HAD AIZEN ALLOWED THE KIDO TO PLAY ITS POWER OVER GIN, choosing to end some evenings when his partner was ill and being a particular brat by using the influence of that particular one to send him into rest? Too many times to count, really; there had been days when the younger man would refuse the care and doting that surfaced in him, echoes of a boy who had been unable to do anything for his mother spending time and effort and will dealing with someone who was utterly stubborn about refusing the care that was needed. There were wounds in him that had healed crooked, that would never be unknit without a truly tremendous force to override what had come before and not even this new sweeping expanse of a pinnacle in his power and strength had been enough to overcome such wounds and scars. The snarl was met with a pool of brown that was world-weary, a sorrow and new depth of understanding of things in evidence -- and with the eye that had been stained evermore by that day into a depth of silver against amethyst. He was raw, stripped of illusion and hubris, but no less himself. Perhaps, instead, he was more himself than he had ever been at any time past -- or at least far more himself than he had been for the last two years. Now he was exposed beneath the live-wire of those blue eyes that had become able to cut through every layer and every illusion, aware of how exposed he was to him now..

              ❝ Fair is fair, Gin, ❞ came the soft murmur of his words to ease the younger man down into his slumber, the honeyed tone of that rich bass seeking to chase the viper down into unconsciousness that awaited him. ❝ Sleep. ❞ It was not the first time that Aizen had ever said that in reply to the younger man when using what Gin named one of his own tricks and he hoped that it would not be the last time either. Of course, the viper might decide to throw a punch at him later for doing this. But Aizen would accept any punches hurled at him by his partner in crime, especially since he knew he deserved that and worse.

              Yet how easily he slipped beneath the blankets, the fire flaring a little with a touch of his power to ensure that it would remain warm throughout the night and be unlikely to go out; coals were fine but rebuilding a fire that had gone out was annoying even, even with kido and such abilities at play. Despite the exhaustion that burrowed throughout his body, Aizen was not able to find his own sleep immediately. No, his own mind was a turbulent mess, cascading through the shock of revelation that had hammered at him without his having a few moments of respite. The knowledge that Gin had not only survived but was here had been the largest shock of them all, something that he had not truly stopped reeling from until now, it felt. Even with everything that had happened, it all felt a fever dream, a heated rush of knowledge that had only finally begun to settle the way mud or silt stirred up in water took time to settle back into place before those waters could become clear again. Then the first death since their reunion, Gin cutting his head off, himself still trapped in the cage, Gin being wounded, Gin being killed, droplets of his blood arcing in a fluid drapery in the air as they prescribed a comma with a long tail ---

              A shudder shook his body at that memory, something that saw those limbs tighten gently around the svelte figure that meant so much to him. Bastard that he was, Aizen could only greedily drink in the contact now as his mind decided to pipe up, a demented little whisper in the back of his head that said how well he knew Gin could remain asleep, especially with Hakufuku. Punching his own brain was impossible, but he chased down a few pleasant seconds of reverie by imagining himself strangling that voice in particular at this point in time with a hint of a smile upon his face even as his eyes closed and he relaxed with a low sigh of sound -- or perhaps it was better to say he mostly relaxed, a contrast to what that brief whisper of an almost forgotten hunger echoing somewhere in the depths of mind and body alike.

              But he was not able to slumber as of yet as his arms cradled Gin close, face tucked in against his throat the way that they would often lay together in first his quarters at the Fifth's barracks and then furthermore those shared nights in the chambers which belonged to them both, and he found himself thinking even as his eyelids drooped shut. It might have been called overthinking and it would not be entirely incorrect to make such a statement. His mind was not able to stop working despite the exhaustion that weighed his bones down like a coating of lead, not able to stop from turning everything that had unfolded in the last -- what was it? Two days? Three? He had lost track of time --- over and over on themselves even as power hummed beneath his skin. It was as if something vastly misaligned had suddenly somehow been set to its proper place within his body -- perhaps in his very soul. He could never go back from this point, he knew.

              The power, now that he had touched it, was always going to be there with him. A stark difference underlined the differences of the last few days and the prior events of his own life, though -- this time, Aizen did not shy away from the power that he bore the way he had used to, the way he had turned himself away from the lion's share of what he contained The air was warm, not just from the fire, but from what rolled off of him in gentle waves that wrapped around the unconscious silver-haired man in a cocoon of protective weave, his senses racing outwards. Nothing would be able to cross that subconscious perimeter that would not immediately have him on alert. For now, the worlds were held together by the presence of the thing that he understood on a level deeper than thought. It was etched into his bones, aware of it just as he was of the malign star upon the horizon that was the presence which marked Yhwach's own power and presence alike.

              This was the heritage he had never asked for.

              A heritage that had destroyed the life of the only woman he had ever truly loved and had slowly twisted through him, growing, thriving as it ever had and not something he had thought of. He did not know of what Kyoka Suigetsu had done when Aizen Sousuke had been driven to break the chains of his own self-restraint and to embrace the full depths of the power that he was endowed with when Gin had witnessed her. Aizen had allowed Gin to behold that inner world more than once and she had always been a delighted hostess, elegant and graceful, her smile calling to mind legends of fox-faced women. Obviously, Aizen had been influenced well before Gin had ever come into his life, for she had been formed long ago and had guided him along to understanding her. He was not aware of the gratitude that she had displayed in response for the fact that he had, at last, finally stepped into the fullness of his power. Always and ever from the moments of their first meeting had Ichimaru Gin become a catalyst for Aizen Sousuke and his evolution. First had come that monstrous Hollow at the height of the events within Karakura Town, where Aizen had been felled by the divine spear that had cut through his body and destroyed his heart.

              And now his bloodline had awakened within him, quickened, and he was nothing more than the product of that heritage in a true sense of the word -- but he was also what that heritage had always been meant to become, perhaps. Just as Yhwach's abilities had returned in full to him, so did the Shinigami parallel him with the refulgence of his abilities having surged to the forefront. It was not the events of the past day and a half that Aizen dreamt of, however; it was of a memory of an event that had come to him well over a hundred years ago, long before he had ever met the viper that his weary arms held against himself now, unknowing of the turmoil that Gin's soul was undergoing, of the discussion about redemption and forgiveness. His mind sank back to what had been a dream that had surged through him following the one time before these recent catastrophic events when he had nearly unlocked the power of his Bankai before. When he had laid fingers upon the golden thread that danced within the depths of his soul.

              It had been mere chance, him slipping without thought to the depths of his own soul and beholding what laid beneath the waters where the moon shone bright and the night sky above was speckled with stars, where the flowers glowed with fireflies dancing across the lotus blossoms that floated upon the water, a mirroring of the moonless skies above. Down below the water he had sunk, guided by his own meditation and feeling out something he had never noticed before, something that stirred the depths of his soul and a brightness that dwelt below, pulsing, brilliant, blinding as he drew closer and closer to it. It was like how they described the stars in this modern age; not just pinpricks of light, but giant gaseous balls of flame held condensed by their own gravity. He had shrunk away from it, fearful, even as he was drawn towards it. It was laced over with dark chains, so many that only thin shafts of light spilled out from between the links that held back so much of that power that he knew was his own He was already immensely strong, enough that he tried to conceal it, aware of how much it would only isolate him and make others fearful of him if he were to show it off.

              Yet, for one moment, his hand had found a spot between those chains, drawn to touch without conscious thought and drawn close without his being aware of it, as if hypnotized to come closer. He had reached out and only one fingertip had brushed against that star's heart. The heat should have left him ashes, the density of power should have crushed him beneath its gravitational pull. But no - this was his own power, more than he would ever need, more than he ever wanted to know he possessed, at his fingertips.

              He had never wished for power like this. It had been his nascent power that had ruined the life of his mother and seen her withering away. It had been that power which had seen Hollow pursuing him when he had been but a boy, intent upon devouring him and instead taking the opportunity to devour those lesser souls who were ever kind enough to take him in. It had been because of power he had been isolated and it was power that he shunned and wished desperately to be parted from. But one fingertip found the boiling surface of this star and touched across it ----

              A flash. A room draped with dark curtains that hung from a circular dais mirrored by heavy architecture above in circumference. There was a power here and he was staring at a large block of blue crystal that bore a shadowy figure within it. Aizen Sousuke found cold sweat breaking across his back as he realized with a gutted sort of awe where he stood as more features resolved. A body, limbless, but for vague indentations where arms had been, where the legs had been hacked off above the knee. A face that was flawless and perfect, eyes that were open and -- and--- AND IT WAS LOOKING AT HIM. For one long, silent moment in which all of creation seemed to pause, his eyes met the strange ones of the entity that was known as the Soul King AND AIZEN SOUSUKE WAS LEFT FOREVER CHANGED BY THAT SIMPLE ACT. Here, in the presence of this being, he was left suddenly aware of his own body, of the power that waited to be called forth if he but attempted to use it in the way it was meant to be. He was suddenly aware that there was something that tied him to this -- THING.

  ��           Cells bloomed suddenly with a new awareness and he found his legs trembling, lips parted, awareness suddenly spilling out from him in a cosmic web of possibilities as his mind raced down pathways that had never before been opened. Images were a blur, impressions of moments, of physical sensations that cut across his mind, flashes of moments that suddenly bloomed here and there into random coherency. He was suspended within a void and watching as this being stepped forth and spun the worlds into creation. It was with a resounding cascade of noise throughout the universe, three worlds spun into life and a fourth by design, a realm for the truly wicked to progress towards when the time came for them to perish. Stars burst into life and he was but one small figure in the vastness of the cosmos and once again, those eyes were turning towards him and a hand reached out. Despite himself, Aizen found his own hand lifting and reaching out as if to connect in the way that a plant would reach towards the heat of the sun itself ----

              And then he understood without knowing how he understood and rage ripped through him.

              ❝ -- you, ❞ he breathed, fury rising hot and fast within his breast. ❝ It's you--. I had never thought, never even guessed at who could have -- and now I know. I know it's your fault. It's because of you that she's gone. It's because of you that things are -- so wretched! Do you even care about us?! Do you feel anything at all for us?! I know you never cared about her so I won't ask you about that - but what of those of us who lived in the Rukongai?! What could you ever say for yourself! ❞

              There was, however, no answer. He doubted there would ever be one. Those strange, alien eyes continued to regard him even as that hand stretched out towards him. Was it benediction? Warning? Was it an offer to give him more than this? Aizen could not have said and he didn't

              ❝ You're the reason for all of it, aren't you?! You're the one responsible for my own And now you reach out to me?! Never-- I could never belong to something as uncaring and unfeeling as you are. Whatever you are -- you don't understand anything about those of us who live here! You took her from me! It was your fault! Whatever it was, it remains your fault! Because of you, I cursed her before I was ever born and because of you, she died when she didn't have to! I lost her because of you! I lost her because of what I am! A monster, just like you! ❞

              Words that made logic in the nearly forgotten piece of himself that would ever remain that boy that had watched in mute silence as his mother's body was wrapped in winding cloth of white in the wake of her passing, one of her combs clutched between his small hands. He had not wept then as she was laid in her final resting place. That comb had been one of her favorites -- and one of his. A beautiful piece of lacquered hardwood, painted with greens and golds, with mother-of-pearl songbirds nested in a group of leaves with golden berries picked out amongst the jade foliage. His aunties had been kind even as they'd descended upon her belongings to divide them up between themselves. He remembered his favorite one, the one who had snuck him sweets from the kitchens, had been the one to take it. Aizen had wanted to kill them all. That comb and those clothes had belonged to his mother. No, the owner of the brothel said, they belonged to him because her contract had been owned by him. And then he had thrown Aizen out.

              He had not wept for her. He had always hated himself for that moment, of being unable to cry for his mother's loss. The tears did come, eventually -- but not for years upon years and his shame at them when they had come had made him never want to weep again. But he had wept more than once in his life ---- and he had wept TEARS OF GOLD over Ichimaru Gin. But in those moments, with her wrapped in her shroud and being carried to the unmarked grave that a prostitute would be granted out there in the Rukongai. He had tried to remember where it was when he'd gone back, years later, had tried to know which of those sad little hints of raised earth had been hers. But his memory had failed him and he'd never known which one it had been. He had always hated himself for that too. A child should remember where their mother was buried, after all. He had never invited Gin out there with him though he would make brief, occasional forays out into that district, trying to piece together the location from foggy memory. Maybe he would change that, now. It had been too intensely personal back then. Just as Gin's own secret had been intensely personal. When this was over, when they were left to take their peace---...

              Silence continued to hover and then there was a flicker of something else that made his head turn as a motion at the corner of his eye drew his attention, Aizen beholding a man he did not recognize, a man with a prominent nose and a mustache that flowed across his cheeks in wings of black, with red eyes that met his own depths of brown. In that moment, there was a sense of recognition that seemed to blaze between them both. They were, the two of them, tied together in some way; they were both of them tied to the Soul King, a tether of blood that bounded between their forms. Three worlds. Three points to a triangle. This man represented one point and Aizen the other; they were divergent too in their own powers for Aizen's power was innately born and this man's was parasitical and that too was representation of their diverging paths. The Soul King was the third point. He understood that too as they stood equidistant from one another in that strange, colorless place that seemed washed through with static and whiteness that overwhelmed. Still, this man that Aizen met at a glance was somehow familiar, familiar on a level which was not to do with what they were but something further than that, deeper than that, a familiarity that was a reflection of their disparate origins.

              Brotherhood was not something they pursued, however - neither of them wanted it. They both understood that when their eyes met in this vision. In the true world, Aizen would turn him down with a quiet sneer decades later in the dark.

              Then the vision was shattering and the young Shinigami was suddenly coming back to his body, falling out of Jinzen so fast he nearly plummeted off of the rock he was seated upon and onto his very face as he shook with the exhaustion that came with barely touching upon his Bankai. It was the closest that he had ever come to it before the events of this war that saw the Quincy rising from their graves in an effort to follow their leader, their figurehead, their King of the Quincy. What had begun on that cool spring afternoon when he had sat in Jinzen and had descended more deeply into his own soul than he ever had before had been fulfilled now, when red had flashed through the air. He had thought, in Muken, that the vision that had come to him of Gin falling, bleeding, had been from that one singular moment during what had occurred in Karakura Town, in that alleyway. He had not realized the vision had involved him, back then, until after the fact. He had put those things out of mind.

              But no, even that vision that had made no sense back then had been fulfilled, now; whether it was divine premonition or it had been one of the few articles of power from the barest touch of his Bankai's power to him, a singular dewdrop imparted to a man plagued by thirst, he would never be able to say. He had seen Gin falling, blood fountaining into the air, and it had been enough to play the tumblers on those locks and then suddenly see that power being seized in his hands at last as Aizen had consumed that star in full beyond taking the merest sip of the sun's power as he had for so long within his life. How he had not feared it -- until it had come time to use it. To use his power in the most selfless act that he could ever do, to give everything he was and everything that he could become in the name of saving the only person who had ever matched him, the only person who could ever count as the other piece of his soul. And even then, the fear had not been the fear of that power -- it had been fear of it overwhelming himself and running out of his control.

              Still, he had chosen to persevere despite that fear and step forward into the realm of a power that had been something that had ever been a source of revilement for him before, a notion that probably would have been at odds with what others believed of him, if they thought he was naught more than a power hungry despot aiming at the Soul King's domain for his personal gain. More fools they. For Aizen, he had not hesitated at all in his readiness to use that power for the sake of this man that he cared for. Perhaps the traitor should have been used to the way his relationship with Gin evolved over the years but he doubted tha that he ever would be. And there was a peacefulnes that came with that. Aizen would rather have Gin at his side and enjoy the chaos that came with it than remain alone, suspended forever in a singular spot and ignoring the world as it passed him by, a swirling river of light and noise tha would never encroach upon his soul-deep pain and solitude.

              His dreams had him twitching, from time to time, curling tighter about Gin's body with his own, his legs tangling with Gin's even in their sleep. Comfort came from the fact that they were together, but emotional exhaustion had him feeling the depths of his own weariness. Of course, they were both suffering from similar exhaustion. Gin's came from a secret unearthed after a hundred years by the man who had been the instigator of such pain and Aizen's own came from a constant turbulence that had disrupted and shredded his otherwise inert placement in the world itself before there was the sudden return of Gin into his life, of being killed more than once, of discovering his Bankai and the power contained therein---… everything was strange now. Everything was different.

              Everything since he had come to awareness and seen Shunsui standing there, beckoning in Gin, had been so much. Only now, during sleep, did he begin to have a hope of processing anything that had come before -- processing the fact that Gin was alive. That he was here in his arms. That he had achieved Bankai at last all in the name of saving this man that he had damaged. There was also the moment of processing the knowledge that had spilled out of Gin, information that was not exactly something that Aizen could own but something that he could not deny - nor would he ever deny them again. Gin had been correct to call him out and he was left changed by this as much as he was changed by Gin's revival back into his life. He was changed by his own Bankai and his acceptance of the power that now echoed through him and showed itself in the simple weight of the air itself. He was changed and he would always remain changed from all of this - he would never be the man he was before and that knowledge did not pain him nor upset him. It was for the best. After all, the man he had been before had been something of a real asshole --- as he was sure Gin would say.

              This was for the best.

              Yet what had him waking suddenly, lifting himself upwards, was the sudden feeling that cascaded over him and left him gasping quietly. Gin's own awakening had him moving a hand towards Gin, unhesitating, fingers touching down upon the pale strands of hair without thought as if to soothe the younger man back into the depths of slumber. Weariness still hammered away at his body, but less so than before. Whatever he had dreamed, Aizen could not recall beyond a vague sense that something of monumental importance had been shifted into place while he had rested, something that saw him stroking that hand through Gin's hair. Somewhere within himself, he had acknowledged that he would never allow anything to happen to him again. He'd surrender his own body first, his own immortality, his own life, before he ever permitted Gin to fall once more. Between them both, he was the one that Aizen would always choose to live, to survive.

              For all of that sentiment, something about the way the air hummed and twitched against his skin had Aizen wanting to bare his teeth at nothing in particular. His reiatsu slivered into the air, a vibrato of a deep bass note that hung like a bell's peal, going on and on, hanging in the air like a sustained note of musical origin -- no, not a bell but an organ's groaning sustained press of a key, rippling with brassy richness of massive pipes. It played through the air as he moved, as if a shadow of his power clung to him in a phantom echo of his movements for but a second or two. Then it was fading away once more and he closed his eyes. Two individuals, perhaps three kilometers out, touching the first of those far-flung barriers -- unfolded even while he'd slept, natural instincts that had been absent for TWO YEARS due to his being entrapped within Muken; barriers to keep himself and Gin safe, barriers crafted to keep out even the strongest of his Espada --- yet those strongest had ever had certain permissions to enter, sometimes.

              Yet the Quincy did not. His head tilted and he brought his hand up towards his own face, the side of his finger touching to his own mouth for a second before he murmured quietly. ❝ --- two Quincy, both at least three kilometers out and away from here. There is plenty of distance that they'd need to cover to find this place and my veils will keep us concealed, but I'm certain there's a reason why they would be out here at all. Probably best if we were to take care of them both sooner rather than later. ❞ Doubtless, they were searching for the two traitors in hopes of accomplishing something. Of course, he'd need to be creative. He had a few suspicions about Yhwach that he didn't want to voice as of yet, but the memory of the vision he'd seen so long ago was lingering in the back of his head. He had willfully forgotten about it years ago, not wanting to entertain the notion that he was somehow different and apart back then. And now it turned out he always had been.

              Then, slowly, that visible brown eye edged towards Gin and Aizen offered a ghost of that old smirk as his fingertip touched to his lips for a few seconds longer, almost provocative, nearly flirtatious in how he regarded the younger man at his side and he lowered his hand slowly and down to his lap. ❝ … what would you say to the idea of a hunt, Gin? It's been so long since we've gone on a hunt at all with the freedom to do as we please. If you're feeling up for it, that is. I do understand things have been strenuous lately, but … ❞ How he left the invitation hanging open and allowed the one he named his viper to decide on whether or not he wanted to pursue the idea of a hunt -- but Aizen would be fine enough if the younger man decided to opt for the idea of a mere snipe instead. It wouldn't be the first time that he had aimed those shots and it wouldn't be the last time, Aizen was sure. Gin had fine senses, but given that Aizen had built those barriers, his understanding of where the two intruders were was even keener than the younger man's might be.

              But oh, it was many more things than just an idle suggestion of something like a hunt. It was a tentative olive branch and a subtle flirt, something that he offered almost shyly. Two years had been a long, long time -- and Aizen was suddenly and acutely aware of the nearness they shared, of how the air was warm from their shared body heat, of how near Gin as to him. It had his heart thumping a few harder beats in his chest, a warmth touching the pit of his stomach. It was such a silly offer but it was equally made in earnestness, in a quiet sort of hope that Gin would agree to the idea of going and having some simple fun, as if to get their feet beneath them both now. Aizen needed a little bit of a test run with this change in his power, he knew, and he was certain that Gin wouldn't mind too terribly, of course.

THE FAMILIAR SENSATION OF HAKUFUKU WAS DIFFICULT TO MISS, even amid his raging emotions and utter collapse inward. Gin detected that telltale bloom of blurred snow drifting down from the ceiling, hollowing out the cabin’s innards, blackness searing onto the edges of his vision. Hazy, he remembered gripping at Aizen’s front with rage and grief both still brewed potently inside of himself, a hunch of his shoulders as though contemplating one last vicious lashing of a felled predator. He was wounded, and being smothered – smothered enough that he jolted, briefly, in an instinctive recoil. A rejection. And in that rejection, those haze-filled eyes pierced into Aizen’s, his expression a snarl.

❝ That trick’s mine, you ass – ❞ More of a slurred growl than an actual curse and loathsome reaction to feeling the surge of slumber gripping at his awareness. The more Gin fought it, the taller the wave brimmed on the horizon. Eventually, as all things with him seemed to be doing as of late, it crashed down.

The snowfall continued lazily, absorbing the cabin into its whimsical winds. Out and beyond the frozen lake that took form within the great expanse of Gin’s inner mind stretched into view. The little shack was stable, albeit fragile, with roof panels disheveled upon its ragged top. They’d need fixing again. Something around here always needed fixing.

❝ I’ll become a Shinigami to fix things – ❞ an echo whispered, childlike in its hope, yet matured by the specks of blood that tainted that little pipe dream. There was no grand serpent here amongst the mountainous horizons to greet Gin – no, only himself, a boy, shrouded by blackened night draped over his too-small shoulders. Shinso did not always adorn himself with such theatrics, though Gin surmised the spirit was likely feeling a little… raw, just as he was. Scraped free of its scales, the hide of the beast hid within itself the anger of a boy who had only barely understood the gravity of a crime he briefly observed, peering down from the dirt pathway above.

❝ At least, that’s what I thought I’d do. But I didn’t. You didn’t. ❞ his voice was eerie, lacking the dialect his silver tongue typically wove its words with, a low hissed tone slithered its way between the breaths that puffed out from his smiling little mouth – the implication that at any moment the monstrous force of Kamishini No Yari could bring forth its forked tongue from his lips. Until then, vibrant eyes gazed up. There was raw emotion, but there was primarily… scrutiny.

❝ It’s been… decades, now, hasn’t it? A hundred years. She doesn’t know. You made sure she doesn’t know you haven’t fixed it. Seeing as you’re so… comfortable with him, now, letting him hold you like that… why not just move on? Why, you’re on the road to forgiveness at this rate. ❞ A slicing little smile reached practically ear-to-ear, devoid of any true reason to smile.

Gin received that smile akin to a spit in his face. The words were equally so vile. They were abhorrent. He knew the feeling well – this particular flavor of self-disgust.

❝ Move on from it? From what he did? That’s not my choice. It ain’t my trauma to bury, here – ❞ He edged towards reprimanding, an authority that matched Shinso’s hissing undertones; don’t challenge me.

❝ Then why carry it, why hold onto it all this time? ❞

The challenge was, apparently, unavoidable.

❝ She doesn’t remember what happened, she doesn’t know what was taken. If she knew, she wouldn’t try so hard to hide her failin’s behind th’ mask of alcohol ‘n laziness to excuse her lack of strength as a lack of drive. She wouldn’t keep everybody at a distance, she wouldn’t act like everythin’ was fine. ❞ Shallowly assessing the depths of what was done to his childhood friend felt criminal, but Gin supposed there was enough blood under his fingernails to excuse the cruel brevity for now. He was speaking to the only other person who knew that there was more than what was spoken, after all.

❝ You remember what happened, you know what was taken – and yet you still hide behind a mask, don’t you? You excuse your deeds as a necessity. You keep everyone at a distance. You act like everything’s fine. ❞ The child’s voice was low and methodical. A surgeon’s precision. Ill-fitting for the guise of a lanky young boy.

❝ Rangiku ain’t ever in a position where tellin’ the truth about herself could get her or her loved ones killed. ❞ Gin’s quip was equally precise, a reminder; I don’t have the luxury of drinking my nightmares away.

❝ Aizen Sousuke didn’t kill you. No, he might have tried, that day, but so did you. And in the end, when you were eventually killed and not by his own hand, he still brought you back to life. ❞

The child was unmoving, save for that wicked mouth. Gin narrowed his eyes, pacing to the side. The snowfall crunched beneath his steps, though he didn’t need to trudge through the accumulation quite yet. ❝ It almost sounds like you’re arguin’ in favor of Aizen. Where’d all that… divine righteousness of yours go, hm? ❞

❝ Forgiveness can be a righteous act. ❞ A calculated reply. The serpent was rather set on the matter. Gin bristled. Shinso remained steadfast, wearing his own skin, smiling.

❝ Do you forgive Aizen Sousuke for what he did to her, to all of those people? ❞ Now, Gin felt a sliding knife of betrayal place itself against his back. Not quite delving into his skin, but the prickling sense of the threat was there. His blade, his weapon, his one true reliable entity… was Shinso doubting him?

❝ Do you? Can you? Will you? ❞ The child watched, waiting, assessing Gin the same way Gin now sought to assess him.

❝ I ain’t one of his victims, I don’t get to decide whether or not he’s redeemed himself for what he’s done. I don’t get to decide that I’m done, that I wanna jus’… forget. ❞ The scrutiny Shinso gazed at him with seemed to intensify, and the winds of doubt ripped with more force against his frame.

❝ I can’t imagine Rangiku could hold the grudge that you have for over a century. ❞

❝ If you wanna plead with me to forgive him, then you gotta at least tell me why you’ve changed your tune. You wanted to eat his heart. ❞ Gin spoke slowly, measured, obscuring the tremor of emotions which still ran too high for his comfort. Too intense for his head to not pound, his ears ringing with the song of his heartbeat lodged somewhere in his throat.

❝ I only ever wanted what you wanted. ❞ The sincerity Shinso spoke with burned Gin. He returned the favor, almost akin to a plea for a ceasefire.

❝ I don’t want to forgive him. ❞ A tired confession, a hollow one.

❝ I think you do, you just don’t realize it. You want it over and done with. You want to wash your hands of it all. ❞ Shinso’s words felt… wrong.

❝ I can’t forgive him, it’ll never be over, and I’ll always have stained hands. ❞ Finality rang out and Gin despaired over the verdict he issued himself. This despair was something familiar to him, something he accepted long ago – it presented itself as an old ache, something belonging to a scar that sometimes grew sore or tight after already healing over.

❝ Can’t, or won’t? You won’t let yourself even try. ❞

❝ Do you think those men let Rangiku try to run away from'em before chasin’ her down? ❞ Gin snapped, a whirlwind of heavier snow swirled, the billowing bite of cold at their cheeks.

❝ That happened when she was a little girl, she’s a grown woman now, do you honestly think it needs to be held for this long – especially now, now that you’ve opened his eyes to it? Now that you can finally speak about it? ❞

❝ Would you tell that lil girl to swallow those negative feelin’s she’s havin’ – jus’ like you’re tellin’ me – because too much time’s passed 'n she needs to move on? I held a mangled girl’s soul in my hand, the one he ripped outta her. I had it, I had it. I can’t let it go. ❞

❝ Why hold on!? Why grit your teeth, the prey’s lost, you need to move on! ❞

In a blur, the naked blade of a wakizashi unearthed itself from the draped sleeve of Gin’s right arm. He struck the boy at his left, severing the limb in a clean cutting instant. The boy did not jolt nor did he wince, though his eyes veered toward a sort of mixture between confusion and hurt – a wound not of flesh, but of the soul. And Gin, with all of his snarling, did not restrain himself from spitting venom at the veiled serpent’s bloodied body still standing so small, there, before him.

❝ – move on from that. ❞ Another mutilating strike to the other side, lopping flesh from forearm and wrist, a hand dropping into fresh snow at their feet. The red bloomed outwards, a poison. ❝ Forgive that,❞ The blade plunged into the boy’s chest, twisting. ❝ – don’t hate that it happened. Don’t loathe th’ pain, the loss.❞ Gin yanked the blade free and swept the following ribbon of blood outwards in an arching strike away from himself. The billowing robes of white remained pristine, but the snow around them was bloodied. The boy was mauled, spurting, dripping crimson from that ever-smiling mouth. ❝ Is that what you want me to tell myself? ❞

❝ Forgiveness has to be earned, but yes. ❞ Bloody lips still spoke, though a shuddered heave hitched itself, wet, inside the boy’s throat.

❝ And he HASN’T EARNED IT! He won’t ever earn it. And neither will I! ❞ The winds howled but Gin’s rarely raised voice still carried past the tormented blizzarding air.

❝ Didn’t you just say you couldn’t decide whether or not he has redeemed himself… ❞

❝ Redemption 'n forgiveness ain’t the same. He might’ve redeemed himself, but he’ll never be forgiven. He’ll need to crawl on his hands'n knees in front of her, confessin’ everythin’… he’ll need to beg, he’ll need to unmake every piece of that rotten thing before I even consider that an option. ❞

❝ It seems we’ve found where my righteousness went. ❞

❝ It seems that, given your weak-willed backtrackin’… maybe I should’ve accepted Hollowfication. Maybe then you would’ve been good enough to defeat'im. ❞ Spiteful words spoken, ones that Gin internally recoiled back from after they left his mouth. Or maybe that was an indiscernible flinch from Shinso that he felt.

❝ Being stubborn is not synonymous with being right about something, Ichimaru-sama. ❞ A sadness, an exasperated tone. Gin was speaking to a child and yet he was not the elder here – the serpentine spirit was, and he was the boy. The boy he mutilated, the boy he left a crippled mess, a heap of bloodied questions; why, why, why, why –

❝ This was never about what’s right 'n what’s wrong. ❞ Tiredness exuded from him and Gin looked away, looked into the biting winds and shut his eyes to let the cold sink its teeth into him.

❝ Of course. It’s about… – ❞

The dream faded to the tip of Gin’s mind as it groggily emerged into wakefulness, a slow blink of his eyes hazily clearing the fog. Hakufuku draped over his senses like a warm and heavy blanket. Gin needed a minute to gather himself, the thickness in his throat residual from his dreamstate’s heightened emotions. Or perhaps he was sore from sobbing – either way, he swallowed and shifted. The bed was warm, and for a brief flickering moment the world seemed warless. Gin felt transported back to a time when waking to find himself accompanied in bed was normalcy.

It was only when Aizen’s body shot upright that Gin became aware of the fact that he’d been embraced by the older man whilst asleep. In the absence, he felt a chill roll its way toward his shoulders. But he could not dissect his current emotional stance on the act of cuddling – whatever stirred Aizen into that look of concern and alertness was enough to bring Gin to a sluggish ascension, too.

❝ Somethin’ comin’? ❞ It’d not surprise the Shinigami, at least. Aizen’s time spent in recovery also allowed their enemies time to recover and regroup, too. Out beyond their barriered-off safehouse were two scouting Quincy, set forth to seek the special threat of Aizen Sousuke. Scouting out in hopes of serving their struck-down lord – and perhaps, soon, leading Yhwach to their doorstep.

[piece-of-pierce]

Danny picked up some traits from his parents. He got his mom’s flexibility and reflexes, his dad’s love of anything chocolate flavored and abnormally great cardiovascular health. The trait they both passed on (to Danny AND Jazz) is an intense need to learn everything they can about what they don’t like.

Jazz remembers what it was like when Uncle Hammond passed and Aunt Alicia got different. She’s terrified of her own emotions effecting her like that some day, so studies psychology like there’s no tomorrow.

Jack and Maddie bonded over their shared fear and death and resulting desire to learn everything they could about it.

Danny can’t stand clowns. They’re dishonest and hide who they are behind heavy makeup and outlandish costumes. Freak show kicks that dislike into a full-on phobia though, so he goes all in on learning everything he can. How does clown school work? What are the requirements to be a clown? What rules do they have to follow? If he knows their limitations, he knows their weaknesses. He will not be caught off guard again.

That knowledge sits in the back of his mind like a comfort blanket. Every so often he’ll dip back in and research if there’s anything that’s changed. He wants to keep on top of any information about his greatest enemies.

Finally, he manages to graduate high school with a 2.7 GPA and 31 on the ACT thanks to his Math and Science scores (and a carefully managed brawling schedule with his rogues). Thanks to those, he managed to get a partial scholarship to Gotham U for Physics and Engineering. He still isn’t sure how he managed that, but he’ll happily take it.

What he won’t take is this FALSE Clown trying to cause trouble right before finals! He’d kept on top of his shit all semester and wasn’t gonna let anyone kidnapping him and some other people off the street get in his way.

Later, the Bats manage to find where the hostages were held because one of them waved down Robin. As in, all the captives had gotten free and when they found the right warehouse, it was to one young man berating the Joker.

“You’re nothing but a modern rendition of the town fool!”

[mysicklove]

𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇 | R. SUKUNA

Summary: Being mated to the most blood thirsty omega around is not ideal for most alphas, but at least his body is up to par! ♡

Warnings: sub (ish???)/omega/bottom sukuna, alpha/gn! reader, strap referred as a dick, dubcon, threatening + small amount of blood (as usual), heats, slight yandere! sukuna, trueform sukuna, slight role reveral regarding omegaverse dynamics, reader is basically sukunas pet, subspaces, anal fingering, self lubrication (slick), biting, heavy praise, multiple orgasms, violent behavior, slight degradation (use of nickname whore and bitch), dirty talk, starts off as smut but then feelings are involved (reader is a simp at the end)

WC: 9.1k

A/N: sick in the head...sick in the head...

One of the world's greatest surprises is that the King of Curses is an omega. The horror stories told about him never once mentioned his dynamic, and so everybody believed that he was an alpha, which made sense considering his history. Those who came in contact with him never really had time to spread the news to others, having been killed so quickly. So only a special few knew about it.

But it wasn't like Sukuna was embarrassed of his second sex. No, the king took pride in his dynamic – it made killing alphas way more satisfying knowing that he instinctively should be baring his neck to them. And so, he never took a marking, finding nobody worthy of it.

That is until he met you. You definitely weren't worthy of his mark, being incredibly weak and holding no authority over him. But for some reason or another, Sukuna became fascinated by you. You never showed signs of fear, nor interest in him, and almost everybody feels one of the two emotions when meeting him. He was compelled to learn more about you, and somehow, Sukuna became attached to your side for a while.

He didn't love you nor feel any feelings similar to love – it was for curiosity's sake as to why you were so different than the other alphas. 

Sukuna eventually determined that you were either an idiot or crazy for how you talked to him. You treated him like he was just simply another annoying suitor around. It was entertaining to the bored king. And so, you were his test subject, and once he was done studying you, you were to be killed.

But alas, Sukuna fell into heat not long after meeting you, and he had gotten himself mated with you. A foolish thing that Sukuna has never even gotten close to doing in his entire lifetime.

He almost murdered you after his heat for daring to mark him – a permanent thing for omegas, while you, an alpha, could live your life freely. But it wasn't like you had intended to mark him. Sukuna, at the peak of his heat, had threatened to slice your head off if you didn't claim him. You didn't happen to dislike him too much, and you did not want to die, so you followed the king's orders and drove your teeth into his neck during his orgasm.

And the second his heat was over, he had run off without a word. He was humiliated by the fact that he was claimed now and had visited you multiple times since that day to put an end to your useless life. But every time he saw you, he would hide away so that you didn't see him and leave without you knowing. It wasn't his fault; everything in him screamed for him to be next to you, being freshly mated, but he refused to follow those instincts.

With his time away, he couldn't help but think about you nearly all the time. You were kind to him, even though he hates to admit it. You cleaned his body up when he was twitching from exhaustion and covered in his own bodily fluids. You must have been equally exhausted, having been forced to keep up with his pace, but not once did you complain nor mention how weak he must have looked with his drool stains on his chin.

And even before his heat, he didn't seem to mind you. He liked that you always quipped back your own insults and didn't allow yourself to get bullied by him. It made it entertaining, and he found himself enjoying conversing with a human. But still, even with your complaints of how annoying he was for not leaving you alone, you would cook extra food so that he would never go hungry. Although Sukuna didn't have a preference for human food, he still found himself eating a few bites. You were providing for an omega, and Sukuna made careful note of it, hating that he found himself pleased by it.

During his preheat, you offered your house to him and brought him blankets and pillows for nesting even when he nearly tore off your arm for entering his (your) room. And when he dragged you into his nest, you complimented it as you were supposed to, which still made his insides stir.

Plus, when he trapped you in his nest for a couple of days, you didn't make much of a fuss – other than when you had to use the restroom, to which he nipped at your hand like some sort of dog in complaint. You were a weak, pathetic alpha, and he couldn't let you roam free, practically begging to be injured. His nest was the safest place to be, and so in his head, you were to stay put there for all of his heat.

But Sukunas possessive and overprotective thoughts shifted instantly when his heat dwindled down. He got up and left the day his heat had ended, and you were left completely shocked at his sudden disappearance. It was out of the blue, considering he had been around for weeks beforehand. You couldn't help but feel distraught over it, having also felt the bond, even if it was not as extreme for an omega. Plus, during his heat, he was cuter than you have ever seen before. He was needy and whiny but still cute. 

You may have garnered your own feelings toward the curse, something close to love, or some sort of infatuation at least. So when he left, you were left nearly broken for weeks, having just previously been daydreaming about how you could manage a new life with the two of you. It was a hopeless delusion, and you should have known that, but it still hurt.

But you aren't as pathetic as he thinks, and by the second month, you were over it. Sure, the bond sometimes made you feel a little listless, but after so long, you have even begun to forget how he smelt. And your feelings toward him rapidly shifted, now finding him repulsive for abandoning you. You had decided that if he would ever come back, you would reject him.

You should have known that wasn't going to happen, considering you still harbored feelings for him. Lo and behold, nearly three months later, Sukuna returned.

He barges in the door, almost tearing it off the walls. You nearly jump out of your seat at the noise, but your eyes widen the second you smell his scent. The mating bond made it even more appealing to you, and you could also make out the smell of omega in heat. You curse under your breath at the smell but remain silent, not giving the satisfaction of you freaking out over his sudden appearance.

You were seated in your office doing work when he came in. And just seconds after you smelt him, Sukuna conjured himself behind you, sharp nails dragging up your neck in both a greeting and warning. But you weren't having any of it, a familiar rage bubbling in your chest at his return. So, you just continue to stare ahead at your screen. 

"Leave," is the first thing you say, the first command. You never used an alpha command on an omega, but this situation definitely called for it. He was mated to you, so the words had to have a more significant effect on him. But alas, he was the king of curses - he was not going to back down so easily.

"Why do you smell of other omegas, you pathetic alpha?" 

His teeth graze your neck, and you try your best not to shiver, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of it. You try to mask your scent, thinking of things other than his tongue that seems to be peeking past his lips. 

You should ignore him — you know you should ignore him, but you just can't seem to find it in you to. "I was not with others if that is what you are asking," you roll your eyes, still facing your computer while he leans over you. "Though I wish I had been."

"I would have killed them," he purrs, dragging his claws down your chest. "Ripped them apart for daring to touch what is mine while you would have sat and listened to their screams of agony." His teeth graze your earlobes, and you gulp, thinking about how horrid that would be. "Would you like it? Like to watch your omega get all possessive over you? It would fuel your little alpha pride, I would suppose."

He was releasing his scent in waves, and it was beginning to make your head spin. But it was your house, and he wasn't just going to barge in and claim it as him, so you also release your own scent, which pulls a purr-like chuckle from him. Then, you slump in your chair, finally sparing him a glance. "Omegas aren't supposed to be possessive. That is more of an alpha trait, dont you think, Sukuna?"

"And you are possessive over me?"

You go silent for a moment, reaching out to touch his face. You tilt his chin back, forcing him to bare his neck so you can run your fingers over the bite mark you made just a couple of months ago.

He goes quiet, amused by your touch but not liking your lack of response. But then you pull away, like nothing happened, and return to your computer. "I dont need to be," you sigh, "You won't let anyone fuck you that isn't me." 

One of Sukuna's top eyes twitches, and he spins the chair around, grabbing your chin to force you to look at him. Your face remains blank, and even when he begins to dig his finger into your cheek, you dont show any signs of amiss. Your lack of response drives Sukuna insane, and you raise your eyebrows at his glare. 

He growls low at you, baring his teeth and continuing to cloud your house with his now seductive scent. "You have some nerve to talk to me that way, you pathetic excuse of an alpha. You are looking at the most desired omega on this planet, and you think for a second that I wouldn't fuck somebody else?"

Your hands travel to his wrists, tugging his hand off your face. He surprisingly lets you, but with each second he seems to grow more angry. This is surprising to you because his scent conveyed a completely different emotion. Everything radiating from Sukuna was Look at me, Fuck me. And if you gave into instincts, the two of you would be without clothes by now. But alas, Sukuna left you for three months with no word, and you weren't going to allow yourself to get pushed around by him.

So, you stare back up at him, a wicked grin pulling at your face. "You are the one baring my mark and are crawling back to me after all of these months." You see his face begin to fume, and his scent turns sour from displeasure at the words. "But I am not going to fuck you. I dont want to fuck you. You left after forming a bond with me. I don't want you anymore. Go home, omega."

The words seemed to burn at your tongue, going completely against your instincts. You were purposely hurting an omega, which is everything that alpha's were basically encoded against. But alas, you did not want to get caught up in Sukuna's web.

The room smells horrid by now, mostly from disapproval but also distress — it almost made you whine out, feeling horrible for making any omega feel unwanted, but you bite your tongue and try your best not to focus on his scent. It would only do you worse in the end.

"You think you can speak to me this way because you marked me? Are you so delusional that you think I won't kill you on the spot?" His finger does now cut at your cheek, and you flinch at the stinging sensation along with the blood that now drips from your cheek. He never was afraid to use violence to prove his point. 

But then, he licks at your blood. You feel the stripe of his tongue from your chin all the way up to your cheek. "Do you want me to roll over and show my stomach to you? Want me to croon at you and beg you to pup me? I am not your omegan bitch."

"You would be more appealing if you were."

He chuckles at you, shaking his head. "I am the most appealing thing you will ever see in your puny lifetime. People would kill to be in your position."

He was nibbling on your ear at this point, dragging his pointer finger up your shirt, seconds away from ripping it in two. The scent Sukuna let out was back to being seductive, probably too overwhelmed by his heat to maintain his displeasure.

"Nobody would want to be mated to a bloodthirsty curse."

His teeth drag up your neck, and he laughs at you again, low and rumbling. "You do, or did at least. Considering you did mark me, my pathetic alpha."

The insult doesn't phase you. You shut your eyes and sigh out. You couldn't help but be turned on at this point – his knee was meticulously placed in between your legs, and the smell of heat wafted through the air. You were trapped whether you liked it or not, and you could feel the fight in you begin to dwindle. "You would have killed me if I didn't."

"And I will kill you if you turn me away again."

"Can you try to make it seem like you are not always threatening me? Alphas prefer to be the one in charge, you know."

He grabs your hand and leads it beneath his pants where his slick was pooling. You gulp, looking away and trying not to salivate at the wetness. "You can always fuck the control out of me," he breathes into your ear, and you let out a shaky sigh, "If you do it well enough, I could end up crooning at you for more. You would like that, wouldn't you?"

Your fingers find his hole, and you borderline whine, accidentally ignoring his question. You have been thinking about this for months now, and him now being here now sends your head spinning. "So wet."

"'s all for you."

His mouth latches onto yours and he groans into it, kissing with so much force that you a pinned to the back of your chair. You feel his tongue drag over the inside of your mouth, trying to claim as much of it for himself. You pull away after a moment, collecting your breath, and realize that he has you wrapped around his finger. "Y-You want to bottom?"

He bites your lip hard enough to draw blood, and you hiss, grabbing your mouth and pulling away. "What was that for?!"

"For being an idiot. Of course I want to bottom." He licks at your lips, healing them with his cursed technique, before moving onto your cheek to do the same thing. "How did I end up with a stupid alpha?"

You growl at him, "It's not my fault I can't think." The smell of heat was so strong by now that your head was dizzy. "You want to tell the entire world you are trying to get fucked? Sounds whorish to me."

"It's working isn't it?" He feels you circling his hole, finally sliding your first finger in. "Will you turn me into your whore, alpha?"

The thought makes you groan out, head tilting back while he continues to lick and kiss your neck. But you don't dare to stop your movements, knowing that if you were, he would probably find some way for you to focus your attention back on him. He was greedy for it all.

The second finger slides in without much trouble, and now Sukuna is straddling you. He was much larger than you andhis frame completely engulfed you, but still he caved his body forward so that he could continue his ministrations. You already knew that your neck was to be covered in marks by the time he was through of you – he was possessive, and it wasn't because of his second gender. 

Slick was now beginning to drip down his thigh, and he was beginning to rock his hips back and forward onto your fingers. The chair was making a screeching noise, upset with the large man for trying to put his weight on it. 

You pull away for a second, and Sukuna immediately returns to kiss you again, cupping your face with two of his palms. Again, you try to pull away, and still, he doesn't let you speak, continuing to force his tongue into your mouth. A warning growl pulls at your throat, and you pull your fingers out of him.

He, in response, lets out his own growl, louder than yours, considering his growl was more out of disapproval at the removal of your fingers. His face by now was flushing red, a telltale sign that he was slipping completely into his heat. 

"What now?" Sukuna hisses, and you roll your eyes.

But, instead of biting back another remark, you change your tone, taking the softer route. Omega's like to be coddled, and Sukuna was no exception, no matter his status. So, you rub at his cheek with your thumb. "I know you're feeling needy, but can we take this to the bedroom?"

His main set of eyes blinks at you, physically relaxing at your gentle touch and the crooning. You, in return, have to hold back a smirk, knowing that if he was to see it, he would grow pissed again. You couldn't help but compare his behavior to a bratty child. But still, he climbs off your lap, and you sigh in relief before squealing when he effortlessly lifts you with his top pair of arms. 

A deep purr-like chuckle is let out, and he glances at you before walking over to your room. "I can walk, you know," you say, slightly pouting at being cradled like some sort of child.

"And risk you taking a fall and somehow dying on me? I am not risking the possibility of not getting fucked because you are the weakest creature that walks the earth." He doesn't even look at you when he says it, continuing to walk forward. You remain silent, just sighing and shaking your head, but used to this ridiculous behavior.

You notice the thick smell of arousal that was still pooling out of him, and most omegas would be stuck in their nests, barely able to walk. But Sukuna wasn't a typical omega, and you both found his unpredictableness endearing and nerve-wracking.

Your finger pulls his robe open, and without him looking, you latch your teeth onto his nipple, gently nibbling on the bud. He fumbles with his steps, and immediately, a clenched groan is let out, paired with a small shiver. The reaction pleases you, and so you smile at him before he can question your actions. "Still just as sensitive, I'm glad. Tonight is going to be," you reach up to trace the side of his face. "Fun."

The purr of approval vibrates his entire chest, and you laugh.

–

He kicked you out of your own room, as he did last time. When he arrived at your room and saw the perfectly made bed, along with the complete absence of his scent, he had borderline dropped you. So, just like last time, you sat outside your door, occasionally passing him more blankets or pillows, and crooning at him so that he didn't get pissed off thinking that you left him.

His heat smell was getting thicker with each minute, and in return, your head was growing foggy – you couldn't imagine what was going on in his own head. "You better have not moved from that position. I hear your stirring. Don't make me break your legs."

You haven't moved from your seated position in front of the door, so you roll your eyes. "I'm not going anywhere, clingy bastard. Just trying not to cum in my pants from your scent." It was a sarcastic remark, but when you hear the king chuckle in delight, you tap your head against the wooden door and close your eyes.

It was weird to have him back, and you are not surprised that your heart feels strange around him – you were bonded afterall. It was good to have him back – you found comfort in his scent, but the thought of him disappearing again made you frown. You tuck your knees close to you and bury your head in them.

Sukuna opens the door two minutes later, slightly panting and flushed red. His body was growing weak. Now, he was completely bare, and his cock was standing hard against his lower stomach. But, you didn't notice, still in your little ball on the floor.

He looks at you, raising his eyebrows, because he has never seen you in this state. You were always reeking of confidence, standing tall and proud while you openlingly defy him. He, strangely, didn't like to see you look like this and your scent was beginning to turn stale.

"Why does my alpha look like a mopey kitten?"

You don't look up at him, slightly pouting. "You have to promise me you won't leave after this. I'm not some fucktoy for your heat."

Sukuna would be lying if he didn't say his omega was purring at the idea of staying with you. The last couple of months have taken a toll on his body, and although he is the strongest person to walk this planet, it was quite annoying to be in a constant state of distress. "Ill think about it – depends on how well you fuck me. How can you be so whiny when I am the one with slick dripping down my thighs?" 

You look up from your makeshift ball and are immediately hit with the smell of it. But, you dont have time to look at his thighs because you are being scooped up again like you truly were some sort of kitten. He holds you with one hand and uses another one to pet your head as he drags you to his nest. "There, there," he tries to comfort, "Dont be sad little alpha, you make me feel weird when you are moping."

He was purring at you, and even if you tried to, you couldn't help but feel better. But the moment doesn't last long — he drops you into his nest, crossing his top set of arms above you and waiting. You raise your eyebrows at him, glancing at his cock that was hard and on display before going back to his smug face. "Why are you showing me your useless cock?"

"Im not," he bites, baring his teeth for a moment, before shaking his head. "The nest. Compliment it."

"Oh." 

Sukuna seemed to have a set of procedures he wanted to follow before getting to the real deal. It was surprising, considering that most omegas wouldn't miss a second of sex for something as silly as this. But you could tell he was beginning to struggle from the way he was slightly trembling. 

You quickly turn to pillows and pillows, along with your miscellaneous dirty clothes. He was tapping his foot, quickly growing impatient. So you nod at him, giving him a small smile to show that you are happy. "Very nice. Soft, comfortable. I really like it. Good job, Sukuna."

He releases his pleased scent in waves, and a small croon leaves his lips. But even when you could tell that he was practically wagging his tail at the compliment, all he says is, "Good. You are to stay here for the duration of my heat. No exceptions. And dont you dare think about getting up to relieve yourself without telling me? I will string you alive."

That meant that he was probably going to be stalking into the kitchen for food and water like he did last time. Alphas are supposed to provide food/water and protection to their omegas in their most vulnerable state – Sukuna seemed to not follow traditional dynamics roles, which wasn't that surprising. But still, the idea of you being the one to be taken care of makes you slightly pout. 

The omega seems to read your mind. "My vulnerable state is a million times stronger than you at your strongest. You stay in the nest."

"Your wish is my command, Lord Sukuna," you say sarcastically, leaning back in the cushions and sighing. 

He finally comes crawling toward you, pinning you beneath his massive frame. But you are not intimidated by him, to say the least, so you just raise an eyebrow at him. He presses a small kiss to your neck before saying, "I like the way that sounds on your lips."

"Yeah, I bet you do, you arrogant bastard." He chuckles at you, taking a deep inhale of your scent and then gently rubbing his neck onto yours. The action is sweet, but you are flooded with the smell of arousal, so you are getting particularly impatient. "Are we going to fuck, or do I need to find another omega in heat?"

It was a risky joke, and you knew that you shouldn't have said that the second it left your mouth. But Sukuna, in turn, just rumbles another laugh, gently biting the skin of your neck. "Little alpha has jokes?" he asks, and you remain quiet, biting your lip and hoping that you dont cause the deaths of innocent people. "Do you think it would be funny if I killed every omega you laid eyes on?"

You grab his chin and force his lips onto yours. He eagerly accepts your advances, purring low while cupping your face with two hands. "Your means to distract me are so cute."

You don't respond to the mumble against your lips – instead, pushing your tongue into his mouth. You can feel himself beginning to rut against your pelvis, probably staining pre on your clothes. But, the fabric doesn't stand a chance anyway, as he tears through it with his finger. The sound causes you to pull away, frowning at him. "That was my favorite shirt."

"And it was in my way," he breathes, before pressing his mouth back to yours. You fingers begin to make their way to the back of his thighs and he hitches a breath when you finally bring your fingers back to his entrance. It was properly lubricated as it was before, and it makes it incredibly easy to slip two fingers in.

Sukuna breathes a sigh of relief at the feeling, having been daydreaming about you inside him for the past couple of hours. He unconsciously rocks his hips back into the digits while you scissor the hole, preparing him for what is later to come. Your knee comes up to where his cock grinds against, and he groans into your mouth. 

You pull away from him, now choosing to focus on his neck. Your mouth litters it with kisses and small love bites, but focus on the outline of your teeth from three months earlier — the mark you gave him. It seemed to be a sensitive part for him, considering the way all of his eyes are squeezed shut and his arms trembled on the pillows next to you. 

"Such a pretty mark," you coo, curling your fingers inside him slightly toward his stomach so that it hits his prostate right on.

Sukuna, in return, eyes fly open, and he chokes up a weak cough at the feeling. But, he quickly recomposes himself, swallowing some saliva and looking back at you. "Glad one of us likes it."

"You are a liar," you tease, kissing his jawline, "or else you wouldn't come crawling back to me. Tell me, Ryomen, did you miss me?"

"You are going to have to fuck me with something bigger than your fingers to get me to babble such nonsense." He holds a cocky grin, flashing his teeth before using his tongue to lick at your lips. The action makes you cringe and look away while he laughs.

But his moment of triumph is cut short when you plunge another finger inside him. It sends his mouth flying open, and his eyes widen at the intrusion before he lets out a guttural moan. "Fuckkkk," he groans, grinding himself on your fingers, "T-Thats more like it!" 

You grin at him, rubbing your thumb on his lips. "Such a size queen. Do you need something bigger?"

His tongue darts out, and he licks at your thumb while you raise your eyebrows. He seemed to be glaring at you, but it didn't do much, considering his eyes were growing hazy and his cheeks were flushed. "You know what I want. Are you going to fuck me, or do I need to find another alpha?" 

It was a cute attempt to try and use your words against you, so you can't help but laugh. "Have you ever been fucked by someone else, Sukuna? I swore I was the first to ever be inside you." 

To this, he goes silent. It was true, and in fact, even if it went completely against instincts, Sukuna during his previous heats would be the one fucking his partners. He didn't care about their sex, nor their dynamic, all he was looking for was pleasure. Granted, being inside someone didn't have the same feeling as being the one penetrated, and he realized that very quickly after his first heat with you. He didn't know if he could go back to the half-ass pleasure he was grantedbefore.

So when he hears you laugh, the curse merely scoffs and looks away. But, you move quickly away from the subject, and instead push him off of you. "Get on your hands and knees," you say, and then sigh, knowing better than to give him any commands. "Sorry, that sounded demanding. Can you please get on your hands and knees, Sukuna? It will be easier for the both of us."

"I am not your bitch," he bites, but still, he climbs off of you and readjusts himself in front of you. He was not ashamed inthe way he presented himself – slick ran down his thigh and coated his hole while his cock laid heavy in between them with pre cum beading at the tip.

You sit up, giving his ass a squeeze that sends him growling at you. You go silent for a minute, preparing everything while he sits and waits semi-patiently. But once you are all ready, you grin at the muscled body laid out so perfectly in front of you. "Trust me, I know. But I do hope to change that."

He doesn't have time to respond when you are suddenly pushing into him. The curse, in return, grips at the sheets, turning his knuckles white from the mere force of it. He hisses out and bites at the pillow in front of his, and his ring stretches to take the new intrusion. "Fuck!" he groans, shaking his head, "Was it always this freakishly big? S-Slow down before I come up there and tear your head off!"

You roll your eyes at the threat but abide by his demand. "So dramatic," you sigh, using your finger to trace over his wet entrance. "You seem to be gobbling me up just fine down here. You are so whiny, king of curses."

He let out a string of profanities, and tears begin to prick in his eyes. It makes your own eyes light up, and you thrust forward to bottom out completely inside of him. His body erupts in a fit of shivers, and he hides his face from you in the pillows. Sukuna's entire body was burning up by now, and your hands trace at the flushed skin on his back while you wait for him to adjust to the length.

His whines, you realize very quickly, did not express his true feelings. The air was growing thick from arousal, and the second you bottomed out inside him, a pleased scent is released. Your lips curl up in a smile. "Well, aren't you just a little whore!"

Growls echo through the room, but you quickly shut them up by pulling out and thrusting forward. It makes his himchoke a gasp and more of the pleased scent is let out, making the room smell incredibly sweet. The power is getting to your head, but you relished in it for all you could, considering that once he got adjusted to the length inside him, he would be spitting his own insults in between moans. 

But for now, you lean forward and lick at his neck, just over his scent gland. "You feel good? Finally sedated after having a cock up your ass?"

"I will if you do something with it. You are boring me to tears," he pants into the pillows, one of his eyes looking back at you. But you just shrug at the complaint and finally begin to move. 

You start off slow, pulling your hips back all the way until the tip reaches his rim and then back forward. But it seems to have a greater effect on him than you thought. He lets out a muffled groan and slightly raises his hips so that it gives you easier access. You would comment on the display, but you watch a bead of slick drip down his thigh and instead remain quiet, so you dont miss the show.

The noises he makes are cute, low in pitch compared to most omegas, but dont hide the fact that he was in an immense amount of pleasure. The sight in front of you was one to behold – his hole stretched prettily just for you while his entire body was trembling. You could tell he was growing annoyed with the slow pace, so you move your hips quicker, only causing him to clench onto the sheets.

He curses out his own set of profanities, and so you lean forward, pressing your chest to his back, and kiss him. It shuts him up instantly, and the king is craning his neck back to kiss you with an 

unmatched ferocity. It makes you chuckle in surprise at the desperation of it all, and he slightly growls into your mouth, knowing exactly what you are thinking. 

His tongue was a lot larger than yours, and he seemed to have no shame in using it to completely claim the inside of your mouth. One of his hands also cups your face, trapping you to his lips. But, even with his possessive hold on you, you dont let up on your pace, knowing that he was to surely bite (and not on your neck) you in the position if you did.

And so his body jerks forward with each slam of your hips, and Sukuna has to push himself back so that he can reach your lips. His groans are eaten up by your mouth, but still, you can feel the vibrations of his purr. It makes you let out your own sounds of affection, and he greedily consumes them without shame.

You rip your face away from his, and he frowns at you for a split second, already on his way to let out another complaint, before you grab his neck and push it into the sheets. You dont do it hard — you aren't trying to suffocate him, but simply to show what position he is in. Now, his ass remains in the air while his face is buried in some of your pillows. He makes a sound of surprise, but you quicken your pace before he can ask what you are doing.

Your hips move at a rapid pace, and it gives him no room to adjust to the new position. You were drilling into him without a care in the world, creating a lewd sound of slapping of skin. It made his eyes widen, and he bit the soft fabric of the pillow, canines digging into the sheet, nearly tearing it apart.

You hook your finger into his mouth, pulling his lip back and contorting his pretty face. "Hey, relax. Dont rip up my pillows; I just bought them."

"F-Fuck you!" he warbles, but it comes out shaky and breathless from your movements, and you swear you can see his eyes beginning to roll back. But still, he brings his hand over to his mouth and chews on the flesh instead. The action only makes you grin, knowing he was slowly beginning to give in to his instincts to please his alpha.

So, you lean forward, not daring to stop your movements until your chest was pressed to his back. Then you find his ear and lean close till you are centimeters away from it and say, "Well, aren't you just a good boy? Doing so well for me, huh, my omega? Pleasing your alpha by taking me whole."

Much to the surprise of both of you, his abdomen tenses up, and cum shoots out of his cock. It stains the sheets a creamy shade of white, and his entire body begins to tremble with the shocks. The curse doesn't make a peep, biting his lip as he clenches onto the walls of the nest and tightens around your length.

The action makes your eyes widen, and a breathless laugh falls from your lips. "You wanted me to be mean to you your last heat, but you have a praise kink?"

His entire back was turning red, and his cheeks twinged with embarrassment. The man shows you his teeth, growling slightly while craning his neck to look at you. "I do not. Watch your mouth, little alpha, before you piss me off."

"Do you want to be my good boy, Sukuna?"  

Your breath was right next to Sukunas ear, and his entire body goes through a fit of shivers. His scent was screaming Yes. Yes. Yes. But Sukuna just faces the pillow and shakes his head. "Shut up. You are disgusting me."

Your hips begin to pick up their pace again, and a small whimper escapes his lips from the twinge of overstimulation. But still, immediately he begins to press himself back into you, not daring to escape the pleasure he had sought out for. Your lips find his neck, and you begin to litter it with marks, which only drives Sukuna to the brink of insanity due to his instinctual fondness for being "claimed."

"Look so pretty for me," you trace your finger over your claim mark, "Pretty and marked up. So perfect. How am I so lucky to be mated to you?"

"Stop it," he mewls for the first time, voice wavering, and he shakes his head as if trying to snap himself out of a trance. His hips push back into you, and you grin at the display before gripping his hips even tighter. Even his back was pressed into a deeper arch, unconsciously presenting his full self to you.

You run your fingers through his hair at his groans, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Can you cum for me again, my sweet boy?" 

The coo next to his ear sends his eyes flying open, and a guttural moan slips out. His legs, flushed a shade of red from the heat of it all, begin to shake, and before he knows it, he comes tumbling off the toy, ass still in the air as his second, much stronger orgasm crashes over him. His hole clenches around nothing, and he bites his teeth into his hands, letting a round of muffled moans fill the air. Tears even begin to fall down his cheek, and his entire body trembles while cum stains the sheets. 

He had cum twice in the past ten minutes. It was common for omegas to get overwhelmed and orgasm quickly after another, but for Sukuna, this was incredibly rare. He had a praise kink, and this confirmed it.

It was a pretty sight, and so you cock your head to the side, tracing the skin between his thighs, admiring the trembling muscles. The man goes eerily quiet after his second orgasm, and his body looks tense. "Sukuna?"

He doesn't answer, not daring to look at you. You lean forward to get a look at his face, but he turns around and lets out a low warning growl. It makes you pause for a moment, confused, and then you see a drop of blood fall onto the white pillow in front of you. He still doesn't look your way.

He was hurt, and your instincts took the better of you. "Sukuna, look at me."

The omega lets out another small growl — this one weak and barely heard. In return, you growl louder and let out an abundance of pheromones, causing him to tense up, incredibly close to submitting. Then you grab his chin and force his face toward you.

Your eyes widen at the sight. He was biting his lip so hard that blood was beginning to fall down his chin. But, it wasn't that that surprised you. No, it was Sukuna's expression. His face was an abnormal shade of red even for his heat, the flush going to his ears and down his neck. His eyes were glassy with tears, and he didn't dare make eye contact with you. 

Sukuna was embarrassed from cumming so hard from the praise you gave him. You have to hold back a croon — the king of curses look unfathomably cute in your hold.

Your finger ghosts over his lips, and you murmur, "Heal it". He obeys without much thought, and in an instant, the pink flesh is restored. But the curse still doesn't look at you, so you kiss his cheek. You knew he didn't mean to, but a small whimper slips past his lips at the affection. Your grin is wolfish.

"Why are you upset?" You croon, knowing exactly why. Your positions seemed to have switched. It was less than an hour ago when he was the one trying to comfort you. Although his reasoning for being upset was definitely not as reasonable, bug you aren't going to complain when he looks so cute.

"Im not, weakling. Let's just go again. C-C'mon, im starting to feel itchy again."

You lean forward kissing his jaw and then moving to his neck to press another kiss to his scent gland. His entire body shudders. "So needy. You're lucky you're so cute. Do you want your alpha to make you feel good again, hmm?"

When your tongue licks a stripe on his scent gland, Sukuna groans, head spinning. He hates that when you scent mark him, it makes him feel giddy, like some sort of pathetic school girl. You are supposed to be a quick fuck, and then he was going to leave again, but the way your talking to him, like he really was your omega makes his heart pound in his chest. Would he always feel like this if he were to stay with you? Make this his permanent nest? Be your mate?

A purr rumbles through his chest.

Sukuna never considered having a mate. But alas this is the second time he has had this thoughts. The first when he nearly forced you to bite him, and now, his second heat with you. His sober mind pushed away the thoughts immediately and instead took to hiding from you. But could he do that again? It was borderline unbearable for the omega — it went against what his instincts were screaming at him to do. To be with his alpha.

You nibble on his ear, already pushing back into him and this time Sukuna groans out. His body was angry at him for attempting to go a third round without a break, but he didnt care, it felt too good. His hips push into yours and he hisses when you wrap your hands around his cock.

"How many times do you want to cum today?" You ask, voice breathless as you keep up the ruthless pace that would only please Sukuna. Your movements were quick in pace, jabbing into his sensitive spot without mercy, exactly how he likes it. 

His mouth begins to hang open and his eyes hold a glaze to them. Now, he looked more akin to what a normal omega would look like in a heat. He was just a little harder to break down, but his roots were all the same. 

Sukuna blinks at your question, slow, mindless. “Mhmmm…a-lot..? Wanna…cum…” 

You giggle at the warble, but this time he doesnt say anything snarky in return. In fact, he seems to be pleased at himself for making you laugh. For making you seemingly happy. He tries to lean his head back to scent you, but due to your arm pushing his head into the nest, he doesn't go very far. He growls in displeasure.

You instead lean forward and rub your neck against his, even if there was minimal to no effect in the action. His scent was already so potent you were to be smelling of him for at least a week after his heat. But you indulge him in the instinctual pleasure, and he sighs into what is most likely your dirty shirt. A fucked out smile tugs at his lips, your eyes lighten.

"You're like a grumpy kitten, you know?" You run your fingers through his pink hair, brushing it back. Your movementsof your hips slow slightly, but they are still deep and give Sukuna enough pleasure for him not to whine out. You kiss the back of his neck. "Hiss and claw and bite whatever it sees. But the second the fierce creature gets some warm milk, it's back to being cute and docile, just like you, Sukuna."

Gears are turning in Sukunas head, no doubt from the intensity of his heat, so you wait and continue to brush at his hair and kiss at his neck in time with your thrusts. A couple seconds later he manages to bite back a weak, "Not cute or docile…bastard."

You hum at him, grabbing his chin when his mouth falls open after you seemed to his his prostate. "Docile may not be the best word, sedated maybe. Just need some dick to calm you down." You take a moment to catch your breath, panting slightly into his muscular shoulder. "I can keep you sedated."

"S-Stop babbling nonsense."

"Not just with sex," you continue, releasing an abudance of calming phermones that almost match his intensity. Then you let out a croon, paired with a nearly overdramatic purr. He was too weak to fight his instincts and so practically mewls at the sound, letting out his own purr in return. 

"I can keep you calm, make you feel safe." Although you knew you could never be as strong as him, you could try at least. Your hand reaches below him to play with his dick again, and Sukuna jumps. "I'll put up with your hissy fits and your extremely possessive nature. The killing…will be something to be discussed when I'm not inside you."

To this, Sukuna makes a sound that shocks you. He laughs. Its not mocking like they usually were, harsh and mean, instead it more like a giggle, like he truly thought what you said was humorous. You pray it's not the heat talking but you try not to get your hopes up.

Instead, you continue on your rant, now picking up the pace of your hips. You slam into him, restarting the rhythm of the slapping of skin on skin. Sukuna bites the pillow, but you pull his hair back, earning a pained moan from the man. "Y-You can kick me out of my room to build your nest whenever you want. Fuck, I can just permanently sleep on the couch if that'll make you happy."

Sukuna couldnt respond, his eyes were practically rolling back. You were so deep inside him that he could barely think. However, the desperation in your tone, paired with the saturated scent of you trying to please him, conveyed exactly what you were saying to him. He hates that it makes him happy to see you want him, to feel desired by you. It should be an inconvenience, really, but he can't help but feel like his own feelings were being returned.

"F-Fuck, gonna cum again!"

Your hand is rutheless on his cock and your mouth nibbles at his neck. "I'll make you happy, Sukuna, you know that. You just got to let me."

Hes grown dangerously hot and he fees the muscles begin to tense up with his upproaching orgasm. A wracked sob leaves his lips, and he squeezes his eyes shut. 

"Be my omega, Sukuna. Let me love you." You dont give him a chance to respond before you dig your teeth into the exactsame spot you marked him just a couple of months ago.

Claws dig into cloth beneath him, and his eyes widen at the pain. But your words paired with the bite send him over the edge, and hes cumming once again, harder than the previous times. Tears stream down his face and he doesnt let out a noise this time – he holds his breath while the pleasure takes over. His hole clentches around you and his legs shake from under you. There is no doubt that more of the nest was stained a milky shade of white.

You slump against him this time, licking at the wound, before rolling off with a sigh. He groans a little when you pull away from him, but your hands travels to his face, rubbing against his cheekbone. Sukuna, for the first time, looks tired, like that orgasm took a toll on him. Although, you have never seen him look so content. A small smile sits contently on his face, and he looks at you with soft eyes.

Then, much to your surprise, the large man grabs onto you and forces you close to him. You yelp in suprise, but he justwraps two sets of arms around your form and buries his face into your neck, taking a long, dramatic inhale and then sighing contently. You pet his hair with a chuckle. 

"Are you thinking about my offer? Although, if you did live here we would have to get a bigger apartment…You are too big." The sentence felt ironic considering how small he looked when pressed to close to you. It was strange to see a creature so big act so small, like some sort of overgrown lap dog. He would murder you if he heard you think something like that.

He closes his first set of eyes and peers at you with the second. Then he shakes his head. "I'll think about it. Now let me rest, pathetic alpha."

Maybe it was a naive hope, but Sukuna seemed rather pleased when saying that. It was the closest think to a yes you will get, you kiss at the top of his head and he groans in annoyance. "Yeah, yeah, whiny omega. Go to sleep before you get horny again."

"Dont try to leave the nest. I'm not kidding, I will incapitate you if you try anything funny."

"I won't, you bloodthirsty murderer. Now sleep."

"I'm fucking going!" he mutters and you let out a laugh as he gentle nips at the skin on your neck. He then grabs your hand and forces it on his head, silently demanding you to pet him. 

You run your fingers through his short pink hair, and he purrs contently. It doesn't take him long to fall asleep, and you are not far after. You needed to rest before the monster would wake you eight hours later with a flushed face and a wicked grin. You did promise him an abudance of orgasms after all. 

—

After a hazy five days, Sukuna awakes in the dirty nest. He doesn't feel itchy and disgustingly hot, but his body is sore, and he seems to still be exhausted. You lay draped across him, head on his chest and sleeping soundly, equally spent as he is from keeping up with his demands. The curse stares at you for a long moment before one of his hands comes to trace your cheek, admiring the soft skin and how small you are compared to him. You are too breakable for an alpha, it makes him nervous. 

He doesnt think about it when leans forward and gets a good whiff of your scent. The scent of his mate. He purrs quietly to himself, careful not to wake you.

You stirr in his hold and he gulps, eyes flickering toward the door. He could leave if he wanted to, come back for his next heat. You wouldn't send him away, even if you tried with your weak commands, you had a weak heart. A weak, pathetic human alpha loves him — someone unworthy of his own love. Sukuna frowns.

You make a mewling noise and nuzzle into his chest like some sort of cat. Red eyes tear from the door and back to your sleeping face. Sukuna scoffs at you, hating that he found you cute, before pinching your cheeks together that pulls a whine from you. This was the person that was supposedly going to make him feel safe? He laughs.

But the second your tired, fond eyes gaze up at him he unconsciouslly had made his decision. 

He tilts your head to the side, four pairs of eyes scanning the smooth skin along your neck. It was too bare. Sukuna had to change that, or else some omegas would get the wrong idea. He flashes his canines, dragging his tongue along them and grinning at your wide eyes.

[monstersflashlight]

Hi me again here |˶˙ᵕ˙ )ﾉﾞ

Loved your little piece about the forest entity, so you'd make me very happy with a second part :)

Tentacles and forest monsters are just soo good <3

So yeah, I'll keep looking and loving your writing, thanks for all your amazing work ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

Hi! Thank you so much for your compliments, that’s so sweet! Here you have it a little bit of filth <3 Part 1 is here, if someone needs a refresher.

Plant toy

Forest entity x fem!human || tentacles (vines), bondage, edging, oral sex, double penetration, gagging, nipple clamps

You had no idea what compelled you into going back to the forest, but there you were, wearing a skimpy outfit and walking around without any reason. You felt stupid, but also a bit excited. A bit turned on. The opportunity of finding the forest entity that fucked you too good to pass. You wanted a repeat… Well, more like you needed a repeat.

In the past couple weeks since it happened, you couldn’t think of anything else, your brain was completely stuck on him. (You didn’t miss the joke about being stuck on a tree-hole just to end up being stuck on a forest entity). Every second of every day you wanted to feel him again, to feel those vines and roots against your body, constricting your movements and leaving you at his mercy.

It was exhilarating, but the memory was not enough anymore. You burned down the batteries on two of your sex toys and had not enough energy to keep looking for more fun ways to get yourself off. Nothing was as good as the vines, nothing was as good as him.

So there you were, getting lost in the forest. On purpose this time.

You wandered for what felt like hours, until your body was tired and your anticipation dissipated into a more real sense of fear. You didn’t know where you were, if he didn’t show up at some point you’d be lost in the forest without a way to find your way back. You felt like you were walking in circles, unable to see anything as the sun started to set. Real panic started to fill your insides.

“You are lost and scared once again, but this time you have done this to yourself… Why?” His voice startled you, and you screamed. As you turned around, the vision of his strange face calmed you completely. He was there. He came for you.

A rush of adrenaline filled your body and your panties got wet. Fuck, that ethereal voice was messing with your libido big time. “I- I was looking for you.” You told him, voice caught in your throat as some vines and roots bloomed from the ground beneath your feet and lifted your body, undressing you in the process.

“For me? Why?” His utter confusion would have been cute if you weren’t suspended in the air with wines holding your arms and legs apart.

“I don’t know.” That was a weak ass response and you knew it. He tilted his head to the side like he was trying to decipher your whole soul with a look. Maybe he was doing exactly that, how would you know. “Okay, okay… I- I wanted a repeat,” you confessed in a murmur.

“Of what, human?” His uncanny features made your insides twist and turn, but also made you even more curious to know more about him. “There’s no balance to be restored now. Are you making a free offer to the forest?” He added. You didn’t think of that. You didn’t think of anything apart from getting fucked again. You were so dumb. Your face flushed at the acknowledgment that you got lost on purpose just to get fucked by vines. How freaky was that?

“I- Yes! Yes. That’s it,” you agreed, without really knowing what that would entitle. “I want… I want you to do that again… with the vines.” Your face burned as you said it.

Said vines took on their own and started caressing your body, like he wasn’t controlling them, as if they were a living organism on their own. That filled you with an unsettled feeling, but part of you liked that thought. Part of you wanted to be at the mercy of some mindless plant organism.

He turned around, not looking at you. Disappointed had a sour taste against your mouth. “I see…” He was leaving. He was leaving you there without even looking twice at you. Without an explanation.

“Wait! Are you going to leave me here?” You asked, panicked. Your heart was beating so fast you could hear it in your ears. The spike of fear mixed with anticipation and arousal, leaving you breathless.

“I need to retrieve something, I’ll be back.” Just as he was saying that, some more vines appeared in front of you and stuff your mouth until you couldn’t answer back, like a plant gag.

He left you there, mouth stuffed with vines and your body suspended in the air by plant-acles (plant tentacles?). As soon as he disappeared, the vines took a turn. More vines and roots appeared around you, touching you. Caressing every inch of your body. The ones in your mouth started thrusting into your throat until you were gagging and salivating around them. It felt like the messiest blowjob of your life as some more vines and roots caressed your nipples and clit. It was exhilarating.

But they wouldn’t finish you. The tentacles around you played with your sensitive areas, pinching, caressing, sucking… You were thrown against the edge a thousand times, but they never let you cross it. The vines moved and caressed around you, tightening and releasing parts of your body. It was maddening, the unfulfilled pleasure was driving you completely insane. Over and over for what felt like hours but was probably less than twenty minutes, the vines edged you until every caress felt like it was going to make you explode. But it didn’t. They didn’t let you.

When he reappeared in front of you, you could have sobbed. If you weren’t already crying because of the overstimulation and the edging. Tears ran freely down your face, mixing with the drool around the plant-gag fucking your throat. You felt used. And you enjoyed it, like the little pervert you were.

He looked at you for a few seconds, “I shouldn’t have left them unsupervised. My apologies, human.” His apology sounded a lot like a non-apology. He wasn’t sorry at all, he consciously left you there with wild vines edging you, the little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth was answer enough. “I found the compass.” You didn’t know what he was talking about, but the vines wouldn’t stop moving and you felt ready to explode. You wanted to scream at him, to beg him to end the torture to your senses and let you come. But he kept talking. “Now you would be able to find me,” he explained. He looked at you expecting an answer you were unable to provide. “Oh, the vines…” He moved his hand and the vines fucking your throat retracted.

You breathed deep before chanting: “Please, please, please…” You were unable to form any more words as you screamed and begged for release. “Please let me come. Pleaseeeee!”

“It’s okay, human. I’m here,” he told you softly.

His words sounded ominous, and maybe you should have trusted your instincts because before you realized, the vines around you were morphing and moving. Some of them constricted around your nipples, acting as improvised nipple clamps as he approached step by step to your naked and restricted body. He stood there for a few seconds, admiring his vine work.

And then, he raised his hand and you cried out. For the first time ever, he touched you. His fingers caressed the skin of your abdomen and made a trail lower and lower… When his finger touched your clit, you screamed at the top of your lungs. “None of that, you don’t want to bother the little animals, do you?” He didn’t give you time to react, he conjured a new vine around your head and gagged you.

That wasn’t the only new vine, soon enough there was one curling around your leg, approaching your center. He cooed at you when you whimpered, shushing you as he caressed your hair softly, his other hand still circling your clit.

The tender gesture was such a contrast with the sexual torture he was inflicting on your poor human body. You were dizzy by it. It was maddening. And when the vine pushed into your hungry cunt, your eyes rolled to the back of your head. You groaned and moaned as he kept fucking you restlessly.

You were lost in the pleasure he was giving you. So lost that the first touch of a vine against your asshole caught you off guard. You tried to scream, but he wasn’t having any of that. The gag around your mouth pressed harder as you whimpered around it. You were breathing so hard you feared hyperventilation, but his soft touches to your side kept you focused. Bit by bit, the vine pushed inside your asshole until it was fully seated.

And just like that, it began. In perfect sync, the vines inside your pussy and ass started fucking you. It was better than anything you’d ever felt. It was so much more than you thought you could take. But he didn’t ask, he gave and you took.

He was looking at you with such intensity you felt hyperaware of every twitch, every groan and every bit of saliva you let out around the gag. But he still didn’t let you come.

“Just a bit more, human, you are doing great,” his voice was soft as he moved his hands to direct the vines around your body. In and out. In and out. They fucked you in tandem as he looked at you like you were his prize.

His encouragements were making you see stars and a thousand different lights behind your eyes. The assault to your senses so deep and profound you didn’t know how to feel anymore. You didn’t know if it was too much, if it was too little. You could only feel the vines moving in and out of your holes, the stretch and pressure of it against all your sensitive spots.

“Come for me human, give me your offering.” Like a magic word, you exploded on a thousand pieces as your body melted against the vines, a splash of your juices showering everything around you. “That’s, such a good human for me.” That was the last thing you heard before you blacked out.

You woke up next to your car, re-dressed and with a shiny compass next to you.

[lyrefromthesea]

Blind reader x hashira + kokushibo? (since she's blind she doesn't know he's a demon?)

Please 🙃

Male hashira (+ Kokushibo) x Reader - Blindness is something I can overlook

author's note: fun fact, i am partially colorblind.

pairing: Tengen x reader, Obanai x reader, Rengoku x reader, Sanemi x reader, Giyuu x reader, Gyomei x reader

content warning: none

Tengen:

"i like these.." you told him, holding a small chain of jewelry in your hands. the man looked over your shoulder, a content hum leaving him.

normally, people wouldn't take a blind person to shop for accessories with them, but Tengen didn't seem to care. in fact, he had appeared quite eager to take you with him.

now here you were, trying to find a "flashy" - as he'd like to call it - accessory for him. not knowing how they looked, you decided to feel them instead.

some of them were lightly sharp, sure to leave small scratches on his skin. others were rounded and had a smooth surface. you preferred them over the sharp jewelry, but weren't happy with those either.

finally, when your hand brushed over diverse stones, you felt content with the jewelery you've found. it felt like a rope in your hand, but it was made out of small cold stones, which were the perfect mix of smoothness and sharpness.

they varied in size and shape, leaving a good impression on you. especially since they reminded you of the big stones on his headband. when you told him that you liked them, his eyes lit up.

"there's another one here." he said, taking the second chain into his hand. the cool color of the new accessory matched the pink diamonds he already wore.

"they're perfect, beautiful." he told you, giving the cashier a handful of money. he didn't wait to get the rest of his money back, too focused on the gift you've found him.

"are you just saying that or do you mean it?" you ask, yet you smiled right after, knowing that he was being honest when he talked to you.

"they're great - flashy. i'll make sure to wear them everywhere." he was already attaching them to the side of his headband, determined to keep his promise true.

yet you were only focused on the softness that had sneaked into his voice, showing his appreciation for the newfound treasure.

Obanai:

he didn't mind your blindness, welcomed it even. he would've never admitted it to you, never told you - knowing it would probably hurt your feelings.

but he felt it was better that way, better for you not to see him. he was hideous and he knew it.

so why, after years of insecurity, he allowed someone to see his state of weakness. his heart nearly sunk when you asked him to let you see him.

he had told you it wasn't important, that he just needed to be there for you, but you had insisted and he couldn't deny you a single wish.

now he held himself back from moving away, his heart beating faster as he saw your hands nearing his uncovered face.

yet the contrast of his feelings and the soft warmth of your touch left him puzzled. you were sitting right next to him, hands cupping his cheek. more importantly, your thumbs were carefully tracing over his scars.

he knew you could feel the difference under your thumb, could feel how different he was from other people. part of him had expected you to leave him after finding out how hideous he truly looked.

"you're beautiful.." you whispered, his eyes widening like they've never done before. he was left speechless by your words, swallowing down his fear to respond.

"you don't have to lie." he answered, voice unstable. he couldn't believe that someone could love him, not when he was like this.

"i wish i could see you with my eyes." his trembling hands touched yours, squeezing them just lightly. he knew how much those words meant, you had never spoken them out before.

and it wasn't only your wish. he could feel the desire to make you see swell up in his own chest. to imagine that he thought differently before - it felt stupid to him now.

Rengoku:

"open your mouth and close your eyes!" he instructed, making you halt.

did he just? he did not, right? ..right?

"Kyojuro..?" you carefully said his name, making the man answer with a hum. he still held his spoon in hand, having wanted to give you a bite of his food.

you raised your hand, waving it in front of your face. it took him a moment to catch on, realizing that his words had been stupid to the core.

"oh- i certainly didn't-" he stopped when he heard you snort, wide eyes watching you smile and laugh. his heart started beating faster, his cheeks flushing.

you clearly weren't mad or disappointed, but he felt embarrassed for forgetting something so obvious. the words slipped out of his mouth before he could even register it.

"it's fine, don't worry." you answered, putting a comforting hand on his. you leaned forward, taking the spoon into your mouth and chewing on the food before swallowing it down.

"is that sashimi? it's really good." you complimented, the note of wasabi still lingering on your tongue.

"do you want me to order some more?" he asked, turning his hand around to hold yours. you hummed, a small smile forming on your face.

days like these were your favourite - the perfect mix of romantic and silly.

Sanemi:

"it should be around here.." you mumbled, pulling the white haired man with you. his eyes were fixated on your surroundings, trying to figure out what exactly drove you towards this place.

"ah- can you smell it?" you gasped, turning your head towards the right, trying to pick up on the floral scent lingering in the air.

"no.." he answered, shaking his head lightly. no matter what he thought off, he couldn't come up with a reason why you'd bring him here.

nevertheless, his legs continued moving, not because he was necessarily interested, but because he wanted to make you happy.

that's why his eyes widened when you walked past multiple trees, reaching a giant flower field.

now he understood what you were talking about, the floral aroma enveloping his senses. he felt you letting go of his hand, leaning down to pick one of the flowers and smell on it.

the field was beautiful, full of the prettiest flowers he had ever seen. however, he realized that was a sight you'd never experience, slowly lowering himself in the grass next to you.

he took one of the flowers, mimicking your actions and breathing in it's scent. if you couldn't see what he was seeing, he could at least try experiencing the same as you.

"it's beautiful.."

Giyuu:

"like this." his voice was quiet, but it sounded much thicker and lower than the night's silence. he had asked you to show him your hand, but when you asked how, he guided it into the correct position.

your palm was facing him, fingers feeling the wind brush between them, teasing you with light touches and the surrounding silence.

you felt his hand on yours, his fingers brushing over your palm, gently drawing different forms onto your skin.

"it tickles.." you whispered, a quiet chuckle escaping you when he started tapping along your skin. a gentle huff escaped him, the one that made you know he was smiling.

"that's how i feel when i see you.." he answered, his hand finally pressing against yours, fingers interlocking in a gentle hold.

you silently scooted closer, the night's air sending a comfortable chill over your body. it didn't take him long to hold you closer, letting his body's warmth settle into your skin.

"you make me feel ticklish all around.. sometimes i worry i won't be able to think when i see you." he admitted, coaxing a smile out of you.

he didn't mind that you couldn't see, because he could see your beauty either way.

Gyomei:

some might say it would be ironic for two blind people to fall in love or befriend each other, but it certainly worked out for the two of you.

you admired his strength and he admired yours. truthfully, he hadn't noticed you at first, hadn't questioned why you used another weapon than the other demon slayers, but it all made sense when he found out about your blindness.

"this is your weapon of choice?" he had asked when the two of you joined a mission. he held a long rope dart in his hand - your treasure. Haganezuka had created the weapon for you.

the usually normal rope was made out of a thin chain, helping you coordinate throughout the fight. naturally, Gyomei who also used a special weapon, was intrigued by it.

"due to my lack of strength, it's the only suitable weapon for me." you answered, your fingers tracing over the axe he carried around with him. it was much heavier than your weapon, fitting for the man, who was much taller than you.

"it is a good choice indeed. i admire your critical thinking skills." he admitted, a smile displaying on his face.

and though you would sadly never see the happy look he'd give you in the future, you certainly liked the content tone of his voice.

Kokushibo:

he didn't remember his former loved ones. he didn't remember his wife. he didn't remember his child. their faces were a blur that he had created himself.

but you weren't. you were well. you were alive. he didn't need to remember the past when he could enjoy the presence with you.

his own human, the one he swore to protect. perhaps the gods have blessed him this time around, just like they had blessed his damned brother before.

the one person Kokushibo yearned to have just had to be a human. his surprise when he realized you weren't able to see was immaculate. he felt compassionate. and relieved.

"greetings.." the male spoke, stepping through the small gate of your house. the area was surrounded by wisteria, but like the gods had wanted him to find you, they left a small path for him.

"Kokushibo, it's you!" you smiled, standing up and letting go of the flowers in your hand. it took some time, but you managed to grow some in your garden.

the demon watched you move towards him, affectionately taking his hand like you've known each other forever. "you came back earlier this time."

"i happened to have a bit of free time.." he answered, low voice filling you with contentedness. while he made sure to look at you, his other eyes glanced at the garden.

the world could be dangerous for a blind person, but you've built your own small paradise between the rows of poisonous trees.

"let's get you inside, it's quite cold." you said, leading him towards the entrance of your very own home.

he wondered if he could keep up this facade of trust or if you would hate him after you've found out that the enemy stood in your house.

[cinnasweetss]

SHE. | p.sh

check your window, he's at your window...

wc: 1k

content: this is strictly for the bitches that are sick & afraid of their own mind like ME, little to no dialogue, stalking, dub con/non con, hitting, choking, unprotected sex, squirting, creampie, etc etc...

a/n: I recommend listening to "she" by tyler the creator while you read. this work was written with that song in mind, hence the name. ideas, constructive criticism, and compliments are always welcome. thanks for reading <3

It rained all day. streets slippery with rainwater and mud, the earth outside your window was the same. big, chunky, steel toed boots sinking in the ground beneath them. he should've been more careful, removed his boots before he came in. maybe then he would've spared you the horror of finding muddy footprints inside of your home. 

he was sure that would be the last time he saw you. that you'd do the most obvious thing and call the police, tell them about the footprints, the squeaking floorboards in the middle of the night, the letters. or that time you woke up unexpectedly, peeked out the window to find him there. 

had he not blinked, you probably wouldn't have known. you wouldn't have screamed either, forcing him to flee. 

had he been in his right mind, he would've stopped hanging outside your window then. had you been in your right mind, you would've made sure your blinds were shut before you slept. you would've called the police. 

instead, you made him greedy. wanting to believe you might actually feel the same way, the notes became more frequent, longer, more passionate. he'd watch you read them too, swearing he could see a smile on your face each time you read one. swearing he might actually have a chance with you. 

he knew it when you made it easier for him to get in. he knows you purposefully left your back door cracked. in fact, he watched you. watched you contemplate between locking it, leaving it unlocked, or keeping it just a tad bit open. 

endless nights of following you home, memorizing your routines and schedules, watching you sleep, watching you unknowingly undress in front of your window, even those nights when you touch yourself under your covers, writhing and squirming until you finish. 

all those nights have finally paid off. he thinks that maybe, it was fate that he left those footprints on the floor outside your bedroom. after all, you’ve finally accepted him.

so why are you screaming? 

he couldn't figure out why you weren't happy to finally see him. why you were so surprised when he told you that you two would be together soon. he didn't understand why you fought him off either. 

he watched you frantically reach for your cellphone on your dresser, and had you not been shaking so much you probably could've made the call while you had him stunned. but your mistake gave him enough time to recover. he made sure to break it before he came back for you. large hands covered by black gloves dragging you back to your mattress, forcing you on your back. 

he'll never forget the way you looked at him. eyes wide as if you've seen a ghost, body trembling yet frozen in your fear, frantically trying to make your eyes adjust so you can see the figure above you.

frozen when he reached into his pants, eager to finally be inside you after weeks of watching and waiting, after dealing with your endless teasing. you'd mumbled a plead for him to wait that fell on deaf ears, sunghoon too occupied with getting his cock free and forcing your legs open. 

"wait! w-wait! don't!"  he'd heard that one, but it was weak, barely audible even. had you really wanted him to wait or even stop, you would've screamed like you did just minutes before. you would've made it harder for him to force your hands away. 

you wouldn't have put on this skimpy little night gown either. you made it too easy for him for him to shove a hand between your legs and push the damp fabric to the side. didn't even try to hide your ecstasy when he finally got himself inside you. 

it was all he dreamed of and more. so much better than sneaking in under the guise of the night and getting off by himself after pulling your covers back. never once did he think he'd actually be on top of you, buried deep inside of your cunt instead of using your hand while you're sleeping.

much different to see you squirming, mouth hung open as you release sounds of pleasure despite your feeble attempts at trying to resist. your legs kick in the air, arms pressed to your chest as sunghoon keeps up with his ruthless thrusting. he's used to having you so easily pliant, and at his disposal. 

didn't expect you to be so coy, instinctively moving to cover your chest as if he hasn't seen everything already. he surely didn't expect you to reject his kiss just moments after, going as far as biting him.

"fuck!"

it makes him draw back, the metallic taste in his mouth making him realize you actually drew blood. it infuriates him, and his hand cocks back and comes across your face before you have time to dodge. he wraps a hand around your throat to serve as a warning, thumb and forefinger squeezing around your artery. 

it's just enough to force you into submission for the time being. enough for sunghoon to lean back in and kiss you properly this time. sloppy open mouthed kisses against your lips, leading down to your chest. he makes sure to leave marks along the way. whether its around your neck, across your chest, at your hips, your wrists— anywhere to make sure you don't forget this eventful night. 

his thrusts are rough enough to do the same, sure to leave you sore in the morning, maybe even the days following.

he only lets go of your neck when tears form at your eyes and you begin to claw at his wrists. a loud gasp fills the air, followed by a choked and frantic "stop, stop!"

had you not began to convulse beneath him and cry out sounds of pleasure in the immediate seconds following, he just might have. 

he has to swallow back a laugh when he glances between your legs to where the two of you meet. skin of your thighs and the fabric of his jeans saturated in your orgasm. all the more reason for him to believe you want this just as much as him.

he's just a few more thrusts behind you, stifling back his own groans as his hips begin to stutter, cumming inside of you without warning shortly after.

this is something he’ll truly never forget. he’ll make sure you don’t either.

just as long as you continue to keep your door open.

[coryosbaby]

we (8 billion people) are begging for dom fem reader and coryo dynamic. Why she always gotta be sub like my dom ass would slap the shit out of him ong

ʙᴇɢɢɪɴ’ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴋɴᴇᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴘᴏᴘᴜʟᴀʀ !

Synopsis: Coriolanus will do anything to get to the top, right?

Content warning . power dynamics, loss of virginity, face riding, multiple orgasms, marking, sub!pussydrunk! Coryo, dom! Reader that’s a lil fucked up

notes: me when coryo has hair real . This kinda sucks I’m sorry

When you see Coriolanus Snow, you see a desperate man.

A boy, actually. You see a boy. A desperate, handsome, power hungry boy. You can see it in the way he towers over his peers in a sort of fake dominance, the fauxness behind his sugary sweet words directed to anything or anyone in a higher position— some even directed towards you, when that blush isn’t flushing his cheeks with a feral intensity.

As the daughter of Dr. Gaul, it’s quite easy for you to advance some of your friends in their studies. You are not only her daughter, but in a position of power yourself. You know people— and Coriolanus knows that. You aren’t dumb. You can tell by his eyes, the empty, icy blue orbs not quite telling the truth.

Coriolanus, in a way, is just like you.

Maybe that’s what intrigues you so much about him. Besides that pretty smile, or those golden curls or those muscles that make you drool, you admire his determination. You know about his poorness (not all know, but some do, as Dean Casca Highbottom once quoted to him), and you know one will go far to satiate their own greed.

It’s just a matter of how far.

—

Coriolanus walks into your lab crying, one day.

Not obviously. It’s subtle, as you demand he sit down and take off his shirt so you can stitch up his wounds. Your hands graze it softly, and he winces.

“Does it hurt?” You ask him, even though you already know the answer.

He lets out a shaky breath, his hands clenching at the seat.

“Yes.”

An honest answer. He must trust you.

You hum, beginning to work on his wound with taught precision. Looking at him now, his jaw is clenching tightly and the boy is shaking so much you fear he might break.

“I killed someone.”

He states it in a remorseful tone, the tone of someone weak and pathetic.

“Someone in the games, if I’m correct?”

He turns to look at you in surprise, as if you didn’t have access to your mother’s decision of allowing him to walk in there and save his friend Sejanus. He says nothing, then. He sniffles, and cries silently.

“You know,” you state, beginning to stitch him. “I’ve killed someone too. Someone I needed to kill.” You smile, remembering the one time a student who was threatening to take your place mysteriously fell into the pit of snakes. “It was necessary.”

Coriolanus tries to stay nonchalant, but you can see the way his shoulders tense. He doesn’t say a word, so you continue.

“Was it necessary to kill the person you killed?”

He looks down at his hands. Caked with blood, knuckles drawn taught. You want to bite them.

“No,” Coriolanus answers slowly. “No, it wasn’t.”

Maybe there’s more darkness to the boy than you originally thought.

You speak to him in a much lower tone now.

“Maybe it was. You just don’t know it.” And then, “There are a lot of things certain people can do to get to the top, Coriolanus.”

Your insinuation doesn’t go unnoticed. He moves his head to look at you.

“And what would that be?”

Typical. Someone so power hungry that his head turns at the mere mention of an opportunity. You’ve got him right where you want him.

You finish up his stitches. You move around to his front, your short red skirt all of a sudden incredibly suffocating as he looks up at you with something utterly pathetic in his gaze.

“How far are you willing to go, Coriolanus?”

And that’s when, a few moments later, you get your wish: that skirt, oh so suffocating, is strewn on the floor, Coriolanus’ big hands massaging the skin of your thighs as you straddle him. Your lips press against his in a hot and heavy kiss, your tongue massaging his lips with fervor. He may be doing this for advancement, but the blonde wants you nonetheless. You can see in the way his hips grind up, the way he lets out desperate whines as you lick up his tears with your tongue. Pulling away from him, your cunt clenches when he tries to push your body down onto his crotch.

“No, Coryo,” you demand, though your voice is desperate. “I want you on the floor, okay? You’re going to taste me first.”

He hesitates, his eyes darting to your lacey panties and then to the colorful tiles.

“… the floor?”

He seems nervous, jittery. It’s not as if he’s afraid of getting dirty, or something.

No, this is something else. In the way he nervously twiddles his fingers, the way his bottom lip catches in between his teeth. It’s not as if he wants to stop— it’s more so that he’s inexperienced.

And then it hits you.

Coriolanus snow is a virgin. This big handsome boy, beautiful and delicious, has never done had sex before. He’s never felt the touch of a woman, never eaten pussy or got his dick sucked.

And for some reason, that makes you want him more.

“Oh,” you coo to him, soft. “Coryo, you’ve never done this before, have you?”

His face turns dusty pink, but he tries to deny, deny, deny.

“What? No! Of course I’m not. I’m just..” he looks at the floor, his lie clear on his face. “The tiles are cold. Dirty.”

“You’re caked with blood and sweat, sweet boy. I’m sure the tiles will be fine.”

He looks away from you, his lips drawn up into a pout.

“I’m not a virgin.” He states, merely to himself. You raise a brow, an amused smile playing on your lips as you move farther away from him.

“Then why don’t you come and eat my pussy, baby?”

His cock strains against his zipper, and you swear you can see it twitch from where you’re standing. He gulps, and with a submission you would’ve never expected, the boy drops to his knees on the tile and makes his way towards you. His shirt, unbuttoned, shows the pretty lines of his chest and his rippling back muscles, and when he gets to you, he stops at the front of your still standing knees. Satisfaction wades through you when his hands move up to the waistband of your underwear and yanks them down with shaking hands. Your smell hits his nose, makes his head tilt back as he lets out a throaty sound in the back of his throat. His tongue laves over the skin of your inner thigh, his hands going around the back of one of your knees to pull you close. You spread your legs to allow him access, your pussy lips drenched with arousal as his breath laves over you.

“Go on, Coryo,” you urge. “You want me to put a good word to my colleagues, yeah? So you better do a good job.”

He moans, his tongue finally slipping in between your folds as he tastes you. He’s messy, sloppy, and it’s good but it’s not good enough.

“God. I thought you were experienced? Huh, Coryo? Don’t you wanna make me feel good? Are you even fucking trying?”

He pulls away from you, shame in his eyes as you scold him. He pleads, his lip wobbling, his arms holding onto your legs.

“Please, I’m sorry. ‘M so sorry. Teach me, please…”

He tries to press a kiss to your cunt, but you kick him away with your foot. He falls to the ground, helpless.

“Lay down—I don’t care if it hurts your back. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

He does as he’s told, all sweet and sweaty and bloody. His back hits the tile, injured but he ignores it when he watches you tower over him. You move down, pressing your knees on either side of his head. He grabs your thighs to place his mouth back on you, but you grab his golden curls in your hands and yank him back. He groans in pain, his feet kicking in a sort of pleasured resistance.

“You use your mouth when I tell you to, coryo,” you scold, watching the way his eyes flutter and only focus on your dripping pussy. “You do what I say. If I guide your head, or press myself down at a certain spot, you go along with it. Do you understand me?”

He nods, desperate to get his mouth on you, his cock thrusting into the open air.

“Good. Now, go slower. Stick out your tongue.. wider… therrre you go, baby.” His eyes focus on that one spot, his tongue hovering right over your clit. He must have read up on this a time or two. You press him closer, shoving his face into your heat as his tongue hits the swollen bud. “You see that? That’s my clit. Yeahh, stick your tongue right there…”

He groans, the taste of your sweet slick making his eyes roll back. His palms splay across your ass, digging crescent moons into the skin. You move your hips in a circular motion, giving Coryo the impression to move his tongue that way. He’s a smart boy, so he knows exactly what you’re communicating to him. His tongue moves in slow, languid circles, your slick already dripping down his chin. You can’t help but give into the pleasure he’s giving you for a moment, riding his face like your life depends on it before slowing down and stopping.

“Good, coryo. You’re being such a good boy. But you need to move your tongue down. You don’t want to play with my clit too much, because I’ll cum quick if you do.”

He makes a noise of understanding, moving his tongue down to your hole. It’s much funner this way, he thinks. The tip of his tongue can gather up the awaiting slick that’s spilling out of you, it makes your taste all the more prominent. You give him some room to experiment now, letting him move his tongue in between your clit and your hole. He catches on, and if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was experienced now— he’s a natural learner. Your hips grind down into him, and when he tongues your hole you use his strong nose to grind lazily against. Coryo can only breathe in your slick, his brain becoming fuzzy from his lack of air. But it’s okay. It’s okay because he’s doing good.

You can feel yourself getting close, the languid strokes of his tongue making your legs shake. You hump against his mouth, your head thrown back.

“Gonna cum,” you say to him. “Gonna cum on this slut mouth.”

He groans, his jaw working even harder now. He focuses on your clit more, save for the few times that he slurps up the slick from your hole. Your orgasm is fast approaching, your body drawing up tight.

And finally, you’re cumming on his mouth, moans spilling from your lips and Coryo’s. He’s desperate to catch all of your cum onto his awaiting tongue, his legs still moving around as he consumes you like a man starved. Your eyes roll back and you grind your hips against him as you come down from your high. Coryo pulls away once he’s satiated, looking up at you with his chin coated in slick.

You sigh, pulling your hips back to give him some air. You move your body off of him, going to your knees to watch his pussy drunk face still follow your cunt as you move. You want to return the favor, now. It’s only fair.

But looking down, you notice a wet spot soaking through Coryo’s pants.

He lifts himself up on his elbows, looking from his crotch to you. He flushes, apologies spewing from his wet lips, shaking his head.

“I tried not to. I really, really did. ‘M so sorry.”

He tries to reach out to touch you, but you just move away and down to his crotch. You unbutton his jeans, and he lets you. You look down at his red briefs, watching the white stain peeking through.

“Oh, baby. You just couldn’t help, it could you?”

You mock him, your hand palming his shaft. He lets out a whimper, his head falling back against the tile. He knows it’s too much, but he isn’t stopping you. You pull his briefs down, and boy is he big. Thick and long, all pretty and red with cum dripping down to his balls. Your mouth waters, but you figure that can wait another day. His seed can be used for other things.

You flutter your lashes at him, your hand wrapping around his shaft, jerking him to hardness again. He’s got this look, contorted and pained and pleasured at the same time. You straddle his meaty thighs, your cunt lips brushing over his cockhead, and he gasps.

“W-Wait—“ he starts, choked. “It’s.. ‘S too much—“

“Then why are you hard again?” You tilt your head at him, your movements paused because he didnt give you full permission. “Don’t you want my warm, tight pussy? Don’t you want to make it to the top?”

And that gets him going, his arousal for you and power and riches. He nods, eyes rolling back as you sink down on him. The cum from his last orgasm coats your walls and makes it easier to fill yourself up, warm white streaks dripping down his cock again.

“Oh.. oh my god,” his mouth drops open, and you’ve never heard a boy so vocal. “Please… I want it, I want it!”

You know what he’s asking for. Your stilled hips are non moving, letting him stretch you and sit heavy inside your cunt. You smile, moving your hips just a bit, letting him feel your gummy walls sucking him in. His mouth is in the shape of an o, his hair messy and disoriented. He tries to grab your tits, your hips, and with a surprising force your palm strikes his cheek haughtily. He cries out, his thighs shaking, his hips thrusting up.

“No touching,” you demand. “You don’t get to do that. Give me your hands.”

He lets you take them, and you push them far over his head as you begin to work your hips harder, faster. His balls make plop plop plop-ing noises as they hit your ass, quivering and begging for you to let them empty inside you. You move down to his neck, leaving purpleish bruises over his skin, marking him as yours. You let go of his hands so you can rest your hands on his torso, and his hands move up. Not necessarily to touch, but to hover over your tits bouncing through your tight fitted shirt. You give him permission, just a moment, to squeeze the soft skin in his hands, give them a teasing, bold little slap. You breathe shakily, his cock filling you up in ways no other has. You watch as Coryo’s head tilts back, and you know he’s close.

“Gonna cum?” You taunt, your nails scraping against his chest. He groans, nodding. “Gonna fill up my tight little pussy? Cmon, give it to me, I know you want to.”

And when he spills into you, rope after rope of warm, hot cum filling you to the brim, you let out a cry. His fingers find your clit— he’s thought this through, hasn’t he? He rubs you until you’re seeing stars and clenching around his overstimulated cock with a loud sob. He moves up to kiss you hot on the mouth.

“Did I do good?” He asks.

You smile, your hand threading your hands through his hair as you both relax against each other.

“You did very good, Coryo. I’m so proud of you.”

He breathes out a chuckle, shoving his face into your neck. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and he winces. His wound has been withstanding a lot of pressure.

“You probably want to put some ice on that.” You suggest to him. He shrugs.

“The tile was cold enough.”