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velarisdusk · 6 days ago

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This Tempest, Ours

Rhysand x Reader

summary: On a rare night alone in the House of Wind, the worst storm in decades strikes. It wouldn’t be a problem if they didn’t make you so uneasy. Luckily, the House isn’t as empty as you thought. word count: 11.7k content: [ explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), piv, explicit language, there's only one sleeping bag, y/n is scared of storms, very briefly insinuated tamlin x reader, daemati-use, wet dreams, lovemaking for the most part but we get rough for a sec ] author's note: we’re gonna assume mental shields stay up during sleep…. yeah... ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ midnight essence infused with a veil of dreammist & a dash of blaze enhanced with lover's knot & starlight crystals stirred thank you anon for the request!!!! i'm finding i really enjoy writing friends to lovers this is so sweet :") anyway i hope you like this one!! <33

The cold in the Winter Court didn’t seep into your bones—it gnawed at them. Gnawed like it had teeth and purpose and the unrelenting patience of a predator that knew you’d wear down eventually.

You’d stopped pretending to sleep an hour ago, after the lantern blew out. The wind outside the tent moaned like a creature in mourning, threading through the seams and catching in the corners of the thin canvas until it felt like the whole thing might lift and carry you off with it. You pressed deeper into the bundled cloak beneath you, trying not to shiver too obviously. You failed.

You were wrapped in more layers than you could count—thermal base, thick wool, a coat heavy enough to double as a blanket—but it still wasn’t enough. Even Rhys, normally indifferent to climate or discomfort, had resorted to cloaks and furs, the sharp line of his jaw the only part of him visible from beneath the hood pulled low.

Behind you, Rhysand exhaled, sharp and irritated. “You’re shaking so hard I can feel it through the ground.”

You didn’t open your eyes. “You always this broody when you’re forced to keep all that power on a leash?”

A beat. Then—“Keep talking and I’ll show you how not broody I can be.”

You snorted, cracking open one eye. “That doesn’t even mean anything.”

“I’m cold. I’m tired. I haven’t let my magic out at all in twelve days. Give me a break.”

You finally rolled over to face him, the dim moonlight filtering through the tent’s fabric casting his features in pale blue and silver. There was a tension around his mouth, in the fine line between his brows. He hadn’t looked truly relaxed since your boots first crunched through the snow at the border.

The artifact—known only in whispers as the amulet of Larethine—was said to suppress magic so completely that even a High Lord’s power would snuff out like a candle. Rumored to have vanished after the war centuries ago, it resurfaced in scattered reports. They all pointed to the same abandoned temple buried somewhere in the Winter Court’s northern edge, where the snowfall was so constant it blanketed even sound. Rhysand intended to retrieve it quietly—before word spread and the wrong hands reached it first. So here you were. Nearly two weeks with no magic, no contact, no help. Just the two of you, and a map worn soft at the creases.

Rhysand’s power coiled beneath his skin like a thing alive, begging to be freed. But Kallias’ wards draped over the court like a net of ice, intricate and merciless. The second he even brushed the world with a tendril of it, you’d be caught.

You hadn’t expected it to wear on him like this.

“Your pack,” he said after a pause. “Still soaked?”

You winced, remembering the misstep near the creek a few days ago, then nodded. He shifted. “Come here.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your pack, and everything in it—including your sleeping bag—is useless. It won’t dry in this weather. Either we share mine or I watch you freeze to death. I vote the former.”

You hesitated, the silence between you swelling into something tight and uncertain. But then another gust of wind screamed past the tent, and pride gave way to practicality.

“Fine.”

You crawled across the narrow space and slipped into the sleeping bag beside him. It was cramped—painfully so—and the moment you settled, his body pressed to yours, impossibly warm. You turned onto your side instinctively, back to his chest. You could feel every breath he took, feel the slow thump of his heart against your spine, the barest hint of muscle shifting when his hand curved around your middle, settling just beneath the edge of your ribs, his palm held steady against you.

Behind you, something rustled, and then the faint brush of membrane—Rhys shifting, one wing sliding from the sleeping bag in a slow stretch over you.

“Don’t you dare,” you whispered. “That thing freezes and falls off, we’re really fucked.”

He snorted quietly. “It has excellent circulation, thanks.”

“Put it away.”

Another rustle of fabric as he tucked the wing back inside.

“Warmer now?” he said dryly.

“Mm.”

The silence this time wasn’t uncomfortable. You listened to the wind, to the soft crinkle of fabric with each small movement, to the quiet hum of his presence behind you. It was startling, how much space he took up without speaking, how much lighter the silence felt now that he was pressed against you.

His breath stirred at the hair at your nape. You tensed, then forced yourself to relax again, inching away a fraction. He followed.

“Rhys.”

“What.”

“You’re breathing on my neck.”

A pause. Then, shamelessly: “It’s where your neck is.”

You huffed, and he chuckled—a rare sound lately. Low and warm, it rolled through your back where your bodies touched, and you had to fight not to smile.

After a long moment, his voice came again, quieter.

“We’ll find it tomorrow.”

You gave a small nod, felt more than seen.

He shifted behind you, the subtle movement bringing his chest closer to your back, breath skimming your hair. “Then we get out. We go home.”

You let out a quiet breath, just enough to fog the air in front of you.

“You always this optimistic at night?”

He hummed low in his throat. “Maybe you bring it out in me.”

That pulled a small, tired smile from you.

“Must be the frostbite. You’re delirious.”

His fingers flexed slightly where they rested at your waist.

“Mm. That, or the cold makes me honest.”

Something in your chest ached—not sharp, but deep. You didn’t answer. Just let the silence settle soft around you.

Sleep found you curled into his warmth, his hand resting at your waist, his breath a gentle rhythm against your skin. And in the morning, with the air sharp in your lungs and the scent of pine still clinging to the chill, that warmth lingered over your skin.

The cold in the Winter Court hadn’t gone with the morning light. You’d found Larethine two days after that—tucked beneath the roots of an ancient ice-locked tree, a whisper of power veined through crystal. The mission had ended days later in a quiet exhale, a long journey home trailing behind it. It had been nearly three weeks since then. Long enough for bruises to fade, for muscle to stop aching.

Still, the cold seemed to have burrowed itself into your bones, the bite of it still there, even in the warmth of your bed in the City of Starlight.

You woke to the sound of wind clawing at the windows. A storm, full and furious, had settled over Velaris—the kind that turned the Sidra restless and made even the stars hide. Thunder cracked a beat later, loud enough to shake the walls.

Your heart was already racing, breath shallow and tight, at odds with the warmth wrapped around you. You lay there a moment, still and listening, the storm rattling through your bones like it had teeth again. They’d always scraped at your nerves, left them humming like struck strings.

The covers were a tangled mess around your hips, shoved down in sleep. Your T-shirt had ridden up high, bunched beneath your ribs, and when you looked down, you caught a glimpse of bare stomach, underwear, the slope of one thigh kicked over the sheets. You shifted, tugged the hem back down, fingers moving slow and clumsy like they weren’t entirely yours.

You remembered bits and pieces of the dream, not that it’d been much different from the others you’d had since that night. Tonight, he hadn’t been content just to hold you. His hands wandered. His mouth dragged slowly over your skin, coaxing sounds you’d never let slip in daylight. You woke slick between your thighs, the ache lodged deep and stubborn.

Another crash of thunder rolled across the rooftops. You pushed the blankets off and swung your legs over the side of the bed. The house was magicked to stay warm; your skin was slick with sweat, and still, you felt chilled.

You didn’t think about it. Didn’t bother with pants or slippers. Just padded into the hall in your T-shirt—soft, worn thin, hem brushing mid-thigh and swaying with every step.

The storm pressed against the glass. The quiet inside felt louder for it.

You moved through it automatically, headed for the kitchen. The house was still, shadows long and familiar, but your mind had already drifted somewhere else—somewhere colder.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about that night. Maybe you’d tried to. Maybe you’d told yourself it hadn’t meant anything. But your body remembered. Before your thoughts could catch up, your body remembered—his warmth at your back, the weight of his hand at your waist, the breath at your neck.

That same tension had curled beneath your skin now. You hadn’t realized you missed it until it came back.

The air had gone heavy the moment he touched you, and you hadn’t breathed properly since. You hated how your body still reacted—like it didn’t care what your mind had decided. Like it knew better.

Maybe it did.

You reached the stairs and took them without thought, one hand trailing the banister. The house didn’t creak beneath you. Even your own footsteps felt hesitant, like they didn’t want to disturb the memory.

You’d spent weeks pretending it hadn’t changed anything. That you were still the same. That he was.

You stepped into the kitchen without turning on the faelights. The storm outside pressed at the windows, a steady beat of rain—or maybe snow—smeared against the glass in streaks. Slush, probably.

You moved on instinct, pulled the kettle from its place, filled it from the tap. The cool weight of it settled in your hands, grounding—but not enough.

You set it on the stove and twisted the knob, a faint click giving way to the low hum of magic-warmed coils. Still, your thoughts refused to quiet.

You’d been telling yourself you hadn’t wanted it. That it had just happened. But you remembered leaning into him. You remembered the way your body had reacted—eager, instinctual, like you’d been waiting for it.

You reached for a mug without looking, fingers curling around the ceramic absently. It was warm from the cupboard’s enchantment, but your skin still felt cold.

You exhaled slowly and leaned your hip against the counter, staring at nothing.

And while the kettle began to warm, your thoughts slipped—quiet and treacherous—back to the tent. But your mind didn’t pull up the truth of that night. Not the soft hush of breath, the shared warmth, the way you’d both kept to yourselves despite how closely you lay. What you remembered instead—what you felt—was the dream you’d had in his arms. The one you hadn’t dared to admit to anyone.

You remembered the weight of his hand curling around your hip—broad, sure fingers splaying possessively across your skin like he’d always known exactly where to touch you. His thumb pressing just beneath your navel, slow little circles that made your breath catch. His chest, solid and hot, flush against your spine. Each inhale of his drawing your body tighter to his, like he wanted to fit you perfectly between every breath. Like he couldn’t stand the space between you.

And gods, you’d imagined how he’d move. He’d start slow, savoring it. Savoring you, every thrust controlled. He’d want to melt into you, to lose himself in every slick, shivering inch. And the press of him felt so real in your mind that your thighs pressed together without you meaning to.

The slow, deliberate roll of his hips against you, grinding in the dark with maddening restraint. Like he wanted to drag it out. Like he wanted to feel it, not just fuck.

But it wasn’t like you didn’t have dreams about that, too.

Like the one you’d just awoken from.

Where he wasn’t slow at all. Where he’d pushed you against the window, dragged your panties down with a growl, and dropped to his knees. He devoured you like a male starved. Like he needed it to breathe.

His tongue was relentless, slick and firm, fucking you with slow, torturous precision until your hand flew to your mouth to muffle the cries threatening to tear from your throat.

And just when your body began to shake, just when you thought you’d collapse—he was rising, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and sinking into you with one long, ruinous thrust that stole every breath from your lungs.

His voice rasped against your ear, all filth and hunger, whispering what he’d do next, what you’d beg for, how good you look, all wet and wanting and his. Every stroke dragged need from you like a confession, torn from your throat in gasps, in whimpers. Every thrust was a claim, a promise, a demand. You shattered on his cock like you’d been made for it—again, and again, and again—until your body blurred at the edges and all you could feel was him.

And then—your name. A low murmur against your throat, reverent and rough at once, like it scraped its way out of him. Like it meant something. Like saying it against your skin was the only prayer he knew.

Almost a whisper. Almost a plea.

Almost—

Lightning split the sky—and thunder followed like a war drum, slamming through the silence hard enough to rattle the windows.

You flinched, heart in your throat, the mug slipping and knocking against the counter. Goosebumps bloomed across your skin as the thunder faded, but it wasn’t the cold tiles beneath your feet that made your hands shake.

Wasn’t the storm making your chest rise and fall just so.

It was the echo of your name, murmured into your neck.

The ache in your body for something that had never even happened—

But felt, somehow, like it had.

Your breath came fast and shallow, heat rushing to your cheeks in a flush you couldn’t chase away.

Your heart was still hammering when—

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

You jumped. The kettle screamed—when had it even started? The mug nearly slipped again, and you cursed under your breath, scrambling to keep hold of it.

A flush of panic surged alongside the remnants of arousal—

Glamour. Now.

Your scent vanished in an instant.

You rushed to take the kettle off the burner.

Shields—already up, and you triple-checked them. Reinforced them out of instinct, out of panic. Just in case.

Rhysand stood in the doorway, framed by the faint flicker of lightning beyond the windows.

Shirtless, his chest bare and skin golden in the dim light from the hall. Pajama pants slung low on his hips. Hair mussed, like he’d just gotten out of bed—like he’d just been dreaming too.

Your stomach flipped.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him—not after what you’d been thinking, not with your skin still warm from it.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I didn’t realize it was whistling—gods, I’ll—”

“You didn’t,” he said, voice low and even. “It was the storm. You’re fine.”

But something in his tone—the careful way he said it—made it feel like he was only trying to spare you.

You glanced down at the mug in your hand like it might save you. “Right. Okay. Still. Sorry.”

He didn’t move at first. Just watched you, eyes unreadable in the dark.

Then, quietly: “Storm wake you too?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Thought tea might help.”

A flicker of a smile touched his mouth—barely there. “You always brew it with wide eyes and shaking hands?” he asked as he stepped closer, brushing your fingers when he took the mug from your grasp.

You huffed a soft laugh. “Only when the thunder sounds like it’s about to rip the sky open.”

That earned a quiet breath of amusement from him as he slid an arm around your shoulders. Solid. Familiar. Like it belonged there.

“You know it’s mostly just noise, right?” he murmured. Rhys topped off the water in your mug, grabbed two teabags from the tin, and dropped them into the mug. His arm remained looped around your shoulders, holding you close as he covered the cup with a saucer to let it steep. “Sounds a lot worse than it is.”

You nodded, but your thoughts felt foggy and slow. Maybe it was the storm, or the hour, or the way he still hadn’t let go. The way his arm fit around you so naturally, as if it belonged there. As if it had never left since that night.

You shouldn’t read into it. It’s just comfort. Just instinct.

But you can’t stop noticing the warmth of him, steady and close. Can’t stop thinking about how easily he’s always known how to settle you—how natural it feels to lean into him like this.

Your lips press together, and you try not to think about how that same warmth once curled around you in a tent, or what it felt like to wake up in his arms.

His arm shifted, sliding from your shoulders to the small of your back, hand warm and steady as it pressed there. “C’mon,” he said softly, guiding you away from the counter and toward the little breakfast table near the window. He handed you your mug on the way, his fingers brushing yours again.

You moved without thinking, still wrapped in that dazed hush the storm had settled over everything. You sank into the chair without a word, and with a quiet flick of his fingers, the table filled. A crystal bowl of sugar cubes appeared near your elbow, followed by a small pitcher of warm milk, and even a tiny plate of shortbread cookies that hadn’t been there before.

“Thank you,” you murmured, the words quiet and full. Rhysand only nodded, moving back to the kettle to make his own.

After some time, you removed the saucer and took a careful sip—still too hot—before setting the mug down. Instead, you watched the steam curling lazily upward, trying not to let your gaze wander to where he stood by the counter. The stretch of muscle across his back. The ink winding over golden skin. The slow flex of his wings as he moved.

Then, lightly, “Cassian tried to give Azriel a haircut today.”

Your brows lifted. “He didn’t.”

Rhysand’s mouth curved faintly, though the only indication of his humor from where you sat was the soft shake of his shoulders. “He did. Said he could ‘blend the ends’ better than the hairdressers at the Riverfront salon.” He turned slightly toward you, the kettle behind him just starting to bubble.

You snort. “That’s because Cassian thinks ‘blending’ means cutting in a straight line.”

“Exactly,” Rhys said dryly, just as your fingers reached out—without looking—toward the honey jar at the far end of the counter.

His own hand twitched, summoning it with a flick of magic, smooth as breathing.

“He nearly took a chunk out of one of his wings,” he added, the jar gliding toward you in the same breath.

You caught it mid-air and spooned in a little honey, not missing a beat. “Azriel let him?”

“He didn’t know,” Rhys replied, pouring his own mug. He added the tea bags, covered it with a saucer, and took the seat across from you. “He thought Cassian was just trimming his own hair. Came back from the bath and Cassian had scissors and that look in his eyes.”

You stirred slowly, keeping your eyes on the swirl of tea. “I’m shocked he survived.” Whether you meant Cassian or Azriel didn’t matter; the sentiment applied to both.

“Mor told him if he even looked at her hair with a pair of scissors in his hands, she’d skin him.”

You smiled faintly. “Wise.”

Rhys’ lip twitched a little. “I thought so.”

The silence that followed was the kind that didn’t need filling. You let it stretch, let it settle into your bones like warmth. Outside, the thunder seemed to soften, like it, too, was growing tired.

After some time, Rhys lifted his mug, nose wrinkling slightly as he brought it to his lips.

“Lavender?” he asked, skepticism coloring the word.

You glanced up at him over the rim of your own cup. “It’s calming.”

He took a sip anyway, then made a quiet sound like he was trying not to grimace.

“It tastes like wet flowers.”

You gave him a look. “You’re still drinking it.”

“Out of solidarity.” He gave a theatrical sigh, settling the mug down like it had personally offended him. “Suffering beside you. As always.”

That pulled a soft laugh from you—small, but genuine, slipping out before you could catch it. The first moment of true ease you’d felt since you’d woken up. Rhysand didn’t say anything, just watched you with that quiet attention he wore too well, the corners of his mouth tilting upward like it pleased him to see it.

You let the silence stretch. “I didn’t know you were staying the night,” you said, still not quite looking at him.

“Didn’t mean to, ” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Had a few things to check in on here. Then the storm hit, and…” He shrugged one shoulder, casual, but not careless. “Didn’t want you riding it out alone.”

The stupid little flip your stomach did was entirely unhelpful. You took a slow sip of tea to ignore it.

The quiet settled again, a little softer now. Gentler.

Then Rhys’ voice came, quiet and rough at the edges.

“You always pace around in shirts that short when you’ve got the place to yourself?”

You spluttered mid-sip, barely managing to swallow without choking. Then shot him a withering glare over the rim of your mug.

He was smirking now, the picture of smug innocence. “It’s cute,” he added. “Cozy. Terrifying, really.”

“Keep talking and I’ll convince the House to trap you in the bathroom with no toilet paper.”

“You won’t,” he said confidently, that lazy grin still tugging at his mouth. “You’re too tired. And besides—” he leans in just slightly, your eyes flicking up to meet his despite yourself—“you’d miss me if I left.”

You flinched as a particularly loud boom of thunder cracked. The windows trembled in their panes, wind howling against the glass. The faelights dimmed briefly, a flicker like the storm had drawn a breath too deep.

“You should lie down,” he said quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re wired.” His eyes flicked to the goosebumps on your arms. “And freezing. Come on.” He rose, tea still in hand. “I’ll stay with you. We’ll wait it out together.”

You hesitated. “... You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” The words were light, but not careless. “At least let me for a bit. You can talk at me until the storm passes.”

And the way he said it—casual, easy, like it cost him nothing to offer his presence—undid you more than it should have.

You didn’t answer right away. Just took another sip, hoping the warmth would quiet your pulse.

He let his words sit for a beat before offering, with a spark of levity, “I’ll stay on my side. Promise.”

“You don’t have a side.”

“I’ll make one.”

You narrowed your eyes as you considered him, gaze trailing from the smug tilt of his mouth to the glint in his eyes. “Fine. But no funny business.”

“Define funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You stood slowly, cradling your mug between your hands, and padded after him down the dim hallway. Neither of you said anything for a few moments, and you liked that—liked the hush between your footfalls, the faint creak of old wood beneath your steps, the way Rhys kept his pace just a half step ahead of yours.

Then, without looking back, he said, “You’ve got more mugs than sense.”

You glanced at him, deadpan. “They’re seasonal.”

He lifted his, inspecting the faded gold lettering. “‘I survived Calanmai in the Spring Court.’ It’s nearly Solstice.”

You took a long sip. “Year-round commemoration felt appropriate.”

He snorted. “You weren’t even in the Spring Court for Calanmai. We were in the Day Court dealing with that trade dispute, remember?”

“Sure, not this year.”

You turned your mug just as he glanced back, hiding the side that read “I Got Picked at Calanmai and All I Got Was This Mug.”

You shrugged. “You don’t know me.”

He stopped outside your door, wings tucking in as he leaned casually against the frame. You opened it without a word and stepped inside, flipping on the lamp. The room glowed in warm golds and shadows, the storm pressing faintly at the windows.

Rhysand followed a beat later, hands wrapped around his mug, gaze roaming the space like he hadn’t already seen it a hundred times before.

You crossed to the dresser and started absently clearing up—folding the sweater draped over the chair, tucking a pair of socks into a drawer, shoving a bra beneath a pillow like it hadn’t been lying out all day.

“Please,” Rhys said behind you, voice drier than your tea. “As if it’s the first time I’ve seen one of those.”

You tossed him a flat look over your shoulder. “They’re not for your viewing pleasure.”

“Everything’s for my viewing pleasure,” he muttered, already halfway to the bed, mug thunking down on the nightstand like a punctuation mark.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the dresser, reaching for a lacy little number you hadn’t realized was still out—only for Rhys to beat you to it, no doubt winnowing the last few feet just for theatrics.

He held it up delicately between two fingers, eyebrows lifting in mock reverence. “Really, (y/n)? This barely qualifies as a scrap. Is it for… special occasions? Or just Tuesdays?”

You snatched it from his hand, cheeks warming. “Stop being a pig.”

His grin was wicked. “Oink.”

You glared at him, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable.”

Rhys just shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Your hospitality says otherwise.” He moved to climb onto the bed like he’d done a hundred times before. You gave him a long, unimpressed look, then turned to grab your tea.

By the time you turned back, he was already against the headboard, wings gone, legs stretched out. He looked perfectly at home—too at home.

You slid in beside him with a muttered, “Don’t spill anything.”

“I never do,” he said, tugging the blankets up from where they’d bunched at the foot of the bed, covering you both.

You didn’t dignify that with a response, just curled your fingers around your tea and let the warmth soak in. The bed creaked quietly as you shifted against the pillows. His thigh brushed yours.

Thunder grumbled far off, less urgent now. You let yourself breathe.

Then, casually, Rhysand said, “Still humming, by the way.”

You blinked at him.

“When you stirred your tea earlier,” he clarified, turning his head toward you. “Didn’t even notice, did you?”

“I don’t do that.”

“Hum while you stir your drink? You do it all the time,” he said, flopping his arm behind his head. “Drives Amren insane.”

You let out a small, startled laugh. “Now I’m just sad I don’t hum louder.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said, raising his mug in mock toast. “Rattle whatever functions as her soul.”

You clinked your cup against his without thinking. “She’d gut you if she heard you.”

“Please,” he said. “She’s wanted to gut me for centuries.”

You smiled into your tea, warmth pooling in your chest that had nothing to do with the drink. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just full. Full of steam and thunder and the fact that Rhys was here, warm beside you, his presence taking up more space than it had any right to.

He sank deeper into the pillows, stretching out like he belonged to the space and it belonged to him. His eyes drifted to the ceiling, distant but not vacant. And you let yourself look. The lines of his face were softened in the low light, made golden and shadowed by turns. He looked older like this. Not aged—just… full of time. The kind of tired that sat behind the eyes, ancient and endless and quiet.

And yet he was warm beside you. Solid. Here.

“You always do that,” you said after a moment, surprising even yourself.

His gaze slid toward you, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer. “Do what?”

“Go quiet. Like you’ve left the room without getting up.”

A faint hum, low and noncommittal as he turned back to the ceiling. “Sometimes I do.”

It wasn’t a deflection. Just a truth handed to you gently.

You ran your thumb around the rim of your mug. “Where’d you go just now?”

A pause. Not long enough to mean avoidance, just… thought.

“Nowhere.” A pause. “Here.”

His eyes didn’t leave the ceiling, but something in his jaw eased.

You didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

Then Rhys moved, and your shoulders were almost touching. He huffed a quiet laugh. “Y’know, I used to imagine this.”

You blinked, the sudden shift catching you off guard. “Imagine what?”

He didn’t seem to notice your disorientation, eyes still fixed ahead. “This—sitting here, quiet like this. You. Me. Tea.”

You stared at him for a second.

“Tea, huh?” you managed, still trying to catch up.

He grinned faintly. “Always figured it’d be chamomile.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “Let me guess. In your daydreams, I served you tea in a silken robe and draped myself over your lap like some lovesick devotee.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, finally turning toward you with a glint in his eye. “You were wearing mismatched socks and humming off-key. The usual.”

That startled a laugh out of you, too loud for how late it was. “So you’ve always had terrible taste.”

His brow pulled just slightly, not in confusion but… disappointment? “I like to call it refined,” he said after a breath.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks again, so you did what you did best: sipped and looked away. Beyond the window, wind and water still tangled in the dark—but the violence of it no longer touched you.

“You know,” Rhys said after a pause, his voice dipping low again, “if we’re pointing fingers, you’ve been the quiet one.”

That violet gaze stayed fixed on you. You’d been on the receiving end of it before—in briefings, in battle, across a crowded room. But never like this. Never steady enough to knock the air right out of your lungs.

You didn’t answer.

He shifted again. “Won’t even look at me. What’s that about?”

You didn’t look up. Kept your eyes on the tea gone cold between your hands. There were a dozen reasons you could’ve given. Because the moment felt too full. Because it was easier not to see his face when you answered. Because his voice in your space, his body next to yours, felt like opening a book you weren’t ready to finish.

Instead, you said nothing.

Rhys didn’t push, he let the moment stretch.

You tilted your head back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like it might hold a map for what to say next. But what came out wasn’t planned. Just something that had lived on the tip of your tongue for far longer than you were comfortable with.

“Do you remember that night in the Winter Court?” you asked softly. “When we were in the tent?”

His reply was instant. “We were in the tent a lot of nights, you might have to be a bit more specific.”

You gave him a sideways look. “The night with the storm. When the fire kept going out.”

Realization flickered across his face. “Ah,” he said, voice quieting.

You hadn’t meant to bring it up. Not really. But something about tonight—about the tea and the thunder and the way he looked lounging on your bed like he belonged…

You two had never talked about that night. Never talked about the way his arms wrapped around you like instinct. Never talked about how it felt too natural, too easy, how the silence between you only ever felt like comfort and understanding. But now, with the storm as this strange cocoon around you…

You didn’t know what you’d expected him to say. But now that the words were out there, you couldn’t take them back.

You nodded, fingers tightening slightly around your mug. “I couldn't feel my toes. Thought I might lose them honestly.”

“You were shaking,” Rhys said, a quiet chuckle buried beneath the words.

You looked over at him, the corner of your mouth lifting. “You didn’t seem to mind holding me.”

Rhys tilted his head, his smile softer now. “I didn’t.”

Time slowed, dense with everything you weren’t saying. The storm pressed against the windows. His thigh brushed yours.

Then, quietly—like he was still deciding whether or not to say it—

“I thought about kissing you.”

You looked at him, heartbeat racing.

“You were freezing,” he added quickly, almost like a defense. “I kept thinking if I kissed you, it might stop your teeth from chattering.”

You huffed a breath, setting the mug down on your nightstand. “That is not how body heat works.”

“No,” he agreed, eyes warm. “But it was a nice excuse.”

Your chest tightened. He wasn’t teasing anymore. Not really.

“I didn’t sleep much that night,” you said.

Rhysand looked at you. Really looked at you. “Neither did I.”

You swallowed. The storm murmured against the windows like it remembered too.

“…I had a dream,” you admitted, voice barely above the hush of rain.

His brows lifted, but he didn’t speak. Just waited.

You hesitated. “Not the kind I should’ve had with you so close.”

A beat passed. And then he said, softly, “No?”

You shook your head once.

Rhys’s voice dipped, amused but careful. “Was I at least impressive in it?”

That pulled a short laugh from your chest—breathless, a little flustered. “You were… very convincing.”

His smile turned lazy. “Convincing, or irresistible?”

You huffed. “Don’t push it.”

“Never. I ease,” he said with a smirk like sin, sipping from his mug. “That’s how you get what you want.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse was a steady thrum beneath your skin. You could feel the heat of him beside you, the weight of everything that hadn’t been said over the years pressing in like gravity.

“I kept waking up,” you murmured. “Because I thought… if I moved too much, you’d pull away.”

He was very still. “I wouldn’t have.”

You looked over at him, heart skipping. He was watching you with that unreadable expression—the one that always made you feel like he knew more than he let on.

Then, almost too casually, he added, “For the record… you did move. Quite a bit, actually.”

Your heart stopped.

No, surely not—

You would’ve remembered that. You definitely would’ve remembered that. Right?

You blinked. “I did not.”

His grin was maddening. “Mmm. Rolled right into me. Twice.”

Heat rushed to your face, ears, down your spine.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, then opened it just to whisper, “You’re lying.”

He looked far too entertained.

“Twice,” he repeated, like he was doing you a favor.

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Kill me.”

“I did consider it,” he said with a faint smile, “but you were clinging to me. It felt cruel.”

“Cauldron boil me,” you muttered.

“I thought you were doing it on purpose,” he went on, tone far too innocent. “Torturing me in my sleep.”

Your face remained planted in the palms of your hands, groaning. “I’m never speaking again.”

“That seems dramatic,” he said, clearly delighted.

“I hate you.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m leaving.”

“This is your room,” Rhys said, not missing a beat.

You peeked at him through your fingers. “And you just let me?”

Rhys gave a one-shouldered shrug, eyes twinkling. “Well, what was I going to do? Shove you away?”

You sputtered. “Most people would’ve!”

His expression didn’t change, but something about the air shifted—like even the storm outside had quieted to hear what he might say.

“I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to stop you.”

Your breath caught.

You looked at him, expecting the usual grin, some teasing remark—but there was none. Just quiet.

“You never… You never said anything,” you murmured. You weren’t talking about that night anymore—you both knew it.

Rhys hummed, low in his throat. “Didn’t want to spook you. Or tempt fate.”

This was about all of it. The looks, the silences, the way he’d never pulled away. The way he always felt just out of reach, like he was waiting for you to be sure. Like he’d been sure all along. But so had you—only you hadn’t known he was. You’d stayed just out of reach, too, waiting for a sign that never came.

You gave a breathless sort of laugh. “You think that would’ve tempted fate?”

He arched a brow. “Wouldn’t it have?”

Your silence said enough.

He let it hang there for a beat, then—without looking at you—reached for his mug again. Took a slow sip like he wasn’t aware of the tightrope he was walking. Like this wasn’t everything.

And when he set it down again, he spoke like it was nothing. “Whatever it was you dreamed… you certainly made it hard to stay asleep.”

Your fingers curled in your lap.

He still wasn’t looking at you, but his voice was velvet. “You were restless. Kept shifting. Making these soft little sounds, kept saying—”

You made a strangled noise. “Rhys.”

That made him glance over—his smirk unfairly smug. “Yeah, like that. A bit breathier though.”

You smacked his arm without thinking—more flustered than actually annoyed.

He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “Just saying. Must’ve been quite the night.”

Your pulse thudded hard against your ribs. You should’ve told him to shut up. Should’ve changed the subject.

Instead, you said, quiet and steady, “You can see it, if you want.”

That wiped the grin off his face. He sat up, and his eyes found yours again, sharp and glittering.

“…Can I?”

You hesitated. Because the air between you felt different now, like the quiet after a confession, when the world waits to see what you’ll do with it.

You pushed the blankets off and sat up, mirroring him. Legs folded beneath you. Hands braced in your lap. You weren’t touching, but it felt like you were, every inch between you a live wire. Close. Closer than before.

You met his gaze and slowly, steadily, exhaled and let go.

Not all the way. Just enough. A slow unspooling at the edge of your mind—like a thread tugged loose.

It wasn’t dramatic. No crashing walls. No shuddering gasp.

Just a tilt. A lean. A flicker of trust in the quiet.

Like cracking a door open—not wide, just enough for someone to slip through if they wanted it badly enough.

And he felt it. You knew the moment he did. Not by any shift in his expression, but by the way his presence responded—quiet and immediate, the brush of his mind ghosting along the threshold of yours. Not a push or a pry, just a gentle touch, like a fingertip at your temple, tracing the edges of your mind’s adamant, as if to say, I’m here. It’s only me. Don’t be afraid.

When he did come in, it was careful. Gentle. Not a push, not a pry—just a brush of thought, like a thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He moved through you with reverence, with restraint. Not like he was looking for something, but like he was waiting for you to offer it.

The pressure in your chest built. Not from fear—but from how intimate it was.

You felt the weight of him in your mind. The shape of him. Familiar and foreign all at once. Rhys, your friend. Rhys, the shoulder you’d leaned on more times than you could count. Now quiet in your head, holding still, holding back—waiting.

So you let him see.

The memory rose, and it bloomed slowly, like a flower opening to sunlight.

Your skin slick with sweat, flushed and bare. Blankets kicked down around your hips. Rhys between your thighs—his mouth everywhere at once. On your throat, your breasts, the inside of your knee. His voice low and rasping, coaxing, worshipping. You arched into him, hands fisted in his hair, dragging him closer, closer.

Soft sounds slipping from your lips. His name. Over and over, like a prayer.

The pace of his thoughts shifted.

You felt it—felt him—react, felt the pulse of heat that wasn’t yours.

But still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only watched as the memory played out, as you trembled beneath the ghost of his mouth in your dream. As your back arched for him. As your dream-self gasped his name like it meant everything.

You could feel his focus on every detail, like he was memorizing it all.

The way you sounded. The way you looked. The way you wanted him.

Rhys.

You whispered it in your mind—his name soft and aching.

Rhys.

The dark curled tighter inside you, shadows licking through your veins like smoke—hungry and unrelenting.

Taking. Taking. Taking.

Your hips shifted. Your breath hitched.

Rhys.

His breath stuttered in response—wherever he was.

And then, in the quiet of your room, you heard it.

A groan.

Low. Wrecked.

Rhys.

Your eyes snapped open.

Only—you weren’t in your room anymore.

The air was sharp and cold. You could smell pine, damp earth, that faint mineral tang of snow on the wind. Canvas fluttered quietly overhead. The lantern cast that same golden pool of light. You heard the storm beyond the trees, muffled and distant. And beneath you—sleeping bag. Mat. The slight ache in your shoulders from a long day of hiking.

It was perfect.

Too perfect.

You blinked—and felt it all at once: the soft cotton of your shirt clinging to your skin. The same T-shirt you’d fallen asleep in earlier tonight. The same thin underwear beneath it. Your legs were bare. Cold.

And he was there.

Rhys, kneeling over you—close. Real. One of his thighs braced on either side of your hips, careful not to press down. His hands planted on the floor beside your shoulders. Caging you in without meaning to. Pajama pants slung low on his hips. Chest bare. Hair mussed.

No sign of the coats you had that night. No gloves or boots or scarves to fight off the cold. Just skin.

Warm. Alive. Here.

Your fingers dug tight into the sleeping bag beneath you. “What are you doing, Rhys?”

He tilted his head. “You tell me. It’s your dream.”

The words landed low in your belly.

Because it was—your memory, your dream, your body already humming with the way the figment of him had touched it before.

He was watching your mouth when you spoke again. “This isn’t how it happened.”

And gods, you could see it—where his hands had already touched this version of the night. Where the boundaries had softened, blurred. The cold clung to your skin still, but this was a watered-down echo of what you’d felt that night. Especially with the heat of him radiating so close, like he was the only warmth left in the world. The wind outside faded. All you could hear was the rhythm of your own pulse.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours. “No. But it could’ve.”

You swallowed. “You didn’t have to quiet the storm.”

He blinked, like the thought had genuinely never occurred to him. “I’ve been doing it all night,” he said simply. “Well, since the kitchen. Bit by bit, so you’d think it was fading on its own.”

Your heart stuttered. “Rhys.”

His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “What? You think I couldn’t feel how tense you were?”

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, the words quieter now. “I didn’t… I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Oh?” His brows rose slightly, magic shifting like the tide. “Should I stop then?”

And then, with no more than a flicker of thought, he did.

Sound returned all at once. Wind shrieking against your bedroom windows. Rain pounding the glass in sheets. Distant thunder rolling deep and endless across the city.

Your body locked up. Breath caught in your throat.

And just as fast as it came, it was gone again.

Silence fell. Not the true silence of the storm easing, but the quiet Rhys had crafted for you—thick, warm, and distant, like a memory.

You didn’t say anything right away.

Because part of you wanted to laugh. Not at him—but at yourself. At the sheer madness of lying half-dressed in your own memory, with your best friend hovering over you—inside the dream you’d had about him. Seeing it. Breathing it in. Touching the edges of everything you’d refused to say out loud.

Your voice came quieter this time. “We’re not just looking anymore,” not really a question, but you needed confirmation.

A pause.

“No,” he said—low and sure, gaze locked to yours like it was a tether. Like he needed the confirmation too.

You stared at each other. That same heat coiling in your gut, the same ache building where his hands hadn’t touched you yet.

You shifted slightly, barely a brush of your knee against his.

That was all it took.

He leaned in—slow, careful. Like giving you a chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

His mouth brushed yours once. Barely. A whisper of contact, soft and almost uncertain.

But your breath caught, and your hands moved on their own—reaching, pulling him closer, until that uncertainty dissolved and his mouth claimed yours fully.

It was deeper this time. Hotter.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just inevitable.

Like he’d always meant to kiss you, and some part of you had always meant to let him.

While one hand held him up, the other found your hip, steady and sure, but not insistent. Just… there. A grounding point. A question.

You answered it without words—just a shift of your weight forward, the press of your chest against his, your fingers sliding up to rest lightly at his jaw.

He groaned low in his throat. Almost inaudible, like he didn’t mean for it to slip out.

Your kiss deepened, slow and molten. His tongue brushed yours, deliberate, and you let him in. Let him have that part of you.

His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, just his fingers at first. Testing. Savoring. The warmth of your stomach. The shape of your waist.

His touch wasn’t greedy. It was careful. Almost reverent.

“You’ve thought about this,” you murmured, breath catching as he dragged his knuckles along your ribs.

His lips ghosted down your jaw. “So have you.”

You didn’t deny it. How could you, when the lines between dream and memory were already blurring around you? When your body was already arching into his, betraying every want you’d ever buried?

You didn’t have to say it. Not when he could feel it in every breath you took.

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize how you tasted. How you responded. The way your breath hitched when he rolled his hips just barely against yours.

Still clothed. Still not quite there. But the heat between you was unmistakable. Heavy. Radiating.

You whispered his name against his lips, barely audible.

His mouth stilled against your skin. “Say it again.”

You did. Quieter. Closer to a prayer than a plea.

Rhys pulled back just enough to look at you—really look.

There was no smirk this time. No mask of arrogance. Just that same dark, endless gaze, lit now with something deeper. Something older.

“You’re sure?”

Not a tease. Not a dare.

Just a question. One last door he wouldn’t walk through unless you opened it.

You met his gaze and gave him the only answer that mattered—leaning in, mouth brushing his in a kiss that was softer than before. Not desperate. Not urgent.

Just honest.

Your fingers found the back of his neck, curling there, grounding yourself in him. In this moment.

And Rhys melted into it, bearing his weight on his forearm now, the hand beneath your shirt sliding up again—flat palm, slow drag. Like he was rediscovering a familiar map, one he hadn’t realized he’d memorized until now.

Every breath you took pressed your chest against his. Every motion of your hips fed the fire you were both barely keeping contained.

But it wasn’t just heat burning between you.

It was years. Of glances held too long. Of arguments that meant more than they should’ve. Of moments like this, only imagined.

Rhysand pulled back, far enough to drink you in—eyes roaming, slow and deliberate, like he meant to memorize the sight. The flush on your cheeks. The part in your lips. The want you didn’t bother hiding. “What were you thinking about in the kitchen?”

You blinked. “Nothing.”

He arched a brow. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly, too quickly. “I just—I couldn’t sleep.”

He hummed, unconvinced. “Funny. Because I was sleeping. And then I wasn’t.”

He shifted above you, and his hand drifted. Down your stomach. Past the pushed-up hem of your shirt. “It wasn’t the storm that woke me,” he murmured, and that hand kept going, slow and steady. “It was your scent.”

You gasped as his palm cupped you over your underwear—broad and warm and possessive. The heel of it pressed just right and he knew it. “Rhys—”

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t soften.

“I wanted so badly to know what you were dreaming about,” he said, voice dipped in velvet and ruin, rich with heat. His fingers curled just slightly, a teasing drag along the soaked fabric. “I could smell it. Clear across the house.”

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear now. “I could smell you,” he said, voice dragging slow, like he wanted the words to settle in your blood. “Warm and ready. Like sugar melting off skin. Like salt and heat.”

His breath skimmed your ear. “I wanted to fall to my knees right then and taste every drop of it.”

He inhaled at the curve of your neck, sharply, greedily, hungrily. Like he could drink in the want from your skin. “It hit me like a fucking punch to the gut.”

Your thighs twitched. He smiled.

“You were so wet, weren’t you?” His thumb moved now, tracing slow, idle circles over the damp cotton. “Dripping onto the sheets, dreaming of something. I couldn’t stop thinking.”

You, on the other hand, simply couldn’t think. You could barely breathe.

“Thoughts of you…” he murmured, dragging the words across your skin. “Spread out across my sheets. Still dreaming. Still wet. I imagined you there on my bed, mouth parted, thighs sticky with it. Maybe you were dreaming of me fucking you slow—dragging it out. Or maybe rough—hands on your hips, face pressed into the pillow.”

His hand stilled. Breath shallow.

“I wanted to touch myself to it,” he said, voice torn. “To that scent—your need hanging in the air like perfume. To the image of you in bed… It drove me fucking mad,” he whispered. “The thought of you, wet and whimpering in your sleep. I almost fisted my cock right there, just to take the edge off.”

A pause, thick with restraint.

“But it felt like… a line I couldn’t cross. Like taking something that wasn’t mine to have yet.”

His head dropped slightly, forehead brushing yours.

“So I just lay there. Thinking. Burning. Telling myself to sleep—Rhysand, ignore it. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t think about her fingers between her thighs, don’t think about her mouth open, whispering your name into the night—

Just sleep.”

A beat. A slow, shaky inhale.

“But I couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t stop needing you. And right when I couldn’t fucking take it anymore—right when I gave in and was reaching for myself—”

“Rhys,” you breathed.

“It vanished. I thought maybe I’d imagined it. So I got up, went to get some cold water.” He kissed the curve of your jaw. “Tried to walk it off.”

Another slow press of his thumb. Another spike of pleasure.

“And then,” he went on, gaze sharpening like a blade, “I got close to the kitchen. Heard you moving around.”

His smile turned feral.

“And there it was again.”

You made a soft, involuntary sound—embarrassed and wrecked all at once.

Rhys purred against your neck, all smoke and satisfaction. “That scent. Cauldron, it’s maddening. Didn’t even touch yourself, did you?”

You shook your head, barely.

He groaned—deep and low and filthy. “Fuck, don’t even have to touch yourself to flood the whole fucking house with it.”

His fingers dragged along the soaked fabric again, deliberate and slow. “All of it between your thighs, and you just… stood there. Thinking about it. Letting it drip down like you didn’t care who smelled it.”

You thought you were alone.

Cassian was in Illyria, Azriel was in Vallahan.

Rhysand hadn’t said a word before you’d gone to bed. Hadn’t made himself known, hadn’t so much as sent a thought your way.

He had to know you thought you were the only one home.

You never would have left your room like that if—

“You wanted me to find you like that?” he whispered. “Is that it? Standing there in your little shirt, soaking yourself, pretending you couldn’t sleep while your body screamed for me?”

Your hips jerked. His hand didn’t budge.

“Rhys,” you tried, broken and breathless.

But he was far from done.

“Maybe,” he mused, voice going molten, “you wanted me to walk in and bend you over the counter. Pull these—” he snapped the waistband of your underwear—“to the side and taste that sweet, sleepy mess you made between your legs. The one that begged me to wake you up with my mouth.”

You let out a ragged breath—half sob, half moan.

“Tell me what you were thinking about in the kitchen,” he said again, lower now, darker. “And this time, don’t lie.”

You swallowed. “I wasn’t—”

His fingers slid beneath the cotton. Skin on skin. Heat on heat.

You gasped, hips twitching, breath gone.

“Try again,” he growled, mouth at your throat. “Or I’ll keep my fingers here all night and won’t let you come. Not until you tell me.”

Your legs trembled. “It was you,” you admitted, voice wrecked. “It was always you.”

He groaned like the words were a reward, his fingers finally moving with purpose, circling, stroking.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now tell me what I was doing.”

You bit your lip.

His fingers stilled instantly.

“You—” your voice cracked, and you dragged in a shuddering breath. “You had me against the window.”

He hummed in approval, fingers pushing in just a little, just enough to make you gasp. “Which one?”

“The big one. Upstairs. In your room.”

“Of course,” he murmured, darkly pleased. “You like the one with the view.”

You nodded helplessly.

“And what was I doing to you?” he prompted, thumb brushing maddening circles again. “Tell me exactly.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed. “You came up behind me. Wrapped your hand around my throat. Pressed me against the glass.”

Before the words even finished leaving your mouth, Rhys shifted—free hand sliding up, fingers curling gently but firmly around your throat, thumb pressing into the soft spot beneath your jaw.

You gasped.

“Like this?” he asked, voice all sin and silk.

You nodded, throat moving against his grip. “Yes.”

His hand between your thighs moved diligently, slick sounds soft and obscene. “Keep going.”

“You pushed my legs apart. Made me look out at the city. Said you wanted everyone to see how pretty I looked for you.”

He groaned—low and wrecked. “Of course I did.”

And then he moved—sliding down your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your hip, the crease of your thigh. He peeled your underwear off your legs with lazy reverence, and when he looked up at you from between your legs, his eyes glinted like a god about to claim what was his.

“Did I touch you like this in your dream? With my tongue?” he asked softly, like he didn’t already know the answer.

You moaned, thighs twitching. “You didn’t stop.”

He grinned—dark, delighted—and then he didn’t stop, either.

His mouth was on you in a heartbeat—hot, open-mouthed kisses to your swollen cunt, tongue dragging through your folds, firm and slow. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you open, helpless, right where he wanted you.

And gods, he was good.

He licked into you like he was trying to taste the dream itself, moaning against your cunt like you were the one unraveling him. When his tongue flicked your clit—once, twice, then again—your hips bucked and he groaned, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you still.

“Gods, I knew you’d taste good,” he murmured to himself, voice hoarse. “Did I make you come like this?”

You whimpered. “Twice.”

His mouth sealed around your clit again, tongue flicking faster now, more pressure, more hunger. Your hands scrabbled at the blankets, his hair, anything to hold onto as the pleasure surged, sharp and sudden and far too much—

And then you broke. Legs shaking, breath gone, climax crashing through you with dizzying force. He held you through it, tongue still moving lazily, drawing every last tremor from your body.

You didn’t even have time to recover before he was moving—rising over you again, mouth glistening, eyes wild with want.

His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb brushing along your cheek as he leaned down, kissed you slow and deep. Let you taste yourself on his tongue. Let you feel how much he needed this.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, voice low. “Tell me what I did next.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and already aching again. “You—” your voice faltered. “You didn’t even let me catch my breath. You just… slid inside me.”

A groan rumbled in his chest, and he shoved his pants down with the kind of urgency that made your pulse stutter. reached down, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds with maddening patience.

“Like this?”

He guided the head of his cock through your folds, slick and aching. You nodded, breath catching.

“No teasing,” you whispered.

His jaw clenched, and then—

He pushed into you with one long, slow thrust, the stretch of him making your eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck,” he breathed, head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel—.”

He started to move, hips rolling deep and steady, slower than the rhythm you’d imagined in sleep. He thrust like he couldn’t get enough.

Gentler. Like he wanted to savor it. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand slid down your side, settling at your waist, grounding you as his body rocked into yours with patient, aching care. Each thrust was deliberate, every motion a silent promise. And when he looked down at you—eyes dark and open, lips parted with quiet reverence—you felt like the only thing that mattered in the world.

“Is this okay?” he murmured, voice low, rough with restraint.

You nodded, breath hitching. “Better than I could’ve ever dreamed.”

That pulled a soft smile from him. He dipped down to kiss you again, slow and lingering, his hips still moving with that unhurried rhythm that had your toes curling. He wasn’t fucking you—he was making love to you. Deep and warm and full of something that felt dangerously close to adoration.

Then his fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt, a silent question. You shifted beneath him, lifting your arms to help, and he peeled it off you with reverent care, tossing it aside without taking his eyes off you.

His lips brushed yours again, breath warm and trembling. “You feel so good,” he murmured, like the words had to be pulled from somewhere deep. His gaze drifted down your body, hungry and awestruck all at once. “And you look…” His breath hitched. “You look so fucking beautiful.”

One hand slid up, fingers splaying over your ribs before cupping your breast—slow, purposeful. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and your back arched instinctively, a soft sound catching in your throat.

“There you go,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your skin. “That’s it. Just let yourself feel it.”

He groaned, leaning down to press a kiss to your collarbone, then lower. “Been thinking about this,” he rasped, tongue flicking over the peak before he took it into his mouth. “Dreaming of this.”

And his hips never stopped moving.

The pace stayed slow—for a moment longer. Long enough to draw another gasp from your throat, long enough for your fingers to tighten against his back. But you felt it—how his control began to fray. How the roll of his hips deepened, a little harder now, a little faster.

“You still with me?” he breathed, lifting his head just enough to see you nod absently. “That’s my girl… Let me take care of you.”

He drew back and pushed in hard, the force of it knocking the air from your lungs. Then again. And again. Still tender—but no longer soft. Not when he buried himself inside you like he couldn’t stand the thought of being apart.

You clung to him as the pace built, sweat slicking your skin, breath mixing in the charged air between your mouths. He kissed you like he needed it, like he needed you, all of you, while he fucked you deeper, rougher, until every thrust had your eyes rolling back.

You turned your head, breath catching as his mouth dragged along your jaw. “You feel—fuck—you feel so good,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you.

He groaned in response, hips stuttering just slightly.

“Every time you push in,” you went on, voice low and wrecked, “gods, it’s so deep.”

His hand slipped beneath your thigh, hitching it higher, opening you more. “You’re perfect,” he growled. “Fucking perfect.”

Your fingers curled around his nape, tugging him down until your lips brushed his ear. “You don’t have to hold back,” you breathed. “I can take it.”

His hips slowed.

You didn’t stop. “I want to take it,” you whispered, and then added, a little bolder, “Want to feel all of it. All of you.”

A low, broken sound escaped him. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do.” Your gaze met his—open, hungry. “I want you, Rhys.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Then his grip tightened—hands sliding under your thighs, pressing them up, hooking your legs over his shoulders, folding you open. The new angle had you gasping as he sank in, slow at first, then all at once—deep and overwhelming.

He held you there, panting above you, pupils blown wide.

“This is what you wanted,” he said, and he started to move—hard, fast, relentless, like a dam breaking, like he’d been holding back for years and couldn’t anymore. “So take it. Don’t close your eyes, look at me… There’s my girl. There you go.”

You couldn’t even think, couldn’t breathe as he talked you through it. You could only feel as he fucked you into the blankets with single-minded, devastating purpose.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in as he drove into you again and again, every thrust punching a sound from your throat—breathy, desperate, wrecked. You couldn’t even meet his gaze anymore, too overwhelmed by the sheer stretch of him, the heat of him, the way your body clenched around him like it never wanted to let him go.

“Look at me,” he growled, hips snapping forward.

You tried. Gods, you tried. Your lashes fluttered as your eyes met his—wild and dark and hungry.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Keep those eyes on me while I fuck you.”

You whimpered, head falling back, thighs trembling in his hold. “Rhys—”

“I know,” he panted, pace unrelenting. “I know, baby. I feel it too.”

His hand slid up your side, fingers splayed across your ribs before brushing the swell of your breast. He cupped it gently at first—then squeezed, thumb circling your nipple until you cried out.

“You’re doing so well, fuck—taking me so deep. Can you feel how tight you are around me? Gods, you’re perfect like this,” he said, voice cracking. “Under me. Around me. Fuck—mine.”

You were close—so close it ached, a coil drawn tight in your belly, ready to explode.

“I can’t—” you gasped. “I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” he urged, voice nearly breaking. “Come for me. I want to feel it.”

And with one more brutal thrust—deep, punishing, perfect—you shattered around him—body locking up, mouth open in a silent cry as pleasure surged through you like lightning. But he didn’t stop.

He didn’t slow down.

Rhys kept fucking you through it, relentless, determined, dragging every last wave of that climax out of you with deep, punishing thrusts. His grip on your thighs was bruising, the way he held you open, kept you wide and helpless beneath him, like he needed to watch the way you came undone.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “So fucking beautiful when you come.”

Your hands clawed at the blankets, your mind white-hot and unraveling. Every thrust hit something electric inside you, your body too sensitive, too raw, and yet—you wanted it. Needed more.

“Too much,” you whispered, the words barely a breath.

“No, baby,” he growled, dragging his cock out slow—then slamming back in so hard your vision blurred. “You can take it. You’re gonna give me another.”

Your mouth dropped open in a moan, back arching as he angled his hips just right—grinding deep, relentless, right against that spot that made you sob.

“I can’t—” you tried again, voice breaking, but your body told a different story. Your hips rolled to meet him, thighs quaking where he held them, cunt pulsing so hard around him it was all he could do not to lose it.

“Yes you can,” he hissed, sweat slicking his chest. “You’re already close. I can feel you—so tight, so wet. Fuck, you’re milking me.”

You couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. The pressure built again with terrifying speed, your body strung so tight it felt like you might snap in half.

Then his thumb found your clit—circling, pressing, teasing just enough— just enough—

You screamed. Loud and wrecked and his, as a second orgasm slammed into you, fiercer than the first, crashing over you like a storm. Your whole body locked up, legs shaking violently in his grip, and all you could do was feel—like you were flying apart in a thousand pieces, pleasure white-hot and endless. Your vision went white. A cry tore from your throat as your body clenched down around him, pulsing with wave after wave of raw, blinding pleasure. He cursed, his rhythm faltering, then slamming back in with a groan as he chased his own end.

“Gods,” he choked. “You feel—fuck—fuck—”

And then he was coming, hips pressed flush to yours, buried as deep as he could go, filling you with every last pulse of him.

He didn’t stop touching you, even then—his movements gentler now, grounding, soothing, his hands sliding down your legs, your hips, up to cradle your face as he pressed his forehead to yours, both of you panting, trembling, lost.

You were still trembling when he finally eased out of you, slow and careful, like he hated to leave the warmth of your body. You hissed at the sudden emptiness, your legs twitching with the aftershocks.

“Shh,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you.”

You barely registered him moving—just the rustle of fabric, the shift of air. Then something warm and damp pressed between your thighs, and you jolted.

“Relax,” he said, voice lower now, rasping with the remnants of his own ruin. “Just cleaning you up.”

Your head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded. “Where the hell did you even get that?”

Rhys gave a soft huff—almost a laugh—as he wrung out the cloth and dabbed between your legs with unhurried care. “I always come prepared.”

You groaned. “That better not be from your pocket.”

He smirked. “Don’t worry. It was clean. Can’t say the same for you.”

You swatted at his shoulder, too weak to land anything meaningful. He caught your wrist easily, brought it to his lips, kissed your knuckles. Then, quieter, more serious: “You okay?”

You met his gaze, and for a second, it felt like the world narrowed to just that—his eyes, searching yours, all that fire banked into something steadier. Warmer.

“I’m good,” you whispered. “Better than good.”

He nodded, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “Didn’t mean to wreck you like that.”

“Liar,” you muttered, which earned another soft grin.

“I mean,” he murmured, voice dipping as he smoothed the cloth over your skin one last time, “I did—but I wasn’t planning on it going that far.”

You let out a breathless laugh, instinctively crossing your arms over your chest as the chill started to creep back in around the edges of your bliss.

“Rhys,” you said dryly, “as much as I’m enjoying the ambiance out here, I’d really prefer not to freeze to death with your come dripping out of me.”

He huffed a soft laugh—but a blink later, the cold vanished. The ground beneath you softened, gave way to your plush mattress. Dim, golden light from your lamp spilled over you both. The scent of lavender and sex filled the space.

Rhysand shifted closer, his arm curling low around your waist. The weight of his touch, the steadiness, was enough to drown out the storm still raging beyond the window.

You tucked your head beneath his chin, let his warmth settle into your skin.

“Next time,” you mumbled, eyes already heavy, “you conjure us a fire first.”

His chest shook with a quiet laugh. “Next time,” he promised, voice like velvet and shadows, “I’ll give you anything you want.”

#acotar #rhysand acotar #rhysand #rhysand x reader #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #this tempest ours

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written-in-flowers · 24 days ago

Text

The Places Between Us: The Lycan Brothers: (OT8 x Fem!Reader)

Pairing: San x Wooyoung x Fem!Reader | Side pairings: Hongjoong x Fem!reader x Ateez x Fem!Reader

Genre: Smut, angst, fluff | AU: fantasy!au

Word Count: 13k

Summary: An ambush leads YN from Mingi's cold hands and into the long claws of Choi pack Alpha San and Beta Wooyoung. An escape plan is hatched, but is it executed?

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Overall Tags: dub-con, mind control, enslavement, kidnapping, forced breeding, monster fucking, sex work, mentions/implications of abuse, mentions/implications of SA, stockholm syndrome, public sex, exhibitionism, humiliation, degradation, breeding kink, bigdick!Seonghwa, bigdick!Yunho, DoubleDick!Yunh, monster fucking, face fucking, throat fucking, undead sex, sex w/ undead, belly bulge, anal sex, anal fingering, vaginal sex, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, squirting/vaginal ejaculation, slight size kink (height wise), overstimulation, facials, cum swallowing, choking, dom!ateez, sub!reader, tit fucking, sex toys, bondage, multiple partners, threesome (m/m/f), orc!jongho, naga!seonghwa, demon!hongjoong, dragon!yunho, undead!mingi, goblin!yeosang, lycan!san, lycan!wooyoung.

Taglist: @binniesbabe @stay-tiny-things @oiminho @babymbbatinygirl @sopematesxx @pirana10 @juicyjaxxy @corgilover20 @kinkymaminicole @londonbridges01 @readerofallthingss @dvbkie099 @cpg2020 @raralxyne (if you want to be tagged for future chapters, let me know in the replies!)

Part 3: The Undead Soldier < | > Part 5: The Goblin Merchant

****

Mingi froze in his seat, staring at the tent entrance and listening for more. Hurried shadows casted by campfires glided across the canvas, and the sounds of clanging armor and calls to action came from beyond the tent. Mingi immediately grabbed his sword and shield.

“You stay here,” he ordered you, “And put on some clothes. You’ll need them.”

Panic hit you once you glimpsed through the flap. Loud barking and growling came faintly from the distance, mingling with the Undead battlecries. You quickly pulled on the tunic dress Mingi gave you, and strapped the bone-and-silver belt around your waist. The crow squawked and batted its wings excitedly, startled by the noise from outside, and this only worsened your panic. Confusion but determination came as you tied your sandals. This was your shot. Mingi had no intention of taking you to Lord Kim; you’d be going to his crypt in The Grey Lands where he’d keep you like a pet. You might end up a slave anyway, but you have to try. You wouldn’t forgive yourself if you didn’t.

“Do you know a way away from here?” you asked the crow as bloodcurdling howls came from outside. When it cawed, you said, “Show me then.”

You opened the flap, and suddenly wished you had not. Amongst the broken bloodless corpses scattered on the ground, you saw massive wolves. At least, you thought they were at first. Taller and bigger than horses or men, they came in various shades of white, grey, brown and black. Standing on two legs, they were a mix of men and wolves. Their snouts covered in blood, their teeth alone made your toes curl back. You watched in horror as one wolf, a monstrous black beast, tore through a group of Undead like butter. It growled menacingly, snarling and clawing at any soldier who came within feet of it. It lifted one of the largest soldiers inches from the ground and bit into the neck, growling and snarling before tossing them away. Then, it spotted you.

“Shit,” you breathed.

The monster bounded towards you on all fours, and you broke out into a run. The crow flew low, barely visible in the torch lights scattered through the camp. It kept you on the outskirts, but that hardly mattered. You could hear the beast behind you, its feet thumping the ground and teeth right on your heels. A scream came out of you right as your sandal snagged on a tree root, causing you to fall and the wolf to climb on top of you. Its heavy body hovering over yours, it bared its fangs and roared. Another scream ripped through your throat, and tears instantly started filling your eyes. It moved to sink its teeth into you when something came from above.

The crow slammed its beak right into the wolf’s eyes, causing it to howl in pain and swat its large clawed hands at the bird. You took several deep breaths as you watched the crow scratched and pecked at its eyes and face. The beast distracted, you scrambled to your feet and continued running through the battle. You dodged Undead and wolves alike, jumping out of their way or sidestepping to avoid being hit as you ran. Mingi and several other warlocks shot bolts of lightning, ice or fire at their opponents; some of them went down, but others charged forward. You saw the tree line up ahead, the dark forest beyond the tall trunks, and ran harder and faster. It was only a few yards away when another wolf blocked your path.

This one was much larger than the first. Its snow white fur shone in the fire light, crimson blood matting around its mouth and dripping from its long fangs. Your heart thumped in your chest. The crow wasn’t around. Mingi wasn’t around. Nothing would stop this beast from devouring you. You backed up slowly until your body pressed into something hard. The sleek fur and hot breath made you jump, and you turned to see another wolf, dark brown and only slightly smaller than the first, closing in on you. You did everything to keep yourself at a distance from them. The pair circled you before facing you together, slowly inching closer as you drew further away.

“She’s tasty looking…” the white wolf said in a raspy, gravelly voice. “I wouldn’t mind more than a bite.”

They could talk?!

“She smells good,” said the brown wolf in a similar but higher tone. “Like a ripe peach waiting to be sunk into…”

“Ge-get back,” you said, knees shaking as you started towards the forest. “Min-Mingi will come for me, and he’s a warlock and he’ll kill you for trying to touch me.”

Their laughter was loud grunts that rattled you. “That walking corpse can’t help you, sweetheart,” said the white wolf.

“I suggest you start running, Little Peach,” his companion said. “The chase is always the best part.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Snapping into action, you took off into the woods. The cold air drying out your throat, your heart matched your fast steps. You used to outrun the boys on the school yard, but these were not little boys. The chances of getting away are far too small. Your crow friend might intervene once again and peck their eyes out for an easy escape. Mingi might discover what’s happened and fight to get you back. Or maybe, just maybe, you outstrip them and somehow magically end up at the base of the Crescent Mountains. The freezing air seeping through your thin dress and numbing your toes, you felt yourself slowing down.

“Keep running, Little Peach,” the brown wolf cackled. “We’re almost there!”

Everything looked the same in the half-light of the moon. You made a turn, almost bumping into a tree before moving onward.

“Uh-oh, sweetheart,” you heard the white wolf say, “We’re right at your heels.”

“You can always slow down! We promise it won’t hurt! We’ll be oh-so-gentle with you!”

“The first time!”

Your body begged for you to give in. With all the exertion you put yourself through, the sprinting was beginning to weigh you down. You took another turn, and saw light up ahead. Whether friend or foe, you didn’t know but you hoped it’d be your salvation. You charged forward to it before a big black mass came from your left.

“Gotcha!”

The brown wolf no longer stood on all fours, but on two. Standing several feet taller than you, you couldn’t help but freeze in its gaze. Its wet snout sniffed the air around you, thin lips stretching in a smile.

“Ooh, you do smell good,” the wolf said, walking closer to you. “I’m going to enjoy tasting your little peach.”

You screamed when a pair of furry arms wrapped around your waist to lift you. Legs off the floor, you kicked and struggled in its strong arms. You punched at the lean, white arms holding you, but your hits were feeble against this strong wolf.

“Where did that corpse find such a tasty treat?” The white wolf said, not bothered by your kicking and hitting. “We can raid it and get more yummy morsels like you.”

“Let go of me!” The vulgar words struck between your thighs, and your mark started burning. No. Not now. “Let go!”

“Aw, how cute! She’s trying to get away!” The brown one laughed. He reached forward to the collar of your tunic and easily tore it. You cried out when a sharp claw touched your exposed nipple. “These look nice…so soft and round. Lycan women aren’t built like this.”

“Not in their natural form,” his friend added. “Come on, Little Peach, let’s have a look at you.”

Your hands and knees stopped your fall, the twigs and leaves scratching your palms and legs. Crawling quickly, you scrambled across the floor before a clawed hand dragged you back. On your back, you stared up at the two beasts towering over you. They were wolves that stood like men. The white wolf was broader and more muscular, while the brown wolf was leaner and thinner. Your entire body shook, and you swatted at the claws reaching out to your tunic. Your cunt pulsed from the ideas starting to fill your head. Easily, the white wolf tore your belt off while the brown shredded the rest of your dress. The ripping of fabric and the snipping of their claws on your skin aroused you.

“I wonder what Mingi will say when he finds out we’ve captured his pretty slave,” the brown one said, smiling gleefully as he grabbed your ankles.

“I wonder what he’ll think when he finds out what we’re going to do to his pretty slave,” the other wolf said, already kneeling in front of you. “This looks nice,” he pushed your legs apart, “Already wet and ready, are we? You enjoy a good chase too, hm?”

“Screw the both of you! Let me go now!”

“Oh, somebody’s getting screwed,” he laughed, “Don’t you worry about that.”

A single slow lick of his tongue sends tremors up your body. The brown wolf holding you down, you had no way of fighting them off, but as a second lick came, you felt your struggle waning. The white wolf held onto your thighs, firmly keeping them apart as he made a third lick. You could feel his flat, wide tongue covering your entire sex; the cool air dried his saliva on your skin, which was then warmed against by his tongue. He rubbed his snout against your inner thighs, the wet nose taking in your natural scent before he sunk back to the middle. Your nipples hardened, and your toes curled at the constant, slow lapping. When he focused on your clitoris, you started shaking again. This encouraged the wolf to push the lips aside with his tongue and zone in on the throbbing nub.

“Does she taste as good as she smells?” The brown wolf asked, tongue sticking out slightly.

“So good,” he replied, “And sensitive. She’s already shaking and I’m barely licking it.”

The brown wolf pinched your nipple between two black claws, moving them up and down to stir the pot. He gave a low chuckle when your hips twisted in his companion’s grasp. He held both your wrists easily in one hand, and continued teasing your breasts. The smooth claws grazed over the center of the hard peaks; the sharp tips lightly circled them, scratching the skin but not enough to draw blood. Tiny stings of pain came when he dragged his hand from bottom to top, though still not doing any damage. This combined with the tongue rolling around your swelling clit, you bit down on your lip to suppress your moans.

“She’s loving this,” the white wolf said. “Don’t feel bad, Little Peach. Relax and enjoy my tongue for a while.”

“If you’re good, you’ll get more than a tongue.”

“Oh…God…” you let out in a shaky breath, head tossing to the side as he flicked right underneath your clit.

“Feels good, hm?” the wolf below asked. “Do you like my tongue on your pretty clit?”

You couldn’t answer. The magic of your curse renders you incapable of refusal now. Mingi’s spell might remove pain, but not the control it took from you. His fellow moved to your side, holding your wrists still, and bent to lick at your hard nipples. His teeth nipped at them, leaving small bites on the supple mounds, whenever he rubbed his nose on you. They did this for a while, then the brown wolf knelt beside you. Through the woolen cloth covering his crotch was a long, red cock. Like Seonghwa, it was thicker and longer than you’re used to. When he lifted it, showing off the considerable length, you spotted a ball right at the base. Not balls, but a sort of blockage right there. You had no idea why he’d have that, but your mark had you wishing he’d plunge deep inside.

“Let’s put this mouth to good use,” he said, pushing the head to your parted lips.

The white wolf suddenly picked up speed, still only lapping over various parts that made you squirm in his arms. The brown one straddled your chest, hovering himself over your face, and pinned down your arms above your head. The hard head on your lips easily pushes through them, stretching your mouth and cheeks as he slid only a few inches inside. He let out a low growl when you started eagerly sucking the muscle passing over your tongue. You let it wag against the slick underside; it massaged the thick vein pumping more blood into it as it hardened. The string of muffled moans and curses the licking produced worked like a vibrator for him. He let out elongated moans whenever he reached your throat, holding himself there while you struggled to breathe. You loved the feeling, surprisingly. The slight choking and gagging it created each time he did it made you quiver. Unfortunately for you, the pair realized this and took full advantage of it.

“Bring her to her knees, Wooyoung,” the white wolf gasped, pulling away from your soaked sex. “I want that mouth too.”

The brown wolf, Wooyoung, dismounted and easily lifted you to your knees. The white wolf grabbed your head, holding it firmly in place as he tapped his own heavy cock on your face.

“She really is pretty,” Wooyoung said, slapping your cheeks and mouth with his friend. “She’s even prettier with cock in her mouth and on her face. We should keep her, San. Imagine having a slave who opens up whenever we want…Especially a pretty one like this.”

“Not a bad idea,” San replied, shoving his head into your mouth at last. “Not a bad idea at all,” he groaned when you started sucking him.

Wooyoung wrapped your hand around his cock, then started guiding it for you. You felt both of them pulse and throb together. It was like hearts beating in sync with each other. Warm, savory precum started spilling onto your tongue as San continued pumping into your mouth. He thrusted himself fully, tip invading your throat as your lips reached the knot at the base. Because of Mingi’s ritual, you didn’t feel pain. Even with your mouth so stretched, your throat being penetrated so much, you didn’t feel anything except pure pleasure. You squirm around in your restricted place, your cunt wanting attention from one of them if not both. Your heart pounded in your chest. San withdrew, drool and precum leaking from your lips and Wooyoung took his place. He tapped your tongue a few times, sliding up and down on it before pushing inside every so often. He chuckled when you desperately tried getting him in your mouth.

“I wonder what he did to you,” said San, using your hand like a toy. “Most humans cry and are in pain from lycan cock. You don’t. Why is that, Little Peach?”

“Probably used to it,” Wooyoung answered, forcing his length into your throat again. “It makes her even better.”

“I don’t think so…”

“You’re really thinking about that now?”

“It’s crossed my mind…”

“Who cares, man? Stop brooding and enjoy our Peach.”

San released you and laid on the forest floor. Without warning, he brought you on top of him. Your smooth skin brushed against his furry body, and with your hands no longer restricted, you started feeling his chest. Each breath stretched him, his hard chest tight on your hands, the hair smooth and silky on your fingertips. You were so much smaller than him. Even Wooyoung appeared an inch or so narrower. Even his dick was bigger. You knew this when he held you above his twitching tip and gently lowered you onto it. Fingers digging into the thick hair, you braced yourself for a tight pressure that sent moans up through your throat. You knew you were tighter than anything he’s ever had since his head fell back into the floor and he let out a soft howl.

“Pl-please….” you whine, your walls squeezing his tip, “More…”

He answered by bringing you further down. While he focused on the pleasure burning within him, Wooyoung bent to see where you both met.

“I told you she’s had lycan dick before,” he said. “She’s not even bleeding.”

San ignored him.

“You’re lucky, Peach,” Wooyoung said, stroking your hair and licking your nipple. “It’s not every day a girl gets to fuck the Alpha.”

When you sat impaled on him, both you and San shook from the overwhelming pleasure. He kept his hands on your hips, nails scratching your skin from the tight grip as he guided you on him. Your mouth open from the steady stream of moans, Wooyoung shoved himself back inside. Holding your hair, he held you in place as he used your mouth like before. You tried letting go of San’s fur, but you couldn’t. If you did, you’d lose all balance and grip on reality. You only let go to put one of his hands on your chest. He cupped it easily, kneading and caressing the tit bouncing in his palm. You couldn’t stop. The mark burning on your back made it difficult to resist. You didn’t want to resist. You needed this. You needed them.

After he was slick with your saliva, Wooyoung rounded and kneeled around you. Unable to stay up longer, you lowered onto San who might as well be a small bed underneath you. You did nothing but whimper when his hands spread your ass cheeks and something sticky and hot ran over your hole.

“Stay still for a minute, sweetheart,” San rasped in your ear. “It’ll feel good in a few minutes.” You found it hard to stop grinding on him. He laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist, “It’s that good, hm? Answer me, Peach. Does my big dick feel good inside your guts?”

“Ye-yes,” you sobbed, “Let-let me…”

“Let you ‘what’? Ride me?” He chuckled when you eagerly nodded, “You’ll get to once you’re filled up.”

Despite his words, San kept rocking as Wooyoung continued wetting your hole. “Stretch it for him,” San whispered to you, “Put your pretty hand down there and open it up. His claws will hurt too much.”

“Oh, she can handle a little claw tip,” Wooyoung dismissed, but you cried out when his claw went down your crack.

“No,” San said sternly. “Go ahead, I got you,” he said to you gently, “I’m holding you. I got you.”

His strength was immeasurable. You lifted a shaky hand to reach behind you. Wooyoung’s saliva was thick and sticky, working like a lubricant rather than spit. You moaned at the softness of your fingers tracing your whole ass hole. Pushing one digit inside, it was torture. Your finger didn’t go deep enough to bring full pleasure, but enough to open you up for Wooyoung.

“Good girl,” San cooed, nuzzling your neck. “Put another finger…Yes, like that…You’re doing such a good job, Peach.” He licked your neck, burying his nose in the crook. “Your pussy is gripping me so tight, and letting me inside this deep. I bet that ass is just as good.”

“It looks even better,” Wooyoung sighed, mesmerized by your fingers stuffed in your ass.

He removed your fingers roughly, and put his tip to the clenching hole. “Hold tight, sweetheart,” San warned, “Take a deep breath and-there you go…Good, good, just let him go further.”

Your eyes rolled back at the new pressure building behind you. San held you open as Wooyoung sank inside little by little. You couldn’t move. The feeling of them both inside you left you paralyzed between them. Your nails dug into San’s shoulders, your face burying into his long, thick neck as you trembled. The pair started slowly, letting your body get accustomed to them at the same time. Wooyoung held you by the hair, losing his own restraint with you wrapped around him. San, on the other hand, rocked upwards gently. You swore their tips each found your g-spot on either side and hit it in unison.

“Ride me,” San instructed kindly when you were deemed ready for it, “Go as fast or as slow as you want. Just being in you makes me happy.”

“And you want the Alpha to be happy with you, Little Peach,” Wooyoung groaned, losing control as he grabbed your ass and started thrusting faster. “It comes with lots of perks.”

“Don’t be shy,” San said, grabbing the tit he could reach. “That’s right. Fuck me, sweetheart. Fuck me however you like.”

You let loose. Leaning upwards, you started bouncing on the two cocks pulsing in you. It was overpowering pleasure that blinded you to sense. Breasts bouncing in front of his face, San’s hot tongue flicked at your sensitive nipples. Your ass rippling on his hips, Wooyoung kept pinching and grabbing the round cheeks slamming on him. Your orgasm sat at the edge, tempting you forward. This was incredible. How could you want to fight this?

“Shit…This was not….”

“I think our Peach is going to come now,” Wooyoung said, grabbing your waist but letting you control the pace.

“She is,” San moaned, pinching your nipple between two fingers. “I can feel it every time she goes to my knot.”

‘Lycan knots feel incredible. You should sink down onto it and feel it for yourself.’

You didn’t refuse. Settling yourself on San’s stomach, you fully sat on the ball at the end of his cock. It kept him inside. You swore you could barely move off it. Mind turning blank, you grinded on the thick dick throbbing in you.

“She’s sitting on my knot, oh god, she’s sitting…” San huffed quickly, chest rising and falling from this new feeling.

“Hey,” Wooyoung griped, “Take mine too.”

He plunged his own “knot” in your ass, causing you to scream in pleasure. Your climax came hard and fast. Cum coated San’s cock, leaking from your entrance and trickling onto the balls underneath. A distinct heat radiated in your ass, Wooyoung’s rabid thrusts being small and erratic as he finished inside you. San doesn’t finish. Your tight cunt shuddering around his knot felt too good to stop.

‘Don’t let them. Keep going. It feels so good and lycans can go for a long time,’ the voice said. ‘It really is the best. I want you to enjoy yourself. It's why I had Mingi take the pain away, so you can have fun at least.”

“Can I have her cunt now, Alpha?” Wooyoung asked, sounding more subservient than friendly.

“Can he, Peach?” San asked you in a shaky voice.

“Yes, yes, yes!”

Forcing yourself off San, you laid on the ground as Wooyoung stuffed himself in your pussy. On his fists, body keeping your legs up in the air, he started quick and fast. You felt his cum leaking from your ass, his balls getting wet from the constant smacking against it.

“Open up for me,” San said, putting his wet cock to your mouth.

Inverted, San took control right away. His balls hanging in front of you, you became encompassed by his musky scent and warmth. Being trapped under them, used however they wanted, you nearly came again.

‘Let it go. I like seeing you cum all over a thick cock.’

You didn’t question the voice. San’s length stifled your screams, and Wooyoung held onto your shaking arms. When his knot stuck him deep inside, you lost all control. San’s constant strings of precum streamed from your mouth to your cheeks. His balls hit your nose as he went faster, stuffing your throat to suffocate you slightly before pulling away and letting you breathe. You’re barely given time before he goes back inside. You came right then. Legs far apart, shaking and trembling, you couldn’t stop yourself. Instead of finishing inside, Wooyoung withdrew to stroke himself over you. Soon, the hot strings felt hotter on your cold skin, spraying as far as your breasts. Is it normal for lycans to have such a short time between orgasms?

“My turn.”

San roughly pulled you from Wooyoung and onto his lap. You steadied yourself on him as best as you could, legs around his waist and arms around his neck. He stood up, lifting you several feet from the ground, and started bouncing you on him on his own. His muscled, furry body became the only source of warmth in the cold forest. You held onto the back of his head, eyes closed tight as he pushed his knot to your entrance in every thrust. Wooyoung closed the gap between you, holding onto your thighs as he helped his alpha keep you in place.

“Cum in me,” you moaned in his pointed ear. “Fill my little cunt with all your cum…empty yourself in me, please…”

“I will,” he said, moving you faster. “You’re already dripping. You’ll be gushing when we’re done with you.”

This promise tightened your hold on him. As promised, San let out grunts through gritted teeth as thick come pours in you. This alone makes you cum a third time, screaming into the air as you pathetically rutted on him.

‘More…Don’t you want more, YN? You look so hot like this. Please say you want more.”

Wooyoung took San’s place, humping upwards to your full cunt. The pair started taking turns in you, interchanging their paces to keep you moaning. When they finally had their fill, you were sweaty and exhausted but elated. Your forehead pressed to San’s, you took deep breaths to steady your racing heart and shaking limbs.

“Fuck, she’s amazing,” Wooyoung cheered, wiping himself with his loin cloth. “She’s not human. There’s no way.”

“I know what’s got you going, Peach,” San said in your ear, wet nose rubbing your neck. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep it between us. You’re mine now. All mine.”

He carried you in his arms like a child, not bothered by your stickiness dripping to his thighs. The security of his hold reminded you of a bed. You felt yourself falling asleep against him. His fur might as well be a fur blanket a client gifted you, comfortable and keeping you warm on a cold night. San occasionally rubbed his cheek to yours, affectionate and gentle as he carried you through the forest towards the firelight. The smell of cooking meat reached you in the wind. Savory and thick, your stomach rumbled. You heard the sounds of revelry around you as you entered the wolf’s camp. High howls, laughter and chatter mixed with the drums playing in a corner.

“Maybe I’ve been blessed,” San said, low enough that only you heard him. “The Lunar Gods wanted to give me a gift to bless my victories, and put you in my path.” The flat on his hand rubbed your back, only enticing you to sleep more. “I’ll have to give a special offering for this generosity.”

“Did you say something, Brother?” Wooyoung asked over the noise.

“She’ll stay in my den,” San replied. “Go get her some clothes, and I’ll bathe her. I can smell that corpse under her sweetness.”

Could he really? You didn’t care.

‘You did so well, YN.’

“Here you go, Little Peach,” San said, laying you down on a bed of furs and blankets.

His musky scent surrounded you. Not off putting in the slightest, you rolled onto your side to find more warmth. Suddenly, smaller, hairless hands began running a cloth over your stickier parts. Your eyes fell shut underneath the tender touch, budging to let them clean you thoroughly. Another pair of hands smoothed over your hair, pulling it back from your face as they laid your head on their lap. Human. Did San have other human slaves who now tended to you? This was answered as you drifted to sleep at last.

“Cute little peach,” San said, running fingers over your sex, cleaning you softly. You let a soft moan at the delicate touch. “Sleep now. We can play more in the morning.”

‘Believe me, you'll be wanting it too.’

****

The Undead skull crushed under his boot, a pile of ash and bone grinded into the earth. Hongjoong surveyed the battlefield, the woodland road where his men were ambushed. Undead soldiers laid in pieces, some putting themselves back together and others completely gone. Lycans only used their power, not their brains.

"Where is she?" He asked one of the soldiers. Only his torso and arms remained, and he leaned against a tree.

He knew his appearance shocked the soldier. "Who, my lord?" he asked shakily.

"The captive," he answered impatiently. "The woman you've enjoyed watching your commander fuck every night."

"I-I don't know, my lord. She disappeared during the battle-"

Hongjoong lazily shot a ball of ice into his head, the decomposing skull falling off. He scanned the area for any sign of you. The cage Mingi kept you in was empty on its side under a tree. A shiver ran down his spine when he thought about you being in that cage, humiliated and embarrassed by the show the men enjoyed. You never liked public stuff. A little dance or kissing was fine, but sex happened upstairs. Mingi might have been the nicest of them, coming to you when you needed it, but he did it for personal gain.

"My lord, I knew you would come."

Mingi's head sat on his desk while his body and hands remained missing in action. Hongjoong glared at him, already imagining what he could do to that head.

"Where is she?" He asked.

"She ran off," he said. "The Choi pack attacked us when we made camp here. They must have taken her.”

“You better hope they did.”

A white flash caught the corner of his eye and he spotted Mingi's left hand at his feet.

“My lord…” Mingi watched him pick up the hand and snap his fingers. Instead of bright orange, the flames flickered blue. “Wait…My lord, don't. I'm sorry. I didn't do anything she didn't want.”

“I'm aware,” he said, “But you still touched her.”

“My lord!”

"You knew she belonged to me and decided to help yourself to her. How can you expect to achieve a goal when you do such things?"

Hanging the hand over the flame, the frost began at the wriggling fingertips before spreading upwards. Hongjoong watched the digits gradually freeze in front of him until it was completely still.

“My hand…”

“You can find another one.”

Throwing it to the ground, Hongjoong stomped on the frozen hand. It crushed into dozens of pieces, blood clotting right away at the breakages.

“Also, I'm cancelling leaves,” Hongjoong grunted, fixing stray hairs. “Nobody is going in or out of the afterlife.”

“But she ran away! My lord, she ran!”

He needed to find you.

*****

You could sleep forever, wherever ‘here’ was. Layers of animal furs covered you from the cold, and a soft mattress molded to the curves of your body. The faint crackling of a fire came from somewhere nearby; the scent of hearty bacon immediately caught in your nose and rumbled your stomach. Home. You’re back in the Rooster’s Nest, recovering from a night of entertaining patrons and dancing. Yoongi is in the kitchen cooking breakfast for everyone. Namjoon is cleaning up the bar for the morning crowd. The other girls are still asleep or starting to stir. You groaned softly as you uncurled from your position and rolled onto your back, keeping the blankets up to your neck. Yes, everything that happened was a terrible nightmare, and you’d finally woken up.

A gentle hand brushed through your hair, a thumb pressing down the side to cup your face. You rubbed your cheek into it, surprised that Vernon stayed the night.

“I thought you'd left,” you said groggily, leaning into the hand.

“I never left, sweetness.”

Your eyes flew open. Above you was not Vernon's soft, round face but a sharper, squarish one. Small eyes smiled at you sweetly, two dimples poking into his cheeks. You instantly moved away from him, subjecting yourself to the slight chill reaching your hot skin. You were about to curse at him when you saw the claw necklace hanging to his broad chest.

“Morning, Peach,” he said, “You slept like a baby. You didn't make a peep.”

“Who are you?”

“Oh, sorry, I didn't really introduce myself. I'm San.”

'Well, at least it's San who found you.'

“You're San? But, I thought you were a wolf?”

“I was in my wolf form last night,” he moved closer, “I tend to be more…feral when I'm in my lycan form. I hope I didn't scratch you too much?”

“No, you didn't,” you replied. “Who was the other wolf then?”

“My half-brother, Wooyoung,” he answered. “He's getting you breakfast since we figured you'd be hungry when you woke up. You put in a lot of work for us,” he laid beside you on the bed, “It's only fair we take care of our special pet.”

You suppress a moan when he grabs your thigh to put over his hip. Through his pants, you felt his prominent bulge poke you. He wasn't hard, you realized, but just that big naturally. Hands running up and down your back, San brought you in for a light, brief kiss. You held onto his shoulder to keep yourself from grinding against him.

“Who gave you that mark?” he asked, pecking your lips.

“A witch,” you answered.

“She must've been jealous,” he said, “To put such a curse on you.”

“Her husband was one of my regulars. Instead of blaming him for his cheating, she got angry with me,” you replied, bitterness in your voice. “Now, I'm stuck like this until Lord Kim comes for me.”

“Lord Kim? Why would he come for you?”

“He says I belong to him. He keeps saying he'll come get me, but I don't know when. You'd think a demon wouldn't have a problem travelling anywhere.”

“It's not as easy as it looks, okay?”

“Hm, that's disappointing,” San frowned. “I was hoping to keep you. I suppose I'll have to give you over if I want to avoid my entire pack suffering for it.”

“Yeah, sorry to burst your bubble.”

“No skin off my back,” he assured you. “I have plenty already.”

Naturally, he did. Everyone did, it seemed.

“But hey, let's not dwell on that for now,” San said, taking your wrist and bringing you back to him. “We can talk about something else until Wooyoung comes with your breakfast.”

“Like what?”

“Where are you from,” he shrugged, “Where is your family from? Are they magicfolk? What did you do before you were cursed? You know, that kind of stuff. If you’re going to be here for a bit, I should at least know some things about you.”

You supposed you could humor him. Slipping back into his arms, you let him rub and kiss you as you answer his questions. His touch soothes your dread somehow. His body, hard and firm, feels real under your skin and in your arms. San’s human form is significantly smaller than his massive lycan appearance, which you enjoyed just as much. It felt strangely nice being cuddled this way. Mingi always left your cage when he finished. Seonghwa allowed you to sleep in his bed, but more like a dog than a lover. Yunho kissed your forehead, then left you alone.

“I wouldn't leave. You know that.”

You learned things about San as well: he was the alpha of his pack, The Choi Pack. Wooyoung is his half-brother from the same father, the former Alpha. They live east of the mountains, which is their territory. Tonight is the first night of the Lunar Festival, a week-long celebration that ends on the full moon. He explained, as you tried not grinding on his muscled thigh, that their powers are strongest on that night. He makes note to mention that their fertility strengthens too.

“But, it wouldn’t work on you,” he said, putting his thigh between both of yours and giving the slightest bit of pressure. “Not that it would stop me from filling you with as much cum as possible,” he smirked when you held back a whimper. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human take my knot like that before. It didn’t hurt?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

He pressed his lips to your ear as he asked, “Does that mean I can put it in you again?

“Yes,” you said without hesitation.

Seeing this, San sat up against the pillows, legs spread and let you straddle his thigh. This put you directly on it which brought out an immediate reaction.

“Get it ready for me then,” San breathed, one hand on your hip.

He leaned back in the bed, simply admiring you as you rolled your hips in his lap. Your need grew the longer you rocked against the hard muscle underneath. You could feel every part of you starting to wake as the mark burned. The sweet friction of your bare clit on his thigh sent you further down. Your body ached to feel his hands on you, massaging wherever he could while you continued.

“A horny little peach, aren't you?” San sneered, taking your nipple between his fingers. “I'm very lucky to have such a lovely little thing always wanting me,” he pecked your neck, thumb trailing to your lower lip. “I'm going to have so much fun with you,” he pushed two fingers past your lips, mouth falling open when you sucked them.

“I can't wait,” you whined, rolling your hard clit on his thigh.

He purposefully flexed it so you whimpered against his shoulder. Everything inside you yearned for more. Even with your stomach rumbling, you cared more about the orgasm building in your groin. You felt the exact point where the most relief came, and started moving just to that side. When San moved forward to wrap his lips around your nipple, you nearly came right then. His tongue whirled around the hard center, flicking it every so often and giving it a full suck before popping it from his mouth. You noticed the bulge growing behind his loincloth, the thin fabric doing nothing to hold him back. One hand sneaking down to San's middle, you groaned feeling the heaviness in your palm.

“Keep rubbing it like that,” he groaned, head falling back when you gave it a gentle squeeze. “Yes, just like that…” He brought you in for another kiss, “You’re dripping all over me, sweetheart,” he moaned, “It makes you wet so easily.”

“Ye-yes,” you whined.

“Take it out and put it in you,” he rubbed down your sides and kissed your neck. “I want your first orgasm of the day on my dick.”

Lifting the flap easily, you shivered once his thick shaft touched your lips. Bucking your hips over the head, you moaned whenever your clit grazed it. The thickness spreads your wetness around, occasionally pushing to your entrance as if threatening to slide inside. You shuddered every time he did this, wanting him inside right away. Finally, you aligned his cock with your body and sunk downwards. The stretch did not burn at all. You only felt immense pleasure force your climax closer. His knot was not as prominent in his human form, but you could still feel it threaten to push through every time you reached it. San held you in his arms, kissing wherever he could and grabbing the buttocks in his hands as you rode him. You swore he shoved right up to your stomach, bulging slightly like the previous night. It was a sensation you couldn't get enough of.

“Can-Can we just…” you could barely get the words out.

“‘Can we’ what, baby?”

“Can we-e do this all da-day?”

San chuckled in his moan, “Yes, we can. We can go for as long as you want. I love this too much to stop at just one time.”

"One plus to this is watching you getting fucked like crazy. I can't wait to see you and get my turn."

His thumb on your clit, sliding up and down in time with you, you came right away. Hands gripping his broad shoulders, hips bouncing in his lap, you called out his name in the air in every moan. The blissful moment barely passed before San had you on your back, legs to his shoulders as he charged into you. It was the best feeling. It couldn't be so bad, being this alpha's play thing. He was nice. He hadn't hit or chained you up. Plus, he'd give his dick to you whenever you asked.

You can't. You can't let yourself get that far.

The both of you were limp, sweaty messes by the time you finished. The hunger in your stomach overcame your arousal now, demanding food of some kind.

“Wooyoung will bring you something,” San assured you, kissing your forehead. “You can just relax for now. I'll get you some warm clothes so you're not too cold.”

“Thank you,” you said sleepily.

But, you didn't sleep. You laid on your side, cuddled to a bundle of furs, and felt sadness sink in your stomach. The sinking feeling of helplessness filled your insides like bricks. Your journey was meant to be easy: you'd get to the small port town, follow the trails up to the mountains, then go see Lord Kim. You never foresaw the various obstacles or misfortunes that came your way. It seemed you kept going from one frying pan into another, eventually making your way to Lord Kim, the crackling fire. You'd gone along believing you could make it. You're not an explorer or a fighter. You were an entertainer from down south where the sun shined and the air was cool. You thought about the possibility of never meeting Lord Kim, and ending up caving into the curse. San would certainly have his fun with you then. You'd have no mind to resist; your body now able to withstand the pain, you could go even longer than before. You didn’t want that. You didn't want your life to become a swirling vortex of lust and pleasure. Hearing that you might never make it to the mountain saddened you.

But, you couldn't give up. Not now. You had made it this far; you could go the rest of the way. Waiting around in Kim seemed to only bring more problems. You'd have to strike out on your own this time. You only needed some provisions and a map. When San returned with woolen and fur clothes for you, you cleaned yourself up as best you could and slipped into them. He had to have some kind of map of the area. It is his domain. You only needed to find it before he realized you'd scampered off.

“Don't. Just stay there. I'm coming to you, I swear.”

“Hush. I'm done waiting on you,” you hissed under your breath.

“You're so damn impatient. Don't leave. That part of the forest is dangerous. You could get seriously hurt.”

“Like you care, " you said as San excused himself.

“I do. So much. San knows about you and will keep you safe."

“Here you go,” Wooyoung finally appeared, grinning and holding a plate of hot bacon and eggs. He placed it on a table nearby, and looked over at you. “Don't you look cute in that?” he asked, seeing your fur cloak, leather vest, thick shirt and wool pants. “The look suits you so well.”

“Thanks,” you said, shaking off Kim's voice.

You immediately grabbed the plate and dug into the meal. Your hunger came back a million times stronger, your stomach almost feeling sick. You gorged on the heavy ration of crisp bacon, letting the savory meat fill your mouth and gullet before being washed down with fresh milk. The eggs, fluffy and light, were hot and nearly burned your tongue, but you kept eating.

“Hey, slow down,” Wooyoung chuckled at your greediness. “You'll choke inhaling the food like that.” He watched you keep scarfing down the food. “I guess it's been a while since you ate anything proper.”

“Yeah,” you said, tearing into a hunk of honeyed bread.

You noticed a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Mingi should've taken care of you better,” he said, “If he wanted you to be happy.”

“Nobody wanted me to be happy,” you said, remembering each man bitterly. “Seonghwa wanted to make me a slave. Yunho wanted to make me a baby machine, and Mingi used me to get what he wanted. Your brother is just another man looking to use me for his own pleasure.”

It angered you now. You stabbed the last piece of bacon, shoving it into your mouth. With the mark on your back, he'd get that compliant slave if you stayed here long enough. You needed to find an escape. It seems like a big village. You could sneak away in the middle of the night.

“That's literally the dumbest idea you've had since you left home.”

“My brother isn't like that,” Wooyoung said defensively.

Yet, you had no chance of getting out of San's tent without anyone noticing you. Staring at Wooyoung, you caught the insecurity right away. Not as large or powerful as his brother, he likely stood in the shadows as a Beta. It made you wonder.

“He literally said that as he was bringing me here. He said I'd belong to nobody but him. I'd be all his,” you retorted. “I'm not going to be anybody's slave. Not now, not ever again. I'm my own person, and I'll be damned if I let someone get in the way again.”

The words climbed under his skin. A deep breath, he chose his next words like a killer chooses a knife. “You have no chance of getting to that mountain.” He saw your stunned face, “Yeah, I'm not an idiot. I heard you two talking. You have the Hand of Lust stuck to your back. In a week or so, you'll be nothing but a horny nympho who will do what we tell her. You think by getting to Kim you'll be safe? Ha, keep dreaming, honey. Even if he did come for you, you'll be his little plaything. He'll stick you in a cage and fuck you whenever he wanted. Trust me, you're better off here."

“I don't care,” you spat. “I'd honestly rather die than belong to you."

Wooyoung moved faster than you'd ever seen before. His hand around your throat, he forced you to look up at him. Riling him up seemed easier than expected. He pressed his thumb to your lips, swiping along them gently as he pushed between them. That sudden burning in your back returned, and you knew what he had planned. You forced yourself not to acknowledge the pain, the only one you could still feel. As his fingers gently squeezed your throat, he leaned down towards you.

“That can be arranged if you're a bad girl,” he growled, the wolf lingering in his voice. “You might be pretty,” he slid his thumb over your tongue, “But make no mistake, if you disobey us….if you refuse and fight us….we will tear you apart, understand?”

“Bastard,” you said back, even with his digit in your mouth. Your thighs clenched at his firm tone. "Your brother won't let you hurt me. Lord Kim will kill you for hurting me."

“Answer me,” he said, ignoring you and smacking your cheek, “Do you understand?”

“If he hits you again, he's not going to have a hand to smack with.”

“I'm not yours,” you replied when he removed his thumb. "And that drives you nuts, doesn't it? The fact that even though you helped capture me, you still don't own me or enjoy me when you wish. Have you asked your Alpha if you can be alone with me?"

"I don't need his permission to do anything. I'm the Beta around here; that makes me second in command."

"It makes you his bitch."

Tossing your plate aside, Wooyoung forced you onto the bed. Your sex immediately throbbed the moment his crotch brushed into it. Breathing heavily, your body braced itself for his entry. Wooyoung quickly untied his loincloth, and you saw him steadily growing hard. Lust burned in his eyes as he grabbed the collar of your shirt and tore it in two. In a few tears, Wooyoung uncovered your naked form again.

“So pretty,” he groaned, roughly grabbing your breast, “And mine.”

“In your dreams, maybe.”

He bent down over you, lips pecking at your nipples until they tightened on his lips and then swiping his tongue across it. He gave the erect center bites that made you hold back a wince. His rough hands cupped both breasts, squeezing hard as he licked and bit them. You tried squirming from his mouth, but he stuck to you like a leech. Soon, his hands pinned your wrists on the sides of your head; you made the futile attempt to struggle but his grip did not weaken. Make him feel strong. Plenty of clients back home liked a bit of push back. You found it a bit sick, but they willingly paid extra and never went too far.

His hard body between your thighs grinded each time you wriggled, so then his moan vibrated on your supple breasts. Wooyoung’s tongue started flicking faster over the peaks, swirling around the most sensitive part to make you whimper. Each swipe sent nerves down to your core, stoking the flames in your mark as your arousal grew.

“These are so fucking nice,” Wooyoung groaned, giving one nipple a particularly firm suck. “And they're mine to touch whenever I want. "

“Your brother's, you mean,” you whined.

“You’ll change your tune when you get my dick, Peach,” he snuck one hand between the both of you and cupped your sex. It throbbed right on his fingers; moist, slick folds wet the long digits automatically, and your entrance clenched for one of them to enter you. “Mm, see? Your little pussy already wants me. She knows who she wants more,” he said, switching sides as he played with your nipple and your clit. “You won't want my brother when you've had me in you. He'll see that and let me keep you instead. Not even Kim will want you. You'll be my toy, my whore...All mine...Not to be shared or taken from me… "

He plunged two fingers into you right away. Your back arched against the pleasure surging from his fingers, and your hips met his hand each time. His strokes deep and fast, the tips pushed right into the spot that had you seeing stars. It was pure heaven.

"You'll be my bitch," he growled. "I'm going to chain you up in my tent," his fingers changed angles and you whined, "And fuck you whenever I want. You'll call me 'Master' and obey my every command. "

"Wooyoung was always a little prick."

"I won't," you seethed, the effect being ruined when he laps at your clit.

"Yes, you will," he said firmly, "Or I toss you in the pig pen and let the others have you. Trust me, slut, my kin won't be as merciful as me." He swirled his tongue around it, giving it a few flicks. "They won't eat you out like this. They won't prepare or be nice to you. They'll fuck you like the pathetic hole you are, and if you resist? Ha, they'll show you what happens to disobedient pigs."

Frustration and relief combined within you, and you fell into a whirlwind of desire and need. If you push enough buttons, he'll send you to this pen, and you can get closer to escaping. Your legs spread out of habit, as if your body gave him more access to you. You shouldn’t give into him so easily. It wasn’t right. You should try stopping him before it gets worse. But, it felt too good to let go of now.

“A totally reasonable excuse to stay where you are and not go into the dangerous deadly woods at night.”

“That’s it,” Wooyoung groaned, “Just like that. It doesn’t matter if you cum. You'll keep going no matter how many times I finish you.”He sneered, "I imagine you in that pen now. You won't say no. You'll be begging for it soon, and my kin love an obedient pig."

Quaking underneath him, you couldn’t help it.Like a bomb, your hips bucked up and down as you finished all over his hand. You could barely control your volume with the way it hit you so suddenly. In the very middle of it, Wooyoung removed his fingers and shoved his cock deep inside. This elevated your orgasm, and you swore he dragged it out on purpose. When it finally subsided, Wooyoung lifted you from the bed and kept you in his grasp. Standing up, you could only hold on as the beta wolf pounded upwards into you. The new angle, combined with your clit lightly brushing his pubic bone, had you moaning into the crook of his neck.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he growled, “Even with all the dick you’ve had.”

“Woo-Woo-Y-young,” you said his name through gritted teeth, “Pl-please…You-your cum…”

“You’ll get my cum soon, pig,” he replied, holding you in place as he began bouncing you on his hips. “Be a good slut and use that cunt to milk it out of me…Yeah, like that…make it nice and tight for me…”

It’s all you wanted like the other times. The mere thought of his cum spilling in every hole made you purposefully squeeze your walls to tighten them. You needed to feel that warmth spray over them; you craved the sensation of him twitching within you, spurting his load before forcing himself into a different hole. You’d let him take whichever one he wanted. You only wanted more of him.

Soon, Wooyoung’s approaching orgasm had him forcing you back onto the bed. On your front, he put your hands behind your back and pinned them down. The slapping of his hips into you came in a single rhythm, his growls and grunts coming in time with them. You quivered, unable to maintain focus as that delicious feeling finally came. Wooyoung’s thrusts became haphazard and frantic as he reached his high, forcing himself to plant his seed firmly inside you. He grumbled incoherent words, panting in each push until he’d pumped every drop. But, you knew that wasn’t the end. Once he released your hands, you placed yourself firmly on the bed and started pushing into him. Wooyoung laughed at your pathetic attempts to get more. He didn’t move a muscle. He only laid hard smacks to your ass cheeks and occasionally spread them to drool over the middle.

"What a good piglet you are, " he cooed, feeling up your back. "You know your place now. You catch on quick." He bent down to your ear, "I'm better than my brother. Say it, bitch. Tell me my dick is better and you only want mine. If you do, you get a nice load of cum."

You held back the words. A harsh smack to your ass nearly brought them out, but you refrained. He took your hair and yanked it back hard.

"Say it."

You didn't. A refusal will upset him more, and he will get you out of here.

"Say it, slut!"

You eagerly continued pumping him until you felt his grip on your hair tighten, his grunts turning into whining pants.

"Say-say it, bitch, or no cum for you."

"Your dick is better!" You planted yourself firmly on the bed and started moving faster, hearing his soft panting. "It's so much better! I don't want anyone else!"

He laughed through gritted teeth as he filled you a second time. You kept yourself flushed to him, clenching and unclenching to entice more out of him. The satisfaction made you only crave more.

“That’s enough for now, Peach,” Wooyoung panted, resting on his haunches as he took deep breaths.

“But I want more…” you said, grabbing his softening length to stroke. “Just one more, please?”

“You’ll get plenty more later on.” He swatted your hand away, and started tying his loincloth again.

“I thought you wanted me?” You spread your buttocks for him, “Don’t you want to fill this up too?”

“Later,” he said more sternly, spanking the very middle and causing you to moan.

He tried moving away from you, but you grabbed his hand. You’d moved to put it on your pussy before he pulled away.

“Hmph, maybe this curse won’t be a good idea after all,” he mused.

“Didn’t you want a nympho slave?” you asked him, toying with your nipples to entice him. “You know, one who fucks you whenever you want?”

“Yes, when I want to,” he started walking to the entrance. “That’s the whole point of the ‘slave’ thing. You do what I say, not the other way around.”

You left the bed, legs wobbling, to pull him back to you. Lips kissing up his broad chest to his neck, you started grabbing at the strings of his cloth again. You grinded against him, already moaning with need. Wooyoung grabbed both your hands and shoved you away.

“I said ‘no’,” he said, “Now, figure out how to sort this out or I’ll make you.”

“Psh, whatever,” you scoffed. This was it. “You aren’t as big like your brother anyways. You probably couldn’t go as long, so you’re giving up.”

“Darling, don't antagonize him.”

But, you needed to.

Wooyoung glared, “I’d watch that mouth if I were you, Peach, or you might end up somewhere you don’t want to be.”

“Hey, don’t take your insecurities out on me, wolf-boy.”

“You little bitch!”

He grabbed a handful of your hair and dragged you outside. In full view of those around him, Wooyoung led you from the largest tent through the camp. Lycans in and out of their wolf forms stopped to stare at their Alpha’s younger brother pulling his new toy past them. Nobody spoke up. Nobody questioned Wooyoung’s angry glare or heard your frightened mewling. The arousal still burned, and the little tugs to your scalp made your need worse. You already knew what he had planned, it aligned perfectly with yours.

“I’ll teach you what happens when you disrespect me,” he scowled, bringing you over to a large pen. "You think I was playing when I said you'd go into the pen? You think I was bluffing?"

Bordered by a wooden gate, you saw a group of men and women in various states of dress huddled together in the mud. Disobedient slaves suffering a cold, dirty punishment. Low howls and yipping came from the lycans mounting the humans locked up in the pen. Bodies human and wolf rutted into their chosen "pigs" taking them against the fence or in the dirt like animals. Some of the slaves moaned in enjoyment while others cried from the size and duration. The lycans showed no mercy or signs of slowing down.

“Here,” Wooyoung opened the pen and tossed you inside. You fell sideways into the cold, muddy ground. “You want to get fucked like an animal? Now you will. Have fun. Maybe if I’m merciful, I’ll come back for you.”

“I'm not going to just cut off his hand now.”

It took you a few tries before you could stand in the slippery mud. When you finally did, there’d been no point in wiping the dirt from your naked skin. You became aware of the groups nearby surveying you. Shame and fear washed over you, and you turned away from them to face a corner of the pen. The sounds of the others being used sent shivers down your spine. While your original plan had worked, you didn’t know what to do now. With so many eyes on you, it was only a matter of time before you were “mounted” by someone. It’d be hard to escape now with the overcast skies still blue and grey. You would have to wait until much later, and San might have discovered your fate by then and taken you back inside.

It seemed you’d have to play the waiting game again.

*****

“This was a nice one. The right amount of tightness and so compliant already.”

“I don’t know. I like a little bit of fight in ‘em, you know?”

The two lycans pulled up their loin cloths as they stood. You were on your hands and knees, the strain having locked you in place the entire time and feeling dazed. The salty taste in your mouth and the stickiness of your thighs stopped bothering you long ago. Your arousal finally satiated, you felt nothing but the tiredness of the work.

It hadn’t taken long for the lycans to notice a new face in their slave pen. The two on either end of you were only the most recent in a line of wolves. The issue was you’d loved each and every time, constantly begging for more of whatever they could give. News of your stamina and endurance made its way across the camp like wildfire, and soon you had nearly every lycan in heat in your cunt. Whether in their wolf-forms or human ones, you didn’t care. Their long cocks and warm cunts became the only thing you wanted.

"San will come for you tomorrow. Just stay there."

“Is it my turn yet?” A young wolf said from nearby, white with orange down his back.

“The pen’s closed for the night, junior,” one of the wolves said. “Come back tomorrow. We gotta feed them now.”

“Aw, man! Come on, I got here just in time! I wanna try the new one too!”

“You can try her tomorrow.”

You could take another one. The words would’ve escaped your mouth if the tiredness hadn’t overcome your senses. Slumping into the ground, you didn’t notice how dark it’d gotten until you saw the faint glow of torches crop up around you. The wolves beside you left the pen, and you forced yourself to stand. Dirt caked on parts of your body, you couldn’t get the musty earth and lycan stench off you. The running fountain in the corner was mainly drinking water from what one girl told you, so you used the same ragged cloth the others did. Hardly sanitary, but how else could you get clean? Maybe the smell will help against predators when you leave. You still had to go even if you could barely feel your legs and might pass out any moment.

“Feeding time, piggies,” a woman helping carrying large buckets came to the edge of the pen. “Come and get it!”

Scraps of meat and vegetables went flying into the ground. You watched as the others scrambled for the food, fighting each other for the largest pieces and shoving what they grabbed into their mouths. Timidly, you took a mangled leaf of lettuce that landed by your feet, and munched on it quietly. You watched the group devour bits of food, pity taking over. This is what they’d resorted to. It scared you once you remembered that you might be the same way once the curse took over. You grabbed tiny pieces of meat that fell into the muddier parts, trying to ignore the dirt clinging to them. You’d need energy for the journey. All you needed to do was wait until the torches burned out and all the wolves went to sleep.

San had, surprisingly, not come looking for you and neither did Wooyoung. That was a good sign. That meant they’d likely show up tomorrow morning, ask if you “learned your lesson” and take you back to their tent. You had until sunrise to get as far from this camp as you could. Having no idea where in the forest you are, you wouldn’t know where to go but it was better than being here.

“Do not go anywhere. Please. Stay there.”

The other slaves took up various spots around the pen, typically near the burning torches to soak in the heat, but you stayed in the far corner. You let the night shield you as it grew darker.

"You will freeze to death out there."

"This curse will kill me anyway."

"No, it won't. I won't let that happen. You're more likely to die from the elements than the curse. Don't be stupid. Stay there. "

You needed to get moving.

“Here,” a small voice said from somewhere nearby.

You turned to see one of the girls holding a large woolen blanket. She was a skinny thing with golden hair tied from her oval face. You wouldn’t have thought much of her if it hadn’t been for her eyes. In the dimness of the torchlight, you saw her blank expression and wide eyes. They looked glossy and expressionless. You’d think she might’ve been blind if it weren’t for her expression and monotone voice.

“You need to stay warm,” she said, giving you the blanket. “Your journey is going to be long.”

“Thanks?”

“Since you insist on going…”

Then she walked away, straight-backed and stiff before taking a seat far from you. No time to question anything, you pulled the blanket around your body. A tight knot to keep it in place, you felt secure enough to move around in it. It wasn’t much, but it beat being fully nude. Glancing outside the pen to the rest of the camp, you saw the pack starting to douse out fires and retreat into their various dwellings. No guards remained posted to watch over the pen. San must feel confident his slaves would be too afraid to escape. Not you. You wouldn’t stay here and wait for the curse to turn you.

When the last of the torches burned out, the quietness of the night took over. With only the moonlight to guide you, you gazed around the pen one last time. The others remained soundlessly sleeping, likely just as tired from being put to use as you were. The lights in the camp went out long ago, and you didn’t see any sign of movement. You caught sight of San's tent, which was dark and silent. Good. No chance of him coming for you. Carefully, you stood up against the cold coming from downwind. Not wanting to risk going through the front of the pen and disturbing someone, you put your foot on the bottom of the fence and hoisted yourself up over it.

“YN, don't.”

The lack of security concerned you for a moment. This was too easy. You expected something to go wrong as you landed on your feet and headed quietly to the tree line. Any moment, some random lycan will come out of his tent, spot you in the darkness, and run after you. You’ll be taken back to San, who may find a worse punishment than the pen, then lose your chance at escape. Adrenaline urged you to bolt for the dark forest, though you knew it’d make noise and wake someone.

Even past the threshold of trees, you kept your footsteps careful and quiet. The moonlight guiding you from above, you listened for the sound of an alarm, or a wolf howling or someone coming up behind you. Everything became louder in the darkness. You felt your way past trees, sliding through inches of dead leaves and twigs, and past thickets of dry bushes. Winter must be closing in or you are very far north. Your bones and muscles felt stiff against the chilly air, your skin freezing at the touch, but you kept moving. To stop might end up killing you. Teeth chattering, jaw clenched, and arms stuck around your middle, you wished that girl gave you more layers.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking before you saw a glowing light up ahead. The moon high in the sky, it must be the middle of the night, possibly creeping into the morning. Between tall tree trunks and bushes, glimpses of a campfire broke through them. The thought of warmth made you more desperate for it. Though, you knew better than to approach the camp too closely. Friend or foe, exposing yourself to them brazenly will get you more trouble than you needed.

“-And I says to the guy, I says to him ‘hey, listen pal, if you can’t move these rocks, then I’mma have to go to somebody who can!’” A nasally voice said in the distance.

“And what did he say to that?” asked a croaky voice.

“Psh, the bastard says ‘good luck finding somebody who will push bunk rocks through this damn town for my prices’. I told him to get lost. I don’t got time to be messing around with some two-bit smuggler from the Caper Islands.”

“But, it’ll be hard to find another guy this late in the game. You know the Prince’s Big Merchant Extravaganza is coming up, and people will be wanting to party hard. I know the Prince himself is big on the rocks and powders. Hey,” he said, “You won’t believe what I got set up back at base.”

“What?”

“Girls,” he said. “Fresh ones from the villages down south. They ain’t never been broken into; I checked it out myself before I bought ‘em, and they’re the real deal. I’m thinking of selling them for a thousand.”

“A thousand?! You’re crazy!”

This wasn’t good. It’d be just your luck to run into traffickers in the middle of the forest, half naked and dirty. You’d have to find your way around them. You saw there were only two of them. One brown-skinned and the other green, the two goblins only stood about three feet with large ears. You’d come across plenty of goblins in your time. Traffickers came in all races, but goblins were the biggest sellers and buyers. Slowly, you started making your way around the clearing.

“-Look, I paid a pretty penny for ‘em, so I’m not selling them any less than that, okay?”

“Well,” the nasally one said, “What species?”

“It’s a mixed bag, but mostly human and elf girls. I know Prince Yeo likes them the most, so I’m hoping he’ll at least consider it. If I can get the big guy’s endorsement on my product, I’ll make double the profits.”

“You might be on your way to some big bucks, bro,” his companion said. “Maybe we can finally go into business together! We can make it like a party package! You got the girls, I got the drugs. If we can find somebody selling booze, then we’d be rolling in gold for sure!”

The two goblins kept discussing their business plan as you walked around them. You thought you’d gotten past, tiptoeing to freedom, when something caught on your ankle. In a swift movement, you were suddenly yanked backward and lifted several feet into the air. The world turned upside down, and became even more disorienting than the night made it to be.

“Hey, what was that?” The goblin with the croaky voice said, pausing mid-conversation.

“Dunno. I think something tripped one of the traps.”

Your heart leapt into your throat. Desperately, you tried lifting yourself up to reach the rope tightening around your ankle. Fingers grazed the rough rope, and just barely scratched it every time you managed to reach. You heard the shuffling of feet coming from the campsite, voices blending together and you moved faster. This can’t happen again. You’d only just left the camp. A light shined on your from below, and the cackling started.

“Hey, looks like we’re both lucky boys,” the nasally voice said. “She’s dangling like a worm on a hook.”

“Cut her down. She might be worth something.”

You screamed when you dropped down and fell on your back. A knife came to your throat before you could get up, and one goblin flashed his lantern light on you. A gloved hand grabbed your jaw, turning your face side to side to examine your features.

“Hm, yes, nice,” the croaky voice said from behind the light. “Very nice, indeed.”

A gasp escaped you when a bare hand touched between your legs and shoved two fingers inside. They twirled and curled around, instantly igniting your mark again.

“Damn,” he cursed, “No good. This one’s been fucked a lot and recently. She must’ve come from that lycan camp up the way.”

“Still, she’s got a nice body,” said his friend. “Strong muscles and bones. She might fetch a price at the mines. Prince Yeo is always looking for slaves to work his diamond mines.”

You bit your lower lip to keep from moaning when the goblin withdrew his fingers. “Nah, she’s too pretty to waste in the dark. Let’s throw her in with the others. Hey, maybe we can pass her off as a fresh product? It’s not like any of those stuck up bastards uptown would be able to tell. They get pussy so often they probably can’t tell a new one from a used one.” He circled your clit slowly, feeling your wetness no doubt, “Plus, this one’s got to be good if the lycans kept her. Ain’t that right, sweetheart? Is this cunt that good?”

“Ha, I think she’s liking that, Ace, " the green skinned one with the high voice laughed.

“She is…" the brown skinned goblin replied, gold teeth glimmering. "Come here, baby. Let old Ace have a little taste of you.”

You willingly lifted your legs as the short goblin got settled in front of you. A cock tapped on your pussy a few times, shooting more arousal, before he started pumping into you. You didn't feel much, but the thumb on your clit made it better. His small hands gripped parts of your body they could barely hold, and his narrow hips slapped into your ass. The foreign, strange feeling had you cumming all over him soon enough, and eager for his friend to get his turn. When both goblins got their fill, they high-fived and congratulated each other.

“She’s coming with us,” Ace breathed. “You think Yeo will buy her?”

“He’d be stupid not to with tits like that.”

Sprocket, the nasally voiced goblin, clamped a metal collar around your neck and led you over to their camp. On the opposite side, you saw a trio of girls sitting in a cage similar to what Mingi had you in. However, instead of horses, you saw they had a car. A flashy yellow and red ride, you’d only seen a car once. People in Gold Rush couldn’t afford them, but the goblins built them in large factories. He forced you inside, chained your leash to the cage, and then bolted the door.

You feared where this might be going.

****

He stalked right into their camp. Memories of watching you in the pen came back in a flood, fueling his anger. Not only upset over your stubbornness, the young Beta of the Choi pack decided to throw you into the "pig pen". He allowed his filthy kin to take advantage of you. He planned to keep you from him. Hongjoong knew Wooyoung had seen Garnet in his tent. He knew about your mark and who you belonged to.

"Lord Kim," a quavering voice said as he passed a nearby tent. An old man came out with the help of a tall walking stick. Hongjoong couldn't find it in him to smile at Choi Byungho. "Come for your pet?"

"She isn't here," he told the pack's shaman. "I'm here for your Beta," the title came out in a hiss.

"Alas, another thing you are too late for," he sighed. "Our Alpha caught wind of what he'd done."

He pointed to the middle of the camp where he saw a young man be thrown out of San's tent. Hongjoong stood beside the old tent and watched.

"Are you fucking insane? Have you lost your senses?" San howled, storming out towards his younger brother, who scrambled to his feet. "You put her in the pig pen?"

"It's where we put the disobedient ones," Wooyoung reasoned. "I didn't do anything you wouldn't have done."

"I wouldn't have thrown Kim's slave into our pen! You did see the mark on her back, right? You saw his crow hanging around here." San's thin eyes glared at Wooyoung, and the pair started circling each other. "I wouldn't have minded you taking a piece, but she was not ours to punish. Kim will kill you for this, and me and Father won't be able to stop him. "

"Will you kill the boy, Kim?" Byungho asked him. "He is a young man jealous of his older brother and only wanted something for himself. He acted out of anger."

"Byungho, you know I am not foolish enough to anger their father. Even if Wooyoung did something he disapproved of, Chulsung would retaliate if I killed him. He might not be Alpha, but San takes his opinion seriously," he said, watching San and Wooyoung finally clash.

The pair scratched, bit and grappled one another in their massive lycan forms. Lycans around them started cheering for San, while a few dared to back Wooyoung. Hongjoong watched from the trees with Byungho, the both of them waiting for the fight to end. San drew blood first, slicing a paw across Wooyoung's snout and earning a first hit. While he couldn't kill Wooyoung, he can watch massive ego be demolished.

What worried him was you. You'd been captured by goblin traffickers who are likely taking you to Tin City. Yeosang will have no idea about the mark's significance. He never liked magic. With your curse progressing, by the time he finds you, you'll be slipping away. Hongjoong might not even be able to enter your mind after a while. This terrified him. If he couldn't do that, then he'd lose you.

As Wooyoung, bleeding and whining in pain, yielded, Hongjoong patted the shaman's shoulder and walked into the camp. The moment he stepped past the threshold, lycans felt his icy presence. The cold air froze his palms and fingers, turning into a light blue as it slowly swirled. His eyes landed right on Wooyoung, who turned into his human form again.

"Kim," San immediately came between them, "I already took care of him in our own way. He's learned his lesson."

Hongjoong thought of your dazed face, being taken like an animal because of the boy several feet away.

"She wasn't a slave," Hongjoong said, anger suppressed in his voice. "She was my mate."

A word a lycan alpha would understand. San let out a deep breath, "I know. I got your letter...If I had known that, I wouldn't have touched her at all. We thought she was Mingi's at first." He looked between Hongjoong and his brother, then said, "A misunderstanding. That's all."

"How far is Tin City from here?"

"About six days on foot," he then added.

Right as he said this, the Choi camp was plunged into darkness. The sky might have smothered the sun. The lycans all around them yipped and scattered into their tents as if it might help them. San, however, stood with Hongjoong and looked to the skies. The long slender body glided hundreds of miles above them, the wings spanning even longer. Aerion's high cry echoed through the air, a warning to the people below. Her eggs having hatched a day ago, Hongjoong caught sight of three dark figures latched to her underbelly.

“Or four days on a Wyvern's back,” San added.

That was too long. Far too long. Hongjoong will admit your foolish idea of escaping the camp threw a wrench in things, but he hoped to find you in the woods. Garnet lost sight of you last night when the goblins took you away. Hongjoong thought about what you'd be like when he finally found you. You'd be chained up, groaning and drooling, and begging for stimulation. You'd have no memory of him or anything else. He couldn't let that happen. He won't let it happen.

He gave Wooyoung one more glare, then shot a bolt of pure, hard ice in his direction. The lycan cried in pain when the hard ball hit him square in the chest, a second one following to his gut. Hongjoong clenched his jaw, watching him double over and groan. The thought of feeding the lycan pup to Aerion crossed his mind, but he only threw a third ball at him.

“Kim!”

He pictured Wooyoung slapping you. He remembered him tossing you into the mud, smirking at your suffering. Hongjoong's cold blood boiled hot, his hands shaking as he pushed past San to the cowering beta nearby.

“YN is my life, my soul mate, my entire reason for staying in your miserable, backwards, pathetic little world,” he slammed his fist right into his ribs, the bone likely breaking from the hard hit. “She means more to me than any of you filthy,” Hit, “Fucking,” another hit, “Savages!”

Two more punches to his face sent Wooyoung backwards onto the floor. “You plotted to keep her from me,” a swift kick kept him on the ground, “And use her for your own pleasure, knowing she was mine!” Another kick sent the man against another tent. He grabbed Wooyoung’s arm, ice already starting to crawl across his skin. “Let's see how useful a Beta is with no fucking hands-”

“-Kim!” Byungho appeared, the onlookers moving aside for him to pass. “That is enough. The boy will be dealt with in our own way.”

“He harmed my mate, Byungho. Does that word mean nothing anymore?”

“The boy did not know,” he approached without fear, “Come with me. Sit and rest. You are tired, my lord.”

“I need to get to YN,” he said, releasing Wooyoung’s arm. “She's on her way out of the forest.”

“Only for a brief moment. You and Aerion won't make the journey in your condition.”

Hongjoong wouldn't admit to the hunger pains or the pounding headache from lack of sleep. You needed him. Time was running out, snd he couldn't risk losing you again. He should never have let you out of his sight. He should have let you go with him whenever you asked. He only wanted to keep you safe, but now he sees that can only happen with him around. The bit of magic he used wore him further down, but he couldn't stop now. He needed to get to you before it was too late.

“You don't understand-”

“-I do. Please, my lord, let our Beta go and come with me. You can replenish your magic and eat while your beast feeds her young. Those were hatchlings I saw, yes?”

“Yes.”

Hongjoong looked down at the injured Wooyoung, who was being tended to by his pack. He could hear your restrained groans in his head, the slapping of skin on skin as you struggled to stay upright. You'll be in worse conditions if Yeosang found out what you had on your back.

“Cross me or my mate again, Beta,” he growled at Wooyoung, “And I will impale you on an icicle.”

He turned away and walked with Byungho to his tent on the outskirts. “Where is Garnet?” he asked, looking at the trees.

“On my perch resting,” he answered.

“Good. I have a message to send.”

He can't let anyone else hurt you.

****

A/N: Girl can't catch a break anywhere, huh? Hopefully Hongjoong makes it to her before she goes to meet the scheming Merchant Prince. I really want thank everyone whose been reading <3 enjoy <3

#ateez #ateez fanfiction #ateez fanfic #ateez smut #choi san #jung wooyoung #wooyoung x san #san x wooyoung x reader #san smut #wooyoung smut #kim hongjoong #ateez x reader #san x yn #wooyoung x yn

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hh0320 · 2 months ago

Text

. ♡ ۫ . ୧ ⠁ room shots.

🪐 synopsis. you’re certain, if he moves away from that window, if he trespasses the invisible wall between you and gets what he came here for—there won’t be anything that either of you can do to stop him. he’ll ruin you. you’ll let him.

🪐 warnings. use of pet names, melancholy, alcohol abuse, rough play, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex.

🪐 word count. 3.6k

Three weeks.

The heart was still raw, tender. The flesh decaying, the sheets warm, the wine glasses untouched, as they were, as he left them on your window, the red deep, surface rippling every day with the evening train.

Sometimes, late at night, surrounded by unshakable silence, and only ever in the dark, you’d touch between your thighs and swear you could still feel his mouth hot on your aching cunt, his hair tickling the sensitive skin around it, his forehead feverish, resting against your pubic bone, his favorite spot to lay. It used to mortify you, that he would do this. You’d get all shy and red-faced, hiding your face in your hands, trying with a humiliating desperation to close your legs and push him away.

San would chuckle at your fickle attempts and pin you down on the mattress—the bed in the corner you cannot fall asleep on anymore—trailing open mouthed kisses from your navel all the way to the tips of your feet, whispering filthy things, things he did to you over and over again, despite your weak protests and even weaker threats.

‘I love this,’ he’d murmur with eyes closed, head returning to the place he knew most intently. ‘You give it to me so easily, it can’t be anything but mine. Here is where I can be closest to you. Show me you understand, sweetheart, because there’s no other way I can explain it.’

You did not understand. As he rings the doorbell to your apartment over and over like a madman, you cannot understand. Twenty-one days. He left after an argument over nothing of importance, and you haven’t seen him since. There were things that he’d said, words that you logically knew but could not comprehend, not when they came out of his mouth, and even now you refused to acknowledge. For all intents and purposes, this had been a break-up.

The break-up. One and only. San was an atomic bomb, a nuclear weapon that had wiped everything from your map, all familiarity, all dream of waking up after and somehow surviving his disappearance. You’d been a blank canvas when he met you, complete in his presence, completely empty in his absence. He’d taken all sun, all meaning, all joy and purpose with him, and left a harrowing death behind as white as snow, cascading over your entire life, sinking you down under.

Do you open the door? Do you let someone like that back in, after the wound had barely stopped resembling the shape of a being that could irrevocably hurt you; after the bleeding had finally managed to stop, and the tears had dried?

Let me mourn in peace, you plead in your mind. Go, and never come back, as your gaze remains locked on the doorknob, his shadow visible under the chipped door. You’ve been meaning to repaint. He’d offered to help you, to get all the parts you couldn’t reach, to ease the burden of mundane tasks that seemed to overwhelm you the most. Now, he stands on the other side, like a stranger. Self proclaimed.

You never agreed to this.

“How long are you going to pretend you’re not in there?”

Your heart does somersaults, your system kickstarting, voice operated. The flowers on your nightstand startle awake, unbending their back, proud and freshly cut once again. The lamp above your head stops flickering, your sink stops leaking. Your house was holding its breath, waiting for its unofficial owner.

Strange you don’t feel the same relief. Grief has wrapped vines around you and is squeezing with every haggard inhale. San is not using his key. He has one, you know because you gave it to him. He’s waiting for your consent. He’s being kind. Considerate.

You hate him a little, you think. You have no kindness for him, no compassion. He hurt you. A different sort of hurt than the one you allowed him. A hurt that went against everything you thought he was.

“Sweetheart,” he tried again. The pet name stabbed at you, pointed, a well-honed dagger. “Let me see you. ‘S all I want. Allow me. Please.”

“Why?” It comes out without you meaning to speak. The bitterness is choking you, thick and heavy in your chest. “Why should I?”

A long pause. The shadow shifts. You hear him sigh deeply, a sad sound that cuts your anger in two. Is there a possibility he’s hurting as much as you? Could there be an explanation for this mess he put you both through?

“I have no answer for that,” he replies, his voice faint. “You’re holding the reins, baby. It’s your choice.”

For a long time, you don’t move. You think, surely he’ll leave.

Now.

But he doesn’t. He stays put, and waits patiently. He has hope. He thinks you naive and foolish. Taken for granted. (He doesn’t.)

You reach for the knob out of spite. Greet him with all your broken heart, and find his soul bared in front of your eyes, pulsing miserably, half extinguished.

The usual glint in his gaze is muted, his face gaunt, pale. His hands are stuffed in the dark pockets of his coat, an impenetrable object that has never before revealed any weakness to you. It springs tears in your eyes where you thought there were none left to cry. San, the sweet man that had been whispering your name against your temple like the most ardent prayer every night, the man you never needed a label with because he was above all, above everything—

He towered over you like a place that was forbidden to enter. His raven hair had grown, the smudge of sleeplessness painted under his eyes like a repentance. Was he punishing himself for what he did? Did you want him to?

He looked so sad. His expression unreadable, but you could see his eyes roaming over you with a raw urgency, like he wanted to make sure you were unharmed, like there was nothing else he cared about in the whole world. You don’t know how much time passes before someone stirs.

It’s you. You’re the first one to break, moving aside for him to pass, for him to enter once again, and if it happens twice, at least you know it was your fault this time. You love him. You tried to forget him, but it’s too early to move on. He knows this. You hate that too. You hate it the most.

He looks around like he doesn’t belong, and then he stops. His eyes fall on the wine bottle, on the glasses. You watch him watch them. You left them there on purpose. You left them there because you couldn’t bear to touch them, and if he ever came back—you said this to yourself many times—you would make him wash them. You would pass him the towel to dry their rims, and you’d let him open your cupboards and store them where they go.

You’d leave it unsaid. You know me this well. You know me this well, and yet you dared to leave me anyway.

“You saw me, then,” you say, willing your hands to stop shaking, willing your voice to sound impassive. Who were you kidding. Your cheeks were wet. His jaw was clenched, locked at the sight. “Is that all?”

His hands come out of his coat. You notice how tightly shut they are, stuck to his sides as if gravity itself was pulling them down with extreme force. His boots were shiny leather, slightly worn out with use, the black of his pants pressed neatly to his long legs. He looked so put together, like nothing could ever possibly affect him. (You’re wrong.)

“Are you eating well?” Then something impossible happens. Something that, in the beginning, sounded like a harmless cough to you, turned into a wretched sob he shoved behind one of his fists, a dry, guttural sound that shook you to the core and scared you back. San rubs at his face once, exasperated, lonely, so impossibly lonely, his eyes coming away bloodshot.

“My fucking God, I can’t stand the sight of you so far away from me.”

There’s nothing you can say. Everything’s lodged in your throat, tearing at the flesh but ultimately unable to come up. You’re too shocked to speak, too stunned to react. You can only stare. You can only see him come apart at the seams.

He’s drunk, you realize in an absent sort of way. He’s fucking drunk. He came to you like this, a kicked dog, searching for his owner. But you were the one kicked. You were the one without an owner. Why, then, did it not feel like it anymore?

What has he done?

“Why are you here, San?”

“There’s nowhere else, sweetheart. Nowhere else I can go. Nowhere I belong.”

Lies, you vehemently refuse. You left that night. You had somewhere to go that night. He looks at you like you’re the only source of light. It fans a flame inside you that burns brighter and brighter. You’re afraid it’ll consume you before you’re done with him.

“Did you get your answer?” Behind your eyelids, a party, two people dancing, the distance between them carved with a knife, set in stone. Then, San, ruining everything. Going for blood. “Did you find out what you couldn’t get out of me?”

The man in front of you flinches, as if you hit him across the face. You want to, your palms are itching, but the thought of causing him pain is unfathomable. He was always the one drawing it out of you. Pleasure and pain. Pain and something worse. The recognition on his face is enough to erase all else.

This is how you two communicated best. You gave your body over to him. He did all, he did everything else. Trust absolute.

“Don’t do that,” he shakes his head categorically, and shrugs his coat off in an attempt to cool off, moving by the window, pain self inflicted. It’s not anger what he’s feeling, rather . . . a craving. An insatiable hunger. A longing desire. As gruesome and just as cruel as anything that could have his fists flying. “I never doubted you. It was me. I was furious with myself.”

A twist of the knife. Time wasted, time taken away from you because of a mistake. You cannot forgive that. It makes you feel better that you now know—so can’t he.

“So, that’s it then? All this for some heroic sense of self sacrifice? You broke my heart because you broke yours?”

He signaled with his eyes you were trudging dangerous waters. His straight brows falling heavy, expression becoming one of stoic rage, a careful edge to it that you had to walk through. You’ve understood it many times, have breathed deep breaths and taken your time with it. It means ‘don’t test me’. It means ‘me and you are the same, and I am telling you to stop.’

“How can I take care of you when I get like that?” He crossed the Red Sea to reach you, but he still wouldn’t touch you. From up close, making the effort to crane your neck brought all the memories back and the tears hot and running. San watched them fall with utmost difficulty, his hand raising to your cheek, a phantom haunting. “Do you even know, sweetheart, what you fucking do to me? I could lose my mind over you. It would be so easy . . .”

The bitterness that spills out of you in the form of a crazed, manic laugh does nothing to stop your heart from contracting all over again. “Then do it. Do it. Show me!” Your hands come up to bang against his castle wall of a chest, against stone and more stone. “Show me. You wanted to leave so bad, but what about me? What about me?” Uncontrollable, the avalanche of emotion. It tumbles out of you violently, it rages against everything that he is. “It was nothing to leave me behind. Nothing. That’s what you did. That’s all you did.”

San shakes his head, absolving everything. He binds your wrists under one big hand, and pulls you on him, his mouth crushing against yours ruinously, and as always, like every single time he does that, everything bleeds away like rain on glass.

It hasn’t been twenty-one days, instead mere hours, and he didn’t leave you as much as he went to get a change of clothes and came back right after, like promised. Time is impossible around him, it forgets to exist. He silences your mind, and induces memory loss. His strong legs carry you back to your bed, and when he lays you down, your bones sigh in relieved rest.

He never breaks away from you, not once, and you think it’s so he never has to hear those words come out your mouth ever again. As he pulls your hands over your head, you open your eyes to see he’s moving downwards, over your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin there, taking what has been left to pale over, no longer a painting of purple hues, but instead the blank canvas once again.

“I’ll say this to you only once,” he whispers fervently behind your ear, his knee parting your legs with ease, your hands reaching between you to unbuckle his belt, unzip his trousers, claw at his shirt. No time wasted. A river sweeping along everything in its path.

“Only once, because I cannot fucking bear it any longer,” fingers digging into your scalp as yours wrap around his cock, a hissed breath, a rocky exhale, then his tongue parting your lips, washing over you, washing away, taking for his own. “He’s in love with you. My best fucking friend, in love with my girl and I had to choose. I had to choose, because I love you both,” his erection pressed against your entrance as you angle your wrist, the tip rubbing on your clit as his hips begin to move, to familiarize themselves again—

“Because me being here hurts him, and me not being here hurts us.”

You hide your face in the crook of his neck, too lost in the feeling of him to realize the extent of his agony. What he’s really trying to tell you. Wooyoung has always been important to San. It’s been the two of them since before you came into the picture, since the beginning of existence it’s felt like, at times.

But as San shoves two fingers in your mouth and forces you to coat them with your saliva, as he curses at the sight and orders you to open wide and spits inside, as he shifts on his knees and pulls your panties to the side, as he delves deep and curls those same digits in your cunt—you forget what he means. You don’t think of the loss, or the sacrifice.

He’s here, his weight intoxicating, his breathing heavy, his hard cock arched upwards, touching his stomach. He wants to fuck you. He wants you. He never truly left.

“Please . . .” You moan brokenly, body writhing under what he only can provoke. “I missed you, please . . .”

His hair falls over his forehead, over his eyes, finally the last pretend making way for the man he is in your bed, for how he is when he’s with you. The warmth radiating through him is enough to solar an entire ecosystem, but his eyes, his mocha eyes—

They stare at you with something akin to marvel. Something that could go to war for nothing. I could tear myself apart for you, they say. I would betray my country. I would turn away from my friend.

It’s a sobering fact.

“Please what?” He asks, fucking his fingers into you, other hand rubbing over his lengthy cock sloppily, rocking with you to an invisible rhythm only your bodies understand. “What is it, sweetheart?”

You don’t even have to say it, your gaze is pleading enough.

When San enters you, you burst into tears and hold him close, tight against your breast, terrified for what will come next. Afraid for the moment this is over with.

“Why did you leave?” You sob at the top of his head, and he wraps his arms around your entire body, lifting you off the mattress to bring you on his lap, the position deeper than anything ever, the connection inexplainable.

“I don’t know,” he kisses your collarbone, your earlobe, pacifies you, brushes your hair away from your face, pistoling into you with fervor, with longing, begging for forgiveness, for retribution. “I don’t know, baby . . . Hush now, hush . . . I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” a pitiful lullaby, words you can’t hear.

He lets you bounce on him, lets you hold onto his face and hatefuck him, lets you make him feel like shit and takes it all in stride. You need this, he knows. You won’t let him anywhere near your heart if he doesn’t give you this.

And when you ask him to slap you, he does so tenderly, he does so because he loves you and you’re surrendering so beautifully, and no one’s ever given him this much power. He hopes you know he’ll never take advantage of it, but even as he thinks this, he’s aware you probably think he already has.

“I wanted him to,” you gasp as he bites on your shoulder, hands palming underneath your ass, lifting you high, dropping you savagely onto his rock hard erection. It hurts, but your cunt squeezes around him, soaking wet, aching for more. “He asked me. Would you let me? He asked. I almost said yes. I wanted to understand why.”

San growls with the effort it takes him to not lash out. Putting distance between you for a second, he pulls out and flips you on your stomach, the room spinning, the window open, as he presses your head against your pillow, and takes you from behind, hard and fast, your pussy clenching, sore already. How you like it.

He spanks you. Again, and again, and again, until he pulls tears out of your eyes. You think he will always be able to. You think you’ll be crying oceans of tears for him, forever and ever. With every rejection, no matter how small. You love him as much as you love your life. Little by little, suffering.

“Why would you say that?” He grunts, nails digging crescents at your hips. “You want to hurt me, is that it, darling? You want me miserable. Why would you fucking tell me?”

Slap.

“Admit it,” you cry out. Slap. “You can’t stand it because you can’t have it for yourself. Because you refuse to.”

His rough hand coming from behind to rub circles against your clit, brutally beating against your raw center, drawing your orgasm out of you prematurely. You whine and try to push off, to get away from his rampant storm, from his malicious ministrations.

The world tilts at its axis and you’re being pulled by your hair and forced to face him. His expression is that of a wild beast, tear stains dried on high cheekbones, red blotched and palming his cock, releasing on your stomach, a man mad with grief, unrestrained, obsessed.

San crawls down suddenly and hooks his arms under your thighs, pulling your crotch directly to his mouth, licking at your juices as if starved. You fight to break free but to no avail. He’s locked on you. Locked to what he missed. He’s come to take it all back.

And then?

“Tell me it turns you on to hear me talk about another man fucking me,” you lean into the fantasy, feeling his tongue lap between your lips, the smell of what you’ve done enveloping your senses. “Or is it specifically this man?”

“You’re out of line, sweetheart,” he spits on your glistening folds and sucks hard on the little bundle of nerves, making you see stars, making you wish you were dead. “Be careful now.”

“Or what?” You pant. “Admit it,” softer. Sadder.

When you come again, he finally rests his temple on the inside of your leg, a man ruined, exhausted, poring over his work of art. Your fingers rest in his hair, playing with the sweaty strands, your body shaking, your heart pounding.

“Nothing to you,” he rasps. “Doesn’t hold a goddamned candle.”

Your eyes involuntary fall closed, the pit of your stomach hollow. “You’re lying.”

“No,” San replies. “You want me to, but I haven’t. Not once.”

“Everyone lies.”

“Not me. Not to you.”

Nothing but your breathing returning to normal for a while, the wind from outside picking up, sky nearly black now.

His breath.

Your breath.

“I wouldn’t mind, you know,” you say very quietly, willing your voice to keep steady. “If you brought him. If you wanted to.”

A warning bite on your thigh. The ceiling is painted in shadows. His scent is overwhelming.

“Stop talking about it,” he cautions. “Please.”

His breath.

Your breath.

Then, “Don’t forgive me.” A long pause.

A car drives by. Goosebumps rise on your skin, unwelcome, and yet it’s warm where San’s seed is on you. You don’t want to get up. You don’t want to move an inch. If you ruin this he might leave.

Your fingers continue caressing. A lump rises in your throat.

“I love you,” you say.

“Don’t say that.”

“You know I do.”

“I don’t deserve it,” as he wraps tighter around your lower body, pressing his nose against your opening. You think he’s trying to suffocate himself in you. “I haven’t deserved you for a single moment,” he confesses. “Yet I keep coming back. I can’t stop myself. You’re every road I take.”

Your sharp inhale.

His soft kiss.

Your bodies, melding together, again and again.

#ateez scenarios #ateez smut #san ateez #san ateez scenarios #choi san x reader #san ateez smut #san smut #san scenarios #ateez #san x reader #choi san smut #mine.#this is for you t!!!!!

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tojisbestslut · 1 month ago

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► 𝗙𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗘𝗡 ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── [ Ambessa x enemy soldier reader ] ╰┈➤ masterlist

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ SYNOPSIS: her attention was piqued as an enemy soldier continued fighting after losing the war, and the reason shocked her. — ⌗PART2

𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗻 ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ 2:02 ───ㅇ───── 4:26 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝗶𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘦𝘦𝘥 — 𝘈𝘶𝘳𝘰𝘳𝘢 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘆 ▄ █ ▄ █ ▄ ▄ █ ▄ █ ▄ █

The devil had picked up the brush that dusk, filling up the canvas with uneven splashes of crimson red. Crows flying around the raining sky, screaming in excitement and fear at the agonizing scene happening beneath them. Men running with all their might, having the hopeless delusion of being saved. The squishing sounds of sharp weapons tearing apart human flesh, destroying God's perfect creation that took him million years in seconds. There she stood on a hill, proud and pleased, the noxious smell of blood filling up her nostrils indicating another victory being nearly. Squinting her eyes and watching every single detail with attention, she hummed and enjoyed the canvas she was filling.

A quick shadow sneakily moving past her direction in the distance caught her attention, making the warlord tilt her head, watching the scene closely, squinting her eyes in concentration as she tried to process what was happening. There moved a figure amongst men twice her size with ease, slashing their body holding a sword with each of its hands, jumping in the air and swirling around as the blood dripping from the edge of the swords moved in an angelic way. Ambessa frowned, unpleased at the new way things had suddenly turned. Moving her head towards the enemy soldier, she signaled the soldiers standing next to her to move towards the scene as her hands reached for her own dagger, in case she had to take care of the situation on her own.

Sensing a new crowd of people move towards you, you narrowed your eyes at the warlord eyeing you in the distance, enjoying the disapproved expression she held that was obvious from only the lower part of her face being visible under the mask. Your heart beat started raising as adrenaline pushed you through your limits, making it possible to survive. The chaos happening around you turned into a steady humming sound in the background as you could only hear your heartbeat while you blinked quickly to not let the sweat dripping from your forehead mess up your vision. Grabbing your swords tighter, you ran towards the new crowd heading towards you, and slashed the first throat that came to your vision.

Minutes have passed, and ambessa could see you tiring out. Even if she let her pride aside and accepted your strength, you were one and her men were hundreds. Yet she stood, watching you fight using all your energy, wondering what cause were you fighting for so furiously. Your nation had lost the war since the beginning, only leaving some of your peers here and there fighting to save their dignity. There was no need to fight to your death right now, as the outcome would still be the same. As you jumped higher this time and the soldier standing in front of you ran to the side leaving your figure exposed to the warlord's eyes, her breath hitched and her eyes sparked with amusement as she saw the small yet visible bump on your stomach.

With one movement of her hand, her men stopped fighting you and took a few steps back, holding to their weapons ready to slaughter you the second their warlord ordered. You looked up at ambessa as her men circled you like a prey, shoulders shaking and legs shivering with exhaustion. You didn't know how, but you'd even fight God right now if you had to, to protect your child. You couldn't logically think, you haven't been thinking since the beginning of the war. The only thing on your mind was survival, for your child. Ambessa hummed with interest, the shivering sight of you with fire in your eyes as you covered your stomach with your swords bringing back memories.

She started walking down the hill and towards you, her sharp eyes catching your body tensing up, which made her laugh and shake her head. The confusion and slight frown on your face was a sight for her. She figured you'd clearly expected her to fight you, so seeing her walk towards you with a smile on her face was something new and unexpected. She stood a few steps away from, and looked down at your bloody swords covering your stomach bump. The thought of a small pure fetus getting protected by a weapon that had killed many was interesting to her. Her eyes then finally landed on you, immediately noticing how your left eye started twitching. Maybe out of anger, out of frustration, but surely not out of fear. She did not smell an ounce of fear on you.

"Strong women are always a sight to enjoy" her voice broke the silence, causing you to squint your eyes in annoyance at her friendly tone. You had heard all about her mind plays, being nice and kind to the enemy to get what she wanted. "I'm not your friend" you immediately snapped back, lifting your swords, ready to strike. "Who said I wanted to be friends, mama?" She asked, her tone filled with amusement, yet you could find the mockery behind it. "Besides," she switched her dagger to the other hand, walking towards you. "That was a genuine compliment, you should be happy I granted you one" you huffed with anger, eyes scanning her hands quickly trying to predict how and when she'd attack.

Before you could even realize, both of your swords were dragged out of your hands by her dagger, making you bare of your weapons. Your mind froze in confusion at the different power scale between her and her soldiers, and you went immobile for a second, trying to think of what to do. She stood in front of you, touching your stomach with the tip of her dagger, watching you shiver, in fear this time. The only thing that caused you to feel actual fear was your child being in danger. She let out a hum out of respect, withdrawing her weapon. "Take her to the base" she yelled as she turned around and walked away, making you alone with your thoughts while her men reached you, grabbing your arms, not too harshly.

anyways, who wants to be added to the tag list? 😛👉🏻👈🏻 (lowkey got tired of writing stupid dumb reader)

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thewritetofreespeech · 6 months ago

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words: 1.3K rating: E pairing: Gale x Tav [pining stages of Act 1] summary: After so long of being unable to touch, Gale is finally able to experience physical intimacy for the first time in a long time. Even if it's just by himself. [ based off of a request for more details on the bg3 masturbation headcanons I did previously.]

---------------------------🟣----------------------------------

It had been a few hours now since Elminster had left. His old friend likely on the long journey back to Waterdeep, or whatever far parts of the realm ancient powerful wizards wandered off to.

Gale touched his chest for the first time in a while without total fear. The spell Elminster had put on him had worked. The orb felt less volatile than in the past. It was still there, laying heavy near his heart like a stack of bricks, but not like a stack of tinder boxes waiting to explode.

The knowledge of what this respite came with also weighed heavy on his heart. Mystra has asked that he make the ultimate sacrifice for the realm, and for her forgiveness. The latter of which was not guaranteed.

There had been a time during the beginning of his banishment when he would have gladly done as she asked. Blown himself up in spectacular glory. Opened every vein and let his life blood spill out to paint her likeness on an open canvas. He would have done anything for Mystra. But now….

Gale looked across the camp to where Tav was chatting with Lae’zel and Shadowheart. The three in a heated discussion from the looks of it, likely on what to do about the crèche and how to infiltrate it. Where they go next is of little concern to Gale, because it has no consequence for the damned, so he just looked at Tav as they tried to mitigate the argument.

Since that time in the Weave with them, Gale had been nearly fixated on their leader with a passion he thought only reserved for his goddess and books. But what he felt for Tav was so very different from those feelings. Where he revered Mystra he…respected Tav. Their strength. Their decisiveness. Their generosity to help and extend a hand to any in need. Their willingness to admit fault. He’d been beguiled, and the outer package did very little to help dissuade their spell.

Gale felt a tell-tale tightening of his pants beneath his robes as he continued to look and think on Tav, and was prepared to dampen those feelings down like always. With the orb he couldn’t risk any undo stimuli to his person; not with an ancient blight that wiped out civilization stowed away in his chest. But….that wasn’t an issue anymore, was it? The clock had stopped, as Elminster said, so he didn’t have to worry about blowing up. Just doing it at the right time, according to Mystra’s orders.

The wizard slipped back into his tent, unnoticed by anyone. He didn’t think that anyone would bother him right now. Assuming that Gale needed time to think in light of the circumstances. Which, he did, but not right now. There would be plenty of time to hyper fixate on his problems later. Right now, he wanted to test a new theory.

Unlacing his top tunic, he looking down his body towards his bulge now visible in his pants. Gale hesitated, but then slowly drew his hand closer to rub his palm over it. Instantly he moaned. It had been so long since he had felt the sensation of touch this way on his body. Depression and then fear drying up his libido like herbs on his balcony back in Waterdeep. But now a summer rain had come to refresh it. A reprieve. A chance to feel again. He didn’t want to waste it.

Removing the lacings on his pants as well, Gale opened his trousers and his cock sprung free. Seeming to know what was going on and more eager than its master to be touched again. He grasped the shaft and began to stroke himself. A burning tingle crackling up from his fingertip, down to the base, and up his spine. He forgot how good it felt to be touched. How long had it been since he touched himself?

With Mystra, their intimacy had always been noncorporeal. Mind altering. Mind shattering. But bodies completely removed from the process. He thought he didn’t need touch when he had the ‘touch’ of a goddess, so he did not imbibe in such activities. Then the option was taken away from him, and he could not imbibe. So he genuinely could not remember hold long it had been. Had it always been this good? Or was his long bout of abstinence merely the cause?

Gale couldn’t think more on his hypothesis as his hand sped up and his mind became soul focused on that feeling. He was beginning to pant. Drooling, even. He can feel that he was going to cum fast but doesn’t stop. His seed shot out in a long, thick ribbon on the side of his tent that he would clean up later, but he doesn’t stop. He needed more. Even as his cock twitched from having just came, it still cried out for more.

His other hand came up to touch his body. Play with his chest. Touch his nipples. He couldn’t remember how he used to like it before, and his fogged mind was not helping make decisions. His hand reached down into his pants as well to cup his balls, and Gale was cumming again quickly as he fondled himself. Still not enough.

Moving to take off all of his clothes and lay down on his cot, Gale attempted to calm his breathing as he slowed his hand. His cum acted as a lubricant now to help slide his hand over the still hard flesh. He hadn’t been able to jerk off this many times in a row since he was a boy.

As his hand slowed, the fog in his mind seemed to clear a little. Breaking way to the brightness of Tav’s face. He wondered how they would touch him. How those hands that gripped their weapon so tight, and the callouses at their palms, would feel against his cock. Gale whimpered at the thought. His hands were too soft to imagine it properly.

He thought of them being here, with him. Kissing them like he should have during that moment in the Weave. Touching their body as well as they moaned and whined under him. He could almost see it. Conjure it. But he would not insult Tav by making some malformed copy of them with magic. He wanted the real thing.

His fantasy continued until he came a third time, hot & sticky over his hand, and Gale seemed to calm down. Feeling finally sated for the first time in a long time. Who knew masturbation could be a form of self-care?

“Gale.”

The wizard jumped. His pliable peace ruined as he heard a familiar voice outside his tent. One he had just been fantasizing about moments ago. “Y-Yes?”

“I um…I just wanted to make sure you were ok. And see if you wanted anything for dinner?”

Gale was surprised as he didn’t realize how late it had gotten. “Oh. Dinner? No, not really. I can get started soon….”

“No, no! That wasn’t what I was asking. I can do it tonight. You just…if you need some time…we’ll be out here when you’re ready.”

He heard the shuffle of boots walk away from his tent. Their concern touched him. The clear worry in his voice over him pulling something in him that not only made his loins burn but his chest feel tight. But in a good way, not in the way this damned orb felt.

Gale decided then and there that he would not waste what little time he had left on wishes & fantasy. He would tell Tav how he felt. Then he could die without regret. He would just need to come up with a plan to tell them. Someone as beautiful, kind, and perfect as Tav deserved more than just a simple confession. The deserved the moon, the stars.

Gale’s eyes widened as he suddenly remembered a spell he’d created long ago. He’d have to remember how it was done but yes. Yes! That could work.

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thewickedjazzy · 7 months ago

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“Stay with me, milaya”

➵Pairing: fyodor x afab! reader

➵Summary: fyodor searches for you across countless lifetimes, witnessing you die in his arms again and again. Yet, fate continuously brings you both back together with each of your rebirths.

➵Tags and word count: 5.3k words. sfw, angst to comfort, slight fluff, hallucinations, vivid memories, delusions, shifting scenes, mental health struggles, dissociation.

➵want to read more of fyodor ?

"There is a cruel irony in the fact that you are bound to return to this world, only to be torn away from it time and again. Seven lifetimes, each one a fleeting moment in the endless passage of time. But even as you are reborn, your fate is always the same—a life cut short, a soul never allowed to rest."

The sky is a deep, unforgiving gray, the snow falling gently around him. He stands alone in the desolate landscape, a faint figure against the blanket of white. His breath is visible in the frigid air as he stares down at the burnt-out edges of an old photograph clutched between his slender fingers. The image, though charred, still reveals traces of a face—your face, the one he’s sought in every life.

"Milaya... even now, your features begin to fade from memory, like everything else in this world. But I will not allow time to erase you completely—not when I am so close to finding you again."

His whispers drift on the wind, barely audible but there is an unwavering resolve in his eyes. He carefully traces the faint outlines of your face with his thumb, trying to capture every detail, every curve, every hint of the life that once was. Yet, he knows the futility of it—each reincarnation is a shift in memory, altering your essence just enough to make you a stranger once more.

"This time, my dear," he murmurs to himself, "I will not let you slip through my fingers. I have searched for you across centuries, manipulated the lives of others, all to find you. I will not be denied, not by destiny, not by anything."

Fyodor tucks the burnt photograph back into his coat, his expression stoic as he surveys the snow-covered ground. He is nonchalant, almost detached, but beneath the surface lies a storm—a desperation that he cannot fully suppress.

He begins to walk, the snow crunching beneath his boots as he heads toward the place where he knows you must be. His heart, though often cold, beats a little faster at the thought of seeing you again, of hearing your voice, even if you do not remember him. But he is nothing if not persistent. He will make you remember, one way or another.

Yet there you are, gazing at the sky above you as it transforms into a canvas of burnt orange and fading blue, cinnabar streaks bleeding through the clouds like a watercolor painting. Your thoughts drifted back to a time you thought you'd forgotten—a memory of the day you first met him. It felt distant now, yet the details were so vivid.

He had been unlike anyone you'd ever known. some how he stood out in ways most people didn’t. His features were strikingly beautiful, but it wasn’t just his looks that caught your attention—it was the quiet mystery that followed him wherever he went. His pale skin, almost alabaster, contrasted sharply with his dark clothing, and his eyes—those glowing, enigmatic violet eyes—held depths you couldn’t quite reach. There was often a flicker of pain in them, so subtle it disappeared as soon as it surfaced, leaving you to wonder if you had imagined it.

Which makes total sense. His father 'Mikhail Dostoevsky' was well-known for his austere and viciousness—well after he was granted a nobleman's rank of course— contrariwise, Fyodor was something of a benevolent despot.

The gardens of the palace stretched out before you, a haven full of flowering fragrances, nooks, and crannies of sheer delight.

You caught sight of him standing beneath the glow of the moon, his posture composed as he conversed with his elder sibling. The moonlight cast a soft halo around his figure, making him appear almost ethereal. He seemed unbothered by the festivities around him, his attention focused solely on the conversation. Even in this elegant setting, he exuded a calm detachment, as though the world itself was just an intricate game he was patiently observing.

The path before you was lined with gravel, your footsteps muted by the soft crunch beneath your heels as you made your way through the evening’s parade of guests.

Delicate fairy lights hung in the trees, casting vibrant hues that danced across the faces of those gathered. There was laughter, the clink of glasses, and the hum of casual conversation, but your attention never wavered from him.

As if sensing your gaze, Fyodor glanced your way. His eyes met yours across the distance, and for a moment, everything else fell away—the lights, the music, the crowd. There was something paranormal in the way he looked at you. His lips curved ever so slightly into a familiar smile, one that seemed to say he had already anticipated your approach long before you had made up your mind.

Without thinking, you moved toward him. The space between you disappeared as you stepped into his world, where time seemed to slow. He turned to face you fully, his elder sibling excusing themselves from the conversation as you approached.

“Good evening,” his voice was smooth, a touch of amusement hidden in the depths. “I was wondering when you’d come.”

You hesitated, momentarily taken aback. “You knew?”

“Of course,” he replied, his gaze never leaving yours. “You’ve been watching me for some time now.”

His words made your heart skip, but you steadied yourself. There was always something about him that made you feel as though you were always a step behind, as though he had already calculated every move before you even realized it.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” you said, finding your voice again. “You stand out, even in a crowd like this.”

His smile widened, but it never quite reached his eyes. “Perhaps, but it’s not the crowd I’m interested in.”

There it was again—that flicker of something deeper, something unreadable. You could sense the burden he carried, a burden of his past, his family’s legacy, and the expectations placed upon him. But beneath all of that, there was something else, something that drew you in even as it warned you to stay away.

“Shall we walk?” he offered, extending his arm toward the gardens.

You nodded, slipping your hand into the crook of his arm as you both began to stroll along the moonlit path. The evening air was cool, and the soft glow of the fairy lights seemed to follow your every step.

“What do you think of all this?” you asked, gesturing to the grand event taking place around you, the celebration, the laughter, the excess.

He looked thoughtful for a moment before answering. “It’s fleeting. Moments like these… they’re beautiful, yes. But they fade, just like everything else.”

“But not everything fades,” you ventured softly.

He stopped, turning to face you fully once more. His eyes seemed to pierce through you, reading your thoughts before you could speak them. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, but the way he just stood there gazing at you said everything.

“Perhaps,” he finally murmurs, his voice low, “but that’s what makes it dangerous, am I right?”

You weren’t sure if he was talking about the night, about the fleeting beauty of the moment, or about something else entirely. But in that instant, you realized that with Fyodor, nothing was ever simple. He was a puzzle, a mystery, one that you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to solve, but one that you found yourself wanting to.

As you walked beside him, the moonlit scenery unfolding before you, his appreciation for beauty became evident. He had always been drawn to those who possessed a rare allure, and tonight, it was clear that you were his focal point. You were a vision of rare beauty, a one-of-a-kind presence in a world of fleeting appearances.

The scene before you blurs, in an instant, it felt as though time had slowed, and a piercing ringing filled your ears, making you gasp, overwhelmed by the sudden influx of memories.

“He sent you, didn’t he?” he murmured as he tilted your chin to meet his gaze.

Wait.. when did you get here? Where do these memories come from, and why do they haunt you so persistently?

“I’m just following orders,” you replied slowly, bringing your eyebrows together in a slight frown.

“Stay away from this,” he imploded, sighing. “Please, lyubov.” He places a tender kiss on your forehead.

“But fedya...why now? We’re on the brink of ending your father’s relentless corruption,” you argued. “Why give up now?”

But you knew... you know he wants to protect you from the malignant influences of his father’s world. Yet, the very opportunity to dismantle the chains binding him to this sinister system was slipping away. His father’s grip was a malignancy that threatened to stifle all hope.

“Close but no cigar,” he murmured, his chin resting on your head as he inhales your fresh scent.

But he was right. You should've stayed away from those morons ages ago. You made a mistake and paid dearly for it.

In that moment, the same familiar searing ringing in your ears swept across you, pulling you from the depths of your reverie.. it's happening again.

"Fuck, I am such an imbecile." blood spilled from your abdomen, splattering across your trembling hands as you pulled the dagger free. Your back pressed against the cold, damp wall, every inch of movement sending sharp, jagged pain rippling through your body. And slowly but surely, all you can see is the orange sky getting fuzzier and fuzzier as the pain intensifies.

You reached out with a shaking hand, desperately trying to anchor yourself to something, anything, but your limbs refused to obey. Instead of crying out for help, all that escaped your lips is the metallic taste of blood.

“Ah...fuck, not now…” you gasped, the light behind the man standing in the distance, widened with each passing moment. Is this it? Is this how it all ends for you?

You blink, once, twice, trying to focus as everything around you darkens, and just as quickly as you are pulled into this chain of nightmares, you find yourself back in the present as the persistent ringing stops.

Gasping, you sit at your desk, drenched in cold sweat. Your fingers instinctively press against your abdomen, but there’s no blood. No wound. The dagger, the pain, it’s all gone, as if it never existed.

You press harder against your stomach, feeling for any injury, but your skin remains unscathed.

"I need a mirror," you mutter, voice trembling as you push away from the desk and hurry toward the mirror in the entrance. Your reflection stares back at you, eyes wide with panic, face pale, but undeniably yours.

“It’s me,” you whisper in relief, leaning closer, bracing yourself against the cool surface. You reach for the pill bottle on the nearby shelf, your fingers fumbling with the cap as you swallow a dose, desperate to calm the storm inside your mind.

You sit back at your desk again, hands still shaking as you breathe deeply. "It’s fine. I'm okay. It’s all delusions," you whisper, trying to convince yourself.

But you somehow memorise all of these memories like the back of my hand. You call them memories, despite knowing you never actually lived through them, yet they always feel so incredibly real.

They never really leave, do they?

Even now, the phantom ache in your abdomen remains, a cruel reminder of something you’ve never lived through but can feel so vividly. The sky outside your window returns to its soft twilight hues, but you can’t shake the feeling that reality itself unravels around you. Each time you are pulled into those visions, it becomes harder to tell what is real and what is imagined.

While you're sitting there, managing to steady your breath, you wonder—how much longer can you hold on to what’s real when your mind keeps dragging you into a world that feels just as tangible?

You exhale a long, relieved sigh finally calming down as you try to regain your focus. What were you doing again? Ah, yes... finishing your new book.

You type the final words of the epilogue, fingers hovering above the keyboard for just a second longer. The ending comes together, but still, something doesn’t sit right with you... the title. The book is finished, but how can it be complete without the right name? You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head, eyes scanning the screen with tired satisfaction.

You aren’t just any writer, though. Hidden behind your pen name, you’ve become a literary sensation, with fans desperate for even a glimpse of who you really are. But anonymity suits you; fame has never been the goal. The words are the only thing that matter, and the world you’ve built between the pages feels more real than anything else—maybe too real?

Despite finishing the epilogue, something feels unresolved. Titles usually come easily to you, but this one, this book demands something special. Inspiration eludes you. You need a change of scenery... somewhere that can kickstart the creative process again.

With a resigned sigh, you dress quickly, grab your notebook, and head to one of the few places that has become your sanctuary when ideas won’t come: your favourite café.

The café sits nestled on a quiet street, its warm glow inviting you in like your old home. There’s something about the atmosphere, the soft hum of conversation usuallybetween elder people, the scent of freshly brewed coffee, the soft clink of cups against saucers—that always seems to loosen the knots in your mind. You order your usual, find a quiet table in the corner, and set your notebook down, flipping it open to a fresh page.

"The War of Sakura," you scribble, only to strike it out immediately. "No, no, that’s terrible!! Ugh," you mutter to yourself, tapping the pen against your lips in frustration.

You take a sip of your coffee, leaning back in your seat as you stare out the window, hoping for some stroke of genius. Come on, Kurasu Café, work your magic. But the more you stare at the page, the more the words seem to evade you.

You’re so lost in thought that you don’t notice someone sitting down across from you until you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Startled, you blink and look up, eyes widening as they land on the man before you.

It’s him.

For a moment, you’re convinced your mind is playing tricks on you again. The man in front of you has the same striking features, the same quiet mystery, the same piercing gaze that seems to see right through you.

The same man from your memories—the one you’re certain is nothing more than a figment of your imagination, or perhaps a character you’ve written into being.

But no. He’s here, in the flesh, sitting across from you in Kurasu Café.

Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly blink, half-expecting him to disappear like a mirage. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes, as though he can read every thought running through your mind.

“Excuse me…?”

He tilts his head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You looked like you could use some company,” he says with the same silky smooth voice."You seemed… preoccupied."

You stare at him, dumbfounded, still trying to reconcile the fact that he’s real. The man in front of you is every bit as captivating as the one from your memories, as though he’s stepped right out of the story you’ve been crafting in your mind.

“I—uh,” you stammer, your fingers tightening around your pen as though it can somehow anchor you to reality. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

His smile deepens the same one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No,” he says simply,“but I know you.”

Your heart stops beating for a second. You open your mouth to respond, but no words come. How can he know you? And why does it feel like he’s not just referring to surface-level details of your life, but something deeper, something far more intimate?

You glance at your notebook, half-expecting to see the story you’ve just finished reflected back at you, as though it’s somehow come to life.

He leans forward slightly, folding his hands on the table between you. “You’re searching for something, right?”

You narrow your eyes, “And what makes you think that?”

He shrugs, a graceful gesture that seems too perfect, too practiced. “I can always read your eyes, my dear” he replies. “You’re chasing after a truth that eludes you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. There’s something about the way he speaks, the way he seems to know things about you that you haven’t even told yourself. You should feel unnerved, but instead, you feel drawn to him—just like in those memories, you can’t escape.

“Who are you?” you finally ask, hoping it's not one of your delusions playing tricks on you.

His smile softens, but there’s something unreadable in his gaze, it's the same flicker of pain that's so fleeting you almost miss it. He stands smoothly as he places a card on the table.

“Call me when you’re ready to stop running from your life,” he says, turning to leave.

You watch him go, your mind racing as you stare at the card he’s left behind. No name. No details. Just a single word, embossed in gold.

"Remember."

The café around you blurs, the noise fading into the background as you stare at the word on the card, your mind spinning with questions you can’t answer.

And in that moment, you know—this isn’t over. The story isn’t finished. Not by a long shot.

It's now 1:25 am as you sit at your desk, the dim light of the lamp doing little to coax you into sleep. Your eyes fixate on the card that lies on the desk, the single word "Remember" still taunting you. It feels surreal, like the whole encounter earlier today had slipped from reality into something else entirely. Your fingers brush over the card, tracing the embossed letters, as your mind races to make sense of what happened.

Should you call him?

You hesitate, holding the card between your fingers. Who was he? Could he really know you, or was he just one of your creepy fans, trying to unnerve you by dressing up like the protagonist of your story? You’ve heard of fanatics going to great lengths to mimic characters, but this felt different. Something about the encounter stayed with you, gnawing at the back of your mind.

You shake your head, trying to dismiss it. Maybe it was just an elaborate prank, you think. Maybe he was just trying to scare you. Or worse, trying to manipulate you into thinking your own creations are coming to life.

But even as you try to convince yourself, it doesn’t sit right. No fan, no matter how obsessed, could have pulled off what you experienced earlier. The way he looked at you, as if he had known you forever, made your skin prickle. His words had hit too close to home, and the feeling that he understood something about you—something you barely understood yourself—makes it impossible to shake off the encounter.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart as you finally make up your mind. Your fingers hover over your phone, the screen glowing faintly in the dark room. You type in the number from the card, each digit sending a shiver of doubt through your body.

Placing the phone to your ear, you close your eyes as the ringing begins. Once. Twice. Your heart pounds in your chest, every nerve alive with anticipation. What if he answers? What if he doesn’t?

What if he answers? What if he doesn’t?

Just as the ringing starts to stretch into a third tone, there’s a faint click. You hold your breath.

“Hello?”

His voice is calm, like the same smooth, familiar tone from the café.

You pause, unsure of what to say, gripping the phone tighter. “It’s me,” you finally manage to say.

He chuckles softly, as though he expected your call all along. “Ahh my dear...I was wondering when you’d call,” he says, his voice oh god his voice is so soft. “Did you figure it out yet?”

Your heart races. “Figure what out? What’s going on?” you ask confused. “Who are you?”

There’s a long pause on the other end, and for a moment, you wonder if he’ll answer at all. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice low and steady. “You already know who I am,” he says. “You’ve always known, milaya.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The room seems to close in around you, the silence pressing down as you try to piece together the meaning behind his words. You want to argue, to demand answers, but something stops you. It’s as though the truth is right there, just beyond your reach, but you’re too afraid to grasp it.

He continues, his voice softer now, almost intimate. “There are no coincidences. I didn’t come to you by chance. I came to you because we both have known each other for way too long.”

Your head spins. What does that even mean? You glance at your manuscript, the story that had felt so real, so vivid—too vivid. The lines between fiction and reality begin to blur, and the more you think about it, the harder it becomes to separate the two.

“What do you mean we know each other?” You whisper, voice trembling.

On the other end, he chuckles softly, a sound that’s too familiar, as if you've heard it a thousand times before in some forgotten dream. The sound pulls you out of your racing thoughts and back into the moment, grounding you in an unsettling way.

"You’ll understand soon," his voice is calm, though it does nothing to ease the knot forming in your chest.

Before you can protest or demand more answers, he continues, "I’ll come to your place, darling. We can talk then."

Panic flares inside you. Your eyes widen as you shoot up from your chair, nearly knocking it over in the process. “What? How do you—” you begin to ask, but before you can finish, his voice cuts through.

“I know where you live,” he says simply, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath catches. “What… are you a stalker or something?” The question tumbles out, half-accusation, half-fear.

But his response is immediate, eerily calm, “No,” he says. “I’m no stalker. I know because no matter how many things change, no matter how the world twists and turns… the place you live, it always remains the same.”

Your heart races, your mind scrambling to process his words. The place you live… always the same? How could he know that? Why does it feel like he’s speaking of something far deeper than just the physical space around you?

“Please, my dear don’t worry about the details right now,” he interrupts your thoughts. “Just know that I’ll be there soon. And when I arrive, we can talk more about what’s really going on.”

The line goes dead before you can respond. You stare at the phone in disbelief the world around you seems to tilt on its axis, and the comforting normalcy of your room suddenly feels alien. You sit in silence, the unanswered questions swirling in your mind as you hear a soft knock on your door.

You rise from your chair with trembling hands, each step towards the door feeling heavier than the last. When you open it, he stands there—just as enigmatic as before, with that same stoic, detached expression.

He smiles when he sees you, and the smile feels almost out of place with his otherwise stoic demeanor. In his hand, he holds a bouquet of red roses. “Good evening, Malyshka,” he says smoothly. “I thought these might brighten your night.”

Confusion knots in your stomach, but you take the bouquet from him, stepping aside to let him in. The roses are fresh, their scent a heady mix of sweetness and subtle spice. “Thank you,” you manage to say, “Please, come in.”

He moves past you slowly, navigating the living room with the familiarity of someone who’s been there more than a few times.

“I didn’t expect you to show up so soon,” you say, trying to steady your voice. “How did you find my place so quickly?”

He turns to face you, his eyes meeting yours with that familiar look. “As I mentioned earlier, some things remain constant, no matter how much else changes. I’ve always known where to find you.”

“And what exactly do you want from me?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice steady.

He sits on your couch, smiling softly “I want to help you understand the connection we've always shared,” he says. “There’s much to discuss, and I believe it’s time we begin.”

You nod, slightly anxious of what he's about to reveal, “Alright. I’m listening.”

He relaxes his posture, his eyes never leaving yours. “Let’s start with the basics,” he begins. “You’ve been searching for answers, and I’m here to provide them. But first, you need to accept that the boundaries between a life and another are not as rigid as they seem.”

With a deep breath, you take a seat across from him silently waiting for him to continue.

“This is probably the sixth time I’ve been through this,” he continues. “my dear...you have an ability—one that makes you reincarnate. It happens every seven lifetimes, and this one is the seventh and final life.”

You stare at him, your mind struggling to grasp the enormity of his words. “Reincarnation?” you echo, incredulous.

He nods, “Yes. I’ve witnessed you die in my arms time and again. Each time, you lose your memories, and I find you again. No matter how many lifetimes pass, I have always been there. In every life, I have been your one and only—your husband.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he speaks. “But… but how? I’ve been experiencing delusions lately, slowly disconnecting from reality. I- I even went to a therapist, thinking I was going insane, but…”

“But what?” he prompts gently.

“But now I’m starting to think those memories were real,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I thought maybe the writing affected me, that I was imagining things. But if what you’re saying is true… I’ve been recalling memories from past lives?”

He nods, his gaze compassionate yet firm. “Those fragments were memories from your past lives. The feelings of detachment, the disconnection from reality—it’s all part of your ability’s process. Each lifetime, you’ve struggled with this, but you’ve always managed to find your way back to me.”

You sit back, feeling overwhelmed. “So, all this time, I’ve been recalling memories from past lives? And that’s why I felt so disconnected and unsettled?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “It’s why you’ve felt like something was missing, even when everything else seemed to be in place. Your soul remembers our connection, but the details slip away with each new life.”

Your eyes search his face, trying to find the truth in his words. “Are..are you immortal?”

He sighs softly, a look of resignation crossing his face. “Something like that,” he admits. “I’m not exactly immortal, but I endure through each lifetime. It’s not without its own pain.”

He stands and moves closer, his hands gently cupping your face. His touch so tender making your heart flatter subconsciously leaning into it, his eyes filled with profound...it's heartbreaking. “You have no idea how much I miss you, milaya,” he says quietly. “How much it hurts me to see you slip away from my arms each time. Every time, you’re taken from me by an ability user. The first time, it was my cruel father who killed you. The second time, it was an assassin with an ability. And so it went, one after another.”

His voice cracks slightly as he continues, “But this time? I will never let you go, moya lyubov. I won’t let anything take you from me again.”

Slowly, he leans in, and you find yourself lost in his half-lidded amethyst gaze, the slight glance of pain in his eyes is now gone. You brush a strand of his slightly long hair behind his ear, your knuckles grazing his cheekbones.

"Milaya," he whispers, closing the distance between you, his cold lips gently brush against yours, The moment your lips touch, a warm, relaxing spark ignites deep within you, spreading a soothing glow through your entire body. It’s a kiss that feels like coming home, like finding the missing piece of your heart.

Your body reacts instinctively. You wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. He lifts you gently, your feet barely touching the ground, as he holds you close. His hands rest on your waist, massaging circles onto your skin under your shirt as his kisses start to get sloppier with a sweet, heartfelt heat. It’s as if he’s trying to savor every moment, every touch, to make up for all the years apart.

He gently pulls away, his breath mingling with yours as he murmurs, “You should get some rest, darling,” His words are a tender reminder, and his touch lingers as he softly caresses your cheeks, jaw and chin.

You keep your arms wrapped around his neck, “Please don't leave.”

The Russian man, ever devoted, cannot bear the thought of leaving your side now that you are once again in his arms. With a serene nod and a tender, otherworldly smile, he whispers,

"I will forever be by your side, moya milaya."

A/N: I know this isn’t my best work—I've been dealing with writer’s block lately, especially after spending the last few days working on Kinktober fics. Apologies if any part feels rushed. I also made sure to use past tense for the memories and present tense for the current events, in case you noticed that. Anyway, thanks for taking the time to read this!

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ra3kiv · 9 months ago

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how do you pick your colors???? your art is SO breathtaking. do you think you'd ever post a speedpaint?

most importantly i help myself with gradient maps a lot! sometimes i use a LOT of tgem😭 so i basically start with colors that i somewhat want and then i put layers on that until im satisfied

i try to makecolor combos that are opposites on the color wheel thats why i very often go witg red and green or also blue and yellow, there are many possible color combinations

also i like when my drawing has main colors so for example there are only 4 colors and colors similar to them on the canvas (if that makes sense) for example this drawing is mostly blue, yellow/greenish color, and a color similar to orange

and this drawing is mostly yellow/brown, blue and red

thats what i do but many artist put a lot of colors on the canvas on purpose and go crazy and it alwats looks amazinf too so thats somethinf every artist has to figure out by tgemselves😭

i think its important to always check your values by seeing how the drawing looks in black&white! i personally like it when its very clear and the differences between colors are harsh and visible, some artists like it when everythinf kinda has a similar value so the colors look like theyre melting into each other!

this is the only drawinf i have saved on phone that is black and white😭 but yeah bascially

so whenever i see that the values in my drawinf are too similar i make sure to make something darker or lighter, very often just a white overlay helps!

also maybe if i figure out how to record a speedpaint i will post it haha im not the greatest with technology

#ask

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deathofacupid · 2 months ago

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the sun, and it's moon.

you and satoru are not the same. they say that your moles are where your past lover kissed you. you don't have any. your skin remains untouched by them, bare of any love. seems like it'll always be that way. in your last lives, along with this one.

satoru, on the other hand, he's filled with them. with freckles that dust his cheeks, and moles that you see when he takes off his sweatshirt, undershirt pulling up. they're littered along his back, a constellation you only ever glimpsed.

he has one behind his ear, but you only ever see it when he runs his hand through his shaggy hair. satoru's talked about cutting it, not to you in particular, to the room, to anyone that's listening - and someone always is, but he hasn't done so yet. you figure he's busy. busy with all that love, maybe. the love that leaves marks. the love that others can see.

you trace the blank canvas of your own arm. nothing. smooth, unblemished, a stark reminder. you wonder if the absence of these marks means the absence of love itself. if you’ve simply been skipped over, a blank page in the book of affection.

satoru's moles, they tell stories. stories you can only imagine. whispers of stolen kisses, lingering touches, moments etched into his skin. each one a tiny, dark testament to a life lived, a heart given.

you imagine those kisses, those touches, those moments. you imagine them happening to you. you imagine satoru’s lips, his hands, leaving their mark. but it's just that, an imagining. a cruel fantasy that fades as quickly as it appears.

love that you doubt you'll ever get, much less from him. satoru, with his easy charm and the weight of all those past loves, he seems so far away. like he exists in a different world, a world where love is tangible, visible.

you watch him, a silent observer in his vibrant, chaotic orbit. he laughs, he jokes, he draws people to him like moths to a flame. you, on the other hand, remain in the shadows, a quiet, unnoticed presence.

you and satoru are not the same, and maybe that's what kept you apart. or maybe it's what will always keep you apart. the difference isn't just in the marks on your skin, but in the very essence of who you are. he is a sun, and you are a moon, forever circling, never touching.

#i have so much more angst planned #but anyways i really liked this concept #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #satoru gojo #satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jjk #satoru angst

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edgeray · 8 months ago

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"FIGHT SO DIRTY BUT YOU LOVE SO SWEET

Talk so pretty, but your heart got teeth" - Teeth, 5 Seconds of Summer

MAFIA AU Arlecchino x Reader Oneshot | Part 2 of "LATE NIGHT DEVIL, PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME"

A/N - As promised, here is the (albeit, very late) 250 follower special. Art by M-Alexa. Content Warnings / Info - Arlecchino uses they/them pronouns, sugggestiveness, pet names, borderline smut, no feminine pronouns for reader, 10.7k words

Monsters are very real. You know that they’re tangible because they’ve touched you in ways so intimate you could delude yourself in being familiar with them despite how icy their touch is. What draws the line between monster and human? You can't say anymore, not when involuntary sensations and uncontrollable emotions have entangled you with the Fatui, the Fourth Harbinger to be exact, a monster in every right, and yet…

You used to think that the line was cut-throat, a visible drawn etching in the sand–so easy to see when someone passed through. As obvious as their appearance once they've entered through the doorway. It was evident in those that were painted in wretched and jagged scars like their skin was a blank canvas. Perceptible in those that too rarely stifled their brash volatility, taking pride in their bruteness and their trigger-happiness. Apparent in those with their sly-eyed, piercing scrutiny, silent as the dead they were, yet it was usually among these archetypes whose power reigned the most throughout. Discernable in those that can wear many faces, spilling a hundred lies from their lips with as much effort as it takes for them to breathe; typically, they were as inviting as a puppy guiding a lamb to a den of wolves.

You couldn’t discern anymore what kind of monster Lord Arlecchino matched. Was it that they were never a monster to begin with, or is it just your irrationality muddying what should be the obvious? It should alarm you that your mind doesn't perceive them as such anymore, despite knowing so little of the danger they grasp underneath their fingertips. How quick they were to wrap their hand around your throat, tantalizing you with each scrape of carmine nails against your kiss-bruised skin.

But monsters are incapable of love. You think you've been fooled in believing in it when they trace your body with their touch, but then again, what monster's touch can be akin to that of an angel’s? Maybe angels themselves were also monsters. It's how you knew they were the most fatal mistake you could have made but you remain unapologetic shamelessly. Why should you, for indulging in something so tasteful? Is it not human desire to be selfish, to satisfy oneself? It's only natural to savor sweet fruit.

Their touch still lingers, on every inch of skin their depraved and gluttonous they could reach, the heat from their contact ever present like bubbling magma underneath the surface. Even after they're gone, it still tingles with sweltering desire and comes with the vivid image of their imprintment on you. How you remembered their wet lips against your neck, teeth sunk in and the rough drag of their tongue across, while their fingers edged closer to the waistband of your fishnets. Oh, how you remembered the delicious grinding of their hips against yours, a coarse friction that sends shocks of pleasure through you as they swallow every wanton cry from your lips and stifle any movements from you with a tight grasp of your waist. As red stained marks were stamped over the expanse of your bare clavicle, you remember a particular sultry chuckle from them when they captured your wrists in one hand effortlessly, willing you unable to touch them even when you had begged to do so. How cruel of them to deprive you of what you so avidly coveted, but you think their touch is rewarding enough to dismiss the one-sidedness of the physical intimacy.

Though, you hesitate to call it physical intimacy. Somehow, the touches that lit your heart ablaze the most only scrape the surface of indecency, as nothing transpired beyond kisses and love marks. It was the first time you left a private room relatively untouched, and though they had definitely teased you of it, no action slipped lower than your collarbone–not even a single piece of clothing peeled from your body. It leaves an unsettling, complex bundle of desires: wanting more and less of their touch simultaneously: you long for their touch, to feel that addicting fervor again, for your own unchaste gratification, however, having not been used as a tool for sensual fulfillment, you almost find it…nearly comforting–freeing may be the right word. A relief from what was usually an obligation. It’s… strange, is the least you can account it to. You’ve never wanted more from a client. Every past one has been just a means for income, hardly even considered cheap entertainment, and yet… you find your thoughts returning back to them, ensnaring your mind and plaguing your consciousness with memories of your two’s ‘unchastity.’

Lord Arlecchino, the Knave, the Fourth Harbinger of the Fatui, stole your thoughts just like a thief in the night, the ghost of their whispered words frequently haunting you. “‘I think I’ll keep you to myself after this,’” they had said with such certainty, and that voice would repeat indefinitely in your ears. For the most inexplicable reason, you found yourself eager, having believed them, however, you quickly discovered how naive you were–foolish to have ever hoped in such a shallow assertion and absurd to have wished for that in the first place. How dim of you to trust words influenced by fleeting ardor, for allowing irrationality to creep up in your vulnerable state of intoxication from them. They had left your body that night, with little to no effort, unsatisfied yet marked by them entirely, remnants of their presence still scattered on your body. How cruel, and yet very characteristic of them, though the latter recognition almost physically burned you to admit. A burn that you couldn’t quite associate one feeling to it.

You think the feeling is akin to abandonment, maybe betrayal, but you couldn’t fault Arlecchino–not when you were the one to have fallen for their lies. In the heat of the moment, their amorous words had done nothing less but stroke an ember within your body, fueling your own feverish arousal, amplifying your experience, but that was all it was. Abandonment couldn’t be correct, not when you were never theirs in the first place and you had willingly offered yourself to them. Nor can betrayal suit it; there was no foundation of trust built between the two of you either. You should have known that trust, among your clients especially, is as flimsy as a sheet of paper. But what can explain this obstinate hollowness in your chest, unable to be filled no matter how many meaningless acts of intimacy you throw at it, or how many fantasies you’d delude yourself once you're in the solace being underneath your covers? It’s a clawing irritant that occupies your mind when you’ve found yourself alone, seeking for the phantom presence of them.

You miss them–at the very least, their touch–you realize belatedly, and for that you couldn’t consider yourself to be more pathetic. Never before in your experience have you ever thought of a previous client but you suppose every day is an opportunity to discover something new. Attachments were a sure way to kill yourself in this business, in the underground. You had intended on keeping yourself alive, but here you are. How degrading of you, you internally admonished, fool, fool, fool.

What was it about them that had captivated you so much? Perhaps it was their unique charm. Curt and sharp as they were, you could not help but admit there was something alluring about their words, the authority that dripped from them, instilling you to do nothing but obey them. Perhaps it was their captivating appearance, a masterful and tasteful blend of ruggedness with class, snow white hair adorned with ebony streaks framing their porcelain-like face, but their stature was nothing of that case. Though lean as they were, from the rare prodding touches they allowed you where you could feel their toned physique, you can tell strength and power laid underneath their fingertips; if not from that, then perhaps how easily they nearly suffocated you with one hand alone, or how they had easily hoisted you up and against the wall. The red crossed pupils were nothing like you’ve ever seen and underneath that ever-piercing behold you’re little more than a timid prey before a hungry beast.

Your interactions with Lord Arlecchino were like being teared by the fangs of a voracious wolf. Every delicate sense–touch, hearing, sight, smell, and taste–pecked away little by little until all you could register in your lust-brimmed mind was their entirety. Sapping away your strength and resistance, impelling you to submit your all to them, through their every feverish touch; deafening your eardrums with each wet noise that followed their lips; dizzying you with their faint, earthy cologne; your eyes drinking in their appearance with every chance; and oh, their sickeningly sweet taste–far too depraved and far too addictive. You’re breathless everytime you think of it. When they finally released you, peeling away from your form, your body looked as if it had just barely escaped a maiming from a wild animal: teeth indents, light scratches, and red blotches of their lipstick flecked your upper torso and face.

They parted from you hours into the early morning. It felt like they had been stealing your breath for hours. You couldn’t count how many times their lips met yours, but it was enough where you could memorize the texture of them, of their warmth and sweetness. You couldn’t recall the duration the two of you spent locked with each others’ lips, but you could recall the various positions they had you. One such position, you muse with clenched thighs, was when they towered above your lying form on the couch, a bent knee in between your legs and their arms on either side of your head, planting their palms onto the cushion underneath you while they descended down to capture kiss after kiss from you. You remembered the tickling sensation of their ivory and raven strands that fell on your cheek, and how you raised a gentle hand to brush them away. In retaliation, what could only be described as something in between a growl and a grunt came from the Harbinger’s throat, one of their hands moved away from its resting place besides your head and clasped with yours, before firmly planting it against the sofa–a clear lesson not to touch them so casually, to which you smiled cheekily. They stole that smile away with little wasted time using a harsh nip on your bottom lip.

And then, like that, they left.

A week has gone by–more accurately, six days–since they had last appeared, and in that period, you’ve yet seen them. You worked consecutively, opting to even neglect your free work day, with the hopes of catching a glimpse. Ultimately, however, your efforts bore no fruit; not a single of your customers was the white-haired devilish angel that plagued your thoughts. White-hot shame and crushing disappointment grew with each passing day. The first unspoken word of advice amongst your fellow dancers was that attachments to customers are never worthwhile: even frequent customers disappear, and if you are lucky, you discover why. The reasons ranged from death to simply boredom, but the latter is always the most devastating, an agonizing reminder of how insignificant your life can be.

You had hoped to consider yourself among the smarter of your coworkers. You thought yourself immune to those follies, impenetrable to the charms and advances of all your customers–none to date had made your heart palpitate the way it did in the Harbinger's presence. It's unfathomable that you allow yourself to sink to such depths, to find yourself coveting for something you shouldn't, for something you can't have, for something that is beyond the likes of you. Convincing yourself with certainty, you were sure that you were above the idea of ardor–percase, your mistake was appraising yourself of just that. Now, you struggle against the very woes your coworkers forewarned you about.

Lying conscious on your wretched mattress, the cycle of rue repeats internally, battling against the drowsiness from your day's work. The thin and tattered sheets do little to provide you with the warmth you seek, and the lumpy, yet simultaneously, feathersoft pillow fails to ease your neck. The discomfort is only heightened by the darkness that plunges your chamber, like an abyss that's consumed you whole– just like your thoughts.

You urge your mind to settle, to calm a roaring yearning forever left unsatisfied, for even a single minute of slumber but it's futile. Once more, your thoughts drift to your angel donned in scarlet–divine touches and blest hymns. If touching this bit of heaven garners this cruel punishment of eternal desire, then you will cling onto these phantom traces of theirs until the gates of hell swallow you whole.

Soft, thudding noises approach you from the foot of your bed’s direction. Lifting your gaze to the door, the question comes of whose presence this is. Already having worked your shift, there is the possibility your manager came to you because of a unique request–one that he himself couldn't refuse. A weight manifests in your stomach, unease slinking towards your thoughts; this is your off-time after all and . There’s the foreboding knock on your door, before the knob turns with a click. Your manager walks through, his short, plump silhouette before you–

Your oxygen is teared from your lips, making you breathless as an imposing aura overtakes your entire form, as if gravity grew exponentially stronger just then, pushing down on you with the goal of crushing you until nothingness. Your lungs burn from the deprivation of air and a prickling sensation coats your skin, the combined effect making you tremble like a meek sheep before prey. Their footsteps as they enter your dwelling increases the pressure on your shoulders, forcing you to shrink into yourself. This commanding presence is far from being foreign, there are only a few customers–mafia members–that come to mind that can inflict this kind of dominion. Frozen in place, your heart quickly halts as your sight takes in the person before you, a dawning recognition falls upon you: this isn’t your manager. Instead, what replaces him, is a taller, leaner stature, vaguely familiar but distinctly not him. Plunged in darkness, you couldn’t discern any more details, and the unknown identity induces every hair on your limbs to stand up.

And yet, despite the unrest that forms inside of you, for an inexplicable reason, there comes a lilt in your heart, your roseate thoughts returning to one individual with a dire need.

The person makes no movements nor noise, but they are certainly aware of your presence. They remain in place near the doorway, as if prompting you for any action. Yet you’re too unsure, too cautious to act. With each passing second of silence, the air thickens, making it increasingly harder to not sink into the covers of your bed and allow your blanket to swallow you whole. Disbelief settles within you as the two of you linger in silence. Your whirling thoughts start to justify those doubts, crushing that meager hope inside of you. It is not them, because you have been deceived, tossed aside like a broken doll, no longer of entertainment or use to them; abandoned by someone who never truly considered you as theirs in the first place.

Still, you couldn’t discern the reason for the palpitation of your heart at that moment–isit out of fear or anticipation? Likely, it's a combination of both. It hums in your ear, your pulse faint but tangible and steady, and a chill crawls up your spine, eliciting you to tremble in place like a mouse about to be preyed upon. Becoming more certain that they are not the Harbinger, terror worms into your mind and inflicts upon your heart. Your heart rate skyrockets as if the beating organ is thumping out of your chest, deafening you with nothing but the erratic drumming. Have they come to end you? Have you displeased a customer so much that they intend to make you repay the price with your life?

It is a simple utterance. It is a single word that echoes through the room, one syllable that rings through your ears. And yet, it is this sound that rips your heart from a cold, drowning, lonely abyss and plunges it into the warm, welcoming depths of a familiar company. It shreds any lingering doubt within you like claws would to paper, eradicating it as if it was nothing more than a miniscule pest. In your veins does your pulse sing, humming a delightful hymn, the returning sensation of warmth fills you. Had you been anyone else besides yourself viewing this, you would call it a pathetic sight, but in this whisper of time, a wild inferno of your desires is lit and swarms over your mind. With just one simple utterance, you had turned from a scared, cornered mouse into an awaiting puppy–tail wagging and ears perked–for its approaching owner.

“Doll.”

You know of that voice far too well, for only having heard of it for one night. A persistent, almost tantalizing voice that creeps into your dreams at all hours of the day, murmuring with an alluring lilt the same pet name in your ear like the Harbinger had done six nights prior. It is the voice of a seraph under the guise of a demon. And when an ethereal being beckons you, you have no other obligation but to respond.

“Sir?” The softest of whispers escape you, bated breath evident in your voice. You worry that the barely audible title doesn't reach their ears, but then the soft thumping of stilettos reverberate through the room, matching the pace of your rapid heart, nearing you, until they appear by your bedside. Upclose, you swear that red x’s glint dimly. An obscure shadow casts over you and the silhouette of a hand reaches out; their palm grazes against your throat as slender fingers seize your chin to tilt your head up–a familiar hold that involuntarily soothes you given the sigh you release.

“I told you, didn't I?” They say with an alluring lilt, a telling sign of a smirk on their features. They stroke their thumb over your bottom lip, before pressing down. Involuntarily, your tongue peeks out to lap at their thumb pad. Your cheeks swarm with an unbearable calidity, which spreads to the rest of your body, suffocating flames that scorch your entirety.

“I said that I'd keep you as mine. Or did you forget?”

Forgetting their words was as plausible as you learning how to fly. You stopped yourself from carelessly revealing how their discrete promise haunts your ears, ringing through your thoughts at any spontaneous minute; you had no desire of disclosing just how much of an influence they have on you–whether that was to persuade them or yourself more. Instead you offer them a wordless shake of your head.

Arlecchino lets out a content hum, before their hand slides down from your chin to your arm, grasping it with a bit of firmness.

“Come with me, Doll. Such a quality doll such as yourself deserves a suitable dollhouse, is that not right? This,” You assume that they gesture to the room from the shuffle of clothes. “is hardly fitting for you, the sad state that it is.”

Your heart beat falters for a moment, as contemplation befalls you, attempting to properly comprehend their words. You surmise that the Harbinger is offering you for a new accommodation but you ponder the cost–surely, they would not provide it out of the goodness of their heart, and you were uncertain if they even held such a thing. As delightful as they are, forgetting your place in relation to others will only spell hazard for you. A ‘doll'–whatever that pertains to–is the service they likely seek from you, and you have a few estimates as to what it is.

It's dreadfully tempting. A chance to escape from your current workplace, but what of your wellbeing? At least, here, you could sustain yourself, shelter, food, and warmth are provided, but could you expect the same with the Harbinger? If you were to come with them, would you only be pulled deeper into the underground? Was the mafia a company you wanted to linger around? As you continue to swat back the clouds of infatuation, rationality returning to you, there are too many unknowns to recklessly comply with. Then again, what would the Harbinger do to you, if you were to refuse them? For now, you're in their favor, but who is to say you will not lose it in some erratic way?

Perhaps they will grow bored of you. Perhaps you won't satisfy them enough. Or, perhaps, they have even more nefarious intentions. The mind of a criminal is fickle and, more often than not, unstable, and in the first place, such individuals are rarely credible. If they were to promise beneficial conditions for your being, there is no way to ensure they keep to their word. Your debt, at the very least, serves as a form of protection: the nitery wouldn't be able to work you until they regain every penny you borrowed if you were dead. Arlecchino, however? They have no need to.

“You must be reconsidering my offer. That's to be expected, of course,” Arlecchino interrupts your train of thought, not a single break from their calculated way of words; it almost makes you shiver at how well they seem to read you. It truly is no wonder why they’re the fourth among the Harbingers, they truly are cunning. Do they have something to offer you for additional encouragement?

“I have no doubt that some unfortunate circumstance must have brought you to an establishment like this. With that knowledge, hm…” Arlecchino pauses, before you feel their hand leaves your arm. The darkness of the room provides little information on what they're doing, until one of their coarse hands slides underneath your palm, lifting it slightly. Cool metal slides over your left thumb.

“This…”

“Yes, it's a ring,” the mafia leader confirms. “More specifically, it is my ring.”

You trace your right thumb over the ring, feeling some sort of round jewel over it. Underneath your thumb pad, is a small etching, which you trace.

“From now on, this ring is yours. While it's not visible as of right now, etched onto it is the symbol of the Tsaritsa. It symbolizes my Harbinger status,” they continue, and you whip your attention towards them.

“Why would–” You halt yourself before you say anything impulsive. “Thank you for this, Sir, but… if it is of such significance…”

“–why am I giving this to you? Consider this an investment. Here is my preposition to you. Come with me, and you will be fed, sheltered, and spoiled by me–my protection and overseeing of your health is, undoubtedly implied. If you are displeased with my treatment, you can leave freely, anytime, anywhere, and nothing will be asked of you–not so much as an explanation for your departure. In fact, at this very moment, you could leave right now. I will not stop you.

“The ring, being the mark of a Harbinger, will almost certainly protect you from anyone sensible enough not to touch those under the Tsaritsa’s grace. Beyond that, you could always sell it to a trustworthy jewelry inspector; I know of one if you need a reference. I guarantee you that what you will earn is enough for you to live comfortably in society for at least a decade or so.”

“You would…” You stop to recollect your thoughts, as your body shakes, brimming with thrill. Your mind is still trying to encompass all of the capabilities this very ring contained. It may very well be worth ten times your entire life, and yet you possessed something such as this. With this, you could leave your hellish life behind. Everything you have always wanted could be right in your grasp now. You could finally enjoy a luxurious life, just by yourself.

“You would really give this to me? Something so precious?” You question breathlessly.

“Yes. If you would consider my preposition. So?”

A beguiled smile makes its way onto your lips.

—

The existence of monsters should not comfort you, but yet it does. No, that is wrong–there is just one exception. Having heard of such hushed stories, warning you to be wary of such shadowy beasts, the ones that lurk in unsuspecting corners and stalk the most innocuous of lambs, nonetheless, the notion of who can be considered as a ‘monster’ has been shattered by one individual. A monster in every right, except in any respect to you, can a diabolical angel still be deemed as such? Do they deserve to bear such a title, when every breath exhaled sends welcomed shivers down your spine and every contacted surface is blessed under their touch?

Perhaps you are still one of those very lambs for them. There is the possibility that you are just another sheep ensnared by a charming wolf, but then it raises the question of why you haven't been devoured yet. You have no doubt of the appetite that such a beast like them would carry, but nonetheless you remain. Will your time for slaughter come? Like herded sheep, you're fenced in, grazing through the grassland placidly, but how much longer will your freedom and life extend?

Does it still make you a sheep, if the most miniscule, internal sector of you would indulge in being devoured?

It's something you could not help yourself from wondering, even with the graciousness from Arlecchino. They've taken care of you far better than the nitery had ever, in the span of the few weeks you've agreed to stay with them, serving as their ‘doll.’ As restrictive and degrading as the role sounds, actuality does not propose the same. You're still tied to the Fourth Fatui Harbinger–come when they beckon, obey what they will–but you have a daunting amount of individual freedom you previously could never afford. Necessities, such as a living space, meals, and clothing, are all provided, lavishly, unlike your previous work environment.

Arlecchino personally had a room selected for you, a sizable, decorated chamber that housed a Queen bed, along with an ensuite bathroom. Restful sleep comes easy to you now that you've acquired a plush bed that dwarfs your figure. You've been spoiled with not only nourishing, but delectable dishes that you've never encountered before. Not only that, but they were made and served by personal chefs of the Harbinger. Upon arriving at your new accommodation, your wardrobe was brimming with all types of clothing that was suited to your size in all sorts of colors.

Perhaps it is because you haven't received such treatment before, but if you had such audacity to assume, you would compare yourself to that of a monarch's favored consort.

Your work as a ‘doll’ doesn't consist of much–that is what makes it more perplexing to you. It's not like any job or gig–you're not paid but it is no less rewarding. A ‘doll,’ from what you can presume with what they've requested of you, is a sexual partner, for when they're in need of ‘relief.’ Though you'd like for your relationship with Arlecchino to be perfectly encapsulated as just that, even that fails to entail entirely of what it is. This statement comes apparent with the case that you've yet engaged with them intimately.

You cannot deny that with this comes brewing frustration and consolation inside of you.

In the few weeks having lived at the same residence as them, which also doubles as a base of operations for the Fatui, there's quite a few things you learn of the Knave. Their assertive presence alone commands the room upon entering, and it is felt by every single soul in their proximity. Apathetically and brutally effective is how they function, no matter their audience, though strangely you are an exception to that. Stoic as they are in every aspect of their life–whether that handling mafia matters or simply eating–they have shown acts of mercy and repayment towards their subjects, especially the younger ones underneath them. Requital seems to be one of their core values, a quality that is often paired with their demand for control. Just as they oversee all around them, they themselves are not beyond their charge.

You see the discrete conflict in their eyes before each press of their lips against yours, and in their twitching fingers, which tremble in the same reluctant manner as yours does, always lingering around your waist. Every kiss is greedy and ravenous, with the intention of stealing every bit of morality within you as they draw you in, but their touch is notably neither of the two. The Fourth Harbinger exercises an awkward balance between restraint and surrender of desires–as if they craved further connection from you, but you dare not to assume so flatteringly of yourself. For this reason alone, you do not question the Knave, but it is no less vexing.

Beasts like themselves do not hold themselves back. They are voracious and all-consuming, they are merciless and eager in their plunders, second to none in selfishness and brutality. If Arlecchino is truly among them, then their behavior proves to only be baffling. If you cannot expect the worst from them like all monsters are, then what can you predict from them? For what reason do they restrain themselves? Why would they limit themselves when they have more than enough authority and force to take what they desire. You wish you could know, if only to end this constant, frustrating game of desire that you are losing.

You don't understand the casual gestures that imply something more romantic if you didn't know better. The invitations to dinner, the outings with them, the chaste kisses and fleeting touches. In each interaction, you have to remind yourself of your status–that you still hold little value, no matter the change of management, and at every drop of dawn, when you lie alone in your bed, that hollow ache sweeps over you and engulfs you whole into a riptide. What more use are you than entertainment just as empty as yourself?

Still, it is irrefutable that you hold a certain attraction to them. You covet for their contact and gaze to loiter over the expanse of your body, for their voice to always ring through your ears, for the time between the two of you to stretch past infinity; it soon occured to you that something lies deeper than just lust for the Harbinger, something you did not want to acknowledge but it has prolonged since after the first night you met them. Though Arlecchino does not place a label on the relationship, even for as foolish and swayed as you are, you could not dream beyond the contacts that hold no significance or the words that contain no promises. The knowledge of this places a heavy ache in your chest, one that pings every now and then with every meeting with the Harbinger. Knowing how futile it is, a part of yourself wants to strangle these yearnings, so that all that is choked out is a shallow, physical urge, and you no longer drown in the abyss that is Arlecchino.

It is only natural that when you harbor such complexities towards them, sexual desires, too, are a part of said twisted conglomeration of hazy emotions and affections. How many times were you in need of relief, murmuring out their name as you intensified your movements in between your legs, only to be left empty and disgruntled? If you had to give an estimate, it would be a dozen or so times. While your circumstance could no longer be judged by typical morality, the very act of yearning feels sinful, a wrongdoing, a refutal of your values. No lamb lusts over a wolf, after all, but this knowledge doesn't lessen the ache.

So, like the meek sheep that you are, you say nothing, even when Arlecchino once again requests your presence for dinner–through a relayed message from their subordinate of course. You wonder if they're aware of the very effects they imposed on you, how the simple act of inviting you to dinner makes both your heart swim and sink simultaneously.

You knock on their office door, waiting for permission until you're asked inside. You enter with a brief awed gasp, greeted by the usual suited appearance of Arlecchino. They sit behind their desk and donning a stark midnight blazer, over an ash-colored and blood-crimson vest paired with a matching loose tie underneath the collar of their white buttoned dress shirt. A lit cigarette is perched between their lips and a pair of black reading glasses nestled on the bridge of their nose. Upon your entrance, they reach up, wrenching the cigarette from their mouth to snuff it out, rubbing the butt of the stick against the ashtray beside them.

Near instantaneously, your stomach coils with an insufferable fervor, and you had to suppress the urge to squeeze your thighs, unless you wanted their observant eye to notice. You avert your gaze from the handsome sight to hide your flustered expression. Unfortunately, your efforts are in vain when in the corner of your eye, the ends of their frown twitch.

They instruct you to sit at the chair across from theirs with the motion of their eyes, and you take your seat at their desk, two plates of food sitting on the wooden surface.

“You have no issue with shellfish, do you?” Arlecchino inquires, their eyes scanning over your figure for any objections.

“Not that I know of, sir,” you answer. The mafia leader pushes a glass with a crimson liquid in it–wine, you presume. You take it. Arlecchino is an avid wine lover from what you've discerned during past dinners; although you've done this quite a few times, the thought is dizzying of how you're holding a wine that's more than likely a thousand dollars per bottle. Like with all the previous privileges the Harbinger gifted you, this is yet again another lucrative item. It only makes you wonder to what extent the Fatui's influence goes to be able to afford such expenses on ordinary things. You swirl the drink in your hand before taking a tentative sip. Each time you drink, it’s akin to dumping gold into the sea–wasted extravagance on the likes of you.

The wine sours the taste in your mouth but you don't make it apparent.

Dinner remains an awkward constant, nearly unnerving. You tether between the line of being cautious and being casual. Their methodical brutalism discourages small talk from them–given the fact that they favor intention and meaningful gestures–seeming perfectly content in the silence while you stew in chagrin. With this comes their manner of eating. They eat robotically, as if the gourmet foreign meals are nothing but nourishment, and perhaps such trivialities are of no matter to them, only further emphasizing the stark statuses of you two. Their request, however, made them seem almost eager–as eager as one could possibly be for someone so stoic– given how they requested for your presence as soon as possible. Perhaps what they look most earnestly for is observing you. You're torn between thinking they enjoy your discomfort underneath their gaze, or simply find you that fascinating. Either of them escape common reasoning.

You opt to just eat with your head down to avoid their piercing gaze throughout your meal, the only noise filling the room is the clinking of metal utensils. Struggling with removing the lobster meat from its tail, you fumble with the fork, an abashment swelling in your cheeks with the knowledge that Arlecchino was most definitely observing your tactlessness. You’ve never had shellfish prior to your stay with Arlecchino, and that was more pronounced by your lackluster attempts of stripping the shrimp shell. You attempted to learn through observation of Arlecchino, who utilizes cutlery with their typical efficiency and gracefulness. Even in the simple act of eating, they are refined in their precise and minimal movements. Unfortunately for you, that poise cannot be obtained through just viewing.

A pale hand extends and rests on top of your hand holding the fork, the sudden contact ripping you from your thoughts and your shoulders tense. Glancing up from the shellfish, Arlecchino's ever so puncturing gaze is set on you. The thumping organ in your chest pauses for a beat once your eyes lock, manifesting a silence between the two of you. There is not a hint of irritance in their expression, and perhaps you are mistaken, but there is the gleam of amusement in their pupils.

“Allow me,” they finally voice, their tone on the edge of venomous allure, and you could only comply immediately. Placing down the cutlery onto the plate and pulling your hands away, you expect for them to pick up the silverware again. Instead, they firmly hold down the lobster tail with one hand, the other hand pinching the succulent flesh before shredding it effortlessly from the shell with their. Such an uncouth movement that almost seems unfitting from the Harbinger, however, simultaneously, you cannot see their crude method out of place. The chunk of meat is then dipped in the aioli.

“Open,” Arlecchino commands, and you swallow thickly, your mouth inexplicably arid in a single moment. Once again, your easily influenced heart pounds resoundingly in your ears, no doubt induced by the most miniscule of moments from the Harbinger. Their red-crossed pupils stab into you, expectancy in them, wordlessly urging you. You open your mouth and they lift the piece of lobster to your lips, sliding their fingers and the shellfish flesh inside. You clamp down on the flesh while Arlecchino fishes out her digits, pulling away with glistening liquid on the tips of her index and thumb.

The sight makes your stomach flutter with a sensation unlike any other, an inferno emerges in your pit paired with an indisputable throbbing between your legs that makes you clench your hands into fists–a desperate attempt for restraint of your impulses. Cheeks flared from both arousal and humiliation of your indecent thoughts, you mindlessly chew on the meat, absentmindedly staring at the Harbinger while combating the vulgarity within your mind. Your liberated imagination reacts, substituting the fluid for something of a similar look that originates from a different orifice, before you banish the impurities away, remediate your thrashing heart before it threatens to collapse in itself. Finally, you swallow a bit of shellfish down your throat.

Arlecchino hums, satisfied, before they probe your lips with their slick fingers, intent, almost predatory, gaze upon you, and their pupils glint with a faint crimson.

“Clean them,” they order, and oh, if they knew what those two words do to you. Hot spikes of arousal pricks you everywhere in your body, and your loins grow damper, pulsing with need.

You part your lips obediently as they insert two of their fingers. Your warm, moist mouth wraps around them. The pads of their fingers press firmly against your tongue, and compliantly, you drag the slimy surface of your organ on the undersides, lapping at the faint taste of lobster with remnants of the aioli, before swirling your tongue around to coat the entirety with your saliva. A disgusting moist squelch flees from your mouth as you continue the ministrations of your tongue, gentle and deliberate traces to make sure that their fingers are properly cleansed.

A sudden idea comes to you, a dose of boldness injected into your veins as you continue locking their eyes with them. If they are so amused by your performance, then surely they would enjoy a little show? You silently wish for the mafia leader's grace before you act– perhaps you'd be forgiven? Better yet, you hope that you will be rewarded. They're acutely aware of the mischief in your eyes when their eyebrows lift, but you do not allow them to anticipate for long.

You hollow your cheeks and suction around their fingers while intensifying your tongue's movements. To add to it, you lean forward, slipping their fingers deeper until your lips reach the base of their final knuckle, nearly gagging from your impulsive action. Still, it does not dissuade you, and you continue your behavior, aware this very gesture was the epitome of playing with fire. More slick sounds erupt from your suggestive acts.

You scrutinize their facial expression for their reaction in an attempt to gauge their response, and quite notably, their pupils are darkened. Instead of the previous ruby hue, they are now a deep scarlet, bordering on maroon, and are brimming with an emotion so intense you feel as though you could be devoured whole just by their dark abysses. Their usually maintained and composed face is cracked by the parted lips of theirs, as if they were in awe of your impudence, and the slightest knit in between their brows, implying more than their regular apathy. You have drawn their attention just as you wanted, but now you fear the consequences.

“Feeling bold, are we, doll?” They murmur in a low, tantalizing purr as they extract their fingers from you with a wet pop, and you nearly whine from the loss of contact. A dribble of spit escapes from the corner of your lips and they wipe it away with their thumb. Their middle and index finger gleam enticingly as your slaver drips down. Bringing their hand to their lips, they reward you with their own show, a slow deliberate act of tracing their fingers with their own tongue, their attention still fixated on you throughout its entirety. Watching the organ's motions further stirs the boiling desire in your groin. The Harbinger never fails to tempt you, provoking a visceral reaction from you with just the minutest gesture.

They must know. They must know how deeply influenced you are by them. You make your allure to them unmistakable, their actions signify their awareness, and they use this to further taunt you, to further bait you into their trap. For what reason, you're not privy to, but they prey upon your desire for them, stringing you along on for their entertainment. Are they aware that this game is comparable to torture to you? Like dangling fresh greens in front of a dying, starved lamb, your ache is palpable to only you. To long for something that you cannot. It is tormenting and demeaning, though maybe that is suitable for a monster.

A devil in the guise of an angel truly. Maybe they are purely enjoying your suffering, knowing that your every action can only be done by their whim. You have fallen in their hands, utterly dependent and reliant on them but no less grateful. A deceived sheep in the claws of a cackling wolf. It is a game to them, you are just a toy, and you would be foolish to think otherwise. So expectedly cruel, and yet it crushes your heart. You are tired of the charades, of your affections hardly acknowledged and no doubt unreciprocated, and you are tired of how their presence plagues your thoughts entirely. They are eager to use you just as they had always wanted, a ‘doll,’ something willing to twist and bend to their desires.

You wish that you are more than just a doll. That your skin is not made of plastic, that your limbs are not so manipulatable, that the attire that you wear cannot be so easily altered based on the spontaneous desires of someone else. You do not want to take only what you've been given. Is it hopeless, brazen, to want more despite your place? Does it make you nothing more than simple-minded and naive, to wish that their touch expressed beyond the voraciousness and obscenity?

“Did you enjoy it?” Arlecchino pries you away from your thoughts, and you flick your eyes towards them. Blinking, you finally recall the context, and fumble with your words.

“Ah, uh, yes,” you stammer, forcing a small smile, berating yourself for your blundering response. “The lobster was great. Thank you so much, Sir.”

Their pupils still remain on you, hardened with their usual frigid gaze. “Then why do you appear so downcast? Is the meal not to your liking? I will make sure the chefs prepare something else for you.”

Your blood freezes and you go wide-eyed. Of course, they would notice your absent-mindedness, you have still yet controlled your emotions. Reprimanding yourself internally, the desire to scream out boils within you, like a pot that threatens to boil over–you want to exclaim that they are the reason you are like this, why you are in a constant state of conflict and anguish, why your heart can never rest when their presence is near. Instead, you find your throat caught in a trap, preventing any words from escaping, and any voice you try to grapple slips through your fingers. The very notion of requesting for more is insolent; had they not provided you enough? Ingrate is what you would be if you vocalize anything.

Shaking your head, you reply with, “No, it's okay. There was nothing wrong with my meal. I was just preoccupied with my thoughts for a little bit, I apologize, sir.”

“Please inform me what it was that was entertaining you for so long.” The implore leaves their lips as they tilt their head, propping their elbow against the table and leaning their cheek into their palm. Their attention is utterly consumed by you.

Your lip quivers. So many unspokens lay on your tongue, awaiting for an emergence that never comes. ‘You’ is the most dire utterance, but you bite your tongue and purse your lips. Flitting your eyes down to your finished plate, you avoid their boring gaze which drills right through your skull, and manage to note your arms, which are dotted with the occasional burn scar–courtesy of the more unsavory customers–an agonizing momento of how filthy you are, sullied by many before. How you could compare to a doll is unfathomable to you. A doll's skin is not tainted, marked with signs of impurities. Even their touch, as angelic as it, could not cleanse your surface, why would they dare engage with you?

“Trivial matters, sir,” you respond with, unable to admit the snaking insecurity up your spine, that would only have them throw you away. You gather that insecurity had no place in the Harbinger's home, that needless feelings were to be disposed of immediately. Searching their features at any hint of persuasion, their blank stare offers nothing to you. The mafia leader picks up their glass of wine, lifting it up to their lips for a sip.

The, the glass is placed firmly on the wooden surface of the table, accompanied by a loud thud, the abruptness causing you to flinch back; your entire form taut as every fiber in your being tightens, your heart rate reverberates in your eardrums, and a cold shiver sneaks over your back.

“Do you take me as someone so easily deceived?” They demanded, their voice instilled with cutting authority, sharper than any knife as it stabs into your gut. The lit fury in their eyes is enough to make you recoil in your seat, shrinking into yourself as if you could become small enough to disappear, and underneath their scrutiny that is all you want to do. You tore your eyes away from them, the weight of their burning stare unbearable, almost with the intention of cremating you in the very chair. A part of you wishes that were the case, if only to flee from the crisis you are now a part of, only caused by your idiocy.

The Fatui Harbinger, for how generous they've been to you, is no less deadly, and perhaps you’ve had a healthy dosage of dismissing apparent hazards when it comes to them. Whether it be due to Arlecchino's unique charm and ambiguous benevolence, or your stubborn child-like innocence–the one that still yearns for affection and company in a cruel world–that refuses to yield, subconsciously, you knew that you would never truly be safe. No amount of self-delusion masked by wishful thinking could ever make that fruition, it will not erase the fact that your life balances on the careful palms of an awaiting wolf, whose intentions are mysterious. Nonetheless, this moment creates a no more nauseating moment that strikes your gut and fills your head with a haziness that is as oppressive as it is harrowing.

You hardly believe that you can lie once more–for all that you are aware of, Arlecchino may punish you with your death for disobeying–though with the imminent danger you’re still conflicted. You wanted to drown your fondness for them in the sea of your consciousness, anchor the hefty mass so that it could never resurface, no matter how much it struggles to swim. Complying with the mafia leader's demand means plunging your hands into the water and unlocking the chains, letting the emotions swim beyond your reach and leaving you stranded in the midst of riptides and storms. If it meant many more years without turbulent waters, then you'd never unchain them, because that is the only way to stay afloat.

But dying due to the fear of rejection is truly a pathetic way to go, even to the likes of your already pathetic existence, isn't it? You’d like to pride yourself as above those standards, at the very least. However, unveiling your naive attachment to them is unfavorable. Whatever may come from defiance, you are not sure it is worth condemning yourself to, not for someone seemingly as volatile as they are.

Perhaps you could still spare your buried endearment as well–twist and mangle your words until what the Fourth Harbinger knew was only the mishap-twin of the authentic version. Let them misinterpret and craft their own figment to be as far-fetched yet close from the truth as possible. Paint over and ornament your hopeless ardor until it is unrecognizable to the artist and only that. Half-truths and omission sculpted into something believable in the eyes of Arlecchino.

“You,” you declare simply, looking up back at them with a poor imitation of their repose. “It was you, Sir.”

Arlecchino stews in silence, although not visibly, you could presume that they have some amount of shock from your words, and the questions in their head. Their eyes darkened slightly, like dark abysses preparing to consume you whole if you so much as misstep once.

“For what reason?”

Gulping considerably, you pull together your resolve and start. You look up to meet their steady gaze. “A quality doll requires proper care and maintenance right? Like when you said that a quality doll needed a fitting dollhouse.”

Their hand reaches for their wine glass again.“Yes, that is true.”

“But a quality doll is wasted if it is not played with properly.”

Arlecchino breaks away their stare to intake their wine, a longer sip than their usual. “Are you implying that you are not satisfied with my treatment, Doll?”

“No. No, I am not satisfied.” You wince at your direct response, but you are not left with any other option–you can only pray that Arlecchino doesn’t take offense to it.

“Greedy,” the Harbinger remarks as they place down the drink. “But perhaps there is some merit to it. You are right: It is my responsibility to take care of my things and it seems that I've been neglecting you.”

They flit their eyes to your plate. “Are you finished eating?”

“Ah, yes?” You stumble over your words, a bit on edge now that their inquiry implied they had more in plan with you. It is not out of the question, though typically when they did invite you to meals like this, they would dismiss you to do what you wish afterwards, sending you away with a drawn out kiss. You're yet able to know what to make of your current situation. It required little words to gain what you wanted from the Haringer: more attentive treatment from them without the implication of your desires, so easily accepted by them. Maybe then, you wishfully

They rise from their chair, removing their reading glasses and setting it on the surface of the desk. Strangely enough, they take their wine with them.

“Sir?” You question as your eyes follow their movement. They maneuver around their desk, heading towards the door.

“Follow,” they state, though there is no real urgency or demand for it, more like a suggestion. They turn their head over their shoulder, examining you–testing you, you guess–and how could you deny? You trial them after them, with an enthusiasm which you hate having to compare that to an anxious puppy. The two of you exit the office, and you’re guided to an adjacent room, this one you've never been to before, nor has ever seen its content. Since your time here, it's remained secured and you've yet seen a single soul enter.

You're not quite sure what you expect when Arlecchino leads you inside but it certainly is not a bedroom. Nonetheless, that is what is presented to you. Simultaneously sleek and modest, adorned in splashes of black, red, and white–a color palette you associate with just one individual–it is the epitome of sophistication without bordering on extravagance and a starking reminder of the presence beside you.

For some reason, it never occurred to you that Arlecchino necessitated slumber. Perhaps since you've always considered them something else entirely, something beyond human, you feel what borders on astonishment with the discovery that, indeed, the Fourth Harbinger does sleep. To say that it humanized them in your eyes is a stretch, but it is a signifier that they are not as infallible and unfeasible as you believe.

The implications of being guided to their bedroom, however, also creates havoc among your thoughts, and your ears all but physically singe from your mortification. Vulgar fantasies invade your mind, with images of your nude body tangled together in the satin gray sheets with varying positions. Your heart, the fickle and persistent thing that is pulipates again, pumping through your ears. The setting only enforces your wanton imagination, exacerbating its control over your mind. The delusions become not just visual, but auditory and haptic too–their whispered, husky voice murmuring sweet promises in your ear as their nails trail lower and lower from your stomach, their fingers exploring uncharted territory.

Choosing that the best course of action would be to ignore the astir depravities, you instead propose a question to the mafia member as they allow you to enter the chamber first.

“This is… your bedroom, my Lord?” you question anxiously, taking the time to observe the room as the Fourth Harbinger enters behind you. “How come you've brought me here?”

“I am not fond of letting blunders remain as it is for long, less of all those that are my own fault,” Arlecchino answers, the shutting of the door momentarily interrupting them. “If it can be helped, oversights must be corrected immediately. Let problems fester for too long, and they may grow beyond my control.”

You note that it's a rather vague response. As you turn around to further confront them, there is the sudden and firm tug of your arm, and far quicker than your mind can comprehend, you're whirled around and pressed against the surface behind you. You suck in harshly from the rapid movement and an arm besides one side of your head locks you in your place, sandwiched between the door and Arlecchino with no exit available.

Flaring crimson irises meet your vision, inky pits brimming with what could only be described as a fervor drill into you. Wildly, your heartbeat thuds against your ribcage, your breath effectively robbed by the towering being before you. Below your skin, exhilaration floods through your veins, spreading the incessant heat through your entire form, most especially to your loins. Their hot breath skims across your inflamed cheeks, and their lips only stray a few centimeters from yours.

Involuntarily, your focus darts to their enticing mouth, which tastes like the finest of wine–so extraordinarily sweet that it is intoxicating. A flavor that keeps drawing you in, making you an alcoholic as you drink yourself dizzy from a sip, then another. And you would do anything for just another sample. You want Arlecchino to consume your entirety, your taste buds, your consciousness, your senses, surrender every part of you if it means gaining the most miniscule pieces of themselves. A plea rests on your tongue and in your wide, crinkled eyes you make your intentions clear.

Wordlessly, you beg for them to devour you like the monster that they are. Lure you in with their touch again, which they know burns every single rational thought away and spreads a relish that feels like a religious blessing. Take you, if only for a single second, because a second will always be sufficient enough until the next, when you cannot help but wish for it sooner.

“Do you desire me?” They speak, as if the answer is not apparent. As if the evidence is not in your trembling body, bristling with elation, or in your needy hands, which all but reach out to grasp them closer. As if they are not aware of the effects of their numerous taunts, how they fluster you enough to force you to glance away or stumble over your speech. They are aware of it as well as you are and it is with this that you realize the insinuation of their question, and this understanding is what evokes the hitching of your breath. They ask for confirmation, for approval–for consent.

“Yes,” you answer breathlessly, no need to expend more words for something so simple. How else could you answer otherwise?

Arlecchino does not grant you the kiss you so very much desire. Instead, they maneuver one of the arms propped against your head, their hand cups your chin with a tenderness so unlike them, and their thumb grazes over your bottom lip. Their gaze becomes entranced, fixated on your mouth.

“Given your past employment, I was under the assumption that any gesture more sensual would unease you. For that reason, I was hesitant to initiate more. After all, nothing is more unpleasant than an unwilling toy, who does not desire to be played with. My oversight, however, has affected you adversely, which I hope to fix currently.”

Flicking their hardened stare to your eyes again, they add, “If you will allow me.”

Stupefaction befalls upon you, your mouth parts as you grasp onto the new information. If their words are true, then it means that your attraction to them is mutual, not one-sided, and their established distance was out of consideration for you. The thought is more than enough to spark giddiness within you. The Harbinger may not be so inaccessible as you previously thought, perhaps your affections could reach them.

They hardly seem so monstrous as they did three weeks ago. Maybe they never were one to begin with. Your elated-addled brain can hardly produce a coherent string of thoughts, leaving you to only feebly nod.

That is enough as a response for Arlecchino as they descend upon you, slotting their lips over yours in a way that can only be described as perfection. Their lips drains you of your oxygen, but were you capable of it, you would allow them to steal every part of you with their perfect mouth. The succulent flavor of them remains constant, delectable as they were on the first night you met the Harbinger, and even after the numerous kisses you've shared, they are just as intoxicating. You briefly wonder if you're only drunk off of their taste because of the taste of aged wine still abundant on their lips. Arlecchino swallows you up into an eternal riptide of their taste, and you willingly drown, surrendering the rest of your senses to delight in this.

This is the type of sensation that comes from dancing around a demon, the sort of feeling that makes such heartache involving the fallen angel all the more worthwhile yet agonizing; it serves to only lure you further in its trap that you can't fathom escaping from. Now, your body buzzing with an elation that can't be matched by another, all you can wonder is how you've been able to live this long without this very gesture that breathes back life through your veins and makes your heart swell with vitality. With this, you believe this is the pinnacle of your life–no other experience that can quite enrapture you like this–a phantom ache finally filled, finally whole.

Half-lidded eyes with crimson x's lock on yours, and you think you may have rediscovered your favorite color.

You lift your arms over their shoulders and fold them behind the mafia leader, locking them in place. With a gentle tug forward with your arms, they lean deeper into your kiss, and a deep grunt rumbles through their chest, inducing goosebumps over your skin. Meanwhile, your fingers card through their silky, snow-colored strands, tugging lightly as you moan softly against their lips. Something warm settles on your right cheek, cupping that side of your face delicately.

The rough texture of their tongue presses against your lips, before their lips latch onto your bottom one. They suckle with such a gingerness you forget about the depraved hunger behind their x-pupils, a plea for permission, for entry which you allow instantly. You part your mouth. With a fevered haste, their tongue slips into your orifice, and you let out a throaty groan. It invokes a rumbling through their throat, a sound that must have belonged from seraphs. They urge on, exploring the contours of your mouth with the intent of diligently memorizing the relish and texture. Committed to familiarizing themselves with every crevice and curve, they scrape their tongue against yours, before prodding gently deeper, grazing the roof of your mouth.

In turn, you playfully drive your tongue forward, caressing against the bottom of their flexible organ. A pleased hum resounds through them, the reverberation making you shudder delightfully. Your body feels like it's being swarmed with an oppressive heat, willpower and sanity suffocating under the mafia leader's every action, and every thought replaced with the stabbing desire that courses through your veins. Every second that they linger, an invisible string tugs you towards their direction with the lightest pressure, and you’re once more in their neatly filed claws.

Is it really sending a lamb to the slaughter when the lamb is willing, or when the wolf is so inviting?

The lack of swelter is palpable once they suddenly break away, and you realize belatedly the lack of air in your lungs. You heave for air, and Arlecchino does the same, every brief exhale tickling your cheeks. Silence, save for your rapid breathing, fills the room, but the mutual eye contact says more than enough between you two.

“Do you want to…?” The Harbinger inquires, their words halting into a tense silence, vigilantly examining your features.

“Please,” is all you could whisper out, as if that very word carried your entire soul with it, and the singular murmur shatters the being before you. Just a second ago, what stood before you was a person of authority and restraint. Arlecchino was esteemed among the Harbingers, a mortal representation of poise and dignity. Never before has their composure faltered, not to any enemy or ally; there’s yet been an instance that the mafia’s leader's repose was weakened. However, you have always been an anomaly.

Their crimson pupils pierce into you, as their hands linger beneath your hips.

“You truly will be the death of me.”

---

Reference for Arlecchino in the second half.

Smut will be in part 3.

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