#polish people you are beasts

[flionp]

I have never seen so many fireworks in one place

[oceandolores]

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 | chapter I

General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

"in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."

summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.

Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.

warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Loss of virginity, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story

Chapter I

masterlist!

next | chapter II

The palace is alive with preparation, a beast of marble and gold that never rests. Its veins are the labyrinthine halls, pulsing with servants like you, carrying trays of delicacies, wreaths of flowers, and jugs of wine.

Its heart beats to the rhythm of whispered orders, clinking metal, and the distant echo of the marketplace beyond its gates. Tonight, the beast awakens for another feast.

You adjust the folds of your simple tunic, careful not to brush against the elaborate tapestries that line the walls. Each thread tells a story of conquest, glory, and power—legends you’ve only heard murmured by those old enough to remember.

You are not part of those tales, nor their lineage. You are a servant, a shadow cast by the towering figures who walk these halls.

The kitchen is a tempest. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet figs. Claudia, the head cook, barks orders, her voice slicing through the chaos like the edge of a Roman gladius.

You pass her with a nod, your arms laden with trays of fruit—gleaming apples, plump grapes, the kind of bounty the common people outside these walls could only dream of.

Livia catches your eye from across the room. Her presence is a steady anchor in the storm, her face worn but kind.

“Have you checked the wine?” she asks, her tone soft but urgent.

You nod. “It’s ready, Mother,” you reply, the word slipping out as naturally as breath.

She is not your mother—you know this much—but she is all you have.

The story of how you came to be here is one you’ve heard countless times: a baby abandoned at the servants' chamber door, cradled in a basket of woven reeds, with nothing to mark your origin save for a scrap of fine cloth that no one in your station would dare to own.

Livia found you there, swaddled in whispers of mystery, and against all odds, she chose to keep you.

Raised among the laboring hands of the palace, you were given no privilege beyond survival and no legacy but that of work.

The great marble halls and gilded frescoes became your entire world, a place as eternal and unmoving as the gods themselves—or so it seemed.

The servants’ quarters where you lived were nestled in the hidden bowels of the palace, far from the glittering feasts and marble statues.

You learned to scrub floors and pour wine long before you understood the language of wealth and power that filled these walls.

Your life had been carved out in the shadows, molded by the soft voices and calloused hands of those who raised you.

Today, like every other, begins in service to Rome's ever-churning hunger for spectacle.

The air hums with anticipation, thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, a stark contrast to the stench of poverty that lingers just beyond the palace gates.

“Are the platters for the atrium ready?” Livia’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“They are,” you reply, glancing at the polished silver laden with grapes and apples, their skins shining like jewels under the torchlight.

“Good.” Livia’s sharp eyes soften, though her expression remains tense. “Take the fruit out yourself. And stay close to the kitchen. Today will bring trouble, I feel it.”

You nod, understanding the weight of her instincts. Years of serving in the palace have taught her to sense the storm before it strikes.

As you lift the platters, Claudia, calls over her daughter, Alexandra.

“Go with her,” Claudia orders, waving a ladle for emphasis.

Alexandra groans dramatically but obeys, rolling her eyes as she grabs one of the platters.

“She can’t let me rest for a moment,” she mutters, her tone more amused than annoyed.

You chuckle softly. Alexandra has always been like this—bold where you are cautious, quick to speak where you stay silent.

She is your only true companion here, older by four years and infinitely more daring.

As you and Alexandra arrange the fruits on a grand table in the atrium, she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “The Princess will be here tonight.”

You nod absently, focused on ensuring the grapes cascade just so. “Of course, she will. She is the Princess after all.”

“No, I mean, I haven’t seen her in years,” Alexandra continues, ignoring your tone. “Not since I was a kid. That was ten years ago. You know she moved out of the palace after marrying the general.”

You don’t reply immediately, your hands steady as you arrange the fruit. Alexandra has always loved to gossip, but you prefer to keep your thoughts unspoken.

“Can you believe it’s been ten years, and she hasn’t had a child? Not one with him,” Alexandra muses.

“Maybe it’s their choice,” you say quietly. “It’s not our place to wonder.”

Alexandra scoffs lightly. “I’m just saying, after her son—what was his name? Lucius?—after he was taken and killed by her brother, Commodus…” She trails off, her voice tinged with something between pity and fascination.

You remember Lucius vaguely, a boy with a quiet demeanor and a sad smile.

You were too young then to understand the weight of his loss, but the servants whispered of curses and tragedies surrounding the imperial family.

“It’s not good to talk about the great emperors like that,” you murmur, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Before Alexandra can reply, the sound of heavy boots echoes through the atrium.

The guards step forward, their polished armor glinting in the firelight. “Make way for their majesties,” one announces, his voice carrying over the growing murmur of the guests.

You and Alexandra immediately bow your heads, the platters forgotten as the twin emperors enter the room.

Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla are a study in contrasts.

Geta, an imposing figure, commands the space with a cold and calculating gaze. His every step seems deliberate, as if the weight of the empire rests on his shoulders alone.

Caracalla, by contrast, walks with an erratic energy, his pet monkey perched on his shoulder. Dondus, the creature’s name, chatters and hisses, a mirror of its master’s unpredictable moods.

You feel the weight of their gazes as they sweep the room. Geta’s lips curl into a smile—or is it a smirk?—as his eyes linger on Alexandra.

There have been whispers, rumors of an affair, though Alexandra denies them with a laugh.

Caracalla’s gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his expression softens. Unlike his brother, he has always been strange but oddly kind to you.

When you were a child, he would find you in the halls, offering you small trinkets or asking you to keep him company.

“Your Majesties,” Alexandra says again, her voice like honeyed wine, sweet but strong.

She curtsies with practiced ease, her eyes cast downward, yet her boldness hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.

You follow her lead, bowing deeply, but your heart pounds in your chest like the war drums of a distant legion. In the presence of the emperors, the room feels smaller, the air heavier.

To serve Rome, you think, is to breathe in the will of its rulers, no matter how suffocating.

Geta's gaze lingers on Alexandra, traveling from her head to her feet, as though she were a statue he might commission or a possession he already owns.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgence that unsettles you.

“Alexandra,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished bronze. “Why do I find the table half-dressed? Are my guests to dine on the promise of fruit alone?”

You glance at the platters, perfectly arranged but not yet fully adorned with the remaining dishes. Your pulse quickens; you know the punishment for displeasing the emperors can be swift, unpredictable.

But Alexandra, bold as always, doesn’t flinch.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” she says, her tone measured yet edged with defiance. “The final trays are being brought out as we speak. The delay was unforeseen.”

Geta arches a brow, his smirk turning sharper, more dangerous. “Unforeseen,” he repeats, as though savoring the word.

“I wonder, Alexandra, if you’ve grown too accustomed to... distractions.”

You know the meaning behind his words. Everyone does.

The whispered rumors of their affair swirl through the palace like incense smoke, clinging to every corner.

Her mother Claudia knows, though she turns a blind eye, perhaps thinking it wiser not to provoke the wrath of an emperor.

Beside him, Caracalla shifts, uninterested in the exchange. His pet monkey, Dondus, chitters softly on his shoulder, its small, beady eyes scanning the room.

Caracalla’s gaze falls on you briefly, but it is not unkind. He has always been more erratic than cruel with you, there is a peculiar understanding in his glances—a shared knowledge of solitude.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” you say suddenly, your voice trembling like a bird caught in a net. The words tumble out before you can stop them, and the weight of the room shifts.

Geta’s eyes snap to you, sharp as a blade. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake.

But then he laughs—a low, indulgent sound that sends shivers down your spine.

“Ah,” he says, leaning slightly toward you. “The little dove finds her voice. How curious.”

You stiffen under his gaze, your knees threatening to buckle. It feels as though he is peeling back your very skin, seeking something hidden beneath.

“You’re the youngest servant here, aren’t you?” Geta muses, his tone light but with an edge that cuts.

“A curious creature, so quiet and unassuming. And yet…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing, as if piecing together a puzzle.

The weight of unspoken rumors presses against your chest.

The whispers about your lineage, the murmurs that you are more than a servant—that you are the illegitimate daughter of Commodus himself, a shadow of Rome’s bloody past.

You’ve heard them before, though never directly. Livia, your steadfast mother in all but blood, dismisses them as lies, the gossip of bored tongues.

But in moments like this, when Geta’s piercing gaze locks onto yours, it feels as though the marble walls around you whisper secrets only they can hold.

Secrets of your origin, of what blood may or may not flow through your veins, encased in the silent austerity of Rome’s cold embrace. You feel the weight of it, a shroud both invisible and suffocating.

Geta doesn’t believe the rumors entirely, but he cannot ignore them either. To him, you are a thorn he cannot pluck without proof.

If the whispers are true, if you are indeed the hidden scion of Commodus and the only living grandchild of Marcus Aurelius, you would be a danger to his rule.

Rome, after all, has loved its Aurelius lineage fiercely.

The plebeians would rally to your name like vines twisting toward sunlight.

Still, no woman has ever ruled Rome.

The Senate, the soldiers, and the gods themselves would balk at such a notion. But Geta knows that power is not always rooted in precedent—it is rooted in the hearts of the people.

And the people would love a descendant of Marcus Aurelius far more than they could ever love him.

“You wear the palace well,” Geta says finally, his tone dripping with mockery. “A little too well, perhaps.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks but keep your gaze respectfully lowered. His words are like serpents coiling around you, their venom lying just beneath the surface.

Caracalla hums softly, breaking the tension. He strokes Dondus, the little monkey perched on his shoulder, as though soothing himself rather than the animal.

“Leave her, brother,” he mutters, his tone flat but carrying weight. “You scare the child.”

Geta casts his twin a glance, his smirk briefly faltering. With that, he straightens, clapping his hands once in finality. “Finish the table,” he commands, the sharpness of his tone slicing through the room.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” you and Alexandra reply in unison, bowing deeply as the emperors turn and walk away.

Their robes ripple like molten gold, catching the light as though the gods themselves had woven the fabric.

The moment they are gone, you exhale shakily, the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slipping from your lips.

The grandeur of the palace, so often a thing of wonder, now feels oppressive—a prison of marble and ambition.

Alexandra nudges you gently, her smile faint but reassuring. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, though the tightness in her voice betrays her unease.

You nod and return to your work, the routine motions of arranging platters grounding you once more. But the unease lingers, like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.

Later, after the feast preparations are complete, you retreat to the servants’ quarters. The hallways grow quieter as the palace begins to prepare for the night’s debauchery.

Your mother, Livia, finds you there, her expression tight with concern.

“Are you all right?” You nod quickly, not wanting to worry her further.

Livia’s sharp eyes search yours for a moment before she exhales heavily. “Stay away from them tonight,” she warns. “There will be soldiers, senators, politicians—men who think they own the world. And women and men from the brothels to entertain them. It will not be a place for a child like you.”

“I understand,” you say softly, though the thought of the gathering makes your skin prickle.

"Go to your chamber and stay there.” You nod, obedient as always, and Livia cups your face briefly before bustling away.

But as you walk toward your chamber, the stillness of the afternoon draws you elsewhere.

***

The sun bathes the palace gardens in a golden light, soft and warm, like an embrace from the gods themselves.

The sky is a flawless stretch of azure, and the air carries the faintest scent of blooming jasmine.

Unable to resist, you veer toward the gardens, seeking solace in their quiet beauty.

You make your way to the small pond at the edge of the grounds, where the world feels simpler, untouched by the weight of marble columns and imperial decrees.

This is your sanctuary, a place you’ve tended with your own hands.

The hedges are trimmed neatly, the flowers arranged in bursts of vibrant color—crimson roses, golden marigolds, and pale violets that seem to glow in the sunlight.

The pond reflects the sky like polished glass, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.

You settle onto the cool stone bench nearby, pulling out a small parchment and charcoal.

Writing has always been your escape, a way to make sense of the labyrinth that is your mind.

The words flow from you like water from a spring, each line capturing fragments of your thoughts and fears.

To live in the shadow of gods is to forget the warmth of the sun.

You stare at the words you’ve written, sentences about Rome and its people, the empire’s endless hunger that devours the poor while the rulers gorge themselves on the spoils.

It isn’t rebellion that drives you—at least, not yet—but a quiet, gnawing sense of wrongness.

You have lived your entire life within the confines of this palace, its gilded walls both a sanctuary and a prison.

Outside, beyond the Forum and its grand marble temples, the streets of Rome teem with despair. You’ve seen it, fleeting glimpses on the rare occasions you ventured beyond the palace gates.

Children with hollow eyes and grime-streaked faces.

Men broken by war or taxation, their shoulders bowed under invisible yokes.

Women clutching bundles of rags that you realized, with a sick lurch, were infants too still to be alive.

These thoughts weigh heavily on you as you sit by the pond, the garden’s beauty unable to shield you from the world’s harsh truths.

You lower your quill, pressing trembling fingers to your lips, when the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you sharply from your thoughts.

You stiffen, the air in your lungs turning to stone. It isn’t one of the servants; their steps are lighter, quicker.

This tread is deliberate, measured, carrying a weight of authority. When you glance up, your breath catches.

The man before you is not adorned with the opulence of the Senate nor the ostentatious silk of the emperors.

You know who he is. How could you not?

General Marcus Acacius.

Rome��s shield and sword, the hero of distant campaigns whose name is whispered with both reverence and fear.

You have never seen him in the flesh, for he seldom resides in the palace, choosing instead to live with Princess Lucilla far from its labyrinth of intrigue.

But his likeness is everywhere: etched in marble statues, painted in frescoes, immortalized as Rome’s protector.

Yet, here he stands, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if the gods themselves have sent him.

The crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders glints faintly in the golden light, its hem embroidered with intricate patterns that seem to tell the story of the empire’s conquests.

His tunic, simple yet stately, is cinched with a polished belt, a gleaming buckle bearing the proud insignia of the wolf of Rome.

Unlike the ornamental decadence of the Senate or the twin emperors, his attire speaks of purpose and practicality—beauty tempered by utility.

And his face—by Jupiter, his beautiful face.

It is a map of victories and sacrifices, weathered yet noble. The lines carved by years of sun and battle only enhance the sharpness of his features, as if the gods had personally molded him for their own designs.

His hair, dark and streaked with silver like the gleam of moonlight on a blade, curls faintly at his temples.

His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a mouth set in the hard line of a man who has spoken a thousand commands and swallowed a thousand regrets.

But it is his eyes that strike you most: deep, piercing, soulful-brown eyes.

They are the eyes of a man who has seen the best and worst of humanity and bears the weight of both.

Your breath catches as his gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sight of a young servant clutching a parchment like a shield.

He regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze, his eyes like iron tempered in fire—unyielding yet reflective.

His presence is commanding, a gravity that draws everything into its orbit. You are struck by how different he is from the emperors.

Where Geta and Caracalla exude indulgence and cruelty, Acacius carries himself with the disciplined grace of a man who has known the weight of true responsibility.

“Not many choose the gardens for their thoughts,” he says, his voice deep, steady, and tinged with curiosity.

It is a soldier’s voice, devoid of the honeyed pretense of courtiers.

You scramble to your feet, clutching your parchment to your chest. “General,” you manage, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

He raises a hand, the gesture more commanding than any shout. “At ease,” he says, a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his face. “You are Livia's daughter?"

His question hangs in the air like the distant clang of a bell. You nodded, your name feels small in your mouth when you finally say it, barely audible against the rustling of the garden’s leaves.

Acacius nods, as though filing the information away. His eyes flick to the parchment in your hands. “A poet?”

You hesitate, “I... I write, sometimes. Thoughts.”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely grounding. He does not reach for the parchment, but his gaze lingers on it as though he could read its contents by sheer will alone.

“Thoughts on Rome, perhaps?” he asks.

His tone is even, but there is an edge to it, a subtle weight that suggests he already knows the answer.

Your throat tightens. To speak of the empire’s flaws to a general of its armies feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

Yet something in his bearing—a quiet patience, a restrained curiosity—compels you to answer honestly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “About Rome. And its people.”

Acacius’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a shadow crossing his face. He looks away, toward the pond, his gaze distant now, as if seeing not the still water but something far beyond it.

“The people,” he repeats, almost to himself. “The heart of Rome. And yet, the heart is always the first to be sacrificed.”

The words are spoken quietly, but they carry the weight of experience, of battles fought not just with swords but with conscience.

You watch him, your earlier fear now replaced by a cautious curiosity.

"Do you... believe that?" you venture, your voice barely above a whisper, the words trembling like a fledgling bird daring its first flight.

Marcus halts, his crimson cloak swaying like the banner of a legion stilled in the wind.

He turns to you, his eyes—sharp as a polished gladius—softening for the briefest moment, as if your question has reached a part of him long buried under layers of duty and steel.

“Belief,” he begins, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who has lived lifetimes in service to an empire, “is a luxury in the life of a soldier. I deal in action, not faith. But I have seen enough to know that Rome’s strength lies not in its emperors, but in its people. And we are failing them.”

The honesty in his words strikes you like the tolling of a great bronze bell, reverberating through the quiet garden and deep into your chest.

It is not what you expected from a man like him—a hero to some, a sword-arm to the empire—but here he stands, speaking not as a general but as a man, his voice laced with something unguarded. Regret, perhaps. Or hope—fragile and faint, but alive nonetheless.

“Do you believe in Rome, little one?” His question falls like a stone into still waters, and you startle, unprepared to have the conversation turned toward you.

“I—” Your words falter, and you look down at your hands, clutching the parchment that now feels like an accusation.

But then, something inside you stirs—something that refuses to shrink back beneath the weight of his gaze.

You lift your eyes to meet his, the courage in your chest kindled like a flame drawn from embers.

“I believe in what Rome could be,” you reply, your voice steadier now.

“I believe in the Rome that lives in the hearts of its people—the ones who work its fields, who build its roads, who kneel at its altars not out of fear, but out of love. That is the Rome worth fighting for. But the Rome I see now…” Your throat tightens, but you press on.

“...has forgotten its people. It worships marble statues and golden coins while the streets crumble and the people starve. How can an empire endure when its foundation is so neglected?”

Your words spill forth, unchecked and unmeasured, and it is only when you see the faintest flicker of something in his expression—respect, perhaps, or surprise—that you remember who stands before you.

The weight of your boldness sinks in like a gladiator realizing they’ve overstepped in the arena.

“Forgive me, General,” you murmur, lowering your gaze. “I forgot myself.”

But Marcus shakes his head, a wry smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Do not apologize,” he says, his tone gentler now, though no less commanding.

“You are young, but your words carry the wisdom of one who has not yet been corrupted by power. Few speak with such clarity, and fewer still with such courage.”

His gaze lingers on you, searching, and you feel it like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

“You remind me,” he says, his voice quieter, almost reverent, “of someone. He believed, as you do, in the strength of Rome’s people. He would sit in gardens much like this one, speaking of justice and duty, and wonder aloud whether the empire could ever live up to its ideals.”

Your heart quickens, the weight of his words settling over you like the cloak of a goddess.

The way Marcus looks at you—as though he sees not the servant, but the soul beneath—makes you feel for a fleeting moment.

“I am no philosopher,” you say softly, your fingers tightening on the parchment. “But it is hard to remain silent when I see so much suffering.”

“A Roman citizen has every right to speak of their empire’s failings,” he says, stepping closer now.

“Do not mistake me for a politician, child. I am a soldier. My loyalty is to Rome—not to the men who rule it."

You nod, the words settling over you like a cloak woven of both gravity and reassurance.

The air between you feels charged, alive with the kind of understanding that is rarely spoken but deeply felt.

You watch him, his form cast in the golden hues of the setting sun, the crimson of his cloak vivid against the muted greens of the garden.

There is something about him that draws you—not merely his reputation, not the legends whispered in the palace halls of his valor and victories, but him.

The man behind the titles and statues.

You swallow, your heart a restless bird in your chest. You should not linger, not with him, not now.

And yet, you find yourself unable to walk away.

Words rise to your lips, hesitant at first, but then they spill forth, tentative and careful, like a child offering a wildflower to a god.

“Forgive me, my lord, but shouldn’t you be inside?” you say, your voice trembling under the weight of its boldness. “The palace is bustling with your celebration—wishing you fortune for your campaign, for Rome’s glory.”

He turns his gaze to you, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Rome’s glory,” he repeats, as though tasting the phrase on his tongue, finding it bitter.

He lets out a soft chuckle, low and warm, a sound that feels oddly out of place amidst the solemn grandeur of the garden. “Let them feast. Let them toast. I’ve no appetite for gilded words tonight.”

You blink, surprised by his candor. He is not what you imagined—not the marble statue immortalized in the Forum or the hardened general whose name echoes in the chants of soldiers. He is… more human than that.

“I’m waiting for my wife,” he adds, his tone casual, though his eyes seem to linger on you as if measuring your reaction.

Princess Lucilla.

The name hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of legend. Rome’s Princess. The only daughter of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor. You’ve never met her, though her shadow looms large over your life.

“She was delayed,” he continues, glancing toward the palace, though his stance is relaxed, unhurried.

Princess Lucilla, her legend precedes her, a name spoken with reverence, and sometimes, in hushed tones, with fear.

Your mother, Livia, has served her since she was but a girl.

Livia, who moves through the world with a quiet dignity, has always spoken of the princess with unwavering loyalty. “She carries Rome on her shoulders,” your mother would say, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “The weight of a crown rests on her brow, even though it does not sit there.”

Your thoughts drift, but his voice pulls you back to the present.

“Your mother,” Marcus says, his tone shifting to something softer, more contemplative, “she’s a loyal servant to our household, isn’t she?”

You nod, feeling a strange warmth rise to your cheeks. “She is, my lord. My mother adores the princess. She always speaks highly of her.”

At this, Marcus smiles faintly. His expression, though guarded, carries a warmth that feels rare, as if he’s allowing himself a brief reprieve from his usual stoicism.

“Livia is wise, then. Lucilla is… more than most know. Rome sees her as Marcus Aurelius’ daughter, but to me—” He pauses, his voice lowering to something almost reverent.

“She is a woman of strength, far greater than any man I’ve known. Her loyalty to Rome and its people… it humbles me.”

For a fleeting moment, his mask of a hardened general slips, and you glimpse something deeper.

A man bound not just by duty but by love.

His words hang in the air, gilded with affection, and you feel a pang of longing, though for what, you cannot say.

“I’ve never met her,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

He turns to you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Lucilla?”

You nod, feeling suddenly self-conscious beneath his scrutiny. “I’ve only heard stories. My mother always told me about her strength, her grace. But we’ve never crossed paths.”

Marcus regards you for a long moment, as if seeing something in you he had not noticed before. “She would like you,” he says at last, his voice steady, though something lingers in his tone, a note of intrigue.

“Are you coming to the feast tonight?” he asks, the question catching you off guard.

You hesitate, glancing toward the palace where the distant hum of celebration filters through the evening air. “Servants are not permitted to attend such events, my lord,” you say, lowering your gaze. “I am only a servant after all,"

His brows furrow slightly, as if the answer displeases him. “Rome is built on the backs of those it calls servants. Do not diminish yourself.”

You blink, unsure of how to respond. There’s a weight in his words, one that feels both heavy and freeing.

Before he can say more, hurried footsteps echo through the garden. You turn, and there stands Alexandra, one of the palace attendants, her expression tight with worry.

“My lord,” she says, bowing her head quickly as her wide eyes catch sight of Marcus.

The respect is immediate, almost reflexive. General Acacius commands not just authority but admiration.

Men respect him, but women… they speak of him in hushed tones, a figure both distant and impossibly magnetic.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Alexandra continues, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze. “Your mother is looking for you,"

Marcus looks at you, his expression softening. He steps aside, the movement graceful despite his formidable frame, as though making room for your escape.

"Tell Livia my apologies for keeping her daughter here," he says, his voice low yet deliberate, as though each word is a promise carved in stone.

His gaze lingers on you, longer than it should, and it feels as though he is reading something beyond the surface—a map of your heart, perhaps, etched in the lines of your face.

For a moment, the world narrows to just this: the garden bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, the faint murmur of the distant feast, and the weight of his eyes, heavy yet strangely gentle.

There is something about you, his expression seems to say—something unspoken but undeniable.

You feel it too, a spark that flickers to life beneath the layers of duty, expectation, and fear.

“I’ll see you at the feast tonight,” he says, the words more a statement than an invitation, leaving little room for protest.

There is a finality to his tone, yet also a quiet insistence that stirs something within you.

Before you can respond, he dips his head ever so slightly—a gesture of respect, or perhaps acknowledgment—before turning and striding away, his crimson cloak flowing like a banner in his wake.

You bow reflexively, watching him disappear into the shadowed corridors of the palace, his figure swallowed by the grandeur of Rome itself.

Yet even as he leaves, his presence lingers, an echo in the air, a weight in your chest.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps fades, Alexandra is at your side, her face alight with barely contained awe.

“Was that… the general?” she whispers, her voice tinged with something between disbelief and reverence.

“Yes,” you reply, though your own voice feels distant, as though it belongs to someone else. Your thoughts are still tethered to the garden, to the quiet intensity of his gaze.

“By the gods,” she breathes, clutching your arm as though you might disappear. “He’s… he’s even more handsome up close.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Ale,” you chide gently, though there’s no malice in your words.

“I’ve heard so much about him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“About his loyalty to Maximus Decimus Meridius—the late general—and how he served under him during the great campaigns. They say he adored the princess even then. Some even whisper that his loyalty to Maximus was why he stayed so close to her after his death, marrying her to protect her.”

You glance at her, your brow furrowing slightly. “You know far too much for someone who spends their days in the laundry.”

She grins, unrepentant. “The laundry is where all the palace’s secrets come to dry.”

You shake your head, though her words gnaw at the edges of your mind.

You’ve heard the stories too, in bits and pieces from the older servants: tales of Lucilla’s love affair with Maximus, and Marcus’s steadfast devotion not only to his commander but to the empire itself.

A marriage born of loyalty, they say, not love. And yet, there’s something in the way Marcus spoke of Lucilla earlier that makes you wonder.

As Alexandra chatters on, her words a tide of gossip and speculation, your thoughts drift back to Marcus.

To the way he stood in the garden, his form framed by the soft glow of the setting sun. To the depth in his eyes, like wells carved by the gods themselves—deep enough to drown in, and yet you couldn’t look away.

You feel a strange restlessness in your chest, a stirring you can’t quite name. It isn’t admiration, nor fear, but something more complicated. Something heavier.

Marcus is unlike anyone you’ve ever known—unlike the indulgent senators with their honeyed words, unlike the cruel twin emperors whose laughter carries the sting of a whip.

He is a man of iron and fire, tempered by years of battle, yet beneath that hardened exterior lies something softer. Something… human.

And perhaps that’s what unsettles you most.

You’ve spent your life surrounded by women: your mother, Livia, with her quiet strength and unshakable loyalty; the other servants, who taught you to navigate the palace’s labyrinthine halls.

Men were distant figures, their power felt but never seen up close. Fathers, you’ve only heard about in stories—abstract concepts, not flesh and blood.

But Marcus is no abstraction.

He is real, tangible, a presence that feels larger than life yet undeniably mortal.

To see him, to feel him, is to glimpse a side of the world you’ve never known—a world shaped not by whispered orders or silent sacrifices, but by action, by conviction, by the weight of decisions made on the edge of a blade.

You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they cling to you like the scent of blooming jasmine in the garden. “It’s nothing,” you tell yourself, though your heart betrays you with its restless rhythm.

“Nothing at all,” you murmur, though even the words feel like a lie.

[aliyahwritings]

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (01)

MASTERLIST | Basketball Player & Model!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Warnings: smut, descriptions of violence, jealousy, usage of drugs, talks about body image/ed, angst, and lots of bickering. Reader is confident, a people-pleaser, has a traumatic past, and is a sunshine with an attitude. Rafe is a whore, possessive, cocky, and secretive about his past.

Word Count: 4.2k

Aliyah's Notes: this is my first series on here so go easy on me (#adele) pls + some things are not going to be obx canon ... at least some of yall are warned. anyw im so excited for this cause lord knows the amount of time ive wanted to make a fake dating fic!!!!!!! anyw i hope you all will enjoy this i had so much writing the first chapter

The clatter of high heels against the marble floor echoed in perfect sync with the ticking of your watch. Every step was deliberate, poised—just like your life had to be. Perfection, it seemed, was not a choice but a requirement for survival.

You adjusted your sunglasses, your gaze skimming over the glamorous expanse of the fashion agency's lobby. People buzzed around you like bees in a hive, their worlds spinning, fueled by the weight of names, status, and flawless images. You smiled politely at the receptionist, offering a nod, though your mind was miles away.

To the outside world, your life was golden. The covers of magazines, the invitations to high-society events, the million-dollar deals with luxury brands—it was a fantasy that others could only dream of. It was your dream some time ago, too. 

But today, your reality felt like walking on the edge of a tightrope, the safety net fraying below you.

Your phone vibrated in your purse, interrupting your thoughts. You fished it out, your pulse quickening when you saw the text from your lawyer. Three words that sent a chill through your carefully constructed façade.

"We need to talk."

Your heart sank. The issue of your visa had been hanging over your head like a storm cloud for months now, growing darker by the day. You’d known this was coming, but knowing and confronting it were two different beasts.

Fame didn’t shield you from the cold bureaucracy of citizenship laws, and your time was running out. One misstep, one delay, and your golden empire could crumble. In a matter of months, you could be deported, left behind by the very country that had built you up.

With a deep breath, you silenced your phone and slid it back into your purse. This wasn’t something you could dwell on right now, not in public. Your expression remained serene, even though your mind was anything but. You had a shoot in an hour, a charity gala that evening, and at some point, you had to meet with the lawyer to discuss "options"—a word that had started to feel more like a trap than a solution.

As you exited the building, the cool breeze caught your hair, the city unfolding before you like a glittering stage. New York City. You looked out at the streets, the people, the life you fought so hard to build. The car pulled up to the curb, and you climbed inside. On your way to your lawyer.

You stepped into the law office, the familiar scent of polished wood and stale coffee wrapping around you like a tight band.

"Ms. Y/L/N, good afternoon," Nicolas Ramirez, your lawyer, greeted you, standing behind his desk. His expression was composed, but you knew him well enough by now to spot the unease in his eyes.

"Hi," you softly smiled at him. Your heels clicked softly on the floor as you sat down, crossing your legs tightly, as if holding yourself together. "Let’s just get straight to it, okay? How bad is it?"

Nico sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Your visa expires in less than three months."

You felt your stomach twist, your worst fear inching closer to reality. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. "And what about the appeals? The extensions?"

"We’ve exhausted every possible option—work visas, artist visas, even humanitarian grounds. Immigration laws are tightening, and without a permanent solution like citizenship or residency, you’ll be forced to leave the country."

"Leave?" Your voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the full weight of the nightmare you’d been living with. 

Leave? Go back there?

The country you had fought so hard to escape. The country where your childhood had been marked by suffocating poverty, where your parents had already planned your marriage before you even turned 15. Where your dreams had been a distant, impossible hope until that one person changed your life forever.

You felt your throat tighten. You couldn’t go back.

Nico’s gaze softened slightly, his voice gentle but firm. "I know what this means for you. I know how difficult—"

"You don’t know," you cut him off, your voice sharper than you intended. "You… You don’t know—I can’t go back there, Nico. I just… I can’t."

He nodded, giving you a moment of silence to compose yourself, but the pressure in your chest only grew. You took a deep breath, trying to keep the panic at bay.

"So what now?" you asked, fighting to keep your voice steady. "Is this it? Am I out of options?"

"Well… There’s one option we haven’t explored yet." his tone was cautious, like he knew what he was about to say would open a new can of worms.

You furrowed your brow. "What?"

"Marriage."

The word hung in the air, thick and heavy. You blinked, unable to comprehend at first. "Marriage?" you repeated, as if saying it aloud would make the absurdity of it clear.

"It’s one of the few legal paths left," he explained, leaning forward slightly. "Marriage to a U.S. citizen could secure your green card and, eventually, permanent residency. It’s a legitimate route—many people in similar situations have done it."

You sat back in your chair, the tension in your body coiling tighter. The thought of marriage, of attaching yourself to someone you barely knew for the sake of staying in the country, made your skin crawl. You had already sacrificed so much for your freedom, for your career. And now this?

"You’re telling me the only way to stay here is to marry someone I don’t even love? Just to avoid being sent back to a country I don’t belong in anymore?"

"Not necessarily," Nicolas said, his tone measured. "It wouldn’t have to be a traditional marriage. Think of it as a business arrangement. It’s a legal partnership—nothing more. And it could save your career, your life here."

You crossed your arms tightly, your mind racing. Marriage. It was a word that had haunted you ever since your parents had tried to force you into it as a teenager. Back then, it was their way of controlling you, of keeping you bound to a life you didn’t want. Now, it felt like the universe was throwing the same chains back at you, just in a different form.

"I’ve compiled a list of potential candidates," Arjun continued, sliding a piece of paper across the desk toward you. "People who might be open to an arrangement like this. Athletes, businesspeople—individuals who might benefit from a similar deal."

You glanced at the paper but didn’t pick it up. The names blurred in front of your eyes. This wasn’t how your life was supposed to go. You’d already lost your family, fought tooth and nail to get out of your country and build something for yourself in the U.S. And now you were at risk of losing everything—again.

"I don’t know if I can do this, Nico," you said quietly, shaking your head. "I’ve already sacrificed so much. My family… I gave up everything to be here. And now you’re telling me I have to give up even more?"

"I’m not telling you that you have to do anything," he replied, his voice calm but firm. "I’m saying this is an option. One that could keep you here, legally. But the decision is yours. I’m just laying out the possibilities."

You swallowed the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in your chest. 

"I can’t go back there," you whispered, more to yourself than to him. "I’ve worked too hard to get here. I can’t lose everything."

He nodded slowly. "Then maybe it’s time to consider unconventional options."

You finally picked up the paper, scanning the names but not really seeing them. Your heart was racing, your mind spinning with a thousand thoughts. Marriage. It felt like a trap, just like it had back then. But maybe—just maybe—it was the only way to keep your future intact.

"I’ll think about it," you said, standing up and smoothing the front of your dress. "But I’m not making any promises."

"Of course," he said, standing as well. "Just let me know. We’re running out of time, but I’ll support whatever decision you make."

You nodded curtly, turning toward the door. As you stepped out into the cool city air, your chest tightened with the weight of everything you stood to lose. The lights of New York City flickered ahead of you, just out of reach, as though the life you’d built here could vanish at any moment.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt truly afraid.

Your phone buzzed, dragging you out of your spiraling thoughts. You fished it out of your purse, heart skipping a beat when you saw the name: Nina. Your agent.

With a shaky exhale, you answered. “Nina, hi.”

“Hey, babe!” Nina’s voice was all cheer, a stark contrast to the storm inside you. “So, I have amazing news! Guess who just got major campaign offers coming in? You! Chanel, Loewe, and oh my God, don’t even get me started on Louis Vuitton. The year starts beautifully for you!”

You should’ve felt ecstatic, but instead, the words passed over you like an echo. All you could think of was the countdown Nico had set in motion: three months. Three months before everything you’d built here would be taken away from you. 

“That’s… amazing, Nina,” you managed, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Really amazing. Thank you so much.”

“Are you okay? You don’t sound like your sunshine-self.” Nina’s voice softened, concern creeping in. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause. Nina had been there through all your ups and downs, from your rookie days as a model to your rise in the industry. But the immigration issues, the fear of being sent back to a life you couldn’t return to—that was something neither of you could control. 

“Three months?” she repeated, her voice going higher. “Oh my God—what the fuck? I thought… I thought you had more time.”

“So did I.” You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Nina, I don’t know what to do. I’ve called Nico and he tried everything—extensions, appeals—but the laws are tightening, and he said there’s only one real option left.”

There was a brief silence before she asked, “What option?”

You bit your lip. “Marriage. Nico says I could marry someone for a green card.”

“Marriage?” Nina’s voice came out in a shocked squeak. “Like a fake marriage? Babe, are you serious?”

“I don’t know!” you burst out, frustration and fear colliding. “I don’t know what to do! I can’t go back there. I can’t. My parents… My parents already wrote me off as dead, and if I go back, I’m stuck in a place I spent my entire life trying to escape.”

Her voice softened. “I know, honey, I know… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound—God, I can’t imagine how scary this is for you.”

You took a shaky breath, grateful for her understanding. Nina wasn’t just your manager—she was one of the few people who you actually close to. She was a 34 years old American-Filipina woman. You trusted her with your life. 

“Okay,” Nina said, her voice more focused now. “Okay, now listen. We’ll figure this out. I know Nicolas wouldn’t suggest something like this unless it was a real option. Do you trust him?”

You sighed. “Yeah. I do. But the idea of marrying someone just to stay… it feels like another version of what my parents wanted for me. Like I’m back in that same time of my life.”

“I get it. But this isn’t like that. You’re in control this time,” Nina said. “If this is what you need to stay here, it’s not about love or being owned by someone.”

You nodded to yourself, trying to absorb her words. “Well, um, Nico gave me a list of potential candidates—people who might be willing to make an arrangement. You’ll never guess who’s on it, though.”

“Who? Shawn Mendes? Harry Styles? Tom Holland—”

“Rafe Cameron,” you said, cutting her off. “The basketball play—”

“Yeah, I know who that man is, Y/N. His reputation is a total mess right now. It’s not surprising for him to be on that list.”

“Exactly,” you muttered. “It’s a perfect business arrangement for him, too. He needs a way to look respectable again, and I need to stay in the country.”

“So, you’re actually considering this?”

You leaned against a streetlamp, staring at the city around you. “I don’t know. Maybe? It just feels wrong. Like I’m giving up a part of myself.”

“As nicely as this can be said, you are being dramatic here, babe.” Nina sighed softly. “Look, I’m not going to push you either way, okay? But I do think you need to look at it from a different angle. You’re not giving up on yourself. You’re doing what you need to do to stay here, to keep fighting for your career and your future. And Rafe—or whoever you’ll end up marrying—is not your parents. He’s not going to control you or he’ll get slapped.”

You closed your eyes, trying to let her words sink in. She was right—you were in control now. This wasn’t the same as being forced into a marriage you didn’t want. This was about survival. About keeping your life in the U.S. intact.

"Yeah… I guess you’re right," you said softly, feeling some of the tension release from your shoulders. "I just need time to think."

TWO WEEKS LATER.

The soft glow of the late afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting warm light across your living room. After two relentless weeks of back-to-back fashion shoots, campaign meetings, and gala appearances, you had finally found a moment of peace. You curled up on the plush sofa, sinking into its embrace as the hum of the city outside became a distant murmur. The oversized, loose pajamas you wore were a far cry from the designer gowns and couture you’d been draped in recently, but they were yours—soft, comforting, and familiar. Your hair was twisted into a lazy bun under a satin bonnet.

You exhaled a sigh of relief, finally feeling the weight of exhaustion slip from your shoulders as you closed your eyes.

Buzz. Buzz.

The sound of your phone vibrating on the coffee table pulled you from the calm. You groaned softly, reaching for it with one hand, expecting to see another notification about a meeting or event. Instead, it was a message from Nicolas.

“Any thoughts on who you're going to marry? We need to move quickly if we want to ensure everything goes through in time.”

The familiar weight of the situation you’d been trying to avoid crept back into your chest. Two weeks had passed since your lawyer had first laid out the reality of your visa situation. In those weeks, you'd thrown yourself into work, hoping the constant flurry of activity would drown out the anxiety. But now, in the quiet of your home, the decision loomed large again.

You typed back, hesitating for a moment before hitting send.

"I haven’t decided yet."

A few seconds later, the reply came through.

"We need to discuss this in person. Can you come to my office today?"

You frowned, your eyes darting around the cozy room, not quite ready to leave your home.

"How about you come here instead?" you typed. "It’s been a long week, and I’d rather talk in private."

There was a pause before the three dots appeared, and then the message followed.

"Sure. I’ll be there in about an hour."

You put your phone down and leaned back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. This wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have, but it was necessary. Time was running out, and you knew you had to face it—whether you wanted to or not.

An hour passed in a blur, and soon enough, you heard the knock at your door. You padded across the room in your socks, your oversized pajama pants swishing softly as you walked. Opening the door, you found Nicolas standing there, looking as composed as ever in his tailored suit.

“Come in,” you said with a smile, stepping aside to let him in.

Nicolas entered, his eyes scanning the room before they landed on you. "You look... relaxed."

You gave a soft chuckle, gesturing to your pajamas. “Don’t mock the pj’s until you’ve tried them.”

He smiled slightly, but there was a hint of emergency in his expression as he took a seat in the armchair across from you. “I know you’ve had a lot on your plate lately, but we really need to make a decision.”

You nodded, sitting back down on the couch, hugging a pillow to your chest. “I know… I’ve just been avoiding it.”

“And I noticed,” he said, pulling out a folder from his briefcase. “But with the visa expiration approaching, we don’t have much time. We need to find someone—someone who understands the situation and won’t make things harder.”

You bit your lip, holding a smile, glancing at the folder in his hands. “You bought the list?”

He nodded, and handed it over, and you flipped through the names, recognizing some immediately. Athletes, businessmen, even a couple of actors/singers. And then there was Rafe Cameron, his name standing out like a bold headline.

“I’ve looked at these,” you said quietly. “I just… I don’t know who to choose. None of ‘em feel right.”

Nico leaned forward. “It's not about right or wrong. It’s about who can offer the least amount of personal complications and help you secure your residency. Rafe Cameron, for instance—he’s someone who could benefit from this arrangement as much as you. His reputation needs mending, and this could be a mutually beneficial situation.”

You stared at Rafe’s name, the memories of seeing his name in the news about how much of a womanizer he was… Could you really tie yourself to someone like him in a fake marriage?

“Alright, but I need you to help me decide,” you admitted, looking up at him.

He nodded, his expression understanding. “Of course, that’s why I’m here. Let’s break it down together and figure out who makes the most sense, not just legally but for your peace of mind.”

Nicolas opened his briefcase again, pulling out more detailed files on the potential candidates. He laid them out neatly on the coffee table, each name with a stack of information—financial records, personal histories, public perceptions. It was all very businesslike.

You leaned forward, looking at the pages in front of you. Each one represented a major decision, a shift in your life you weren’t entirely ready to accept, but you knew you didn’t have much of a choice.

“Let’s start with the most practical options,” he said, sliding the file on Rafe Cameron toward you. “I know his name has come up before. He’s wealthy, influential, and… well, let’s be honest, he could use a boost to his public image right now. It’s a good match on paper.”

You stared at Rafe’s name again, tapping the edge of the file with your finger. “Yeah, but he’s also a bit of a mess, isn’t he? I mean, the media paints him as this… whore, and his personal life is always talked about. What if that blows back on me?”

Nicolas raised a brow. “That’s something to consider, but you also have to think of the benefits. His public image might not be very clean, but he’s powerful. Marrying him would put you in a stable position, and if it’s a business arrangement, his private affairs don’t have to concern you.”

You exhaled slowly, still feeling uneasy. Rafe Cameron was trouble, and you knew it. But at the same time, trouble might be exactly what could make this work—for both of you.

“What about the others?” you asked, flipping through the files. “There has to be someone who’s… less complicated.”

“Well,” he said, tapping another file. “there’s Owen Turner. He’s a succesful tech entrepeneur, keeps a low profile. No scandals, no messy reputation. He’s reliable, but you’ll have to approach this differently. He’s more private, less likely to want his personal life on display.”

“And boring—plus, he seems like the type of white guy to want a traditional wife. Like he would expect me to cook for him every night… and he has an ugly name.”

“Owen won’t be expecting home-cooked meals, Y/N. He’s a tech guy; he probably lives on energy drinks and instant ramen,” Nico pointed out, trying to steer you back to the serious topic. “But if we position it as a legal arrangement, he could see the value in it.”

You sighed, leaning back on the chair. “Okay, maybe Owen is the safer options. But can you imagine our wedding announcement? ‘Succesful Tech Entrepeneur Married Famous Model: They Share a Love for Cats and Instant Noodle.’”

Nico shook his head, trying not to smile. “Focus, please. This is a serious matter.”

“Right, right, sorry…” you said, wavering your hand dismissively. “But, what do you think about Rafe?”

“Rafe Cameron is the most straightforward option,” he said, his tone now more measured. “He’s already in the public eye, which means there won’t be as much of a shock if you’re suddenly married. Plus, his need for good press aligns with your need for stability.”

“And personally?”

He smiled softly, a rare gesture from him. “Personally, I think you should go with the person you think you can manage.”

You nodded, appreciating his honesty. Staring at the stack of papers in front of you, Rafe Cameron’s name glaring up at you from the top of the list. Every name on the list had its pros and cons, but something about Rafe’s file felt different. Maybe it was the intensity of his media coverage, the scandals, or the way he dominated the headlines for all the wrong reasons. But as much as you hesitated, his name kept pulling you back.

“I know his reputation isn't spotless,” Nico said, sensing your hesitation, “but in this situation, a clean reputation isn’t the priority. You need someone powerful, someone with enough influence to make this arrangement stick without getting tangled up in emotional complications.”

You nodded, again.”But I don’t know if I can handle all the baggage that comes with Rafe Cameron. His public image is a trainwreck. Wouldn’t that only complicate things more?”

Nico leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “Possibly. But think of it this way: his personal life is already so chaotic that a stable, respectable marriage might be exactly what he needs to repair his image. And that’s where you come in. You’d be helping each other.”

Your eyes dropped back down to his file. "Do you think he'd even agree to something like this?"

Nico chuckled softly. “If there’s one thing I know about men like Rafe Cameron, it’s that they understand deals. His reputation is hanging by a thread, and a marriage to someone like you—someone with a pristine public image—could be the ticket to restoring his credibility. It’s a win-win, really.”

You considered Nico’s words. He was right. Rafe had everything to gain from a marriage of convenience, just like you. And while his scandals were messy, they didn’t define him entirely. He was still an elite athlete, one of the best in the game, and with the right PR strategy, you could both come out looking better.

But the thought of marrying someone like him—a notorious playboy with a history of messy breakups—made your stomach churn. 

“You know,” Nico continued, “if this were just about your visa, we’d be having a different conversation. But this is about your entire future. Your career, your freedom to stay here, everything you’ve built. I’m not saying it’s an easy choice, but it’s one worth considering.”

You sighed, the weight of the decision pressing down on you. "What happens if it falls apart? What if things with Rafe go wrong?"

"That’s why we’ll draft a contract," Nico reassured you. "This won’t be a traditional marriage, Y/N. You’ll both have clear boundaries, and legally, we’ll protect your interests. If things go south, you’ll be covered."

You stared at the file a little longer, then closed your eyes.Rafe Cameron. He was cocky, possessive, and reckless—everything you usually avoided. But maybe that was the key. You wouldn’t have to worry about him trying to control you or make this anything more than a business transaction.

It would be messy. It would be complicated. But it would also keep you here, in the country you’d fought so hard to call home. And maybe, just maybe, it would be the solution you both needed.

“Okay,” you said softly, your decision finally settling. “I’ll do it.”

Nico’s eyebrows shot up, a little surprised at how quickly you’d made up your mind. “You’re sure?”

“No,” you admitted with a weak smile. “But I think this is the best option. I’ll marry Rafe Cameron.”

Nico nodded, closing the folder with a satisfied smile. “Good. I’ll set up a meeting with him. We’ll get the ball rolling.”

Oh God, you were going to marry Rafe Cameron…

chapter two

[bigwishes]

Forced Freak

Tyson was a uni drop out, nothing special about him other than his pretty face and dedication to his diet. He had no real hobbies and no real friends. The only reason people paid him any real attention was because of his body. However guys got pretty turned off after a one night stand with him when they'd wake up and Tyson would have written them critiques about how to improve their bodies and performance in the bedroom.

Tyson was the worst kind of gym bro, not because he had no real personality, but because he was an asshole with no real personality, in fact when he wasn't coming home from the gym, taking selfies in the mirror or scrolling on grinder for someone to bounce on his waist he spent a large portion of his time staring in the mirror admiring his own perfection.

"fuck yeah, I'm probably the hottest guy alive" he'd say as he rubbed his own crotch.

His arrogant attitude had essentially transformed him into a self obsessed autosexual, whilst he enjoyed sex and having a guy put in all the work whilst he laid back in pleasure he still preferred a night to himself and his mirror.

Tyson flexed his arm one last time, admiring the perfection before him before he turned off his alarm and got up to go to the gym.

"well, I'll see you when I get home handsome" he said winking at his own reflection and snapping his underwear band.

He threw on the folded red tank top and black gym shorts he had lying on his dresser, the ones he had steamed the night before. As he walked out the door he picked up his glass from his morning water and placed it neatly in the dishwasher before turning it on and leaving for the gym.

Upon arriving at the gym Tyson walked into the welcome area where he found 3 tall bodybuilders lined up at the key scanner. Tyson rolled his eyes and tried to avoid contact with them, he hated those freaks. The guys who willingly chose to inflate themselves with disgusting amounts of muscle. Who could barely fit in their cars and he huffed and sweat like bovine beasts when they got on the treadmill.

Tyson quickly got impatient and began tapping his foot as the 3 meatheads were holding up the line.

"are you beasts gonna scan in or am I just waiting here all day"

The three turned their heads to them almost in unison

"yoo you think we are beasts huhu" one flexed his enormous bicep that dwarfed Tyson's head

"hey Ty, what up lil dude. Wanna hit bench with us today? we we can help you grow that chest"

Tyson was disgusted at the thought of working out with the three of them and smelling their terrible stench or listening to them heaving for air.

"no thanks, its hard to improve upon perfection" Tyson said with a smirk

"aw come on dude, you can always improve and get bigger, you aint even close to your limit"

"and I dont want to be" Tyson said with a disgusted frown and one raised eyebrow

There was a loud ding and the three bodybuilders began waddling and shuffling their way through the electronic gate into the gym, having to turn sideways slightly to get their hulking frames in the turn gate.

"This is what I mean" laughed Tyson

"haha, can't blame us for being absolute units man"

"But doesn't it annoy the fuck out of you being like that?"

"no way bro, being this big is fucking awesome"

the three bodybuilders all began laughing and flexing

"I'm sorry I really dont see how turning myself into a...freak would be awesome"

There was a dead silence as the three bodybuilders stopped laughing and turned to him.

"that's a bit of a harsh word bro"

"yeah man don't diss the hobby coz you aint into it"

Tyson smirked flicking as he polished his fitness watch with the edge of his jumper "dude I dont think anyone is into it"

"what the fuck is that supposed to mean"

"umm being so big you have no style because you cant fit into anything, constantly covered in sweat marks, you reek after just a few minutes of exercise, you gulp down water like an elephant who hasn't drunk in a year, can barely fit in your cars and take up so much space, plus I like when guys find me attractive and aren't grossed out by my monstrous body" Tyson turned his back placing his gym bag in the locker completely unaware that the three men he had just insulted looked so red their heads could pop with anger.

"I'LL LET YOU KNOW MY HUSBAND LOOOOVVVEEESSS MY SIZE" the bodybuilder in the middle yelled through his teeth

"whoooaa jayce" the two others said in unison as they grabbed him by the chest and stopped him taking a step forward

"don't shoot the messenger buddy but Im pretty sure your husband wouldn't be disappointed if you lost 30-40lsb of muscle, pretty sure he'd enjoy date night without sitting across from a behemoth stuffing himself so full of protein like a slob"

Jayce threw his arms up in the air and pushed his two friends off of him turning around and walking away.

Tyson ignored the interaction implying pulling his towel and drink bottle out of his gym bag.

"You know what you need Ty..."

"and what's that Mark?" Tyson tiredly asked rolling his eyes

"A real good bulk, make ya real big, that'll change your mind" Mark smirked looking at his friend who was smiling back.

"whatever" Tyson groaned as he walked off into the gym.

---

A few hours had passed and Tyson was in the changing room admiring himself after his workout. It was enough to pump him to that perfect spot where he looked just slightly bigger and was a little sore, but not enough to make him sweat or stimulate the sort of growth a lot of gym guys were after.

Tyson flexed one bicep and ran his other hand down his thigh feeling himself get hard.

"Oh yeah handsome, just wait till I get you in my bed" He smirked at his own reflection.

Just then he heard the sound to the changing rooms open, his hand quickly shot up from his thigh, not wanting anyone to see his moment of lust.

He watched in the mirror as Jayce rounded the corner, his massive and wide shoulders causing him to bump into subway tiled wall. A massive smile lit up on Jayce's face as he saw Tyson standing there.

"Yep" Jayce yelled out

Dylan quickly followed behind and began walking towards Tyson, not that he thought much of it.

"Grab his left Dylan?"

"No worried Jayce"

Tyson was shocked as the two hulking bodybuilders suddenly grabbed hold of his arms and used what felt like all of their strength to sandwich him between them.

"h-HEY WHAT THE FUCK GET OFF" Tyson struggled and squirmed to get out of there grip but it felt like he was being pressed between two stone walls, he was unable to do anything other than pathetically kick his legs.

Just then Tyson heard the door to the changing rooms lock as Mark rounded the corner.

"Mark!, tell your fucking boys to let me go!"

The three bodybuilder's laughed as Mark walked closer holding a strange metal container in his hand that resembled a protein shaker.

"Hey lil dude" Said Mark with a big smirk across his face

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THREE WANT" Tyson snapped.

"to prove you wrong man" Jayce whispered

'w-what" Tyson continued to flounder and squirm to no avail

"you said being a bodybuilder sucked, well we are gonna prove you wrong" Dylan smirked tightly squeezing Tyson's arms

"h-how, Im not gonna start bodybuilding because you three threaten me"

"oh there is no threat bud, we have got something we want to try but dont know about the side effects wanna test it"

"ARE YOU GONNA JAB MY ASS FULL OF ROIDS" Tyson squeaked pathetically

"no dude, of course not" Said Mark

"we already know the side effects to roids" laughed Jayce

Mark grabbed onto Tyson's perfect hair and forcefully pulled his head back, Tyson couldn't see but he felt Jayce wrap his giant muscular arm around his pinning his between Jayce's bulky bicep and forearm and grabbing his cheeks forcing his jaw open.

"bottoms up pretty boy" Mark said as he flicked the cap off the contained with his thumb and shoved the mouth piece into Tyson's mouth.

"MMMMM -MMMM -MMMMMMM!!!!!!" Tyson tried to yell but his mouth was full of a strange thick liquid.

Mark dropped the contained and grabbed Tyson's nose still forcing the container to his lips

"gotta drink if you wanna breathe buddy"

Tyson couldn't hold it any longer

GULP...GULP...GULP.....GULP

Tyson sucked down what was in his mouth and what continued to pour from the container, when the last drop was drunk and all he could taste was air the three bodybuilders all let go in unison and Tyson dropped to the ground gasping for air.

"How long does it take to work Mark?"

"errr container says a few minutes for a start and a week for full effects"

Tyson couldn't concentrate on what the three were talking about, his body began to feel like it was being super heated, like his muscles and bones were being fried into pudy.

Tyson's hand began to tremble, as he looked at it pressed against the cold tiled floor he noticed his thumb enlarging, getting longer and thicker, it spread to all his fingers and his hand, at first he thought it was an allergic reaction but it wasn't puffy or fat, it was hard solid and defined, like all the muscles in his hands were suddenly expanding, he watched as his handed swelled up to the size of dinner plates as veins in his arms and forearms pumped in sync with his heart beat.

His forearms stared growing outwards and he felt his already tight and pumped biceps ache as they swelled even bigger. Seeing his reflection in the mirror he looked like a bad art project as different parts of his body were swelling with size and different times, his shoulders got wider as his calves got bigger, his pecs inflated as his feet grew out of his shoes, his abs bloated into a semi roid gut as his quads quickly filled with blood, and his ass pumped up into a big meaty globe as his traps crept up his back swallowing his necks.

after just a few minutes the three bodybuilders were stunned looking down at the sweaty bulky mess that was Tyson on the floor of the changing room.

Tyson had watched the whole thing in the mirror but still he couldn't recognise himself, what had happened, what they did to him.

He looked like one of them, a bodybuilder.

"w-what did you do to me" Tyson moaned, out of breath and out of energy

"damn, he got huge so quick, and he still has a week to go?"

"please, no, no bigger, turn me back"

the three bodybuilders began to have a conversation around Tyson like he wasn't even there as he tried to pick himself up off the floor. A few minutes passed and Tyson finally stood up. He felt uncomfortable, muscles he didn't even know where near each other rubbed up against each other like every aspect of his body was fighting for space.

Tyson looked at himself horrified in the mirror at the big bulky freak he had become.

"oh fuck..m..my perfect body" he turned to the three men behind him "please, please you gotta turn me back"

"you still got a week of growin left bud" Mark replied

"PLEASE I CAN'T GET BIGGER"

Jayce smirked trying to contain his laughter

"Look dude, we said we were gonna show you how being a bodybuilder is awesome, let it go for a week and we'll check back in and if you still hate it, we'll turn you back"

Tyson turned back to his reflection and flexed, freaked out by his bicep being larger than his own head.

"see, its already awesome, see you later dude"

The three bodybuilders started walking out of the changing room

"no WAIT!!"

Tyson ran over to his bag feeling the weight of his new body with every step and feeling his hard muscles bounce. He leant over and swung his bag over his shoulder. He watched as the door closed behind the three and he ran to catch up. Every step was a chore, it was like an entire workout for just one leg to hold up the weight of his new massive body.

By the time he reached the door Tyson doubled over gasping for air, he placed his giant meaty hand on the wall and slid down the the floor, he had only run a few feet but it felt like he had just done and three hours of cardio without a break, he felt the sweat running down his back and struggled to come up with a reason anyone would want to be this big, why guys would dedicate their lives to become titans.

it took 15 minutes, for Tyson to catch his breath and stand up again and by the time that happened the three he was after were already gone, he walked through the gym defeated hoping nobody would recognise him. He made it to the turn gate and as he went to go through he felt a hard pressing against his shoulders. Not at all used to his new size Tyson hadn't adjusted the angle that he approached the gate and found himself stuck between the two steel bars. Tyson pushed with his back leg but didn't realise the power behind his colossal quads as he easily pushed himself out but he couldn't stop the moment and he came tumbling forward face first onto the floor in front and multiple gym attendants.

"woah, you okay big guy" one of them asked,

Tyson looked up and saw the other two doing their best not to laugh.

"yeah I'm fine!" Tyson tried to get up as fast as he could but the sheer weight of his frame meant it was an awkward step by step process that took almost a whole minute.

Tyson quickly raced out the doors as fast as his could but once again misjudged his giant muscles and his two shoulders slammed into the automatic doors not realising they weren't wide enough for him. A loud bang rang out and Tyson looked back as the glass automatic doors wobbled and shook, and ounce more pressure and they would have surely crashed down around him.

Tyson waddled through the car park desperate to get to his car. Swinging open the door he quickly realised why he had never seen a bodybuilder in a sleek sports car, he didn't fit, just one leg stepped in and there wasn't any more room for him to squeeze in. He tried everything, moving the seat back, moving the wheel up, but still he didn't fit. After about 10 minutes of doing everything he could think of to get in he just decided to force his way in.

Sliding into the car he felt cramped, and when he closed the driver's door it bounced off his arm and swung back open denting the car next to him. Tyson tried again leaning all the way into his car and shutting the door. It shut but as he sat back up he found himself on an awkward angle to the wheel, he tried to adjust himself to roll down the window so he could stick his arm out and get more space but as he placed his arm down on the leather seat to push his own body out the way he heard a loud tearing. His clothes didn't feel loser and he couldn't see what had torn but it sounded bad...

When Tyson arrived home he squeezed himself out of his car, it felt like being freed from a sardine can but as he turned around to shut his door he had found the source of the tearing noise from earlier, in the centre of the seat, directly under where he was, was now a large split right down the leather, seats that cost over a thousand dollars to fix split apart like paper, and that wasn't the worst of it, he looked at the lower back of the seat to see how the leather had warped and swollen from the amount of sweat that had been pressed against it.

"AW MAN" Tyson moaned slammed his car door, not realising the force his arms were able to put behind it and as the door lodged into place his hand carried the momentum behind it straight into the metal of the car leaving a large dent from his palm.

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME"

Tyson stormed over to his front door just wanting the day to end. He pulled up his keys to the front door and fumbled for a few minutes as he struggled to sort though them with his massive meaty fingers, finally he got in the door and shut it behind him as gently as he could which still resulted in a slam.

His stomach let out a loud groan, he had never felt so hungry so sudden in his life, Tyson tried to walk to the kitchen but realised it was more of a waddle has his massive muscular thighs slammed into each other. Arriving in front of his fridge he opened it up and grabbed one of his already made meals out and placed it in the microwave to heat up. He watched in spinning round and heard his stomach grumble as the 2 minutes felt like an entirety. Finally he heard the beep and opened up the microwave to devour his meal. What normally would have left him feeling full for hours didn't even make a dent in his hunger. Tyson opened up his fridge and moved on to his next meal without even heating it up, then another, then a protein shake to wash it down, then another meal and a couple apples, along with a banana or two, and of course he had to pull some of the muffins out of the freezer to defrost to have a bit later.

Tyson sat on his couch, feeling groggy and finally full. He looked around him, plates, protein shakers, wrappers and plastic containers were spread out all over his lounge room from the floor to the coffee table. He felt so heavy he didn't want to get up, he just wanted to pass out on his couch and go to sleep. As his eyes began to drift close...

BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

The loudest belch he had ever heard forced him to jolt awake.

"aw fuc-uuuuUUURRPPP, this place is a mess"

Tyson finally realised he had trashed his lounge room in his feeding frenzy, he got up to try and clean but he didn't get very far. His body was so massive it was hard to move between his furniture and it was hard for him to constantly bend down to pick stuff up. On his second trip back from the kitchen to clean the last of the mess he finally noticed where he had been sitting, and the enormous sweat patch pressed into the fabric.

He pulled his tight tank top out from his body realising it looked like he had never washed it in his life.

"god, I need a fucking shower"

He made his way down the hall to the bathroom where he was shocked by his own reflection. He knew he had been turned into a hulking behemoth but, he looked like a completely different person now. His tank top was tight and clung to his body as his pecs hung out the sides. It was covered in sweat patches and strains from spilt protein shakes and food. His face was covered in a coat of sweat and his hair was oiler than he'd ever seen before. Tyson's gut churned as he let out another belch. He suddenly felt a tightness in his pants and he got hard.

"what the fuck..."

Tyson lifted up one arm to flex his bicep, he watched the sweat running down from his pits to his lats, he swallowed a quick gulp of air expecting maybe a small burp but was greeted with a massive room shaking belch. Tyson couldn't help it, he got rock solid staring at his sweaty body and hearing his own manly belching.

He worked his hand down awkwardly to his dick and started to pleasure himself.

He couldn't work it out, he missed his perfect body, he missed his old self, he was grossed out by being such a freak but god he was too horny to not please himself.

Right before his big moment he felt a wave of heat surge out into his body, his clothes felt tighter and suddenly the left strap of his tank top snapped as his shoulder, pec and arm practically doubled in size.

"AAH NO, NO NOT AGAIN"

Tyson watched as his dirty tank was torn to shreds by his growing body. His shorts felt tighter and tighter, soon he felt the sound of ripping fabric. As he turned to the side to inspect his growing legs he saw as his muscled ass split his pants in the back and the fabric quickly tore through making his shorts look like a bad loin clothe prop from a Halloween costume.

"OH FUCK NO, STOP, STOP AHHHH"

Tyson could only watch as his body continued to rapidly grow in the mirror...

--------------

3 weeks later

Tyson leant back on the workout bench groaning and gasping for air. It was the most he had ever lifted, not that he wanted to get bigger but it was the only thing he could do with his day at this point.

He heard the noise of 3 guys cheering as Mark, Jayce and Dyaln approached him.

"HEY BIG MAN" Said Mark

"oh great, what do you guys want"

"relax big guy, just wanted to bring you a snack" Dylan laughed as he pulled out a paper bag of drive through crispy chicken and handed it to Tyson.

"Dont forget to wash it down" said Jayce handing him a protein shake

Tyson didn't have the will power to hold back, his new muscle and size burnt so much fuel from simple existing he was practically starving constantly. He immediately reached into the bag and started eating as much as he could as fast as he could, washing it down with a swig of the protein shake, only taking breaks to gasp for air.

A river of chocolate protein ran down his cheek and dripped onto his XXXL tank top, which looked more like a medium crop top on him.

A young handsome gym attendant walked over to the group with a smile on his face.

"hey guys, just a reminder, you can't eat like that in here save it for outside okay" He smiled as he looked straight into Tyson's eyes.

Tyson's mind was racing, this guy was the most handsome guy he had ever seen in his life, we wanted to apologise for being such a slob, hell, he wanted to ask the guy on a date.

Tyson rubbed the crumbs and protein from his mouth away with the back of his hand and opened his mouth. Immediately he gritted his teeth and almost by instinct at this point cocked the side of his mouth open.

BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPP!!

Tyson couldn't help but belch and burp as he struggled to get a word out.

"bro..that's nasty" the gym attendant laughed as he walked away.

Mark, Jayce and Dylan all erupted with laughter.

"DUUUUUUDDEEEE" yelled Dylan

"You aren't gonna get a date like that dude I tell you that" laughed Jayce

"They probably wouldn't date him even if he didn't burp every couple of minutes, I mean who wants to date a bodybuilder freak right guys" Mark laughed as he rubbed Tyson's shoulders

"Yeah, you're right Mark, nobody wants a freak like Tyson" Dylan chuckled.

Tyson couldn't control it, the sound of their laughter, the way the three called him a freak and a slob. His dick got hard and he felt as a mixture of pre and cum leaked into his underwear.

They were never going to change him back, he was going to be stuck as this good for nothing muscle pig, forever....

he threw himself back down on the bench..

BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPP

[heliosunny]

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Phainon x reader

The rumors were true.

You stood in front of the large, polished machine, its sleek metallic surface reflecting the soft neon glow of the surrounding marketplace. The “Lucky Egg Dispenser” as it was called, had become something of a sensation overnight. A single pull of the trigger, and you’d receive an egg—an unhatched mystery promising the perfect partner. Most people spoke of rare creatures, companion animals with unique abilities, and even a few who whispered about something… stranger.

“Lucky egg?” you mused aloud, shifting the weight of the gun-like trigger in your grip. You’d always been one to try new things. It didn’t hurt to take a chance.

With a decisive motion, you squeezed the trigger.

A soft whirring sound filled the air before a pristine white egg gently rolled out, stopping perfectly at your feet. You crouched down, picking it up. Warm. Alive.

A small smile tugged at your lips. Taking care of it would be simple, you were no stranger to nurturing things. Three days. That was all it would take for it to hatch.

You weren’t worried in the slightest.

What you didn’t expect, however, was for your “partner” to be a human.

The egg hatched in the dead of night. A soft crackling sound stirred you from your sleep, but by the time you were fully awake, the shell had already split apart.

And there, sitting on your bed, was a boy.

No, not a boy, a young man, probably around your age.

Pale skin, silver-white hair that shimmered in the moonlight, and brilliant, otherworldly eyes. His clothes were odd, somewhere between regal and alien, but the most alarming thing was the wide, almost manic grin stretching across his face.

Before you could react, he lunged at you, arms wrapping around your torso in a crushing embrace.

“My name is Phainon!” he chirped, his voice filled with unfiltered joy. “I’m your partner now!”

Oh no...Your stomach dropped as realization set in.

Baby duck syndrome.

You knew the term well. When a newborn creature imprints on the first living being they see and attaches to them completely. You were that first living being.

And judging by the way Phainon’s grip tightened, as if he’d never let go, you had a feeling this wasn’t going to be as simple as you thought.

Phainon clung to you like a vice, his grip almost bruising as he buried his face into your neck. His breath was warm, uneven with excitement, and his entire body trembled, not with fear, but something far more intense.

“You’re mine” he whispered, his voice filled with unshakable certainty. “I belong to you… and you belong to me.”

This was bad. You tried to gently pry him off, but the moment you moved, his arms locked around you tighter, his fingers digging into your back as if he were afraid you’d disappear. His blue eyes, impossibly bright and alight with something unsettling, gazed up at you with an overwhelming adoration.

“Don’t push me away” Phainon begged “I just hatched… I need you.”

You swallowed, carefully adjusting your expression. “I-I’m not pushing you away. You just surprised me, that’s all.”

His gaze flickered with doubt before softening, though his grip didn’t loosen.

“I won’t let you leave me” he promised, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I was born for you.”

You had really gotten yourself into trouble this time.

With Phainon practically glued to your side, you dragged him along to the dungeon. You needed supplies, and in this world, the only way to survive was by hunting monsters and trading points for food and goods. At the very least, you thought you could shake off some of his energy by keeping him occupied. What you didn’t expect was just how powerful he was.

The first monster barely had a chance to move before Phainon lunged, his bare hands tearing through it like paper. Blue eyes shimmered with an eerie thrill as he made quick work of the beasts around you. No hesitation. No struggle. Just raw, overwhelming strength. You stared, a mix of awe and unease settling in your gut.

“Phainon…” You hesitated as he turned to you, still grinning. “How do you know how to fight?”

He tilted his head, as if the question itself was strange. “I was born to protect you” he answered simply. “If anything dares to harm you, I’ll rip it apart.”

His words were spoken with such sincerity that it made your skin crawl. Still, you couldn’t deny the convenience. With him by your side, earning points was absurdly easy.

So you took him to the marketplace, trading in your earnings and buying him new clothes, something normal, something that would help him blend in.

But as you held up a shirt for him to try, he only stared at you with an unsettling softness.

“You take such good care of me…” He exhaled, stepping closer. “You really do love me.”

Your grip on the fabric tightened.

This was going to be a problem.

Even as you weaved through the marketplace, his fingers curled around your wrist, grip firm and unwavering. His blue eyes scanned the crowd with silent intensity, watching every passerby with something between wariness and irritation, as if anyone who so much as looked at you was a potential threat.

You sighed, trying to ignore it.

That was until someone called your name.

“Y/N!”

You turned, spotting an old friend making their way toward you, smiling. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”

Before you could respond, their gaze flickered to Phainon, eyes widening slightly in surprise.

“…Oh? Who’s this?” they asked, raising an eyebrow. “Your boyfriend?”

You couldn’t exactly say he came from an egg. That would sound insane. So, against your better judgment, you went along with it. “Uh, yeah. Something like that.”

Your friend chuckled. “I figured. He looks like he’d kill someone if they so much as breathed in your direction.”

You let out an awkward laugh, hoping they were joking.

Phainon, however, only smiled, resting his chin on your shoulder. “I would” he murmured, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Your friend’s laughter faltered.

Before the situation could get any worse, you quickly made your exit, dragging Phainon away.

When you finally got home, you sighed, rubbing your temples. “You can’t just say things like that, you know.”

Phainon tilted his head. “But it’s true.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue. Instead, you busied yourself in the kitchen, preparing a meal. The sound of chopping and sizzling filled the space, and for a moment, things felt… normal.

But you could still feel Phainon’s admiring gaze on you.

When you finally placed a plate in front of him, his eyes softened.

“You take such good care of me” he murmured.

You forced a small smile. “Yeah, yeah. Just eat.”

But as you turned away, his voice reached you again, quiet, almost innocent.

“You really do love me, don’t you?”

This was getting worse by the second.

The next morning, Phainon was already awake before you, sitting at the edge of your bed, watching you with silent fascination. You ignored the unsettling feeling that came with knowing he had likely been staring at you for a while.

“We’re going out!” you said, stretching. “I need to figure out what you’re actually capable of.”

His expression brightened. “You’re thinking about me first thing in the morning?” His voice was honeyed, pleased. “That makes me happy.”

You sighed. “Just get ready.”

Despite his odd behavior, you needed to assess his skills properly. Yesterday’s display of strength was impressive, but you weren’t sure if he had magic abilities as well. If he was going to fight alongside you, he needed the right weapon.

So, you took him to a well-known weapon shop in the city.

The place was stocked with everything—swords, spears, enchanted items, and magic-infused equipment. The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow at Phainon as he trailed closely behind you, practically glued to your side.

“A new recruit?” they asked.

You hesitated before nodding. “Something like that. I need to test his capabilities and get him a sword.”

Phainon didn’t seem too interested in the conversation. Instead, his attention remained locked onto you, his fingers subtly brushing against your arm as if to remind himself that you were still there.

The shopkeeper guided you both to the testing grounds in the back.

Phainon barely glanced at the weapons lined up for testing. Instead, he turned to you, expectant.

“Choose one for me” he said.

You blinked. “Why? You should pick what feels right.”

He smiled “I want your choice. Something that reminds you of me.”

You hesitated, but eventually, you picked a sword. When you handed it to him, he held it as if it were sacred, his fingers running over the hilt with reverence. Then, he turned toward the practice dummy and swung. The air itself seemed to hum as the blade sliced cleanly through, the force of his strike strong enough to split the dummy in two. You barely had time to react before the lingering energy from his swing crackled, a faint shimmer of magic lacing through the air.

So he did have magic.

The shopkeeper let out a low whistle. “That’s some terrifying raw talent.”

Phainon ignored them, stepping closer to you, lifting the sword slightly.

“Do you like it?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “It suits you.”

His eyes softened, a quiet sort of delight settling in his expression. “Then I’ll treasure it forever.”

It wasn’t about the sword. It was about the fact that you were the one who gave it to him.

Going into the dungeon with Phainon was like having a high-level DPS at your side. You barely had to lift a finger.

With every swing of his sword, monsters fell instantly, torn apart before they could even react. His raw strength was unmatched, his movements precise and brutal, and his magic crackled through the air with every strike. All you had to do was keep him healed.

Whenever he took a hit, rare as it was, you were there, casting healing spells or applying potions before he could even flinch. It was almost effortless, and the way he looked at you every time you healed him sent a strange chill down your spine.

“You always take care of me” he murmured, after you placed a hand on his arm to patch up a small wound. His blue eyes burned with something unreadable. “It makes me love you even more.”

You pretended not to hear him.

By the end of the run, you had racked up an absurd amount of points. It was more than you’d ever earned in a single trip. But as you left the dungeon, your path was blocked. A group of men stood in front of you, their expressions dark with anger.

“You!” one of them spat, eyes locked on you. “That was our dungeon route. You took our points.”

You stiffened. You had heard of people like this before, territorial dungeon crawlers who claimed certain areas as their own, even though the dungeons were free for all. Phainon, however, only tilted his head, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword.

“Move” he said simply.

The men sneered. “Or what?”

Phainon smiled. And then, in the blink of an eye, he moved.

You barely saw it happen. One second, the men were standing tall, and the next, they were on the ground, groaning, writhing, clutching broken limbs. Phainon hadn’t even drawn his sword. He had simply crushed them with his bare hands. You felt the blood drain from your face as he turned back to you, expression calm, as if nothing had happened.

“You don’t need to worry about them” he stepped close to you, his voice almost soothing. “I’ll always protect you.”

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing against your skin.

“You’ll never need anyone else.”

You weren’t the only one who noticed Phainon’s strength.

Word spread fast in the city. A newcomer, practically fresh out of nowhere, tearing through dungeons with monstrous efficiency? It was bound to catch attention.

When you returned to the marketplace, a group of uniformed individuals was waiting for you. Their armor bore the insignia of the Adventurer’s Guild, the organization that oversaw dungeon crawlers and regulated combat prowess.

One of them, a woman with sharp eyes, stepped forward. “We’ve received reports about you” she said, looking Phainon up and down. “Your combat abilities are… unusual.”

Phainon didn’t respond. He didn’t even blink.

The woman continued, unfazed. “We’d like to evaluate your rank. If you’re as strong as people claim, you should be registered with the guild.”

You hesitated, then glanced at Phainon. “It’s up to you” you said casually. “You can decide for yourself.”

His reaction was immediate. His blue eyes snapped to yours, wide with something unreadable. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if suppressing an impulse.

For the first time since you met him, Phainon looked… lost.

“You’re letting me decide?” he murmured, almost as if the concept itself was foreign to him. His voice was quiet, but there was an undercurrent of something dangerous beneath it.

The guild members watched the exchange, waiting for an answer.

Then, without warning, Phainon grabbed your wrist. His grip was firm but not painful—more like an anchor, something grounding him.

“I don’t need them!” he said, his eyes darkening. “I don’t need a rank. I don’t need recognition. I only need you.”

You swallowed, trying to keep your expression neutral. “Phainon...”

But he wasn’t listening. His fingers tightened ever so slightly, as if reassuring himself that you were still there, still his.

“I’ll prove it” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’ll see… I don’t need anything else.”

The woman from the guild frowned. “Refusing to register might cause problems later. If you change your mind, come to the guild hall.” She gave you a lingering look before turning away, leading her team elsewhere.

Once they were gone, you exhaled, glancing down at your guild-issued device. You hadn’t checked Phainon’s stats since he hatched. Opening the interface, your breath caught in your throat. His level had skyrocketed. It wasn’t just growth, it was unnatural. No one leveled up this fast. Slowly, you looked up at him, finding him already staring at you.

His lips curled into a soft, knowing smile. “You’re looking at me differently” he murmured. “Are you finally realizing it?”

Realizing what?

Phainon wasn’t just strong. He was something else.

You couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Phainon’s level growth wasn’t just unnatural, it was impossible. Even the most elite adventurers took years to reach his current strength, yet he had done it in mere days. And his reaction when you let him decide for himself… the way he clung to you, as if the very idea of autonomy was foreign to him… Something wasn’t right.

That night, while Phainon sat contentedly by the fireplace, watching you with that ever-present devotion, you busied yourself with research.

You poured through old adventurer logs, ancient texts, and anything that might explain the anomaly that was him. But no record of a “lucky egg” spawning a human existed. Every instance of the machine had resulted in creatures—beasts, familiars, magical companions. Never a person. Then, deep within an old archive, you found something.

A passage detailing an experiment.

“In pursuit of the perfect companion, scholars once sought to craft an entity bound by absolute devotion. A being that would imprint upon the first soul it encountered, instinctively prioritizing their happiness and survival above all else. However, these creations proved unstable—obsessive, possessive, and far too powerful. The project was ultimately abandoned, all records sealed away.”

Your gaze flickered toward Phainon.

His blue eyes gleamed in the firelight, calm and unreadable as he met your stare.

“You’re looking at me like that again”

“Phainon…” You swallowed. “What are you?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer.

Then, slowly, he rose from his seat, walking toward you with measured steps. When he reached you, he knelt—his head resting against your lap, his arms wrapping around you in a loose embrace.

“I don’t know” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But does it matter?”

He tilted his head, pressing closer, his warmth seeping into you.

“All I know is that I belong to you” he murmured, smiling softly. “And that’s the only truth I need.”

Your fingers trembled against the pages of the book.

This was worse than you thought.

Phainon wasn’t just obsessed.

He was made to be.

[jungwnies]

tamed - max verstappen (1/4)

୨ৎ : pairing : max verstappen x fem!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis : you're a top pr manager tasked with handling the infamous max verstappen, known for his fiery temper and controversial outbursts

୨ৎ : genre : romance, angst, humor ୨ৎ : tws : mild language, unserious bantering, suggestive humor, mentions of alcohol consumption. ୨ৎ : wc : 935

part one | part two | part three | part four | epilogue

You adjust your blazer, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles, and take a deep breath. Today's the day you finally meet Max Verstappen, your new and arguably most challenging client. As one of the top PR managers in the biz, you've handled prima donnas and hotheads before, but something tells you Verstappen is going to be a whole new level of difficult.

You stride into the Red Bull Racing headquarters, the polished floors and sleek design a stark contrast to the grit and grime of the racetrack. You're led to a sterile conference room, the air conditioning humming a monotonous tune. You settle into a chair, the leather cool against your skin, and pull out your meticulously crafted PR plan.

The door swings open abruptly, and in walks Max Verstappen. He's even more imposing in person than on screen. Tall, lean, with those intense blue eyes that seem to pierce right through you. He throws himself into a chair across from you, his expression a mix of boredom and irritation.

"So," he drawls, "you're the one they hired to babysit me."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. "I'm your new PR manager, Max. I'm here to help you manage your public image."

He scoffs. "Like I need help with that."

"Everyone can use a little help," you say calmly, meeting his gaze. "Especially when you have a tendency to say whatever pops into your head."

His eyes narrow. "Are you saying I'm stupid?"

"Not at all," you reply smoothly. "I'm saying you're... impulsive. And sometimes, impulsivity can lead to... PR nightmares."

He leans back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. "And you think you can control me?"

"Control you? No," you say with a slight smile. "But I can help you channel that energy, that passion, into something positive. Something that will make your fans love you even more."

He raises an eyebrow. "And what's in it for you?"

"A challenge," you admit. "And the satisfaction of knowing I helped tame the beast."

He lets out a short, harsh laugh. "Tame the beast, huh? Good luck with that."

You spend the next hour outlining your PR strategy. You talk about social media engagement, charitable partnerships, and even suggest some media training to help him handle those pesky interviews. He listens with a detached expression, occasionally interrupting with a sarcastic comment or a dismissive wave of his hand.

Just when you think you're making some headway, he drops a bombshell.

"Look," he says, leaning forward, "I appreciate the effort, but I'm not interested in changing who I am. I say what I think, I do what I want, and if people don't like it, that's their problem."

You take a deep breath, trying to maintain your composure. "Max, I understand that you value your authenticity, but—"

"Authenticity?" he interrupts, his voice rising. "You want authenticity? Fine. Here's some authenticity for you: I think this whole PR thing is a load of crap. I don't need you, or anyone else, to tell me how to behave."

He stands up abruptly, sending his chair scraping against the floor. "If that's all, I have a simulator session to get to."

He turns to leave, but you stop him. "Max, wait—"

He pauses, glancing back at you with an impatient frown.

"Just one thing," you say, holding his gaze. "You might not think you need me, but I'm here to stay. And sooner or later, you're going to realize that I'm not just some PR puppet. I'm here to help you, whether you like it or not."

He stares at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, a slow smile spreads across his face.

"You're feisty," he says, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "I'll give you that."

He turns to leave again, but just as he reaches the door, he pauses and looks back at you over his shoulder.

"Oh, and one more thing," he says, his voice low and husky. "Don't get any ideas. This is strictly professional."

And with that, he's gone, leaving you standing there with your heart pounding and a strange mix of frustration and anticipation swirling inside you.

You gather your things, a flicker of annoyance in your eyes. Max's arrogance is almost comical. He'll learn soon enough that you're not just some yes-man, here to stroke his ego. You're here to make him shine, whether he likes it or not.

As you exit the conference room, your footsteps echo in the hallway. You're about to head back to your temporary office when you hear voices drifting from a nearby room. It sounds like Max, his voice laced with that same dismissive tone he used with you.

Curiosity piqued, you slow down, your footsteps barely making a sound on the plush carpet.

"...told her I don't need some PR person breathing down my neck," Max is saying. "It's ridiculous. I know how to handle myself."

A chuckle from another voice, presumably one of his team members. "Yeah, well, good luck explaining that to Helmut after your last press conference."

More laughter.

"Seriously though," Max continues, "this whole thing is a joke. I'm not going to change who I am for some corporate sponsors or some uptight PR—"

He stops abruptly, and you hear the scrape of a chair. You realize you've been eavesdropping and quickly step away from the door, your heart pounding.

You continue down the hallway, your mind racing. So, Max thinks this whole thing is a joke, does he? He thinks you're just some "uptight PR person" who can't handle his "authenticity"?

You might not be able to change who he is, but you can certainly help him present a better version of himself to the world. And you're going to make him see that, even if it's the last thing you do.

© 2024 jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[jonnywaistcoat]

Hey, Horrormaster Sims. I have a wildly different question that barely relates to TMA (Sorry about that) but its about your own process. Please, if you could, can you tell me how your first drafts made you feel? I'm on the fence about writing my own thing (not a podcast, and again, not Magnus related, though I have a million little aus for that delightful tragedy you wrote, thank you for that!) But I'm discouraged by the collective notion that first drafts are always terrible, because there's no ... examples I can solidly use to help the dumb anxiety beast in my brain that tells me everyone who is in any way popular popped out a golden turd and not, well, you know. One of my friends said 'Oh I bet Jonathan Sims's first draft was nothing like what he wanted' and I got the bright idea to just. Send you an ask, since you're trapped on this hellsite like I am. Anyway, thanks for reading this (if you do) and if you'd rather ask it privately, I am cool with that. Alternatively, you're a hella busy man with Protocol (you and Alex are making me rabid, i hope you know) and you can just ignore this! Cheers, man, and good words.

To my mind all writing advice, especially stuff that's dispensed as truisms (like "first drafts are always garbage") are only useful inasmuch as such advice prompts you to pay attention to how you write best: what helps your workflow, what inspires you, what keeps you going through the rough bits. There are as many different ways to write (and write well) as there are people who write and so always consider this sort of thing a jumping off point to try out or keep in mind as you gradually figure out your own ways of writing.

On first drafts specifically, I think the wisdom "all first drafts are bad" is a bit of unhelpful oversimplification of the fact that, deadlines notwithstanding, no piece of writing goes out until you decide its ready, so don't get too hung up on your first draft of a thing, because a lot of writers find it much easier to edit a complete work than to try and redraft as they go. It's also important to not let perfectionism or the fact your initial draft isn't coming out exactly how you want stop you from actually finishing the thing, as it's always better to have something decent and done than to have something perfect and abandoned.

But the idea of a "first draft" is also kind of a fluid one. The "first draft" you submit to someone who's commissioned you will probably be one you've already done a bunch of tweaks and edits to, as opposed to the "first draft" you pump out in a frenzy in an over-caffeinated weekend. For my part, my first drafts tend to end up a bit more polished than most, because I'm in the habit of reading my sentences out loud as I write them (a habit picked up from years of audio writing) so I'll often write and re-write a particular sentence or paragraph a few times to get the rhythm right before moving to the next one. This means my first drafts tend to take longer, but are a bit less messy. I'm also a big-time planner and pretty good at sticking to the structures I lay out so, again, tend to front load a lot of stuff so I get a better but slower first draft.

At the end of the day, though, the important thing is to get in your head about it in a good way (How do I write best? what helps me make writing I enjoy and value? What keeps me motivated?) and not in a bad way (What if it's not good enough? What if everyone hates it? What if it doesn't make sense?) so that you actually get it done.

As for how my first drafts made me feel? Terrible, every one of 'em No idea if that's reflective of their quality, though, tbh - I hate reading my own writing until I've had a chance to forget it's mine (I can only ever see the flaws). I suppose there's theoretically a none-zero chance they were pure fragments of True Art and creative perfection, but Alex's editing notes make that seem unlikely.

[itneverendshere]

I love bartender!reader!!!!!! She seems so sweet and collected...but I was wondering if she's got a little fire in her? Maybe they're at a party together and she gets jealous......which is new because she's usually the calm one out of her and rafe. Hope you're doing great <3

loved writing this bc you're so right!!! it's just so not like her to lose her temper over trivial things but oh🫣 hope you're doing just a great as well💖

i'm usually so unproblematic - r.c

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe) warnings: allusions to smut but no actual smut.

You’re sitting in Rafe’s truck, staring out at the huge house in front of you, stomach in knots. It’s a mansion, more like.

Kook house. Kook party. Rich people everywhere. You can already hear the distant thrum of music, even from inside the car, bass-heavy, vibrating through the seats.

You chew your bottom lip and glance over at Rafe. He’s calm, casually messing with the radio, probably about to put on those trashy songs he loves that you absolutely hate but pretend to like because you love him.

It's insane how easy it is for him to just... be cool about this. But you?

You’re not so sure.

"This was a bad idea," you mumble, half-joking but also half-serious.

Rafe turns to you, one eyebrow raised, lips pulling into a crooked smile. “Nervous?”

You give him a look. “Obviously. I’m not...I don’t do these things. I don’t know these people.”

You’ve been with Rafe for almost a year now, give or take. Said your I love yous, met each other’s families. Hell, you’ve spent more time at Tannyhill than at your own place lately, and you’ve grown used to Rafe’s kook side. His friends, though? These parties? A whole other beast.

“I already met Topper. Isn’t that enough?”

He laughs under his breath, reaching over to take your hand. “You’ll be fine. It’s Kelce, and a few other people. No big deal.”

No big deal, you think. Easy for him to say when he’s been around these people his whole life. For you, being a pogue, working extra shifts at the country club just to pay rent… yeah, this is a little different.

“I know, I know. I’ll be fine. It’s just— I’m out of my element.”

He squeezes your hand. “Hey. You’re with me. That’s all that matters.” 

You’re with Rafe. The Rafe who loves you, who can’t keep his hands off you even when you’re just watching movies. The Rafe who gets jealous over dumb things, like if you laugh too hard at one of JJ’s jokes, even though he’s just your seventeen-year-old neighbor. The Rafe who texts you goodnight, even when you’re in the same room, because he’s a sap and you secretly love it.

“Alright, let’s go,” you agree, trying to hype yourself up.

Rafe smiles, and then he’s out of the truck, jogging over to your side to open the door for you, like a perfect gentleman. You roll your eyes but step out, the night air brushing your bare shoulders. You weren’t sure how to dress for this party, so you chose to wear something…safe. A pretty red top you only used on special occasions and your best demim skirt. It wasn’t exactly kook material but at least you weren’t in your worn-out shorts and usual crop top or in your work uniform.

The moment you walk inside, though, it’s like stepping into a different world. The house is packed. People everywhere, laughing, drinking, hanging by the pool. Everything’s pristine and polished, and you feel their eyes on you the second you walk in.

Rafe wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Want a drink?” he asks, leaning down so you can hear him over the music.

You nod, trying not to let the fact that people are definitely staring at you freak you out. You’re not a Kook. You’re his girl, though, and you know how much that pisses some of them off.

A few minutes later, you’ve got a drink in hand, and Kelce’s talking your ear off about something you don’t really understand. Golf. You smile and nod along, doing your best to keep up, but the truth is, you’re not listening. You’re too busy watching the crowd, still feeling like you don’t fit in. Like you never really will.

That’s when you notice her. Tall. Pretty, in that rich, polished way that’s almost too perfect. And she’s glaring. Right. At. You.

Your stomach drops, and you tear your eyes away, sipping your drink to cover the dread that suddenly hits you. You don’t know who she is, but she’s been staring at you since you walked in, and it’s starting to mess with your head. Was there something on your face? Had you met before at the club? Maybe she didn't like your drinks.

“Baby, you okay?” Rafe’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts, his hand resting on the small of your back.

“Yeah, fine,” you lie, forcing a smile. He frowns slightly but doesn’t push it. Kelce’s still talking, oblivious.

You try to ignore it, but as the night goes on, she keeps popping up. Always staring. Always with that look crazied in her eyes. Like she could kill you. You’ve had a couple drinks by now, and your nerves are turning into a kind of irritation.

Finally, you excuse yourself to the bathroom, needing a break from the overwhelming feeling of being watched. You lock the door behind you, exhaling slowly as you stare at your reflection. Were you seeing things? Overreacting? Surely, Rafe or Kelce would’ve noticed as well, right? Or maybe they were used to this. 

I’m just overthinking it, you tell yourself. I’m fine. She’s just..

But when you open the door to leave, she’s there. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, staring at you with that same stupid look, like you personally offended her by daring to exist. 

“Can I help you?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even flinch. Just tilts her head, giving you the most disgusted once-over you’ve ever seen in your life. “You’re Rafe’s new thing, huh?”

What? You’ve had just enough to drink that your filter is basically nonexistent now. You blink, confusion killing the buzz in your head. “Sorry, do I know you?”

“No,” she says, her voice dripping with disdain. “But I know you.”

You laugh awkwardly, nothing about this is funny. “Okay? So what’s your problem?”

Her eyes narrow, lips tinted pink curling. Oh, she’s mad now. She steps up closer to you, practically chest-to-chest. “My problem is that I don’t get why someone like you is with Rafe. He used to have a certain standard.”

Oh.

You almost laugh again because...wow. Really? That’s what this is about? “Okay, Regina George,” you mutter under your breath. You’re not in the mood for this. You tilt your head, giving her your best innocent smile.  “And who are you?”

“Sophie. I dated Rafe for two years, before you, obviously,” she says, like that’s supposed to mean something. You didn’t know him back then, you hadn’t even spoken a word to him. "Guess he didn’t mention me."

His ex. Of course. Of course she’s his ex. 

You snort before you can stop yourself. "Nope, pretty sure he forgot to bring you up.”

You feel a little sting of jealousy in your chest, but you try to swallow it down. You’re not about to let this girl get under your skin. You’re better than that. You didn’t know him, it’s fine.

 “I’m not really interested in whatever this is.” You move to step around her, but she blocks your path.

“Just a word of advice,” she grits out, like you’ve personally offended her, “He’s not the kind of guy who sticks around for long. Especially not with girls like you.”

That does it. The alcohol, the nerves, the whole night—you’re seconds away from losing it. “What the hell is your problem?” you snap, your hands curling into fists at your sides.

“Dirty pogues who think—”

"Okay. I’m not gonna play whatever this is with you," you interrupt her, gesturing between the two of you, stepping forward so you’re toe-to-toe with her now. "If he wanted to be with a walking Vineyard Vines ad, he would be. But he’s not. He’s with me."

“You really think you’re different?” she spits, voice laced with venom. "Like you're special?"

Your laugh comes out sharp, more of a bark. “If you were so special, you wouldn’t be here, playing guard dog outside the bathroom. Move."

“Or what?” she challenges, her lips curling in that same superior smirk that makes your blood boil. “What are you gonna do, pogue?”

That’s it. You feel the fire flare up in your chest. Screw this girl. Your hands ball into fists, and you’re half a second from knocking that smug look right off her face when Topper steps in.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, let’s not turn this into Jerry Springer, alright?" He holds up his hands like he’s breaking up a fight at a middle school dance. You’re staring daggers at Sophie, and she’s glaring right back, but his hands are still up, a peacekeeper grin plastered across his face as he looks between the two of you. “Let’s not do this,” his eyes landing on Sophie. “C’mon, Soph, no need for the drama, yeah?”

She scoffs, crossing her arms and stepping back with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Whatever, Topper.

He watches her go before turning back to you, eyebrows raised. “You good?”

You nod, still fuming, but grateful he stepped in when he did. "Yeah. Thanks."

You let him take you away because if he doesn’t, you're going to follow her and throw a drink in her face or do something worse. You feel like you could punch her right in her perfect, stuck-up face. 

He leads you back to where Rafe is, and you’re too upset to even look at him. His hands are on you the second you’re close, pulling you to him like he can tell something’s off. "Baby," his lips brush against your temple. "What’s wrong? You look like you’re ready to kill someone."

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not without completely blowing up.

Rafe’s brow furrows, his eyes darting between you and Topper. “What the hell happened?” he asks again, more forceful this time.

Topper gives him a look but doesn’t say anything, just shrugs. “Nothing, man. Just some girl drama. Don’t worry about it.”

Girl drama your ass.

He turns to you, and suddenly, he’s all over you, his hands on your waist, the other settling on the back of your head, “Baby, talk to me. What’s going on?”

You pull away, shaking your head, still too mad to speak.

He follows, his hands reaching for yours. “Hey, c’mon.”

Finally, you look at him. Really look at him. And the second you see his face, that stupid, worried puppy-dog expression, the anger starts to melt away.

“I’m mad,” you admit, “I got jealous. Your ex’s a bitch.”

Rafe blinks, and then, to your surprise, he laughs. A real, genuine laugh. You glare at him. “It’s not funny!”

“No, no, it’s not,” he says, quickly sobering, though there’s still a stupid smirk at his lips. “I just, I’ve never seen you jealous before.”

You cross your arms, still pouting. “I’m serious, Rafe. She was awful.”

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close. “I don’t care about her. At all. I care about you.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is softening. “She said you wouldn’t stick around.”

Rafe’s smile fades, and he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes. “That’s bullshit. You know that, right?”

"She’s a psycho.”

Rafe’s expression changes, his frown deepening. "Sophie?"

"Yeah," you snap, because you hate the sound of her name coming out of his lips, "Sophie. Called me a dirty pogue, which—real original.”

“She what?” Rafe’s jaw tightens, and for a second, you see a flash of that old Rafe—the one who’d get into fights at the drop of a hat. "I’ll handle it.”

You’ve seen it before—his protective streak, the one that could turn dangerous if he wasn’t careful. Part of you loves it, the way he’d go to war for you without even blinking. But another part of you hates that you have so much power over him.

But right now, you’re still too mad to care about him handling anything. You push past him, heading for the exit, needing air, needing space. Everything inside you is on fire, and all you can think is that you need to get out. Anything but this house full of people who make you feel like you’re just dirt. People like her. You can’t stop hearing her nasal voice in your head, those snide comments digging into you like little needles, bringing up that same old insecurity.

“Baby, hold on,” His voice is behind you, and his hand is instantly catching yours, tugging you back before you can make it to the door.

You spin around, already ready to snap, but then you see his face—eyes wide, brow furrowed like he’s genuinely freaked out that you’re upset. “Don’t listen to her, she’s full of shit.”

You stare at him, your chest tight and aching, because yeah, you know she’s full of it, but it still got to you. It still hurt. “It just…” You swallow hard, trying to find the right words, even though everything feels like a mess. “It got in my head, Rafe. Like, I hate that she said that. I’m so sick of people looking at me like I don’t belong just because I’m not—”

He cuts you off, stepping closer, and before you can even finish the thought, he's dragging you into him. “You belong with me. That’s all that matters.”

You let out a breath, but you’re still worked up, “But it’s like—I don’t need some stuck-up kook girl who thinks she’s better than me telling me I don’t fit in. I know I’m not like them, but she said it like I wasn’t good enough for you. Like I’m just some—”

Rafe’s lips are on yours before you can finish. He only pecks you, but it’s enough to shut you up, to make your brain go silent for a second. “Stop,” his voice is almost pleading. “Stop thinking like that. I love you, okay? I don’t care what anyone else says.”

You blink up at him, you want to stay mad, but also want to let it go because he’s right here, so close, and he’s got that look on his face that makes your heart flip. “You don’t get it.”

He pulls you closer, hands gripping your hips like he can’t stand to have any space between you. “Then tell me,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your lips. “Tell me why you’re letting her get in your head.”

You huff, but the fight in you is starting to die out. “Because she made me feel like I’m less.”

He tilts your head back just enough to look at you, “That’s bullshit,” his fingers are gentle as they trail up your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You feel a little stupid for letting that girl get to you in the first place. But damn it, you’ve heard it before—from other people, from yourself—that nagging voice that says you’re not enough.

“I know.” you mumble though you’re still a little embarrassed.

Rafe smiles then, that sweet smile he only ever gives you, and he presses his lips to your forehead. “Good,” he says, tugging you even closer, like he’s trying to wrap himself around you. “Because I’m obsessed with you, and I don’t care what her or anyone else says.”

You let out a shaky laugh, finally letting yourself relax in his arms. “You’re obsessed with me?” you tease, tilting your head to meet his eyes.

“Hell yeah,” he grins, his hands sliding up your back, one hand slipping down to squeeze your ass, his thumb sliding just under the hem of your skirt. “I can’t keep my hands off you. You know that. It’s becoming a real problem.”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool, but you don’t stop the giggle from bubbling out. The way he’s looking at you right now, like he can’t even think straight because you’re standing in front of him—it drives you up the walls. Then he leans down and kisses you again, and this time it’s not...casual. His lips move against yours like he’s trying to take every thought in your head, and it’s working. Your hands slide up, wrapping around his neck as his tongue brushes against yours. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to this. 

He grips you harder, lips moving to brush against your ear, “You’re mine, baby and I’m not fucking going anywhere.”

That hits you, hard, like a truth he always reassures you off but still feels brand new when he does say it. Everything that pissed you off, all the crap Sophie said, it doesn’t matter anymore. 

“Stop making me horny,” You whine out, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer. You can feel his grin against your skin as he leans in, biting your lip playfully before kissing you again, you know he’s enjoying teasing you. His hand slides down to grab a handful of your ass again, making you gasp against his mouth, and you feel him smirk.

“I like you horny.”

You’re in the middle of this stupid party, surrounded by people who probably hate you for breathing, but all you can think about is how much you want him right now. His lips move over yours like he’s trying to claim you, and you’re more than happy to let him. It’s messy, all tongues and spit, but you don’t care. You love how rough and needy he is, how he groans into your mouth like he’s been dying to kiss you all night. It’s the kind of kiss that leaves you dizzy, the room spinning, and you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or him—or both.

You tug at his shirt, frustrated with how much fabric is in the way, and he chuckles against your mouth, biting down on your bottom lip just hard enough to make you gasp. His hands slide down up to your neck, tightening just enough around your throat, and you let out a soft whimper into his mouth, making him grin.

“You're just so—” his lips brush over your cheek, then down to your bottom lip, kissing and biting just hard enough to make you squirm, "Beautiful, aren't you?"

You’re normally not one for pda, not at all. The idea of people watching, of eyes on you while you're with someone, always made your skin crawl. But when Rafe kisses you like this? When he’s got his hands on you? God, your brain just goes dumb, and every ounce of self-consciousness fizzes out. It's embarrassing, almost. All you can think about is the way he’s making you feel, the way he’s holding you against him, leaving you breathless and wanting more. You’re so not this person, not the girl who makes out with her boyfriend in the middle of a crowded room.

But with Rafe? You can’t even think straight. 

His hands slide under your skirt for the millionth time, blunt fingernails gripping your plushy thighs, and you nearly whine, “Rafe,” you breathe, trying to pull away long enough to think properly, but he just kisses you harder, more insistent. “Baby, stop,” you manage to whisper, though you don’t mean it at all.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes all dark, his breath hot against your lips. “You want me to stop?” he teases, his hands still tight on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin in a way that makes your knees go weak.

You shake your head, biting your lip, and his grin widens. “Didn’t think so,” he murmurs before leaning in to kiss you again, like he can’t help himself, and honestly? Neither can you. You’re so turned on, it’s ridiculous. 

“I—fuck,” you pant, trying to get the words out between kisses, but he’s relentless, pressing you back against a wall, his lips latching on to your neck, sucking a bruise into your skin “Baby, please—”

He groans against your neck, one hand sliding up under your top, fingers brushing the bare skin of your waist, and you swear you’re about to lose it. “Please what, hmm?”

You bite your lip, trying to stay composed, but you’re way past that now. All you can think about is how much you need him. Right now. Anywhere but here.

“Take me to the truck,” you nearly beg him, just loud enough for him to hear, but you know he catches it because he pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide.

He smirks, running his thumb over your bottom lip, teasing. “Yeah? You need me that bad?”

You nod, not even caring how desperate you sound. “Please.” Your voice cracks a little on the last word, but you don’t care anymore.

You need him, and you need him now.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀

Forty minute later, the air inside the truck reeks of sex.

You’re breathless, flushed all over, and your legs feel like jelly. Rafe’s next to you, grinning like an idiot already fixing his jeans like he’s not still catching his breath. It’s written all over you—the tousled hair, the smudged lipstick, the way your top is barely hanging on properly as you try to straighten it out, the stickiness you can still feel between your legs, on your panties.

You feel filthy.

You bite back a smile as you adjust your skirt, your body still recovering from the way he had your face pressed against the seat.  

“Shit,” you breathe out, trying to get it together, your fingers fumbling to fix your bra strap, “I feel like my makeup’s a mess.”

He just chuckles, leaning back in his seat with that cocky look that made you want to jump him in the first place, “You look perfect,” he says, eyeing you up and down like he’s ready to go another round.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the heat that rises to your cheeks. “Yeah, well, you look like you just ran a marathon.”

He laughs, reaching over to pull you close, his lips pecking your hair, “Worth it.”

You’re just about to leave the truck when the door opens, and as you both step out, you catch sight of Sophie and her friends walking past. Perfect timing. Of course.

She’s glaring—hard—and her friends are snickering, whispering to each other like they’ve just seen something they shouldn't. Sophie’s nose wrinkles as her gaze flicks between you and Rafe, her expression twisting into disgust like you’re both some kind of wild animals who just rolled around in the mud.

But you? You feel smug.

You meet her stare for a second too long, the corner of your mouth lifting in the tiniest, most satisfied smirk. You know she knows exactly what just happened in that truck, and it’s killing her. She’s practically seething, her friends muttering furiously under their breath as they walk by, noses in the air.

Rafe doesn’t even glances their way—his fingers hook into one of the belt loops of your skirt, tugging you back to him with just enough force to make you stumble slightly into his built chest, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And it is.

“Thirty more minutes,” he murmurs against your cheek, planting a kiss there, casual but so possessive, his lips lingering just long enough to make your stomach shake with butterflies again, "And I'm taking you home."

And that’s what makes it even sweeter.

[comfortless]

Only Other

chapter one of three.

Goth soldier! König x fem, Roman! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of gore, groping, dubcon sword/knifeplay. additional warnings will be added to the next two chapters.

notes: for @writersdrug’s request. ^^

wc: 11k.

The barbarians are here.

The dream of river water lapping over your knees and songbirds in swaying trees fades out into a hazy fog as you begin to rise, dropping your legs from the mattress to spur yourself to move across the small room as quietly as your feet can carry you.

Heavy footfalls and staggering hoof beats from their horses weighed down by heavy sacks of supplies is what has pulled you from sleep.

The flames of their torches crackle, accompanied by the shrieks of clanging, well-polished metals singing out as if in the throes of war becomes a dull song; weapons, wicked and crudely crafted unlike the spears of the soldiers donned in red you were so accustomed to by now.

You had heard the whispers on the wind of the untamed beasts from Germania filtering in, settling down here; their arms and their blood for just a sliver of land to claim, soil to birth farmland, a semblance of peace from within the walls of the great empire.

Never, in these small words from gossiping tongues, did you suspect that these rugged men would be taking to camp so very close to your city. Not only that… they’ve been accepted into the walls, the door flung open for them with their gnashing teeth and thick, ugly weapons. These men of myth were usually set further out into the countryside, far from view of polite people to sow seed in soft fields, build the little shacks that seemed far too fragile for their rugged forms that could never compare to the villas built here.

Peering over the sill of the open window, stretching your upper half out into crisp night air to catch a glimpse of torches sailing along the breeze, flames just as ever-shifting as their darkened silhouettes, your breath seems to halt entirely. They look the trueness of harbingers like this: each somehow more imposing than the one they follow behind. You count only two horses split between the eight men of this small band.

Could any of them even speak in your tongue?

What stories could they tell?

Had any of them ventured as far as the sea or had they only bathed in waves of warm blood?

With eyes wide, you even dare to perch there to watch on, never bothering to conceal your underclothes with the faith that the darkness would hide away anything more than a illusory view of your shape.

Through the faint glow of the yellow-red flickering flames, your gaze drifts to something large, hulking and brutish, darker still against the backdrop of a sable horizon.

The shadow walks in line with the others, their proud and raucous foreign voices feathering through the otherwise quieted air… only he does not speak, does not make a single utterance of mirth or glee. He stares only forward as his feet tread on just paces behind the rest of the group.

Nine, then.

Like the tales you’ve heard of the Goths, you’ve also listened in on the children spinning wild stories of monsters, the legends of heroes of old slaying cruel beasts told by their elders. You had always believed them, even without the evidence currently striding through the sleeping streets, dark like a crypt, like the underworld itself. A true titan.

Just as your eyes track the brooding, silent form, he abruptly turns his head in your direction.

The glow of a nearby torch paints the shrouded face in the color of a dying sun, casts a glint on the thick seax strapped to his hip.

In that moment, it isn’t wonderment curling through your blood, but surprise, maybe even a tinge of fear.

Your heart hammers as you pull yourself from the window to whisper hurried, hushed prayers to Juno, protectress of women, as you reject your curious nature and climb back into your bed. You’ll bring your offerings to her altar just as any devout: incense and a sweet pastry so long as she keeps you safe, chaste.

Buried beneath cushions stuffed with straw and thin fabric sheets to tuck yourself away, you wish only to return to dreaming of the river’s silt beneath your feet and colorful birds parading past in the open air that smells only of violets and honey.

Instead, you dream of fire.

You dream of the city bathed in gold, molten and angry as the walls come down around you.

You watch as your neighbors, friends, all begin to writhe and shriek as their skin begins to blister, boil beneath until it melts layer by precious layer to puddle like oil where feet once stood until the mighty, wraithful scorch takes even that away too. What once was human becomes smoke: women, men, children, it made no difference. It all becomes a mighty roaring flame as the structures wail and crumble around you.

Yet, you remain untouched.

Dawn breaks with the puppets sewn in shadow all but entirely forgotten, washed away in the fearsome tides of your own dreaming.

You startle and bolt upright as you wipe cold sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.

You’re no oracle: it’s just a dream… Vulcan would never turn his fiery gaze to your people after you’ve all honored him so, the offerings paid at his altar had been plentiful this past year with the steady expansion of the empire and the need for well-smithed weapons.

There were no volcanoes here to sweep away your life with magma and sulfur… only the lemures that haunted old shacks with their wailing had paid a visit to you last night. You let them in with your fears, and you would ward them away next with your courage.

The sun’s warmth creeps its way in, sweeps up from your blanketed legs until it curls and caresses at your cheek. From its positioning, proud and impossibly high in the sky it’s almost as though Sol himself were staring down at you, radiant yet scolding.

You’ve overslept.

Hurriedly, you ready yourself for the day, cinching your waist, clasping the shoulder of the stola, and dutifully washing your face with still water held in a clay pot. There was little else to do than bide your time with tedium: the animals loitering about needed tending to, a neglected sewing project lay strewn across the floor that had long-awaited its completion, and as the questions began to stir in your mind again… perhaps, gods willing, you would safely be gifted the opportunity to peek at the barbarian camp. To see that peculiar titan that they kept tethered at their sides.

It was dangerous and unheard of for a maiden, of course, but with little else to do than work and practice stitching threads for a betrothed you held no true affection for, this was a significant reprieve from the humdrum of what was scrawled out into the stars.

You weren’t given the luxury of further studies and communing with the aristocrats at their hearty banquets, sipping wine and prattling onwards about politics and how to further Rome as a whole. A part of you preferred this simple life of taking to the street, to peruse the market with what little money you held clutched in your palm, to pet the horses and watch as bulls sparred out in the fields beyond. Returning home to an empty house was a comfort, too.

As always, the market is a lively place, full to bursting with people exchanging anything under the sun, either beneath painted wooden stalls or from the first floor of their very homes, all with very little regard for you.

The city was simply too full to take in every name and face, and only their chatter seemed to intrigue you anyhow. You didn’t need a scroll or a song about each individual, your people were easy enough to read: war, pride, and duty all embedded into their very blood. The only ones that drew your attention were the poets and bards, entertainers who spun their stories of lives vastly different from your own… but there were none awaiting coin on the streets today.

A man passes with his wife at his side, loudly bolstering onward about his progress on some expedition.

Women with flowers woven into the braids of their hair laugh softly behind their palms as they exchange their secrets in singsong whispers.

The children play and pocket with eager palms when salesmen are unaware, likely to be caught later on and have their hands whipped raw.

There’s no talk of the Goths.

With these foreign men, most of your people seemed unbothered, taking solace in the knowledge that the empire’s cavalry would ride to strike down any opposition. A tentative, arrogant sort of comfort that you knew very well not to trust entirely. Most were simply not as educated on the potential of what could be, hadn’t snuck around on quiet feet to listen in on the men discussing failed treaties and negotiations.

The Goths could find their own food, their own women and shelters after fighting for the empire for a time: likely what they were here to do… give up their lives in exchange for a sliver of a Roman dream. A band as small as the one you witnessed could never quite hope to topple an empire, anyhow.

That sense of safety brought forth disinterest and smug little grins with little else to say, whereas your mind only took to further conjuring curiosity.

The more you wander the more you question whether you saw them at all, or if they were mere specters, already slain and silenced on some field far off from here, long dead and forgotten by all but the sleep-addled mind of a maiden.

You’ve never felt so disheartened. Though the city remained constantly bustling and full of intrigue when you knew where to look, these days the ease of it all only seemed to further the boredom. If nothing were to come, it would be no surprise to find that Juno would serve her purpose, looking after all with her blessings. You almost regret calling for her safety last night.

If the barbarians were indeed real, had some plot to overthrow an empire with their small numbers, perhaps only a vulture would be pleased with your thoughts now: teetering on the cusp of anticipation and wonder. You would never think yourself treasonous, but to learn, to see more… Your appetite for something further than a life spent sewing and child-rearing after marrying a man that made your skin prickle with distaste in the coming winter was rational.

Maybe not to most, but to you.

The fruit stall pulls you from thought with its sappy, honey-sweet scent and brilliant colors littered in crates: reds, greens, even some soft and blue… You only then notice you’ve been standing entirely still here, lost in thought, as if expecting a bolt of lightning to split the world in two.

Two apricots were purchased, one for you and the other for the gray mare in the stable you had grown fond of. You give the merchant a smile and a few bronze coins and carry on your way, nibbling at one of the fruits on your walk.

There were usually servants tending to the horses just beyond the city's paved streets, but it seemed today they were busy with other affairs: Quinquatria would be upon the city soon, and there was much to prepare for such an important festival. The place was empty all apart from yourself and the horses, some off in the fields to gallop to their heart’s content, while others like your mare, secured by wooden gates and paddocks.

You feed her, cooing gently as she takes the pitted fruit from your hand and between her blunt teeth; then, allows you to lead her into the grass with your honeyed words and languid steps.

One day, you hoped to have the opportunity to ride her, perhaps far away to touch the waters of the ocean, to see the foreign trees in some great adventure that would leave you more fulfilled. Ideally, without being weighed down heavy with child.

Your hand strokes at her nose before she begins to tense, eyes wandering from your form to something just beyond, far off and nestled in tall, fluttering grass and small bushes. You track her gaze for a moment, finally turning to look over your shoulder.

The wind has the tops of the trees swaying along the hills, grass pushed down to kiss the earth with each flutter of air. It all smells and feels so gentle, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the soil and salt of the earth itself. Ceres would have found herself prideful at the sight; everything rich and lush with the spring… Harvests would be bountiful this year, and everyone would be well-fed and contented. It’s no surprise that after pilfering through old calendars and running his tests upon the soil, Gaius had declared that this was the year he would take you to be his wife.

Past the expanse of soft blossoms and a cavalcade of greenery, all sweeping and rolling, a beauty that would stifle anyone should they think to look hard enough… but amidst all of this sits a man that you recognize immediately. Though he remains utterly faceless, his stature is somehow enough to make a gladiator blush and turn tail in shame.

There, just where the hill dips down and gives way to the soft rush of the stream, sits your warrior. His head is lowered as he crouches by the water, hands tucked to his front as he busies himself with something in his lap. The bare expanse of his back presented to you is unfathomable even from such a distance.

The men from Germania were said to be huge, dwarfing those that you were accustomed to by lengths, tall and thick like the weapons that they carry. They were said to be handsome, too… and like some hazy dream you were already certain that he was, somehow, beneath the pelt tied round his waist to keep him warmed at night, the sable shroud hanging over his head as he works away at sharpening the blade laying over his lap.

Your legs feel weak like a freshly birthed lamb’s as you watch him; the muscles of his bare arms bulging and quivering, his nude back tensing with effort. The soft rays of the sun beaming down only seem to paint him golden, untouchable except by higherborn women and men who could pay well to have him dirty his blade or his cock. Radiant, cruel, maybe even a bastard son of Mars himself, because what better a place for a man so vast and laden with scar tissue to be than in the midst of some great war.

Someone like this, you know with a certainty, would have no time for fickle maidens with their heads filled with the fluff of fantasies, and in a way that only seems to solidify a plume of possessiveness stirred up within your head.

You wonder even, if he calls to Vulcan as he pauses to hold his blade up to the sun to marvel at his work, the sharpened silver glinting in the light. The weapon casts its rays to only further illuminate the paleness of his flesh, coupled with the gleam of the flowing water ebbing past it only serves to make him look the very picture of those old stories and myths. The older women in the city would have tapestries embroidered of this scene, no doubt, if they could see through your eyes now.

Your horse trots off, satisfied that there is no true threat here, and you feel yourself begin to creep forward.

The gods and goddesses must play their tricks, because you are no fool. The pull only feels undeniable, something that you could not fight with a stern will alone. You pacify your impromptu decision with the thought that you could turn away at any point in the meters it would take to reach him. Surely, if he turned to face you before then that same fear from the night before would come to surface and you would sprint, startled and wary.

Perhaps he would even give chase…

There’s no excitement to be held on him, either acutely unaware or ignoring your presence entirely as you draw ever-closer. The grass softens your footsteps, the breeze blanketing any sound from each shift of your legs beneath the linen stola. You’re near silent in your approach, only halting where the hill crests over the bank several paces away from where he remains seated.

Only then does he turn to look your way.

There’s no greeting, no display of friendliness. His body language remains closed off, distant, like that of a wolf in cautious preparation; deciding whether or not it would be necessary to bare his teeth, to snap and growl until your flesh rends beneath him.

So it’s left up to you and to Juno who remains harbored in your heart. The goddess would protect you most assuredly, you’ve left her offerings for as long as you could remember, prayed at her altars and devoted yourself entirely— perhaps not in the same way of the temple maidens, but certainly more so than most.

You take a breath, watching him with kind eyes and an air of unease about you that only seems sweet by comparison to the very danger that his presence proposes. He only returns your stare with something colder, detached and unamused beneath that ugly veil he wears: two holes for the eyes, dyed beneath with the red rimming yellow like the tissue a butcher may find in a plump calf.

“Can you understand me?”

There’s a long, tense silence that follows your frail question. The titan stares, looks you over from the crown of your head, briefly pauses midway- at your hips- then further. It’s both heated and cold, coaxing yet analytical.

Finally, the barbarian gives a curt nod in response, seeming no less frigid and closed off even as your voice feathers over the breeze. But he understands, can decipher your language, that’s a start.

“You are… one of the barbarians, yes?” Is that even what they preferred to be called? The word certainly sounded prettier on your tongue than the brutish pronunciation of ‘Goths’. There would certainly be some price to be paid if your blood was spilled over a mere insult…

Graciously, he only seems to overlook it as he sheaths his blade and rises to his full height, tall like the mountains you had only heard stories of, where gods and goddesses sit in council not meant for mortal ears.

Freed of any covering upon his upper body, you find yourself reluctantly mesmerized by the trail of light hair that runs from chest to abdomen and down further… until a little tuft peeks from the hem of the pelt tied around his narrow hips. The layer of fat over his midsection paves a way upward to reveal the muscles of his chest, wider and more prominent somehow than most breasts you’ve seen.

Unruly thoughts clutter that would have others questioning your status and devotion to your Gaius if they could hear them. It couldn’t be helped, you reason; you had never seen a man quite so vast, so meant for battle and breeding.

“That is what your people call me,” he huffs, bull preparing to charge. His words come out with a thick accent, northern. The trees and mountains would sound similar if they could speak at all.

He drinks you in with his eyes, fingers twitching at his sides as though itching to touch your most sensitive parts. Though he doesn’t move yet, you get the sense that all it would take is one false move, a skitter in your step that leaves you tumbling to the earth, and he would be upon you like the downpours of spring. You even wonder if he would roar like the thunder delivered from Jupiter’s weighty palms if he were to mount you.

Of course, what he sees before him is not a maiden of Rome. His people didn’t care for purity, for your religions and ideals: you’re a fertile little doe, wandering straight to a buck in his prime.

You swallow hard, a little bob from your fragile throat, to force those treasonous thoughts from your mind. Even talking to this man was a risk to your reputation… Your poor betrothed, nearing thrice your age and horribly delicate by comparison to this beast, would be up in arms if he were to find you here. More concerning, you couldn’t find it within yourself to care.

“What do you call yourself, then?” Your voice comes almost breathless, thighs pressed together beneath your stola as your own body sends its signs and omens to tell you that you’re precariously close to the underworld just by gracing him with your presence. Perhaps it would be that dark, too, if this giant decided to push you to the soil, hover over you as he plucked you apart like petals from a flower.

His eyes track that subtle shift of your legs, crinkling at the outer corners when they roam back upward to your face. The beast grins beneath his hood, you’re certain of it, and those eyes of pale blue seem to glitter like the sun's rays on the stream to your side. He shifts, crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his hips just slightly forward, some strange display undoubtedly meant to tempt and charm you.

You don’t budge from your perch, despite your body’s persistent singing for him. Enticing scents and views of flesh could do that… this man wasn’t special, you were just curious. That’s all that it was.

“König.” He answers things plainly in that lilted voice, as though he’s trying to seem more of a man to spite that boyish way of speaking. And gods help you- it’s cute.

“Does it have meaning?,” you settle to ask when he does not request your name in turn. A bit rude, though you do wonder if perhaps the bullish men in his settlements see delicate things like you more like pets anyhow. The thought of this warrior whisking you away and naming you one day… You swallow that lump in your throat again, teetering back on your heels as if to place more distance between you two.

“What do you think it means?”

That simple non-answer does finally allow your pulse to settle, only to rise immediately to find it insulting— as if this wild man with no proper education had the right to insult you at all.

He only smiles again beneath that veil when your face sours. Awful, wretched, gorgeous creature… You’re no threat to him and he knows it. He’s only playing with you, dodging your pretension with a bit of his own, and unfortunately… This is the most pleasant conversation that you’ve had with any man.

Your betrothed was only arrogant and dull, there’s no light in his eyes when he smiles at you- everything is duty. Not here. Not with König, and surely the goddess of marriage and love is frowning down at you from her lofty throne, because you’re almost certain you’re infatuated with the brute by now.

“You’re a bit rude.”

“King.” He grins, a grin that you can see when he frees the leather flask from his belt and shoves his mask upward to take a heavy gulp of what is undoubtedly Roman wine. The glimpse alone makes you weak again, honey drips from your thoughts to your cunt, and you know now that you were never simply curious.

No, this brute would be the end of your engagement and even you if you allowed it.

You watch him take his fill, catch the bitter scent in the air as a bit trickles down from his rough jaw to his throat, all covered in scars. He’s been in battle for a long time, likely why he wears the hood at all. The rest of that handsome face is undoubtedly a wreck just as what could be seen of his body, all covered in memories of where he’s had scrapes and dances with daggers only to fell his foes one by one with that long seax dangling from his hip.

After the hood and the flask are in their proper places once more, he gives you a nod, then speaks, “How many coins?”

It takes a moment for the question to register in full; he isn’t asking what you have on your person, but how much you’re worth. How much it would cost for you to spend a night in his bed, tolerating this giant between your legs…

Your attractions billow up in smoke immediately, just as you expression sours and your hands curl to fists at your side, crushing the half-eaten apricot in the process. You toss the ruined fruit to the ground, allowing the sweet juice to coat your fingers as it flows downward.

You wring your hand as you very nearly shout, “You are an animal. I’m not here to sell myself.”

Your voice falters to a meek, little whisper with your final words, the breath a weak gust through the first tiny blossoms of spring.

Of course he catches onto your body language, to the way your thighs rub and tense beneath your skirt, the way your nipples peak at the mere sight of him and all of the infatuation and curiosity in your eyes. Men knew things like this, offhandedly, it seemed; if the others were correct then this beast could surely smell you, too.

The bastard only stares, eyes narrowing as his brow pulls together beneath the hood in some strange confusion. The whores wore their togas, not the stolas of maidens and married women, even a barbarian should have known that: his men were certainly no strangers to the sweet women with their faces chalked in lead.

Then, his shoulders pull up to fall in a shrug.

“Run, then, little one.”

It’s almost as though he knows your thoughts in and out, a lemure himself as he presents the bulk of him that would strike fear into any man, taunts and goads. You don’t want another fire dream. You force your courage and mirror his stance: chin up, back straightened as you look down upon him like a goddess sent to deliver her fury with… a pitted apricot at your feet rather than bolts of famine and misfortunes.

His eyes become stars, twinkling in earnest when he sees you then. You’re no aristocrat, no empress, but you certainly feel the part when the giant’s gaze finally relaxes its pilferage and settles upon your face instead.

Your act is all for naught, because you realize that his men are approaching, opposite the stream. One of them was enough, but a hoard of others… You were not even certain that he could understand you properly, and the others could be even less patient. Your gaze travels over their forms, smaller than this ‘König’, but each equipped with their own weapons and their own scars from battle.

They look from their leader to you, eyes grazing over the plush flesh that your stola dutifully conceals like starved dogs. One of them mutters something in a foreign tongue, harsh and guttural, his eyes never leaving your shape in a display of brazen appraisal.

König responds in turn, voice taking on a lower octave as he all but barks his response: harsh, unyielding language that you couldn’t hope to interpret… but if you had to guess, you were nearly certain that his men were asking who would lift your skirts and have their way with you first.

You depart from them with tentative yet hurried feet, and you don’t look back as you cross across the lush field. There’s no stopping at the stable, not a thought in your head except that you would most assuredly not be returning. The barbarians could have the field, the stream, whatever the city’s officials had allowed them.

Just not you.

It’s Gaius that greets you when you arrive home, to the little villa he had secured for you; to the place that would become less of a home and more of a prison once the two of you were wed. You’re barely a foot in the door when the man’s gaunt face turns to you, his lips set in a stern line.

“Where were you?”

You knew that look, it’s the very same that he gives to his slaves when he’s about to bleat out his orders like an enraged goat, shove them or grab at them to feel less small than he truly is.

Your brow pinches, a shaky breath leaving your mouth as you try in earnest to look the part of an innocent lady who had not just crossed a field and fantasized endlessly of some rude, barbaric oaf.

“In the field. With the horses,” you deliver your half-truth with practiced ease. This wasn’t the first time you’ve lied to him, and it certainly would not be the last. If the protectress of Rome could overlook your stunts and recognize your discomfort in this wretch’s presence… then she might even side with you; save you from a future of sharing this man’s bed.

Gaius relents then— as much as a stoic, old man could. He reaches out to cup your face with one weathered hand and you have to force back to urge to shudder.

It’s not that you mean to be cold, not after all that he’s done to care for you… it just comes as naturally as the seasons and the wills of the gods. Something about him always made you feel ill.

You eventually, tentatively jut your chin forward just a bit to force yourself into leaning toward the touch of his cold hand.

His lips curl into an unsightly grin; then, he pats your cheek and draws away enough to bless you with fresher air to breathe without his withering presence alone contaminating it.

“I brought you a gift, meum corculum.”

“Oh…” Your words come in a little hiss, your heart stuttering in your chest as you teeter back on the heels of your sandals. The straps along your calves feel tighter now, your stola too… maybe even the room itself: everything seems to close in, and you could only silently hope he doesn’t request your affections for doing such. “… you didn’t have to-“

“Nonsense.” Gaius raises both of his hands, arcs them before stepping out of your path to reveal a new dress lying on the wooden table just beyond him, dyed a light blue.

It’s pretty, well-spun and soft-looking… yet you still hesitate a bit when you step closer to run your fingertips over the fabric. It yields beneath your touch, bunches when you move each digit along the pliant linen, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched, maybe even softer than the lambs and kittens you’ve played with in the streets.

“I thought that you might like something nicer to wear during Quinquatria,” he adds from just behind you. You feel his hands trace along your arms, further, until they reach your shoulders and give a gentle, but almost demanding squeeze.

It’s meant to be affectionate and he is your husband-to-be… but he still manages to make you feel ill. It’s only a blessing that he’s never requested more from you than a peck for his offerings to you.

What a man in his late stage of life could see in you, you couldn’t hope to imagine. A fertile womb, likely, and you could only hope that that isn’t also what he saw in the women he kept as slaves in his own home further toward the city’s center. Nosy, dull man that he was, of course he needed to be closer to the housings of banquets and discussions to feel some level of importance while he kept you locked away toward the wall and the slums like some filthy little mystery.

“I’m tired, my love,” you manage, voice thin as you slowly pull yourself away, from both Gaius and the delicate blue thing you would be forced into wearing for the coming festival.

The man balks, but doesn’t push. A few seasons and he would have what he’s awaited for years, the confident gleam in his eyes tells you that he’s certain of it.

It’s difficult to believe that someone you had once considered a hero and a friend could make you feel so much disgust now. You were naïve, then, and now you only feel how those poor horses locked away in the stables must feel, burdened with a constant yearning for your own freedom.

“Then rest.”

When the door shuts behind him, you’re only then able to expel your relief. The weight of what you must do settles upon you, heavy and unyielding, the boulder of Terminus.

You can not marry Gaius. You can not continue to breathe in the stink of the city from its miasmic aqueducts, perfumed only by the crowded marketplace full of mortals so contented with their own tedium. The unknown calls and calls, howling like a mother wolf to guide you. Even with the stories told of what fiends and horrors lie outside of the city you could almost feel with a certainty that you were destined for it.

You light your incense with a lump of coal in the burner of a clay pot. Just cinnamon would have to do for now. You make your peace with that promising Juno whichever sweet, flaking pastry that appeals most during the festival of Minerva.

Though you were more than content with your wish for nothing more to do with the barbarians after meeting with König earlier… he comes rushing back into your mind, rolling and lapping like waves as you begin to prepare yourself for sleep. The polished tin of your hand mirror reflects your face as you twirl the handle in a curled palm and you stare. Did he see beauty or simply a womb…? Had you taken offense to nothing? The questions stir up remorse as you strip away your gown and take to the bed.

Just one more meeting with the foreigner, maybe. Just to say your farewells, wish him luck in future battles, bless his seax and his shield with a touch and a prayer (if he even had the sight to keep any form of defense on his person).

When Quinquatria comes, when the people are busy and satisfied with their food, fortune telling and the gladiator games, you will take your mare and ride off into a sea of stars. Each light will be a point of guidance until you reach the riverbed you’ve only ever dreamt of, until you scale the mountains that sang so sweetly from the goth’s tongue…

And perhaps he will chase you.

— — —

Quinquatria used to be one of your favorite festivals. The fortune tellers were your favorites, always seeming to know so very much with so little insight into your life. Then there were the revelers donning their colorful masks, barking out song with bitter wine painting their tongues.

You try to listen in on them as a woman traces over the patterns in your palm, the curved lines and straight, fine indentations. Palmistry, rather than any proper reading with sacrifices and proper seers stood before a temple. You reason that this is for fun, just like the wine-drinking and the gladiators fighting for their lives and the horrible stink of the city’s streets: natural, reasonable, and dreadfully normal.

The fortune teller hums as she reads you through your hand, laughs a bit when she seems to note a secret or… something. You were not entirely sure. The woman was young, her belly likely as full of fermented fruit as everyone else’s as they dance and crowd the street where you two are stood.

“You’re unhappy, girl,” the woman muses, giving you a sympathetic look before another laugh pulls from her lips.

You give her a nod but don’t say a word as she continues to stroke at your palm. Of course you were, anyone could tell just by the frail look upon your face, as if you were indeed bereft and ready to cry at any moment in this horrible, dainty dress with your betrothed fondling some lady mere paces from you.

“Yet, so lovely,” she continues, nimbly running her fingers to your wrist. She curls them around you, turns your hand over and gives it a soft pat to signify that your reading is done.

“You’re destined for a summer wedding.” Winter, you want to correct. “And your husband… strong and brave like the sacred wolf.” Weak and old, you force back with a clenched jaw.

She releases your wrist with one last assessment, “Juno favors you, sweet girl.”

You want to call her a fraud, but instead you merely part with the bronze you had promised to her. With Gaius preoccupied, his wrinkled hands already tucked beneath the skirt of the other woman’s stola, now would be the best time to wrench the door of your little cage wide open… not make a scene.

Your chest feels tight, and for the first time it isn’t from some unknown fear, it’s excitement. Your heart hammers as the blood stirs within your veins, belly tense and breathing shallow, taking a stiff pace to walk along the shadow untouched by silver paths of moonlight.

There’s a bellow, a wail as the gladiators fight some distance off. Soft words and whispers filtering past like eerie words from something ghastly, moans from a brothel, bells on the wind, the stink of rot and perfume all from all that you’ve known for so long as you leave it all behind.

Your mare is pacing restlessly in the field, her ears flicking and tail swaying behind her. You’ve no saddle, you hadn’t even thought to procure food or any supplies. You’re not even certain that she’s been ridden by anyone, but you coax her over to the wooden fence that your body rests over; hands find the velvety fur of her gray snout, fingers moving to gently caress her mane and ears.

“We are going to be free,” you whisper as your hands curl over her neck. The mare makes her displeasure known immediately, huffing and tensing immediately… and you realize that this isn’t going to work, not without her bucking you off and leaving you injured or dead. You’re not stupid or brazen enough to break a horse or anything, really. Not Gaius. Not…

You would find König. Perhaps you could even trade the Goth for a horse already accustomed to being ridden… he had already revealed his intentions, and he was easy enough on the eyes to entertain the thought.

You give the mare a kiss farewell, right on the softness of her cheek and detach yourself from the fence to wander past the silver field, the gently flowing stream. The water dampens your dress, embeds it’s cold into your very bone where the sandals fail to protect. Spring or not, it’s hardly warm at night, and there are only so many rocks lying in the water to keep you from sinking in.

The clothes are drenched by the time you crawl to the other side. On the opposite bank, it’s only then that you turn back to look over at the city, one final glimpse of a place bathed in gold; cinder and ash from torchlight, flowers and the creeping scent of decay carry on the breeze. Even from the distance you can hear the music, chimes of steel on steel, the laughter and cries of mirth and pleasure.

Begrudgingly, you feel the first seeds of regret plucking at your heartstrings. You’ve nothing to your name apart from a few coins in a pouch strapped to your hip, no weapons, no food. You could die, you verily would if you went at this alone. And still, you force your face forward and continue your steady waltz to look the unknown straight in its bloody maw.

You won’t panic, won’t fear. Whatever awaits would be better— it had to be.

The barbarian camp comes into view some time later. You couldn’t be certain how long you’ve been walking, as though some spirit had plucked the chords of your mind and left you in some confused daze. It couldn’t have been your own desperation. Something greater had to be at play, a proper destiny: one much better than the life of Gaius’s wife, owned like a hound, imprisoned and uninspired.

Though their torches burn, their tents stitched together amalgamations of old pelts and cloth, the air is fresher here. You expected the reek of death, heavy on their skin, bathed in blood and the rot like visions of Mors herself. Instead, you smell smoked meat and wine on the air: a boar and fermented grape, fruit from the surrounding orchards, the heavy scent of men. There’s no celebration here, a few men talking quietly as their eyes wander over what you can only assume to be some sort of map— tactical discussion for their next bloodbath.

You puff your chest and steel your gaze as you walk towards them, expression set not unlike the stern looks your betrothed would give.

Your attempt at intimidation only earns a flicker of hunger in the gazes of these men, and then a bout of grating laughter. They glance at one another, discussing you in hushed voices in their mother tongue before one finally looks to you and asks a simple, “Was?”

“König,” you answer simply. “Where might I find him?”

The question undoubtedly goes uninterpreted, but the name does spark a wave of interest that passes between their faces. Finally, one points toward the tent at the far side of the camp: ugly thing, vast and layered in dark tones of gray and maroon, the very structure is a bleeding animal.

You hear the laughter behind you, the lewd whispers and jeers and only a simpleton wouldn’t be able to interpret the meaning; the titan that heads their little group has a lovely woman seeking him out like a wayward dream, and with adrenaline already coursing through you the thought of spending your night here doesn’t even seem an insulting prospect.

The flap serving as the door of the tent parts as your hands move to lift it, and sure enough… the beast lies in wait in his den, seated on a mattress made up entirely of fur. His hood remains over his head as he traces the carvings on the handle of the seax, under flickering flame and the shadow of the tent König seems further unearthly, god walking amongst men as he toys with his weapon in some strange sort of ritual.

The ritual only seems to be one of boredom, because his eyes light up when they rest over you, standing like a dream as your dress billows with the breeze creeping in. You’re drenched and dirty and pitiful in his presence, but he only seems to soften when he beckons you toward him with a curl of his fingers meeting his palm.

You obey with tentative steps, stopping next to him as he waits on the bed. If it were possible for your heart to seize and halt entirely without you collapsing to sink beneath the earth, it surely would now, so close to him.

“I need a favor,” you explain in whispers. “A horse.”

“A horse,” he repeats as his weapon is set aside, “Warum?”

You don’t want to explain a thing. He’s working with the very men that could drag you back to the city after being paid heavily by Gaius… your trust is blind and foolish and you almost want to break apart right here. How stupid to believe that you could find some solace here, with a giant that walks along the cusp between men and beasts. Your shaking hands reach out to drag along his vast shoulders, lingering on the healed wounds that dent and give rise to his flesh.

“I’ll do what you want,” you offer quietly, earning a pleased rumble from his chest.

Though after a moment, he only sieges your wrists, pulls you down to the mattress at his side. He touches you no further, only stares down at you in a twist of amusement, reverence and confusion.

“Warum?,” he repeats, “Tell me.”

You wind over onto your side, staring up at him with a desperation that you’ve never known until this night, clawing down from your throat to bed it’s way into your roaring pulse, frightened and pleading. Just give in, ask no more, you want to wail to him as your vision begins to blur with tears.

Mercifully, he doesn’t ask again. König lies at your side, mimicking the way you curl onto your side and again… he smiles, though this one is unlike the way he looked upon you by the stream. It lacks that boyish twinkle, the intensity of the lines forming beneath his eyes: it’s more of a pleasantry than anything genuine.

“You are married?”

“What? No…” You swallow hard, toying with a thread that’s begun to pull free from your hip, twirling it between your fingers. “…not yet.”

“Ach… but you belong to another, ja?”

You want to howl out your frustrations up to every god and goddess above, burn through the Elysian with your misery alone. You wish, yearn for the courage to cast off that mask and lure him in with a kiss, erase any memory of Gaius with the kindling of a truer passion.

Your voice doesn’t come, and your fingers steadily pluck at that thread, feeling more unsure of yourself with each passing second.

Again, your bastard god grants his mercy as he raises a hand to cup your jaw, the warmth of him singing away the memory of the weathered hand that had touched you there before. His hand is so much larger, strong and riddled with calluses; you swear that you can feel his own fluttering pulse through his fingertips when they press against your bottom lip.

“Not after tonight,” he hums.

When the shroud is tugged up and his mouth meets your own, König’s kiss is exactly what you had expected: a sloppy, eager clash of teeth and tongue. He steadies you with a hand pressed to the back of your neck as his grunts filter past your own lips. Your eyelids flutter, then close as you allow your mind to finally relax, coaxed into the ethereal with each swipe of his tongue and pleasured sound drawn up from the well of his throat.

He pulls away with a gentle peck to the corner of your mouth, gazing down at you as though he’s been deprived of light for the entirety of his being and had only now met the sacred flame. It’s incomparable to how easily your betrothed would cast his scrutiny; though the hunger is similar, there’s something far more enticing here.

“Do you trust me?”

König’s voice holds no apprehension as he speaks; the question is just as blunt as each bulge of muscle and peek of teeth through the grin on his face, only set aglow by dim candlelight in the tent. You don’t nod, don’t even reply immediately as you stare at him a little dumbly, still intoxicated by the ferocity of his affections.

“… I don’t know.”

He moves a hand over your eyes then, gently presses his palm over you until you’re bathed in such darkness that you shudder. It’s a disconcerting feeling— not because you fear him so much anymore, but because if this were Gaius you would have already been squirming away, rushing to hide. You want to kiss his palm, revel in whatever piece of him he gives to you.

“Sehr schön,” König coos to you in a whisper. You settle further, allowing the tension to leave you almost entirely as you fall into the velvety embrace of all of this darkness and the pelts beneath your back.

He shifts at your side, and almost immediately there’s a cold chill at your collar, something sharp that he rakes over the softness of your flesh, then down, down to snag at the top of your dress. Your gasp is quieted by a kiss as you feel his weight shift over you, and just as you begin to melt into it… the fabric begins to tear, shreds as he guides his blade further, past your breasts and along your sternum, your belly, further.

“Don’t..,” you manage to hiss against his mouth, immediately taken over by the feeling of his tongue lapping at your teeth. Your nipples peak at the sudden chill as your dress lies ruined to either side of your body, thighs trembling as the blade hooks along the linen concealing your maidenhood.

One more generous, gentle cut and that comes away too.

You’re entirely bare when he retreats to your side again, one hand still clutching the blade as he moves his head to lay over your breast and… never, never had you heard of a man lapping and suckling at a woman like a pup, but that’s what he begins to do; his tongue circles over the bud, tugging it between his teeth until you feel the wetness between your legs beginning to drip to smear upon the mattress.

It’s caught, quick, as he turns the blade in his hand to slot its grip against your sex. It’s cold, but his mouth is warm, attentive as he licks between the valley of your breasts to capture your other nipple.

The noises that leave your mouth are filthy, rivaled only by the sounds you’ve heard in brothels… König only seems appreciative of them, muttering praises as he grinds the cold metal against your cunt, careful as the ridges of it graze your throbbing bud, gathering your slick to make the glide that much easier.

When he moves to dive for your breasts again, you cradle his jaw in your hands, peering up at those moonlight eyes in silent pleading as you capture him in another burning kiss.

The blade turns again, its sharpness directed down so as to not bring you any harm as you desperately roll your hips against its coldness. He groans into your mouth, panting softly just as you begin to whine.

You’ve never heard of a man making love to a woman with a weapon… or of one suckling at her as though she’s lactating when she is not, but… it has the desired result when your body tenses and all that can escape you is a frail whisper of his name.

The heat sweeps from your foggy head to your middle as your thighs squeeze around the damned thing and König presses his lips to your temple. You climax for him, chasing wave upon crashing wave of intensity with stilted bucks of your hips. He clicks his tongue in approval when you’ve finished, holds up the seax again, smeared wet with your essence and twinkling as though it had been bathed in the stream once more.

You know with a certainty you’ve lost Juno’s favor. If he chose you to carve you open with his come-stained blade the goddess would not make her descent to save you.

“Gut,” he whispers into your hair. To your horror, maybe even fascination, he raises the dirtied silver to his lips and licks your sweetness from it with another low groan.

“Wh… why would you do that..?” Your rapture feels almost shameful as you watch him lap at the weapon, the long tongue meeting silver only warmed by your heat.

He’s mad, certainly, and you only find yourself further infatuated: you reason that you must be too…

König doesn’t answer you as he sets the seax aside again, not in words. Instead, he cups your face and directs your lips to his own where he laps at your tongue, suckling it in the same way he did your tits. It’s slow and sensual, and you can taste yourself in his mouth, smell yourself on him as his hands find your waist and tug you closer until you’re lying almost entirely over him; one leg thrown over his thigh with your hands splayed over his chest.

The titan is hard beneath the pelt he wears, felt against the plushness of your thigh, the brown fur wrapped around his hips is pushed to rise where it’s harboring something akin to a pillar… but he doesn’t force you to settle over it, makes no attempt to tug it free, despite its throbbing against your leg,

“I needed your blessing,” he mutters, a hand settling over your naked hip, tracing small shapes with his thick fingers. The other finds your shoulder to pull you into a cuddle, pulled so tightly against him that you’re hardly able to discern where your warmth ends and his begins.

“A.. a blessing?” Your voice comes as a trembling croak, head pressed into the gap between a broad shoulder and the column of his throat.

“We are leaving in the morning.”

“Oh…”

“I will give you the horse when I return.”

Your head feels like a mess. You’re not even certain of what you’ve just done— did that count as sex? Would he tell the Roman soldiers he works alongside of how he had convinced some pompous aristocrat’s lovely bride to lustrate his blade with her essence? You could hit him, demand the horse now and bolt, but you only melt against him: eyelashes fluttering as exhaustion takes hold and the tension leaves you entirely.

“That’s all?”

König pets you, running a hand along your spine and back up to repeat. He presses his nose to the crown of your head, nuzzling against it until his hand is freed from your form and only then does it coax its way beneath the fur covering his groin.

He laughs at the weak sound of surprise you elicit when that beast is pulled free, another, thicker weapon curled in his hand. The thickness, the length of it that tapers off to a layer of skin, eager and pulled back from the tip, leaking beads of milky white: something that would surely tear you if he were not careful, and the thought brings you to squeeze your thighs together, concealing the leaking, thrumming thing between.

“I will fuck you when I return, too,” he huffs into your scalp, causing you to further bury your face against him, intent not to let him see the effect his derangement seems to have on you. You would let him bury himself into your chest, steal the breath from your very lungs, but you don’t breathe a word of it. Something tells you it’s a mutual thing, perhaps it was all spelled out for you when he asked for your favor rather than from any of his foreign gods.

You count your undeserved blessings. He seems sated only ruining you with his touch for the time being, you’re very comfortable here, and though you dare not speak it… you do find this brute charming. He speaks where you fail to, whispers of your beauty being like that from myths and dreams.

He doesn’t force you to leave, either, only paws at and squishes your breasts until you squeak and whine your protests, already sore from his teeth leaving their marks all over them. When he tires of his fun, you’re pulled into a crushing embrace where he rests his head against your own, blankets you in himself entirely. You were right… the shadow he casts over you blackens out the sun, moon, stars all of it; dulls the haze of carnality with something far more tender.

Your night becomes entirely made up of König: his scent like forest and sweat, the furs from beasts he’s chased down and slain, his soft breathing and gentle snores when he does fall asleep against you.

No dreams come to you, no lemures to haunt you with their wails and flames. Not even Juno descends to punish you. You’re warm and soft and contented like the kittens curled up in clusters along the streets on cold nights.

It’s the first night of peace you’ve had in some time.

When morning comes, the brightness of the sun peeking through the flaps of the tent, you wake to find König already out of bed. He stands at the far side of the tent, strapping on pelts and gear and the leather pouch filled with wine. His seax is held up in utter revelry, and mortifyingly enough… you immediately note that he hadn’t cleaned away the remnants of what occurred last night either.

When you bring yourself to sit upright, the giant only drops to his knees at your feet and curls his arms around your middle, pressing a kiss to the valley between your breasts through the thick fabric of the hood.

And… it almost hurts, to realize then that this is something you’ve longed for. You’re not arrogant enough to believe yourself worthy of some foreign worship, but he seems to liken you of some devout little acolyte, as if your come and kisses could grant him favor while he butchers poor souls all in favor of your empire: the people he had likely been communing and trading with only months before. Traitorous, mad, utterly enthralling man… You’re not certain whether you want to relieve yourself from him or guide him back into bed for more frenzied pleasures.

“You will stay?,” he murmurs into your skin as his kisses trail up to your neck.

You hadn’t even considered what you would do, it never came to mind, but staying in a shoddy tent in wait for him to return with the horse he’s promised was far from favorable. You’re out from the city, still without food or weapons, your dress and underclothes are a torn ruin on the floor, nothing but the wind and the stream and König’s stinking furs… The bathhouse seems to call to you now more than ever. Your lower lip trembles when you think of returning to that stale place, to be questioned endlessly about your affairs from your ‘doting’ husband-to-be…

Your head shakes solemnly. “I’ll wait for you at home.”

König drags you up onto your feet and closer as he savors in another embrace. You’re cloaked in a gray pelt, tied up and over your shoulders like the gaudiest tunic in the world, but you bur your nose into its shoulder, humming in contentment when you find that it smells just like him.

He’s more confident and proud than you’ve ever seen him now. The filthy blade remains strapped to his hip when he gathers you up to sit at his front on the back of his horse— a dark stallion with a pelt the same shade as the night sky. It doesn’t even seem to flinch at your combined weight, just canters along smoothly as König directs it through the sprawling field and past the stream to lead you back towards the city’s gates.

You’re not thinking of Juno or Gaius or traditions when König cinches your waist with a thick arm to draw you in closer; there’s nothing but fluffy warmth pooling in your chest sent by Venus when you feel his hips shift to press himself against your back. His head dips to kiss at your neck, your burning cheeks, shoulder, anyplace that he can.

When the horse comes to a halt with a sharp tug of its makeshift reigns, some length of rope and twine, his hand is at your rear.

Everything’s incensed and floral when you’re lowered to the ground, when he lifts the hood to grin down at you, not only with his eyes this time. It’s a sheepish, gluttonous grin, drunk off your very presence.

“I will come back for you, meine Göttin.”

And you know now, that the palm reading had been true— there’s your wolf in preparation for a hunt, the man who’s unwittingly aiding you in your pursuit of freedom painted with mountains and vast, blue skies. You will convince him to come away too, lay down the blade you’ve blessed with your pleasure. A summer wedding… far from wars of greed and smirking old men.

Your head swims when he bids you farewell, rides off on his massive horse back to his camp to gather his own men to march. You watch him go, breath caught up in your throat, a burning longing in your chest that you can not entirely dismiss.

The walk of shame only comes when you’ve crossed the threshold separating König’s world from your own.

The stink of the streets immediately washes away any lingering scent of him on your skin, on his pelt you now hide away with your arms curled around your waist.

You catch your reflection in stagnant water held in a pot, swaying and ebbing gently as others breeze past you.

You’re in a foreigner’s clothes that just barely crest your thighs, hair a mess and the carmine you had worn to bring a false blush to your cheeks is smeared over an eye and down to your jaw. You look the part of an adulteress, maybe, even as you dip your hand into the water to wash the makeup from your face.

There isn’t much to be done about the marks left over the hints of your chest revealed beneath the fur, but you make your way home without anyone even bothering to ask. If anything, the festivities from the night prior only seemed to subdue the standard bustle. You could only imagine how exhausted the hungover soldiers may have been as they undoubtedly prepare for the expedition König had mentioned.

That overrides your shame, sobers you from that sugary elation somewhat. You’re worried. It’s not just about König himself, not about the threat of fucking you when he returns left unfulfilled— though, those are enough to make your heart begin it’s hammering, rabbit in the throes of a chase. The horse, too. That proud stallion, your hope of a swift escape before winter comes and it’s all lost. If his drunken allies fail him in battle, if some other barbarian’s spear strikes true and fells your titan then the dream is dispelled into smoke, sunken down to river bed to be lashed away by frothing waters.

Whoever decided that the day after revelry would be the time to move was a fool indeed. The deities couldn’t look at you after last night, you know if they saw their noses would be turned up in disgust… perhaps not Jupiter’s, he’s more guilty than you could ever be, but your offerings had never been for him had they?

You fret and hiss below your breath as you wind your way back to the villa with its white walls and terracotta-tiled roof. The sun bears down on you like the flame of your dreaming. You’re afraid again, letting the lemures find their way in through the gaps in your shivering limbs to haunt your dreams.

Gaius is not there to greet you, likely still recovering from his own fevered night. You’re grateful for that.

The little altar to Juno still stands atop a table in your room, the burner still smells of cinnamon, dried flower petals and a dish of honey still sat there entirely untouched. She hasn’t split it in two, abandoned you, but it does feel that way when you peel away the fur.

Your fingers nudge at the bruises laden into your skin, the marks that look like teeth to either side of your breast. You press into them, gently, immediately feel that coil of heat, and you don’t want to sleep. That fire from your dream only seems to have become a part of you: you know it intimately now, it comes with pleasure and bite marks and a heavy weight harbored in your chest.

You cinch your waist and tie your stola at your shoulder, brush your hair out with a comb made of ivory. You rub your bruises with a salve made of honey, bandage up what you can and hide away what you can’t by tugging up your breast band.

The same as any other day, you take to the streets of the city and peruse the marketplace, take to the empty bathhouse to wash away all that’s consumed you over the past day. And you watch the soldiers go as they march through the streets, women and children waving away their fathers and brothers with prayers and sentimental words.

They don themselves in red, clutching their gladiuses, spears and heavy shields as they filter out and away where your very being longs to be. Their faces are giddy, almost: the prospect of pillaging and felling each enemy another delightful treat just like those found in the gladiator pits and amidst rolling with the whores in their brothel beds. You can not hope to understand their mirth, the happiness in any of the civilians either.

You watch them leave wistfully, lips pressed to a thin line, fingers digging into the waist of the stola. You down your fair share of the wine Gaius has left in your cellar. The day merely passes you by, the sewing left undone on the floor, altar bathed in cinnamon and saffron as you make your prayers and beg like any dog.

The mattress feels lonely and sad without the warmth of a body made for war curled against you, without his breath in your hair and his arms wrapped around you. It’s cold, too, and far harder than his, all straw and thin sheets. None of this feels like home.

Your eyes eventually close as the last of the sun’s rays begin to die, blotted out by the dark, untouched by torchlight.

You dream of fire.

[brairslair]

(i debated whether or not to ask this anonymously)

so yknow how eddie has a W.A.S.P pin on his vest? can you plz write an eddieXreader scene inspired by their song

Animal (F*** Like A Beast) ?

😅😊

i absolutely love this reqqq, tysm for letting me run with this! hope you like how it turned out @nerdyhooker

Like an Animal - E.M.

18+ ONLY (minors please dni)

a/n: finally figured out an idea i liked for this, and i think it turned out pretty good! although i may have gotten a bit carried away lmao. not sure if this is as rough as you might have had in mind, but i tried to pull as much from the lyrics as possible! i hope you like what i ended up with <3

wc: 5.8k

cw: eventual smut, fem!reader, bartender!eddie + english teacher!reader, kinda fuckboy eddie vibes?, enemies to lovers vibes, light bondage (handcuffsss), p in v sex, unprotected sex (do not do this), oral (fem receiving), pet names (princess, sweetheart, honey, baby), technically drinking and driving, smoking (cigs + i don’t smoke so idfk what i’m talking about), brat reader but she gets super subby, kinda mean but soft dom eddie?, light dacryphilia, these idiots have been head over heels for each other since high school and neither of them knew it bc they’re stupid and stubborn, extremely vague mention of aftercare, not proof read, lmk if i missed anything!

don’t forget to like, reblog, follow, and comment to support my work! it always makes my day, mwah

“well if it isn’t the little princess”

Just like that, nine months down the drain. You massage your temples as you recall the past few days. The countless arguments between you and your, now ex, boyfriend form a persistent migraine between your eyes.

In hindsight, you really should have seen it coming. Your relationship had been rocky for months, but you were so busy with other obligations that you hadn’t had the time to confront any of it head on. Fortunately for you, he was more than willing to step up to the plate.

You wouldn’t let yourself admit it out loud, but you almost felt relieved with his absence in your small apartment. That was until you remembered the loss of his half of the rent.

Everything happened so fast, it was hard to process any of it. It all felt like it was swirling around and around too quickly for you to pick any one thing out. Your solution? Alchohol.

You grabbed your keys and hopped into your polished, clean, mint green beetle, setting off for the local dive bar. You could only recall one other time you had been to the small bar, having been dragged there by colleagues in the name of “bonding” after a particularly long day at work.

Drinking wasn’t something you did often, reserving a glass of wine for holidays and special events. Tonight, you decided you needed to make an exception.

As you parked and stepped out of your car, you felt nerves twist in your gut. The place was undoubtedly busy, which wasn’t shocking for a Friday night. People were smoking and talking out front, and you couldn’t help but notice how out of place you must’ve looked.

A knee length grey skirt fell loosely over your hips, paired with a rose colored, ruffled blouse, and a pearl necklace with matching earrings to top it off. Not a single tattoo in sight, and certainly no cigarette in hand. Your heels clicked against the pavement, smoothing down your skirt as you made your way inside.

The second you enter, you’re hit with a haze of smoke and the overwhelming smell of alchohol, nicotine, and sweat. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dim lighting before you head for the bar.

You shuffle your way over to an empty stool at the front and take a seat, plopping your beaded purse on the counter. As you wait for the bartender to make their way to you, you take a better look at your surroundings. The place felt oddly cozy for being in such a frumpy looking building, and a band was playing some sort of aggressive rock song you had never heard before. Despite it being a little too loud, and a little too cluttered, you were already starting to relax a little.

“Hey there, what can I get for ya?”

You whip your head around at the voice, and your stomach instantly falls into your shoes. It would be impossible not to recognize the dark mop of curls that you got so used to seeing bouncing about the halls you shared all those years ago.

Although now it was pulled back into a sloppy bun at the back of his head, loose curls falling around his face. You’d hate to admit it, but he looked really nice.

“Well if it isn’t the little princess.” he laughs, and you feel your fists clench at the old nickname. “Didn’t think this was really your scene.”

“Well that would be a correct assumption, Munson.” you bite, bouncing back from the initial shock, “Unfortunately, it was the closest bar to my apartment, and I wasn’t in the mood to drive across town.”

Your grumbling makes you feel like a petulant child with a grudge, but you can’t help it. Eddie just always has getting on your nerves.

“I didn’t know you worked here, or I would have made the sacrifice.”

Eddie smiles his big, toothy, infuriatingly smug smile, and shakes his head, “You haven’t changed one bit, huh princess?”

“Don’t call me that.” you demand through gritted teeth, holding on to every ounce of restraint you have not to scream at him to just get you a drink.

He leans forward on the counter with a lopsided, goofy sort of expression, invading your space and ignoring your little outburst. “So what brings you in here tonight, princess? Boy troubles?” he mocks with a pouty tone.

You glare daggers into his skull, and he knows he’s hit the nail on the head. “Just a beer will do.”

He gives a small salute before leaving to get you your drink of choice.

The rest of the night is spent drinking, wallowing, and actively avoiding any and all interactions with the familiar bartender. The minimal interaction you did have involved him pushing every button in sight, and you fighting to maintain an ounce of self control.

Any time your eyes made their way over to him, of their own volition, his eyes were already on you. He had this look, like he knew something you didn’t, and it infuriated you. Oh how you hated him.

It had always been this way, ever since high school. He made it his mission to push you to your limit, and you always had to one up him somehow. It became almost like a game. You weren’t surprised to see he hadn’t changed after all this time. It was almost comforting in way, if you thought about it long enough.

As the night went on, the activity slowly started dying down, and the atmosphere got quieter. You were on your second beer of the night, trying to let the cold liquid take the edge off. Even still, you felt your fingers tap against the counter with anxiety.

How could he leave you to fend for yourself at the drop of a hat? After nine months? Did your relationship hold that little of value? How were you supposed to afford next quarter’s rent? There’s no way you could afford to live in your current apartment. You would have to move. How would you find somewhere decent to stay in such a short amount of time? You were screwed.

“Hey sweetheart, we’re gettin’ ready to close up.”

You were pulled out of your thoughts, looking up to see the one person you wanted to see the least right now. His expression was soft. Softer than you’ve ever seen it aimed in your direction. It made you want to dig your nails into his skin.

“You alright?”

The question takes you aback, your brows furrow at the uncharacteristic behavior. “Fine, thanks.” you mumble, taking another gulp of your drink.

He looks at you with what can only be described as sympathy, and you feel your chest tighten. “Wanna step out for a smoke?”

You mull over the words for a moment. The answer should be so simple. You don’t smoke. In fact, you’ve never smoked once in your life. Why would you ever agree to smoke with him of all people?

But then his hand is outstretched across the bar for you to take a cigarette, and his eyes look so… kind? You’ve never thought of that word to describe him before. Maybe it was the alchohol, or maybe he put some sort of curse on you, because suddenly you’re taking the cigarette and following him out front.

You can’t help but watch as his thumb flicks at the lighter, putting it up to your lips before bringing it to his own. You follow his lead inhaling the smoke, and then you’re instantly coughing and spluttering it back out of your lungs.

He laughs lightly as he cooly blows the smoke to the side to avoid getting it in your face. “I take it you’ve never smoked before? If you wanted to talk to me, all you had to do was ask.”

“Shut up, Munson.” you spit out, face heating up with embarrassment as you make another attempt, ignoring the burning in your throat.

It’s silent for a while, before anyone decides to break it.

“So,” he starts, “You a big time writer now?” he asks, staring at the pavement.

He remembered you wanted to be a writer? You didn’t even think he knew that about you. “English teacher, actually. Hawkins High.”

He looks at you then, dropping the butt of his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his boot. “You stuck around that hell hole? No wonder you’ve still got that stick up your ass.”

You scoff bitterly, “Well I guess some of us are more academically inclined than others.” you glare, “I actually enjoy my job, shocking as that may be to you.”

“I'm sure you do, sweetheart.” Eddie replies smugly, causing you to grit your teeth as he leans against the brick wall of the building. "Gettin' to boss people around all day must be a dream come true for you." The parking lot is almost completely empty at this point.

Of course his civility was just a calm before the storm. You mentally pinch yourself for your momentary lapse of judgement. “God, you are such a-“

“Comedian? Kind soul? Sight for sore eyes?” he offers dramatically, eyes twinkling at your grimace.

“I was going for obnoxious, conceited, prick.” You hiss, stomping out your cigarette, “and I do not have a stick up my ass!” you shout, turning on your heel to leave.

Eddie rushes to catch up to you, laughing boyishly in a way that makes you speed up. “Aw come on, princess, don’t be like that. I was just teasing.”

“I said not to call me that-” You whip around to face him, and suddenly you’re practically chest to chest, craning your neck to meet his eyes. You’re so close you wonder if he can feel your heart racing behind your ribs.

Then he’s looking at you with that look. The one that makes your insides bubble over with fury. The one that makes you feel like he knows some sort of deep secret about you. It makes you want to slap him in his smug face. Yet, for some reason, you can’t seem to look away from his gaze.

Finally, you pull yourself away, and march over to your car. Just as you open your door, you hear a retreating shout of, “Next drink’s on me, princess!” and then you’re out of there faster than you can process your heaving chest and shaky hands.

After that, you somehow end up back in that same bar every Friday. Some sort of force, unbeknownst to you, seemed to draw you in like a magnet. As promised, the next drink was on him… and the next, and the next, no matter how many times you tried to refuse.

No matter how much you tried to talk yourself out of it, you always ended up sitting on the same stool, at the same time, with the same drink in your hand. Every week, without fail, you would leave the bar a fuming, heated mess with only one thing on your mind. Eddie fucking Munson.

This week in particular was different. You were absolutely swamped with assignments that needed to be graded, and you spent all of Thursday night and Friday working on getting them done.

It wasn’t until you woke up the next morning that you noticed the hiccup in your routine, and for some reason it made you sad. It wasn’t like you were obligated to go every weekend, but a part of you had grown to enjoy your Friday nights at the bar. Then some sick, twisted part of you wondered if he had noticed your absence, but you shoved the thought away as soon as it surfaced.

As the day went on, you convinced yourself it wouldn’t hurt to just go tonight instead. After all it was a Saturday night, and you had already cleared your workload for the week, so it’s not like there was any real harm in it.

Alternatively, it was a Saturday night. Eddie’s band performed Saturday nights. You didn’t want him to think you were there to see him, because you most certainly were not. You just didn’t want to miss out on your weekly drink, that’s all. Nothing more.

Still, it was a Saturday night. It would do you some good to look a little nicer, right?

You start to regret it the second you park your car. The shift in the air is blatantly obvious as you enter walk towards the crowded space. Men out front whistle at you as you walk to the door, and you can feel eyes practically digging into your skin as u head for your usual seat at the bar. Your leg bounces with nerves at the attention. You've never worn this dress before. Never had a reason to. You don't allow yourself to wonder why you chose to wear it tonight.

You ask the bartender for a long island iced tea, and catch yourself checking the small stage in the back of the room. You internally scold yourself and glue your eyes to your drink.

It isn’t long before cheers are heard around the bar, pulling your attention up to see Corroded Coffin walking out on stage.

“How’s everybody doing tonight?” Eddie’s voice booms out of the speakers, causing people to whoop and holler in reply. You feel your leg begin to bounce.

He continues talking to the small crowd while his band finishes setting up, and you can’t stop yourself from ogling at him. You desperately want to pull your eyes away, to look at anything else, but you can’t.

He’s wearing an old band t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, showing off his arms, chest, and a sliver of his waist. Your eyes trail across the exposed skin, noticing he has quite a few new tattoos littering it, and your stomach twists. He has leather and chain bracelets decorating his wrists, curls falling wildly around his face, and you notice light bouncing off of his signature rings still adorning his fingers. You definitely don’t remember him looking like this in high school.

As he moves around the stage it’s abundantly clear how confident he is up there. His stage presence is truly impressive, and his voice is really something. It's gotten deeper since the last time you heard it. You subconsciously wet your lips as you watch his fingers move around the neck of his guitar. He’s come a long way since the last time you saw him perform. You can’t help but smile as you watch him in his element.

Then the smile is wiped clean off of your face when he makes direct eye contact with you from across the bar. You freeze, feeling like you suddenly have shards of glass lodged in your throat. Has he known you’ve been sitting here the whole time? If he saw you smiling you might have to run into oncoming traffic.

Then you notice what he’s singing.

“I'm on the prowl and I watch you closely I lie waiting for you I'm the wolf with the sheepskins clothing I lick my chops and you're tastin' good”

Your stomach flips and you can feel your whole body heating up. Something tells you he notices too, which makes it a million times worse. What the hell is wrong with you?

“I do whatever I want to do ya I'll nail your ass to the sheets A pelvic thrust and the sweat starts to sting ya I fuck like a beast”

You shift in your seat, the eye contact becoming far too overwhelming. You opt to look down at your lap for the remainder of the song to prevent yourself from doing something embarrassing.

Soon enough the set is over, and the band starts breaking down their set up. You’re so deep in your own thoughts by the end of it that you fail to notice the man approaching you, until his arms are caging you against the bar.

“Well hello there, pretty lady.” You gasp at the familiar voice speaking directly into your ear, feeling his shirt graze your back. “Didn’t expect to see you here tonight.” He beams down at you, watching you huff and roll your eyes as you turn to face him. Your fingers wriggle with the efforts not to hit him.

“It was an impulsive decision.” You mutter quietly, eyes briefly darting to his toned arm beside you before snapping back to his face, “I didn’t come yesterday.” You concede, unsure of what else to say.

He smiles, seemingly amused. “I know. Your seat was empty all night.” he says lowly, face so close to yours that you can feel his breath against your lips. For a moment you think he’s going to kiss you, and then he’s pushing off of the counter to head back behind the bar and help clean up.

So he did notice. Did he miss you? Was he saving your seat, or is it just a coincidence?

You feel dizzy with a million questions. Why did you let him get so close? Why were you going to let him kiss you? Why does he look so good. Why do you care so much? You should have said something, anything.

You finish your drink in silence, watching Eddie as he flits around tidying up the place, and then the bar is closing. You feel your gut twist at the thought of going home, and you don’t quite understand why, but you blame the alchohol.

As if he could hear your thoughts, Eddie jogs up to you as you grab your purse, arm outstretched and offering a cigarette. His hair falls prettily around his shoulders, and you only now notice that he takes much better care of his curls now than he did in high school.

“Care for a smoke?”

His charm must be cranked up to 100 tonight, because, once again, you agree with less hesitation than you would have liked.

You stand out front, Eddie waving goodnight to Garret as he heads to his car, and you watch as the last car whirs out of the lot. Then you are alone. Just you and Eddie. Your heart hammers in your chest.

“How’d you like the show?” he asks, exhaling a puff of smoke in the process.

You handle the burn better this time, holding back a cough from erupting as you take a drag. “It was… good.” You say hesitantly.

He quirks an eyebrow at you, “Just good? Wow, then we really need to get our shit together if we're gonna-“

“You were amazing.” You blurt out, unsure of why you felt the need to boost his ego. You clear your throat before amending your statement, “It… The show was amazing.”

Eddie hums in satisfaction, smile tugging at the corners of his lips around his cig. “You know, you didn’t have to dress all fancy for lil ol’ me.”

You wore a tight, low-backed, black dress that hugged your curves perfectly, sheer black stockings, black boots, and some dainty silver jewelry. Nothing too crazy, but definitely much different from how you would normally dress. Admittedly, you felt a little self conscious.

“Well good thing I didn’t dress fancy for you.” You huff, starting to feel a little silly for trying so hard to fit in. God, did he always have to be so cocky?

“I mean, I’m not complaining.” He starts, pushing off the wall to step towards you. “You look fucking incredible. Of course, you always look incredible.”

Smug bastard.

“Thank you.” You feel yourself flushing at the words, immediately getting sick to your stomach at how much you care what Eddie Munson thinks about how you look. “Glad I got your seal of approval.” You quip sarcastically, desperately trying to pick a fight. Anything to stop you from feeling whatever it is that you’re feeling right now.

Why did he always find a way to get under your skin? No one else makes you feel as utterly frustrated as he does.

He’s absolutely unbearable.

You force down another inhale of smoke as you watch Eddie slowly make his way closer to you. The way he’s looking at you makes your mouth go dry. You can’t tell what he’s thinking and it’s driving you up the wall.

“You know, you don’t always have to be such a brat.” He exhales casually, pausing in front of you. Your heart stops. “It wouldn’t kill you to be nice to me every once in a while.”

“It might.” You rasp out curtly, just now realizing how out of breath you suddenly feel.

He laughs, and the sound makes your insides flip.

“You have such a big fat crush on me, don’t you sweetheart?” He smiles down at you wolfishly, and it almost makes you shrink under his stare. You suddenly are acutely aware of your surroundings.

You scoff and cross your arms defensively, “I most certainly do not have a crush on you, Munson.” You spit out venomously. How dare he even suggest such a thing? It couldn’t be farther from the truth. You loathe him.

“Oh yeah?” he challenges, taking a stride closer to you, making you step backwards.

“Think I don’t notice how you stare at me? How you sit up a little straighter when you see me?”

Your back hits the wall.

“You aren’t subtle, princess.”

You feel like a fucking deer in headlights.

“Staring and glaring are two very different things.” You pant, desperately searching for oxygen. Anger burns in your throat at his absolute audacity, and your skin feels like it's buzzing.

“Is that so?”

You can feel his chest press into you as the brick digs into your shoulders. He takes a long inhale of smoke, and your head is screaming at you to push him off of you and curse him the whole way home, but you can’t bring yourself to move.

It feels like everything is moving in slow motion as he grabs your chin, and then, unexpectedly, he‘s pulling your jaw down to part your lips. All you can do is stare at him and his cocky fucking smile at your compliance. You feel like you’re in a trance.

Before you can even think, his lips are pressed against yours and pushing smoke past your lips. You gasp at the contact, effectively inhaling the smoke and sighing against his lips. Your brain short circuits and goes completely numb. His lips feel like the cure to a disease you've been plagued with for years.

For a moment, you almost forget who you’re with, until he pulls back to look at you.

“Well if you hate me so much, then why are you squeezing your thighs together?”

You immediately rip your legs apart, not even realizing what you were doing until it was too late. You can feel steam pouring out of your ears at this point.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love it.”

He’s right. For some reason, you do love it. Something about him makes you crave more, and you’re starting to believe he may be an incubus. It’s making you go insane.

So you finally wave the white flag.

“Just shut up and kiss me, Munson.”

So he does. Again, and again, and again, until somehow you end up back at Eddie’s trailer with your wrists handcuffed to his bed frame and your clothes thrown around his room.

Hard rock music plays faintly in the distance, and the room smells vaguely of incense and weed. You feel like you've been transported to an alternate dimension.

His lips feel like they’re everywhere. Your mouth, your jaw, your neck, and then he’s leaving sweet little kisses on your tits, making you whine and arch your back towards him.

“Gotta teach you how to let loose, yeah?”

He gently tugs on one of your nipples and you gasp, and Eddie can’t help but laugh as he kisses his way further down your body.

“You’re fucking adorable when you’re not being a pain in the ass, you know that?”

You groan as he spreads your legs open, kissing and biting at your thighs. “Shut up, Eddie.”

“Oh I’m Eddie now?”

Your hips buck up in frustration, glaring down at him with a scowl. It feels like he’s been teasing you for forever. “Eddie” you whine out, “Stop teasing.”

He slowly starts kissing closer to where you need him most, but not quite close enough. “You don’t think you deserve it? Why do you think your wrists are locked up then, sweetheart?”

You wiggle and writhe beneath him, but don’t answer. Eddie moves his face closer to your cunt, and you finally think you’re going to get what you want, and then he blows on your clit. You whimper and clench around nothing, flinching away from him. It's absolutely pathetic, getting so worked up when he’s barely even done anything yet.

“I asked you a question.” Eddie tries again, rubbing soothing circles into the back of your thigh while he waits for a response.

“My wrist’s are locked up because…” You take a deep sigh and force yourself to just spit it out so that he’ll touch you already. “because I was being a brat." you grumble. He’s lucky your wrists are locked up right now, you think.

Eddie kisses your thigh in approval, “That’s right, and bratty girls don’t get to call the shots. Right?”

You huff and pull against your restraints once more, before ultimately complying. “Right.”

You figure it won’t do you any good to act out, especially given your current position.

“There you go, that wasn’t so hard was it?” Eddie grins up at you, before finally leaving a gentle kiss right on your clit.

You throw your head back into the pillows, immediately feeling relief at the small touch. He then runs his tongue up your slit, swirling it nice and slow around your little button, making you sigh and melt into the bed. His curls tickle your thighs where he works diligently.

It quickly becomes apparent that he knows exactly what he’s doing, and that makes you wonder how many other women have been in this exact same position. The thought makes you dig your nails into your palms, but the it’s is quickly forgotten when you feel him slide a finger into you.

"See?" He starts, words muffled by your folds, "Just needed someone to put you in your place, huh? To take the reigns?"

You flutter around him, and every fiber of your being wants to say something snippy in response, but all you get out is a blissed out sigh. He hums happily.

His fingers are much thicker than your own, calloused from his years of playing guitar. Looking down you notice he took all his rings off and set them next to you on the bed. He never takes his rings off, ever, you remember that. For some reason the simple act makes your heart leap out of your chest.

He pulls his face back from your slick for a moment just to watch the way you suck in his finger, and he moans at the sight of you. The sound makes your brain feel like static. “Fuck, baby, you needed it bad, huh? You’re fucking dripping all over my sheets and I've barley started.”

All you can do is nod your head and hum in response, and your jaw drops open with a soft moan as he slides in a second finger with ease.

“How long have you been wanting me like this, sweetheart? Be honest.” He asks, never faltering in his pace.

You whine at the question, embarrassment flooding your features as you turn your face to hide it in his pillow. He quickly kisses up your body, gently turning your head back to look at him. “You can tell me. No need to be embarrassed.”

You take one good look at his face, and you know that he already knows. He’s giving you that look. He just wants to hear you say it.

“Mm… Since-” you hesitate to finish your sentence, and then a particularly hard thrust of his fingers does it for you. “Since fucking high school! Christ, Eddie-”

A groan erupts from the back of his throat as he kisses you hard, licking and biting at your bottom lip, and then suddenly his mouth is back on your clit and you feel like you’re floating. He picks up the pace, eating you out like a man starved, flicking his tongue in time with the thrusts of his fingers.

You feel your hips start to move against him, and he groans into your pussy making you cry out. “Yeah, that’s it.” He mumbles against your core, “Ride my face, honey.”

You can’t control the plethora of sounds that escape you, and your body seems to have a mind of its own. You writhe on the bed as Eddie devours you, holding your thighs over his shoulders. He searches for your sweet spot with every thrust of his fingers, and he knows he’s found it when your eyebrows pinch up, a high pitched whine reverberating throughout his bedroom.

You can feel him smile against your cunt, continuing his assault against that spot that makes you see stars. He never stops looking up at you to watch your face contort with pleasure. His already dark eyes are now fully eclipsed with lust and need.

“Oh my god-” you gasp out, heaving for air as your legs begin to shake around his head.

He can tell you’re close from the way you’re squeezing his fingers and writhing under him. He doesn’t speed up or change his pace, he keeps doing exactly what he’s doing, moving the flat of his tongue back and forth against your clit and curling his fingers up into you just right.

“Eddie, mm… i’m so close-”

The second the words leave your lips, he pulls off of you. His mouth and fingers are completely gone in an instant, and you feel like you’re about to cry.

“What the fuck?!” You shout at him, voice weak with tears threatening to spill, “Why did you stop?”

Eddie grins from ear to ear, lips and chin glistening with your slick, “We talked about this, remember?” he says cockily, leaning down to lick a bead of sweat from your chest, “Brats don’t get to call the shots. You’ll take what I give you, won’t you sweetheart?”

You grumble and kick your legs out in frustration, but he kisses you to make it better. You slowly let him melt you back into putty in his hands, tasting yourself on his tongue. He presses his knee directly against your puffy cunt, groaning at your wetness against his skin as you sigh into his lips. You go to move your hips against him but he quickly stops you, moving his hand up instead to push down his boxers, his dick already hard and aching to feel you.

“Promise I’ll make you feel so good, just gotta be good for me first alright?”

You nod your head frantically, completely and utterly at his mercy. He looks like sex personified, and you just want to feel him. “Please, Eddie-”

He smiles sweetly at you, kissing your cheek as he slides the tip of his cock through your folds. “Awh, look at you and your manners.” he taunts, but this time you can't seem to care. In fact, you realize, you kind of like it.

You like hearing his voice.

You like it when he’s mean.

He pushes just the tip against your dripping hole, and you’re practically sobbing. “How can I say no when you asked so politely?” and then he’s sliding all the way into you, and you’re already a wreck.

“Holy shit- you feel so fucking good” he groans and huffs as he starts to slowly pump in and out of you, making sure you feel every drag of his cock inside you.

You’re already panting, stretching your hands against the cool metal to try and grasp for anything that can ground you, but you come up empty. He’s so much bigger than you expected him to be, and the stretch is practically making you drool.

“Eddie, fucking- god”

“That’s it, keep screaming my name just like that baby.” He encourages, kissing and biting at your collar bone, sure to leave marks, “You sound so goddamn pretty when you say my name.”

Eddie adjusts your position, pulling your leg over his hip and pushing it against your chest. The new angle has your back arching off the bed, a whimpering mess as you claw at the handcuffs.

Eddie leans his head to rest in the crook of your neck, panting and whining into your ear. “Shit, princess-”

Your cunt squeezes him at the nickname, and the moan that slips past your lips is guttural. “Oh, fuck-” He clamps his eye shut with a deep groan, gripping your thigh so hard it’s sure to leave little bruises.

That’s the first time he’s used that nickname since you started, and he knows it. He did it on purpose.

He lifts his head to look at your blissed out face, a goofy, lopsided, fucked out grin on his lips. “I knew it.” he gloats, thrusts getting harder, “Look at me.”

You muster up the energy to flutter your eyes open and look at him. The pretty smile on his face makes your legs shake.

“You like it when I call you that,” he beamed, “That’s why you hated when I used that name for you in public, huh. Cause’ it made you fuckin’ soak your panties?” he laughed meanly, watching tears fill your waterline. He leans down to brush his lips against yours, voice lowering into something sweeter. “Isn’t that right, princess?”

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you practically scream. He looked so pretty, and he felt so good, and you wanted him closer. It was all too much, you needed to hold something, anything. You needed to pull yourself back down to reality.

“Eds- Eddie, please can I touch you?” your fingers twitch where they’re held above your head, “Wanna feel you- please, i’ve been so good-”

Eddie whines at your sweet pleas, but maintains composure. He wanted to stick to the plan.

“Oh, honey, no” he pouts out at you mockingly, watching the way you strain for anything to grasp and his dick twitches inside you, “No, you gotta give me one first. Can you do that for me, baby?”

Too fucked out to formulate a simple response, you simply sob and nod your head. Your hips start to rock up into his thrusts, but Eddie grabs your hips with one hand and pushes them back down into the sheets. You feel like a live wire.

Then he brings his thumb down to your clit, gently rubbing circles on it, and your eyes clamp shut. He kisses your open mouth and you try your best to kiss him back, but he’s moaning into your mouth, and he’s touching you, and fucking you, and Eddie Munson is fucking you, and it’s all so good that you just can’t.

“Eddie, i’m gonna-” you babble, almost incoherent, feeling the knot getting tighter and tighter, “Please please please don’t stop!”

He puts more pressure on your clit and leaves sweet little kisses on your neck, “I’m not got stop, it’s okay.”

You’re so close you feel like you’re about to explode.

“You can cum for me, princess”

That’s all you needed to see stars, black clouding your vision as he rides out your high, not once stopping or slowing down his pace. You can vaguely hear him talking you down, but nothing registers past your ears ringing.

Then your wrists are released and he’s flipping you over so that you’re on top, straddling him, and your hands and lips are all over him in an instant. In this position he hits your g-spot perfectly, and you can’t help but sob against his chest at the overstimulation.

“Just one more for me, I promise.” he soothes, gently rubbing your hip as his guides your hips back and forth on his cock, making you both cry out. You start to set your own pace riding him, leaning back against his legs to give you the perfect angle.

“You’re so perfect.” He mutters, breathlessly, “My pretty girl- fuck.”

Eddie was now moaning and whining louder and more freely than before, you can tell he’s getting close now too, and you’re already reaching your second climax of the night.

“Wanted you for so long,” Eddie admits, gripping your hip tighter, “can’t believe this is real.”

You whine at the confession, leaning forward to press your lips to the shell of his ear. You make sure to let your pretty noises and praises flow freely, just for him. Your fingers gently brush hairs from his forehead before scratching your way down his chest.

“You fuck me so well, Eds”

“Oh my god- you feel so good”

“Please, Eddie, I wanna feel you cum”

He’s an absolute mess, wrapping both hands around your hips and bending his knees up so that he can fuck you down onto him. “Wanna cum with you sweetheart. Want you to give me another one.” He rambles against your chest, and your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving little red marks behind.

“I’m so close, honey, c’mon. You can give it to me."

You bite and claw at his skin, so close to tipping over the edge.

"Soak me.”

You collapse forward as tears of overstimulation fall onto his inked skin, and he sinks his teeth into your shoulder to ground himself while he paints your walls white. You ride out your highs, clutching each other like a lifeline. When you’re both back on planet earth, he cleans you up nice an gentle, and whispers pretty little praises into your skin as you fall asleep with your limbs intertwined.

“Knew you had a crush on me, princess.”

Let’s just say you no longer have to go apartment hunting!

asks are open!

[novaursa]

Legacy (dragonfire)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: There are unspecified time jumps that go back and forth.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (death scene)

- Previous part: of dragons and gods

- Next part: contingency

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal

The square before the Sept of Baelor was a sea of unease. Hundreds of citizens of King's Landing had gathered, their anxious whispers rippling through the crowd like dry leaves rustling in a storm. The massive steps of the Sept loomed above, flanked by the grim figures of the Faith Militant, their crude armor and spiked cudgels marking them as zealots loyal only to their cause. Opposite them, an immovable wall of crimson and gold—the Lannister men, their polished armor shining under the sun—stood ready. Beside them were the Tyrell soldiers, banners of green and gold fluttering in the breeze like delicate silk juxtaposed against the steel beneath.

The High Sparrow emerged last from the shadow of the Sept, his frail form dwarfed by the host of his followers. His hands were clasped before him in a show of humility, but the fire in his gaze betrayed his resolve. He was a man unbending, unafraid.

Before him stood Tywin Lannister, unyielding as ever, his crimson cloak flaring slightly in the breeze. At his right was Mace Tyrell, puffed with self-importance, while at his left, Lady Olenna Tyrell stood with her sharp-eyed scrutiny, the faintest curl of disdain on her lips. And you, the Targaryen bride of the Lion, stood beside Tywin with the imposing form of Viserion looming just behind you. The dragon’s golden eyes watched the square, unblinking, her massive wings tucked close to her scaled body, though her tail coiled faintly with anticipation.

The people in the crowd murmured prayers and gasped softly at the sight of the she-dragon, their gazes darting from the beast to you—silver-haired and dark-cloaked, a figure as regal as you were terrifying.

Tywin’s voice shattered the quiet, carrying across the square like a blade cutting through silk. “High Sparrow,” he began, his tone calm but carrying the weight of authority. “Have you come to your senses, or must I continue to demonstrate how futile your resistance is?”

The High Sparrow tilted his head, regarding Tywin with that infuriating calmness he wore like armor. “I answer to the Seven, Lord Tywin,” he replied, his voice soft but carrying. “Not to you. I am here only to speak for the gods.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened slightly, but his gaze remained steady. “Then let us speak plainly. Queen Margaery Tyrell is to be released immediately. She has been falsely imprisoned, humiliated for the sake of your petty zealotry. You will relinquish your hold over this city and return to the shadows where you belong.”

A murmur swept through the Faith Militant at the demand, hands tightening on weapons. Behind Tywin, Olenna’s lip curled in disdain, her cane tapping against the stone with quiet finality. “Release her, you pompous fool,” Olenna muttered loudly, though her voice carried only to those nearest her.

The High Sparrow, however, did not yield. “Your daughter is a sinner,” he said, turning his gaze to Mace Tyrell, who shifted nervously beside Tywin. “Her pride and lies brought her low. The Faith cleanses sin, my lords, and the people of this city have seen her crimes. Would you now undo the justice of the gods?”

Tywin took a step forward, the faint scrape of his boots against stone audible in the heavy silence. “Justice?” he echoed, his voice laced with icy disdain. “You call this chaos justice? You have turned this city into a breeding ground for fear and fanaticism. The gods do not command you—they are your excuse. You twist their words to suit your own power.”

The High Sparrow turned his gaze to you then, his calm eyes alight with something unreadable. “And you,” he said softly. “You stand with this man. You command a beast of flame and blood, yet you would march against the will of the gods. Do you not fear their judgment?”

The crowd hushed further, heads turning to look at you. Behind you, Viserion stirred faintly, the ground trembling as she shifted her weight, her claws scraping against the stone square. Her rumbling growl resonated through the silence, low and ominous, a reminder that she was there—waiting.

You stepped forward, your violet gaze fixed on the High Sparrow, unflinching. “The gods?” you replied, your voice clear and sharp. “The gods have no claim over me. Dragons bow to no one—not kings, not gods, and certainly not men who preach with lies on their lips.”

A ripple of shock swept through the crowd. Some gasped audibly, others began to murmur fervent prayers. Even Mace Tyrell paled, his mouth opening to object before Olenna silenced him with a sharp look.

The High Sparrow’s expression darkened ever so slightly, his hands still clasped but his voice turning colder. “Pride,” he murmured. “The sin that brought your ancestors low. It will bring you low as well, child of fire.”

You smirked faintly, tilting your head. “The last men who threatened me met their end in ash.”

The High Sparrow’s gaze sharpened. “And do you think you are above the wrath of the gods? I see you for what you are—an abomination. A woman who clings to power she cannot hope to control. The gods will strike you down, just as they strike down all who defy them.”

Tywin’s voice cut through the rising tension. “You overstep, Sparrow. Tread carefully.”

But the High Sparrow ignored him, his focus entirely on you as he stepped forward. “Turn back from this path, dragon-rider,” he said, his voice rising, carrying over the crowd. “Turn back, or the fires you wield will consume you—body, soul, and name. Just like your father.”

Behind you, Viserion let out a sharp hiss, her head lowering, smoke curling from her nostrils as her eyes locked onto the High Sparrow. The Faith Militant tensed, their hands gripping weapons, but they did not move. The crowd murmured in fear, shrinking back, as though sensing the rising storm.

You stepped forward again, your voice unwavering, your command absolute. “Enough.”

Viserion growled louder, her tail sweeping across the stone with a deafening scrape.

The High Sparrow stopped, his calm mask breaking for the first time, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze as the beast behind you loomed closer.

“You speak of fire consuming me,” you continued, your voice low but carrying across the square. “But it is you who stands in the path of the dragon.”

The High Sparrow opened his mouth to respond, but you did not give him the chance. Your voice rang out, clear and commanding.

“Dracarys.”

Viserion responded immediately, her head snapping forward as she opened her jaws. A torrent of fire erupted from her throat, a blinding stream of gold and crimson that roared across the square. The heat struck like a physical force, searing the air as the High Sparrow’s final scream was drowned by the sound of the flames.

The Faith Militant staggered back, their faces lit with horror as the fire engulfed the High Sparrow, consuming his frail form in a heartbeat. His robes disintegrated to ash, his figure silhouetted for the barest moment before collapsing into a charred ruin.

The crowd erupted in chaos. Cries of terror filled the square as people scattered, falling over one another to escape the inferno. The Faith Militant turned, panicking, their courage broken as they dropped their weapons and fled.

Viserion roared triumphantly, the sound shaking the very stones beneath your feet as she lifted her head, smoke rising from her maw. She unfurled her wings, sending a blast of wind across the square that scattered ash and dust.

Tywin did not flinch, his green eyes watching the destruction with cold calculation. He turned to his men, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Seize the remaining Faith Militant. Let no more harm come to the people.”

Mace Tyrell gaped, speechless, while Olenna allowed the faintest of smiles to curve her lips. “Well,” she murmured, her voice wry, “it seems negotiations are over.”

You stood tall before the flames, Viserion coiled protectively behind you, her golden eyes fixed on the city she now commanded. The people of King’s Landing would remember this day. They would remember the dragon who burned a god’s servant to ash.

And as the fires died down, Tywin stepped beside you, his voice low and steady. “The city will see order restored,” he said. “One way or another.”

You looked out over the square, your gaze unyielding. “And they will learn to fear the fire.”

Viserion’s rumble echoed in agreement, her presence a shadow over the broken remnants of the Faith. The gods had been defied, the High Sparrow silenced, and in his place stood power—raw, untamed, and absolute.

The Sept of Baelor had become a cavernous monument to silence. Its grandeur, once a symbol of the Faith’s unyielding power, now bore the weight of fire and fear. Smoke lingered faintly in the air, the smell of charred stone and ash clinging to the gilded arches and stained glass windows. The Faith Militant who had dared hold the Sept were either scattered, seized, or burned. The holy place now belonged to those with strength—not faith.

Tywin Lannister strode through the great doors of the Sept, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like the bloodied shadow of victory. You walked at his side, your silver hair still tousled by the wind and faint smudges of ash marking your riding leathers. Behind you, Lady Olenna Tyrell and Mace Tyrell followed, flanked by the Tyrell soldiers who had taken control of the square and now guarded every entrance to the building.

The clink of armor and echo of boots against marble filled the space as the procession moved deeper into the Sept. Candles still burned on the altars to the Seven, their light flickering uneasily as though afraid of the men and women who now strode through these sacred halls. The massive statue of the Crone—her lantern raised high—seemed to watch, its stone face impassive to the carnage that had unfolded moments before.

Tywin’s sharp gaze flicked ahead as a pair of Tyrell soldiers emerged, escorting Queen Margaery Tyrell between them. Her delicate wrists were still bound with rough cords, and her once-pristine gown hung in tatters, dirt and tears streaking the fine fabric. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders, her face pale and drawn from days of imprisonment. Yet her eyes—so like her grandmother’s—held a quiet fire as she looked up at the people who had come for her.

“Margaery!” Lady Olenna’s voice cracked through the silence, a mix of fury and relief. She pushed past the guards with surprising swiftness, her cane tapping against the marble as she reached for her granddaughter. “Bring her to me at once, you oafs!”

The soldiers hesitated only briefly before releasing Margaery’s arms. She stumbled slightly, the weakness in her legs betraying her, but Olenna caught her with a surprisingly steady hand, holding her upright. “There now,” Olenna murmured sharply, brushing strands of hair from Margaery’s face with uncharacteristic tenderness. “They didn’t break you, did they? No, of course they didn’t. They couldn’t possibly.”

Margaery let out a shaky breath, her voice soft and hoarse. “Grandmother…”

“Quiet now,” Olenna said firmly, though there was no bite in her tone. “Save your strength for later. We’ll have you cleaned up and presentable before long, I promise you that.” She turned her sharp gaze to Mace, who hovered nearby, his face pale with worry. “Stop gawking like a buffoon and fetch her some water!”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Mace stammered, waving frantically at a nearby attendant to fulfill the request. “My sweet girl, they’ll pay for this. I swear it.”

Tywin watched the scene unfold with cool detachment, his sharp gaze lingering on Margaery for a long moment before he spoke, his voice carrying through the Sept. “You are fortunate,” he said evenly, addressing the young queen. “Were it not for the actions taken today, you might still be rotting in that cell.”

Margaery’s gaze shifted to Tywin, and despite her exhaustion, there was steel in her tone as she replied. “I would have endured.”

Olenna turned her head sharply, her eyes narrowing. “Endured? My dear, endurance is for fools and martyrs. You are neither. You are a Tyrell, and we do not endure. We survive.”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly—whether in approval or amusement, it was difficult to say. He gestured to the guards nearby. “Remove her bonds.”

The Tyrell soldiers obeyed without hesitation, cutting the cords at Margaery’s wrists. She winced as the circulation returned to her hands, but she said nothing, merely inclining her head in gratitude as her grandmother steadied her.

You stepped forward then, your voice calm but clear. “The High Sparrow is dead. His hold over this city is broken.”

Margaery’s gaze turned to you, her expression unreadable as her tired eyes took in your form—the silver hair, the riding leathers still smudged with ash, the quiet power you exuded. “And his Faith Militant?” she asked softly.

“Scattered,” Tywin replied curtly. “Or dealt with.”

A faint tremor of relief crossed Margaery’s face, though she quickly masked it. “And the king? My husband—Tommen?”

“He is safe,” Tywin answered with authority. “He has been taken to his chambers, where he belongs. You will be reunited shortly.”

Olenna’s lips pressed into a thin line, her sharp eyes fixing on Tywin. “And what now, Lord Tywin? Do you intend to restore the crown to its rightful place, or will you allow another pack of zealots to take its reins?”

Tywin turned to face her fully, his expression hard as stone. “Order will be restored,” he said simply. “The Faith will not rise again.” His gaze shifted to Margaery. “You will return to your duties as queen—nothing more, nothing less.”

Margaery inclined her head faintly, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. “And the people?”

“The people will learn to trust their king again,” Tywin replied coldly. “Or they will learn to fear him.”

Olenna huffed softly, though she said nothing further, merely offering her granddaughter a supportive arm as they turned to leave the hall. Mace bustled behind them, his face beaming with relief as he chattered about preparations for Margaery’s return to the Red Keep.

Tywin turned to you then, his gaze sharp and considering. “It’s done,” he said quietly, though there was no triumph in his tone—only certainty.

You glanced back at the wide doors of the Sept, where the light of day poured in like a judgment of its own. “The Faith may be broken,” you replied softly, “but this city will not soon forget what happened here.”

“They do not need to forget,” Tywin said, his voice unwavering. “They need only remember who holds power now.”

A faint growl echoed from outside, the sound unmistakable as Viserion’s shadow passed over the Sept once more. The light flickered, and the gathered soldiers below turned their faces to the sky, murmuring in awe and fear as the dragon’s presence lingered.

You turned back to Tywin, your violet eyes meeting his green ones with quiet resolve. “Fear may win you silence, but it will not win you loyalty.”

Tywin’s gaze remained steady. “Loyalty is earned in time. Fear ensures time to earn it.”

You did not argue, though a part of you wondered how long fear could hold this city together before it crumbled again. But for now, it was enough. The High Sparrow was ash, Margaery was free, and the Sept had been reclaimed.

As you followed Tywin from the halls of the Sept, the murmurs of the crowd outside grew louder. Some whispered of fire and dragons, others of a lion’s return to power. But all of them watched the sky, where Viserion circled, her presence a reminder that fire had come to King’s Landing once more.

The halls of Meereen’s Great Pyramid were quiet, save for the rustle of silks in the warm, perfumed breeze that rolled through the open windows. The sun burned high over Essos, but within the chambers of Daenerys Targaryen, a storm was brewing. Shadows of fluttering banners danced on the polished stone floor, as if the air itself held its breath.

Tyrion Lannister stood near the long table, a goblet of wine in his hand, though he had barely touched it. His sharp gaze lingered on the map of Westeros sprawled across the table’s surface—a place that, though vast and fractured, seemed far closer now than it had for years. Across from him, Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons, stood with her arms folded tightly over her chest. Her silver hair gleamed in the light, cascading down her back like a river of moonlight. Her violet eyes burned with intensity as they fixed on Tyrion.

“So it is true,” she said at last, her voice calm but edged with an undercurrent of fury. “The High Sparrow was burned alive by dragonfire.”

Tyrion inclined his head slightly, his voice measured. “Word travels fast, even across the Narrow Sea. The High Septon and much of his Faith Militant reduced to ash in the shadow of the Sept of Baelor.” He paused, swirling the wine absentmindedly. “A show of power, certainly, but one not entirely unexpected.”

“And the dragon?” Daenerys pressed, her voice rising ever so slightly.

Tyrion met her gaze, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Viserion, yes. Your sister’s dragon, though it seems it has found itself in the service of my father.”

Daenerys’s eyes narrowed, her frustration evident as she turned to pace toward the window. “Viserion is no one’s servant. Dragon flew to Westeros for my sister, not for the Lannisters. Viserion is her dragon—my family’s dragon.”

Tyrion let out a dry chuckle, though there was little humor in it. “Perhaps. But dragons do not care for banners or bloodlines. They care for their riders. And your sister… is married to my father.”

Daenerys stopped, turning sharply to face him. “And you believe that makes Viserion a Lannister asset?”

Tyrion lifted his goblet and gave her a pointed look. “Dragons, as you say, bow to no one. But perception matters, Your Grace. My father did not merely burn the Faith Militant—he made a statement. He paraded your sister’s dragon through the skies of King’s Landing, and the people saw. They now see fire, and they see a lion standing beside it.”

Daenerys stared at him, her face hard and unreadable. “So my sister stands with the lions, then? She abandoned her blood?”

“Not by choice,” Tyrion countered, his voice softer now. “Or have you forgotten why she survived Robert’s Rebellion at all?”

Daenerys’s gaze darkened, and she turned back to the window, her hands tightening against the ledge. “Is it true? What they say? That Tywin Lannister smuggled her to the North—into the hands of the Starks?”

“It is,” Tyrion replied, his tone somber. “My father may have hated Aerys, but he was nothing if not pragmatic. He saw the writing on the wall. He knew Robert’s wrath would burn your sister as surely as it burned the Red Keep, so he acted. The North was far, and the Starks, honorable to a fault. It was the safest place for her.”

Daenerys turned back to him, her violet eyes searching his face. “And you believe he did this out of the goodness of his heart?”

Tyrion arched a brow, the corner of his mouth curling into a sardonic smile. “Tywin Lannister does nothing out of kindness. He saved her because it was the logical choice—and perhaps because some part of him could not see her slain like the rest. But his actions saved her life. And if what we hear is true, that same life now rides at his side, dragon and all.”

The Mother of Dragons fell silent for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Does he love her?” she asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tyrion blinked, startled by the question. “Tywin Lannister is not a man given to displays of affection,” he said carefully. “But…” He hesitated, the memory of his father’s cold, calculating eyes flashing in his mind. “I think he values her more than he lets on. Perhaps even more than he understands himself.”

Daenerys frowned, her gaze distant as she absorbed his words. “And her son—my nephew?” She looked back at Tyrion. “Damon. I have heard whispers of him. What do you know?”

Tyrion set his goblet down and sighed, his tone turning more reflective. “Not much. I saw him once—briefly—before I left King’s Landing.”

Daenerys’s gaze sharpened. “When?”

Tyrion looked away for a moment, as though recalling the scene. “It was the night I escaped the Red Keep before they could execute me,” he said quietly. “I slipped into her chambers, thinking I might look at my father one last time… and perhaps find some answers.” His lips quirked faintly before his expression sobered. “But what I found was… unexpected.”

Daenerys stepped closer, her curiosity piqued. “What did you see?”

Tyrion let out a slow breath. “She was asleep beside him—my father, I mean. I had never seen him so still, so… human. It unnerved me.” He glanced at Daenerys, his expression thoughtful. “And there, in the cradle at the foot of the bed, was the boy—Damon.”

Daenerys’s expression softened, her voice a whisper. “And what was he like?”

Tyrion smiled faintly, a touch of wistfulness in his tone. “A babe, as all babes are. He had silver-gold hair like hers and, when he stirred, his eyes opened—mostly violet, like yours.” He paused, his voice quieter now. “For a moment, I thought I saw my father’s shadow lean over the child. As if even then, he was preparing to make the boy his heir.”

Daenerys turned her gaze toward the window, staring out across the vast horizon where the Narrow Sea stretched toward Westeros. “My sister’s son,” she said softly. “A dragon raised among lions.”

Tyrion regarded her carefully. “He is a babe now, but the world will watch him as he grows. Tywin will see to that.”

Daenerys nodded faintly, her expression resolute as the wind brushed her silver hair across her shoulders. “Then I must watch as well.” She turned to Tyrion, her gaze unyielding. “Viserion is my family’s dragon. And Damon is blood of my blood. If Tywin Lannister thinks he can wield them for his own ends, he will learn that dragons cannot be chained.”

Tyrion tilted his head, studying her with an unreadable expression. “Let us hope, Your Grace, that your sister sees the same truth before it’s too late.”

The room fell silent again, save for the wind that whispered across the stone. In the distance, the faint cry of gulls echoed over the city of Meereen, but both Tyrion and Daenerys stood still, their thoughts stretching across the sea to Westeros—where fire had been unleashed, and the game of thrones was far from over.

The Red Keep was quiet in the aftermath of the previous day’s chaos. The air still carried a faint scent of smoke, lingering like a ghost in the hallways, though life within the castle had resumed with nervous efficiency. The servants walked in silence, their eyes darting toward the windows as though expecting the shadow of the dragon to return at any moment.

In the Tower Hand, the animosity was far less quiet. The room was cast in shades of amber as the morning light filtered through the narrow windows, illuminating the stern edges of Tywin Lannister’s face. He sat at his heavy oak desk, fingers steepled before him, his eyes cold and watchful. Across from him stood Cersei Lannister, her back rigid with fury, the remnants of her humiliation from the past months simmering just beneath the surface. Behind her, near the hearth, Jaime Lannister leaned against the mantle with his arms crossed. He said nothing, though his gaze flicked between his sister and father with growing discomfort.

The silence stretched just long enough to grate on Cersei’s already frayed nerves. Finally, she spoke, her voice sharp as broken glass. “You dare reprimand me after everything you’ve done?”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Mind your tone, Cersei.”

“My tone?” Cersei stepped forward, her golden hair catching the light like a tarnished crown. “I held this city together while you were off parading your Targaryen wife through Westeros! Do you think I wanted to stand before the gods and the people—alone—humiliated and dragged through the streets like some common whore?”

Tywin’s gaze remained unwavering, but his voice dropped to a dangerous calm. “And whose fault was that?”

Cersei’s face flushed crimson, her nails digging into the edge of the desk. “You left me. You abandoned me here to fend off enemies from all sides. You took your golden son and left for Highgarden. You sheltered a dragon under our home—under Casterly Rock!” Her voice rose with every word, edged with desperation. “And how convenient that the beast flew across the world to perch on your Targaryen bride’s shoulder!”

Tywin’s eyes flashed, and his hands flattened against the desk as he rose to his full height. “Do not presume to lecture me on matters of power, Cersei,” he said icily, his voice cutting through her anger like a blade. “While I was securing alliances and stamping out rebellion, you were inviting chaos into my city. The Faith Militant rose because of your folly. The king was placed in danger because of your arrogance. You were given stewardship of the capital, and you failed.”

Cersei faltered for a moment, her expression caught between rage and hurt. “What was I supposed to do? Sit idly while the Tyrells schemed against me? While enemies whispered in every shadow?”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly. “Your paranoia does not excuse incompetence.”

Cersei’s fists tightened as her voice trembled with fury. “You speak of paranoia, but you weren’t here. You don’t know what it’s like to live surrounded by vipers, always waiting for the next betrayal.” She looked over her shoulder briefly, her eyes scanning the room as if expecting someone to emerge from the walls. “Sometimes, I think Tyrion lingers here still—hiding somewhere, watching, waiting. I can feel his shadow behind every door.”

Tywin’s expression remained unyielding, unimpressed by her ramblings. “Tyrion is no specter haunting your failures, Cersei. He is gone. You would do well to stop chasing phantoms and focus on the enemies standing plainly before you.”

Cersei let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and hollow. “How fortunate for you that you can dismiss my struggles so easily. After all, you’ve built yourself a fine life, haven’t you, Father? A Targaryen bride to bear you more sons. A dragon to burn away your problems. You’ve abandoned me—us—for her, for that fire-blooded witch.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a menacing calm. “Careful, Cersei. My patience with you grows thin.”

Cersei’s breath hitched, her anger giving way to something closer to desperation as she turned toward Jaime for support. “And you? Do you have nothing to say? Nothing to defend me with?”

Jaime, who had remained silent thus far, shifted uncomfortably by the hearth. His golden hand tapped lightly against his elbow, and his expression was tight, torn between loyalty and truth. “What do you want me to say, Cersei?” he asked finally, his voice low. “That Father is wrong? That you didn’t bring this on yourself?”

Cersei’s eyes widened, betrayal flashing across her face. “You take his side?”

“I take no side,” Jaime replied quietly. “I’m just tired of all of this.” He gestured vaguely at the room, at the Red Keep beyond it. “We’ve made enemies everywhere, Cersei—more than I can count. And while you claw at shadows, Father does what he’s always done: he ensures we survive.”

Cersei’s lip trembled as her fury returned. “So you see nothing wrong with what he’s done? With her?”

Jaime’s gaze flicked to Tywin, his face unreadable. “What I see is a dragon in the sky and a city that now fears it. If that means peace, then so be it.”

Tywin’s gaze shifted back to Cersei, his voice as unyielding as ever. “You will accept the realities of our situation, Cersei. My marriage strengthens our position. The dragon ensures our dominance. I did not abandon you; I saved you. If you cannot see that, then you are blind.”

Cersei’s shoulders sagged slightly, her anger now tempered with helplessness. “And what of me, then? What do I do now, Father? Stand in my chambers and pretend this city doesn’t hate me?”

Tywin regarded her for a long moment, his voice steady. “You will do as you are told. You will present yourself as the dowager queen—composed, dignified. The people must see unity in this family. I will not have your petty grievances undermine what we have built.”

Cersei opened her mouth to respond, but Tywin’s raised hand silenced her. “Enough. You will not speak of this again. Not to me, and certainly not to anyone else.”

Jaime pushed himself away from the hearth, his posture rigid as he moved toward the door. “Are we done here?”

Tywin inclined his head sharply. “Go. And take your sister with you.”

Jaime glanced at Cersei, but she refused to look at him, her eyes locked on the far wall. He let out a faint sigh before turning to leave. Cersei lingered for a moment longer, her face pale and taut with barely restrained anger. “This isn’t over, Father,” she muttered, her voice low. “It will never be over.”

Tywin did not reply. He simply watched as she turned and swept from the room, her steps echoing down the hall like fading thunder. When the door closed behind her, the room fell into silence once more, save for the faint crackle of the hearth.

Tywin sat back in his chair, his hands folding over the polished wood of his desk. His gaze lingered on the door for a moment longer before he exhaled sharply, his face betraying nothing.

For all her fire, Cersei remained a child in his eyes—one who refused to see the world for what it was. He had secured the power she could not; he had given House Lannister fire and dominion. And he would not allow her pride to burn it to the ground.

The air in the solar was heavy with the scent of fresh flowers—Queen Margaery’s doing, no doubt—bouquets of bright blooms set in vases across the room to banish the memory of gloom and ash that had lingered within the castle. A soft breeze fluttered the curtains, carrying the faint sounds of life returning to the city beyond.

At the center of the room, you knelt on the thick carpet, your silver hair falling in loose waves over your shoulders as you tickled Damon’s chubby feet. The babe squealed in delight, his high, toothless giggles filling the space like music. Damon was a healthy, happy boy. His silver-gold hair glimmered in the sunlight, and his eyes were wide and curious as he wiggled on the blanket spread beneath him.

“Did you hear that?” you teased, grinning down at him as you gently tapped his belly. “Such a fierce laugh! A dragon’s laugh, is it not?”

Damon cooed, flailing his little arms as his tiny hands reached for your fingers. He caught one in a tight, surprisingly strong grip, tugging with determination that made you chuckle softly.

From the divan nearby, Lady Olenna Tyrell watched the scene with a critical eye, though there was unmistakable fondness in her gaze. “It’s always the little ones,” she mused, leaning on her cane. “They smile at you sweetly and steal your heart before you even notice.” Her tone turned wry. “And before long, they’re walking, talking terrors who rule over everyone.”

Queen Margaery Tyrell, seated beside her grandmother, smiled softly at the words. She looked much improved, her hair brushed to its shining glory and a rich gown of emerald silk draping gracefully over her frame. Though shadows of her imprisonment still lingered faintly in the hollows of her cheeks, the life in her eyes had returned.

“I think he’ll be a fine lord one day,” Margaery said, her voice gentle but confident. “With such a mother guiding him.”

You looked up at her, surprised by the sincerity in her tone. Margaery’s gaze was warm and steady as she inclined her head slightly. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For what you did—for freeing me.”

You smiled faintly, though something heavy tugged at your chest. “I only did what was right. No one deserves to be caged, least of all you.”

Olenna snorted softly, tapping her cane against the floor for emphasis. “Spare us the modesty, dear. You set fire to a godly nuisance and knocked some sense back into the city. That’s more than most would dare.”

“Viserion set fire,” you corrected lightly, glancing toward the open window as though expecting to see the dragon’s cream-and-gold form pass by. “I merely gave the command.”

“And that’s precisely the point,” Olenna countered, her gaze sharp as ever. “The command matters. You wield fire, my dear, and that makes all the difference.”

You turned back to Damon, who had managed to grab one of his toys—a small lion carved from polished wood—and was now gnawing determinedly on its ear. His eyes shone with curiosity as he turned the toy in his small hands. For a moment, the weight of the world lifted, and you allowed yourself the quiet joy of watching him.

Yet your thoughts drifted—unbidden and dark—to the vision you’d seen at the High Heart. The Wall, impossibly vast and ancient, shrouded in mist and shadow. The frozen ground beyond it crawling with death, a tide of pale, hollow faces marching under the banner of an endless night. You had seen fire battling ice, dragons against death, but even then, the outcome had been shrouded in uncertainty.

You swallowed, turning your attention back to the present, to the warmth of the sun and the laughter of your son.

“What troubles you?” Margaery’s voice broke the silence, soft and perceptive.

You looked up, forcing a smile. “Nothing that needs to trouble you now.” You hesitated, then spoke carefully, your tone quieter. “But when the time comes, will I have your support?”

Olenna raised a brow, her gaze narrowing slightly. “Support for what, exactly?”

You glanced at Margaery and Olenna in turn, your gaze steady. “When Westeros is faced with something far greater than crowns, banners, and blood feuds. When the world will need fire to combat the cold.”

There was a pause, Olenna watching you closely while Margaery tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering across her face. “Are you speaking of rebellion?” Margaery asked carefully. “Or something else?”

“Something else,” you replied, your voice firm but vague. “I cannot yet say when or how it will come, but I’ve seen the signs. When it does, fire must stand ready.”

Olenna’s lips pursed as she considered you. For all her crude tongue, she was not a woman who dismissed warnings lightly. “I’ve lived long enough to know when someone speaks with conviction,” she said slowly, her tone thoughtful. “And you, dear, are not one for empty words.”

Margaery nodded faintly, her expression softening. “If such a time comes, you will have my support—and that of House Tyrell.”

Olenna made a dismissive wave of her hand, though her gaze belied her flippancy. “I’m too old to march anywhere, but I’ll ensure the banners are raised if you ask. Consider it a promise—one rarely given, I assure you.”

Relief warmed your chest, though you kept your composure as you inclined your head graciously. “Thank you.”

Damon let out a happy squeal, as if voicing his approval, waving his wooden lion triumphantly in the air. You laughed softly, scooping him up into your arms as he giggled against your shoulder.

Margaery’s gaze lingered on the babe, her expression wistful. “He’s beautiful,” she murmured. “And strong. The realm will know his name one day.”

You kissed the top of Damon’s head, the softness of his hair brushing against your lips. “He is my greatest joy,” you replied quietly, though your words carried an edge of steel. “And I will see him safe—no matter the cost.”

Olenna tapped her cane again, nodding faintly. “Then we are agreed. For now, we play the games set before us. But when the time comes, we’ll be ready.”

You smiled softly, though your gaze drifted to the window, to the clear blue skies beyond. Somewhere in the distance, Viserion’s faint cry echoed—a reminder of the fire that lingered at your command.

And in your heart, you knew that fire would be needed before long. The vision of the Long Night had been no idle dream. It had been a warning. And when the cold crept southward, threatening to swallow the world, you would ensure the fire was ready to meet it.

For your son. For the realm.

And for the future yet to come.

The chamber of the Hand of the King was a place of quiet authority, its walls lined with maps, ledgers, and reports, all illuminated by the faint flicker of candlelight. The faint scent of ink, wax, and parchment lingered in the air—a mark of the constant work that defined Tywin Lannister. Here, where decisions shaped the realm, the man at its center sat, as composed and calculating as ever.

Tywin was at his desk, quill in hand, as he signed a final document with a flourish. The Lion of Lannister looked utterly imperious, clad in a dark crimson doublet adorned with gold embroidery, his presence an unshakable force. A small stack of sealed scrolls lay to one side, ready to be dispatched to lords across Westeros, while his unfurled map of the kingdom dominated the table.

You stood quietly at the far side of the room, watching him with curiosity and something softer. Tywin rarely stilled for long; his mind was always at work, and yet here he was, quietly overseeing the duties that he had reclaimed with an iron grip. Since his return to King’s Landing, the city itself seemed to be breathing easier—or perhaps, more cautiously. It was difficult to tell.

“You’ll exhaust yourself,” you said finally, breaking the silence.

Tywin glanced up, his sharp green eyes settling on you. “Exhaustion accomplishes nothing. Work must be done.” His voice was calm, even, but there was no mistaking the faint edge of weariness in it.

You moved toward the desk, your footsteps soft against the stone floor. “You’ve reclaimed the city, Tywin. You’ve reestablished order, stamped out the Faith, and silenced the murmurs of rebellion. Can it not wait a single evening?”

“Reestablishing order is not the same as securing it,” Tywin replied without missing a beat. He set down his quill, his gaze steady. “Loyalty must be maintained, weaknesses identified and corrected. Power is not a fleeting thing to those who understand how to wield it.”

You tilted your head slightly, stepping closer until you stood at the side of his desk. “And what of you? Are you to wield power until you collapse over that desk one day?”

The faintest flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of Tywin’s mouth—a rare, fleeting expression. “I am not so frail as that.”

“No,” you agreed softly, your tone carrying a touch of warmth. “But even lions must rest.”

Tywin said nothing at first, watching you with that calculating gaze of his. You had long grown used to the weight of it, how he measured everyone in silence before responding. Finally, he exhaled softly and leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “And what would you have me do? Lounge about while the realm crumbles into complacency?”

“Lounge?” you echoed, allowing a faint smile to cross your lips as you circled the desk. “I would never dream of accusing you of such a thing, Lord Husband.”

His gaze tracked your movements as you stepped behind his chair. Resting your hands gently on his shoulders, you could feel the tension in him, the weight he carried in the stiffness of his posture. Slowly, you began to knead at the fabric of his doublet, your touch light but purposeful. “You are allowed a moment of peace,” you murmured. “The realm will not fall apart in the space of an evening.”

Tywin’s shoulders shifted beneath your touch, though he said nothing. For a long moment, the silence held between you—comfortable, familiar, though tinged with something unspoken. You moved back around to stand before him, meeting his gaze with a softness that few others ever dared to show him.

Without a word, you stepped closer, leaning down and wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. It was a simple gesture, one you knew Tywin Lannister did not often receive, nor expect. You held him gently, your cheek resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath the fine fabric of his doublet.

For a moment, Tywin remained still, his sharp mind likely questioning the intent of this rare show of affection. And then, almost imperceptibly, his hands moved. He brought an arm around your back, his touch steady and uncharacteristically careful, returning the gesture with a restraint born of years spent hardening himself against the world.

You closed your eyes, savoring the moment of calm. The weight of his arm settled around you, and you felt, for the first time in days, as though the fire and chaos of the world beyond these walls had quieted.

“Your father would call this foolish,” Tywin said quietly, his voice breaking the stillness.

You smiled faintly against his chest. “My father would call most things foolish.”

Tywin let out a soft, low hum—something that might have been the barest hint of amusement. His hand lingered at your back, unmoving, as though he had forgotten to let go. “Affection rarely wins wars,” he said, though the edge in his tone had dulled.

“And yet,” you murmured, lifting your head slightly to meet his gaze, “it sustains those who fight them.”

For a long moment, Tywin regarded you, his green eyes softer now, though still sharp with thought. “You think I need sustaining?”

“I think you are human,” you replied, your voice steady. “No matter how much you pretend otherwise.”

Tywin said nothing, but his gaze lingered on you, as though taking your measure once again. Finally, he shifted, his hand dropping gently from your back as he leaned away. “You are insufferably stubborn,” he said, though there was no real bite to the words.

“As are you,” you countered lightly, stepping back with a faint smile.

He let out a quiet huff of breath, straightening in his chair as he regarded the stacks of work before him. “This is what keeps us alive,” he said, gesturing to the documents, maps, and orders laid out like pieces on a game board.

“And this,” you replied softly, resting a hand over your heart, “is what keeps us whole.”

Tywin glanced up at you then, and for once, there was no retort. His gaze softened—just slightly—and though his lips did not curve into a smile, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. “One evening,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “No more.”

You smiled, inclining your head in satisfaction. “That will do, Lord Husband.”

He watched you for a moment longer before turning his attention briefly back to the papers on his desk, though his movements were slower, less driven. You had seen through his armor—cracks that no one else would dare look for—and for once, he did not seem to mind.

For tonight, at least, the lion would rest.

[the-bar-sinister]

So like. Scope. I always feel like I see people talk about pacing, and I never see people talk about scope.

The way people talk about stories in fiction writing circles, especially fanfiction writing, it often feels like people treat it like there's only two types of scope for a piece of fiction: a "one-shot" 5k or under short story, or a 100k+ beast of a novel.

But like, scope is important, and there's so much more range between those two poles!

And here's the thing. Here's the thing.

You don't need to know the scope of your story when you're coming up with your idea. In fact, you should come up with the core of your idea, and then decide on the scope afterward!

Here is the revelation I have for you.

Your "idea" can span a whole intricately world built series of events that you know the chain of for 1000 years.

And then you can take that 1000 year idea and decide on the scope. You decide which part of the story to tell! What's the important events, or character beats that you want to focus on, and how long will it take you to tell them?

You can have your 1000 year idea, and your first thought might be "well, I need to write 6 whole novels in this series before I get to the part I'm excited about"

But no! You don't have to do that! With Scope (tm) you can actually choose to just focus in on that one part you're excited about and tell a short story! Maybe 5k. Maybe 30k! Bring back the novella!.

Just because you have 1000 years worth of material doesn't mean that the reader needs all of it to understand the beautiful shining jewel of your story.

Scope is like gem cutting and polishing. When you decide on scope, you cut away the parts of your story that stop the part of it that you want people to see from shining.

[danikamariewrites]

Soooo, I hope that this is alright to request. I can't really pick between a ship for this b/c I love them and how you write them so much. So, if you don't mind, could you write about the reactions of Feysand, Rowaelin, and Nessian + Azriel (...Nesriel?? IDK) to reader getting poisoned by an enemy (reader lives, but is left feeling very, very weak and ill)?? If you just want to do one or two that's fine... I was just curious to see how some of them might react :).

Cured By You headcanons

Feysand x reader, Rowaelin x reader, & Nezriel x reader

A/n: I would not be able to pick between them in general and I love these ships and so happy you do too anon

Warnings: poison, over bearing mates

Feysand

It happened while visiting the court of nightmares

You felt like an idiot, you always check your drinks or have Azriel’s shadows check

When you wake up 2 days later you were more embarrassed than anything. Especially passing out in the middle of the Court of Nightmares, like what a rookie move

Cassian and Azriel jump into action as Rhys scoops you to his chest. Feyre unleashes her claws, practically growling in Kier's direction. Rhys grabs her and winnows the three of you home to an awaiting Madja

thankfully you healed quickly. whoever poisned you clearly didn't get their dosage right

you still feel weak and get tired easily during the day for a few weeks

the first thing you see is Rhys and Feyre casually chatting. you watch them for a bit before reaching for Feyre's hand that's casually draped on the bed

they jump at your movement and are overjoyed that you're finally awake

if you thought they were doting and overly fussy about you when you have the sniffles, think again. these two are unbearable!

Rhys carries you everywhere. it was a struggle to convince them to let you out of bed so this was the compromise

the poison had weakend you to the point where lifting your arms was a chore. Feyre had decided to feed you even though most of the time you gave her an I'm-going-to-kill-you look

you considered yourself lucky though. to have mates that take care of you is a blessing

Rowaelin

Furious doesn’t even begin to describe how Rowan and Aelin felt

everything was fine, dinner was going great. this new alliance with a kingdom bordering Wendlyn seemed promising

until you polished off your wine. you turned pale and Rowan immediately scented that something was wrong with you

you passed out, collapsing from your chair. the dining room fell into chaos as soon as Fenrys sniffed your glass and announced you'd been poisoned

the guests were ushered out and taken to another room to be interrogated while Rowan rushes you to your shared bedroom, Yrene following and ready to draw the poison from your system

you woke up two days later with Fleetfoot watching over you, her golden head laying on your stomach. her big brown eyes staring at you. petting Fleetfoot behind the ears she shakes your hand off after having her fill. leaping off the bed the large golden beast sits by the door and begins to howl as loud as she possibly can

the queen and king coming running, almsot breaking down the door

Fleetfoot wags her tail at the sight of Aelin, running back over to sit next to the bed as your mates approach

the pair throw themselves down next to you, squishing you between them carefully. "We were so worried, oh gods." Aelin breathes out as Rowan repeatedly kisses your face

(like Feysand) the two of them don't let you lift a finger. Rowan never gets to do this for Aelin so he babies you to the max

from helping you walk and work out the muscels in your body to feeding and bathing you he does everything for you

Aelin spoild you with attention and treats. you two spend all her free time snuggled up in bed eating junk food

Nesriel

they each have a very different (yet extreme and justified) reaction

Azriel starts threatening people with Nesta, who lets her power rumble through the room, flames cupped in her hands

Cassian is getting you the hell out of there and to Madja

Cass doesn't let go of you for a single second while the healers pulls the poison from your body. he presses kisses to your temple and whispers sweet nothings as you writhe in pain from the poison being extracted

while you sleep for a week they hover over you, watching over you like hawkes

Azriel sleeps sitting up in a chair next to the bed while Nesta sleeps next to you, playing with your hair so you feel soothed in your unconcious state

when you wake up you're startled to find Cassian curled up at the end of the bed like a dog, Azriel in a chair, and Nesta next to you

Az's shadows go haywire next to his ears, alerting him to your conciousness. the shadows rush to alert Cass and Nes who perk up immediately

Nesta sits up, holding your face in her hands, "oh thank gods, you're ok." she coos on the verge of tears

even though you're weak you force your arm to move so you can hold her wrist. "I'm ok," you whisper

you all thought Cassian would be the more doting/crazy one but it turns out to be Nesta

she freaks out every time Az or Cass move you, worried about your comfort levels or if you're in pain. she yells at them if you even wince, "Careful! you're hurting her!" they always give her the same exasperated look as you giggle

when they find out who poisoned you Cassian tells you and stays with you. meanwhile Az lets Nesta tag along to the interrogation

he even let Nesta participate and she did not hold back. making this guy feel the worst pain he has ever endured

[fireater]

note/tags - suicide but not jimmy.. just his mom, slight gore mention, some smut?, dry humping, jimmy is like early 20s in this.. start to a fic i couldn’t bother to finish, bad writing..

Jimmy’s mom is all over the walls. It’s like someone has set off a fucking party popper. She didn’t even have the decency to get him a banner.

Welcome home Jim! Congrats on getting bailed out! I knew you could do it!

Not even that. Not a single slice of cake. Not even a candle or a party hat or a gift box or a fucking hug. Whatever people get on their birthdays.

Jimmy stands there, jaw tight, unblinking as he looks over the mess she has made of herself, the house, and his life. She’s smoked all her cigs, drained every bottle, snorted anything fine enough to suck up through a straw, and he knows Mom, she’d never leave a needle behind. So the only thing she leaves in his name is this mess and this awful smell.

He toes at what is left of her, her legs bent awkwardly at the knee like a mistreated Barbie doll. Her face is this gaping hole that looks something like her bloody cunt the day she pushed him out. For a second he wishes that it would open up like the maw of a beast and swallow him whole, take him back to where he came from, and then he goes back to feeling nothing much.

It’s no biggie. Jimmy never liked her much. She liked Curly more than she liked him, but everyone likes Curly more than him. He’s a sole-crushed peach splattered on the sidewalk, picking up grit and dirt, and Curly is a fucking prized watermelon or a silver spoon, a real nice spoon, the fancy kind you only get out for guests—He’d come and use his polished edge to scoop Jimmy right up, shape him into something nice, clean him off and serve him for dessert.

Curly bailed him out. He drove Jimmy home in his nice new car, it smelt good and had his initials on the number plate. He did this all because he needs Jimmy to feel good. So he can go and tell anyone that’ll listen about his piss-poor junkie best friend. How he put him back on his feet. Curly is modern day fucking Christ and Jimmy is a crippled leper.

By his mother’s open hand is his father’s handgun. She’s named Mia after the chick in Pulp Fiction. Jimmy picks her up, gives her a once over, and tucks her in his back pocket for a rainy day. He goes to take a piss because he’s been busting for one ever since Curly picked him up, but the throbbing urgency numbed when he saw his fragments of mom’s skull dotting the carpet like milk teeth.

Jimmy takes his piss and then he notices mom didn’t even leave a single sheet of toilet paper behind. He shakes himself dry, returns to the couch where she lays limp, thinks of blowing off her tits and then decides she isn’t worth another bullet. Jimmy turns the gun to himself. He wonders if mom put it to the right side of her head or the left. Probably in her stupid whore mouth. She would let anyone in there.

“You’re joining the party, huh?” You’re standing in the doorway of his trailer, lukewarm and unsmiling, snapping your gum like this is no big deal. You’ve always been that way. Unaffected. Jimmy pulls the trigger and Mia jams. She’s an old girl. He forgives her. He just wanted to see you cry.

Jimmy doesn’t really think you would cry, but he likes the thought of it. You would look so fucking ugly when you cry.

“I found her earlier, heard the shot and came to check.” You’re wearing short shorts so short the inside of your pockets hang out past the cuffs. “But I thought it’d be a nice surprise.”

“Fuck you,” Jimmy says, arm dangling by his side. Mia clatters to the ground when his fingers lose grip.

“That’s not very nice,” you tell him evenly, sidestepping clumps of clotted blood to get to him.

Jimmy flops down beside his mom’s faceless body. She talked too much so the silence is kind of nice. He spreads his legs and you drape yourself over him, pressing your tits to his chest and sucking his tongue into your warm mouth.

“I didn’t forget your present.” You’re rolling your hips into his, the old couch creaks with the weight of all two and a half of you. His mom topples sideways onto his shoulder and Jimmy shoves her dead weight back the other way. Blood smears the arm of his shirt where she fell, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“Oh, yeah?” Jimmy bites your neck, he feels the pulse of your hot cunt through those tiny shorts.

“Course I didn’t, saved the date and everything.”

He half expects you to dig into your bra and pull out a baggie of something, but you just offer him a half smile, giving a sideways glance to the stinking corpse.

[cloudraker]

What would the tfp autobots (your pick) reactions would be if their neutral NB cybertonian ally goes, "Oh? You didn't know? I have a Conjux now :)" and brings the motherfucker predaking.

But hey! Atleast the predacon is a green flag. The man would do anything for the reader, respects them, and is utterly smitten. At that point the autobots wouldn't have to worry about him anymore since reader is their ally

This has been rotting in my inbox for so long,, anon if you see this thank you for your patience

TFP Preadaking with a Neutral S/O

Under the cut :)

Setting this after the war/the return to Cybertron

Assuming you didn't fight in the war, you're probably the most normal person he knows. You're probably the most normal person on Cybertron at this point. The others don't think much of it when you start spending more and more time out by yourself- there's a lot to take in now that the war is over and cybertron is so different

Your little adventures start at a few hours, then it's half a day, and before long you're gone for days at at time. That's when they start asking questions

Where have you been going? What could possibly be so important that you go missing for days at a time when there is- what do you mean you met somebody?

Having to explain that yes you met somebody and yes they're on Cybertron and well you don't know if it's a good idea if they all met him. It's all very "he goes to a different school you don't know him"

They eventually get you to agree and when you actually bring him around the Autobots are.. well they sure are there and that sure is a guy you've brought home

Predakind, to his credit, is on his best behavior. He's standing behind you (a respectable distance away from them) as you talk the others out of shooting him then and there

He doesn't stay long, much to your disappointment. A few conversations with both sides reveals their past history, leaving you caught in the middle.

The overall consensus on the Autobot side is "you're an adult, we can't stop you but it's also a really bad idea-"

Ratchet would be the most understanding- which isn't saying much. He's upset but he also knows you don't have the same feelings towards Predaking as he and the other Autobots do- to you, he's just some guy you met. While he makes his many grievances known, he also makes it clear that if anything happens you'll still have people supporting you

Magnus is.. conflicted. On one hand, part of him is glad that there's some sense of normalcy for somebody- a hope that things will be okay. On the other hand, he doesn't have an other hand

He doesn't count as an Autobot but Knockout would warn you against the predacon, calling him things like dangerous and a brute while also trying to dig any gossip out of you. Will begrudgingly make sure you're polished and shiny before you go out if you ask him for help. Very "you're going out dress like that?"

Once they get more familiar with the idea, Predaking starts making the occasional appearance

At first it's just flying by overhead, letting you know he's still around even if you haven't been able to see each other much lately. Then it's coming to meet you when you've got plans and then he's making very awkward small talk with Bulkhead while he waits for you to come out

Everybody starts to relax a bit when they see just how good he is to you. This hulking beast of a robot, built for fighting and dragged into a time not meant for him, bending to take your hand and kiss your knuckles whenever he sees you. How you never come back with a so much as a scratch on your pain and only with good things to say

He gets some serious side-eye when he enters the base for the first time, and everybody is a bit tense, but it (thankfully) all goes well

He's eventually asked to help with some repairs or some mundane task and- while somewhat reluctant- he complies. For you, of course, in an attempt to make life just a little bit easier

It's a very, very slow journey to having both your partner and the Autobots start to build even a semblance of trust, but you're willing to put in the work and Predaking is willing to put in the work for you

[delirious-donna]

Demon In The Mirror [Sebastian Michaelis]

an: this is a rework of an old fic for a different character/fandom. I liked this fic idea and lovely Sebby really fit it, or at least I think so! I've been hyperfixated on the world's best butler so this scratched an itch for me.

pairing: Sebastian Michaelis x female reader

warnings: canon Sebastian, mirror sex, rough touching, praise, light degradation, biting, mark marking, dirty talk, pussy fingering, overstimulation, unprotected sex, mentions of blood (tiny)

Masterlist

A mirror–polished and unassuming as it stood in the corner of the room. It never lied, never hid the truth behind a veil of deceit. All it could do was reflect what it hungrily absorbed.

Truth laid bare for all who peered into its depths. The reflection of not only your physical reactions–the jerk of your limbs, soft quiver of your stomach–but your emotions poured into the surface and were somehow magnified back. Magic, perhaps?

On its own, the mirror was a beautiful thing, decoratively ornate and standing on claw feet. You gazed into it every morning to peruse your outfit and ensure your hair was coiffed exactly as intended. However, when you added what was showing on the calm surface at this moment, the mirror became a truly magnificent beast.

Two bodies entwined in a lover’s embrace.

Every detail was laid bare in exquisite detail, and this outcome was entirely your doing. Slender fingers with midnight nails flexed deliberately into your jaw, testing the strength you had long known against the delicate frame of your mortal body. The angle forced you to stare straight ahead, to witness what was happening to you in such clarity it stole the little air remaining from your lungs.

“You wanted this, did you not?” He lilted with an air of amusement that curled your toes. “I believe you were rather forthright with your desires this evening, at least you were once I coaxed them out of you.”

Sebastian Michaelis, the head butler and right-hand man to your father was a demon. As the eldest daughter in the family and well into your twenties, you were an anomaly to your father. He would have married you off years ago if it weren’t for your ability to chase away every suitor that called. The only person who had been able to get close to you was Sebastian if you could even call him a person. Except, you liked that he wasn’t human—humans were boring.

You cared not for whatever mysterious and demonic bond had been formed between him and your father. All that mattered was that he saw the real you beneath the prickly exterior you presented to the world. It had taken many months of flirtatious glances, heated whispers promising you all manner of carnal pleasure and touches that only grew in intimacy, but you considered Sebastian to be your lover for close to half a year now.

The only problem… he treated you with kid gloves.

“Sebastian… You know, it would be okay if you held me a bit tighter. If you wish to, that is.”

That was what had started it all, the words that led to this path of twisted pleasure. 

You recalled the delicate touch of white-gloved fingers, how they curled around your biceps to draw you into his lap. His carefully fastened tie and top buttons were messily undone by your hasty fingers and his midnight hair was just the tiniest bit dishevelled from where you had brushed through it.

The demon gently pawing at you was more than capable of tearing people apart with his hands, the white of his gloves rarely soiled by the crimson remnants of the deaths he bestowed, and yet he held you as if you were fine china. Didn’t he know that the times you bore witness to his feats of strength had resulted in ruined undergarments beneath your gown? He was a sight to behold, tall and lithe with a presence that demanded respect despite being a servant by occupation. What you wouldn’t give for him to direct some of that power and strength towards you, on those intimate late-night visits to your quarters.

“But, my dear, you are so soft. I wouldn’t wish to hurt you.” The sentiment was huffed into the sweet crook of your neck, his warm breath fanning across your skin whilst he smeared lazy, wet kisses to your jaw and the pulse hammering beneath the surface. It sounded almost bemused, and that irritated you.

You were no porcelain doll only to be taken out when it suited and arranged delicately upon pristine sheets. You were no silly girl. You were a woman, goddammit, and you wished above all else to be treated as such. Apparently, your expression gave away your frustration, either that or Sebastion was simply well-tuned to the emotions swirling in your complex mind.

“Have I said something wrong, darling girl?”

With today’s gown laid neatly atop your dresser, the petticoats beneath bunched around your thighs and hips, you sat back on your haunches to glower at him. His finger idled with the lace fastens of your bodice, doing little to stop you from moving away from his embrace.

A petulant huff passed your lips, arms folded across your chest, and his easy smile dimmed in response. It should have been your first warning, but ire had a way of dulling your senses to danger. 

“I will remind you that I am not made of glass, nor will I break if you…” The remaining words of your tirade seemed to become stuck in the back of your throat as your gaze met with Sebastian’s. The subtle carmine of his irises caught fire, glowing coals of ember that spoke of something… unknown? Worryingly unknown.

Maybe you had misspoken, your tone a little more harsh than you intended but it was too late to remedy. Your shoulders sagged, your body deflating rapidly from the hot air that filled you only moments ago. 

The room charged with electricity, you could feel it press atop your head like a physical manifestation of a weight trying to crush you against your bedspread. Something was most assuredly wrong and it wouldn’t be long before you found out the consequences of your little outburst.

“If I what?” he hissed from between gritted teeth, white and gleaming.

Your eyes snapped to his face, and the stark lines of displeasure traced his cheekbones and brow. No longer were you gazing into the face of Sebastian, your lover, this was the demon that lurked beneath. The one you longed for and were going to suffer his wrath no matter if you tried to back peddle or not.

He sat up straight with a start, forcing you further back and almost tumbling you right out of his lap. A palm anchored around your wrist, tightening against the fragile tendons until they nearly popped and wrenching you forward until you were nose to nose. His breathing was harsh, your own picking up pace to match it perfectly. For a moment you thought he would speak but after many moments of staring back and forth, he pushed back and looked towards the periphery. 

With a precision no man or demon should have, he caught the fingertip of his virginal white gloves between his teeth and slowly pulled each one free in turn. You squirmed watching him reveal his hands, the intricate design that you always did your best to ignore caught your attention but it was quickly stolen away.

That same hand shot forward to wrap around your hair, yanking on the length in one swift motion until your roots tugged painfully and your throat bared in front of his eyes. The breathless whine you expressed sounded truly pathetic, only matched by the arousal pooling in your underwear.

“Hm, so you won’t break if I do this?”

Sebastian reared back and bit around the slender column of your throat, not enough to break the skin but it hurt—it hurt bad enough to spark tears in your eyes. The sweep of his hot, wet tongue licked across the mark he made, tracing the indents his teeth had created along with a low grunt that sounded from the depths of his chest.

Cool, nimble fingers reached into the front of your bodice, teasing against your heated flesh before rending the garment clean in two. The noise of expensive fabric ripping thundered in the room and you gasped at the sudden chill covering your naked breasts. 

It was hard to navigate the sudden flip in his demeanour, although you had all but asked for it. You braced your trembling hands over the lapels of his double-breasted jacket in an attempt to find grounding and solace, but there was none to be found. It appeared that your demon lover was bowing to your whims, you should be pleased, and yet there was a beat of trepidation in your heart. What had you let yourself in for?

As if sensing your wayward conviction, Sebastian moved with alarming ease to the edge of the bed. It was evident that your added weight meant nothing to him, and that alone made you moan into the shell of his ear.

He placed you down in a puffy cloud of your petticoats and stood to shrug out of his jacket and waistcoat but annoyingly left his shirt in place. It didn’t stop you from ogling him openly, knowing what lay beneath even if it was rare to spend the night with him completely nude.

A finger and thumb pinched into the fat of your cheeks, lifting your gaze from the blatant lust-filled staring to meet his eyes that had mellowed to a sparkling fuschia. He was so pretty, so devastatingly pretty that you clung to his wrist, blinking up at him with heat-filled cheeks.

“You will direct your eyes up here, and wherever I instruct, is that clear?”

Only when he was satisfied he had captured your attention and you had given your clear understanding did he release the grip of his fingers, settling beside you. He patted his lap in invitation and you were crawling before he could even raise a sleek black eyebrow.

Smooth palms decorated your sides, pausing to grope your breasts. Sebastian exhaled a laugh when the excess spill from your breasts squished between his splayed fingers, pebbled nipples grazing the hearts of his palms. You whined and rocked against the bulge beneath his tailored trousers, only feeding the frenzy of his wandering hands and how roughly he was exploring your smooth skin. It was a perfect storm of demonic lust and ardent excitement, the result of which resided in the pit of your stomach. You were drooling between your thighs, flushed by the thought of it and you knew he’d tease you when he discovered how wet you were.

“A needy little thing, aren’t you? Darling, surely you aren’t this desperate for my cock?” His hand was beneath the plumes of petticoats, zeroing in on your soaked panties before you could blink. Sebastian tsked whilst his finger stroked the sizeable wet stain that traced the length of your slit. “Deary me, you’re already soaked. One might think that this side of me excites you.”

Without warning, he bounced you from his knee, your feet found the plush rug by your bed but your balance was not to be trusted and you were thankful for the firm hands at your waist keeping you steady. That was until those ruthless hands were twisted in your petticoats and tugging them down your legs to pool around your twisting feet, followed by the sudden removal of the final piece of clothing.

You tried to shield your modesty–an arm slung across your breasts and a hand cupping your sex whilst stepping out of your panties when suddenly you were dwarfed by Sebastian’s taller frame. He appeared even taller than usual, though you weren’t sure if it was an illusion aided by the long shadows cast by the candles on your bedside.

A mere flick of his wrist and your hand dislodged from protecting your decency. He stepped right into your personal space to force his hand exactly where yours had once been and began to dig deeper. Your nails scrambled against the stiff white starch of his shirt, blinking up at him much too fast whilst he took no care to spread you apart with his fingers.

“A-ah, Sebastian!”

Again, he tsked you and clicked his tongue against his teeth in admonishment when a slick covered finger rose into your vision, sparking a fresh wave of heat in every inch of your body.

“Clean it off like a good girl,” he cooed, his voice dripping in honeyed sweetness that you did not trust.

This was not something you had participated in before, but you were determined to meet the challenge in his eyes and earn a sliver of praise that would bow your spine. The taste was surprisingly sweet, a little heavy on your tastebuds but you sucked the long digit between your lips and twirled your tongue around and around to better understand why Sebastian so loved to lay between your thighs and indulge.

He patted your head affectionately, lowering his hand to caress your cheek and smirked when you turned your face to press a kiss to his palm. Unknown to you his attention had snared on the standing mirror in the far corner of your bedroom, eyeing it with first curiosity and then wicked amusement.

You were uncertain why he was interested in the mirror, leaving you by the bed naked and vulnerable, to examine the gold-gilded frame and moving it with ease towards you. What on Earth..?

“What are you–?”

Sebastian cut you off, turning you roughly and sitting with you on full display for the mirror. It made you uncomfortable to see yourself this exposed, you barely looked at yourself in this state whilst bathing or dressing so to see the thick strands of lust hanging from your parted lips was jarring. A sensation writhed in your chest, a mixture of embarrassment mingling with a little pride. Your demon that stared from over your shoulder was here of his own free will, no contract or binding bid him to your side and that was an empowering thought.

He chuckled, pressing a chaste kiss to your flushed cheek. “I am merely doing what you asked of me. You wished me to hold you tighter and be used like a pretty whore for the night, so I am doing just that.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Ah, but you may as well have, my darling. Your body speaks far more readily than your mouth and I can hear it loud and clear.”

Before he had finished speaking, his thumb found your eager little pearl, stroking around and around in maddening circles without touching it directly. Sebastian shuffled beneath you and you felt the blunt tip of his cock trace along your cunt for the first time that night. 

A thread of power pulled through the length of your spine, straightening it and you knew deep down that it was his doing. Your eyes flickered to his blazing ones, biting your lip enough to cause blood to bead. A heated kiss cleaned the offending crimson from your plump bottom lip. The scene was like nothing you could ever dream of. No book or play could conjure such images. It was enough for sweat to roll from your temples and he hadn’t even slipped inside yet.

“Can you see what I see?” He cooed, stroking the curve of your jaw with his thumb.

You weren’t sure you did. Sure, you were a carnal feast for the eyes but wouldn’t any woman be in this position? Evidently, he disliked your silent uncertainty.

“A strong woman who stood against her family and chose to take a demon as a lover instead of marrying into dazzling wealth.”

Your chin rose as the words hit home, the cool ferocity of his tone enough to make you clench around nothing but air and the promise of what was to come.

“You are mine. No one else could hope to take you from me. I speak these words now and I will die by them. Mine. Do you understand?”

Nodding weakly, you watched his features twist in the reflection of the mirror. The desperate hunger and possession stoked the fires of the demon. It was at that moment that he pushed the bulging tip into your leaking cunt, pushing deeper past the tight ring of muscles with an exalted sigh of triumph. Sebastian held you still, fingers gripping the meat at your waist to prevent you from trying to run from the stretch you were sure to be experiencing.

It only took one forceful rut of his hips to sheath himself halfway, forcing your silken walls apart, to accept him as you always did. The remaining air from your lungs expired from the sudden pressure and overwhelming feeling of fullness.

Steady hands braced on the inside of your knees to prevent you from closing your thighs and it only made your whimpers sound all the more desperate. You were met with a warning growl directed into your ear, fiery pain following from the sharp teeth that tore at your shoulder until the marks were clear in the watery image in the mirror.

You blinked through tears, struggling in the clutches of a beast you had never mated with before. This was different, and you knew that when he stroked himself to the hilt in your cunt, he felt bigger, wider even, and the tip of his cock knocked painfully at your cervix.

It was near impossible to keep your eyes open, not when they were filled with unspilled tears and your head and heart were pounding from the lack of movement. Scrunching your eyes closed was natural when all you wanted to do was roll your hips and surrender to the build of friction but you couldn’t.

“Watch.” He demanded, wetting two fingers in his mouth and smacking them against your jumping clit as punishment for daring to close your eyes. “This is what you wanted and you’ll see just how rough I can be.”

Here you were. Nude and being used for pleasure. Wrapped in a strong embrace that forced you to witness what you had brought about. Expert fingers pinched at your tender nipples and rolled the taut buds between finger and thumb whilst the other hand abused your puffy clit.

Your body trembled as another orgasm neared–you had no idea what number this one was and it certainly wasn’t the first.

“Oh. Oh, fuck.”

The words tumbled out in velvet tones, eliciting a dark chuckle from Sebastian. He delighted when you cussed, knowing that your usual etiquette was entirely lost and your decency stolen away by how he fucked your pliant body.

With every new wave of pleasure, you understood more and more about the monster holding you tight and you didn’t believe you could love him any more than you did right now. He could destroy you without so much as breaking a sweat and yet he chose to hold you like this. Yes, it was rougher than ever before but you knew there was still a gentleness to his ministrations.

This demon had found a mortal interesting enough that for the first time in his long existence, he had no desire to ever see his contract fulfilled. 

His pistoning hips stopped; twitching cockhead buried against your cervix and the pulsing veins that ran the length of his thick shaft throbbed for release. He had assaulted the softy tissue buried behind your clit for long enough, it was time for him to find release too.

You were witnessing the birth of a million stars–a fucking cosmos--behind your eyelids as Sebastian massaged your insides in slow, deliberate circles. Every time you found the reflection in the mirror and met his potent stare, it made you whimper and rut even harder against him.

He was close, you could feel it with every laboured breath at the nape of your marked neck.

“What a picture you make, my dear, one I would love to hang in my room. You are all blissed out and ready for me to spill. Should I cum inside or paint your pretty stomach?”

Your head fell to his shoulder, and for the first time, he let you take your eyes off the show in front of you. Instead, he narrated it to you and that was almost worse. The seductive silky smooth tone of his words heated your blood beyond the boiling point.

“Oh my... look at this thick creamy ring around my cock… I could watch your pretty pussy drool over me all day.”

With a final shove of his hips, jets of heat coated your walls and you were spared from the embarrassment of begging for him to cum inside you. Sebastian grunted into your neck, the sensation of his hot mouth on your skin and the continued lazy pumps deep in your cunt tripped you over the cliff edge and into freefall.

Boneless, panting and mind blank except for the pleasure, your dazed eyes lifted to stare at the mirror.

Hair as black as a starless sky fell over your shoulder, strong arms clinging to your midriff and a mixture of viscous arousal dripped from between your trembling thighs.

Flushed and shivering, you bit your lip at the sight—your demon in the mirror.