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theemporium · 1 month ago

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[5.6k] an attack in the winter break leaves max reeling as he tries to cope with a new and furrier version of himself. the world seems to think mad max is returning to them but your presence says otherwise.

[find other fright night specials here]

It had been a completely normal day when Max Verstappen had his whole life changed.

Or as normal as it could be on a cold, wet January day in England during the winter break.

The run up to the season had been weighing down on everyone’s shoulders, last minute tweaks and changes and updates being made in hopes of making a car that will continue to dominate the grid. The factory has been busy, day in and day out. With less than a month until the car launch, it felt like everyone was working themselves to the bone to get the car ready.

Max was no different. Though, it was less about data sheets and car parts for him, and more about practising on the sim until he was beating the previous laps he set. He liked having feedback to give to the team, he liked feeling like he was contributing to the early mornings and late nights. He liked feeling useful to the team.

He ignored most of GP’s warnings about running himself down on the late nights, waving the older man off with a smile and a promise he wouldn’t stay much later. And it was partially true, he didn’t stay too late.

No later than you did.

Because if there was someone equally as determined and dead-set on giving this car everything they had like he was, it was you.

It had become a routine between the two of you on those late nights where you were the only ones left in the factory. Max would finish up at the sim, make his way towards your office on the other side of the factory where he would walk you to your car, chatting your ear off about anything other than engineering and cars and data to help get your mind off work. Even if it was for a few short minutes.

There were some days where the two of you would sit in one of your cars for a bit, to just talk. Other days, one of you was too tired to drag the night out further. It varied but it all fit the norm.

Just like that day.

The flickering street lights accompanied you both as you made your way towards the car park, with Max nodding and laughing along to some story you had been telling him about one of the other engineers. At first, he thought he had imagined the growl—one of those instances that could be brushed off with wind and bushes and the darkness around them that made everything look a bit scarier.

But then he heard it again. And he saw a flash in his peripheral vision. And next thing he knew, a large beast appeared out of thin air and was heading straight towards you and Max’s body reacted with pure instinct and quick reflexes to shove you out of the way before the beast tackled him to the floor.

It was a blur after that.

Hot, searing pain exploding through his body. Blood roaring in his ears. His heart pounding so fast in his chest. The white dots blurring his vision as he tried to turn his head away from the beast. The glimpses of fear and horror on your face before his vision had gone black.

The biggest concern at that moment was whether or not Max would be okay. If he would be able to compete at the start of the season. If he would be able to continue at all. If the public would somehow find out and expose the story before Red Bull could even prepare a statement.

The beast was the last thing on either one of your mind’s that night.

But when Max woke up the next morning, completely unscathed with only his bloody, ripped clothes as a reminder of the previous night. The two of you knew there was more to that beast than a normal animal attack, that you were dealing with something beyond your imagination.

Max Verstappen didn’t expect to go into the next season worrying how in loving fuck he was going to balance being a Formula One driver and being a werewolf.

Despite what critics and idiots behind a phone screen like to think, Formula One was a very physically taxing sport. Max had spent the better part of his whole life giving his body to training and endurance so he could compete at the level he does. Most athletes are more in tune to their bodies and their wants and needs than the average person, and Max was one of them. He knew his body. He knew his limits. He knew strengths. He knew his weaknesses.

That knowledge was completely useless when he became a werewolf.

One attempt at a workout and a dented metal bar later told Max that this whole werewolf thing came with a lot more setbacks than he realised. He understood pretty quickly that this wasn’t something he wanted to get out to the general public. He didn’t know how it would be perceived—hell, he wasn’t even sure how he perceived it.

But someone had to know. He couldn’t hide it for the rest of the season.

In the end, a few select people in his team knew about his lycanthropy and they worked together to keep it hidden from everyone else.

It was a mindfuck working with Rupert to sort out a whole new workout plan, to evaluate his newfound strength and other abilities, to learn his body all over again at the age of twenty-seven. It was weird having to explain to GP, a man who he considered his brother, that he was no longer the man he was before the winter break—that he was hardly a man at all, anymore. It was fucking weird having to look you in the eye and see the conflict of emotions on your face whenever you saw him, whenever you replayed the way he saved you from the same beast that created him.

It was fucking weird.

But he could learn. Resilience and perseverance were two traits Max learnt at a very young age. He didn’t give his whole life to this sport just to throw it away because of his newfound—and unwanted—lifestyle. He refused to let it ruin more than it had. He was a werewolf but that didn’t mean he was going to give everything else up. He would deal with his lycanthropy like he did with other problems in his life—privately and out of the spotlight.

He just failed to realise that something could risk that privacy.

And he failed to realise it would be his own short temper that could possibly expose him.

…

Preseason testing taught the team a lot about the car.

Yet, all Max was learning was that the car was shit, the media were nosy and his patience was nonexistent with every human interaction he had outside of the team garage. He could feel his skin prickle whenever a camera was pointed at him or a microphone was shoved in front of him or his name was called out.

He thought the glare on his face would be enough to keep people away but it was wishful thinking. He was the reigning world champion and he was driving, what was seeming to be, a hopeless car. It was a journalist’s wet dream.

“Your eyes.”

Max clenched his jaw, ripping the balaclava over his head. “I’m not glaring.”

“Not that,” GP hissed, trying to pull Max to the side, away from the cameras peering into the garage. “Your eyes.”

Max huffed. “Stop talking in fucking riddles, mate.”

“They are yellow,” GP whispered frantically. “Like your—“

“Fuck,” Max groaned, snapping his eyes shut as he let out a deep breath. “Fuck, what? Why? It’s not a full moon. It shouldn’t—”

“There’s a lot that shouldn’t happen with you that does,” GP pointed out, feeling the glare from Max behind his closed eyelids. “We need to get you out of here.”

“They will see,” Max replied.

“Put your helmet on.”

“Yeah,” Max snorted. “Because that won’t be fucking obvious.”

GP sighed. “Well—”

“What’s happening?”

Despite not being able to see you, Max still turned his head towards you, almost instinctively. He could feel your hand on his arm, warm and comforting and—

“His eyes look like glow sticks,” GP muttered.

“So he says,” Max bit back, because he was annoyed and pissed off and GP was the easiest target.

“He’s trying to help,” you scolded lightly, your thumb swiping back and forth, almost passively like you didn’t realise what you were doing. “Let me see.”

GP straightened. “That’s risky—”

“Let me see.”

Max let out a shaky breath, slowly blinking his eyes open until you came into focus.

“Blue,” you said with a soft, reassuring smile. “They are blue now.”

Max’s shoulders dropped with relief.

“Get him back to his driver’s room before it happens again,” GP murmured.

Max bristled, a looming realisation that he was essentially being grounded by his race engineer making his skin feel prickly. But he couldn’t disagree, it was already a close call with his eyes flashing in the garage. He didn’t need the cameras catching it either.

“If anyone asks, we will say Helmut lost his mind and made you wear contacts whilst you drive,” you teased, keeping your hand on his arm as you waited for him to grab his things.

Max huffed out a laugh. “I’m sure he will like that.”

“You’ll protect me,” you grinned back at him.

And yeah, Max would.

…

The next close call happened after the season had started.

The car had been improved since the shit show that was the preseason testing weekend, but it wasn’t all that great either. Max knew it was a process, knew the team were reaching the point of getting the car to a truly competitive and dominant state. It just took time and he just needed to be patient.

But patience wasn’t something Max had a lot of these days.

All in all, a podium wasn’t bad with the state of the car currently. However, Max knew that the media would be ready to push back, to insist the reigning world champion should be on the top step and not the third, that he should have all the answers to his own failures.

He could feel it.

He could feel the shift in his gums as his canines pushed through, pushed against the confinement of his helmet. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He could hear the crowd booing over the blood roaring in his ears. He felt like the whole world had been dialled up to a hundred the second he stepped out the car after pulling up behind the number three sign.

He could feel it.

He could feel the way his team reached out for him. He could feel their hands patting his back like it didn’t make his whole body tense. He could feel their hands patting his helmet like it didn’t make his head feel like it was spinning. He could feel their hands reaching to hold his neck, to bring him closer, to suffocate him more.

He could feel it. He could feel it. He could—-

“Another trophy to add to the shelf?”

Max’s head snapped around to see you on the other side of the barrier, headset still around your neck and a smile on your face that made the third place feel a little less pathetic.

“Probably hidden in the back,” Max managed to mutter out, somewhat muffled by his helmet and the chaos around you both.

“Surprised you have enough space,” you joked, teasing and lighthearted and so distracting that Max almost didn’t feel the way your hand covered his gloved hands, the way your thumb swiped over the tips of his fingers.

He hadn’t even noticed his claws retracting, hadn’t even noticed them ripping through the material of the gloves in the first place.

“Oh,” was all he could say.

“I’ll take care of it,” you assured him, not risking any more with so many people and cameras and microphones. “Go enjoy the podium.”

“You’re gonna stay here?” Max asked, something in his chest twisting at the idea you would have to run off back to the garage, to the screens and data sheets and computers and away from him.

“I always do.”

…

It took a few months into the season before a race weekend aligned with a full moon.

Truthfully, it hadn’t even been a risk that Max considered which, in hindsight, was probably pretty stupid. It should have been one of the first things on his mind the second he realised what he was. It should have been a top priority after his first full moon, somewhere in late January—a night full of pain and discomfort, an experience Max didn’t want to repeat but knew he would have to.

Ignorance was bliss and all that jazz.

Yet, it was the Canadian Grand Prix where Max found himself battling more than just the championship that weekend.

He was lucky enough that it wasn’t a night race but that didn’t change the fact he was snappy all weekend, more so than usual. He was irritant and annoyed and perpetually fighting the growing pain through the weekend as it got closer to the full moon on Sunday night.

GP asked if it was safe for him to even race in this state.

Max, honest to god, snapped his teeth at the older man in response.

It was tense and suffocating in the Red Bull garage.

No one seemed to question Max’s awful mood any more than it was expected. A few people poked and prodded but the gritted, sharpy responses they received in response was enough to make most people back off. It was being played off as jet lag, a bad quali session and a grid penalty that didn’t feel all that deserved.

Max was adamant he could race and deal with the full moon. He wasn’t going to let it ruin his career, the sport that he loved and adored and had given his life to. He wasn’t going to let it get the better of him, even if that meant just being snappier than usual to the media.

And despite GP and Rupert’s concerns, Max was coping well.

Until lap 57 happened.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH HIM?!”

“Max, stay calm.”

“I’M FUCKING LAPPING HIM! IS HE FUCKING STUPID?”

“Max,” GP tried again but his voice was a muffled buzzing in his ears, hardly coherent over the anger and adrenaline and rage rushing through him. His body was acting on muscle memory alone as his car dragged on, as it crawled into the pits before he rushed back out.

He refused to listen to GP telling him to retire the car.

He refused to let that fucker in the Alpine think he could fuck his race and get away with it.

He refused—

“He’s growling,” GP hissed, hand covering the microphone and his voice dropping as he leaned over to where you sat on the pit wall beside him. His lips barely moved, not with the way the cameras were laser-focused on him and his reaction to Max disobeying the orders that were broadcasted to everyone watching.

“Fuck,” you muttered, pulling your headset off and reaching for his. “Hand it over.”

GP frowned. “I don’t think this is going to work—”

“Trust me,” you insisted.

Conflicting emotions swirled in his eyes before he ripped his headset off, muttering something under his breath before he handed it to you.

“—FUCKING DICKHEAD JUST—”

“Max?”

There were a few moments of silence and, for a brief moment, you wondered if the connection had cut. You wondered if he had somehow disconnected the radio from his side, you almost turned to ask GP if it was possible to do before you heard his heavy breathing.

“I know you’re upset,” you continued, taking the chance and hoping he was listening. “It was a bad move. But you’re a good driver, a great one even. You can save this race. I know you can. Focus on the racing, not the rest.”

Your words were careful and precise, painfully aware that the radio messages were probably being broadcasted. You knew whatever you said would be picked apart by the media and public, dissected under a microscope. But despite your caution, your only focus was making sure Max was okay.

“Breathe and win,” you said, your eyes watching the racing feed on the screen in front of you. “I know you can.”

It was completely silent beyond the sounds of the car until—

“I can. I will.”

You bit back your smile. “Good. I want to see you on the top step, Verstappen.”

He did, in fact, go on to win the race. The celebration with the team was postponed as he spent the night in aggravating, uncomfortable pain—alone, suffering, excruciating. He refused to let any of you stay with him, to see him in that state, just like he did every full moon since the attack.

But he still won and that was something nobody could take away from him.

...

Despite his success in Canada, it was clear the outbursts and frequent accidental exposures of his wolf were becoming a problem.

It was something he needed to get better at controlling if he wanted to continue the way he was, if he wanted to keep his lycanthropy away from the greedy hands of the journalists. This was his life now, it was something he had to accept and learn and grow with.

It was just a little hard to do when he didn’t know how.

“This is stupid.”

Rupert sighed, ignoring the glare Max was currently staring into the side of his head as he continued to hook the heart monitor onto him. “It is no different to when we do this for your training.”

“Except this time you are purposefully pissing me off instead of torturing me,” Max bit back.

“We want to help,” GP corrected, leaning against the wall opposite of him. “You need to learn how to control the wolf side of you.”

Max scoffed. “Maybe people should stop being stupid then.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” GP snorted before getting a nod of confirmation from Rupert that they were ready to go. “Okay. We are going to start easy, alright?”

Max nodded.

GP glanced down at the laptop in front of Rupert that had Max’s current heart rate showing before looking back at the driver. “Following the incident with Pierre Gasly in the Canadian Grand Prix, do you think you should be more careful when lapping cars?”

Max let out a noise of disagreement. “What the fuck? Why should I be careful? It’s not my fault he is slow!”

“I’m sure the PR team will love that response,” GP deadpanned, watching as Max’s heart rate started to speed up. “The stewards deemed it a racing incident.”

“And the stewards are fucking stupid,” Max snapped back. “I was lapping him. I had priority. Everyone knows that. It’s their job to know that too.”

The heart rate continued to increase and GP could have sworn he saw a flash of yellow in Max’s eyes.

“Max, control it,” Rupert reminded him.

“I’m trying,” he gritted out.

“They are going to keep poking, Max,” GP continued. “They did it before and they will do it again. They will push and push and push until they get the reaction they want, the one that fits their agenda.”

Max growled in response.

“I know you’ve seen it already,” GP said, listening to the beeps of the heart monitor get faster and faster. “Mad Max is back. He is unpredictable. Unhinged. That’s the story they want and that’s the one you are giving them.”

Max’s breaths were getting heavier. “They don’t know—”

“Exactly, they don’t know,” GP pointed out. “And we don’t want them to know so you have to learn how to control it before you wolf out on them. Before you let them win.”

His eyes were bright and glowing and yellow, a flash of sharp teeth under his curling lip as he growled and snarled and—

“I’m here! I’m here! Sorry, I’m late, I was getting coffee. Did we start yet?”

It was like a flip had switched.

GP and Rupert watched the scene in front of them like it happened in slow motion. The way Max seemed to perk up at the sound of your voice. The way the glowing eyes and sharp teeth seemed to slowly morph back to the Max they knew. The way the rage and anger and frustration was nowhere to be seen by the time you walked into the room, a tray of coffee and a bag of pastries in each hand.

You stood there, watching the three of them stare at you with mixed expressions. “What? What did I miss?”

“Interesting,” GP commented. “Very, very interesting.”

…

“You like her.”

Max let out a string of curse words, almost knocking the mugs of hot water over before he put the kettle down and turned to face his race engineer with wide eyes. Heightened senses aside, he didn’t hear GP sneaking into the kitchen. Or even realise he had been watching Max mutter away to himself for the last five minutes.

“Fucking hell, mate,” Max grumbled, placing a hand on his chest. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“And don’t change the topic,” GP retorted with a knowing look. “You like her, don’t you?”

Max hated the way he could feel the tips of his ears start to burn. “Like who?”

GP raised his brows in response.

Max deflated, his shoulders dropping. “Look, I know what you’re going to say—”

“I think she’s good for you,” GP interrupted.

Max blinked. “Okay, maybe I didn’t know what you were going to say.”

“She’s your anchor,” GP noted, his lips twitching upwards. “I had my suspicions but today confirmed it.”

“Anchor?” Max repeated with a frown. “Mate, is that not a news thing? She’s an engineer—”

“No, I—” GP let out a deep sigh, muttering something under his breath. “God give me strength. I mean that she helps ground you, helps you differentiate Human Max and Wolf Max.”

“Oh,” was all Max managed to mutter out.

“She’s good for you,” GP repeated with a soft smile. “And she understands you. Maybe if you tell her, we can work something out and—”

“No.”

He frowned. “No?”

“No,” Max repeated, blunt as ever. “I’m not telling her anything and neither will you.”

GP’s frown deepened. “Max—”

“No, you don’t get it. She…” The boy trailed off, swallowing harshly as he tried to voice his thoughts. “You didn’t see what happened that night.”

“Max—”

“I saved her,” Max stated. “I saved her and she’s only here because she probably feels guilty. I…I don’t want to tell her and make her feel like she has to feel the same because I almost died or something.”

“You liked her before,” GP pointed out. “Is it so hard to believe that maybe she felt the same? That she cared about you way before you jumped in front of a werewolf for her?”

Max clenched his jaw. “Drop it. I’m not telling her and neither are you.”

GP sighed but he knew it was pointless to fight the stubborn boy over it.

“And she doesn’t find out about this anchor nonsense,” Max added, turning around and busying himself with the mugs on the counter. “We’ll find another way.”

…

GP’s words about you being his anchor rung on a loop inside his head as the next race weekend approached.

The Spanish Grand Prix was always quite a hectic one on the schedule. The fans were wild and passionate. There was usually more of a buzz around the world championship by this point, an insight into a real fight after nine races. And it brought back good memories, wanted memories of his first ever race win.

It was a reminder why he was here, why he kept coming back every weekend. He wanted to race and he wanted to win and he wanted to be successful. He wasn’t going to let the lycanthropy stop him.

And even if he would never admit it, GP was right.

You were his anchor, you calmed the angry, rapid wolf inside him. It was like everything he felt around you when he was human was amplified. He felt seen, accepted. You took him for how he was, not how you wanted or expected him to be.

You saw Max—not the racing driver or the face of F1’s current dominance.

You just saw him.

It was hard to feel anything but relaxed and calm around you, to know that his words weren’t going to be overanalysed or thrown back in his face.

“You ready for this race?”

Max gripped his helmet a little tighter, fighting the urge to lean back against your touch as he felt your palm between his shoulder blades. He turned to look at you, smiling a little at the clear concern on your face. Like you were prepared to find a way to postpone the whole race if he said no.

“The car’s been good all weekend,” Max replied, biting back his laugh when you rolled your eyes.

“I wasn’t talking about the car,” you grumbled, scoffing. “Obviously the car is good. I was working on it.”

He beamed. “I’m good. Promise.”

“You gonna win?”

“For you? Always.”

Max took deep satisfaction in the way your heart skipped a beat at his words.

“I’ll be happy whatever you end up,” you told him earnestly, your hand squeezing his shoulder and he had the oddest urge to keep your hand there, to place his own over yours.

Max swallowed harshly. “But you deserve a podium so that’s what I’m gonna get you.”

You laughed, the sound easing something in his chest. “You’re cute when you’re cocky.”

He barely got a chance to process your response as you headed towards the pitwall, prepared for the race ahead and leaving the boy glued to his spot, blushing like mad.

For what it’s worth, he did win the race.

…

Things were going smoothly until the British Grand Prix.

Max had been able to keep the wolf inside him subdued and relaxed through the first two races of the triple header. He was racing well, he was being polite to the media, he was acting like the Max before the accident.

And despite his history and previous experiences at Silverstone and the ever loyal British fans, he didn’t think things would be all that different this year. He would maybe get booed, maybe have a few more probing questions. But nothing more than that.

Nothing quite like this.

It was Friday when it happened.

Max thought the worst of the weekend—media day—had been put behind him. He was ready to get back in the car, he was ready to make the triple header a three-for-three and win Silverstone. He was ready for a somewhat normal race weekend, one where the focus would be on the five Brits on the grid rather than him (especially with it being Ollie’s rookie season).

Sometimes, he forgot just how passionate fans could be. He forgot just how insane they could be too.

The whole thing felt like it happened in slow motion.

He was a few steps behind you and GP and Rupert, taking a moment to sign merch and take pictures with fans who had been waiting for hours. He assumed the group of you had made your way into the paddock, already heading towards the Red Bull motorhome.

He hadn’t expected for the hair on the back of his neck to stand up, to feel his whole body react before his brain had. His head whipped around at the exact moment he saw the crazed fan reaching towards you. His body was moving as he watched the scene unfold, as they reached for the collar of your shirt and pulled, as their lips moved to mutter something about Red Bull and whatever nonsense they thought justified their attack.

And before anyone could even react, Max was already shoving himself between you and the fan and ripping their hand away from you. He could feel his heart pounding, his body shaking, the telltale pain in his gums of his canines begging to push through. He could feel himself lose control as the anger and fear of seeing you hurt took over him.

“Back. The. Fuck. Off.”

The fan’s eyes widened, something quite like surprise and terror written across their face as they staggered back. Max had half the mind to wonder if his eyes were glowing yellow, if his face was starting to transform, if the crazed fan was starting to see the monster Max truly was.

“Max.”

An honest to god growl escaped his lips until he felt warm hands wrapping around his biceps, until he felt someone pulling his body away from the fan and away from the crowd.

“We need to get him out of here.”

It felt like he had blacked out. One moment he was staring at the crazy fan, contemplating letting his wolf take over, to give into the anger and rage coursing through him. And the next he was in his driver room, his name being called on repeat and warm hands cupping his face as he slowly blinked back into reality.

“There he is,” you smiled, your voice a soft whisper as you kneeled in front of him.

“I–” Max started but he couldn’t get his words out. He couldn’t say what he wanted to say, not with his heart still pounding, not with the wolf inside him howling and whining and begging to check that you weren’t hurt.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” you repeated like you could see inside his head, like you could hear the panic in his wolf’s howl. “Max, look at me. I promise I’m okay. You stopped anything from happening.”

He tried to take a deep breath but it was staggered and wheezy.

“I’m okay,” you continued to repeat, dropping one hand from his face to take his hand in yours and intertwine your fingers together.

Max’s eyes flashed yellow once more before he clenched them shut, urging himself to calm down, to relax, to control his wolf again. And after weeks of being on top of his lycanthropy, it felt a bit pathetic that he sat there for god-knows how long, not trusting himself to lift his head and look at you until he felt human again.

“M’sorry,” he managed to rasp out.

“Don’t apologise,” you murmured, quick to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Please never apologise for being you.”

Max let out a bitter laugh. “That wasn’t me—”

“Max,” you started but he shook his head.

“Did anyone see?”

You took a few moments before responding. “No. Other than the fan but I don’t think they really knew what was happening. I don’t think any of the camera angles caught it either but GP is making sure the media team are ahead of that.”

“Good,” he managed to mutter, swallowing harshly. “We don’t need anyone else seeing what a monster I am.”

“Max,” and the way you said his name sounded absolutely broken. “You’re not a monster.”

His lips twitched upwards, almost self-deprecatingly. “You don’t have to lie—”

“I’m not lying,” you said, a little more insistent this time as you lifted his head up to meet your gaze. “You’re not a monster, Max.”

His chest tightened. “You’re just saying that because I saved you.”

“No,” you shook your head. “I’m saying that because it’s what I truly believe. You are the furthest thing from a monster I have ever met.”

Max could feel his voice waver as he spoke. “Not anymore. What I am now is—”

“Beautiful,” you whispered, smiling softly as your thumb swiped over the apple of his cheek. “Just as you’ve always been. Just as I’ve always thought you were.”

Max couldn’t quite find the words to respond.

“You saved me. And despite having every right to blame me for what you are now, what you’re having to suffer through every full moon, you don’t,” you continued. “Where most people would give up, you fought back. You took your life back. You’ve made it work, Max. Do you realise how fucking brilliant you are? You had to learn your whole body again and you’re still winning races like nothing changed.”

Max let out a shaky breath. “I’d do it again.”

“What?”

“Even knowing what happened, knowing what was going to happen to me,” Max spoke, keeping his eyes on you, keeping his ears focused on your heartbeat. “I would push you out the way. I would jump in front of that wolf all over again.”

Max wasn’t sure how you would respond but he hadn’t expected you to grab his face in your hands and kiss him. The tight feeling in his chest melted away the second he felt your lips on his, the second he was able to get his hands on you and pull you closer. He would’ve been embarrassed at the pleased rumble in his chest if it weren’t for the fact he was too happy to care.

“I’ll make you see how beautiful that ‘monster’ in you really is,” you whispered against his lips, your nose lightly nudging against his. “No matter how long it takes.”

Max was sure that he still had a long way to go and a lot more to learn before he could ever say he felt fully normal again. But the idea of facing the road ahead with you by his side felt easier than tackling it alone.

He may still be Mad Max to everyone else but he was just Max to you.

And if he was being honest, the opinion of his anchor was the only one he really cared about.

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stormhearty · 8 months ago

Text

✨ pairings: Lucien x Reader, Elucien

🔮 preview: Hanahaki Disease definition: “If your love is not getting returned, flowers start growing inside your body, suffocating you from the inside. Surgical removal is dangerous and you're dying without your soulmate's love.”

📣 trigger warnings: pining, unacquainted romance, vomiting, mentions of blood, ambiguous ending

🔎 rating: PG-13 | 🔏 word count: 4.5k

💜 masterlist + notes: I am the Queen of Angst, as per @prythianpages… another one for the books. I loved Lucien, I loved him since ACOTAR. And so, it is time… to give him some angst to his already angsty story. I do hope you guys enjoy it!

“Lucien —-”

You gasped his name, struggling against the bonds that bound your hands behind your back, your knees ached against the stone ground. Tears lined your eyes, watching Lucien leave your side, tugging the turned middle Archeron sister into his arms, her wet form shivering from being drowned into the cauldron moments earlier.

The world around you slowed and all you could focus on was how Lucien held the sister so tenderly in his arms. For a moment, his back stiffened, and looked over his shoulder — back at you. Your eyes connected and all you felt was a burst in your chest — one that glowed but also one that was slowly suffocating you.

A mating bond.

Another gasp escaped your lips, head bowing as you pressed your forehead against the cool stone underneath your body. Your chest heaved, gasping as your back arched — your throat burned, your chest ached, you felt as if your lungs were on fire. You felt like you were burning from the inside out. Tilting your head up, you hoped that Lucien’s gaze was still on you, that he would abandon the Archeron sister and return to your side — you had hoped that the mating bond snapped for him as well; however, that wasn’t the case.

The eldest Archeron sister snatched the younger back into her arms, pushing Lucien away, him stumbling back from the strength. You watched as Lucien and the middle sister’s gaze intertwined, and even from your position, you could hear the disbelief in his tone.

“You’re my mate.”

The world tilted in front of you, and chaos ensued. You didn’t care whether Tamlin had broken out of his bonds and stalked towards Feyre. You didn’t care that Feyre was begging Tamlin to break the bond between her and Rhysand. You didn’t care that the Hybern King had caused all this madness — just for the Cauldron.

You just didn’t care.

Because all you cared about was the fact that Lucien had felt the bond with the middle Archeron sister — the beautiful Cauldron-Made fae — and not you.

Your world blurred behind your eyes, and you didn’t even realize that Mor was winnowing everyone of the Inner Circle away — the ward had been broken, and everyone was escaping. You watched as she ripped the Archeron sister from Lucien’s grasp, the male roaring at the loss of his mate. He clawed and grasped the ground where she had laid. You wanted to call out to him, tell him that you were still there — that he had another mate. But your voice died in your throat, and you barely could even let out a whisper of his name. Your throat burned, and you felt your lungs constrict and you couldn’t get any air in your lungs.

Pressing your hand against your throat, you wheezed.

You couldn’t breathe.

Panic set into your features as you clawed the palms of your hands, blood dripping down onto the ground. Arms gathered around you, tugging the bonds away from your wrist as you looked up, “—-Mor…” you choked out, grasping her upper arms as you struggled to get to your feet. You focused on her, and not the fact that your body was slowly being deprived of air.

She pressed her lips on the crown of your head, soothing you, as if she knew exactly what had happened between you and Lucien, “Hold on tight, (Y/N), we’re going home… You’re going to be okay…”

Wrapping your arms around her shoulders, you glanced at Lucien, watching him snap his head back towards you as if feeling that you were going to be taken away from him as well. Your eyes locked with his and you felt tears cascade down your cheeks.

“(Y/N)—-…!”

Your name slipped from his lips and all you saw before you were taken in swirls of light and darkness, was his hand reaching out to you.

“(Y/N)…”

You held up a hand, stopping a worried Feyre from coming to your aid. Eyes locked with hers and all you could do was shake your head, a silent plead not to draw any attention. A moment of silence passed before your gaze drifted up those familiar marble steps, the scent of your mate lingering in the air.

Lucien had just stopped by the River House and passed you — heading up those stairs… into Elain’s room.

You held your breath, awaiting the moment when the pain would slam into your body.

Burst!

A painful gasp escaped your lips as you grasped your chest, feeling the burst of flowers invading your lungs. It had taken your breath away so strongly that you stumbled backward, pressing your back against the marble column, chest heaving as you tried to gain any ounce of air into your flower-filled lungs.

Tears stung your eyes as the pain wracked your body, teeth biting into pink-stained lips, fighting back a painful cry that threatened to leave your throat. You couldn’t make noise… not when Lucien was oh-so-close to hearing it.

Just the thought of the male caused another surge of pain, feeling your organs being pushed around inside your body to make way for more of those deadly flowers to occupy your being.

It hurt so much.

All you could focus was on the indescribable pain, feeling every burst and explosion of your illness taking over your body, that you barely were able to feel gentle hands cupping your cheek — the scent of paint and starlight invading your system — Feyre.

You couldn’t help but lean into her gentle hold, her warmth as you blinked away the white flashes of pain, trying with all your might to focus on your friend. The High Lady looked at you with fear and worry etched on her beautiful, ethereal features and all you could do was give her a small smile, despite the pain that wracked your body with tiny shivers, “I’m fine, Feyre…” You tried to reassure her, your voice meek and strained… your tone shaking underneath each word. You wanted to convince yourself that you were fine… it was just another flare of your illness.

It would pass.

It always did.

Both of you knew you were nothing but fine.

Not when the source of your pain was just up those marble steps.

Your face scrunched as another wave of pain shook your body, your back arching and your limbs stiffening at the agony that you were succumbing to every time your illness took over. Attempting to regain control over your body, you pressed your palm against your mouth, trying to fight back every urge to vomit all over the floor. But the burn in your throat was so strong, that the need to empty your stomach would help alleviate the pain. You scrambled to push Feyre away, pressing your hands against marble floors — and all you could do was heave.

A rainbow of flowers splashed onto those pristine floors — vines and thorns from those very flowers scratching your lungs and throat, causing blood to spew out of your lips, dripping down the edge of your lips, coating those flowers with red and the smell of metal lingering in your mouth.

It burns, it hurts.

That was all that you can think of.

How the pain took over your whole body, and there was nothing else you could think of.

Not even the fact that your destined mate had decided to choose a bond that was not connected to you.

Tears of agony cascaded down your cheeks as you gagged and heaved those flowers that took over your entire system. You inhaled, grasping as much air as you could before you vomited again, this time the contents of your stomach pooling underneath you.

You didn’t understand why. You couldn’t understand why this was cursed upon you — why you were destined to live this way, in so much pain… in so much hurt.

In so much loneliness.

For millennials, you had believed a mating bond was a beautiful thing, something that a happy ever after would grant you, much like those fairytale stories that you read as a child.

But for centuries, you realized that a mating bond was nothing but a curse.

The beauty of a mating bond, the flowers of love and romance… disguised as torture and unhappiness.

You didn’t even know, nor did you care, how long you were in that foyer, puking your lungs and stomach out. At that point, you didn’t care if Lucien had heard your retching from Elain’s room. All you wanted was for the pain to stop. Your vision blurred and your body swayed under the exhaustion you felt. You tried to stay conscious, tried to keep yourself from fainting… but you were so tired. You felt your body sway, the weariness tugging your brain to the darkness. But you caught yourself, regaining your balance with your hands and knees, fingers grasping onto the soft petals that lay beneath you, feeling them crunch underneath your grip.

Oh, how you hated it.

Hated how those flowers felt underneath your palm.

They were soft and gentle… but they grew inside of you — a curse to remind you of how devious and deceiving a mating bond was.

You had been so focused on the pain, so focused on staying awake that you barely heard the shuffling around you, how shadows covered your body, soothing your aching body. Whispers of worry passed over your subconscious, not having the energy to listen to what they were saying — was it about you? Did they take pity on your pain and suffering? You didn’t have an ounce to care. When gentle hands grasped your hands, feeling Feyre’s hands slip away from your cheeks, you whimpered, missing the warmth from your friend, only to be lulled into warm and gentle arms.

Blinking away the weariness and the tears, you looked up, your head lulling back onto broad shoulders and into beautiful violet hues.

“Rhys…” you whispered, your voice hoarse, your hands weakly reaching up to grasp his suit, bunching it up in your blood-stained hand, trying to ground yourself, to distract yourself from the pain that plagued your body.

Your body stiffened in his hold, another wave of agony threatened to pull you into subconsciousness. You whimpered, trying to gain little control over what was left of your body, one that was not dominated by torment.

You tried to focus on his words, seeing his lips open and close, as if telling you something — but the fog that penetrated your mind was so strong that it was just noise in your head. Vision swayed and black spots appeared in your vision. Your head rolled back again, your body becoming heavy in Rhys’ arms, as you felt him shift your body in his hold.

Gentle hands grasped the back of your neck, forcing you to look up at those violet hues. You blinked, trying to focus on the High Lord before a wave of darkness stormed into your mind, gently taking the pain away before lulling you into darkness — your body felt light, your mind drifting in the sea of darkness that welcomed you.

You floated in that darkness and all you hoped was that you would never wake up — would never have to succumb to the pain again. And never would have to face your mate who yearned for another.

But your wishes would never come true — they never did.

And when you had awoken, nightfall had fallen over Valeris.

Your body felt heavy, something that you had grown used to, after an intense eruption of your illness.

You lay there, in your bed, trying to attempt to lull yourself back into sleep, into that darkness that made you feel nothing. But your mind screamed at you to wake, to not drift into that darkness again.

An exhausted sigh escaped your lips, your throat burning from retching your lungs out, as you allowed your fingers to gently wiggle underneath the satin sheets, attempting to regain control over your body, feeling the cool sensation under your fingertips, grounding yourself back to the present — away from the memory of mental and physical suffering. You lay there, for seconds, minutes… hours before you opted to open your eyes. You blinked away the dried tears that crusted them, you blinked away the fatigue that made your eyelids feel heavy, as you focused on the painted ceiling above you — an image of the night sky, the one that mirrored the one outside your very windows. It usually gave you comfort, it gave you a sense of peace.

But at that very moment, all you felt was hollow.

As if you had emptied your whole self, your whole soul with those flowers, hours earlier. And now, there was nothing left of you. Your body was nothing but a greenhouse to create those painful flowers, there was no you left in the shell of your body.

It was a feeling, a moment that you would never get used to. On the feeling of being lost, that no one would be able to understand what you go through. And that no one ever would.

The door creaked open, the sound resonating loudly in your quiet room before the patter of feet entered your room.

You had no energy to look see who it was, you had no energy to do anything besides just lay there and rot, to decay into soil for those rotten flowers to grow from.

The bed dipped and you glanced over to see Feyre, that same worried expression on her features. You watched how her face twitched and shifted, trying to find the proper guise to speak to you with… but all you could see was the shadow of concern in her look. You watched as her brain turned, her lips parting before closing again — trying to figure out how to approach you.

Like you were an endangered, hurt animal.

“…How are you feeling, (Y/N)?” her lips tugged up into a simper of a smile, after a few minutes of silence, though her brows knitted together, assessing you from your supine position in bed, trying to gauge your physical and mental condition.

Dull eyes stared at her, unblinking and unmoving, and your throat itched to say something — something to smooth out those lines on her features.

But you couldn’t.

There were no words that could describe how much agony you go through… Every. Single. Time. You could never explain to Feyre, to Rhysand, or the rest of the Inner Circle… how it feels to have something so beautiful be so deadly.

No matter how many times they ask you, try to pull words out of you, or even whenever you allow Rhysand to wander your mind to understand just a bit of your pain… they would never fully understand.

All because your love was unreciprocated.

Your love and bond with Lucien Vanserra.

You had known him for centuries, ever since he had stepped into the borders of Spring Court. You had been nothing but the daughter of a low-ranking noble, one who had the privilege of serving Tamlin as a scholar in the High Lord’s castle; he had been the one to give you such a title. You had been the one who alerted your High Lord about the threat of Lucien’s brothers’ attempt at his life. You had been the one who befriended Lucien and allowed him to adjust while he was found a position in Tamlin’s court. You had been the one to stay by his side when the High Queen had ripped his eye out, been the one to nurse him back to health. You had gone through forty-nine years of the curse alongside him. And you had been the one beside him through the perils of Under the Mountain.

You had been his first friend in Spring Court.

And he had been your first love.

You had hoped and prayed for the Mother and the Gods to will your kindred spirits into a mating bond. You had hoped and prayed you gain any confidence to confess your feelings for him. But for centuries, that had been your downfall, you had been content with his presence, content with his friendship that you had believed that nothing would have changed.

But in the end, everything changed.

Feyre looked into your eyes, trying to find that part of you that still fought — fought for your life and your soul against this illness, but when she couldn’t, she sighed, willing back tears before reaching over to run her fingers through your tangled locks, trying to formulate comforting words to help you with your ordeal. But both of you knew, after knowing each other for years, there were no words that would soothe your pain.

Turning your head towards the rays of light that shone from your large windows, you focused on the soothing motion of your friend’s delicate fingers through your hair as you soaked in the night, twinkling sky of Valeris.

You had realized over the past few months you’ve lived in Night Court, that you had fallen in love with the night sky — how vast and never-ending it was over your head. It had eclipsed your previous adoration for your former home’s vast spring fields, ones that were overrun with wildflower and fresh grass — and that, now, you would happily die just laying out and staring into the twinkling night of Valeris’ skies.

Feyre had always said your sense of humor was morbid, how you would casually just bring up how you’d die as if it was a normal conversation starter.

But to you, it was.

Your illness was the only thing on your mind nowadays. Wondering when you would succumb to the pain and just die, or when the flowers finally take over your body — what would happen to you? Would you become a tree, lifeless and hollow, sprouting flowers from your mouth and nose?

It was the fear that drove your thoughts, turning them into morbid humor.

Because it was the only way you could cope with your looming doom.

Swallowing a lump in your throat, tasting the petals in your lungs, you turned back to Feyre, “…Is he still with her?”

Pain tugged on Feyre’s features and her hand grew still against your locks, hand pulling away and you could see that it was shaking.

That was the only confirmation you needed.

“I’m so sorry, (Y/N)…” Feyre whispered, shifting so that she could sit closer to you, bringing your body into her warm embrace, “I had tried. Tried to force them apart with multiple different excuses, but Elain wanted to see him. She felt the tug on his end of the bond… and had grown curious... They’ve been together the whole night…”

There was nothing she could do to help soothe the ache in your chest. No comforting words, no gentle gestures. Nothing.

Tears brimmed your vision and all you could do was curse the Mother and the Cauldron.

Why couldn’t it be you?

Why couldn’t it be you that Lucien felt at the end of the golden string?

Why did the Cauldron deem that Elain was better for Lucien than you?

“(Y/N)…”

A shaky sigh escaped your lips as you looked over your shoulder, the sound of your name coming from a familiar-sounding voice — one that you had wished for centuries would call yours more often.

“Lucien…”

There stood at the threshold of your bedroom was Lucien, leaning against the open door, arms crossed over his chest. He garbed Autumn Court colors, rouge and gold material complimenting his skin tone very well.

He was a prince charming, straight out of those fairy tale books — but he wasn’t here to sweep you off your feet.

Your eyes glanced over his form, and caught the glimmering shine of the golden band around his ring finger — it was his wedding day. The ache of the mating bond resonated in your chest, one that you had grown used to and didn’t often flinch from the pain, and you gave a tiny smile, one you hoped wasn’t laced with anguish and hurt.

You had to be happy.

Happy for his sake.

“I didn’t see you at the ceremony… Feyre said you were here in your room…”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, the taste of petals coating your tongue, “…I wasn’t feeling too well, I watched it from up here though. It was a beautiful wedding, Lucien… I’m, happy for you.”

And you were, you were happy for him but the small part of you, wanted that happiness to be with you.

But the Mother does not grant you wishes — never for you.

Lucien stepped into your room and you felt your back stiffen slightly, shifting so you were closer to the metal railing of your balcony. You watched those heterochromatic hues stare at you, sweeping over your form as if to find the illness he had heard so much about — that russet eye assessing your form as if he could see right into your soul.

All you wanted to do was turn around, avoid his gaze — just avoid him entirely like you have been doing for the past few years.

You couldn’t be near him… not anymore.

He didn’t seek you out often anymore, and so you did the same.

For your health.

You watched as he stepped passed the doorway, his boots echoing into your room and that’s what you focused on, how he grew closer and closer to you to the point where he stood in front of you — his woody scent intermixed with honey and jasmine, of Elain’s scent.

It made you nauseous that your world spun around, you pinched your eyes shut, reaching back to grab onto the railing so you wouldn’t fall to your death. Though death seemed to be a better option than confronting Lucien.

Hands gripped your upper arms, as if to still your wavering body and your senses were overwhelmed by his — his scent, his breath, the warmth that radiated from his hands and body to your own.

It has been too much.

Pressing your hands against his chest, you shoved him away, your breath quick and sweat lining your forehead.

“Don't touch me… Please…” you begged him.

You used to love being in his presence. During peaceful times, before Amarantha’s reign, before the curse… you would always seek each other out — whether it be just basking in each other’s presence, or talking about your day to one another — your eyes would always try to look for him. He would easily just hold your hand for comfort or you'd always be welcome in his arms.

Everything was so much simpler and easier — without the cursed illness that rages in your body.

It was easier to be around him without the mating bond that connected you to him.

But now, nothing was simple. You couldn't be next to him, have him touch you so easily without the bouts of nausea and pain that came with an incomplete mating bond.

You had been able to handle it, since he had sought Elain often when he visited the River House. You avoided everywhere they may have been — the gardens, her bedroom — basically everywhere in the River House, confining yourself to your room.

The only people that would check in on you were Feyre, Mor and Rhysand — all three were the only people that knew of your condition, of your illness… and your love for Lucien.

Taking in a deep breath, the smell of florals invading your system as you felt small bursts of pain in your chest — more flowers taking over your lungs.

Eyes looked at him and you blinked twice — making sure your mind wasn't playing tricks on you. Surprise and hurt etched onto his beautiful features, his eyes staring at you as if you've done a taboo.

“What… what's wrong, (Y/N)? Why are you so distant with me lately?” his voice was full of confusion and all you wanted was to yell and scream all the pain that had been caused by the incomplete bond — but you couldn't.

He didn't know. He wasn't the reason why you were decaying slowly, it was your illness. The stupid, wretched curse placed upon you by the Mother above.

You looked at him, with so much longing and love — you wanted to convey centuries of your love for him, but it has been too late.

He had chosen his Cauldron bound mate.

A pained smile tugged on your lips as you reached up and gently caressed the scars on the left side of his face, and you watched as he leaned close to your palm — your illness flaring in your chest, you flinching slightly from the pain.

“You haven't been putting on the ointment for your face, Lucien…” you muttered, trying to avoid the topic of anything relating to your distance, to your pain, to your unrequited love for him, “It had been looking good… I hope it isn't too painful…”

Lucien’s golden eye whirlled, trying to lock gaze with your own, trying to assess what was going on with you; but you avoided his gaze, focusing on how badly your hand was trembling near him.

“… I haven't had the time to put on the ointment, and besides that had been your job for the past few centuries…” a tiny smile tugged onto his lips.

You tucked a loose strand of auburn hair behind his ear, feeling the soft lock between your fingers before you dropped your hand, gently grasping it in your other as if to stop the trembles, “You're right, it had been my job…But it looks like not anymore. Elain could do that for you… I'll—-” you swallowed the lump in your throat once more, the urge to cough up the flowers was strong.

“Lucien…”

The two looked back at your doorway to see her — Elain, dressed in white. You gave her a tight smile, glancing up at Lucien who’s facial features morphed from worry and confusion at you, to complete adoration and love for her.

Tears stung your eyes as you turned around, your back facing the two married couple.

“You should go Lucien… you're missing out on your reception…” your voice shook and you desperately hoped neither of them would notice.

You have to continue to be happy — for him.

“You should come with us, you don't have to be here alone…” his voice drifted with the wind.

Shaking your head, you looked over your shoulder at him and gave him a smile, “I’m content here…”

Hesitation tugged on his features but before he could say anymore, Elain gathered his attention and both of them slipped out of your room.

Your chest heaved and you slowly slid down to the ground, pressing you hands on those cold stone tiles and you heaved.

Heaved all the pain and anguished of a love that was never yours to begin with.

General Tag List: @prythianpages @strangelygreat

#acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #a court of thorns and roses #acotar fic #acotar angst #lucien vanserra #lucien x reader #elain x lucien #lucien acotar #elucien #( .one shot : nothing but a curse )#lucien vanserra x reader

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ilovetoxicfictionalmen · 28 days ago

Text

PUT A WIFE BACK IN HER PLACE

KINKTOBER DAY 25 - SPANKING WITH MARTIN

Pairing.| Martin x fem!reader

Summary.| When Martin’s attempt to win your heart back with a nostalgic trip on a secluded Scottish island fails, he has one last resort to remind you who’s wife you are.

Warnings.| Dubcon, dry humping, spanking, arguing, infidelity, implied breeding.

Word count.| 1.4k

Notes.| This ain't that good but yolo because Martin is hot.

In Martin’s defense, you couldn’t say that he didn’t put in his all to revive your marriage, it’s been on the rocks for months now, every opportunity for intimacy always resulted in bickering at the best outcome. The arguments were daggering to the heart, zero remorse on either of your ends at times. But Martin was devoted to you, you were his world, he needed you more than oxygen.

His marvelous plan on resparking your attraction to one another seemed to be working like a blender unplugged from the power outlet. This will mark your third time vacating on the secluded Scottish island. You were quiet the whole boat ride, but it went unphased by Doug, he merely chatted on with Martin. Your husband would glance over at you every now and then, but you were in a different world.

With every day passing, Martin lost a handful of hope. Nothing was working like it used to. The way you’d smile at him when he’d come back after fishing had vanished. The gratitude for the small things he did for you was no more. Your marriage was flatlining. The small talk felt unbearable, turned shoulders made him want to rip his hair out. He only wanted to look at you, hold you, feel you. When you hid yourself in the bathtub, Martin felt his stomach turn in a mixture of shame and pleasure. How could you shy away from your husband? But then when was the last time he had even seen you naked.

He ran across the coastal shore, his expression was stern as he sprinted as fast as he could. His ears went blocked, heart pounded uncontrollably in his chest as the aches in his muscles grew. When he reached the top of the cliff, his hands formed into balls as he smacked the air.

“Fuck!” Martin roared, a vein popped out in his forehead.

Martin heaved out, his hands rested above his knees as he tried to catch his breath. After inhaling his asthma pump, his hands searched into his pocket for his phone. His fingers jabbed at the screen, then he scrolled to keep his motivation alive. He flicked through the countless screenshots of evidence, his grip tightened after each swipe.

I want to be with you.

I think of you every night.

You’re in my dreams, I picture the day when we’re together.

Now, Martin wasn’t sure of the details of your affair, only the little love messages George would send you, you’d always respond with something similar back, but your level of passion was lower, he was sure of it.

I love you.

He stared at that message for the longest, because it was sent by you the night before you two left. Why didn’t you love Martin anymore, your husband, the man you declared your vows to, the man you devoted your life for. In sickness and in health, you were his.

Martin decided to walk back to the cottage, for the chaos would unfold that night. Every few steps, Marin would roughly rub his eyes. The smell of the seaside did little to ease his stresses, the wind was picking up, the scent of rain grew.

When he entered the cottage, you took a moment to even acknowledge him, your attention drawn to the book you were reading. You gave him a small smile, his jaw locked, he turned his heel and headed to the kitchen. Martin did try hard to remain calm, he poured himself a large glass of red wine, then another for you. As he handed the glass to you, he sucked on his lower lip.

You thanked him, oblivious to his boiling anger. Impulsively, Martin took a large swig of the nectar and clinked it onto the table. His eyes burnt into you, but you ignored him completely, you were driving him mad.

“So, does he fuck you good?” Martin abruptly asked.

You choked on your wine, your eyes darted up at him as you analyzed him, surely he couldn’t know? It was as if you were a deer caught in headlights, Martin could swear he could hear your heartbeat race. You were waiting for the punchline, but eventually realized it wasn’t coming.

“What are you going on about?” you replied, trying to remain cool as if you weren’t a kettle boiling on the hot stove.

“Does George fuck you good?” Martin clarified, huffing out in anger, his name tasted like venom on his tongue.

“Martin” you warned.

“I should have figured it out sooner, I always knew he had the hots for you, but I didn’t realize you were such a little whore” Martin insulted.

George worked with you, and yes, he did always have the hots for you. Despite your constant rejection, he kept on making sly advances on you. Until one day, when you were fed with your sickening feuds with Martin, that you just gave in to George’s affection.

In a childish manner, you abruptly stood up and turned your direction to the hallway. Martin followed you just as quickly and you flinched, he looked unhinged.

“Step back Martin!” you demanded as you hurried to the hallway.

“Where are you going to go! It’s just you and I honey, a husband and his wife” Martin teased harshly as he followed after you.

When you didn’t stop, he yanked you back by the shoulder and shoved you against the wall. You cried out as he pressed his body up against yours, his face drew close to yours.

“You think I’m not manly enough for you? Aye!” Martin shouted by your ear, you winced at his behavior.

“No Martin!” you cried.

Martin’s eyes squinted together as he felt the tears forming. His hand smacked on the wall besides your head in anger, you shrieked out.

“Why don’t you fucking love me anymore” Martin snarled, his face twitched.

There was no response from you. His hands gripped onto your curves and you gasped out as you felt his erection grow against you. His stubble brushed over your heating cheek, you shuddered out. Quickly, he flipped your front onto the wall, you gasped out and swallowed down the ball of spit in your throat.

“You’re my fucking wife, you’ll stay with me” Martin determined with a nod.

“O-okay, just calm down” you shuddered. “Martin!” you yelped out as he yanked your comfy pants down to your thighs.

“Shut it, just giving you what you deserve” Martin responded harshly and he forcefully pressed your face on the wall.

You choked on your sob as he smacked your rear harshly. His hand pressed against your shoulder blade, you were confined against the plastered wall as he spanked your cheeks. Never has your husband been so rough with you, he was always gentle, kind and thoughtful. Martin would mutter curse words under his breath as he felt his cock twitch in his athlete shorts. The sounds of his slaps echoed throughout the walls, you bit back your moans, your eyes almost rolling back as you unknowingly squeezed your thighs together to create friction.

“I love you” Martin confessed, his lips pressed to your ear as he continued to bring his palm to your flaming skin.

“I know you do, Martin” you panted out, your breathing rugged, hips shifting.

“I’d do anything for you” Martin grunted as he hit you with full force.

“I know you would!” you whined.

His blue eyes could see how your body was reacting, how horny you were becoming. Martin heaved out, his body molded against yours as he rubbed his erection over your stinging cheeks. Your knees felt weak, his body weight was holding you up. Desperately, his humps humped against your ass, Martin could hardly control his desires.

“You want a baby?” Martin whispered, almost romantically.

“W-what?” you whimpered out.

“Do you want a baby, my darling? I’ll put one in you right now if it’d fix everything” Martin explained, his hands rubbing your hips.

You stammered out as you tried to think logically. A baby was all that you wanted, for so long. But Martin just always put his job first and shooed away the possibilities of creating a family together. You hated him for it. But now he wants to change?

“Come on, how many arguments did we have over it? How badly does it make you despise me?” Martin continued on, his head rubbed against yours.

You mumbled out, you tried to think of George, of your plans. But he seemed to be disappearing from your mind. Martin’s hands caressed over your stomach, you moaned out gently and turned around to your husband, your lips neared his.

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #smut #dark smut #cillian murphy kinktober #kinktober 2024 #kinktober #martin x reader #retreat 2011 #cillian x fem!reader #cillian murphy x reader

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simpingforheros · 2 months ago

Text

Safe

Pairing: Gotham Knights! Jason Todd X Female! Reader

Summary: Being a mercenary isn’t easy. Being a lab experiment turned mercenary isn’t easy either. Being a Bio-engineered mercenary in Gotham city with a reformed Red Hood isn’t easy at all.

Warnings: Hurt Comfort, Angst with bittersweet ending, Enemies to Friends??, Female Pronouns, Mild Violence, Horrible Fight Scenes (I’m sorry), Reader is basically Black Cat but little different, implied OOC! Amanda Waller, Mentions of Death, Torture, PTSD, and Panic Attacks.

Author’s Note: I guess I’ll give y’all a break from my Toxic! Jason agenda. But I’m not giving y’all a break from calling y’all out on being slanderous to my underrated, unproblematic princess that is GK! Jason. He may not be as pretty as the other ones, but he got a better relationship with his family than y’all have with y’all’s daddies (jk I’m sorry). Also yes, the reader is Black Cat coded because I love her and I want to see Jason with a cool feline counterpart of his own.

+++++++++++++++++++

Fuck. FUCK!

Chanted through her mind as she realizes what the hell she has just done. This whole assignment was a set up from the moment that job listing hit her burner phone. Her clawed gloves raked through her hair as she desperately took in her situation.

Months after the death of Batman, criminals became bolder with their crimes despite the lurking remains of Batman’s legacy. New villains and mercenaries came in to either assist Gotham’s veteran rogues or building their own empires among the shadows of the bigger evil’s crimes. However, Y/N didn’t fall into either category.

Originally a lab rat for Amanda Waller to find a cure for her terminal cancer, the cat like mercenary became a quick popular option among gang leaders and the low life to hire to do quick jobs without minimum risk. Of course the cat like persona wasn’t due to her stealth…

A blast rings out of the previously locked door as the girl’s head snaps back. Her body collapses as the roar of victorious laughter fills the air.

“You see how that bitch’s head just snapped back like a twig?!” Victor Sionas laughed through his leather mask as his golden firearm flashed in the fluorescent light of the value.

It was supposed to be a quick heist, minimum risk on her end. Just grab a hard drive with 6.8 Billion dollars worth of stolen and encrypted medical documents and financial records and leave before Black Mask realized she was there. An easy heist for a fair reward.

Victor’s ranting and raving filled the safe in loud echos as his assistant tries to listen to her pager for their normal disposal team. As the crimson slowly sets into the concrete, a faint green glow began to form around her body. The harsh grit releases her life force as it recedes back into her skull.

Amanda Waller wasn’t normally a desperate woman, but when it came to her life, she didn’t care what criminal she had to deal with to get her life back. Even the League of Assassins…

As the pair was about to leave to attend a meeting of some kind, Y/N didn’t know or care to know as her ears ring back into tune. Her body jolts up as she springs back to life in an instant.

As her eyes meet Sionas’ shocked stare, her lips curled into a wicked smirk. Her E/C eyes shined with a new madness as she flexes her adamantium tipped claws, ready to rip out his throat.

Victor quickly raises his gun ready to shoot again as she swipes at his wrist. The appendage falling to the floor as his screams drowned out the echos of his false victories.

“I guess it was an easy job.” She comments before her claws strike again.

Maybe she should ask for a raise to make up for her dry cleaning?

+++++++++++++++

The crime scene was a bloodbath.

Police scrambled and crawled the building as lights and tape marked the massacre. Every surface, furniture, rug, and plant were all tagged, sprayed, and searched for any bodily matter that could lead you to the person behind this horrific crime.

Black Mask’s gang. A once prominent gang in Gotham city who survived fights between Batman and The Red Hood were all dead. Eviscerated. Slaughtered.

All of the dead were clinging onto weapons as either distinct claw marks either craved them to ribbons or they were killed by their own weapons. Whoever did it clearly attacked the ones who attacked first.

The only survivors were the ones who didn’t attempt to fight the assailant. Victor’s assistant was the only one that was harmed among them with a deep set of scratches on her face with a look of horror in her eyes.

A look Nightwing and Red Hood didn’t like to see even from a criminal.

“And you said you didn’t know why this happened?” Nightwing asks skeptical of the woman’s reliability.

The woman eagerly nods as she sputters out, “We caught her in the safe and Sionas wanted to teach her a lesson…we heard her reputation was only with stealing…not this…”

Jason growls as he grew inpatient with her stuttering, but he takes a deep breath. ‘Be Patient…’ He reminds himself before something made his ears perk up.

“It was like magic or something! Sionas shot her point blank in the head and she just came back to life in an instant!! That’s when she went crazy! We just wanted to get her back for stealing from our off shore accounts. We didn’t know that she was a…monster.”

Fuck.

+++++++++++++++++++

Fire. Fire is what it felt like. It crawls from the deepest part of her mind and spreads through her veins like a fever. Her vision tunneled in as memories of all her previous deaths haunting her brain surged forward as her body acted on instinct. Out of fear…

It took three days before the madness faded this time. That was probably the longest time she was trapped in that state since she escaped Waller. Those three days were a fog as she only remembered the splitting head ache from the gun shot and her costume covered in blood.

Once the new broke on a ‘maniac’ who killed the Black Mask’s gang, Y/N knew she couldn’t leave Gotham yet until the buzz died down. She already knew the Bat’s sidekicks were looking for her, so she used whatever cash she had left to hide out in a cheap motel room.

“Fuck….” She groans as her trembling hands dropped her cell phone. Her eyes tried to dart around the aisles of the gas station she was currently hunting for food in. The remaining madness caused her senses to be on high alert and her anxiety to be high.

If she was back home, she could hideout in her apartment with her cat for a month before finding another job listing, but she was trapped in Gotham in a ratty motel.

So venturing to the crummy gas station for some junk food and beer is the next best thing. At least the disinterested cashier doesn’t pay her any mind. 4am on a weekday with a case of beer probably made her just appear to be a normal tweaker.

(Y/N) adjusts her sunglasses and makes sure her silver hair was well hidden under her zip-up’s hood before she brings her items to the counter. The zit faced teen gives her a look over, not hiding the attention he gave to her exposed cleave from the tank top she had showing.

“Ma’am, we don’t allow sunglasses inside the store.” He creaks out. Her (E/C) roll as she takes her sun glasses off. The door chimes as someone enters the store, but her attention was focused on the cashier. When he finally scanned her beer, his cracking voice asks,

“Do you have ID, Ma’am?”

Her hands go to her sweatpants pocket and only feels the cash she brought. Her mental anguish grows as she sighs in annoyance. Her fake id was in motel, and she technically doesn’t exist so she never had a real id.

Deciding to turn up the charm, she smiles sweetly at the teenager as she says, “I’m sorry, but I left my id back at my place. I’m sure you can tell I’m old enough, right?”

Her cleavage seemed to not work its charm as the teen rudely says,

“I can tell you’re old by your hair lady. But I need ID.”

Her eyes widen as a faint glow of green shows as she snaps at him. “I’m not old! I’m 24, you little p-!”

She stops herself as she takes a deep breath as she feels the madness subsided. She really didn’t wanna kill a kid over some cheap beer.

“Fine…I had a bad day so just get me the snacks.” She admits in defeat as she pulls out a hundred bucks. Just as she was going to pay, a hand drops some beef jerky and a case of beer on the counter beside her items. A deep voice cuts the air and causes a shiver to crawl up her spine.

“Add her stuff and beer to my order.” A thick, veiny hand presents the cashier with his ID and a credit card as she turns her head to see who it was that saved her evening.

Before her was a man who stood well over 6 feet tall. His shoulders were as broad as an old oak tree with muscles strong enough to take one down. His face wasn’t particularly the normal standard for attractiveness, but the strong jaw and scar gave him a handsome roughness that made her stomach tighten. It didn’t help that his nearly buzzed hair gave him a military sense, but his eyes were what made her heart stop in her chest. The beautiful green eyes that glowed an unearthly hue that she was familiar with.

She sees it in her eyes everyday. The scar of the Lazarus pit.

(Y/N) almost forgot where she was before the cashier cleared his throat. Her focus returned back to the counter as she grabs her stuff. Before she could run off, something made her stop to wait for the man. Whether it was curiosity or stupidity, she didn’t know.

Maybe she wanted to see what his deal was? Was he with Waller? The League of Assassins? Can he tell she was from the pit too? How different were they? How many times did he die and come back?

The opportunity to speak with someone who may can relate to her outweighed her wariness from her situation. But it was curiosity that killed the cat, right?

As the man starts heading for the door, she follows as she says,

“Excuse me?”

His eyes meet hers as a small smile as he says,

“Hey, I’m sorry for stepping in over there. I understand when stuff isn’t going your way.”

A warmth takes over her face as she says shyly, “No, it’s fine I just wanted to thank you. That was really sweet of you…”

As the two walk out, the stranger's friendly demeanor drops a little as he mumbles into the empty night air.

"So, you're the one who killed Victor Sionas..."

Her breath releases as she hears the pin drop. Her eyes dart around the parking lot as she sees the only vehicle is a old school motorcycle. She doesn't have any weapons and she wasn't sure if how skilled he was or if he had gained powers just like her from the pit.

With a frown, (Y/N) gruffs out, "Yeah...what are you gonna let me enjoy my last beer before you turn me in?"

She looks up to the man as their eyes meet. His eyes studying her as she keeps a tight grip on her bag. Maybe if he charges at her, she can swing the bag to his head and throw him off...

"No." He answers simply as he heads towards his bike. Her eyes widen in disbelief as she sputters out.

"No? I just admitted to murder and you're letting me go??"

"Yep." He answers over his shoulder as he loads his things into the compartment under his seat. Irritation fills her being instead of the relief she should have felt. She stomps towards him as she fusses,

"What's your deal? You buy me a beer and casually ask me if I commit murder? And you're gonna just leave? Did the pit mess you up that bad??" She snaps at him as she stands face to face, face to chest with him. Her eyes glowed eerily as he was filled, and a familiar shiver went down his spine.

His hands clap onto her shoulders as he pulls her close to him. A wave of coldness filled her body as the eerie glow covered his hands. The familiar feeling of the Lazarus pit filled her as he leaned into a whisper.

"The only reason I'm not hauling your pretty ass to Arkham right now is because I understand that it wasn't you when you killed them, Kitty..." His eyes glowed momentarily as a sad look briefly flashed into those green pools. "A petty mercenary who had no history of mass murder on file doesn't just jump to it without warning. The Lazarus Pit fucks up people to their core, so trust me when I say that I understand better than anyone how you feel..."

'Understand? How can he understand?' Her mind unravels as she looks up at him in disbelief. Has he ever woke up afraid of what he might have done the night before? Worry about when someone would come and shoot him in the head or stab him just to see if he could come back without being submerged anymore? Did Waller use him to heal her at the expense of his own pain just to throw him away to fend for himself???

Rage flashes through her as she roughly pulls away from him. Her bag falls to the asphalt as glass shatters. Her eyes are wild as old memories filled her. "Don't you dare say you understand me? You don't know shit about what I had to go through?"

His eyebrows frown together as he grimaces. A look of recognition and guilt flashes before he says to her. "You're right. I don't know what you went through before you died, but I do understand how you're feeling. The anxiety, the rage, the blood lust...I wanna help you."

She laughs bitterly as she figures out something about him. He only died once and was brought back. The skunk stripe in his hair should have given it away when she realized he was similar to her.

"Which time?" (Y/N) asked as she turned around and walked away. "I've died plenty of times to know that you will never understand..."

And she leaves the man alone in the parking lot as she storms off to her motel, not caring if he sees where she went or not. Her heart was beating out of control as she felt the wavering thoughts of going back to him and either hitting him or hugging him.

‘Maybe I need to rest some more….’

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Silence filled the museum as the dust bunnies and art laid undisturbed during their rest from the public eye. Her footsteps were a minimum as she walked through the shadowy parts of the building, trying to find what she was sent to retrieve.

After another week of hiding out, a job was directly pinged for her on the job board. Her eyes squinted at it at first because the offer was a little bogus to her.

‘Steal a painting, retrieve the hard drive inside, and bring it to the disclosed location in exchange for 2 Million dollars in unmarked bills.’

2 Million for a petty thief job that would have more suited Catwoman instead her seemed pretty unusual. But, at this point, her phyiscal cash funds were running low and she still was afraid of using her offshore accounts now that she knows that some zombie like her knew who she was.

Her masked eyes scanned the building’s plaza until she found what she was looking for. A large flowery portrait hanging just beyond the fountain. Her head tilts as she looks at it from afar.

‘Pretty… I wonder if I can find a print of it to buy to hang in my living room…’ Her steps remaining slow and cautious until she reaches the fountain. She looks under where the painting hung, trying not to get too close to it. There was no tag or podium that held the artist’s name or any indication that it was an actual art piece. It was most likely some print from a furniture store catalog or Etsy.

Her eyes rolled as she realizes that the listing was another trap. Obviously from someone who didn’t know shit about art or how to buy mercenaries on the black market.

As if on que, her ears buzzed as she heard the pure instinct take over as she whips around. Her hand immediately stops the staff about to hit her in the face as she elbows the smaller opponent in the stomach before slamming her fist in his cheek to knock him back. The guy gets thrown back a couple of feet as he gasped for the air she punches outta him.

She looks to the guy as she twirls his staff absent mindedly in her hand. His costume and smaller physique gave it away as to who he was. She remembers seeing a tv show story about him the previous night on the news. The boy wonder, Robin. At least the third version of him.

“Hey, tweety bird. You good?” She asked in a nonchalant tone. Her eyes unamused as she watches the kid cough up a lung as he looked up at her in shock that she wasn’t attacking him like he expected her to.

“You know, it’s dangerous to be on job listing boards like that.” She scolds him lightly as she walks around him and grabs his arm, gently helping him up and sitting him by the fountain. “There’s actual killers on that board who would have happily tried cutting you up for pulling a shitty fake job like this.”

The sidekick glares at her as he was already confused as he just witness the girl he was sure killed an entire gang just casually scold him. “Like how you did with Black Mask?”

Her eyes flashed with guilt before the nonchalant personality appeared again as she focused on throwing the staff up to make it spin. “It was self defense. He and his gang had it coming for all the child drug peddling and the lives he ruined.”

A heavier drop down of three other figures caught her attention as she looks around. Nightwing, Batgirl, and Red Hood were surrounding the fountain, blocking her in. Her anxiety rising as she hides it with a now playful smile.

“Damn, didn’t realize little old me warranted for the whole family to come get me.” She says playfully. “Don’t worry I promise to be out of y’all’s city soon.”

“You still have to pay for your crimes.” Batgirl says as she steps forwards slightly. The feline mercenary tilts her head as she looks at them with now false concern.

“Me? A defenseless street cat?” She asked before laughing. “You can certainly try.”

Nightwing steps closer as her shoulders square up. Her defensive stance rising as she observes him. Way too lean to be the guy she met, and she can tell his face was more pretty boy looking.

“We wanna help you… but you still have to pay for what you’ve done even if you didn’t mean to.” He says softly.

‘So they know…that just means they are gonna be more defensive instead of offensive. They can’t risk killing me when they know I could rampage again.’ Her eyes shine as she laughs coldly at him.

“Oh, you wanna help me rot in prison?” She says as she finally looks at the Red Hood.

Right build, right height, and she’s sure if she can knock that helmet off, right face. That’s the man she met a week ago that affected her so badly. She knew she couldn’t let him get a good grab on her or she maybe toast.

She turns her now glowing eyes back to Nightwing as she smirks. “I think you would be better off letting me leave or else you can see what I actually do when I mean it.” She bluffs.

Movement nearly catches her off guard as Robin tries to rush her again. The staff in her hand flies into his face as she tries to move as Batgirl flies kicks her in the face. Her ears ring as the warm feeling of blood starts to run out of her nose. The cat catches the bat’s fist before she whips her in the face with another punch. She used the disorienting blow to slide under her legs and give a good kick to her knee. The distinctive pop and her cry lets her know she did dislocate the bone.

She remains in her crouched up position, ready to pounce. She can feel their eyes observing as her broken nose begins to heal as it disgustingly pops back into place as the blood retreats back to its original place like it was on rewind. Her wild eyes looks to them and makes notes of their stances.

Nightwing was ready to pounce on her. He stared at her like she was the wild animal that he knew she was. It was a look she was used to.

The Red Hood wasn’t even in an offensive or defensive position. He stood with his back straight as he watches her. Damn his stupid helmet from seeing his eyes, she wanted to know what he was thinking about. Was he bluffing too or was he trying to get a good feel on how to catch her.

Before Nightwing can start advancing on her, Red stops him with a step forward and raises hand. Nightwing looks confused as he asked him.

“What are you doing?” He seethes to him. “We gotta take her down, she already hurt Robin and Batgirl.”

“Out of self defense.” The Red Hood clarifies before chuckling. His modulated voice making the feline theft frown. “If she was dangerous like you think, she could have sliced Robin’s throat with those claws of hers when he first attacked. You guys were attacking first and she responded with non lethal force.”

Her eyes glared at the man as she stands up, slightly agitated. “So? Maybe I just don’t wanna kill a kid?”

Red tilts his head as he turns his attention to her. “Calm down, Kitty….if you surrender, I promise I won’t let them send you off to the pound.”

Nightwing looks at Red in horror as he basically promised to protect a wanted criminal. He didn’t seem to concerned by it. He even surprises his team by removing his helmet as he looks to the one they were chasing.

“I found your file on Amanda Waller’s network. Took me three days, but I know what she did to you, (Y/N).” The man she knew from the gas station.

The images of all the torture she endured flashed through her mind all at once as she remembers all Waller put her through for the sake of her cure.

Multiple executions to test the powers of the pit. Torture and savage punishments for the slightest disobedience. The nightmares and madness that fueled so many panic attacks. The feeling of her organs stolen to be put in that evil woman so she can use her healing factor to win against cancer while she spent days slowly dying and coming back to life over and over until her new organs regenerated back into her.

“Why?!” She snaps at him as rage filled her again. Her confusion over his insistence to help her made her so angry. Why would he wanna help her? Just because they were both dunked in a pool of Ra’s bath water?

“You’re the feared Red Hood! You’ve done worst shit than I’ve ever done and you are trying to act as my savior?!” She yells at him as she stomps towards him.

Nightwing tries to step between them, but Red keeps him away as she finally stood before him. Her hand rips off her goggles, revealing her face to him as she pokes into his chest. Her own chest tightening as her body shook. Her breath was tight as angry tears rolled down her face.

“Answer me, dammit! Why do you think you can save me?!”

“I don’t think I can save you.” He answers honestly. “I wanna help you save yourself…”

A look of grief passes over his eyes as he looks at the shorter woman. A memory of someone she didn’t know making his resolve strengthen.

“I was trapped in a state of anger for so long that I pushed everyone away that was trying to help me…it wasn’t until I lost the one person that tried to save me that I realized how much it meant to have someone just hold a hand out for me…” He says as he grips her shoulders. The expected coldness didn’t meet her. She felt him. The warmth seeping through his gloves into her suit. It felt…comforting….nice.

Her vision began tunneling as she felt her chest hyperventilating as she cries. His gentle words finally breaking her as he mumbles to her. “Let me help you fight the madness so you won’t be alone anymore…”

Her knees buckling as a sob broke through her. The warmth of his arms wrapping around her and pulling her into his chest made her cries so gut wrenching. Robin, Batgirl, and Nightwing watch in shock as they watched Jason, not only be the most gentle he’s ever been with someone, but see a stray tear fall from him eye.

As the two remained tied together as an unspoken bond was formed. A bond between two lost souls forcibly brought back into this world now feeling safe in each other’s warmth.

+++++++++++++++++++

Author’s Note: I’m gonna make a part 2 to this one because I actually like it. Let me know if you like this, if you hate it, or whatever. I’m trying to clear out my drafts so expect more Jason and other characters coming out either this week or next week.

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@simpingforheros fanfic. I DO NOT CONDONE THE COPYING, STEALING, OR REPOSTING OF MY FANFICS ON OTHER WEBSITES WITHOUT MY CONSENT.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #arkham knight #arkham knight x reader #red hood #arkham knight jason todd #arkham knight x you #jason todd x y/n #batman arkham series #jason todd x you #gotham knights #gotham knights! Jason Todd x Reader #GK!Jason Todd #simpingforheros

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sadnymi · 5 months ago

Text

Loml p2

[Mattheo riddle × reader] [TTPD Masterlist]

P.s:this takes place before the start of part one and during it , this one is from mattheo POV, can read It as a stand alone [you can read part one here | p1 | .] [part3]

Warnings:Angst,family drama, past trauma, abusing father, violent,smut,strong language.

Words:12k.

They say you inherit your father's eyes, his nose, the shape of his jaw. But what they don't say is you inherit the weight of his choices. The weight of a name that chills hearts and shatters families.

My father speaks of a world cleansed, of magic pure and untainted. He speaks of a glorious future built on the ashes of the old. But what future is built on sacrifice? On the screams of innocents echoing in the dead of night?

Another victory. Another display of power etched onto my already formidable reputation. The whispers followed me everywhere – "He's his father's son," they hissed, "Mark my words, he'll be the end of us all." It was a constant thrum in my ear, a prophecy carved in stone.

The roar of the crowd fueled the fire in my fists. Another boy, twice my size, crumpled under the onslaught, his face contorted in pain. Rage, a familiar companion, coursed through me, a dark echo of something I didn't understand. Power,they called it. Legacy. My father's legacy.

Just as I raised my hand for another blow, a flicker of movement caught my eye. A girl, with (y/e/c), stood at the edge of the crowd, her gaze fixed on me.

For a fleeting moment, the world around me shrunk, the cheers and jeers dissolving into a deafening silence. In her eyes, there wasn't fear, nor the twisted pleasure the others seemed to relish. There was... something else. A flicker of concern, a hint of understanding.

Before I could analyze it further, a primal instinct took over. I ripped my hand away from the fallen boy, the sudden movement sending a jolt of surprise through him. The crowd erupted in confused murmurs. Without a word, I stalked towards the girl, a cold terror blooming in my gut.

"Don't you dare say a word of this," I hissed, the words coming out harsher than I intended. Her eyes widened, but she didn't flinch.

"I won't," she whispered. "I understand."

To my surprise, she didn't retreat. Instead, she turned and rushed back to the boy I'd hurt, kneeling beside him. The sight of her concern for the boy, the madness in her eyes, made something inside me twist in a way it never had before.

Later that night, as the castle settled into a hushed silence, I found myself drawn to the empty courtyard. Restless, I paced beneath the star-dusted sky.

Then, I saw her. She materialized from the shadows, her robes swirling around her like a whispered secret. My breath hitched in my throat.

"Hi," she said, offering a small smile. "My name's Y/n. What's yours?"

Silence. I stared at her.

"You know my name,"

Her smile faltered for a second, then returned. "Yeah, but it's nicer to hear it from you. Anyway, I love Grindylows! Did you see one in the lake yet?"

I didn't answer. Grindylows? What did she care about a water demon?

"Maybe not," she continued, seemingly unfazed by my silence. Then, before I could stop her, she reached out and gingerly took my hand in hers. It was warm, a stark contrast to the chilling loneliness I was accustomed to.

"The other kids," she started, her voice barely a whisper. "They say things about you. That you're…different. That you'll turn out like…him." Her eyes met mine. "Don't listen to them. It's not true, I know it's not."

I pulled back, the warmth of her touch lingering on my skin like a phantom limb. It was a feeling both exhilarating and terrifying, a strange current running through me.

Her gaze held mine, unwavering. "Can we be friends?" she asked, her voice soft as a summer breeze. "Just you and me?"

I looked into her eyes, searching for the fear, the hatred, anything familiar. But all I found was a gentle hope, a yearning for connection.

And in that moment, amidst the familiar darkness, a spark ignited within me. A feeling I couldn't name, but one I craved nonetheless. It was like a warm blanket on a cold night, a beacon in the storm.

All I could do was nod, a small. A radiant smile lit up her face, as bright as the stars above. "Friends it is," she said, her voice filled with a joy that resonated deep within me.

Days passed and I started to feel like I did a big mistake.

Following me again, I see. Honestly, it's becoming quite the morning routine.

"Mattheo! Wait up!" she called as I tried to make my escape from the crowded hallway. She bounced after me, her energy almost overwhelming.

" Leave me alone," I muttered for the tenth time, turning to face her. Her wide eyes sparkled with mischief.

"But Mattheo, we're friends," she said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "And friends stick together, right?"

"Not this much," I replied, but she just laughed, a sound that was both infectious and irritating.

We spent the rest of the day together, or rather, I tried to lose her, but she always managed to pop up again. It was like she had some sixth sense for where I'd be next. By the time the sun began to set, I was finally free—or so I thought.

I walked out of the castle, seeking some peace, heading towards my usual spot by the tree near the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

As I sat down, a small twig fell onto my shoulder. I glanced up, ready to brush it off, only to find a tuft of hair hanging from the branches.

No way. I got up and looked up, squinting into the branches. Sure enough, there she was, sprawled out on a thick limb like she owned the place.

"What the— Y/N, what the fuck are you doing here?" I couldn't believe my eyes.

She looked down at me, completely unbothered. "I'm reading, Matty. Do you want to come up here?" She held up a book, swinging her legs lazily.

I just shook my head in disbelief, not even bothering to respond. As I walked away, I could still hear her giggling from up in the tree.

Days like this were far too common. I had tried everything to shake her off, but she was like a particularly stubborn pixie, always popping up where I least expected—or wanted—her to be.

But then come that day when a Gryffindor boy, whose name I didn’t bother to learn, decided to mouth off about my father.

"Hey, Riddle Jr., how does it feel being the spawn of a maniac?" he jeered, loud enough for everyone in the common room to hear.

I clenched my fists, ready to shut him up myself, but before I could even move, Y/N had stepped in. She sauntered over to him, all smiles and innocence.

"Hi there," she chirped. "You must be new. I'm Y/N."

The boy sneered, "What do you want?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just thought I'd introduce myself properly." She extended her hand, and as he reached out to take it, she moved faster than I thought possible. With a swift flick of her wrist, she jabbed him in the ribs, precisely where no one could see. The boy yelped, clutching his side, his face contorted in pain.

"Oops, sorry," Y/N said sweetly, not an ounce of sincerity in her voice. "You really should be more careful."

The boy's scream drew everyone's attention, and he glared at her, but he couldn't prove anything. I couldn't help but smile as I watched him limp away, defeated.

Y/N sauntered back to me, a satisfied grin on her face. "

I shook my head, unable to suppress my smile. She was crazy, no doubt about it, but she was my kind of crazy.

Years passed at Hogwarts, and Y/N was always there by my side. What once seemed like an annoying habit of following me everywhere turned into a constant presence I couldn't imagine being without. She wasn't just the crazy girl who trailed after me anymore; she became the girl I couldn't spend a day without.

Every Quidditch match, I could count on looking up and seeing her in the stands, and I know she was here for me just for me, and I found myself playing harder, if only to see that proud smile on her face.

In between classes, she would run up to me, breathless and excited, ready to spill the latest gossip she’d overheard. "Matty, you won’t believe what I just heard!" she’d say, eyes wide with intrigue. Gossiping was her guilty pleasure, and as much as I pretended to be annoyed, I secretly loved the way her eyes lit up when she talked.

One day, she caught me in the courtyard, practically bouncing on her toes. "Matty, did you hear? Serena and Thomas broke up! And she was seen with—"

"Slow down, Y/N," I laughed, ruffling her hair. "You’re going to explode if you keep all this excitement bottled up."

She giggled, playfully swatting my hand away.

As time went on, I found myself becoming more protective of her. The thought of anyone making her cry made my blood boil. I couldn’t stand seeing tears in her eyes, I watched over her like a hawk. If anyone so much as looked at her the wrong way, they’d have me to answer to. It wasn’t just about protecting her, though. I realized that I needed her. Her laughter, her stories, her unwavering belief in me—she was my anchor.

I maintained my aloof façade, the mask I knew all too well. Emotions, for me, were a foreign language, their expressions clumsy and awkward. Yet, Y/n never faltered. She saw through the cracks in my carefully constructed walls, peering into the darkness with an unsettling understanding.

As we grew up, that fire only intensified. I noticed the way boys looked at her, their gazes lingering too long, their smiles a bit too eager. It drove me mad. She had always been beautiful, but as she matured, she became even more stunning, if that was possible. It wasn’t just her appearance—it was her confidence, her grace. She drew attention effortlessly

leaving Potions class, I overheard a group of boys whispering.

"Did you see Y/N today?" one of them snickered. "Merlin, I'd give anything to get her alone. Imagine what we could do... cause look at her. Bet she'd be wild in bed"

Rage flared in my chest. I walked over, my expression deceptively calm. "Care to repeat that?" I asked, smiling in a way that I knew was anything but friendly.

The boy looked up, a smirk still on his face. "I was just saying, Y/N’s looking quite... inviting today."

"Mate, I think it's time for you to apologize," Enzo said, his tone mockingly friendly.

“For what? for saying that y/n is__,”

I didn't give him a chance to continue. With a swift, hard punch, I hit him square in the jaw. He stumbled back, clutching his face, but I grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer, hitting him again and again. Blood spattered, and I could feel my knuckles splitting, but I didn't care.

Theo and Enzo stood beside me, positioned themselves to ensure no one could interrupt, keeping a watchful eye on the crowd that had begun to gather.

"Say it again," I say, my smile widening as the boy's eyes filled with fear. "Say something else about her."

The boy whimpered, blood dripping from his nose. "I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it."trying to get I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. "If you ever say anything like that again, I'll do more than just hit."

Before I could continue, a voice cut through the tension. "What is going on here?" Professor Snape's tone was icy as he strode towards us, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.

"Nothing, Professor," Theo said smoothly. "Just a little misunderstanding."

Snape's gaze shifted to me, then to the boy, who was still crumpled on the floor. "Detention, Mr. Riddle," Snape said, his voice low and dangerous. "And you two," he pointed at Theo and Enzo, "for aiding in this... commotion."

"Yes, Professor," I said, not taking my eyes off the boy as I released him.

As Snape began dispersing the crowd, Y/N ran up to me, her face full of concern. "Mattheo, your knuckles are bleeding! Why did you hit him like that? what happened"

I looked at her, my anger melting away at the sight of her worry. Gently, I put my hand on her face, pulling her close and kissing her forehead.

She sighed, her eyes searching mine. "You can't just go around hitting people, Mattheo you know?"

"Watch me." I murmured, still smiling. holding her gaze. "Tell me, what were you reading earlier? That book you were so interested in?"

She blinked, taken aback by the sudden change in topic. "Um, it was about ancient runes. I'm trying to understand the inscriptions we found in the Forbidden Forest."

"Sounds fascinating," I said. "Let's go talk about it."

She looked at me, her worry not completely gone but softened by my genuine interest. "Alright," she said quietly, and we walked away

The Yule Ball was approaching, and the entire school buzzed with excitement. Dresses and suits were being fitted, and every conversation seemed to revolve around who was asking whom. But amidst the excitement, Y/N and I had our first big fight.

"Why does it matter so much, Mattheo?" she yelled, her voice trembling with frustration.

"Because I don't like the way Cormac has been looking at you," I shot back, pacing the common room. "He's a creep, and you know it."

"He's my friend," she retorted, crossing her arms. "And you're being ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? Really? You think it's ridiculous that I don't want some perv ogling you?"

"It's not just about him, is it? You're jealous. Admit it."

"That's not —," I snapped, though a part of me knew she was right. "I just—"

"You just what?" she interrupted, her eyes flashing with anger.

I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out. She shook her head.

"Forget it, Mattheo. I can't deal with this right now," she said, turning on her heel and storming out of the room.

The next morning, the entire school was buzzing with talk of the Grindylow attack on Cormac McLaggen. Apparently, the self-important jerk had been ambushed near the lake, and now everyone was either horrified or laughing about it. As I walked out of the castle, a smirk crept onto my face, knowing exactly who could orchestrate something like that. I headed toward the lake, confident I would find her there.

Sure enough, there she was, her form reflected in the water as she practiced with a sword. Her movements were fluid, precise. She didn’t notice me at first, too caught up in her training. But then, she caught sight of me and rolled her eyes before turning back to her practice, ignoring my presence.

"Did you hear about Cormac?" I called out, trying to get her attention.

She didn't respond, just continued swinging the sword with focused intensity.

I walked closer, unable to help myself. "They say a Grindylow got him. Attacked him out of nowhere."

Still, she acted like I wasn't there. I stepped forward and grabbed the sword by its blade, halting her mid-swing. Her eyes widened in shock and concern as she saw me gripping the sharp metal.

"Are you crazy, Mattheo?" she exclaimed, yanking the sword back.

"Only one person could manage to get a Grindylow to attack someone," I said, smirking.

She didn't deny it. Instead, she shot back, "I'm sending them after you next time."

"Yeah, yeah," I said dismissively, a grin tugging at my lips. "What did he do, anyway?"

Her expression darkened. "That cunt of an idiot thought he could just kiss me," she spat, her anger palpable.

Jealousy flared up inside me, but I pushed it down. "And he found out how wrong he was, huh?"

She shot me a look. "You're an idiot, Mattheo."

"Me? Why?" I say, as she spoke, I couldn’t take my eyes off her—her eyes, her lips. Damn those lips. They haunted my dreams, and seeing them tremble made something inside me snap.

“Maybe I should have just kissed him. It's just a kiss anyway, not that big of a deal."

I clenched my jaw, trying to keep my voice steady. "Just a kiss, huh?"

She continued, almost to herself, "I was saving my first kiss for—" She stopped and looked away. "I can't keep waiting forever. I'll die without experiencing it."

I looked at her, really looked at her. and she turned to leave. I grabbed her arm and gently held her face, forcing her to look at me. "Would you send a Grindylow after me if I kissed you?"

She shook her head, her eyes wide with a mixture of defiance and curiosity.

Without waiting another second, I closed the gap between us, pressing my lips against hers. The kiss was better than everything I dreamed about, intense, like a wildfire consuming everything in its path. Her lips were soft, and I felt her melt into me, her hands gripping my shirt as if to keep herself grounded.

I deepened the kiss, my hand moving to the back of her neck, pulling her closer. I could feel the heat radiating from her, matching the fire inside me. Her lips parted slightly, and I took the opportunity to explore further, tasting her, savoring every moment.

When we finally pulled apart, her eyes were wide with surprise and something else—something that mirrored what I felt inside.

"Still planning to send a Grindylow after me?" I whispered, a teasing smile on my lips.

She shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "Not if you keep kissing me like that."

Good things are supposed to happen to good people. And I always wondered how someone like me could ever deserve her. From the first day I saw her, I knew I would give everything to this girl. Over time, it became clear that my heart wasn’t mine anymore. It belonged to her.

Every time I see her, it’s like a magnet pulling me in, an irresistible force that I can't fight even if I wanted to. After the kiss, I can't seem to keep my hands off her. It's like a switch has been flipped inside me, and now, I'm constantly drawn to her, craving the taste of her lips, the feel of her skin.

Every stolen moment between classes, every hidden corner of the castle, becomes an opportunity to indulge in this newfound obsession.

Today is no different. I spot her in the library, bent over a thick book, her hair cascading over her shoulder. She doesn’t see me yet.

I approach quietly, my steps silent on the worn stone floor. When I’m close enough, I let my fingers brush over her shoulder, causing her to jump slightly and look up at me with those eyes that always seem to see right through me.

“Mattheo,” she breathes, a smile tugging at her lips.

I smirk, leaning down to capture her mouth with mine, my hand tangling in her hair. My other hand snakes around her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the curve of her body against mine. She responds immediately, her hands gripping my shirt, pulling me down to deepen the kiss.

“Not here,” she murmurs against my lips, but there’s no conviction in her voice. Her body is saying otherwise, pressing against me with a need that matches my own.

“Here,” I insist, nipping at her bottom lip.

Before she can protest further, I’ve got her backed into a secluded corner of the library, hidden from prying eyes. My mouth moves from her lips to her neck, sucking gently, eliciting a soft moan from her. It’s music to my ears, fueling the fire inside me.

“Mattheo,” she gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders. “We’ll get caught.”

“Let them catch us,” I growl, my hands roaming over her body, feeling every curve, every dip. “Will kill whoever interupt.”

I capture her lips again, more fiercely this time, my tongue exploring her mouth. She matches my intensity, her hands now under my shirt, fingers grazing my skin. I slide my hand down to the hem of her skirt, slipping underneath to feel the soft skin of her thigh. She shivers at my touch, her breath hitching.

“Please,” she whispers.

I don’t need to be told twice. I drop to my knees, pushing her skirt up, exposing her. She’s already wet, her arousal evident. I look up at her, meeting her eyes.

There’s a moment of pure, raw connection before I lean in, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. Her legs tremble, and she grips the shelf behind her for support.

I tease her with my tongue, flicking over her clit lightly before taking it into my mouth, sucking gently.

Her moan is louder this time, her hips bucking towards me. I hold her steady, my hands on her hips, guiding her movements. I delve deeper, tasting her fully, my tongue exploring every inch of her. Her hands find their way into my hair, pulling me closer, urging me on.

“Mattheo,” she moans, her voice breathy and desperate. “Don’t stop.”

I have no intention of stopping. I increase my pace, my tongue working her clit faster, harder. Her moans become more frequent, her body trembling with the intensity of her impending orgasm. I can feel it building, her muscles tightening, her breath coming in short gasps.

She cries out, her body convulsing with pleasure, her nails digging into my scalp. I continue my ministrations, riding out her orgasm until she’s quivering and breathless.

I stand, pulling her into my arms, kissing her deeply, letting her taste herself on my lips. Her arms wrap around my neck, her body melting into mine.

“I love you,” she whispers against my lips.

As the seventh year at Hogwarts drew to a close, whispers filled the air like a thick fog: Voldemort was back. I could feel it, a gnawing certainty deep in my bones. But I couldn't face it—not yet. So I ignored it, pushing down the creeping dread as much as I could.

We were leaving the castle soon, and Y/N had confided in me that she didn't want to go back to her parents' house. The thought of her being anywhere near danger tore at me, but I knew what I had to say.

"It's safer there," I told her, my voice firm yet gentle as we stood in a secluded corridor. I cupped her face, my thumb brushing her cheek. "You have to stay with them, at least for now."

"But I want to be with you," she insisted, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

I kissed her then, softly at first, then with all the desperation I felt. "I promise you, I'm still with you. Always," I whispered against her lips. "But you need to stay there."

Reluctantly, she nodded, and I handed her a small, enchanted locket. "This is for you," I said, fastening it around her neck. "If you need me, just press it, and I'll know. I'll come to you, no matter what."

Two weeks later, Enzo and I were lounging in my room, talking about everything and nothing, when suddenly the locket lit up. Enzo's eyes widened as he pointed. "Mate, is that Y/N?"

I was off the bed in an instant, my heart pounding. "Y/N?" I said into the locket, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. "Are you okay?"

"Mattheo, can you come get me?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper, trembling and broken. She sounded like she was crying.

"I'm coming. Just hold on," I said, grabbing my jacket and racing out of the room. Enzo's voice was a distant echo as I sprinted down the stairs, keys already in hand.

"Where are you?" I asked into the locket, sliding into my car. Her words were shaky, filled with fear and confusion, as she tried to explain her location.

"I... I don't know exactly. Near the park, I think," she stammered.

"I'm on my way," I reassured her, my knuckles white as I gripped the steering wheel. The streets blurred past me as I drove, my mind solely focused on finding her.

When I finally saw her, my heart nearly stopped. She was sitting on a bench, wearing her pajamas, looking so small and fragile. I jumped out of the car and rushed to her.

"Y/N!" I called. She looked up, her face pale, and I saw the blood on her mouth and nose. Without thinking, she ran to me, and I caught her in my arms, holding her as tightly as I could.

"Mattheo," she sobbed against my chest, and the sight of her hurt made a dark, vengeful fire ignite within me. I would burn the whole world to the ground for this.

Seeing the blood, something inside me snapped. Rage boiled up, threatening to consume me. Whoever did this to her would pay dearly.

"Who did this to you?" I demanded.

She just clung to me tighter, unable to speak through her tears. I wrapped my arms around her, trying to calm the raging storm inside me.

Whoever did this was going to pay. They would beg for mercy, and I wouldn't give it, not after what they did to her.

"Shh, it's okay," I whispered, kissing the top of her head. "I'm here now. You're safe. I'll never let anyone hurt you again."

No one would ever touch her again, not as long as I lived.

I slipped my jacket off and draped it over her shoulders, then scooped her up in my arms, holding her close. She buried her face in my chest, still shaking, and I carried her to the car.

I glanced at Y/N. She was one of the strongest people I knew, and seeing her like this drove me mad with anger. "Let me see," I said. She flinched when I reached out to check the bleeding on her face.

"It's not as bad as it looks," she whispered, but her voice trembled.

I clenched the steering wheel, fighting to control my fury. "Thank you for coming," she began, her voice small and broken.

"Of course I came," I cut her off, my voice rough with emotion. "I will always come for you."

"Tell me who did this? Who did this to you, Y/N?" I said, my voice softer but still edged with anger.

She breathed deeply and looked out the window, her body tense. "You know why I was sure you wouldn’t be like your father, Mattheo?" she said softly. "You shouldn’t be punished for his crimes."

Her voice grew weaker, and it shattered my heart. She turned to look at me, her beautiful eyes filled with tears that I hated seeing there.

"Because I know I'm not like mine," she continued, tears spilling over her cheeks., and for the first time, she let herself cry freely.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside me. "He did that?"

She looked down, her fingers trembling as she clutched the jacket around her. "He's been... he's been hurting me for years, Mattheo. Tonight, he... he tried to do it again. But this time, I fought back."

My heart ached at her words, rage boiling within me.

She lifted her head, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and determination. "I set the house on fire. I watched it burn. I wanted to hurt him as he hurt me."

Tears spilled down her cheeks again, and I pulled her into my arms, holding her tightly.

She sobbed against my chest, her body shaking with the force of her emotions. "I don't regret it, Mattheo. I wanted to hurt him, to make him feel the pain he caused me."

I held her tighter. "I understand, love. I understand."

We stayed like that for a long time. No one would ever touch her again. Not as long as I lived.

After a moment, I started the car and drove her home. When we arrived, Enzo was sitting in the living room. As soon as he saw her, he stood up quickly, concern etched on his face. I shook my head, a silent command for him not to ask or say anything. He nodded and sat back down, understanding the gravity of the situation.

I led her to my room, gently closing the door behind us. "Let's get you cleaned up," I said softly. I rummaged through my drawer, pulling out a clean shirt for her.

Carefully, I helped her out of her torn clothes, my hands shaking as I saw the extent of her injuries. Blood had dried on her skin, mingling with bruises that were already forming.

"I need to shower," she whispered.

"I'll help you," I replied, guiding her to the bathroom. I turned on the water, making sure it was warm before helping her step in. She winced as the water hit her, and I gently washed the blood from her skin. My heart ached with each wince, each sign of her pain.

Once she was clean, I wrapped her in a towel and led her back to the bedroom. I helped her into my shirt. "Sit down," I said, fetching a first-aid kit. I cleaned the cuts on her face and arms, working carefully to avoid causing her more pain.

"How did you learn to do that?" she asked, her voice weak but curious as I braided her hair with careful precision.

"I watched and learned for you," I replied softly, finishing the braid and tying it off.

I helped her into bed and lay down beside her, wrapping my arms around her protectively. She clung to my shirt, her fingers gripping tightly as if afraid I would vanish. "I’m here," I whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I’m not going anywhere."

Her breathing gradually slowed, and she drifted off to sleep, her fingers still clutching my shirt. I held her close.

As she slept, I vowed silently to be her shield, to fight for her and with her, no matter the cost.

Y/N made me promise not to do anything to her father. Her trust in me is a fragile thread, and I can’t bring myself to break it, no matter how much I despise the man.

Lately, my nightmares have become worse. They’re no longer just shadows and screams. Now, I see my father, his voice echoing through the darkness, calling my name. Every night, it gets louder, more insistent, and I wake up drenched in sweat, his voice still ringing in my ears.

There are signs, subtle but unmistakable, that darkness is creeping back into my life. I don’t want to believe it’s my father, but deep down, I can feel his presence. It’s a sensation I can’t deny any longer, no matter how much I wish it away.

When I got home, I found Y/N sitting with Enzo. I stormed past them, heading straight to my room. Y/N followed quickly.

“Mattheo, what’s wrong?” she asked, her voice a mix of concern and frustration.

“Nothing,” I snapped, not turning around.

“Are you mad because I’m staying here?” she pressed, trying to meet my gaze.

“Mad? No, it’s not that,” I said harshly. “It’s everything else. Everything piling up. I can’t take it anymore.”

She stepped closer, her eyes searching mine. “You’re scaring me, Mattheo.”

Hearing her say that broke something inside me. I never wanted to make her feel this way. I turned to her, cupping her face gently. “Love, I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I just... I’m drowning in this darkness.”

She looked at me, tears welling in her eyes. “I’ve noticed you don’t sleep well. You’ve been having nightmares, haven’t you?”

I pulled her into a tight hug, not wanting to burden her with the horrors of my mind. “Yes, but I don’t want to worry you with them. It’s my battle to fight.”

She wrapped her arms around my neck, holding on as if I might slip away. “You don’t have to do this alone, Mattheo.”

The wizarding world saw me in two extremes: a legacy of power or a monster. I’ve always struggled with which one I truly am.

Y/N leaned in and kissed me softly, grounding me in the moment. We moved to the bed, and she settled on my lap, her presence a soothing balm to my tortured soul.

“Let’s leave all of this behind,” she whispered, her lips brushing my ear.

“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Run away with me. Just you and me, somewhere far away where no one knows us.”

The idea was tempting, but I shook my head. “We can’t. It’s not that simple.”

She looked at me with determination. “Yes, it is. We can make a new life together, away from all this darkness.”

Her conviction started to break down my resistance. “You really think we can do that?”

She nodded, her eyes filled with hope. “I know we can. We just have to take the first step.”

We left everything behind, the shadows of my past fading.The countryside stretched before us, green fields rolling out in every direction. The house stood there, quaint and peaceful, a stark contrast to the chaos we’d left behind.

Y/N was beaming, her joy radiating as she looked around. "Can you believe it?" she said, her voice full of excitement. "We’re really here."

I forced a smile, trying to match her enthusiasm. "So, we’re living in the countryside now?" I teased, but the words felt hollow. I wasn’t sure this was a great idea. The nightmares and the darkness seemed far away, but they still lingered in my mind.

She noticed my hesitation and grabbed my hand, pulling me towards the house. "Come on, let me show you inside. You’re going to love it," she said, her eyes sparkling with pride.

As we walked through the house, she pointed out all the little details she adored. But I wasn’t really looking at the house; I was looking at her. She was so happy, so alive, and it was a beautiful sight.

She caught me staring and paused. "What?" she asked, a smile playing on her lips.

I stepped closer, my voice dropping to a husky whisper. "I’m thinking about all the things I’m going to do to you in this house," I said, and she laughed shooking her head.

I pulled her to me, kissing her deeply, my hands roaming her body.

started to unbutton her shirt, my hands moving with a sense of urgency. "I’m going to take you right here, against the wall," I murmured, my voice thick with need. "And then on the kitchen table, and in our bed. You’re not going to be able to walk tomorrow, love."

She swatted at me playfully. "Mattheo, don’t ruin anything in the house."

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, my tone dripping with mischief. I lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around my waist.

She loved our new house, always pointing out little things she adored about it. One evening, she insisted on making dinner, spaghetti specifically. The kitchen became a warzone of diced vegetables and spilled sauce. Laughing, I pulled her close, lifting her onto the counter.

"Let me handle it, love," I said, kissing her lightly. "You look adorable up there."

She pouted but relented, watching me as I took over the cooking.

She introduced me to muggle movies and insisted I listen to her favorite music. Though it was different from what I was used to, I found myself enjoying it all because it made her happy.

Today, we were lying in a big field, her head resting on my legs. She looked up at the sky and said, "I love the color green."

"Why’s that?" I asked, running my fingers through her hair.

"It reminds me of nature, of life and growth," she said softly. "And because it reminds me of you."

I smiled, feeling a warmth in my chest. She turned her head to look at me, a fleeting fear crossing her features. "This feels like a dream," she whispered.

I stroked her cheek. "It’s real, love. I’m here with you."

She sighed, sitting up and looking into my eyes. "I'm afraid, Mattheo. I don't ever want you to leave."

I cupped her face in my hands, my voice firm. "I won’t leave you. I promise."

She smiled and held my face in her hands, her eyes shining with determination. "I promise I will never leave you either. Until my last breath, I will love you, and I will always choose you."

The thought of her last breath made anger flare inside me. "That won't happen," I said stubbornly.

She laughed softly. "It will happen one day, Mattheo."

"No, it won’t," I insisted.

She shook her head gently, her eyes full of understanding. "We can't stop death, Mattheo. And it’s not always a bad thing. I would die happily knowing I have been loved by you in this life, and I will search for you in every life after."

She hugged me then, and I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close.

As the days passed, the feeling grew stronger. I could hear his whispers in the wind, feel his presence lurking in the shadows.

My father was out there, and I could no longer deny it. The darkness he brought with him tainted the very air I breathed.

Y/N came running to me, her arms wrapping around me from behind. "Mattheo, you won't believe what I heard today," she started, her voice full of excitement. "Mrs. Johnson from next door said that Mr. Thompson’s cat was found in the bakery! Can you imagine a cat in the bakery?"

I put my hands over hers, trying to focus on her words, but the whispers were getting worse, growing louder. I could barely hear her over the din in my mind. I kissed her hand softly. "Love, I have to go out for a bit. I won’t be long."

She turned me around, concern etched on her face. "Now? It’s too late, Mattheo. What’s so important?"

"It’s something I need to take care of," I said firmly. "You should sleep. Don’t wait up for me."

Before she could respond, I pulled away, leaving her standing there with a confused and worried expression.

I hated doing this to her, making her feel sad and abandoned. But I couldn't ignore the feeling any longer. I knew it too well, and I couldn't risk whatever was coming happening with her here.

I grew up in a house filled with shadows and whispers, a place where love was a foreign concept. My mother was a mad woman, her mind often lost in a haze. Sometimes she would forget about me entirely, her thoughts barricading her from reality. I learned early on not to rely on her for comfort or stability.

My father, known to the world as Voldemort, was a figure cloaked in darkness. They said he was incapable of love, that he thrived on fear and power. But he treated me better than my mother did—at least, that's what I told myself. I liked to believe that in his own twisted way, he cared for me, had plans for me that were too grand for me to understand at a young age.

There was an old man, Crest, who took care of me. Loyal to the Dark Lord, Crest was my guardian and protector. He was the one constant in my chaotic life, showing me a kind of rough love that I clung to desperately. Crest raised me, teaching me about the world as best as he could within the constraints of my father’s will.

The first lesson I learned however was my father doing.

I remember the day vividly. I was young, perhaps seven or eight. My father and I were in one of the dark, cold rooms of our mansion. He was lecturing me, as he often did, about power and control.

"Mattheo," he began, his voice a cold, steady hiss. "Do you understand what love is?"

I looked up at him, my small frame trembling slightly. "It's when you care about someone, right?"

He laughed, a sound devoid of warmth. "Love is a weakness, a flaw in human nature. It makes you vulnerable."

Just then, Crest entered the room. My eyes lit up and I ran to him, seeking the comfort his presence always provided. "Crest!"

The old man smiled at me, his eyes filled with a kind of sad affection.

My father’s gaze turned icy. "Do you respect Crest, Mattheo?"

I nodded vigorously. "I love him."

Voldemort’s expression hardened. "Love is dangerous, Mattheo. It can be used against you. Watch."

He pulled out a wand, and my eyes widened with a mix of fear and fascination. I had always wanted to use one, to feel its power.

"Take it," he ordered, handing me the wand.

I grasped it with trembling hands, looking up at him uncertainly.

"Kill him," he commanded, his voice icy and implacable.

My heart froze. "No, Father, please..."

Crest's eyes widened with fear, but he remained still, resigned to his fate.

"Do it, Mattheo," Voldemort insisted. "Show me you are strong."

I couldn’t move. I couldn't do it. My hands shook violently.

In a swift, merciless motion, my father pointed his own wand at Crest and uttered the curse. "Avada Kedavra."

A flash of green light filled the room, and Crest's body crumpled to the ground, lifeless. I screamed and ran to his side, clutching his hand.

The first lesson I learned was to never show my emotions, never reveal my weaknesses. My father knew everyone’s vulnerabilities, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use them against us.

I remember that day, I remember it too well.

As I walked further from our home, the sense of impending doom grew stronger. The shadows seemed darker, the air colder. I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, the whispers of darkness growing louder in my mind. Suddenly, Death Eaters began to materialize around me, their presence suffocating and malevolent.

Then he appeared, emerging from the darkness like a specter. Voldemort. My father. His smile was cruel, his eyes gleaming with a twisted kind of pride. "Son," he greeted, his voice a cold, slithering whisper.

I stood my ground, glaring at him, refusing to move. "Aren’t you happy to see your father?" he asked, his tone mocking.

I felt a surge of anger and pain. "Why would I be happy?”

His smile widened, more sinister than before. "Did you not try to find me? Did you not wish for my return?"

"I didn’t want you to return," I spat, the words filled with a defiance that surprised even me.

Suddenly, a sharp blow struck me. I looked up to see Bellatrix, my mother, her eyes wild with madness. "You dare speak to your father that way?" she shrieked.

I smiled, blood trickling from my mouth. "What do you care, Mother? You were too busy losing your mind to notice anything else."

Her face contorted with rage, and she raised her hand to strike me again. But before she could, she screamed, her body convulsing. I looked up to see Voldemort holding his wand, a cruel smile on his lips.

"No one lays a hand on my heir," he said, his voice dripping with menace. "Bellatrix, you will remember your place. My son is not to be harmed."

His words were powerful, echoing in the dark night. I closed my eyes, trying to block out her screams, the sound tearing at my soul. "Father, stop," I finally managed, my voice hoarse.

Voldemort looked at me, amusement flickering in his eyes. "And what are you doing out here, my boy, in the countryside? Running away, perhaps?"

I knew he already knew the truth, but I couldn’t let him see it. "I needed some air. I was restless."

"Restless," he repeated, the word dripping with sarcasm. "Or were you trying to escape your responsibilities, your destiny?"

I stood up slowly, trying to gather my strength. "Believe what you want. It doesn’t change anything."

He took a step closer, his gaze piercing. "You think you can hide from me? You think you can live a normal life, away from the darkness that binds us? You are my son, my heir. And you will learn to embrace your destiny, whether you like it or not."

I met his eyes, my own filled with defiance. "I think I can try. I don’t want to be like you."

His laughter was cold, echoing through the night. "You are my son. You cannot escape what you are."

I clenched my fists, the anger and helplessness threatening to overwhelm me. "I can. And I will."

Voldemort’s expression hardened, the amusement gone. "Do not test me, Mattheo. You are my heir. You have a destiny to fulfill."

My father’s presence loomed over me, the tension in the air grew palpable. He studied me with those cold, penetrating eyes, and I knew he was far from done with his probing questions.

tell me about this girl you've been spending so much time with."

I tensed, but kept my expression neutral. "She's no one important."

His eyes narrowed, a cruel smile playing at his lips. "No one important? Then why do I sense such... attachment?"

"It's nothing, Father," I lied smoothly. "Just a distraction. Something physical. Nothing more."

His laughter was sharp and mocking. "Oh, Mattheo,do you love her?"

I forced myself to meet his gaze, my heart pounding in my chest. "No. I don't love her."

Inside, I felt a pang of guilt and sadness. I loved her more than anything, but I couldn't let him see that.

But I had to lie, had to make him believe it was nothing more than a physical connection. She deserved better than to be dragged into this darkness.

"Just physical?" he mused, his tone laced with derision. "Is that what you tell yourself to justify your weakness?"

"Yes," I replied, my voice steady. "It's only physical."

He stepped closer, his gaze piercing through me. "You think you can fool me?"

"It's just a game, Father. A way to pass the time," I insisted, the lie burning on my tongue.

Voldemort's smile widened, cruel and knowing. "You cannot escape your fate, Mattheo. No matter how hard you try to convince yourself otherwise."

I held his gaze, my defiance burning bright despite the fear gnawing at me. "I don’t intend to escape. I’m simply enjoying my life."

His laughter echoed in the dark night, cold and merciless. "Enjoying your life? How quaint. You think you can hide your true feelings from me?"

"I have no true feelings for her," I lied again, the words tasting bitter.

"Well then," he said, his eyes glinting with malice, "if she truly means nothing, it would be of no consequence if she were to... disappear." He paused, letting the threat hang in the air. "In fact, I think it might be a good test of your loyalty."

I fought to keep my face expressionless, to hide the terror clawing at my insides, to act unbothered. "Do as you wish," I replied, my voice steady.

"Bellatrix," Voldemort called, turning to my mother, who was watching with wild eyes. "Go and find this girl. Make sure her end is... memorable."

My mother eyes gleamed with a sick excitement. "Yes, my Lord."

I forced myself to remain still, to show no reaction, even as my heart pounded in my chest.

"Make it painful," Voldemort added, his eyes focusing on me. "I want her to suffer, to know the price of being a distraction."

I could feel the bile rising in my throat, but I kept my face impassive. It was only when Bellatrix turned to leave that the words burst from my lips.

"Don't," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Voldemort turned back to me, his expression one of cold amusement. "What was that?"

His hand gripping my chin tightly. "You are a fool, Mattheo. You have created a weakness for yourself, and now that weakness must be eradicated."

"Father," I said, my voice steady despite the fear coursing through me, "you will not lay a hand on her."

He laughed softly, the sound devoid of any warmth. "You think you can order me, boy? This girl must die to teach you a lesson. A lesson to remind you of your responsibilities, of your true nature."

His grip tightened painfully. "You will not put a hand on her," I repeated, my voice firm, my gaze locked with his.

His eyes burned with cold fury, and his lips curled into a sinister smile. "Very well, Mattheo," he said, his voice dripping with malevolent amusement. "Follow me."

I followed him through the darkened corridors of the manor, my heart pounding with each step. My mind raced, trying to anticipate his next move, but nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to witness.

We entered a dimly lit room, and there, suspended in mid-air, was Charity Burbage, a former professor at Hogwarts. Her eyes were wide with terror, and her pleas for mercy echoed through the room.

"Charity," Voldemort greeted with false courtesy. "I believe you know my son, Mattheo."

Charity's eyes flicked to me, filled with desperation. "Mattheo, please," she pleaded. "Help me."

I stood frozen, my heart pounding in my chest. I wanted to help her, but I knew the cost of defying Voldemort. He turned to me, his eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. "This is a lesson for you, this is what happens to those who betray us."

Charity's eyes locked onto mine. "Mattheo," she pleaded, tears streaming down her face, her cries grew louder, more frantic. "Mattheo, please! You can stop this!"

I felt a knot tighten in my stomach, but I knew better than to show any sign of weakness.

I felt a surge of helpless rage, my blood boiling with the need to act, to do something, but I remained rooted to the spot. Voldemort raised his wand, his gaze never leaving mine.

"Avada Kedavra," he said softly, almost reverently.

A flash of green light filled the room, and Charity's pleas were silenced forever. Her lifeless body crumpled to the floor, and I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. Voldemort turned to me, his expression a mask of twisted satisfaction.

"This," he said, gesturing to Charity's body, "is what happens when you allow yourself to be weak. Do you understand, Mattheo?"

I swallowed hard, fighting back the bile that rose in my throat. "Yes, Father," I forced out, my voice hoarse.

He stepped closer, his eyes boring into mine. "You must learn to sever your attachments, to purge yourself of any weakness. Only then will you be truly strong."

"You must prove your loyalty. Now, about this girl of yours. I want you to kill her."

Before I could respond, one of the Death Eaters, snickered and said, "Bet she's a pretty little thing. Will she allow a Death Eater in her bed, or just the heir?"

Rage boiled within me, and before I knew it, I had my wand out. "Crucio!"

His screamed in agony, writhing on the floor. Voldemort watched with a smirk, clearly amused. "Such passion, Mattheo. But your actions only prove that she must die."

Voldemort's gaze hardened, and he turned to another Death Eater. "Bring our guest."

The doors swung open, and I saw Y/N's father being dragged in, his eyes wild with terror.

"Kill him, Mattheo," Voldemort ordered, his eyes glinting with malicious glee.

I had promised Y/N I wouldn’t harm her father, but now, faced with this command, I was torn. "Kill him, Mattheo," Voldemort repeated. "Or the girl dies."

Y/N's father fell to his knees, his voice trembling. "Kill her! Kill her instead, please! I will serve you, my lord. I will be loyal!”

Voldemort approached me, his eyes glittering with a cruel satisfaction. "You see, Mattheo, even the most desperate will turn on those they love to save themselves, even his own father doesn’t think she’s worth saving."

"You can kill her please, you can—"

His pleas were cut short as I cast the killing curse, my wand steady, my resolve unshaken. I felt no regret, no sorrow.

Voldemort’s cruel smile returned. "Well done, my boy. Now, let’s see where your true loyalties lie."

He stepped closer, his voice dripping with venom. "Choose, Mattheo. Your precious girl, or your little brother."

My heart twisted in my chest. "What?"

He laughed, the sound cold and hollow. "I’m merely testing you. But make no mistake. Once the girl dies, you will be free, Mattheo. Free from these weaknesses."

I stood there, my mind reeling, trying to hold on to some semblance of control. "You must choose," he continued, his voice relentless. "Do you want to protect her, or do you want to protect yourself and your family, your friends?"

I clenched my fists, meeting Voldemort's cold gaze with defiance.

"Think carefully, my boy. Love is a chain that binds you. Cut it, and you will be stronger. Cut it, and you will be free."

“I would leave her, end things with her, but you just had to leave her out of it”' I said, my voice quivering with suppressed emotion. The words spilled out with a strength I didn't know I had, my heart shattering as I spoke.His expression remained impassive.

"promise me, father, Promise me that you'll leave her out of this. She's innocent, she has nothing to do with any of this. And I swear to end things with her, take my duties and responsibilities, you just have to give me your word, that’s the first time I ask anything from you and would be the last"

His eyes gleamed with triumph. "Very well, Mattheo. Go, end things with her, and return to me. No one shell hurt her, you have my word. But remember, any mistake, and not just the girl dies. You will have to choose someone else to die as punishment for your disobedience. Understand?"

I swallowed my rage, forced myself to nod. "Yes, I understand."

As I left the room, I saw Enzo, my little brother, standing in the hallway. "What are you doing here?" I demanded angrily.

"It’s his duty," Voldemort answered for him, placing a hand on Enzo's shoulder.

I felt a surge of protectiveness and fury, but I hid it. "I will return soon," I said, my voice steady.

Voldemort's eyes bore into mine. "See that you do, Mattheo. See that you do."

I walked away, my mind a storm of emotions, knowing that my every step was being watched, and every decision weighed with life and death.

It was well past midnight when I finally opened the front door. My heart pounded as I walked in, the weight of what I had to do pressing down on me. The moment I saw her, my resolve wavered. Before I could think, my lips crashed onto hers in a desperate, hungry kiss.

“Mattheo,” she whispered against my mouth, but I silenced her with another kiss, more demanding this time. My hands roamed her body, pulling her closer, needing to reassure myself that she was real, that she was here.

"Mattheo, what's going on?" she tried to ask, but I silenced her again, my fingers gripping her hips tightly.

"Just let me have this," I said softly, my voice cracking. The pain in my heart was unbearable.

I bent her over, yanking down her pants, and thrust into her hard and fast. The intensity of my movements was driven by the need to drown out the agony inside me. I couldn't let her see my pain, couldn't let her know how much it was tearing me apart.

“Did something happen, baby?” she managed to gasp out between thrusts, her hands gripping the sheets.

I didn’t answer, just increased my pace, trying to lose myself in the physicality of the moment. The roughness of my touch, the ferocity of my rhythm—it was all I could offer to mask my torment.

“Mattheo, I’m gonna—”

Her scream echoed through the room as she came, her body trembling. I followed moments later, my release silent but powerful, my grip on her tightening as I shuddered.

I pulled out and turned her around, lifting her onto the bed with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with my earlier roughness. Her eyes were filled with concern and confusion.

“I love you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

“I love you too,” she replied, her heartache evident.

I moved within her slowly, each thrust a silent promise. I wanted to cling to her, to hold her forever, but I knew I had to let go. We reached our climax together, and the wave of pleasure was bittersweet.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly when we were done, her head resting on my chest. I didn’t answer, just held her tighter, my arms a protective cocoon around her. I wished I could tell her the truth, but I couldn’t risk it. I had to protect her.

The next morning, I woke up early and slipped out of bed. I stood on the balcony, smoking a cigarette, trying to steel myself for what I had to do. When she came up behind me, wrapping her arms around me and pressing a kiss to my cheek, it took everything in me not to break down.

"Mattheo," she started, her voice tentative, "please talk to me. What's going on?"

Silence was my only response. I couldn’t risk breaking down, couldn’t risk her seeing the pain I was in.

"Mattheo, please don't shut me out."

I took another slow drag, exhaling the smoke with a sigh, but said nothing. The wall between us was thicker than ever, and it was killing me.

"Do you not trust me?" she asked, her voice cracking. "You said you love me, and I believe you. But if you don't let me in, how can we face whatever is bothering you?"

I flicked the cigarette butt over the railing, watching it fall before finally turning to face her. Her eyes were filled with tears, and it broke my heart.

His grip on my hand was firm as he led us back into the room. I sank onto the couch, my heart aching with the weight of what I had to do. She moved to sit beside me, her voice soft and pleading. "Hey, baby, please, what is bothering you?"

I remained a statue, my body rigid, my gaze fixed on the floor. I couldn't bear to look at her.

"We are not going anywhere," I said flatly, cutting her off. The coldness in my voice was a defense mechanism, a way to protect her.

Panic clawed at her throat. "Okay, we can stay home," she stammered, desperately searching for anything to break the suffocating silence.

I stood up abruptly, startling her. I hated doing this, hated the pain I was causing her, but I couldn't risk her life. "Don't you get it?" I spat, my voice laced with bitterness. "This was never supposed to be serious. It was fun, a distraction, but nothing more."

Her breath hitched. "Distraction?"

"But... but I..." she stammered, the words catching in her throat.

"You what, Y/N?" I scoffed, the sound harsh. "Did you think being with me was some grand fairytale? You know who I am, Y/N. There's a legacy to uphold, a family to consider. Did you think you, with your… your ordinary life, could ever fit into that?"

"But… we built a beautiful life together. We talked about our future," she said, her voice choked with tears.

"Future? Y/N, you left your life for me. Your family, your friends, everything. Did you really think I'd just abandon everything I have, my legacy, for… for you?"

"I… I never asked you to abandon anything," she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

"But you did," I countered. "You disrupted the plan. You made me question everything."

"But I love you," she whispered, the words fragile and broken. "I gave up everything for you."

"Love? Don't be ridiculous. You were just young and naive, Y/N. You thought escaping your family drama meant finding some happily ever after. This isn't some storybook.”

Her pain was palpable, and it tore me apart. "Did you ever love me, Mattheo? Or was it just another lie?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

I met her gaze, forced my eyes to look at her. "No," I said, the word sharp and like a knife to my heart. "I liked you, Y/N. I enjoyed the… distraction. But this? This isn't love."

Her tears fell uncontrollably as she sank onto the couch. I wanted to wipe them away, to hold her and tell her the truth, but I couldn't. I had to protect her, even if it meant breaking her heart.

"I'll leave," I said. "You can stay here."

I grabbed my phone and keys, my movements mechanical. I walked towards the door, the sound of it slamming shut echoing in the room. As the final echo died down, I felt a piece of my heart shatter.

I hated myself for doing this, for hurting her. But I couldn't risk her life. I couldn't let her become another pawn in my father's game. And so, I walked away, leaving a part of my soul behind with her.

Days passed in a blur of darkness and duty. Each moment without Y/N felt like a knife twisting deeper into my soul. I couldn’t risk going back to her, couldn’t show any sign of weakness. I had to prove to my father that it was over, that she no longer held any power over me. But the truth was, life without her was a torment I could barely endure.

My father spoke often of power and darkness, of the strength that came from severing emotional ties. His lessons were cruel, I tried to focus on the tasks at hand, to immerse myself in the dark teachings of my father, but every thought inevitably led back to her. Y/N. The name echoed in my mind like a forbidden incantation, a ghost haunting my every waking moment.

my father called us together. Enzo stood beside me, his face a mask of grim determination. Voldemort’s voice was low, commanding. "Enzo, you will lead this mission. I need you to retrieve a very special item from the Ministry."

Enzo’s eyes widened slightly, but he nodded. "Yes, my Lord."

I felt a surge of protectiveness. "Father, let me do it."

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. "Are you questioning my orders, Mattheo?"

Before I could respond, Enzo placed a hand on my arm. "Don’t, Mattheo."

Another Death Eater sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Listen to your bastard brother, heir."

The words ignited a fire within me. I turned to face him, my wand already in hand. "Say that again."

He laughed, a cruel, mocking sound. "Why? Enzo is a bastard from a whore. Bellatrix is nothing but a—"

"Then by your logic," I interrupted, my voice cold and dangerous, "I’m a bastard too. So call me that. Go on."

The room went silent. The Death Eater’s smirk faltered, but he pressed on. "You’re—"

"Crucio!" I shouted, and the man collapsed, writhing in agony. I held the spell, watching as he screamed, my rage boiling over.

Theodore, Draco, and Blaise watched, their expressions a mix of shock and approval. Enzo whispered urgently, "Mattheo, stop."

But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to. I intensified the curse, the man’s screams echoing off the walls. Another Death Eater stepped forward, trying to intervene, but I cast another Cruciatus Curse, sending him to the floor beside the first.

"You see that, Father?" I said, my voice shaking with fury. "I’m really your son after all."

Voldemort’s lips curled into a proud smile.

I left the room, my heart pounding, my mind a storm of conflicting emotions. I found myself in my room, my hand on the wall, pressing so hard that it started to bleed. I slid down to the ground, the pain a welcome distraction from the torment in my soul.

Darkness was consuming me, gnawing away at what little light I had left. I was becoming the very thing I despised, a creature of the shadows, a pawn of my father. Each day, I felt myself slipping further into the abyss, the line between right and wrong blurring until it was almost indistinguishable.

I found Luna Lovegood in one of the cold, damp cells of the dungeons. Her ethereal calmness was a stark contrast to the despair around her. "What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice harsher than I intended.

"They took me because I know too much," she said simply, her wide eyes unafraid, I shook my head to her to shut up.

She was here because he believed her father’s magazine might contain hidden messages or useful information for the Order of the Phoenix.

"She doesn't know anything, Father. I assure you," I said, turning to Voldemort.

He refused to free her. "At least don’t treat her like a hostage," I pleaded. With a reluctant nod from him, I took Luna to a more comfortable room.

"Thank you," she said softly, sitting down on the bed.

As I turned to leave, she spoke again. "They say she hasn’t left home for days."

I froze. "What?"

"The one you're thinking about," Luna continued, her voice gentle. "A magical creature only I can see told me. They say Y/N hasn’t left the house. She still thinks you’re coming back. She feels miserable, she is in so much pain."

I clenched my fists, trying to suppress the rage boiling inside me. "So are you, Mattheo," Luna added quietly.

I left the room, the anger and guilt eating at me. The thought of Y/N in pain, waiting for me, tore at my soul. I wanted to let the whole world burn for what it was doing to her. I wanted to go to her, to tell her I had lied, that I had never loved anything as I loved her. But I couldn’t.

As I stalked through the dark hallway my father appeared. His cold eyes assessed me, and I steeled myself against his scrutiny.

"Feeling conflicted, my boy?" Voldemort asked, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

I met his gaze, trying to appear strong. "I know my duty," I said flatly.

He leaned in, his voice a sinister whisper. "Good. It would be unfortunate if you decided to go back to old distractions. There are consequences, you know, for losing focus."

His words were a veiled threat, a reminder of what he could do to Y/N if I faltered. I nodded, the cold dread settling in my stomach. "I understand, Father."

"Remember, Mattheo," he said, straightening up. "Power and loyalty are what matter. Attachments are weaknesses."

I watched him walk away, my heart heavy with the weight of my choices. The darkness was consuming me, and I didn’t know how much longer I could resist it.

The day passes in a haze of anger and I leaned against the cold stone wall, watching the chaos unfold. The room was thick with tension and suspicion as Death Eaters hurled accusations at each other.

Whispers of a shadow, an elusive killer who moved unseen, had spread fear among them. They couldn't figure out who he was or where he came from. He was a ghost, a phantom that slipped through their fingers, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.

"This is your fault, Dolohov!" Mother snarled, her wild eyes blazing with fury. "If you had secured the perimeter, this wouldn't be happening!"

"Don't be absurd, Bellatrix," Dolohov shot back, his wand raised defensively. "Your incompetence is what's allowing this to happen. If you had been more vigilant—"

"Silence!"

Father’s voice cut through the din like a knife, freezing everyone in their tracks. The Dark Lord's eyes swept the room, his face a mask of cold rage. The tension was palpable as he raised his wand and pointed it at one of his most trusted lieutenants, Thorne.

Thorne, a tall, gaunt man with a face as sharp as his intellect, met Voldemort's gaze with a mix of shock and terror. "My Lord, I—"

"Avada Kedavra."

The flash of green light illuminated the chamber for a split second, and then Thorne crumpled to the ground, lifeless. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I watched one of Voldemort's most trusted men die so easily, so unceremoniously. The room was silent, the only sound the crackling of the torches on the walls.

My father’s gaze shifted, meeting mine. I held his stare, my expression carefully neutral, unbothered by the carnage.

"Mattheo," he said, his voice a low hiss. "What is your opinion on this shadow? Who is he?"

I shrugged, feigning indifference. "You should focus on who he isn't, Father."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "Explain."

I let my eyes drift over the room, taking in the faces of the remaining Death Eaters.

"I think the traitor is someone who knows us well, someone who can anticipate our moves. It might be wise to look closer to home," I said, my voice laced with subtle insinuation. "Perhaps even among those we trust the most."

A murmur of unease spread through the room as they cast suspicious glances at each other.

My father studied me, and I could see the wheels turning in his mind. He knew I was toying with him, but he couldn't quite place the blame.

"If that's all, Father, I have matters to attend to," I said, pushing off the wall. I gave a small bow, excusing myself. "I'll be in my quarters if you need me."

As I walked away, the weight of my secret plan settled on my shoulders. It was I who was killing the Death Eaters, removing them one by one. To keep her safe, I needed to weaken my father, and to do that, I had to dismantle his support system. Only a fool would face Voldemort head-on, and I am no fool.

As I left the room, the shadows seemed to close in around me, but I welcomed them. They were my allies, my cover. And soon, they would be the downfall of the Dark Lord himself.

Days passed but I couldn't escape it. Her voice, her pain, it haunted me. The bed was cold and empty without her warmth, and I felt her absence like a physical wound. Every second without her was torture, but I had to stay away. I had to protect her from the darkness I had become entangled in. But knowing she was suffering because of me was unbearable.

Someone knocked hard on my door, breaking through my thoughts. I opened it to find Luna, her usually serene demeanor shattered. She was trembling, speaking in disjointed sentences that barely made sense. I took her gently by the shoulders, trying to calm her down.

"Luna, breathe. What's wrong?" I asked urgently, my voice betraying my own turmoil.

"she’s killing myself slowly," she blurted out, her eyes wide with desperation. "You need to stop it. It's already too late."

Without another word, I stormed out of the room, fury boiling inside me. I reached my father's chamber and nearly tore the door off its hinges as I entered. "You gave your word you wouldn’t do anything to her!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the stone walls.

Voldemort turned to me, his expression calm, almost amused. "It must be over by now," he said with a cold smile. "You'll thank me."

"What are you talking about?" I demanded, my heart racing.

"I freed you," he said simply, his words cutting through me like a blade.

Realization hit me like a blow to the chest. I turned and ran, my mind racing as fast as my feet. I had to get to her.

As I tore through the hallways of the manor, the walls blurred around me. My mind was singularly focused on Y/N. I reached the main hall, and in a fit of rage and desperation.

I raised my wand."Incendio!" Flames erupted around me, spreading quickly through the manor. The heat was intense, the fire consuming everything in its path. I didn't care. Let it burn. Let it all burn.

I burst out of the castle, the cold night air hitting my face as I Apparated as close as I could to our house. My heart pounded in my chest as I sprinted the rest of the way, every step bringing me closer to her.

My breath came in ragged gasps as I finally reached the house, my hands shaking as I opened the door. "Y/N!" I called out, my voice desperate. "Y/N, where are you?"

The house was eerily silent, the weight of her absence suffocating. A scream come from our room and I run to it, she fell, the floor rushing up to meet her. But just before unconsciousness claimed her, I caught her, gripping her body, arresting her fall.

“Y/N!” I shouted, my voice urgent and laced with panic. Her vision was blurry, and she blinked, disoriented and delirious.

“What have you done, love?” I asked, my voice ragged with worry. She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t form. The

“It hurts so much,” she managed to gasp, tears mixing with the blood trickling down her nose.

“I know, baby, I know,” I murmured. “Just tell me, please, what have you done?”

“I just wanted it to stop,” she rasped, pointing weakly at her heart, its every beat a thrumming ache. “It hurt so much.” Her gaze drifted beyond my shoulder.

“He… he’s back?” Her voice was a rasp, barely audible, the metallic tang of blood filling her mouth.

“Shh, love, don’t try to talk,” I soothed, my grip tightening protectively around her. “What have you done to her?” I turned to my father.

“Just showed her a way to numb the pain,”

she reached for my hand, “Don’t be afraid, love,” I murmured into her hair.

“It wasn’t the deal!” I said, “I told you I would leave her, I would leave everything, but you just had to leave her out of it!”

“I’m helping you, child,” my father said, his voice devoid of emotion. “You pushed her away, but you love her. That cannot happen. You need to get rid of your weakness.”

“Shut up!” I said, my eyes blazing. “Shut the fuck up. You leave her out of this!” She choked on a fresh wave of blood. A terrible realization dawned on me – she was dying.

“You’re not dying,” I whispered fiercely, "You’re not dying, baby. I won’t allow it.”

“It’s okay,” she rasped, her voice barely audible.

“It’s not!”

“Can you say it like you used to? Can you tell me that you love me?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I want to hear you say it one last time.”.

“No, because you are not dying,” I insisted, turning my blazing gaze back to my father. “Save her, do something and save her or I swear, I won’t just leave you. I will make sure to ruin you, ruin everything you built, kill you for good this time.”

“Mattheo,” she whispered, her voice weak but determined. I looked down at her.

“You’re not dying,” I repeated.

“Look at me, love,” I pleaded, my voice cracking. “Keep your eyes on me. Keep those beautiful eyes on me, baby.”

“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you so much.”

I cupped her face, my thumb brushing away her tear. “You’re the love of my life, and I love you more than life itself,” I declared, my voice thick with emotion.

A weak smile touched her lips. Before She closed her eyes.

"Y/N?" I called softly.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

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mediumgayitalian · 8 months ago

Text

“Oh, come on, there’s just —” Will blows an errant curl from out of his eyes, cheeks red with exertion, balancing nimbly on his feet to put both hands on his hips. “There’s no way, Nico.”

Nico, not blessed with such balance, has to hold all footholds with all limbs, staring warily at the lava wall’s snake holes.

“What? I’m just not as good as you.”

Will flops his right arm outwards, narrowly avoiding smacking it against the rock. “But you are!”

Nico shifts his wary gaze from the snake holes to Will’s rope harness. Is it tight enough? It better be tight enough. Will is putting a lot of faith in it, right now.

“You scaled those cliffs in — in the place —” he trips, still, over the pit, on the odd time he mentions it, and it always makes Nico wince — “like it was nothing! And whenever Percy visits and challenges you you’re suddenly the lava wall expert!” He turns stern blue eyes to face Nico’s head-on. “Not buying it, di Angelo!”

A gush of lava forces him to resume climbing, but there’s an aggression to his movements — a specific, stiff, curated aggression, that Nico has learned means anxiety in people known as William Andrew Solace. That, and coupled with the rapid muttering which, in between the roar of molten stone, Nico believes is a a repetition of “dumbass” “always tryna act a goddamn fool” and “I’m gonna kill him before he sends me into cardiac arrest again”, interspersed with random swears in English, Latin, Ancient Greek, and also — gods — Klingon.

“Will.”

Will ignores him, scampering the last few feet up the wall and slapping the top before relaying down. Nico sighs, following him (albeit significantly slower).

“Will.”

“You’re hiding something from me.” He practically rips the harness off his body — do not think about that do not think about that do not think about that — and shoves it on the hook so hard it damn near snaps off. The look he levels in Nico’s direction practically turns him to stone, it’s so frigid, and he has to resist a shiver. “I can tell.”

It takes a good amount of pushing to make Will all testy like this. Sure, his buttons are easy to push, but most of that is for show. He likes to be dramatic. (Especially because he knows Nico will indulge him, more than anyone else ever has. He relishes in it, Nico thinks; he likes that Nico will watch his productions. An Apollo kid through and through.) He’s not usually one to show his genuine frustration.

But, hoo, boy, when he is frustrated.

Nico has a bad, bad habit of making it worse.

(As if it’s his fault that Will’s hot when he’s mad.)

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nico says, forcibly lightly. He sticks his hand out defiantly. “Check me, why don’t you? Not hiding anything.”

He really isn’t. No injuries, no illness, hell, he’s not even tired. Had a full three meals and everything. Even his perpetually achey joints aren’t bad today.

All of this, obviously, is communicated when Will touches him, squinting suspiciously at their joined hands.

“You’re heart rate is high,” he mutters petulantly.

Nico looks at him patiently. “That’s ‘cause my smokeshow boyfriend is holding my hand.”

Grumpy as he’s trying to be, his ears redden. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“Shut up.”

Nico grins, pulling his hand up to his mouth and pressing a kiss to the knuckles.

“No.”

“Whatever,” Will says, snatching his hand back. His smile spreads widely across his face, now, and he looks away, as pleased as he is exasperated. “You’re still being a weirdo. I should not be so far ahead of you on the wall, Neeks.”

Success — back to nicknames. Crisis averted.

“Have you considered that you’re the camp-wide record holder for a reason, you spider monkey?”

“Still!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nico gets up on his tiptoes, pressing a lingering kiss to the bridge of his freckled nose. “Stop worrying about me, Solace. I’m fine. Burn off some steam, I’ll watch.”

Will huffs. “Fine. But I’ll find out, y’hear me? Truth can’t hide from me for long.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He watches as Will suits back up, helping him with his more complicated straps (because Nico was raised to be a gentleman, obviously, why else) and shooing him away when he opens his mouth for more interrogations. He switches to sticking out his tongue, and after a moment of hesitation, bounds back over to his first true love — being a big nerdy jock dork.

Nico settles on the grass several feet away from the wall, pretending to clean his sword. After a few minutes, he hears footsteps, and two people sit next to him on either side.

“So,” says Lou Ellen, ignoring Nico’s suspicious look as she tosses a glowing ball of something around, “how come you’re not climbing?”

Nico shrugs. “Only so many times you can climb before it gets boring.”

On his other side, Cecil makes a loud buzzer sound.

“Nope! Wrong answer. Try again.”

Nico is a dignified grownup who refuses to stoop down to Cecil’s level by responding. Instead, he reaches over and pokes him in his ridiculously sensitive ribs, hard, sending him sprawling with a screech.

“Shut up,” he says mildly, as his friend flails. “I’m trying to be a supportive boyfriend, and I can’t do that with all your whining.”

Will has, in the ten minutes since he started, made it halfway up the wall. He seems to have it programmed to the Super Extra Mega Evil Insane mode that the Athena and Ares kids invented just for him, since he smoked all the other levels. He dodges a shot of lava with a laugh, throwing himself to the side and hanging on with three fingers and one scuffed sneaker poised on the tiniest sliver of rock. His attention is broken when Lou Ellen sticks her face right in Nico’s field of vision, tracing Nico’s eyeline with narrowed eyes.

“Ah,” she nods knowingly. “You’re staring at his ass.”

Nico falters, damn near slicing his own fingers off. “No idea what you’re talking about,” he says blithely. He gestures without looking at his sword. “I’m busy, see?”

She scoffs. “Real busy. That’s why you almost just did emergency surgery on yourself.”

“Exactly.”

Will pushes up a foot, shifting his hips and launching himself upwards. He makes a little shout of victory, plastering himself to the wall to keep balance, every muscle tensed.

From his place on the floor, Cecil makes an appreciative noise. “He does have a nice ass. Can’t blame you for looking.”

Nico frowns. “Hey. Stop objectifying my boyfriend.” He reaches out and smacks a hand over Cecil’s eyes. “That’s my job.”

“You guys are ridiculous.”

Nico reaches over and puts a hand over her eyes, too, ‘cause there’s no missing where they’re pointed.

“Shut up or I’ll literally put shadows into your retinae and blind you forever,” Nico threatens. (Is this a thing he can do? No. Do his friends know this? Also no.)

“You’re a dictator!” Cecil protests.

“Depriving us of basic human rights!” Lou Ellen agrees.

Nico shrugs. He glances back up the the climbing wall, where he has a very perfect view — and a great reason to never even try to climb faster than Will does. He grins.

“Too bad for you guys.”

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itstheghostofmypast · 5 months ago

Text

Wins & Losses

Idol Seonghwa x (F)Reader

Summary: It wasn't fair. Just because you loved someone didn't mean you let them win- but did that justify cheating?

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 631

Warnings: None

Est.Read Time: 3 min

Networks: @cromernet @k-labels @illusionnet

Ratings: PG-13

Banner: @cafekitsune

"If she doesn't love you after she sees your LEGO sets, she's not the one." The younger man huffed, readjusting his beanie as he flopped down next to the man who was spam-texting someone, chewing on his lower lip as his thumbs hovered over the screen for a moment, when he saw the familiar three dots appear.

"That's not why she's upset." He mumbled, letting out a sigh in defeat when the sender stopped typing.

"She's got you smitten."

The two looked up at the man standing there in a pink apron, holding up a spatula - this was going to be good - snapping his fingers, he pointed at the eldest, "She's got you on your knees, look at you, ready to apologise for your nerdy hobbies so she doesn't leave you."

"Again," Seonghwa rolled his eyes before going back to typing, "That's not why she's upset."

"Are you over compensating-"

"SHE'S MAD BECAUSE I CAN BUILD SETS FASTER THAN HER, OKAY!"

The two looked at each other before looking at the man who looked like he was about to explode, "It's not my fault I have years of experience, this is a skill that is learnt over time with patience and gratitude, you can't rush through it like a chore!"

"I wouldn't be surprised if she leaves you, you goddamn nerd!" Mingi exasperated before going back to the kitchen, mumbling on about how there aren't any good men left these days, no wonder Seonghwa's lover wanted to dump him- mind you she did not.

"Hyung...why don't you...let her win?" San asked meekly, knowing the reaction might not be good, especially when the silky haired man carded his fingers through his locks, turning to the feline featured man with his chest all puffed out and ready to let out a dragon like roar.

"Listen here you -"

Ding-Dong

"I'LL GET IT!" Running for his life he opened the door, letting out a breath of relief when he looked down to meet a determined gaze, a small smile gracing his lips, when he noticed a bag in her hand, "He's in the living room."

"Thank you." She mumbled, marching past the man to her own idiot, as she walked into the living room and glared at the man who peered at her through his glasses.

Tossing the bag on the couch between them, he glanced at the bag before peaking in and raising a brow at the multiple LEGO sets inside, then looking back at her.

"No headbands, no tank tops and no glasses." She announced, discreetly listing the reasons why she lost the last time- sure his hands where bigger too and he had longer fingers that were swift in movement and so pretty to stare at- she was destined to lose everytime, wasn't she?

"Deal."

With that, he stood up, hooked a finger in the loop of the plastic bag while clasping his free hand in hers, leading her to his room, knowing that this time he'd actually lose, because all those things that he was told not to do, were his winning tactics, otherwise he'd end up getting lost in her eyes, adoring the expressions she was making, the way she'd be radiating an aura of determination.

Truth be told, he did all he could to distract her in the last seven rounds, even went as far as opting for a steamy makeout session, just to leave her dazed, disoriented and distracted enough to catch up on his set and eventually win.

As he closed to door he sighed, turning to look at her with a big pout, his boba eyed cute face to earn her favour as he mumbled, "If I ask nicely would you let me win?"

"Did you let me win the last time?"

"I thought my girl would be the bigger person."

"Should've thought of that before smearing my lipstick you cheap cheater."

A bubble of laughter ripped through his chest as he walked towards her, arms wrapping around her waist, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt, "What can I say? I just wanted the winning prize so bad."

"Oh?" She snorted, arms wrapped around his neck, twirling a lock of his soft hair between her fingers, gazing up at him as he moved closer, pressing his forehead against hers, "What's the winning prize?"

"You."

Taglist: @edenesth @yessa-vie @mlysalt @the-kpop-simp @spooo00oky @bunnyluvr25 @s-h-y-a

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tinydefector · 7 months ago

Note

Hello!!!

May I request a fem s/o who's currently in ovulation and mtmte cyclonus sensing this and just wants to breed s/o

MINE

Info: Guys, I don't write fem, so if I get request for fem they are going to be written gender neutral. Please make sure to read my rules beforehand. If you don't state for the reader to be cybertronian, I write them as human as default.

Cyclonus x human Reader

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: smut, fingering, oral, sex, breeding kink, #Valveplug

Masterlist

Cyclonus masterlist

__________________________

Cyclonus could smell it on their skin, the chance in their hormones, it had become something he was rather aware of over the time he had been with them. afterall humans emitted phenomenons that were rather potent, and it is driving him mad.

His sensors detected the change days ago but each day their scent had just gotten sweeter as the pheromones permeating his lover's flesh grew richer. He could no longer ignore it.

His optics linger on then across the room as they entertain themself with one of the hobbies they are rather fond of. He clenched his dentas in frustration, Cyclonus is a mech of great resilience and patience but this, this was going to send his coding up the wall.

Reason finally snapped when strong arms curled around their waist, hot ventilations gusting whispered pleas against the back of their neck. His engine roared to life as old world coding surged forth in a torrent, demanding satiation through their offered flesh alone.

Turning slowly this chuckle softly. “Hello Handsome, what can I do for you?” They hum within his embrace, Cyclonus lets out an almost snarl like vent, vying for control against swelling passions and desire to claim them right there. Lips met in a crushing, bruising kiss as his talons gripped hips tight. Soft gasp leave their lips against his, head lent back so they could continue kissing him.

Drawing back, Cyclonus uttered one low command. "Bed. Now."

Their eyes go wide over the suddenness of it but are quick to follow his instructions. "Clo what's wrong?" They ask slightly worried, they hadn't seen him, likely this, last time he looked ready to rip something apart was after another scuffle with Whirl.

Cyclonus loomed over the bed optics drinking in their form as they stood there watching him. His engines growled low in mounting need.

“Nothing is wrong," he rasped, talons tracing their form with impossible care. He had always been rather careful and gentle with them, afraid he could break them easily with just the wrong move, over time he learnt they enjoyed the pain too. Each pass tingled their flesh with charged pleasure-pain sure to leave marks that would last solar cycles.

" Your coding demands satisfaction" He pauses for a moment watching and waiting for their reaction. "And I intend to provide," Cyclonus purred, moving onto the berth as he pressed a servo onto their stomach pushing them down onto the softer part of the bed, climbing over their prone body. His olfactories drank in heady perfumes of their arousal, despite Cyclonus being a being of metal their scent clung to his frame.

Lowering his bulk, Cyclonus nipped a sharp line down their throat. "Your scent is driving me mad little love." His plating demanded his ‘mate’, and he intended to reap his reward. “I can smell your arousal seeping through your skin, it's Intoxicating” he mumbles against their throat.

His servos work swiftly discarding their pants, as the scent hits him more he kisses his way down their body. They let out a loud yelp when he discards their pants. "You can smell me!?!" They were almost shocked, didn't even know it was something Cybertronian’s could do. Their back arches as Cyclonus' Glossa eagerly laps at their sex.

Cyclonus rumbled approval against quivering flesh, talons parting their thighs running his glossa's full length in one heady lave. His lover keened helplessly at the intimate invasion,

"Of course I can smell you," he crooned, his lips seal around them gently sucking, and dragging more moans from their lips as one of their legs rested over his shoulder plating.

"Your rich scent screams for a mate, begging to be seeded." Another skilled flick wrung breathless cries from lungs near to bursting. "And I intend to fill you past overflowing, mark you thoroughly, since you seem so eager."

Revving his powerful engines provided vibration another layer of maddening pleasure His glossa ravaged their sex with single-minded focus, them. Only when reduced to a sobbing wreck did he grant brief respite. Pulling away to admire their stunning form.

talons tracing down to their tight entertain, teasingly pressing in and out stretching them and preparing them for himself. Their heads hit the berth as a hand comes up to cover their mouth, legs spread wider for Cyclonus. "Fuck, oh my God, Cyclonus" they yelp as he grips their hips holding them stead so he can driving his glossa into them along with his digits. Their other hand grip one of his horns to steady themself as they rock against him.

Cyclonus growled in approval against flushed flesh, engines revving like thunder at their moans. Never had submission so thoroughly captivated him - their writhing form clinging to his plating, he glimpsed all that he and his race had lost since Cybertron's fall, and how he relished having them under his form.

His glossa delved deeper, curling talismanic strokes along pulsing inner walls. Their ragged moans stirred coding that had never stirred within him before, the hellbent need to breed them.

They choke out on needy cries as their orgasm struck in shattering waves, rolling their hips to meet his mouth. Once satisfied he drew back,loomed over their limp form glistening with aftermath, optics afire as he studied the heavy breaths their heave in. His spike pressurised, merciless heat radiates from his body against delicate thigh.

"You are mine ," Cyclonus rasped, nipping sharp approval upon kiss-bruised lips.

They lay there, tears of pleasure slowly running down their cheek, legs twitching as Cyclonus releases his Interface panel letting his spike pressurised, teasingly pressing it against their much smaller form.

He rumbled deep in approval at their limp, ravished state "So willing and eager," he praised, nipping fierce approval upon kiss-swollen lips. His spikehead teased their lubricant slicken entrance with torturous circular rolls.

"Only you could stir my coding so, teasing me like this" Cyclonus rasped, increasing pressure just shy of breaching weeping limits. Gripping their hips in an unyielding vise, Cyclonus peered down at them. “you would rather stunning with my sparkling, little love” he presses in slowly, sheathing his length to hilt in a few deep thrusts.

They moan out loudly as Cyclonus sinks into them, clinging onto him, fingers digging into ridges of his armour for stability. "Fuck, fuck!" They gasp out, eyes shut in pleasure. "Sy," they whine.

Cyclonus growled into their shoulder, Talons gripped their flesh in punishing vice, determined to mark them until they bore his branding. His powerful frame began pistoning deep, slow thrusts. "Mine," he snarled against kiss-bruised lips, increasing the tempo of grinding pumps as transfluid steadily flowed into their smaller body.

Their willing flesh was his to claim without restraint, his to breed. And he intended on that, it mattered not to him that humans and cybertronian’s DNA and Cybertronian nanite, coding and protoplasm won't mingle. He was hellbent on breeding his human, and they were eager for him. He craved to see them round with a sparkling, to feel the pulse of their spark, to feel their field and they grow in his human. Never before had he craved to spark someone as he did his lover.

Sinful moans fall from their lips as transfluid drips from them as Cyclonus continues thrusting into them. They clench around him each time he thrust deeper, driving the bright pink fluid further into their willing form. "Cy, Cy! Fuck, fuck please so good so good!" They call out into his plating.

"Mine, mate, my little love" he purrs out, the loud rumble against their body makes them clench even harder. His grip is unrelenting upon their waist ploughing into them steadily against the berth. His spike flared within weeping walls, pulsing transfluid poured possession upon deepest recesses of their body.

"You were made solely for this," Cyclonus growled, increasing brutal tempo sure to grind fragile flesh to rapture's shining edge. When they are struck in shattering waves of their next orgasm, he drinks in their keening cries, intent on searing his brand upon their body.

They shuddered through aftershocks' radiance, his spike continued pulsing torrents meant to swell their much smaller form beyond capacity. his very coding, yearning for a small hope that they may at some point gift him a new spark. Whines spill from their lips as they go limp on the berth. Their abdomen bulged with his spike and fluid, they look stunning. Bright pink transfluid leaks onto the bed. They look thoroughly fucked. They clench around him desperately as he grinds into them trying to rut his fluid deeper. Soft little keens come from them as they cling to Cyclonus.

"My little light, my little love," Cyclonus rumbled, field swelled, he cradles their quivering frame. looming over their sticky, limp form painted inside and out with evidence of him.

They lay there intertwined with his much larger form, Panting. "So are we going to talk about it?" They ask softly. fingers dancing along his plating. Cyclonus rumbled low in approval at how they looked, massaging tender flesh. "There is nothing to discuss," he replied gruffly, though palming their swelling abdomen with unexpected care. His coding pleading that the seeds taking hold within his little lover.

"You are mine to claim, your body called out for me and I provided." His engine rumbled deeply. "Cy baby I love you dearly but, you can literally smell me!, omg have you been able to smell me when I get aroused?" They are rather embarrassed over the new information. Cyclonus huffed an impatient ventilation, grip tightening faintly on their pliant form pressing deeper into them making sure they didn't part.

"Of course I can discern your body's tells," he grated, thumbing their swollen belly with newfound gentleness. "As all sensors can detect subtle changes auguring fertility in potential carriers/sires." He presses a gentle kiss to their forehead, pulling away and exposing clenched denta in feral smirk. "Your aroused state demanded satisfaction I could no longer deny." Taloned digits trailed up their frame, Crimson optics seared into wavering gaze. "Does this truly trouble you?" Cyclonus nuzzled closer kissing quivering lips with uncommon affection.

" can everyone else smell me?" They ask in a whisper softly before the look of horror crosses their face. "Oh God, can they all smell us right now?!" They nearly squeal as he presses his hips more flush against theirs, they lean into his touch head rested against his chassis.

Cyclonus chuckled deeply at their fluster, massaging skin writhe against his ample frame with slow assurance. "Lower your voice, my little light," he rumbled, optical ridges creasing in a rare approximation of humour. Crimson optics shimmered with banked passions barely leashed once more.

"While our scents may linger, the others are very much aware you are my conjunx '' Cyclonus assured, engines purred as he nuzzled feverish skin with surprising care,

"And should you demand further... satisfaction," he rumbled, gripping their willing form flush to pulsing arrays. "Only this room's walls will bare witness” he teases lightly.

#transformers #transformers x reader #transformers x human #transformers idw #transformers lost light #valveplug #transformers cyclonus #cyclonus #Cyclonus x reader #Cyclonus idw #mtmte cyclonus #idw transformers #tf idw #mtmte transformers #tf mtmte

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valentine-cafe · 5 days ago

Text

˖⁺. ﹙ yandere sorcerer x male witch reader. ﹚ .𖹭 ݁

. . . pretty thing !! 🍒 : sorcerer ˖ yandere character﹙ verse 9948e alessio. ﹚

a mad sorcerer attacks your village and takes a morbid interest in you | cw: dark content

his presence was like a breeze. as he stepped into your coven. the ease of wind -

that would soon roar into a fierce storm. carrying the screams of your fellow spellcasters. blood rain soaking the ground. and at the eye of it all - stood his dark figure.

unbothered. the height of rigidness. like a flurry of hail ready to cast down on any that find themselves foolish enough to challenge him.

they hadn’t given him what he came for. how is this his fault?

and still. you stumble forward. the blood of your friends fresh in your eyes and a fire in your heart.

on your way to being the best of the coven - you were. well, suppose that title is now yours. when surrounded by your fallen brethren.

you call upon the earth. the sparks of magic flow from your heart and through your veins. zapping at the tips of your fingers. a warning. a challenge. a spark to the storm that rages at the center.

you lunge. he catches.

“pathetic.”

even his voice sounds like the dry wind. straight from the darkest of catacombs. your attacks are met with but a raise of his hand. a twist of his wrist. viridian flies and strains your limbs. planting them to the ground.

death surely awaits you. yet your vision still catches him in front of you. peering those deep - glowing eyes into your own.

curious.

as though the blood of your coven is not on his hands. as though he had not slaughtered them all. why are you any different?

“kill me, you demon.”

tears drip down your face. you cry with a raspy voice. a metallic taste spilling from your lungs and bittering your tongue.

he raises a hand. that frightful viridian swirling from the wrist and blackened veins. straight to his fingertips. you squeeze your eyes tightly and brace yourself. call for your ancestors to tell them - you will be there soon.

you feel it. the static. the dread. the sheer power that reverberates off of this mad sorcerer.

and yet the sweet release never comes. the strike through your heart to draw your magic. rip it from your soul.

instead. a caress.

cold. soft. like snow kissing your cheek. your eyes open to behold the hand now trailing along your face. the dark shadow cast over his face now looming over your kneeling form as he leans over. those green, glowing eyes half-lidded.

“such beauty. . . for a mere witch.”

the words are poison on his tongue. yet they sound sweet to your ears. your stomach churns.

long fingers curl beneath your jaw. tighten. shove your head back. he breathes deep - shaky - and suddenly it is no longer the dread of death that you fear.

but the dread of his cold lips on yours and his dark whisper amongst the thunder.

“pretty thing. . . what a waste to shed your blood.”

#﹙ cupcake rush. ﹚: alessio 9948e 𖹭 ݁#male reader #monster boyfriend #teratophillia #yandere x reader #monster fucker #terato #x male reader #monster x reader #oc x reader #monster oc #x reader #reader insert #original character x reader #sorcerer x reader #yandere x darling #alessio 9948e #asterism

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eldrith · 17 days ago

Text

ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴅᴇɴ ; ᴘᴀʀᴛ ғɪᴠᴇ.

ɪ sʟɪᴛʜᴇʀᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀᴇ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴅᴇɴ ; ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴅᴇ ᴏᴜᴛsɪᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴏᴏʀ

jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader words: 7.0k synopsis: jacaerys fell for something in aegon's garden. chapter warnings: graphic depictions of blood. death, light gore, creepiness, angst, this isn't a very happy story -- angst no comfort. smut (PiV), choking, v brief breeding kink. death. alteration of canon timeline. notes: thank you endlessly to @dipperscavern & @useralba - my muses, my lil ghosties... ily. you've made this whole series happen. & thank u to everyone who stuck around for this series, ive thoroughly enjoyed it n i hope you've enjoyed it too !

series masterlist.

ACROSS THE ISLAND, BURIED DEEP BENEATH THE MOON'S SIGHT, VERMAX ROARS WITHIN HIS NEST.

A shutter of pain, deep and rolling through the volcanic cave; a groan of agony which tapers in a whine of some odd mixture of hungering. Shifting upon felled scales of which more and more rot away each passing eve, Vermax whines, inconsolable and inexplicably agitated.

Dragonkeepers know not how to properly treat such a malady; for the one recorded instance of such an ailment was written in a journal lost to the sands of time and the clutches of madness from a maester long past.

Much too weak to take to the skies, the beast rips into the offered parts of sheep tossed to his depths; and with a stirring hunger deep within, the dragon breathes low and awaits the true feast.

A sweeter feast.

Plumes of boiling breath whisper through the Dragonmont cavern, a heeded admonition to the screeching ravens which flee to the east, towards Aegon’s Garden. They mar the sky in droves; more than two dozen, screaming louder than the rolling sea and darker than the sky itself.

THE SOIL BREATHES BELOW HIM.

It is, at first, merely a deep tremor slipping into Jacaerys’s mind; some forgotten memory in the deafened silence of night, a fuzzy breath of something elsewhere when he sits so very present with you in his lap, the flesh of fruit upon his tongue. A roar so distinct echoes within the thin air high above his mind; up near the Mont - a conspiracy of ravens scream in the night sky above, though it matters not.

For there is a taste so divine Jacaerys has lost all sense; he tremors under your keening sigh, as his tongue presses into the bleeding fruit of the fig, biting down on the salacious flesh and tamping the jolt of his hips as you swirl atop him.

That hunger, what a delicious thing; and you’re all his, he recalls – all his, forever.

You’ve slowed your press of hips against his; indeed, you’ve stilled completely just as his teeth punctured the flesh – and you watch now with a halted, voracious lilt of hunger, cheeks flushed as his own, eyes glinting like opened pits of chasmous desire.

Sweet, cloying – and he feels, as he chews the fruit, your eyes so very piercing upon his lips, watching with some ancient anticipation, some dripping hunger of need.

Slow, a bead of juice drips down his chin; and as your hand falls away, taking the fruit with it, Jacaerys is consumed by a raw hunger to consume.

Heat seeps through him, some spinning, angry beat, but as his hand catches your wrist in an ironed, chilling grip to return the fruit to him in a bout of starved possession, you’ve already leaned forward, catching the juice that slides down the tip of his jaw with your tongue.

You trail the dops as they spill from his lips, coaxing a groan of pleasure from his lips. Shivers slither down his spine at the sensation, a deep hunger unfurling within his gut; and in that moment, your mouth begins to move lower, piercingly cold and yet spurring a ravenous heat that sends his fingers to knot within the fabric of your dress, within the loose strands of your tresses.

Your own palm slides over his chest, raking nails over the exposed skin as the laces untie beneath your wanting grasp.

And soon, your grasp slides up, up – finding a slow, taunting purchase over the bob of his throat, your hips moving slowly as you hum into his flesh and squeeze just lightly in wait.

It is with a flare of arousal he registers your patience; you wait for him to swallow, to feel the fruit as he does so beneath your icy, wanton grip.

And so he does.

Your hand tightens just so a flare of desire sparks with his hunger, his admiration for your soft, supple flesh – such a kind girl, a cursed girl; and he takes what you give him with hungry hands and willing eyes.

His head falls back; the trail of divinity which leaks from the fruit’s taste spreads from his lips, his tongue, to his mind – and soon his chest buzzes, heart galloping as you stir above him, watching with kiss-bitten lips and a dark gaze in the moonlight.

“Gods,” He groans, tongue peeking to swipe over his plush lip, gathering the juices which remain in their glistening sweetness. “Do you- you must feel that?” His sentence is poorly strung and strangled in his crazed ecstasy, brows furrowing as your fingers splay from his throat up to cradle his jaw; and his eyes open once more to find yours lidded and close, peering directly into his soul, breath fanning over his cheek.

“Only you,” You whisper – and by the Gods it is the only thing Jacaerys might hear for the rest of his life; “I only feel you, Jacaerys. I only see you.” You press the words unto his lips and he drinks them up a parched man; his palms tremble upon your hips as he pulls you closer to his warmth – as if he might drown you in such heat, consume you, take you.

It is as if you’ve seen into his mind – Jacaerys feels the wicked grin of yours against his lips, feels the giggle that dies in your throat before it even passes your lips.

A tremble of desire and peril, a whisper between two worlds; and with a tug upon his throat guiding him towards your waiting visage, your lips are slotted once more against his own, the swirling pleasure of the fig’s juice and your own saliva sending jolts of pleasure through him.

His fingers trace the ridges upon your serpented spine – keening hungrily, you let your other hand slide over his tensed abdomen, whimpering into his touch when his teeth graze your lip.

Divine, he thinks. Divine.

The roots below him stir with some life; pulsing, churning over fresh soil and pumping life into the veins of figs plump and ripe above his head; and you, your heart beating with that same rhythm, his own slowly matching it as the pleasure of the fruit within his gut begins to spread. Divine.

It is rather clumsily, frantically that he guides you to tug up your torn dress skirts; your skin glints in a sparkling beauty under the faint light of the moon, and Jacaerys vaguely wishes he were bedding you properly – under a mound of furs, within your marital chambers – dragons dancing within the fabric of your skirts, cheeks flushed with hope to carry his own seed within your belly.

Perhaps a crown upon his head, his hair light and silver as the moon–

It is a jolting thought; one which coaxes, even as your sharp bites mar his skin with presses of cool kisses, a low whisper of memory to his mind. Each drop of spilled blood from the wombs of dragonlords bear the mark of fate.

A glance to his palms, which move to press a thumb at the junction of your exposed thigh and to cup the supple turn of your breast with the other; A curse.

Your lips are sweet upon his skin and he yearns in a way he has never dreamt of – a curse.

His head hits the bark of the fig tree; gazing upon the dappled fractures of moon through the long twisting limbs and swaying leaves, he recalls the story of the moon blossoming, budding the very dragons which slumber across the island in their Mont. What is a curse but the gods’ way of shaping fate into flesh?

Your skin is cooling to his heated cheeks as he presses his hands tighter into you, feeling you; real, alive, willing. Loving, in your lonely, sweet way.

“Jace,” you whisper, pressing your lips to the sharp line of his jaw, trailing down the column of his throat; and he gasps, angling his head sharply to catch your lips in a brutally hungry kiss, one which sends a breath fracturing through your own chest as you press into him, bare and willing and needy against him. “Please, let me have you.”

His jaw clenches in restraint as he restricts a whimper from falling from his wanton lips – though the evening is dark and you are here, tasting of figs and life and love. “Gods,” He moans, pulling you to him impossibly close, without a single care that he’s perhaps been driven mad. “Yes.”

Fingers grasp him frigid and suddenly.

Jacaerys gasps in ecstasy as you move gently, mewling gently against his lips as you guide him further, pulling him under; until every barrier between you and Jacaerys is broken; until you align yourself with him and then sink unto him slowly and with a slight tremored gasp. In fear of movement Jacaerys stills, thumbs tracing your spine and pushing your tresses from your furrowed countenance; a kiss upon your nose, then your cheeks – and you kiss him back then as you begin to rock in a sinful, sacred rhythm that coaxes joint moans from both pairs of lips.

Heat licks over his abdomen in flashes of sharp pleasure; you moaning his name into the quiet of the garden, your name tripping from his lips at each jolt of his impatient, eager hips. Chasing some deep-buried desire and ecstasy, his fingers tremble as they once more find your lips.

Your tongue is icy and gentle, though your teeth nip just so at his skin and he groans into the empty garden, a melodious echo with the sound of your harmony. There is a chilling breeze which spreads through the clearing; in the throes of pleasure, Jacaerys catches a glimpse beyond the soft curve of shoulder, to the faint figures which linger in the outskirts of the shadows.

The statues almost watch; he finds a shiver rolling down his spine, swallowed only by the blossoming pleasure which stirs at your sudden warmth, the presence of you squeezing him, lapping at his tongue, pressing your nails into his ridged, exposed flesh and grinning darkly into the shadows behind him.

His fingers tangle helplessly into the fabric of you, tugging, settling upon your hips and guiding you atop him in desperate need; and you, a picture of blossomed beauty, of devotion, of divinity, of everything above him.

His lips trail over every breath of exposed skin he can find, trembling with desire as the pleasure doubles, tremoring in his heart, spilling words of love from his lips and petals raining from blossomed figs to cover his eyes. A hiss from high above in the limbs of the tree, though you groan loudly; his eyes fall pack onto your figure, shrouded in the moonlight as you glare up at the tree, moving with pleasure and taking it solely from Jacaerys.

That deep possession that’d gripped him since he first met you returns; and with his hands grasping your neck and wrapping around your back he sits up slightly, pulling you with him until you’re seated deep.

With a joint moan of ecstasy, your grip upon his throat slithers; for only a moment, his mind conjures thoughts of a vine coiling around a beating heart, of the turn of rot melting into renewed soil deep below.

A delicious alarm kicks his heart into a frantic leap; and his hips buck up into you in a desperate, languid pace – sending you in a keening moan, coaxing his release closer and closer, the licking heat of pleasure clouding Jacaerys’s mind.

It is with a wild heart and clouded mind he mutters, holding you upon him, moving his hips into your own. “Stay with me,” his voice seeps with desperation; a small leap from the remnants of his despair as he holds you close, that chasmous hunger crawling closer and closer, eyes sealed shut, heat pounding–

And with a soft moan spilling from your lips, your voice hits his ears in a harrowingly calm whisper. “There is no world but this, Jacaerys. I will always be with you.”

It is with a fevered crescendo that Jacaerys finds his peak; hips bucking into you, gasping as your name spills rotten from his bright lips. You follow in suit with a stilled shudder, hand tightening just so upon his throat, thumb searching fervently along his pulsepoint; and a blossoming smile glinting in the moonlight, that dreadful peace he’s made for himself with you.

The night stills only moments later and Jacaerys is left awestruck; a glimpse of something dark and sacred within your lidded, pleased gaze. There is a syrupy glint of saliva and juice upon your lower lip which Jace catches upon his thumb; and with a swift movement, he catches it upon his own lips, humming in the dizzying ecstasy that pulses from the flesh of the fruits looming overhead.

Your hands run through his curls; his trace your spine. You keep him within you, the two of you locked in a tight embrace, until your legs grow tired – you slip off him, his body slowly returning some of the heat lost in your stark presence.

And with gentle presses of your lips upon his, he finds the syrupy coaxing of heavy lids and slow breaths.

IT IS A SHORT WINK UNTIL THE SUN RISES BLOODY OVER THE GARDEN.

It covers him; bleeding streaks of light over his partially unbuttoned tunic as he stirs, lashes fluttering against the oppressive lumination. He uncurls slowly, limbs stretching from reposing once again in the soil; a fragile peace trickles through the garden in such early hours.

Vines hang drooped with the weight of morning dew; petals glisten in their blooms, seeping colour and a syrupy scent through the air as birds chirps far away. A slow breath, one which reminds Jace of the taste of the fruit which lies half-eaten and discarded only a short reach away.

And upon his other side, you – curled against him, lashes fanned over your cheeks, a serenity so unfamiliar and familiar alike in your countenance as your chest rises and falls with the hums of the garden.

Here, it is sacred, your voice reminds him in memory. Names matter not. A soft touch with the back of his hand along your arm, lingering for a moment as his heart clenches; It is only peace, and sweet blooms of eternal summer.

His mind is heavy, weighted as it oft is after a night of too much wine in his cup. Here, the earth feeds itself.

The circle turns.

There is a fullness which feels nearly false; and when he pulls himself free and stands, there is but a mere rustling shift below him.

You are bleary and watchful from below. “You leave so soon?” You wonder – but there is some lilt of amusement, a flicker in that familiar way of a twisting sinister knowing of which he is unaware.

His throat is tight when he nods to you. “I must,” his own voice is far off, cast away in another world. “I’ll return to you.” He promises, though the words crumble to ash and fear within his mouth.

Your eyes flicker and drop when the thought crosses his mind; and with a tight hum, you cast your glance to the statue across the way. “You will.” You agree.

There is a pang sharp and echoing from his mind through his gut; and he forces himself away, unable to withstand the sharp gaze that always seems to see beyond him.

Jacaerys does not recall much of the fickle path which leads through the garden this morning; passing by statues of mourning mothers, of fire-breathing beasts, of an ancient Valyrian High Priestess – his fingers trail gently over the vines which slither across the Maiden statue’s leg, his chest emptier than it has been in a long time.

Fog trickles and swirls around his ankles, seeping through the hedges as vines crawl after him – an eerie calm over his plumed breath as blossoms keen when he passes.

It is not until his palms, fingertips tinged red in the frigid morning frost, push through the iron gates that it strikes him; the weight of memory, of his mother’s words the eve before, of the impending dream that calls to him, whispering of rot, of battles of crumbling statues fought and lost, of gardens burnt to ash and blood.

A rather strange queasiness contracts within his stomach when his feet supplant the frost curling over the wildgrass; his hand rises to his throat, breath shallow – a sharp sensation which stuns him as the air brings shards into his chest.

Dragonstone Castle looms in its gloomy prison of clouds this morning; though the morning light has been tamped, it seems, by some rolling clouds which smother any warmth and leave Jacaerys shivering to his very marrow.

The Maester’s journal lies in the near distance untouched – it is with a bitter resent he retrieves it, knowing no soul besides himself finds themselves the will to venture into this part of the castle.

Fingers tracing the frosted dew along its spine, a strange fear coils around him, settling in his gut and sending his pulse to throb erroneously. He tucks it beneath his arm nevertheless.

A raven screeches overhead, its dark form cutting through the silvered sky as it disappears toward the horizon; just as it sinks, gulls cry – and a dread seeps into his bones.

In a final moment of regret, Jacaerys glances back towards the gates to Aegon’s Garden, half-expecting to see you watching him with that odd lilted bow and the cowering, secretive stare; but there is only silence and the faint rustling of leaves as a low wind stirs and kicks up ash in his imagination.

THE SEAT AT THE HEAD OF THE PAINTED TABLE IS EMPTY.

Jacaerys’s gaze bores holes into it, his head throbbing with the pain of anger, of betrayal, of something rotten, decaying within the back of his mind. There is a sterile sense of emptiness that has begun to penetrate him in this morrow, festering into tight resentment as he glares at the seat.

A twist within his gut; the plunge of a sharpened blade further between his splintered ribs towards his very heart from his mother’s absence. Gone, to Harrenhal, with Addam of Hull – and Jacaerys, left within the cursed skeleton of the island, untrusted, unrecognized.

The base of his skull thrums in pounding agony – the council drones on in voices rising and falling, spiraling towards the stone drum and lilting high into the rafters; and yet Jace waits, gaze sliding with a dreadful ache between the empty chair before him and the windows to the eastern bailey.

There must be some odd draught lingering through the cracks of the old castle; Jacaerys’s skin prickles with cold this morning, an unnatural chill that bites deeper than the breath of cold daylight beyond the walls.

An uneasy shift in his chair, swallowing the dryness within his throat as he actively expels visions of stone and climbing rotted vines spilling in bursts of rotted earth.

The council debates, argues – Jacaerys blinks to focus. Queasiness leaks through him, seeping into his veins and trembling his fingers as he splays them upon the mapped rough of the table before him, focusing on one swimming spot somewhere near White Harbor.

“Jacaerys,” Baela’s voice cuts through the haze; and with a shaky glance to her, he registers the spin of his vision.

A wretched thing – some spiny barbed tail of regret winds its way to puncture his stomach, a vision of the Thorned Dragon curling in on itself as she reaches out, tugging something loose from his curls.

Her brows are furrowed; the room has gone rather quiet, he thinks – pinched between her fingers is one decaying fig leaf, its once glossy skin flaky and peeling away. He watches it pulse slowly, slithering underneath her grasp.

“Did you–” Her eyes glance around before her voice comes in a shorter whisper, one Jacaerys tries to hear amidst the spinning whispers of young laughter and hissing serpents. “Were you outside this morning? You look–” She stops short; a chilling breath in the air as if she’s seeing something unnatural, otherworldly; as if there is more than just that faint sheen of sweat he feels budding upon his pallor, the glassiness of his gaze.

“Jace, you’re–”

But before he can gather his wits to scrape forth some answer, a dull, metallic taste rises; with a sputtering cough, the sound seizes the quiet anticipation of the chamber.

A torture it is as each pinprick of eyes stares at him, his hacking bout of deepening coughs, as the world spins and yet stops at once, as a chilling rain of cold licks down his spine: As a thin trail of crimson splatters onto the edge of his palm, catching in the light, gleaming.

A rich, viscous shine in the morning light peeking through the casements; hunger, some odd and horrifying thing, churns within him at the sight. Blood, glinting as sweet as fig juice in the daylight. His hunger churns in a sickening bout.

“Are you alright, my Prince?” Maester Gerards takes a few wary paces towards Jacarys; it is then that he allows his sight to blearily course over each concerned visage littering the room, searching in some urgent need for comfort: Just to fall onto his mother’s unoccupied chair, his lashline brimming in pain.

He wishes to respond to Maester Gerardys; to explain the strange, chilling cold that winds through his veins – the feeling as though his very blood is thinning, flesh fading beneath the weight of some unseen shroud as tendrils of viney talons grasp onto him and drag him under.

His mouth opens and instead of a meager no, some horrifying gurgle comes instead – and somewhere in the echoes of shadows, someone gasps; it is then he feels it, as his fingers claw at White Harbor’s carved edges – a slow, dark rivulet flowing in a brutal a line down over his lips.

It blossoms quick with crimson blood, but like many things, it rots even sooner.

Jacaerys’s vision is narrowed – with an ache unfurling into a feverish burn that grasps in some ghost of a trail down his throat and into his stomach, a gnawing whisper in his mind tortures his breath: The Garden.

A horrifying burst of energy, a sick waltz that sends his twitching joints jumping; he lurches from his chair as the trickle opens to a river of crimson spilling from his nose – the garden, some pull within his veins scream.

He stumbles, staggering though his legs give way beneath him as he strains to see it; and a chorus of alarmed shouts, the scraping of chairs on stone blurring into a muted roar.

Breathless, a string of metallic viscous saliva spilling from his lips, Jacaerys lies upon the stone cold floor; arm outstretched pathetically towards the window before him, gaze absently fixed upon the only chair at the painted table not overturned in alarm.

Empty as her choice had been.

A rivulet spills into a river over his cheek as his eyes give in to the overwhelming shock of dark; dripping down his face onto the cold stone as your sharp whisper whips through his mind. Dragonlords.

Rotting this world from the inside out.

JACAERYS SURFACES FROM A DREAM THICK WITH DECAY.

He surges in a great, gurgled gasp which startles the man beside him – Maester Gerardys works on a poultice and muddles herbs for tincture at his side. The blurry resurfacing is marred with complete disorientation; the prince feels as though he floats above his mattress, that perhaps his mind floats even higher above that.

“My Prince,” The man sounds relieved; though Jacaerys blinks twisted branches of dead olive trees from his vision, a searing scent of rot clinging to him as his blurred, heavy vision sloshes as ale does in a barrel.

It is his own chamber in which he lies; a scent of incense his mother has favored since she was a child – and he rests resting upon his own mattress, heart beating in a syrupy, frail march; yet nonetheless beating still, as his eyes lull to the open window.

Drawn by some pull, perhaps – there is a flicker of movement down in the greened depths below, some wisp of white fluttering in the breeze, and Jacaerys focuses on it, the thought of you burning upon the fringes of his mind. Gods, he needs you; to see you, to hear your voice, that welcoming cold embrace.

The fig tree looms; an odd observation, as its vision within the garden has long since been marred with fog and distance against straining eyes – yet in his weak glance, Jacaerys sees it clear as crystal. “It’s always in bloom,”

A syrupy remnant upon his tongue – not that divine grace of fig, no – but poppy. Milk of Poppy; with a slow blink, Jacaerys rubs at his tangled lashes, fighting the hazy float of his mind. Maester Gerardys pauses as he muddles some sludged herb – the smell of which is putrid and nearly causes him to wretch. Maester Gerardys follows his gaze with a puzzled stare. “What is, my Prince?”

Jacaerys’s throat tightens in a coiling, sickening dread; though he does not answer, his stare fixed on the tree, its swirling branches waving in the distance. His mother’s hardening glance hits him in a wave of memory – she’s chosen her war, left him to find her awry husband in the Riverlands. Jacaerys swallows down the acidic bile of resentment that crawls up his throat.

"Will my mother return?" He asks weakly, a princeling in need of his nursemaid; but Mester Gerardys presses his lips together in hesitation.

After a moment, he nods. "We've not heard word, My Prince."

He nods, pursing his lips so not as to let them tremble; and a desolate wish, some yearning to instead be not with the old Maester but in your presence. A chill ripples through him after a breath of silence; a rustling sound to his left and Jace turns, breath catching.

Sleek as a shadow – a black cat creeps its way into the chambers, its eyes glinting in a strange intelligence; and an unblinking stare, an eerie stillness – something deep and primal within Jacaerys recoils. The hair upon his neck rises and he tries with much effort to drag himself into a sitting position upon the downed pillows.

It slinks around the curled basin of his tub and Jacaerys is plagued by a deep-rooted shame; of dappled sunlight through olive branches above, of the plush and rich soil that putrifies with acid when rain falls; of a shadow small and youthful, a warbled yelp and a flinch at the sound of thunder clapping above the canopy of the fig’s shade.

It is an invitation, he knows; a sick one, cruel and unusually displayed - though from you or the garden itself, he cannot tell.

A servant enters; her eyes are wide and for a moment Jacaerys wonders if she’s been crying; she sets down a tray of food, grasping the seven-pointed star hanging round her neck. A murmured whisper as their eyes meet; she bows weakly, and Jacaerys watches her disappear into the shadows.

The cat is gone when he looks back.

MAESTER GERARDYS DOES NOT LEAVE JACAERYS’ SIDE FOR QUITE SOME TIME.

He grows exasperated in his muddled state – there is no beauty within such a statement.

It is plain and raw, ugly as exposed roots oozing with blood: Jacaerys is sick.

There has been found no distinct cause as of yet from the maester; it has been whispered of some souring of the blood, an old malady, one which was thought to have been erased from the index of time. Yet still, his soul lingers; throbbing in some rotten movement, Jacaerys waits for Maester Gerardys to excuse himself to retrieve some of his poultice for the head-aches which have plagued Jace even during the best of days – and in this breath of time, there is some horrifying call, some yearning which comes from the very core of him, crawling its way into his mind and infesting his heart.

An instruction to eat lingers in his mind from Maester Gerardys – and there lies the very food brought in by the troubled servant girl, lying in its stale waste; the mere scent of the scones before him, of the stew half-cold, sends his stomach into a lurch.

Agony pulses through him like a poison as he pulls himself from his bed; perhaps his very blood has soured - a shaking hand lifts the spoon to his lips, though his gut churns with a sweeter hunger.

The food is wretched from his mouth before he can merely chew– with horror, he watches the scone crumble into ash, the stew melting into some decayed, rotted sludge which pulses.

The crawling throb of need sears his mind; and a lurch of illness spills a spat wad of bloodied saliva unto the stone floor as he leaves his chambers.

Half-stumbling, half-dragging himself, Jacaerys slinks down the shadowed hall, shallowly sucking air into his chest and concealing his wet, crimson coughs into his trembling arm. There is a pulsing that will not cease; has not ceased since he left the garden this morning; and though there is a whisper in the back of his mind, one which scratches upon the base of his skull, he denies it.

He needs to see you – needs to reach the garden, to feel the pricks of throns upon his pristine skin, to touch something that feels alive.

And it is a sickening thing, some ancient pull, some childhood song sung off-kilter and with a lilt of malicious amusement; a trickle of fear which stirs his hunger further.

Leaves swirl in his vision as he waves the guards off; Ser Marbrand attempts to fetch for Maester Gerardys but with a half-wheeze, Jacaerys insists the Lord will sooner hang from the gargoyles upon the stone drum than he will stop Jacaerys from finding fresh air.

And so he leaves the men behind, cupping his palm to keep the bile at bay; and the hunger consumes him, limping and rotting, vision blotted in the corners; a hunger to find you waiting, blooming amid the fig tree’s weeping branches – to eat, and, perhaps, be eaten.

DAWN FALLS AS JACAERYS DOES.

It might have been a horrible thing, Jacaerys decides as he crawls forwards, halfway past the garden’s first bout of sickly hedges – it might have been a horrible thing, to wish such maladies upon those of his own kin.

And perhaps that is simply what this is: Some sickening punishment, a repentance for the sins committed against those who share his blood – a son for a son, a life for a life. The fruit is rot from the tree of kings; and perhaps that rot will always win out.

His legs gave out just as he'd crossed the first courtyard of the garden; his limbs shake now as he pulls himself with eyes trained unto the earth below; a pounding in his heart that bleeds pain through his veins.

You have not come to his cries of your name; and so that terrifying part of him, that sickness that has laid dormant since the very first time he allowed that juice to press upon his lips; it commands him, it drags him miserably upon his hands and knees towards the tree.

The statues watch with lingering stares.

He can feel their cold shadows dark as omens across his vision; a withered thing looming across the air as lifeless faces watch him with leering grins.

And that air, so thick with the smell of decay and so often masked by the sickly sweetness of blossoms; it leaks into his chest, sending him retching once more into the soil. And yet that desire still churns; What a cruel thing fate is, perhaps, to let his stomach turn in hunger and drown his senses.

Whatever has seeped into the hedges, whatever lurks in the turn of shadows and lingers in the depths of soil in Aegon’s Garden... he knows. It consumes him.

With a last glance back towards the fading vision of the Thorned Dragon’s horns piercing the night sky, he stumbles to his legs and lurches; a wet gasp of pain which yields a sharp bout of coughs; blood paints his hands the dark crimson of his mother’s crown and he allows himself a short sob.

“Hello?” He calls weakly, some half-hoped effort of comfort as he staggers, the earth spinning; vines snag upon his visage, slicing his forehead and yielding another gash of blood to weep from his rotting veins.

Nobody responds.

The Garden shows him mercy just as he collapses; in a shivering effort of hunger and disorientation, he lets his legs give out once more – and Jacaerys collapses onto the earth, tumbling weakly.

His hand lands on a patch of soft, freshly turned soil; and in the dips and sways of his vision, in the sickening scent of festering decomposition, he sees it: A fig leaf.

Clutched and crushed in his spasming fist, he lets out a wet laugh that morphs into a bout of hack – viscous blood comes from him, though as it falls to the earth below, he registers the surroundings.

He lies now upon the other side of the fig tree; it is flatter here, thickly overgrown with rotten, bruised vines and decaying fruits – and beneath him, an overturned earth the very shape and length of himself, some fresh and half-consumed spot from which the tree sprouts.

The truth dawns on him slowly, chillingly — a burial mound, nestled beneath the roots of the tree; damp earth packed with some twisted gentleness, as if it has waited patiently for someone to…fill it.

The acknowledgement is a clawing, grim portent; no graves have been dug on Dragonstone in centuries - indeed it was a ritual seen only before the conqueror found this continent.

Long has passed since the times of burials found the land – yet here it is, waiting, silent, hungry. Lonely.

And perhaps his weak mind plays tricks – or perhaps the garden does – but you suddenly peek from around the tree then, hair hanging low in tresses and your brows furrowed.

Relief bursts in his chest.

You step from beneath the shadows and his heart sings; a fearful lick up his spine at your eyes, flickering knowingly to the plot which he grasps weakly beneath his fingers.

“Jacaerys, my love?” You call as you move toward his curled frame.

Relief flares in him even as the cold attempts to swallow it; there is a fear within his longing, as he reaches for you – though the words in his throat fall dead as something moves in the corner of his eye.

Terror, that old friend, wraps in a coil around his throat; a serpent coils down from the low-weeping branches above, its dark scales of polished onyx in the pale dawn – a patchwork of horror and disgust, Jacaerys takes in the larger scales which fit poorly as though shoved through flesh – a veridian reflection, large as his palm.

Rotted and felled; in the distance, a distinct dragon roars in pain.

Jacaerys is paralyzed, his soul used and weary; he points with a shaky finger though you seem rather undisturbed as you give him that meticulously rehearsed tilt of your head.

The serpent slithers its way up your thigh; some horrifyingly undisturbed look upon your face, even as your dress skirt ruches with it, revealing your marred skin underneath.

A primal fear grips his throat – you stand before him with that glazed over look; a dreamy grin crawling over your face as the serpent hisses in that familiar trickle he recalls from the limbs in the tree.

And it is you:

You, an image of the maiden statue; the serpent coiling tighter until your leg has grown grotesque and purple, yet still you grin so hungrily, so sinister as Jacaerys pushes away with his shaking hands.

“He fears the serpent, too,” you finally murmur into the stagnant air, as if sharing a secret with the earth itself – and your hand, moving along to stroke the head of the serpent which watches hungrily upon Jacaerys’s weak body. “But I’ve told him, the serpent should be the least of your worries, my Prince.”

There is dread which lodges into Jacaerys’s mind alongside an inkling of foreboding knowledge. “Who… who fears it?”

And with a tilt of your head, with a knowing gleam in your eyes, you gesture behind him; Jacaerys twists painfully, wiping blood from his lips.

His heart seizes.

Luke stands just beyond reach, hovering in the hedges – a face pale, eyes wide and tearful, locked upon the serpent with a stare of pure, unfiltered terror.

“Luke-” Jacaerys gasps, hand flying to his stomach, feeling as though his body is emptying, seeping into the soil below. Panic flares in him – and his brother snaps towards his gaze at his voice, their eyes locking.

Tears prick along Jacaerys’s lashline as Lucerys steps back, face crumpling, his voice choked. “Don’t… don’t, Jace,” Luke pleads, trembling as he takes another step away. “Please. Don’t.”

Jacaerys’s heart shatters, his last spark of strength spent in reaching for his brother; voice a thin, desperate rasp so unlike his own. “Luke! Wait–”

But Luke dissolves into the shadows and Jacaerys is crushed wholly by the weight of abandonment. His vision swims, hair tangled with the grasping vines, weak as the ground thrums with a pulse he feels within his heavy heart. And you are gone, in that hazy place of yours – though he calls to you nonetheless.

You look at him, face shrouded with an eerie glint of amusement. He wheezes out a sickly cough, unbothered to wipe the blood which spills — and your gaze traces the drop hungrily.

“I think I’m dying.” He admits weeakly, wishing for nothing else than to come back to you, the true you; the girl with the shy grins, the cold lips, the butterfly lashes and hide-and-seek tendencies.

When you look down at him, the snake sliding to linger over your shoulder; an eternal companion – something lingers. Some hunger, deeper than any he has known. “Life and death,” you muse in a sickening encore of your words spoken not two days past, “are sometimes one and the same, Prince Jacaerys.”

A hot tear slips down his cheek; the final vestige of strength as he chokes on the scent of death which drains him from the earth below. “I love you, I–” He whispers, heart aching and hungry, “...you’re cruel.”

There is much to say; though Jacaerys can feel the blood which has begun to weep from his nostrils, from his mouth; the end is near, and it smells of rotten fruit and damp earth.

But you shake your head slowly, a strange sadness ghosting over your lips; the serpent is discarded as you kneel to the soil beside him, shaking your head – the stains return on your dress in the fading light, and Jacaerys sees them – two long gashes, bleeding heavily upon your stomach and breast; a decay, an eternal decay. “No, my prince,” you whisper, a soft caress over his cheeks as your fingers smooth his tears, mixing them with the trail of his seeping blood. “I am not cruel. I love you. There is no world but this.”

As you speak, the garden seems to hold its breath; And then, with a terrible clarity, the realization settles over him—a revelation that seeps through his bones colder than death itself.

The plot he lies upon is not meant for him — it is already yours.

His gaze locks onto the soil, and he feels the rot beneath it reach out, creeping up his spine with its tendrils of vines and cloying morning glories – Jacaerys reels with a sickening gasp, eyes straining in fear between your calm, serene face and the fig tree, eternal in its bloom.

The roots sprout from it, decaying anywhere it can; roots sprouting from the remains of what once was… you.

His heart pounds, but he cannot look away, his breath quickening as fragments of Layne’s mad warnings echo in his mind. He’s sick; though with a tremble, he blinks at you. And what greater curse is there than to eternally live and yet still to die?

Jacaerys sputters as blood fills his mouth; in a panic, he wishes – he wishes for you.

It is once again as if you’ve read his mind; your lips press into his, and for the first time, you are warm.

Your lips are warm and thrumming with life against his own, blossoming in the slick of spit and tears, of blood and rot, of love and death.

This garden watches; it sows, reaps, sows. Jacaerys clutches you closer until you’re pressed against him, lying within the plot, breaths mingling and shallow, shuttering and warm.

And it is only then he feels as though he can see clearly – each moment, each drop of juice from the fig’s flesh unto his own flashes in his mind in a horror of understanding.

A slow rot, perhaps – from the first time his lips pressed yours to last night, the fig within his mouth. A slow decay, the voice whispers as you pull away from his lips, your own eyes shining with tears – for him, perhaps. Their fate, I fear, is that of slow decay. “We will be together,” You’ve whispered to him – but there is a harsh thrumming, a trembling that has begun in his chest and legs and it has begun to crawl its way to his heart; he cannot speak, he cannot move. Tears are hot as they fall from his unblinking eyes, and you wipe them away with your lips.

Targaryens, Jacaerys thinks as the setting sun kisses the hedges and sends sprawling light over the edge, What a cursed line. Gods among men – but gods do not bleed.

Gods do not rot.

He watches the curve of your smile in his narrowing vision, his lips parting into a sick, gasping circle as he tries to speak. A torture, searching for air he cannot find, for words which will not come.

Again, and again. The circle turns – and then his hands fall limp.

Above, the fig tree looms, its branches heavy with fruit, ripe and bursting; a feast – leaves fall gently and the garden hums with an eerie stillness; a marriage of decay and beauty, of life entangled eternally with the winking, serpentine eyes of death.

Jacaerys watches you – and you watch back as the light leaves his eyes, a wicked smile curving on your lips; your love now bound in the soil, claimed by the roots of the tree.

IN THE HOURS FOLLOWING THE DEATH OF PRINCE JACAERYS, THE SUN DISAPPEARED.

It is said that, having returned to the Prince’s chambers to find the bed empty and a cat curled upon the mattress in search of his body’s warmth, Maester Gerardys alerted the Queensguard to search the castle – though he knew indeed where the young Prince had gone.

It was only moments before the Maester took to entering the gates himself that a deafening roar bellowed from the skies high above Dragonstone Castle, and he hesitated in fear for his life; for the screeching echo of pain and grief grew closer, until it was directly before him.

Vermax, the Prince Jacaerys’s mount quite stricken with scale rot and madness, had taken to the sky with his last bout of will.

The sickened creature, spurred perhaps by his rider's death or by some deep, unknowable grief, circled the tower of his rider’s chambers before dropping to fly low over the cursed Aegon’s Garden.

With no hesitation, the dragon unleashed flames upon the entire stretch of garden; the inferno raged for hours, the charred soil and twisted roots bearing scars that would last for generations still to come, leaving only smoldering ash and a battlefield of crumbled statues in its wake.

When at last the flames subsided, only one relic stood unscathed amidst the ruin:

A statue of a young Maiden, a serpent carved upon her leg; her marbled form defiant and serene against the embers – her face fixed in a knowing, wicked smile.

It was said that the loss of her eldest son drove the Queen near mad, for her grief was doubled; once more, she had a son to mourn and yet no body to lay upon a pyre. No silent sisters could prepare him; no flame to carry her son home, and the sept upon Dragonstone stood empty that day. The Dragonkeepers did not sing.

And thus, it was only Maester Gerardys and a solitary servant who swept the last remnants of Aegon’s Garden into history.

Ash and char scattered to the sea breeze, the gardens of old burned and blackened as they worked silently.

Gerardys, peering over the twisted, rotted remnants of fruit among the vines, sighed deeply and muttered to the servant as they collected what little was left – a journal scarred and burnt, a torn blue crook of a cloak with seahorse embellishments; all atop the one section of soil that remained plush, despite its smoldering vicinity.

Aegon’s Garden was no more.

Rotten fruit, the Maester said to the servant, whose nose was tinged red in her mourning; rotten, from the tree of kings.

The circle turns, after all.

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