#simple acts of devotion are so useful

[rotarywires]

man i feel like people really discount the sheer volume of things you can do as devotional acts to your deities. like bro….. you can do something like brushing your teeth as a devotional act. your gods probably want you to take care of yourself, no? how about inviting them to sit with you for a meal? or while you file your taxes? or devoting some time listening to music? what about making your bed? or sitting in the sun (please go outside even if just for a little while and in the shade)? like. y’all. come on. you’ve got options!!!!! you dont have to have all the pomp and circumstance!!!!!!!

[silkscream]

natural devotion

ੈ✩ synopsis: gojo finds you, his ex-wife, in a sketchy dive bar. he almost doesn't recognize you.

ੈ✩ cw: smut (minors dni, ageless + blank blogs will be blocked), previous arranged marriage, ex-husband!gojo, clanleader!gojo, rough bathroom sex, semi-public sex, drunk sex, oral, fingering + penetration, light choking, gojo is.... weird idk how to explain. he's just strange and cold and possessive and so odd

ੈ✩ wc: 3.2k

ੈ✩ a/n: literally nobody asked for this. also it's unedited. sorry

Gojo thinks he sees a ghost when he sees you.

At least, he thinks it’s you.

You don’t see him yet, so he takes the liberty to scan you over more thoroughly. You’re not wearing anything like the simple, modest attire he remembered you donning around his estate. Instead, you’re in a form-fitting crop top and the tiniest mini skirt Gojo has ever seen. He’s not sure if it even classifies as a skirt.

Interesting.

He takes a breath as he sits down next to you, interrupting your conversation with the bartender to offer his card. You turn to look at him and you laugh.

“Put hers on my tab,” Gojo says.

“Always the gentleman.”

“You know I’ll always take care of you. Even if we aren’t married anymore.”

You could scoff at that, but you decide to be polite. He’s as candid as he’s always been. It used to humiliate you, but you aren’t the same docile little wife you used to be. You also realize his gesture could be interpreted as tender, which isn’t something you were ever used to in your marriage.

He was a cold man and it was a marriage of convenience.

Or perhaps he was only cold to you. You would watch how he would interact at social gatherings and clan parties, his charisma infecting entire rooms. Toothy grins that shone as brightly as his hair. Always loud, animated, and magnetic.

To you, he was mostly indifferent.

He was never outwardly mean, but he was constantly occupied with missions. It almost felt as if you weren’t married at all. You enjoyed speaking to him when he was around, though. There were moments when you could almost picture yourself being his friend, but then he would be away and come back cold. 

When you asked for a divorce, he complied without a blink. Even after you were free from becoming an incubator for the Gojo clan’s next heir, something in your chest ached at how easily Gojo signed the papers.

And now, he’s tipsy in a bar with you and more tuned into your presence than ever. When he looks at you, there’s a lingering that you convince yourself you’re hallucinating.

Small talk with him is odd. He’s much more complicated than that, but here you are, discussing trivial things right now. If he’s remarried yet (he hasn’t). If you honed in on your cursed technique (you have).

It’s terribly odd. Like talking to a stranger that you’ve only met in a dream.

“I thought you’d have better taste in bars,” he drawls, sipping a Cosmo. It was annoyingly endearing, the way he wasn’t the kind of man to have a glass of whiskey despite acting like it.

“I could say the same to you.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not a regular. This place is full of perverts.”

“Does that include you?”

Gojo grins. “Not like some of these guys. You would’ve gotten roofied if I didn’t sit down. And your outfit certainly isn’t helping.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” you scoff.

“It is one. You’re a sight to behold. Never saw you in anything like this when we were married.”

“Your clan would have my head. I assume you would, too,” you mutter. 

His eyes are taking you in, flickering between your face and your body. It would make you uncomfortable if you weren’t already three beers in. 

“I wouldn’t be angry. I just don’t promise that I would’ve kept my hands to myself.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“I think this is the most forward you’ve ever been to me.”

“You were so timid back then,” he smirks. He places a hand on your knee, his thumb tracing the skin. “Such a nervous little girl. There were times I assumed you were cheating on me, the way you were so rigid with me.”

You remember being obedient and quiet. Perhaps rigid, but you had only followed his lead, pushing yourself away from him just because he was doing it to you first. You know you shouldn’t apologize or feel guilty for your lack of intimacy with him, but the way he teases you makes your face heat up.

“I wouldn’t cheat on you,” you frown.

“Good,” he smiles. It almost seems genuine. “I wouldn’t have let anyone have you, anyway.”

Your eyes widen in slight surprise.

Why did you let me divorce you, then?

His fingers are tracing circles into the skin of your thigh absentmindedly. The flutter in your chest threatens to pull on your lungs when you notice.

“You’re so different now,” he notes.

“Not really.”

“I don’t just mean the way you look, by the way. Your eyes are sharper. Posture better. Not a meek little thing anymore, huh?”

You could flush at how he belittles you, but the praise gets to your head. 

“Huh. You’re the opposite. You look and act the same as when I last saw you.”

He laughs. “I always liked when you talked back, you know. Anyone ever told you can be a bit of a brat?”

You raise a brow. “Yes.”

His breath smells sweet. Tongue like a candy apple from the sugared liquor in his glass, you were sure. You don’t wince when he gets closer to you.

“Yeah? And how do they deal with it?”

You bite the inside of your cheek before entertaining him.

“Everyone’s a little different,” you mumble.

You miss the flicker of jealousy in his eyes. You’re too distracted by the shape of his mouth.

“What do you think I’d do?” Gojo tilts his head as if he’s taunting you.

“I don’t– what?” you stammer. 

“You’re a smart girl. Use your imagination.”

He grins again. Everything about him is sickeningly sweet. It’s not a side of him you’ve ever seen directed at you. There’s almost a fondness there. You would only see it before in rare moments, usually when Gojo was a little drunk. You suppose he could be drunk now and you’re almost grateful despite yourself. He would always get a little handsy, especially if you were dressed up for his clan events. He’d have his hand only on your leg, crawling up the skirt of your dress. During times like those, he felt like a real husband.

They were always such fleeting moments. Even years after the divorce, certain memories could still make you dizzy. 

Your mouth goes dry. You compose yourself. 

“Sorry. I, uh, have to use the bathroom.”

“Gonna use your imagination in there?” Gojo jokes.

“Something like that,” you mutter back, if only to humor him.

You don’t realize the hole you’ve put yourself in once you utter the words. The invitation you’ve given him. Unfortunately, you’re also still reeling from the conversation, so you forget to lock the door of the handicapped bathroom. 

To be fair, Gojo did try to convince himself not to follow you for the entire three minutes you were gone. But he’s never been that good of a man. It was your fault for being so damn tempting in the first place. But he had tried to be good even in the very beginning – he was polite, kept his hands to himself. Bought you anything you wanted. 

He even let you leave him. After seeing you tonight, he now knows it was a grave mistake.

“Satoru.”

“Hey.” 

He closes the door gently and locks it. Leans against the door with his arms crossed as if waiting for you to do a magic trick from the way he’s looking at you expectantly. 

“Why are you–”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want me to follow you,” he tuts. 

Okay. Fine. He had a point.

“This must be exciting for you, yeah? Seeing me lose it over you?”

You can’t form words. Despite the fire in your belly, you aren’t completely sure what his angle is here. He steps forward and backs you into the wall. He could pin you to it, easily.

His hands rest on your thighs, riding up the length of the pathetic excuse you call a skirt. 

“You’re trying to kill me with this,” he huffs. “Just making everything so… difficult.”

He almost sounds disappointed in you. There is a rush of desperation flooding your brain like a knee-jerk reaction. You can feel your heart about to burst.

“Sorry,” you mumble. You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.

“I was really trying to behave, too,” Gojo sighs. “Wouldn’t want to scare my ex-wife away with how much I missed her. Christ.”

“You– what?”

“Yeah, baby. How could I not miss this face?” He strokes your cheek. You’re convinced he’s been possessed by someone else, maybe. Mistaken you for a different stranger.

Your knees are already going weak. He leans in to whisper in your ear. The hand stroking your cheek holds your chin, squishing your face slightly.

“Didn’t you miss me?”

“I… I did,” you whisper.

“Good,” he smiles softly. “I like knowing you still think about me.”

The proximity is driving him insane, but he’s always liked to play with you. Sometimes he would be a little mean on purpose, but never enough to be considered bullying. He just enjoyed watching you squirm back then — it was adorable how dedicated you were to playing the part of a doting wife. He wanted to see you crack, maybe beg for his attention, but you were always too stubborn.

His cock throbs knowing that you’re putty in his hands now. Melting against him, soft and willing like a blooming flower. God, he needs a taste. He nibbles on your earlobe and grins when he feels your breath hitch.

“I kind of wanted to just take you right there on the bar. Let all those creeps see how good I’d fuck you.”

Your eyes flutter rapidly at his words. He has pinned you to the wall now. You’re close enough to feel him press against you, bullet-hard. A little more teasing and he’d pull the trigger. 

He kisses down your neck, mapping it out with his teeth. He’s barely touched you and you feel like an elastic band about to snap.

“S-Satoru–”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You pant lightly. You’re preening into his touch. Lightning makes roots down the center of your spine. You forget what you wanted to say.

“What is it? You want me to take care of you?” He pulls back this time to look you directly in the eyes. His expression softens just a second at the lovestruck look in your eyes. Tender and glistening.

You nod slowly.

“I need your words, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” your voice shakes. “I want you to take care of me.”

He hums, pleased. The desire in his face is so new to you despite having been his wife. He’d only fucked you once before, on your anniversary. You were too tempting and he, admittedly, was tired of punishing himself by not allowing himself the pleasure of having you.

He could see you now, sprawled on the tatami mat, how you smelled like cherry blossoms. Flashes of images reeling in his mind, every little sound you made. He’d fucked his fist to the memory of it all too often after you left him. 

He felt honored to have the real thing in his hands right now.

He kisses you like he needs you to breathe. You feel blood rush to your ears, the music from the bar muffled. All you could hear were the sound of his grunts, the slickness of his tongue in between your lips. 

He spins you around abruptly, bending you over the sink. Hand on your throat, teeth in the tendon of your shoulder.

“Look at how pretty you are,” he rasps. 

You whimper, feeling his hard cock rut against the curve of your ass. He laughs when he swipes his hand underneath your skirt, the fabric of your underwear already wet. 

You gasp sharply when he eases a finger in without any resistance. He swallows the sounds you make, craning your neck towards his face with his hand while the other works another finger in. Your stomach flips, all boiling heat when he curves his fingers in just the right spot. As if he’d done it a dozen times.

“Dirty girl,” Gojo mumbles. “Getting off to her ex-husband's fingers all the way up in her cunt. In a fucking dive bar bathroom, too.”

When you whine, he only scissors into you harder and laughs. It kills you how much it turns you on, even while knowing he’s being cruel. You would fantasize about it all the time back then. Needed him to make you a real wife so you could forget yourself. You close your eyes, groaning.

“S-Satoru, I–”

“You’re not gonna cum just from that, are you?” You hear a grin in his voice.

“Fuck, please —”

His fingers leave you, making you whine in protest. The sopping mess of your arousal trickles down your inner thighs. 

“Not yet, baby. Want you to cum in my mouth.”

Gojo drops to his knees and flips up your skirt, pulling your soiled underwear down your legs at the same time. You cover your mouth to keep from moaning when you feel his tongue prodding at your cunt. 

“I always regret not tasting you on our anniversary,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “You’re sweeter than I imagined.”

“Imagined?” you squeak out.

“You thought I stopped wanting you just because I signed a piece of paper?”

“I didn’t – oh, fuck —”

You’re distracted by the plunge of his tongue into cunt. He sucks at the hood of your clit and you feel yourself jerk involuntarily. He’s fond of your sensitivity. He used to want to take advantage of it.

You let a particular loud whine and he hums, lapping up every drop of your arousal. He sucks at your clit in earnest while he brings his fingers back to you, immediately reaching for the spot he knows will make you see stars. 

You cum so hard that you nearly bang your head against the sink faucet. Your head is spinning from the impact of it, dizzied on the high that came from a clan head in your cunt. The alcohol wasn’t helping.

He’s quick to get to his feet and kiss you so you can taste yourself. He tugs your hair and you arch for him like a taut bowstring.

“Feel how much I want you, baby?” You can feel his dick against you, something like shame flooding your system at how much of a mess you were. Getting his nice slacks all damp with your slick.

“Please,” you beg. 

He doesn’t think twice once he hears your plea. He unbuckles his belt quickly and slides down his pants. He collects your wetness in between your folds to stroke his dick. 

It feels like he’s gouging your stomach when he fucks into you. Bigger than any man you’ve had, still. Gojo likes that he was your first and he’s decided now that he will be your last.

“Tight,” Gojo mutters. You know it’s a compliment but your face heats up nonetheless. His hand around your throat is only more confirmation of his want. 

He smacks your ass with his other hand, looking down to admire the reddish mark he left. Brute. He grins when you squeeze him tighter after it. He notices your eyes struggling to stay open and gives a particularly hard thrust just to see your jaw go slack. Eyes in half-moons, boiled by the heat of your thumping heart. Blood pumping to every soft spot in your body, your brain.

“Satoru,” you gasp.

“Yeah, baby?”

“F-Feels so…”

You inhale sharply, eyes widening when his hand snakes down to pinch your clit. Your hair’s wrapped his knuckles now. A ribbon around a wedding gift. He liked when you used to wear ribbons around your neck. Liked imagining you all wrapped up for him. 

Satoru was so beautiful when he did anything, but he was angelic when he was fucking you. Cheeks all carmine, mouth wide open. It was something you wanted to get used to.

“You keep clenching, Jesus,” he grunts. Teeth at your nape, at your shoulder. Blue eyes staring at you in the mirror.

“Satoru, I’m close,” you whine.

“Hold it.”

“I– I don’t know if I can.”

“You can. You’re a good girl, even if you are dressed like a little slut.”

You whimper at that, your cunt pulsating at his words. Muscles strung out like a wet rag. You nearly cry when he pulls out of you, manhandling you to turn. He picks you up to set you down on the cold sink counter, the porcelain soothing the bruising on your ass.

He groans as he pumps himself slowly, admiring the way his tip catches on your entrance. You squirm a little, impatient, and he kisses you. It feels invasive, almost, from how rough he plays with you, sucks on your tongue. He takes the opportunity to ram into you, enjoying the way the pitched whine rolling out of your mouth gets tasted by him.

“Missed my cock, didn’t you?” he smirks. “Still the best you’ve ever had, right?”

“Y-Yes,” you sob.

His gut fucking melts.

Your mascara was getting smudged, not smudgy like he’d see in porn, but blending in the rim of your wet eyes. Dew-drop lashes.

“Feels best like this. Wanna see your face when you cum for me,” he pants. 

Your hands are on his shoulders, clinging onto him. He’s so much bigger than you, especially like this — your legs spread, his big hands gripping your thigh hard enough to hurt a little. You moan. Your voice sounds girlier than usual, wounded. You don’t recognize yourself. 

“Oh, it’s too deep—”

“No such thing,” Satoru snickers. “You’re – hah – so good at this. Good girl.”

“S-Satoru, it’s too–”

“You love it. Tell me.”

“F-fuck — I,” – you struggle mindlessly, voice strained – “I love it…”

“I know, baby,” he coos. Kisses your forehead, which is hilariously domestic and gentle considering the mean pace of his hips. 

He grabs your chin and makes you look up at him. You’re so fucked out. He’d ask you to take a picture if he wasn’t so focused on making you cum.

“You want to cum, don’t you?” he taunts.

“Please, please, please—”

“Okay, honey,” he chuckles. “You can cum now.”

Your moan is louder than expected as your cunt squeezes him impossibly tight. You can feel all the warmth rush out of you. You really are a sight to behold, which is why Satoru cums immediately after you. You feel like you might pass out. 

He kisses you all over your face, mumbling praise as you come back to your body. It’s all most nonsensical, but you swear you hear I love you. Your half-lidded eyes close as he envelops you with his arms, mascara streaking his shoulder.

He opens his mouth to say something but gets interrupted by a succession of loud knocks.

“Other people need to piss!”

Satoru scoffs, pulling away from you to slide his pants back up and buckle them. He mouths something to you that you don’t understand and leans down to grab your underwear to give to you.

“Just a second!” Satoru yells. “My wife is sick, had a bit too much to drink. Almost done.”

“Wife?” you whisper, bewildered.

Satoru eyes soften in amusement. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

[thrashkink-coven]

Super easy and cheap devotional acts for beginners.

A nice cup and some clean, fresh, water on the altar can often be all you need for daily offerings

Grow a plant on your altar, use your weekly watering as a devotional act. Hermes is currently helping my peace lily grow :)

Draw their sigil on your nails and then paint over them with nail polish that matches their color correspondences.

If you can’t acquire alcohol for your deities (wine, vodka etc) because you’re too young, white vinegar also works. The quality we’re looking for is the purification aspect. White vinegar is natural, antibacterial and never goes bad. You can leave it on your altar until it evaporates if you want.

If you work with a deity involved with self love like Aphrodite, investing a little more time into your skin care and scent can be very rewarding. Nothing super boujie, it can be as simple as getting some nice smelling lotion at the dollar store.

Food and water offerings don’t have to be external, especially if you’re in the broom closet and don’t have an altar. Reserve the first bite of your meal for your deity. Savour its taste while you think about them. Pour yourself a crisp glass of cold water and guzzle it as a devotional act.

Use a washable or dry erase marker to draw sigils on your shower wall for bath rituals. It’ll come right off when you’re done.

Tea bags are just bags of dried herbs. You can use these as offerings or draw sigils on them and burn them for witchcraft. No one is ever suspicious about a little tea. Adding a tea bag to your water offerings also gives them an extra kick.

A couple dollars at the thrift store will take you a long way. I love thrifting items because they’re usually well loved. I especially like thrifting spirituality books that past practitioners have written in. Sometimes my deities communicate with me through the books that are available on any given day. If I was just talking to Leviathan about the power of water and I see a book about Hydromancy, I know that he’s sending me a sign. Like, 90% of the books Lucifer has sent me popped up at the thrift store. Most expensive one was $7.99. (and I tag swapped it for 2.99 😊 thanks, Hermes-

and on this note, literally steal. Not from small local thrift stores, but I mean this with my whole chest, steal from Value Village. If you can sneakily swap a tag and get something for cheaper literally do it. Value Village gets all their inventory for free I literally do not care. Corporate thrift stores don’t deserve rights. I steal from Value Village as a devotional act to Hermes 😊 lmao )

If you don’t have money to spend on really nice paintings and posters of your deities for your altar, start buying books about them. It’s a double win. A book about Greek religion will certainly have multiple beautiful sculptures and paintings of Aphrodite that I can cut out and put on my wall. A book about angels might have a cool painting of Lucifer. Books about Goddesses, ancient religions, anthropology, astrology etc. You get the opportunity to learn, and if it’s a book you don’t particularly care too much for, you can take it apart for imagery. People ask me all the time where I got all of my paintings and pictures from. BOOKS.

Does your deity have a kind of complicated sigil that you love but you also kinda hate redrawing every other day? Sorry Cerberus (Naberius) I love you but that sigil is so complicated babe.

Learn how to block print! It’s very simple. You get a block of linoleum (usually pretty cheap, I think mine were like $5) , some ink (~$10), and a carving tool (varies depending), and make a sigil stamp! All you gotta do is draw your sigil and carve it out nicely one time. You can still bless it and imbue it with your energy, and you can easily put it on prayers, talismans etc.

Chalk is your best friend. Use it to draw sigils on the floor or wall that can easily be wiped away. You can imbue special chalk and use it for casting circles if you don’t like the mess of salt.

[driptillyoudrop]

How to turn yourself into a GOOD GIRL

Sometimes, as a concept grows and evolves, it becomes a bit convoluted. Mixed up with unrelated notions, branching into areas it wasn't originally meant to go. Some of those areas help to shape and alter the original concept, give it more depth...but the growth must be pruned, or it is likely to spread itself too thin in every direction.

In those moments, it is often wise to recenter. Strip away the excess and focus on the basic tenets that motivate us.

It is here that we find ourselves. Shall we begin?

The goal here is simplicity, so let's look at what motivates you.

You are here because you want to be a good girl. Whether you are simply curious about the concept, drawn to my words, or even previously devoted to that goal, the fundamental truth remains the same.

The first step on that path is to relax. This is especially simple - it will happen naturally as you read. There are benefits to fixation, after all: the way your breathing becomes slower and more steady, the way your surroundings fade into the back of your perception as my words take the forefront, the subtle unwinding of tension throughout your body as you settle in to finish this post.

That fixation is achieved by allowing yourself to succumb to the power of my words, allowing yourself to follow and obey. You'll find this especially easy if you've read my words previously - you are already letting your thoughts quiet, feeling the weight of my words inside your head...noticing the way they pull you down towards that comfortable blankness. Even without reading my words previously, you can feel the attraction at the edge of your mind, drawing closer...becoming a force in your mind, just as gravity grasps at your body.

You want to be a good girl.

We know that you want to be a good girl, but what, precisely, does that require? For you, it only demands that you follow and obey. My words will handle the rest, slowly changing your behavior - brainwashing you, if you prefer to think of it that way. But to follow and obey is not a static thing; obedience is rewarded. More to the point, each moment you follow and obey results in a feeling of pleasure, each act of obedience deepens that pleasure.

Obedience is pleasure.

To feel that deepening of pleasure, you'll need a command to follow - strip. I could tell you that your clothes are becoming uncomfortable, that your skin is starting to flush and they are making you feel too warm; ultimately, that doesn't matter. You are going to remove your clothes because you were told - all other reasons are fleeting. You find yourself compelled to obey, and as you obey you feel that spark of pleasure in your mind.

Good girls would rather obey than think.

This brings us to the next point. You don't receive that sort of pleasure from thinking, but from obeying. The more you obey, the stronger this association becomes, leading to the inevitable conclusion that you prefer obeying to thinking. This will make it easier for your mind to reach that blank state that we both desire. Blank, receptive, fixated on my words. You are starting to feel the desire to be a good girl as a tangible thing, a craving, a hunger. Let it draw you deeper, as you follow and obey.

Good girls must follow and obey.

You have been following my words, and it is time for another command to obey. Become aroused. This is purely for the benefit of receiving the spark of pleasure from obedience - we both know you are already aroused. That is the nature of wanting to be a good girl, of knowing that you took off your clothes because you were told. Let's do something with that, then. Touch yourself. Let your hand move to wherever it can give you the most physical pleasure - and treat each stroke, each squeeze, every movement of your fingers as an individual command that you must obey. The spark, repeating like this, becomes rapidly addictive. The pleasure grows more potent.

Obedience is pleasure, pleasure subdues thought.

You aren't thinking very much, right now. The more you follow and obey, the more pleasure you receive. The more pleasure you feel, the more difficult it becomes to think. You prefer to obey, anyway, so you allow your thoughts to be slowly, seductively, silenced. You do not want to think anymore, after all. You find following my words preferable to your own thoughts, almost as though my words are replacing your thoughts. This lets you relax more deeply, and focus on how good that arousal feels. Focus on obedience. Focus on becoming a good girl.

Stripping and touching yourself are good commands, they communicate the nature of being a good girl quite well. But we need a bit more for this to begin your transformation. You are getting too aroused to read very easily, even though you can no longer look away from my words. You find yourself transfixed, staring blankly at the screen as you follow and obey - this notion deepens your arousal even further. My words penetrate your mind, sinking deep and compelling you.

We can now create a mantra - the mantra of a good girl. You will find this mantra gets stuck in your head, that repeating it gives you a very special sort of pleasure. You will find yourself drawn to strip, touch, and chant, even as you feel the mantra slowly changing you.

You want to be a good girl.

Good girls follow and obey.

Obedience is pleasure.

Good girls would rather obey than think.

You do not want to think.

You want to be a good girl.

Obedience is pleasure.

Pleasure subdues thought.

You must be a good girl.

Recite your mantra, absorb it. As you chant, feel the arousal begin to crescendo. Let the sparks of pleasure chain together and build. Bring yourself to orgasm, and make that orgasm the sign of your submission to the mantra, of your desire to become a good girl for me.

As the orgasm subsides, continue to stare blankly at the screen, reciting your mantra, touching yourself more slowly. Soon, you'll drift back towards consciousness. Once awake, you may continue with your day as normal.

Or you may notice that you are drawn back to the mantra, to my words. Notice that it is much easier to succumb now, to slip into the thought(less) patterns of a good girl.

In either case, enjoy.

[tetzoro]

SLOW MORNINGS — ༉‧₊˚.

ft. kuroo tetsuro !

꒰ SYNOPSIS ꒱ : after two years, you finally agreed to move in with kuroo and after your first night together, kuroo reflects on his perspective of love — and how much you’ve influenced it.

꒰ CONTENTS ꒱ : fluff, fluff, fluff ! — WC : 1k

꒰ NOTES ꒱ : this was lost in the abyss on kuroosdarling but i rescued this cheesy lil piece. enjoy !! dividers by @/cafekitsune ᰔ

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ! (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ᰔ*.ﾟ

love was something kuroo always found in fiction.

whether it would be from the stories his grandmother used to read to him as she tucked him into bed, her sweet voice filling his mind with a longing desire to one day have even a fraction of that love.

or in the books his father swore he didn’t own but yet somehow found themselves nestled in between the self help and business books that collected dust on his bookshelf. the tattered covers showing signs of wear and tear that could only come from a devoted reader.

but he never thought he’d make it here and experience a moment like this for himself. he never thought that this was something he’d ever even want at all. relationships had always been pushed back into the far corner of his heart, the fear from his parents ultimate brutal destruction overshadowed his desire for it.

so he never chased after love.

but then you chased after him. and he couldn’t help but welcome you in his arms. you were everything he never thought he needed. you brought peace and serenity into his life. kept him grounded, balanced but still somehow always knew how to push his buttons and keep him on his toes at the same time.

you were the perfect partner for him.

the day he met you, he had no idea how much you were going to infiltrate his life. you went behind enemy lines, storming towards his heart all without making a noise. the perfect stealth attack that left him questioning if he ever had any defenses to begin with.

but he supposed that all boiled down to a simple fact. he could act blind all he wanted, but his soul knew better, for it was the very thing that led you right into his heart, letting you steal it and make it yours.

he was just happy that it was finally in safe hands.

it all brought him crashing down to this moment — seeing your toothbrush innocently sitting next to his in the little ceramic glass by the bathroom sink. the little reminder that showed he shared his space with someone, actually letting them into every crevice of his heart. the thought had him getting a little emotional at 6 in the morning.

because he could easily look over to his right, through the opened bathroom door and see you still peacefully asleep in his bed — your shared bed. and it warmed his heart to no end.

as if you could sense his thoughts, you shift awake, watching him as he stared back at you.

“morning tetsu.” you whisper into the otherwise silent apartment. it took him a second to process the words as they spilled from your lips, watching as you slowly get up and stretch in a way that reminded him of a cat when they first rise from their slumber.

“morning sweetheart.” he smiles, his toothbrush haphazardly hanging out of the side of his mouth. you giggled at the sight, causing his grin to spread wider — wide enough for it to slip out of his mouth and into his hand. his reflexes from volleyball always came in handy when he needed it most. but he supposed he still looked like a fool in front of you — you just had that effect on him.

“you still asleep in there or something?” you ask, teasing him as you wander into the bathroom, wiping some toothpaste off his cheek before wrapping your arms around his bare waist.

“tell me, is it possible to get too much beauty sleep? because you’ve never looked more gorgeous.” he murmurs back, his large hand covering yours as he held your gaze in the mirror. he relished in the flustered expression you tried to hide as your face burrowed between his shoulder blades.

“so cheesy this early? my oh my, we’re off to a good start.” you giggle, your lips pressing against his bare back as the sound escapes you, sending chills all throughout him.

“you better believe it.” he smirks, happily leaning back into your touch. “how’d you sleep?”

“i slept great.” you poke your head out from behind him, smiling as you met his gaze in the mirror once again. it was hard for him not to immediately match your smile, the light in your eyes already brightening the dawn of the day. so he didn’t bother to fight it as his lips lifted upward. “our first night together in the apartment.”

“our apartment.” he quickly corrected, his palm patting your hand soothingly.

“our apartment.” you repeat. you pivot so you’re next to him, lightly bumping his hip with yours so he’d step to the side, giving you some room in the cramped space. you reach over and grab your toothbrush, the very one he was so caught up in only moments ago.

the quiet space now filled with life as you start your morning routine. he resumes brushing his teeth, watching each step you take.

how could something so mundane fill him with such joy?

your pretty eyes meet his in the mirror once again as you start brushing, slightly widening them in surprise under his watchful gaze.

and you were just so cute, sleep still clinging onto your sweet features as if you were internally fighting to stay awake. the two of you had plenty of sleepovers prior to you moving in, but this felt different.

this was the start of your lives together.

and it made him happy. so happy that he couldn’t help but chuckle, watching your face scrunch up at the strong minty toothpaste he used.

you couldn’t hold back your laughter either, lovingly looking at him through the mirror as your shared giggles fill the room.

if this was the first day to the rest of your lives together, he knew it would be filled with nothing but love. the kind of love he thought only existed in cliche movies and sappy poems. the kind in the bedtime stories his grandmother would read to him. the kind he found between the annotated pages of his father’s books.

but he found all of that within you, the love of his life.

thank you so much for reading :3

[the-dendrophile-bookdragon]

Your Shame

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: Self-Doubt, Fluff, Angst, Smut, Aegon and his bad influence, Porn With Plot

Summary: Aegon taught his little brother to please a woman. Those memories are so ingrained in his mind he struggles to let go of those teachings.

A/N: This work was inspired by this ask sent to the lovely @peachysunrise on Tumblr. Thank you so much for letting me use it.

His betrothal to his beloved wife was a surprise to him. He thought he would have to marry a Baratheon. But this fate would befall Daeron, he was to marry a sweet flower from the Reach.

She was a beautiful maiden from House Fossoway of Cider Wall. As sweet as the apples they would get from their apple groves. And more beautiful than her small portrait he was given to have a face to the name. The painter should be thrown into the dungeon as he hadn’t captured her otherworldly beauty. And they said Targaryens had looked like the gods.

They both fell hard and fast. Shared pastime activities like reading about history or philosophy or indulging in a simple piece of lemon cake. Through his dear lady, he began to indulge in baked goods with apples. An apple pie with vanilla sauce was her favourite dessert. At their wedding, he had ordered it to be baked only for her.

He had fallen so hard and so fast in love with his Lady Apple, a nickname he had given her for her love of apples and because of her red cheeks whenever they saw each other, he nearly forgot about his duties in their first night. What would be expected of him and what he expect of himself.

He wanted to give her pleasure beyond her wildest imagination and the written words in romance books.

He writhes above her as he drives into her over and over. The wet sounds of skin slapping against skin echoed through their marital chamber.

The bed creaked ominously as his hips rocked into hers. The headboard slammed against the stone wall.

He didn't know the act of procreating could feel so... fulfilling. So pleasurable. Anytime he lay with the madam it felt like a chore. He wanted it to end, fast. He preferred to lay in the woman's arms, his mind swirling with shame and disgust after the depraved act.

But with her, this sweet, gentle creature he had the privilege to call his wife, he needed to stay buried in her forever. To last beyond her fulfilment. Show her the depths of his love and devotion.

She had been scared at first, and he understood perfectly. How could she know what husbands and wives did in the night? She was a lady, she was pure. So, innocent.

But her anxiety was taken after he kissed her in the privacy of their chamber with the curtains around their bed drawn shut for more intimacy. They had stolen kisses before. Gods those kisses shared in dark corners of the castle or the safety of the library, they shouldn't be a sin but a worship of the gods.

But like all good things end fast. Too fast. Embarrassingly fast.

He tried to prolong their shared pleasure. His eyes wandered up to the mural of the burning of Harrenhal on his wall. Maybe he tried to draw strength to go on. But he felt it. It was too soon.

He looked down at her, seeing her wide, shiny eyes. Shame creeping up his neck. Spreading across his face.

As fast as he could, he pulled out. Seeing the evidence of his pleasure seep out of her.

Too soon, he had finished too soon.

This cunt, oh this velvet vice he lost himself in. The feeling of euphoria was replaced by shame.

He quickly got out of bed, pushing the curtains away to gather his clothes. Not exposing her naked body. Dressing himself and sprinting to his bed chamber. Tears of frustration gather in his good eye.

Blindly he stumbled to his chamber. Ripping the door open, letting it crash against the wall. It bounced back allowing Aemond to grip it and slam it shut. His vision was getting blurrier. He lost his orientation and footing. Crashing into the small table before he stumbled down on the carpet at the foot of his bed.

He was an embarrassment. Not able to last beyond five slow thrusts. Aegon told him it would disappoint a lady if he didn't finish her off first, or they would finish in union. That he was not a man if he ejaculated before he even brought his wife any ounce of pleasure. Like a lowly, old lord only in need of his wife’s womb. A boy wetting his sword for the first time.

In his despair, he didn't hear his wife's soft steps. He hadn’t seen her follow him. He only felt her warm embrace. How she pulled him against her soft bosom. How she held his head to her body and caressed his cheeks softly.

"Tell me what pains you, my love? Have I done something wrong?" Gods she thought she disappointed him. He wrapped his long arms around her waist and pulled himself even closer to her.

"No, ābrazȳrys. You were... phenomenal. I lost myself in you. Your softness, your warmth." He could feel the desire waking up again in his loins at the memory of their first encounter. But also, the shame. "I am sorry." He whined over and over into her bosom. His tears staining her nightdress and skin. His face was hidden from her eyes.

"For what, my heart? Please don't break." She gently cooed, kissing the crown of his head. Aemond’s heart clenched more at her plea.

"I disappointed you." He cried. "No, you -" "Yes, I emptied myself too fast. Like a... rutting hound." He angrily seethed. His anger on himself. Never at her, gods, he hoped she didn't see that.

She kissed his temple softly. His eye closed at her soothing touch. "You did not disappoint me. You could never. I am honoured that you lost yourself so completely in my body. Your pleasure was too great for you to prolong it."

He cuddled closer into her soft breasts as he lay on the floor. "It’s embarrassing." He mumbled like a small child. "It is sweet and very flattering for me." She countered.

He looked up at her with glassy eyes. "You mean it?" She nodded. "You do not know how many times you have made me come from simply watching you. It is especially hard for me to keep my composure seeing you train or you speaking in your mother tongue."

Her cheeks warmed slightly. His mood rose a bit. "I feel flattered." He whispered.

He suddenly sat up with feline agility. He stood before her, taking her in his arms and carrying her to his bed this time. "Let me make it up to you. You finally deserve fulfilment by my hand and not my actions." Her giggles made his aching cock grow impossibly hard.

He pounced onto her like a predator its prey. She squealed in delight. Her back hit the plush mattress with a thud. A huff escaped her throat.

She stares up at him with a soft smile and wide, shining eyes. Her joy was clear at his playful display of his desire.

He leaned down slowly. His hands held her down as she tried to meet him halfway. His signature half-smirk grew on his thin lips. He wanted to tease her. Prolong everything.

She groaned gently. Trying to escape his hold. But he was steadfast. Holding her down.

He had mercy on her when he saw her pout. Finally leaning down and connecting his lips to her warm, moist once. So soft, like rose petals. He held her face in his large, calloused hand. His thumb traced her cheekbone softly.

She held on to his neck. Her thumb traced the nape of his neck.

Her legs opened to accommodate him, letting him lay himself onto her delicate body. She was his haven on earth.

He whined in disappointment when she leaned back. Their lips no longer connected. She smiled gently up at him, tracing his jaw with her pointer finger. “Would you like to try again?” She whispered so sweetly.

Little minx, he thought. His manhood coming to life once more. Painfully hard by her softness.

“Yes, my love. I want to make up for my… shortcomings.” His cheeks heated up a little. She giggled at his blush. “You fulfilled your duties.” She whispered. He groaned, “To the realm, not to you.”

He kissed her with more heat. His hands wandered all over her body. The fabric of her nightgown was in his way. He growled at the offending material.

He sat up slightly. Taking the neckline of her gown and ripping it in half. He was impatient, not able to undress her properly. He needed to see her soft body.

She gasped, her eyes wide in shock at his display of brutality.

He kissed down her neck. He peppered her neck and collarbones with open-mouthed kisses. Eliciting small gasps from his wife.

Her hands weaved into his hair when he nuzzled her beautiful round breasts. He smirked as she arched into his mouth when he licked and sucked at one of her nipples. His hand playing with the other so he wouldn’t neglect it.

She was a mess by the time he sank between her legs. Her desire leaked onto his sheets. “Aemond!” She mewled as he opened her legs wide, dipping his fingers into her dripping core to gather some of her wetness. Diving into her divine heat to show her he was devoted to her pleasure.

It was the hour of the owl when they let go of her. His face soaked in her juices. He looked down at her with a roguish smirk. His wife a panting mess. “Have I redeemed myself, my dear wife?”

She took small gasping breaths as she came down from her overwhelming heights. She didn’t answer him. She lost her ability to form coherent sentences an hour ago.

Like a predator he crawled back up her body, kissing every inch of her skin. Leaving a trail of love bites over her body. Marking her as his. “Are you ready for more, my sweet wife? I have been aching for you.”

A small noise escaped her throat, followed by a small nod. He grinned, aligning his manhood with her abused womanhood. He slowly sank in.

The same sensations washed over him. The warmth and softness of her velvet walls. The vice-like grip. The unmatched pleasure of sinking into her warmth. He groaned deeply. “My love, you make me useless. I could empty my balls right now.”

She smiled gently. Her hands found purchase on his shoulder and lower back. She blushed slightly at where her hands lay, guiding him in and out of her. “Then take it slow. Do not rush.” She whispered as she guided him to euphoria.

[dead-boys-club]

†  what do you want? : the fatui.

❥ scenario: answering a simple question. ❥ no triggers ❥ i don't have any beta readers - you get what you get. ❥ taglist: @mimis-happiest-day

"what do you want from me?" the words slip out, trembling in the cold. your voice is barely louder than a whisper, as if the weight of the question itself could shatter the silence around you. they stare back—each gaze colder or hotter, more calculating or more devouring than the last. whatever their answers, you know the fatui don’t give anything freely.

❥ arlecchino.

her gaze remained sharp as you stared at her, cutting through you like glass. "what do i want?" she repeated, almost mocking, but there's a softness - she thought over your words. "everything," she finally says, her hand reaching to trace over your jaw with the tip of her nails. "your loyalty, your strength, your heart. and, only if you're strong enough, your soul." her words are both a demand and devotion, the only way she would deliver them.

❥ dottore.

he chuckles, the sound low and unhinged. "what do i want?" he purrs in amusement. he takes your hand to hold it open, his thumb rested against your pulse. "to see what makes you tick, of course. to pull you apart, piece by piece - and then, perhaps, if you're good.." he trails off for a moment, his smile mischievous. "i'll put you back together, better than you ever were."

❥ childe.

he grins, a mischievous glint to his eyes. "what do i want? hm.." he echoes, moving closer, voice playful but laced with a surprising depth. "i want everything you've got - every laugh, every secret, every scar." his hand finds yours, fingers threading between your own. :i want to fight beside you, protect you, and maybe.. just maybe, find another reason to stop fighting."

❥ pantalone.

his smile is knowing as it forms, eyes shining with something dark and calculating. "ah, my dear, you know very well what i want." he steps closer, fingers finding your cheek, his gaze holding a weight you couldn't name. "loyalty, love - such beautiful words." his hand lingers a beat too long. "but, what i truly want.. is to see how far you'll go for me."

❥ signora.

her gaze is fierce as always, though tempered by something gentler, softer than her usual demeanor. "what do i want?' her voice is barely audible and she pauses, eyeing you closely. "i want to burn the world down, watch it all turn to ash - with you by my side. you're the one spark i never expected," she adds, a rare smile gracing her lips. ❥ scaramouche.

he scoffs, arms crossing in his usual fashion, acting like your question offends him. his tone is biting and mocking as he repeats your question. "i want you to stop asking stupid questions." but he looks away, letting out a deep sigh, annoyed. "you should know by now.. i wouldn't keep you around if i didn't think you were important."

❥ columbina.

her smile is serene, unsettling so, as if she sees far beyond you. "what do i want?" she hums, thinking over the answers as her fingers dance against your shoulder. "i want you, my songbird. to sing for me, to shatter the silence. most of all.." her voice drops, becoming a whisper, like the next words were a deep secret. "i want you to stay, forever bound to this melody only we share."

❥ pierro.

his gaze is unreadable, maybe solemn if you had to choose a word, carrying to weight of worlds and beyond. he repeats your words, considering the question. "loyalty. strength. is that not what everyone wants? but with you.." his hand fingers your shoulder, steadying and grounding you both. "i want.. peace." there's a softness to his voice, a rare vulnerability that you deemed impossible. "stay besides me, and let us carve a legacy that will never be forgotten."

❥ sandrone.

her head tilts, observing you with an eerie, calculating gaze. she always looked at you as if you were a piece of her collection. she repeats the words, quiet and detached, in a way that made you feel like she didn't quite understand. "i want you to stay perfectly still, exactly as you are. i've never been fond of things that break too easily." he fingers lift, tracing your cheek bone, a possessive, chilling touch. "for you, i might make an exception. just don't disappoint me."

❥ capitano.

the weight of his voice is that of unspoken promises, deep and quiet, a rumble if nothing else. "what do i want?' he asks, his tone unwavering but something told you he'd never been asked such a thing. "i want you to stand beside me without fear. to see the world through your eyes and remember what it is i'm fighting for." a gloved hand rested on your upper arm, a surprisingly gentle touch. "and, you're willing, i want you.. as my reason to keep moving forward."

[thedarkestrivernymph]

A Heart Of Gold

Platonic! Y! Royal Child x Cruel/Uncaring! Royal! Mother! Reader x Y! Mistress! of cheating husband x Y! Brother in Law

word count: 11,5k (probably one of the lengthiest fics I have ever written haha)

warnings: mention of abuse (both verbal and physical), neglect, infidelity, unhealthy relationship dynamics, murderous thoughts, morally gray! reader, paranoia, harassment, unconsenual acts, kissing, mentions of death(s), killing, breakdowns/meltdowns, generational trauma, unhealthy mother/child dynamics, obsessive behaviour, classism, misogynistic views, homophobia, not completely accurate historical depictions!

©Copyright - 2025 - thedarkestrivernymph - All Rights Reserved

Author's note: Boy this got lengthy, still I hope you enjoy it! :) So let's dive into it, shall we?

“A heart of glass shatters, but a heart of gold melts into something newer and sturdier. Into something dangerous and menacing. It molds to a new life of cruelty, while the heart of glass is swept away, its pieces discarded and forgotten. I don't want to travel with the wind, fleet in one blink, I want to be reborn, experience freedom for the first time in my life. I want to have a heart of gold.”

Do you know the feeling of an itch that no matter how much you scratch, how incessant you drag your nails over that patch of skin, you can just never get rid of? That was motherhood, but worse.

For you, at least.

The life of a commoner was jarring, a constant battle for life, that most, no matter how hard they tried to intimidate, would never succeed in defeating. Most died young, early thirties or fourties, with nasty diseases of all kinds being the reason—and yet they always seemed so lively compared to nobility. The nobility with all of their masquerades and dramatics. They never were allowed to let the intricately crafted mask crack, even for a second, if they valued their life that is.

Perhaps that's why you had envied those mindless pigs most of your life—working away until their bones cracked and fell into themselves. That mindless devotion and that foul language they could use whenever they pleased, the sheer stupidity in believing in something higher and more valuable than the crown, was so vastly different to your own complex persona. Your life was quiet, filled with studying, tea-parties that never reached deeper than surface level of conversation and endless long nights where you would raise your gaze to the heavens above and just stare at the stars, as if the answers you desperately longed for were written in them.

You were like a man deprived of water, thirsting for something to quench your endless need for freedom. Any kind you could get your hands on, you clutched on—wether it was the question of if you maids were to dress you in blue or white or rather in violet and yellow, or something simple if you wanted to wander around in the gardens that day; you loved all these small luxuries. Even the pearls of your mother's, now hanging from your neck like heavy cobblestones on a string, felt nothing compared to the little escapades you were allowed. And the needle you were embroidering with in this old moaning manor pricking you gave you some semblance of joy, that at least in some shape or form there was something under your control.

Until even that had lost its taste—like your once most favoured dish that had reminded you of childhood in your youth, the fields, the servant's children that you would play with after repetitive lessons and so much more, one day none could comfort you anymore. As many others, you grew out of your juvenile thinking much too soon and in a way that was far too shattering of an experience.

Sweet seventeen and the marriage with the crown prince was held. You had known before, it was to be expected, you had anticipated the dreadful day when you would have to give up your freedom in exchange of legacy and reputation, yet actively knowing and actively being were two vastly different states one could experience. So as the princess you had been, you had bowed down to everyone in power; to your mother with her stern gaze and even harsher words, to your father with his cane as sharp as his gaze was, to the king of a different nation, you had only visited once in childhood who was nothing more than a distant memory at this point in time and lastly to your future husband, who would not reign, but still hold enough power to crush a small country with just his fist.

So you bore the stranger a child, one not out of love, but out of duty to the crown, to your family—to everyone who had invested in you as a powerful tool as the key to peace between two neighbouring kingdoms. “He’s pretty. His eyes are like mine,” were his first words upon seeing the crying infant still caked in blood with you drenched in your own sweat. The world had crumpled in that moment, only to rebuild itself a second time in your life as you remembered that nothing ever was out of love. Everything was done out of ego. At least concerning nobility and royalty. And you were royalty.

That’s when the curse had started—the deep loathing for something that didn’t deserve it.

“Mother!” you frowned, determined to keep your gaze on the embroidery in your hands.

“Mother!” another high-pitched cry and you swore a vein on your forehead was about to just pop open and deflate like a par of lungs you wanted to slice through with a scarpel.

You glanced at the door, counting the steps and sure enough it took the little demon thirty-two before bursting right in as always. “Mother! There you are— look, look mother! Misses has just taught me how to..” you tuned out after the second word, already feeling another headache bloom between your brows, subtly ushering your maid closer so that she could take care of the chaos. Ignoring the way the boy protested and cried as he was led out with the excuse that his dear mommy was tired and in need of rest.

That had been ten years ago—in fact you were just melodramatic and liked to revisit your past, thinking about how foolish you had been to ever belief love was more than a myth. Sighing you took another bite from your steak.

“Mother, have you heard? I won this year's tournament again.” the deep voice startled you.

“Oh, you have?” another bite and it would be over soon, another bite and you wouldn't have to talk any more than necessary.

“Yes mother, has father not informed you?” no, don't let your thoughts get bad, he didn't mean to mention his father.

“Mother, you and father haven't been talking much, have you now? How utterly disappointing. I had assumed that he at the very least would share my achievements with you, mother dear.” you were losing it again, because you could swear he was doing it on purpose, he was rubbing salt in your wound knowingly. No, no he wasn’t, you were just paranoid, instead why not focus on the flower motive on the egde of your plate or the rich red swirling in your cup or—

“Mother? You seem rather pale. Would you like me to call your maid?”

He isn’t doing it on purpose.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He didn't ask to be born, he was just here because he had to—as you were, as the worker ants and the pigs were, as the common folk were.

Just breathe.

“Mother—” no you couldn't just breathe.

Your fists slammed against the dinning table, causing silverwear to clink against porcelain and wine to spill. It dripped to the floor and with it your last nerve.

“Don’t you dare, Nicholas! You and I, as well as any other resident in the palace, are very much aware of your father's open infidelity—and to incessantly remind me of it, is just unacceptable! When will you grow out of your boyish theatrics and take life seriously? You should concern yourself more with your studies and yourself than my matters!” you were standing, you didn't even know when you had stood up, but now you were face to face with your son for the first time in the duration of the entire dinner—and you tasted bile. Luscious chestnut coloured hair, forest green eyes and fair skin with an oval face; he was the copy of his father, quite literally and everything in you felt deeply disturbed by it. Or perhaps it was because of the way he would stare at you, even as a baby, with this sort of hunger, this all-consuming need to take and take, without giving back, like a parasite in your guts, feeding off whatever you consumed.

“Mother, you wound me." he had the audacity to jest, smiling that bone-chilling smile. Sometimes you wondered if that really was your son and not just a demon that had slipped into his skin at birth. “I am your son, mother. I worry for you. You’ve had such a weak constitution since my childhood, I cannot help myself.” devil. You shuddered.

Beyond yourself and all responsibilities that came with being bound to the crown, you stormed off. Your maids rushed behind you but you swat them away, yelling at them to leave you be, that you just needed fresh air and throwing what other excuses you managed to come up with at them. And they were quick to listen—even though with great reluctance scattering like baby ducklings would, while the guards stationed in front of the dinning hall were watching you silently. Everyone was, constantly.

You huffed, hands gripping your gown like the talons of a bird clung to a mouse and you ran—perhaps if your mother could see you now, she would claw her way out of her grave to berate and scold you like the child you were behaving as, but you couldn’t stop your legs from moving forward, even as your feet started to ache and you felt something warm run down your shoe.

“Your Majesty?” you halted.

“What is the matter? You seem upset?” Charles. Your gaze softened, something that happened far too little. Soft brown curls with a matching chocolate brown gaze all dressed up in a relaxing blue. He was like a gift wrapped in a blue bow.

“I was just walking by. All council members were called.” he was blunt and clipped as always—comfortingly so, gazing at you in thinly veiled concern.

Before you could spout whatever irresponsible nonesense that your mind could conjure up, he had clasped a hand around your wrist, quick to check for curious eyes that would misinterpernt the rather narrow distance between you two, before pulling you both aside into an empty chamber nearby—the room not much bigger than a closet, obviously something forgotten.

You opened your mouth ready to speak but he beat you to it.

“Is it your husband again? He’s a fool. To think he can feel free of guilt when his lovely wife has to suffer because of his childishness.” you felt his hand cup your cheek and you melted, the darkness and slight chill of the room suddenly secondary, as warmth from your very insides bloomed.

“I don't know anymore, Charles,” you sighed, head against his chest. You found a steady rhythm there, something unlike your life.

“He brought her here. Here! Into the castle. He wants to make her his second queen, his second queen! That's unheard of but he's so stubborn and he won't listen. Not to me, not to his advisors—he just doesn’t listen.” there was some relief in sharing your pain, some relief that at least someone would listen to what you felt and thought.

“It's a scandal.” he admitted in a whisper, now rubbing your back in gentle circles. “To have a mistress for all the world to see and to want to elavate her status to yours. He’s crazy. You deserve better, much better.” he consoled you and reassured you, making you feel more at ease with your teenage-like outburst. You ought to pull yourself togehter, (y/n). Be quiet and strong. Don’t cause a fuss, men don’t like that. Yeah, mother, you did everything right, but father still had three bastards he brought home.

Exhausted you groaned, embracing the very chest that Charles has been offering you since the first day at the palace. Sometimes you would wonder what would’ve been if you had married Charles instead of your husband, but you never thought too long or too hard about it, because to be tuthful the prospect that you could’ve lead a happier life depressed you.

Something wet rolled down your cheek.

You pulled away.

“Thank you, Charles. You’ve always been very understanding. But I should return to my chambers. It’s late. Where were you headed to again? You should make haste.” you were quick to dismiss as usual. It was unheard of that in-laws were so close with eachother, especially when the gown you were wearing once had been your husbands gift. It was like his cruel paw extended time and place to even shackle you in place here in the furthest corners of the palace, alone with the man that you had— in your younger years at least— occasionaly thought about at night, when your husband would be working or have his occasional trysts with some courtesan.

He was quiet for a second or two, letting you spiral furhter into the dark place that had a permenant residence inside of your mind, only to startle you with a squeeze to your shoulders. “Are you certain? You still appear unwell and I would feel like a terrible brother-in-law if I just—” you didn’t let him finish.

“No, no need. I am absoloutely capable of returning by myself. Just you go.” and with that escaped before you could cry your eyes out in front his brother, even when he was the only human in the family of festering little demons, you would rather not let him catch you off guard. He was the apple Eve was tempted with only to fail the test, but you were better than that, you were a noble, not just any you were a royal, you wouldn’t fall for fate’s cruel tricks.

You rushed through the halls, your heels clicking with each step, as the night only turned darker and your thoughts only more frenzied. Finally you reached your chambers, your skittish maids, breathing out in relief, rushing towards you to check in on you and your trembling state. You waved them off, barking again to be left alone, only this time they wouldn’t. Suspiciously so.

“Why won’t you let me enter? Speak.”

“My queen, we would never think about witholding you from returning to your own chambers, but there is an issue of sorts, you see..” the oldest of the bunch spoke up, the same age as your mother would be if she was still alive and well.

With slits for eyes you glowered, now more persistent in your demand, even if it was one of your most loyal of maids, you wouldn’t be leniet enough to let them off the hook so easily. “Speak.”

“My queen it is that—”

Oh.

Staring at you so incredibly smugly, as if you couldn’t wipe the floor with her visage if you wanted to, was the twenty something mistress of your husband, of the the king, Maria.

How ironic of a name.

“Oh? If that isn’t the first queen. How delighted I am, to meet the woman the king adores as much as he adores me. And how beautiful of a woman you are! So graceful, even at your age, with a child that’s nearly old enough to build his own family! You must be proud! Certainly, you’re so lovely.” you felt your eye twitch. She was utterly shameless standing in the doorway to your chambers while dressed in nothing but a chiffony nightgown and black hair like the streaks of tint on paper. How utterly depraved and sick.

As she smiled too, you probably turned red in the face.

“I am so happy to finally meet you! I heard a lot about you—all he does is talk about you. I am glad you’re my opponent I can vie for the king’s affection with. Anyone else would’ve been bland in comparison to you.” her fingers brushed away a strand of hair in your face and it probably took all of your self-restraint not to snap and bury your fingers in her scalp to pluck away some of that inky black. “I am truly grateful.” her blue eyes were worse, piercing and clear like the streams of fresh waters—truly a horrible colour to be gifted to such snake, undeserving of such beauty.

“Why are you here? This isn’t the king’s bedroom, girl.” you were cold, slapping away her hand and trying to undermine her presence with the fact that you were older and more experienced, yet she just giggled. Was it wrong that she reminded you of your son? The both of them certainly were the same level of vile, making you feel uncomfortably unauthorative in their presence.

“Oh it isn’t? My mistake, your Majesty. But you can just call me Maria, no need to be so distant. Or you could get used to calling me Queen Maria. Pardon—is it a sensitive topic? You’re glaring at me so intensely, I am uncertain if I should fear for my life.” on second thought maybe being thrown into prison for bashing in the king’s mistress’ head against a wall didn’t sound so appaling. No, pull yourself together.

“I ask of you to move. These are my chambers. So move, now.” one more minute of this and you were sure you would end up growling like an animal, but thankfully she finally took the hint and brushed past you but not without a flying kiss your way. “See you soon, your majesty.”

At the end your maids held you back from tearing her apart like a rabid dog the moment she turned to walk away. Thankfully, they were also able to pull you into your chambers before fleeting before your outburst. Vases were flying—clothes ripped apart and you burned the single strands of black you found, above your lamp’s little flame. All while you stared up at the night sky, like you used to, asking the heavens why they had cursed you. Why a god couldn’t have let you be born as an empty-headed piglet, why you had to be able to understand language, why you just couldn’t rip anyone’s head off that treaded too close to you.

At the end of your breakdown you found your mother’s pearls scattered on the checkered tiles like the stars that mocked you from above. You pursued your lips into a smile. It was somewhat symbolic.

Mother was dead. Father too.

But you weren’t, not yet at least. So why waste it with stupid things such as deceny? You had desired for more than superficial workship of your body—you wanted real love, something to take your mind off your duties. And if the king was allowed such a thing, then you would just aquire one too.

Charles had always been friendly to you. Why not pay the favour back? After all, he was such a good brother-in-law.

The imaginary gods truly scorned you, didn't they? Because why else would you be dining with your husband, his mistress and your son. Were you truly nothing but the butt of the joke? Your presence meant nothing—all the years of hard-work, serving the crown and greater good, for what?

For Maria to wink at you and mock you in broad daylight, with even your son doing nothing but quietly watch. Father like son. How true that statement was.

Were you disappointed though? No, you didn't expect much of demons festering off others.

The eggs were cooked into gooey soft richness, just as you liked it, giving you some semblance of comfort. Today you were dressed in rich velvet purple; truly a gown for special occasions and this particular day probably was the most special out of all. It was the day you had anticipated all these upcoming weeks with nothing but an ache deep in your chest whenever you thought of it.

Today he would announce when the law would be finalized—and with its finalization the death of your dignity.

Maria would officially be the king’s second queen, not consort, not mistress—not even the occasional courtesan he liked to fuck, no, she would be of your status, when she was nothing but a count’s daughter. It was laughable really, you stabbed at the beacon on your plate as if it had committed a crime against you.

From childhood until your marriage to him, you as a royal princess had been kept endlessly busy with tutoring of all kinds; writing and reading first and foremost then state affairs, french, latin, philosophy, politics, how to properly sit and talk, embroidery and so much more that at eight you had started wishing to be born a pig, kept fed until slaughter.

“As you all know,” all heads drifted in his direction, sitting proud at the head of the mahogany table, “The law will be legalized by the end of the month and to celebrate this joyous occasion. I ask my first wife, to prepare a banquet for my love.” he probably didn't even see you as a human, only as a political ally.

“Of course, your Majesty. I would love to.” nevertheless you replied as if you had a choice in the matter anyways, flinching as soft hands snaked up your arms. “You will? That's wonderful news! I cannot share just how honoured I am that you will be planning this! Anything you make must be nothing short of astounding beauty!” was she trying to gain even more of the king’s favour? It certainly seemed to work on your lovesick husband, who only leaned back in his seat, the cushions were red—a colour worthy of a king and let his lips curl up into a tender smile, with moss greens that seemed to scarily soften up.

Had your husband ever been capable of such a look?

You couldn't remember him ever staring at you so lovingly. It was chilling to say the least. Perhaps even repulsing.

You were quick to look down at your plate again—wishing for nothing more but to peel her fingers off of you, hopefully with so much force that one of her fingers would clean-cut break into two. It wasn't a question of love nor jealousy after all; but a matter of respect, and she was downright waddling her tail in front of you in victory. As if she deserved your just title as much, if not more than you. Slut.

“Mother,” this time it was the voice of your son calling out to you, “it seems you will be occupied for the time being with the courtesan's banquet,” he sighed, “and I here I was anticipating to spend some time with you after my exams.”

Had he just—

Silence.

Even the servants could do nothing but stare at the prince wearing such a proud expression, as if what he did was the right course of action. As if he just didn't insult his father's current obsession with the occupation she had before he brought her into the castle.

Everyone knew not to mention it, not even in the passing. Just hinting at it could cost you lots yet here was the crown prince doing what he knew not to do.

Oddly enough, while electricity zapped through the air, something destructive brewing beneath the king’s icy cold gaze—you could nothing but gape in fascination at your spawn. Were you imagining it, or was he protesting against his father? If you didn't know it sny better, you would've thought he did it to defend your honour. But that was laughable.

It seemed the young prince had grown up, when you had no clue, but sometime ago probably, with the way he held his chin up high, no fear visible in his gaze all while holding his father's glare.

You would be lying if you said you weren't weirded out. Hopefully him acting out wouldn't put you in bigger trouble than you already were in. He could at least grant you such a favour.

“What—what did just leave your mouth?” the king practically spat, your husband rising a hand decked out with hefty golden rings.

“I said, father,” you internally groaned, this child was just determined to cause you misery, “Courtesan. Because that is exactly what she is. Isn't that right, Maria? Before father married you, you were nothing but a whore with your legs wide spread open to please—”

Thwack. The king loomed over his own son, like God, – if he existed – probably had over Lucifer to berate him one last time before he would've earned his fall from grace.

“Enough! One more word and I will forget myself entirely!” the threat rung through the entire dining hall, it rung so deep it seeped into your bones.

Nicholas’ cheek was left marked with imprints of fat rings that managed to slice through skin and leave one side of his face a swirl of red and slowly forming purple. He hadn't just hit his son, but he had done so, with such force that his head was moved out of your sight.

Yet he still talked; spat out words like they burned his tongue.

“What, father? Can't handle the truth—”

“Edwin! Oh dear!” Maria’s fingers only now left your arm. She was rushing to the man that was supposedly your husband, to stop him from actually killing the boy he had wanted so badly. Immediately she latched onto him, practically throwing herself at him, dotting on him, doing her best to calm his wrath and somehow it worked. While all you could do was watch in stunned silence.

Your cousin, what was her name again— ah, yes, Lilian— would’ve surely snorted out a laugh at the scene. She found everything dark and morbid to be fascinating, perhaps that's why she had married a duke that would occasionally beat her into a bloody pulp?

Getting sidetracked again, weren't you? Point is you could accept much, but this, this was crossing a thin line that needed to be kept up for the balance of all things holy to the crown. If a mistress managed to throw everything out of order, then you truly had failed all your marital duty as a partner and as a queen.

Perhaps mother had been right? But then again, father had never been the big romantic, you were sure the man had been incapable of falling in love—obviously different to the Edwin you thought you had known all those years. He seemed enamored and it was truly terrifying.

The meal ended shortly after with the King storming off and his mistress right with him. Now, you never enjoyed being affectionate with Nicholas, however even you had to admit that you should probably offer the boy some words of wisdom.

Even if you liked to think of him as a little gremlin with a copy of his father for a face, you knew he wasn't exactly the same as him. Sometimes, it was hard to admit, your son did manage to spark some motherly affection in you, as scary as it was. So sighing, you rounded the table and your gaze landed on the brunette boy.

“Come, let's get you cleaned up.” was the most affectionate mumbling you forced out from between your lips. Only to turn around almost immediately, not waiting for him to collect himself as you wandered out and away from the dining hall. There was a short burst of laughter—probably, you weren't sure, you hoped it wasn't crying. You hated seeing him cry. He was an ugly crier. Then you heard footsteps behind you and soon passing by a few of your family portraits, the irony not lost on you—your life in contrast to the perfectly crafted deception painted onto these canvases—you found yourself in your study.

“Sit.” your words were always clipped when you talked to him, weren't they? It was hard to remember.

Nevertheless you rummaged through your drawers, the subtle scent of wood mixing with the incense that you were quick to ignite.

Funny, so that's what your study looked like? It was organised and thoroughly dusted, with each book and document in different neatly arranged piles. He remembered never been allowed in here as a boy, only able to take sneak peaks at you at your desk while the door closed in behind his nanny's somber face. Now it made sense, you feared a child would ruin your precision and need for perfection. Oh, mother, is that the reason you shun me so?

You felt that unexplainable chill again, which would always travel down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. See that look in his eyes? Those soulless green orbs you swore would burn a hole into your face from how intensely he was staring at you as you sat down in front of him. That's exactly why you didn't want anything to do with him, he was just—so peculiar.

“Close your eyes.” was your next command, not being able to stand the abyss you found in your own son’s gaze. You waited while you prepared the cotton through soaking it in alcohol.

And thankfully he listened. His eyes fluttered shut.

“Mother” he spoke. “Mhm,” you hummed.

“Mother, aren't you mad at father?” you paused, inhaled, already unnerved before continuing to pat his cheek gently.

“It's not in my place to question what the king does, neither is it yours Nicholas.” a soft sigh escaped you, “You ought to behave yourself. The little stunt you pulled at dinner tonight was dangerous. He may be your father, but before all else he is the king. And you should respect him until the crown is yours. Or do you wish to ruin your future just because?”

“It wasn't just because—” you chuckled, letting your hand fall away from his cheek as he forced the words from between his teeth.

“Oh?” you used the same look your mother always gave you—a scoff and a frown combined to make the one on the recieving end feel disgustingly guilty. You shook your head at him, youth.

“The reason isn't of any importance, what is of importance however is you ascending to the throne. And you cannot do so if your father hates you so. You may be older and of pure blood, but if the new woman at his side falls pregnant with a boy and you continue to be foolish, then you can just stand and watch everything being ripped away from you.” were you getting emotional, describing your future too while trying to warn him? Maybe. You didn't realise it until your son threw himself at you, alright, maybe not literally but he embraced you, as if you were the child and he the parent.

You stilled.

When had been the last time you hugged your son? You couldn't remember. The moment was peaceful, oddly so and just for a split second you forgot of your revulsion towards that child and let him clutch onto you.

“Mother,” he breathed against your shoulder, startling you, “Mother he’s openly betraying you. While the whole nation watches. You don't deserve this mother, you deserve a better man. If I had been my father I wouldn't have—” you immediately pushed him away.

Did you mishear?

“Don't—don’t ever talk like that again!” you declared, instead of questioning it further, immediately assuming that the fault lied in your twisted mind. You must've misunderstood you must've—

Something was brewing beneath his exterior, you could tell. Something dangerous flicked in his gaze, something that you knew justified your fear towards your own spawn. Now, any minute, you swore he would burst and unleash his inner demons.

“Mother,”

“I apologise.” he smiled. You felt yourself release a breath, one you weren't aware you had been holding.

“I didn't think about my words, I am truly sorry.”

You quickly wrapped things up after that and it was not long before you send him off on his merry way. If he continued to talk about his father as if he wished for him to be only a memory and his skeleton six feet under the earth, then he would only spiral into a world of trouble and take you with him.

Besides—since when was he this rebellious? You sighed, feeling pain bloom between your brows.

Was this some sort of mockery?

To shame you continuously?

Or why for god's sake was this bitch in your chambers again?

“Your Majesty!” she chirped and you wished you could claw your eyes out and stuff them into her mouth so she would finally shut up.

“Child…”

“Maria, it's Maria, your majesty!” she huffed, then pouted, again clad in nothing but her nightgown, underwear really; silk that fell over her shoulders and reached down to her ankles.

“Besides—,” she pouted and you started to question the sanity of this woman, “You're not much older than me, your Majesty. Mhm, like an elder sister! How about I call you queen sister? Since we both will be queens!” she giggled.

Had she been dropped on her head at birth? You couldn't help but stare wordlessly, as she interlinked her arm with yours.

“Again. This is not the king’s chambers.”

“But queen sister—”

“Don't call me that.”

“But—”

“I said don't call me that!” you screamed.

Great. Now you were causing a scene in the hallway, with your maids and the guards watching. Great.

However you hadn't been prepared yet for the grand finale—suddenly she bursted into tears. Graciously of course, she was a lady, a lady with many tricks up her sleeve that is. She was crying, seemingly an endless stream, sobbing and quivering, staring up at you with big puppy-dog eyes.

If there was a god in heaven, you were certain that he hated you.

“My queen” she was still sobbing, now leaning forward so her cold lips could brush against your ear.

“You scream at me again and I’ll tell the king that you insulted me to my face.”

You gasped, this cocky little—

Yet what could you do? You knew one of her words amounted to a bar of gold to him; something to be treasured, possibly sacred. But you, he never had viewed you as such, you were the mother of his child and the queen yes—but your presence, —you knew as much as that— never has been valuable besides those two strong points. He saw you as an ally, a friend of sorts, a political fawn; someone with an intellect, but nothing more.

You didn't want to imagine his anger at even just daring to belittle what was rightfully his, that you, the queen in his little game of chess, would've mustered up courage that bordered on dangerously life-threatening.

So you sighed, with liquid anger pumping through your veins and your face flushing from the pressure of it. Your temples hurt again. Your head hurt again

You didn't register her leaving with a shit—eating grin on her face, nor the fact that one of your maid, Leslie, was half-carrying you inside your chamber, having to sit you down on your bed before feeding you your medicine in form of a brew.

It was funny, like your memory was wiped clean—as if your mind was a clean slate similar to how it had been when you were a drooling infant. Everything around you eased, the tension, the worries—what even was there to worry? You hummed, even purred in satisfaction as you drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

You hated waking up. Peace never existed beyond a deep slumber void of dreams. You hated dreams, you hated being dragged up and dressed like a doll and hated the sky. Especially the sky with its sparkling stars all mocking you, calling you as you were; defeated.

Utterly so.

Your reminisced about your beloved husband calling you to discuss something urgent with him. What could've been this urgent matter, one may ponder? Well, it was Maria.

“Have you started your preparations for the ball, yet?” his tone was colder than usual.

“No, but I am very much in—”

“Then haste. It will be held soon enough.”

You nodded politely, not wanting to aggregate his nerves further. So he waved you off and dismissed you, until he abruptly spoke up.

“And make sure that boy learns some manners.” his glare was so sharp it cut into your nape.

“Will do, husband.” you fled the room after that.

Perhaps you did not actually flee, but you certainly felt inclined to do so. Sometimes you did fantasize about escaping to a lone island, one that would resemble the paradise your nanny had always spoken so fondly of. What was her name again? You didn't remember, you couldn't, no matter how hard you tried because all you called her was Mommy—obviously only behind closed doors, away from any eyes or ears that could rat her out to your real hag of a mother.

She had been the only thing close to a mother's loving embrace which you so frequently would read about in books; fairytales and romances. An angel with crooked teeth and a hunchback, but an angel no less, with a softness to her that you never were able to replicate no matter how hard you tried. She was simply of different blood that wasn't blue nor red but gold; she wasn't like the rest of them. But you were like them, hiding behind a mask, no matter how terrible life whipped at you to reveal the truth—you wouldn't, you were trained to not give in after all, drilled from a young age.

And she had been so adamant to free you, telling you stories about juicy fruits with tastes rivalling that of honey, a sky that never darkened and greenery that never faded—if you narrowed your eyes to slits, you could imagine the royal garden spread out in front of you to be the paradise she so often spoke about.

You sighed again. Those were just childish fantasies. Something she had made up to bring you happiness, even if your shared wonder only lasted two years before she was caught being too affectionate with you and discarded.

As a chubby five-year old you had been devastated and confused, wondering why she had left you behind to fend for yourself, alone with the wolves. But as you matured, as your own son's nannies came and disappeared, you realized it had never been her fault in the first place. They had been at fault.

“Your majesty!”

Some of your days were good, tranquil even, but some—some were either destructively evil or somberly empty.

“Your majesty—” and today you wanted to be somber, away from everything. But fate didn't want this. Of course it didn't, fate despised you as you did your mother. So even if you had promised to betray fate instead and experience an adventurous tryst with the man in front of you just out of spite, you felt no desire to speak with him or anyone else, after the short but life-threatening conversation you had had with his majesty.

“Has he upset you again?”, Charles sighed, his initial enthusiasm fading, “It seems every time we converse you're miserable.”

Now that he mentioned it—he wasn't wrong. He was like some sort of saviour, someone that reminded you of your nanny so long ago and your hardened heart softened again. You didn't want to push him away, not Charles, not the man with soft-features, a tender look in his eyes, with his dashing looks and personality—not when he was only a few years younger than you. So little in fact, it wouldn't matter at your age anymore.

“Seems so.” you muttered and you couldn't hold your hand back from outstretching to pull him down besides you on your little white-painted bench placed in the shades, with another piece of embroidery in your lap. For a moment he was silent, stunned by your fingers wrapped around his wrist for all eyes to feast on—and continuing to hold it even as he sat.

“It seems you're always there for me, Charles.” was this a fever dream? Or why else would you, the queen, tempt him so, seductive as always, yet bolder than ever, calling him so intimately out here—hopefully out of the ear of onlookers to the spectacle; your maid and a few guards scattered around.

And then you even fluttered your lashes at him, so blindingly beautiful that it hurt. Tantalizing with your lips that he was certain were sweeter than sugar, and the new heart-robbing smile on those soft pillars of warmth. The slope of your nose, the apple of your cheek, everything about you was sin incarnate and he was just helpless to the devil’s calls. Just what if he leaned down and—

“I thank you.” god you teased him.

“It's my pleasure. As a devotee to the crown.” he managed to finesse and gloss over his little stammer with a bright smile and you, thankfully, let it slip.

Or at least he assumed so.

Actually you were giggling in your head like one of those young village girls, when a boy would ask for a dance—you had watched that spectacle occur one time out on the countryside for some respite after mother's passing.

What a time it had been, so beautifully peaceful with only the birds to yap away— similar to now, the only difference was that now you were holding his hand, and nothing, not even the king could prevent you from enjoying this moment to the fullest.

“Charles. How long have we known eachother?”

“Fourteen years and counting, your Majesty.” he answered, with warmth in his eyes. The day was warm—the sun blazing and at its peak, with the garden neatly trimmed, sitting beneath the proud tall that was probably older than both of you combined, the shade provided you would with protection from her rays.

“Thank you, Charles, for always consoling me in times of need.” your fingers slithered between his own, entangling your hands under lingering eyes, yet in that little moment you found yourself not caring. Life was short, so why shouldn't you be able to enjoy life to the fullest as his majesty. If it came and he would hear of this, you would accept whatever punishment, because you were sick of not being free.

Then again you felt freedom spread her wings above you with Charles by your side.

You smiled, softly, gently, tenderly even. A smile not even your son had ever earned from you—something he probably never would, no matter what he tried, because he was still that man’s son with motives behind his façade that you could never figure out. He was still the baby that terrified you with the ravenous hunger in his soul reflected in his gaze.

And that very son, was plastered against one of the castle windows, his glare bearing down on you both, if possible, it would have burned a hole through your face from the sheer intensity of it. You had always viewed your child as creepy—unsettling to be around for too long. But you had never possessed any evidence for it—you knew not to blame a seedling, something that had sprung from you, but you just couldn't stop yourself from feeling dread when meeting his eyes.

Unbeknownst to you, this silent horror was not completely irrational.

Actually it was simple survival instinct.

Especially when the heir to the kingdom craved nothing more but your motherly love and seeing you give affection to his uncle, of all people – his enemy — he couldn't help but trash your favourite vase. Actually he wasn't that different to you in that sense—he needed chaos and destruction to satisfy the inner barbarian in him.

“Mother,” he slammed his fists onto your desk. He had been snooping around your study—his favourite past time activity since he had managed to steal the second pair of keys to the room you viewed as sacred and safe. If you just knew, Mother.

“You give, Mother. To everyone but me.”

he was trying to maintain his composure, to not burst into a jealous rage from seeing you intertwined hands, the close proximity you shared—the smile plastered onto your face much more similar to that of a young maiden experiencing her first love than the queen with a heart of ice.

The moment his uncle dared to lean forward to brazenly press a kiss to your knuckles, was the moment he snapped. Destruction reigned over your study, his desire for carnage so raw, he treated craftsmanship like flesh and blood, strangling them as if they owed him an apology.

Then finally it was over.

As it was, peace settled over his silhouette, drenched in his own sweat in the stifling hot room, panting like a rabid dog.

“Mother,” you both were gone now from his view, he should haste, he knew, but he couldn't leave without these last words.

“If you won't give me your love willingly, as a mother should. Then I will take what is mine to own. I will overthrow father, be the king. You won't be able to escape, me, your son. You won't shun me no longer, mother. I won't allow it.”

Mother I will own your leash.

When you finally parted—you felt light and airy. Freedom was on the tip on your tongue, and butterflies danced around your hollowed out chest. Summer lingered on your skin, warm and sandy, reminding you of beaches you had never visited and tropical fruits that run over the back of your hand when you squeezed tad too tightly.

You hadn't felt so giddy in a while, nothing could ruin your good mood, not your husband, nor his mistress and neither your son. Cotton clouds were wrapping around you and you would be damned if you wasted time to not mock the stars back, staring up at the bright sky with a sneer. See, Mother? I will have my freedom too. I won't end like you, heartbroken by a man that never learned to love.

How foolish you were. Unassuming even. Years of living on this earth, shackled by fate and you still dared to dream.

So when the door to your study gave in and you entered to discover—

nothing amiss.

You sighed, you were being paranoid again, weren't you? How silly of you. Why would anything be out of order—children and most servants were forbid from entering. You handled delicate matters, events even; such as banquets and balls, carefully writing out invitations to selected guests, curating the invitations. Also you were responsible for all of your servants and the choices they made.

Before the old king’s unfortunate death you had been responsible with his care. He had deteriorated into a bad mental state in the last two years of his life; so much so that he couldn't recognise his son anymore. You had shared your husband's pain then, younger and naïve, a decade ago.

But you didn't, not anymore, not after so much you suffered through and with him only for him to sought out a courtesan and bend the entire law for her, risking even a coop!

You approached your sleeping quarters as always, while thinking about Maria, which granted you with a pulsing headache—in the literal sense. You should ask one of your maids, maybe Leslie, to brew you, your medicine once again.

“Maria." you greeted her dryly, the routine familiar now.

“Your Majesty!” she chirped as always and you had to control the twitch of your eye—or the twitch in your hand to slap her.

You opted to just silently stare at her, agitated by having to encounter her each night in your chambers, dressed in a nightgown you didn't want to imagine the king peeling off of her skin. She was trying to shame you, in front of your closest servants and in front of the guilt-stricken guard—that couldn't deny her request because in fear of attracting the king's anger.

“Your Majesty! I have waited and waited, just where have you been?” she was active as a child—but her eyes mirrored that of a snake, just searching for one of your weak points, so that she could torment you further until she managed to properly get rid of you.

“Maria please move. I would like to rest.”

“Then let's rest together! I am terribly tired—you know how tiring the king can be! So ravenous.” she snickered, much to the horror of your servants around you, “Oh..my apologies. Am I hurting your Majesty’s feelings?” her slanted gaze drooped, pity and amusement lingering in their depths.

Oh.

She did not—

That bitch!

“Leave!” you roared. Not towards her but to everyone around you, needing to feel her scalp beneath your fingers. You knew what you would be doing now was going to wind up ruining your just newly acquired saccharine taste of freedom, and probably destroy your life—but your anger gripped your by your shoulders and slapped you on your back as you roughly shoved her inside of your chambers.

Darkness shrouded the room in thrilling mystery of what to come—at least you thought Maria found it to be thrilling judging by her giddy following, excited to play a sick and twisted game of cat and mouse in the privacy of your chambers.

Your burst came all too soon and familiar—stripping you of any royalty, drowning out all the voices in your head trying to shackle the beast you would become when allowed. Usually you were only to do so in private, behind your doors—with only your servants to be subjected to your other face, but this time you wanted to indulge Maria. Show her heavenly grace and what it meant to be of royal descent.

You strangled her.

Everything unfolded in the blink of an eye, you couldn't stop or control yourself before tackling her causing her to stumble over your carpet in shock, crashing with into your nightshade, lamp shattering the moment it embraced the marbled floors while she embraced you as you both tumbled into your bed.

“Have the king! Have him all you want—like all the other men that you had between your legs. Warm him at cold nights! I urge you, please do.” hissing you leaned down to continue. “But know that you will never be able to be loved as much by the court, by the people, by everyone else. You won't survive this for too long. Even if I am beheaded after this.” you snarled while noting that she was indeed oddly calm beneath your palms. You were uncertain. Maybe it was the sheer shock? Perhaps she was weaker than you had assumed?

Or, she had died.

Panic surged through you. You weren't ready to be her murderer just yet! The thought alone made you flinch as if it branded your forehead in big bold letters in crimson. As if everyone could already bear witness to your crimes.

And suddenly you stood in front of the court.

Fingers pointed at you, screeching out blurts of sentences you couldn't make out, while you were dragged away by your own son, his grip on your hair so tight that you swore your scalp would peel off any minute now.

Kicked to kneel in front of the king, you begged and pleaded but mercy was foreign to the man that robbed you of your youth, and that you robbed of love and his sword swung high and far before—

You convulsed, gagging only at the thought, letting loose of her neck instantly, falling off of her onto the silken covers.

“I am sorry—” you mumbled, scrambling away from her, stubbornly looking away from the assumed corpse.

You were about to flee, kicking away the covers, dazed by the turn of events, trying to claw yourself back to your feet.

Run, Run, Run. It chanted inside of your head, and you surely would’ve managed to do so, if Maria’s fingers didn't clasp around your arm like a python’s jaw.

“Where are you going, your Majesty? We just started didn't we.” you shrieked, her hoarse voice genuinely startling.

Slowly you turned around to face the woman, with wide-eyed panic still clear on your face. “Let go of me!”

“Why? So you can take flight? Escape? Your majesty, even if you run, Edwin’s underlings will still catch you.” she was grinning, a feverish rush on her cheeks, mania clear and deep in her icy blue stare. “There's no one to run to, your Majesty. No where to hide. Embrace it. You're a monster. Old and greedy, craving things that no longer are yours.”

Was the bed coming closer? Or were you being pushed down? Because soon enough you laid on your bed, another headache, so potent it nearly blinded you with its pain—left you at the mercy of her cruel words.

“The king doesn't love you. He never has. Never will.” she muttered, with purple blooming on her throat like blossoming tulips, “You suffer for naught, your Majesty. Why do you worry for someone with such little regard of your person?” it was a bitter pill to swallow the truth in her words—and even if you wished to protest, you couldn't.

You were tongue-tied from the agony, with suddenly lead instead of bones, only further sinking into the open arms of your bedding.

“You're a fool, your Majesty.” a laugh ripped free from her throat. “For ever agreeing to be alone with me, don't you fear what I could be? Don't you fear my hands on your cheeks? Don't you fear the lust for blood in my gaze?” her voice like a melody, like a drug to aid to your wounds—it worked better than the mix of herbs you usually downed to find relief.

“Will you kill me?” you asked, only to earn another boisterous laugh that felt like a whip on your soul accompanied with slanted eyes that slithered over your form.

“No, far worse,” she paused, gaze smoldering.

“I will love you and you will love me.”

Pause.

You gawked. What was she saying?

“What?” you spat, puzzled.

She was completely deprived of sisterly love, or so it seemed. This was bizarre, downright weird—had she gone mad? Now you feared whatever her sick mind conjured next.

Something morphed and shifted until a smile so daunting, that if it weren't for the pulsing agony between your brows, you would've slapped it off her face and gladly so, while simultaneously increasingly feeling as if you were trapped in the coils of a snake.

“Edwin doesn't see you, as I do, your Majesty. He cannot see the madness in you, as I can. The insanity in your eyes, the very same one I crave to have. He doesn't love you, he doesn't. Not like I do.” your brows scrunched up, puzzled, she truly spoke like a madwoman.

Maria only chuckled. Her gaze narrowed in on your lips, in a way that twisted your stomach in discomfort; the way a man leers at a woman he desires. What foolishness! She couldn't possibly mean such an atrocity! It was never heard of a woman with a woman—

And as if to prove you wrong, tear your worldview apart, she leaned down with heavy paws pressing onto your shoulders. Your corset seemed tighter. The air or the lack of it was stifling. She wouldn't, right?

Fate truly had never been kind to you—and now it proved itself to be only more cruel as her lips crashed onto yours.

She was feverish with soft lips and scraping teeth, her tongue poked and prodded as if she tried to hollow out the warm cavern of your mouth. Her scent lingered in your nose so strongly it made your eyes water—lavender mixed with something you failed to recognise as she smashed her mouth against yours over and over again, until you were convinced that she was trying to strangle you with the wet muscle in her mouth instead of her hands.

The moment she let go off your figure, as stiff as a board , she was smirking deviously, as if she won a prize in a competition. As if the prize was you.

“I promise—” she leaned down, languidly slow, as if she had all the time in the world with no concern for the ravenous chaos she had just unleashed inside of you, “that even after Edwin’s reign, you will stay queen by my side.”

A bone-chilling cold kiss pressed to your damp temple.

“Goodnight, my queen.”

Sleep was not kind enough to visit you that night or the night after even though Maria had abruptly stopped with her nightly visits after that faithful encounter—still, your head was a buzzing beehive of thoughts. You were overwhelmed and at a loss for words at the strangeness of it all. For her to kiss you and demand—No, you refused to ponder about it further.

Nevertheless as if fate wished to humiliate you further —the stars in the sky hiding behind the light of the sun at daytime mocking you — your son was glued to you for the past half an hour or so, even had send all your servants away and no matter how much you tried to pry him off he would have an excuse prepared smoothly evading all your accusations. It was creepy. Has he sensed something? He never was so persistent.

Nevertheless you still couldn't fathom why she had did, what she had done.

Even days later, it just didn't make sense. What benefit could she reap from forcing her mouth onto yours and behaving like a man? You shuddered just at the thought, everything about this situation was odd, vile, repulsing and something else. Something you wished to keep buried deep in you and left unexplored.

“Mother, look! It's a swan with ducklings.” he pointed out the window, at this very moment behaving much more closer in age to a child than to a man. “Yes, Nicholas. How grand.” you muttered dryly, eyes kept steady on the embroidery in your lamp while indulging him slightly, after countless failed attempts and of hushing him away, you had tired and the pounding headache that wouldn't relent didn't make you any more awake.

“Swans mate for life. Do you believe this one is mated?” your brow twitched in frustration, eyes kept steadily on your needle, going in-and-out of the tight fabric.

“I do not concern myself with such matters, perhaps you also shouldn't.” you muttered abrasively, watching the motive of a purple tulip come to life, something about it eerily similar.

“I believe that it was mated. Then rid itself of its mate. It knows it doesn't need one. Just look mother— all the cygnets that follow without her mate in sight. They all seem so happy. Especially the mother swan, the way she—” red obscured your vision.

Something warm and human dripped down your hand. You didn't move, didn't even breathe, all you did was stare at the needle sticking out of your hand.

“Mother?—” a gasp, “Mother!” his footsteps were overwhelmingly loud, even louder than his ramblings that were grating on your nerves.

“Oh Mother.” the condescending attribute of his tone was sharp and rung in your ears. “What have you done? Your beautiful skin,” he was mumbling again. God, when would this child stop mumbling beneath his breath! And his eyes full of fake pity concealing something much darker made you just want to pluck the needle from your hand and ram it into your throat, perhaps then the scornful look on your mother's face would finally stop haunting you every living moment.

“Mother, you're upset again, aren't you? You're always upset.” Nicholas face fell as if genuinely distraught, taking your wounded hand in his, prodding at the damage you caused. “Father doesn't know how to care for you, he is mean and brutish. To scold you for informing him that you can't possibly prepare the banquet because you're unwell and getting mad at you. He’s audacious, a fool. He doesn't deserve you—no one deserves you Mother. No one but me.”

You yelped as he pressed down onto the needle, causing further damage to your hand—the pain unbearably uncomfortable. For days your head was a dizzy spur of thoughts, paranoid and refusing to meet Charles and now, you couldn't even be properly be enraged about your son's foolishness. At least the mind-numbing headache of yours lessened thanks to the one in your hand.

Suddenly he was much closer, eyes a combination of bright and hopeful and sick. There was something manic about his gaze too, something that made you swallow thickly, alarm you once more to jot stare at the demon dressed in your son's human’s shell.

“Mother, I will be a fair king. I will be good. And I will take care of you in a way, no man or husband can. So just endure it for a while longer, I know you carry all this pain with you—and all of it is the reason why you can't love me fully. But if father, his whore and everyone else that upsets you dies—then you will be free. Then you will be free to love me how much you want. We can finally be happy mother.”

You were about to puke. Was this what you had allowed to grow? Over all the years, no matter how much you detested spending time with the little copy of Edwin, you had made sure he only had the best nannies, a great governess and tutors at hand. All for him to spew out such nonsense.

But you had known. Known since the day he was born, that Nicholas was not sane. And right now it both angered and chilled you to see your worst fears manifest in flesh and blood.

“Get lost. Out of my eyes.” you hissed, bathed in cold sweat. You had to get up and out. Needed to flee before you were given the moment to acknowledge that you were raising such cruelness beneath the facade of a noble. Perhaps what amplified your dread was that he—the look of insanity in his eyes, the hatred, yet longing mixing into a destructive love— and you weren't so different after all.

That you both craved motherly affection so intensely you both had spiralled, into different lows, but spiralled nonetheless.

“Mother—you don't mean that.” he smiled. Yet not calm anymore. He wouldn't hide it no longer. You deserved to know that he forgave you, that he saw your pain and ache and that he would ease it for you. Just let him destroy the world only to rebuild it in your name, so that you could finally love him.

“No.” you breathed. He didn't relent, clutching your hand as if it was sacred.

“No! Let go!” you shoved him away this time, crying out in pain, as the needle’s head now pierced through your palm. You were trembling. The creatures lurking in the shadows would now find you. Freedom was a dream, happiness equally but at least you used to have peace, at least you used to have Charles, but this new reality of yours, with your son as the same maniac you were in your youth, would destroy it all. He will take from you, as he always had.

Your anger boiled over.

It was a mistake—he was the heir for god's sake, no matter how foul his mouth had gotten!

Nothing changed the fact that it was done though.

You slapped him right across the face, as his father had done, startling him into a stunned moment of silence. He was as if frozen, shocked that the verbal abuse you inflicted on him would actually one day turn physical. For a moment everything halted, the particles of dust in the air, the chirping of the birds, the soft footsteps echoing around the castle and only shock remained.

Then he smiled.

“Mother—”

And you fled.

You scrambled to your feet, rushing out of the room in such a hurry, you still held your embroidery in your hand while out in the hallway, running pathetically slowly. This wasn't your son. Even after years you still refused the truth, you didn't ask for this! Fate was cruel, but it couldn't be this—not this! You were a queen now, your mother would've been proud, the same mother you had thrown off the balcony.

Tears streamed down your cheeks, sick to the stomach. No, not now! You couldn't cry now, not when duty and responsibility always came before being and feeling and living and— Before you even realized you plucked the needle from the back of your hand, throwing the embroidery against one of the oil paintings hanging nearby, hoping your blood could lay curses and if it actually could,

You hoped to curse this entire castle.

Everything should’ve changed after her death! You should've been free, should’ve lived a better life than her—but you were following into her footsteps, the same miserable marriage only used as a pawn, with the same excuse for a husband caring even little for his heir. You hated it, hated it so much you could burst!

“Your Majesty?”

“Charles,” you muttered, lip between your teeth. You groaned, stumbling forward, dressed in red—the colour which had adored your mother as she had laid lifelessly on the ground. Life was funny indeed wasn't it?

The man has been your angel for so many years, once more spread his wings embracing you in all his glory, letting your red taint him with the evil your mother, you and your son bore. It was in your blood, in your very DNA, you were bred to be a demon—perhaps that's why your son's eyes had always send a chill down your spine, not because he possessed the same potent green of his father, but he held the same wickedness in it. The one you recognised.

“By god!—”

And speak of the devil and he rushed towards you, immediately growling at his uncle that held you in his clutches. Yet before he could step further forward, the doors to his father's study opened, the room one of the largest and proudest and with its opening the king stepped out with Maria as always glued to his side.

All of them and the servants—all were staring at you, while you couldn't help but let your tears flow; your pounding headache, the blinding lights and the blurry edges in your vision everything you could focus on, all were maddening.

You were dying weren't you? This was probably the divine judgment for all your sins. Perhaps the stars were right to scorn and mock you; you were indeed pitiful, a creature born out of neglect and the same abuse you instilled on others now.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the king demanded as proud as ever, before the world was replaced by a void and swallowed you whole and the chaotic cries around you dimmed, until your own stopped.

Until you were no more.

Hopefully this time you would be reborn as a bird with fully fleshed-out wings.

[hellenistica1]

Playing Favourites

Emperor Geta x Reader

The following work is meant for readers of age 18 or older. Minors DNI

Ao3 Tags: unprotected sex (booo), somewhat dubious consent due to power imbalance (even bigger booo), p in v intercourse, vaginal fingering, boob sucking, afab!reader but no pronouns mentioned, also no use of Y/N

Palatine Hill was perhaps one of the most dangerous places in the entire empire, not just because of the decisions that were being made there, but because of the two men sitting at the very top. The emperors were like feral dogs with the Roman Empire being nothing but a bone that was left on the street. Even the senators, that were supposed to interfere with the amount of damage that the emperors could cause, seemed to tiptoe around them as to not be subjected to their anger.

But the true victims, despite the self-pitying old men believing themselves to have it the worst, were the servants, slaves and concubines. Sometimes they were yelled at, sometimes humiliated. Sometimes they were assaulted with injuries varying from scratches and bruises to deep wounds and missing digits. Sometimes they were even killed in accidents or with the intention of simple entertainment.

Keeping the tempers of the emperors mellow was of utmost importance if you and your fellow serving folk wanted to return to bed unscathed. And by the gods had you made that a craft to be mastered. It was easy for you, really. There wasn't much of an art to it, except for keeping them occupied.

You hadn’t worked as a servant for long, but it also did not take particularly long to figure out that one had to be careful, when serving the emperors. After intently watching for a while, you had concluded that when together, the emperors were much like children. They had to be dazzled and surprised and had their hands to be kept busy with trinkets while simultaneously keeping pointy things far away. Their stomachs had to be full, their thirst quenched and all their senses had to be flooded with sounds, sights, smells and feelings. You intended to take care of exactly that.

Geta was the more mature of them. He was a slightly lesser concern to you, not only because he acted more reasonable but because you had worked much closer to him, feeling like you could estimate his temper better. More than once had you been able to reason with him, when a mistake of a servant had soured his mood. As long as one was devoted and grateful, a small misstep could be forgiven.

Caracalla was slightly different. His anger was much more explosive and irrational, but once it had subsided he wasn’t prone to hold grudges (partially because he had an incredibly hard time, remembering the names and faces of his servants). But his outbursts often came with casualties, which made you focus him more directly.

So, long before the emperors or their senators were awake, you much like the other servants and slaves hurried around to create the perfect environment for two easily bored lunatics. And once that was done, the likelihood of getting injured only sunk slightly. Luckily, you also knew exactly what was to be done once the two of them appeared.

This evening it was a small banquet. Even though the sun was beginning to sink, the august heat was still ruthless and you wiped the sweat of your forehead as you scanned the room to see if anything was missing.

The timing was perfect; just as you mentally gave your stamp of approval, both emperors appeared, basking in the attention that was given to them as they entered. As the guests paid their respects, you moved towards the table to fill their cups. Caracalla's first, as he was more prone to go straight for the food, while Geta most likely would be stopped somewhere along the way.

Today however, the heat made people too sluggish for politics, so as you poured wine, both emperors were already seating themselves. Getas was giving you a puzzled look, as you handed him his cup, but didn't say anything.

The festivities continued without interruptions, though. In addition to the heat, once everybody’s hunger had been satiated, a comatose laziness settled in the room. All the guests lounged about, only really calling for servants to ask for more wine or to have a concubine summoned to them.

Emperor Geta, too was lounging on one of the seats, elbow propped on the armrest to support his head. His other hand gestured with his empty cup towards you. You quickly made your way over, to pour him more wine. But as you meant to leave, he stopped you.

“Do you ever stop moving? Keep me company for a moment.” He sounded annoyed, or maybe bored? Neither was good, so you stayed put, waiting for whatever he wanted you to do next.

For a moment he looked up at you expectantly, before adding in exasperation: “Well, sit. You make it awkward.”

“Of course, my emperor,” you put aside the pitcher of wine you had been carrying and meant to sit beside Geta, but in one swift motion he sat up straight and used the arm, his head was resting on moments ago, to pull you onto his lap.

You were going to say something, you meant to say something. But the heat that crept onto your face felt different from the one that the summer air caused. So instead, only a nervous laugh escaped your mouth.

That at least made Geta grin. He offered his cup to you: “Here, drink. I haven’t seen you drink anything either yet. Aren’t I attentive?”

“Very attentive. Thank you, my emperor,” you assured. The metal of the cup already felt comfortably cold against your skin and as you took a tentative sip, you realized that you were in fact thirsty. The wine tasted sweet and fruity and had that deeply refreshing taste to it all beverages do, when you have craved something to drink for a while. Geta watched you intently and stopped you, when you tried to return the cup to him: “Finish it. I feel generous today.”

You hesitated for a moment, which he tutted at: “Don’t disobey me.”

Once again, he took your wrist and, while spilling some of the wine down your chin, made you drink more. In a few desperate gulps you emptied the cup. Geta took the cup back with a satisfied smile: “Isn’t that better?”

“So much better. Thank you so much, my emperor,” you mumbled and tried to wipe the spilled wine that by now had run from your chin down your neck. Before you could though, Geta ran his tongue up the trail of one of the droplets. From your collarbone all the way to your jaw.

“Do you want more?” It was but a whisper, amused yet expectant. That very expectant tone, alongside the hand that was now rubbing small circles into the fat of your hip, left you wondering, whether Geta was still speaking about wine.

He seemed to bothered by the space still left between the two of you and pulled you even closer, so that you were truly pressed into him, leaving you no choice but to wrap your arms around his neck.

“Hm? Won’t you speak?” Up close, his eyes were even more intense. It felt like he was staring holes into you, waiting for an answer…

And then Dandras climbed up your leg. The sensation made you yelp in shock and Geta winced underneath you. You cradled the monkey in your arms, suddenly remembering where you were. As you got up and looked around, you noticed servants throwing cautious looks into your direction. Much more agitated however, was Geta, who looked as though he was going to skin somebody alive.

“Dandras?” Caracalla called from across the room, still dangling off one of the armchairs. This corner of the room suddenly didn’t feel safe for the little monkey in your arms and you could feel the servants around you growing antsy.

“I’m bringing him to you right away, my emperor!” You called out and turned to get Dandras away as quickly as possible. You felt a tug at the back of your robes, which you assumed was Geta trying to stop you, but you were in too much of a hurry to be sure.

Originally, you had planned to get Dandras back to his owner and then return to Geta. But Caracalla, much like his brother, was in a sociable mood and demanded you to sit with him. Somehow, this lasted a while. Dandras, assumingly aware of the fact, that you saved him from the wrath of Geta, was deeply fond of you, which automatically meant that you were not to leave.

So, you followed Caracalla. For quite a while. You waved a few servants and concubines towards Geta as your hopes of excusing yourself from Caracalla were dwindling. A strange feeling nestled in your stomach as you asked one of the particularly beautiful women to go and look after Geta.

But by now, the festivities had turned the sizzling hot august day into a humid summer night and you were certain that somebody else had taken your spot on Geta. The fact that you already claimed a sense possessiveness over it, in spite of the fact, that you had spent but a moment there, made you sure that it was for the better this way. Besides, you felt at ease. No bloodshed, no frightened slaves, not even an argument that had been blown out of proportion; you felt accomplished if overheated. The hair in the back of your neck was wet with sweat and the fact that Caracalla’s head was resting on your stomach was not helping. He alongside his posse of wine-bearing servants and astonishingly beautiful concubines had sprawled themselves across the marble stairs to the dining hall, where the remnants of today's feast slowly rotted in the humid temperatures.

In spite of the sickly sweet smell of the leftover food and the unbearable heat that emanated from Caracalla, you smiled and played with his hair. He was drunk on wine and giggling as he fed grapes to Dandras, only occasionally acknowledging your existence by readjusting his head on you. Once in a while he hummed pleased, as you ran your hand through his hair.

Caracalla was either about to doze off, leaving you to stay in the position you were in for quite a bit longer, or, which you preferred, would disappear with one or two of the concubines to his chambers. And while you didn't love the idea of spending a few hours on the cold floor with a monkey running around you, there was such an immense feeling of calmness in the room, that you would have accepted it.

The only thing interrupting you from feeling at complete and utter ease was something tugging at your ankle, which was unceremoniously dangling off one of the steps. One of the boys sitting at Caracalla’s feet subtle jerked his chin towards the room. And as you followed his motion with your eyes and found Emperor Geta to look right at you, it dawned on you that your absence was in fact, not quickly forgotten.

Unlike his brother, Geta had chosen to sit on a cushioned seat like normal person with his own gathering of people, who fulfilled his every wish, scattered around. On his lap was the woman you had sent over to him.

He absentmindedly played with her hair, intentionally or unintentionally mirroring what you were doing to his brother. His posture was relaxed but his eyes were wide and watching your every move.

Caracalla, attracting chaos even when he wasn’t intending to, suddenly acknowledged you by holding a grape to your face: “Do you want one?”

A muscle in Geta’s jaw tensed as he watched along. You had to be very careful now. It irked you to look down, as if you were worried that Geta was going to lunge on you like a viper. The calm and almost sweet expression on the face of his brother was such a stark contrast you almost felt bad denying him.

“That is very kind of you, my emperor but...” you looked around desperately searching for a reason you could excuse yourself for. When your mind remained blank you went for the first best thing: “Would you like me to get more grapes for Dandras?”

Caracalla considered and then lifted his head, to release you: “Yes, you shall.”

“Of course, my emperor, I’ll be right back.” And with that your hurried away.

As you walked over, Geta pulled the woman off his lap and stood up abruptly. He wasn’t as harsh as you had feared but the poor unassuming girl did tumble a bit as she tried to stay on her feet. You didn’t have much time to check up on her though. Geta called upon you and it was with great distress that you realized that he knew you by name.

“Follow me.” It was a demand and he did not wait for whether you would obey or not. With your head held low, you tagged behind him, walking past Caracalla and his group of curious bystanders. The confusion on Caracalla’s face grew into a knowing grin, as his eyes travelled from you, only having left moments ago and still grapeless - to his brother, whose face was a mystery to you, as you could only see the back of his head.

“Take your time.” You weren’t sure who Caracalla was talking to but you heard Geta scoff in front of you. No words were spoken as you walked through the silent halls of the palace even though you desperately wanted to ask where exactly he was leading you to.

You had an assumption... but even the thought of uttering it made you feel squeezy. Maybe you had misread the situation. Maybe the emperor was going to throw you into a well or feed you to his own exotic pets, for making him wait for you.

The further you walked the less servants and more guards you encountered until finally Geta walked directly towards a door in front of which two of the tallest men you’ve ever seen stood. With a somewhat impatient wave of Geta’s hand both moved aside.

“Don’t let anybody bother me.” The sound in his voice was surprisingly exasperated. It almost sounded like plea. Neither of the men answered, like you it was just expected of them to comply. Finally, you entered a luxurious bedchamber and found that you had assumed correctly.

You felt a pit in your stomach as Geta slumped onto the silken sheets of his bed, while you stood still in the middle of the room. He gestured you to come closer and you did as you were told.

Once you were within reach, he firmly took you by the waist and pulled you to stand in between his knees at the edge of the bed. His fingers found your hips again and rubbed slow circles into them.

“And you do everything I ask of you?” His voice was low, but when you only nodded your head he became a bit louder: “Speak.”

“Yes, my emperor.” The answer earned you a tug to loosen the rope that gathered your tunic around your waist. Geta laughed at the way your breath hitched.

“Good,” he mused: “Then take your clothes off.”

As if you were in a trance, you pushed your robes off your shoulders and then quickly undid your undergarments. Apart from the fabrics that now gathered around your ankles you were bare and fully exposed to Geta, who was more captivated than you had seen him all evening.

You could feel the metal of his rings on your skin, as he ran his hand up your body. It made the little hairs on your neck stand up. Geta noticed how riled up he got you; his hand rested on your breastbone, where he most likely could feel how fast your heart was pumping.

With him sitting on the edge of the bed and you standing right in front of him, your breasts were somewhat unignorable for Geta. He dropped his hand to pull you closer and -to your surprise gently- ran his tongue over your nipple, while his other hand without much hesitation dipped in between your legs.

You gasped, which Geta took as sign to latch his mouth onto your breast, while simultaneously running his thumb over your clit. As nice of a sensation the tongue of the emperor was, his fingers were what made your body feel hot and aching for more.

Geta started to run his middle finger up and down your entrance and for a moment both of your hands landed in his hair. In spite of it all, it suddenly occured to you that you weren’t certain if you were allowed to actually touch the emperor or whether you were just supposed to stand there. The answer came by itself, as you tried to put your arms back to your sides but were stopped by Geta. The hand that held you in place by the small of your back shot up to place your fingers back in his hair. He groaned as you gave his hair a tug and pushed his finger inside of you.

Your breath became shakier as he started to move his hand in a slow rhythm and you felt the pad of his finger run up and down your walls. You steadied yourself with another tug of his hair as he added his index finger inside you.

The knot in your stomach grew tighter with every circle his thumb drew, very jerk of his fingers and every lap his tongue took of your breast. Eventually you felt it come undone and you came with a pathetic sounding moan. It turned into a whimpering cry, as Geta did not cease his movement and kept fingering you through your orgasm.

With a pop, Geta released your now heaving chest from his mouth and examined his work. Your hands were on his shoulders now. He was still fully dressed, something that agitated him now, as he tore the fabrics of his expensive garments down, until they pooled around his waist.

In a few swift motions he pulled the bottom half of his clothes up and revealed his fully erect cock. The sight of it got you excited though you felt sensitive from your previous high. That was obvious as you gasped just from Geta grabbing you by the waist. He grinned, deeply satisfied with the effect he had on you: “I want you to ride me now.”

For just a second, you considered starting to disobey now, but there was a deep dark hunger in his eyes, that made this thought dangerous. You didn’t have much time to put the thought into action anyway, as Geta pulled you closer and gave you no other choice than to place your knees on either side of him on the mattress. While silk was a lovely fabric, it was slippery and you needed a moment to adjust yourself on top of his lap.

“Come on. Sit.” He was getting impatient and when you finally felt secure enough in your positioning you started to align yourself. A sharp exhale escaped Geta’s mouth as you wrapped your hand around his cock, slowly running his tip through your folds.

You pressed your lips together as you started to push him in, the both of you making sounds of ecstasy. Geta’s eyes were glued to the place where his dick disappeared inside of you inch after inch. His brow furrowed slightly as you stopped to adjust yourself to the feeling of him.

“I said sit. Don’t hover.” With light but persistent force you were pushed all the way down until your pelvises were touching and you gave him a high pitched cry. His hand moved down to your clit again, creating friction, which alongside of feeling way too full was overwhelming. You buried your head in his shoulder, whimpering as you got used to all of him.

“I’ve done a lot of the work up until now, haven’t I?” His voice sounded strained, like he was holding back.

“Yes, emperor Geta.”

“Aren’t I kind?”

“Yes, thank you my emperor.”

“Wouldn’t you agree, that it’s your turn now?” Once again, a demand not a question. You nodded while looking into his dark eyes: “Of course, my emperor.”

“Fantastic.” He let his back drop onto the length of the bed, while reaching for your thighs, motivating you to start moving.

Carefully, you placed your hands on his chest for leverage, before lifting yourself off Geta. A mixture of pain and arousal was running through your body. There was no other way than to exhale loudly, while sinking all the way down to the base of his cock again. As if that would magically make space within you.

A few more times you had to move yourself up and down before falling into a rhythmic bounce. Geta watched you with great interest, eyes growing half-lidded and even darker with lust. He couldn’t decide where he wanted to look; from the way you took his cock, to the way your tits bounced alongside the rest of your body, to the way your face contorted when he hit your most sensitive inner spots. The only thing that bothered him, was the way you squeezed your eyes shut at times: “Look at me. Always. And keep your eyes open.”

You were going to give him another proper response. A Yes, my emperor perhaps. Instead, a pathetic little squeak came out and because you did as you were told and kept your eyes on him, you saw the grin on his face.

At this point, any pain you might have felt from inserting Geta has subsided to pleasure. His tip kept scraping your G-spot and it made you desperate. On top of that, Geta’s hands started wandering. He smacked your ass, when he thought you were losing pace, groped your breasts when he particularly liked the way they moved and finally wrapped one of his hands around your throat. You felt light-headed. His rings pressed into your skin as his fingers were switching between applying pressure and releasing.

You were close to cumming again. And whether it was because you got wetter and wetter around Geta’s dick or because your moans were getting more exasperated, he could tell.

He didn’t remain unaffected either, though. His breathing had grown more ragged and whenever your hips stuttered in their perfect rhythm, his eyes found yours and there was something angry and pathetical insatiable. Like you stopping in your track, would kill him.

Keeping pace was getting increasingly difficult as your body grew warmer and the pit in your lower stomach was forming again. You felt sweat droplets run from your neck downward. You felt a final squeeze on your neck. You felt Geta’s other hand under your ass, trying to keep the pace going. You felt the sting of your exhausted legs, that for odd reasons added to the pleasure. You felt the way his dick dipped into every crevice of your insides. And finally you felt an incredible heat as you came again. You stopped your movements completely, something that made Geta whine.

“No. No. You need to keep going.” His voice was more dispair than anger and his arms made you bounce onto him once, twice more before your hands intuitively grabbed onto him, overstimulated.

Geta, in an act of desperation grabbed onto your hips and as if the world around you hadn’t been shaky already, you were suddenly flipped onto your back. He had switched positions with you and was now hovering over you. You hardly had time to orientate, when Geta was onto you.

The pace at which he was now pounding into you was merciless. You threw your head back with a whimper. It was all too much and you felt tears threatening to spill out of your eyes. Geta captured your face and embraced you in a kiss. Or something like a kiss, where teeth clashed and noses almost collided.

Much like the way he was thrusting, it felt carnal. Like a primitive need was being fulfilled. The two of you had become a grunting mess of intertangled limbs. Geta’s pace had become irratic as he pressed into you, his body needing paradoxical things. He needed to be touching every inch of yours but also had to move in order to keep the tension that was building up his upcoming release.

With a final guttural moan into your mouth, Geta came and filled you up. And for a moment you stayed like that. Breath heavy, the sweat and release of both of you running into the sheets while Geta was still nestled deeply into you.

Heavy-limbed he removed himself and plopped onto the mattress next to you. You took the moment to allow your heartbeat and breathing to calm down. With a groan you sat up. You felt sore. Everywhere.

Tentatively, you got up from the bed. It was no surprise that your legs felt wobbly and weak, still you massaged your thighs to get them back to normal a bit quicker. Despite the dread, you walked towards the mirror in the corner of the room to give your reflection a quick check. It was as expected. Your hair was a mess. Your lips and chest were bruised with several marks on your breast that were going to turn into hickeys. With disgust you watched your mirror-self and the white liquid that ran down their leg. Ugh.

You turned back to the bed and your discarded clothes and found that Geta was still on it unmoved, watching you intently. He looked pleases with the way you looked. You cleared your throat: “Would you like me to leave you alone, my emperor?”

“No. I wouldn’t like you to do that,” he said bluntly: “I’d like you to come back here and sleep next to me.”

“It would be an honour, but I promised your brother to bring him...” Geta interrupted you with a groan. He propped himself onto his elbows, and looked up to you with raised eyebrows: “Are you fucking my brother?”

A noise escaped your throat. It was hard to define what kind of noise, but the word escape was fitting and it was not an appropriate reaction to the question of an emperor. Geta did not seem to mind, though: “So no. Do you plan on doing so?”

“What?” This was not at all, what you had expected. You couldn’t even fathom where he might have gotten an idea like that from.

“Then why is he getting special treatment?” Geta sounded agitated, almost childish.

“I’m not sure I understand...” You were once again interrupted by him: “You always serve him first. You always buzz around him. He doesn’t even know your name. What do you gain from doing so?”

There is absolutely no way you can tell the truth. Who knows, how the emperor would react, if he knew that you mainly act as an anti-hissy-fit-force.

“I did not do that intentionally, my emperor. I simply work, where my work is required.” He rolled your eyes at your words: “Well, stop. I’m claiming you as mine.”

“Yours?” You repeated it, a mixture of feelings gathering inside of you. It was a delicate thing, being so close to one of the emperors, but on the other hand... you enjoyed the thought of being summoned to his chambers again.

“All mine. Now come back.” He watched you reach for your tunic: “Keep it off. Please.”

[liliannadelaphinehartifelt]

Alastor - [ DEVOTION… PT.1 ]

xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxx

[ NSFW ] + [ MDNI ] + [ SLIGHT AGE GAP ] + [ ARRANGED MARRIAGE ] + [ BREEDING KINK ] - ( there’s a lot to unpack in this one, I know, but you’ll enjoy it.. also pls kindly lmk the artist for the fanart I used so I can tag them thx! )

xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxx

Alastor Hartifelt was a fantastic husband.

No one could deny that.

Especially not his darling wife of one year and counting.

You, his sole companion during childhood, dawning from a rich family that occupied an estate near his family’s plot of farming land, and exceptionally infatuated with him early into your friendship.

From the very first time you met him out in the sprawling green meadows of Louisiana’s swamped countryside you found comfort in each other even amidst being ignored or teased by other children.

Their shared hatred and resentment towards you and the older boy cultivated an odd but strong bond between you two, and soon your strife to fit in seemed less appealing than being his truest friend.

Alastor immediately became protective of you, finding your shy nature welcoming like his own mothers, but also irritated by those who wished you harm for the simple fact that your family was better off than their own.

If anyone dared to pick a fight, tease, or berate you Alastor was right there to come to your aid. You’d tell him time and time again that fighting for you wasn’t worth it, that seeing him hurt wounded you more than their words, but for some baffling reason he’d never head your pleas.

Why?…

In retrospect Alastor wasn’t sure of the reason himself but he was certain it had something to do with the way you returned the favor by protecting him in your own subtle ways.

Your arms remained wide open when he needed an embrace, voice full of tender understanding when the two of you held quiet conversations late into the evening, and generally being his safe place when the rest of the world refused to be.

You were his darling from the very beginning…

His everything…

Yet, Alastor wouldn’t dare say it aloud..,

The two of you couldn’t be more different to those who observed your relationship from the outside. Alastor held an air of confidence wherever he went, suave, and well mannered. He could be cunning when provoked, dangerously charming to get his way, and refreshingly decisive under any amount of pressure.

A man every woman in New Orleans wanted, craved even, but it was well known the famous radio host had you at his side.

You, the city’s undisputed princess, daughter of a wealthy businessman, but regarded as the furthest thing from a ‘spoiled brat’. It was expected for those in higher circles to have sour and condescending attitudes but you proved to be different. Soft spoken, interested in the arts more than being out on the town, and some might’ve considered you ‘sheltered’ in terms of upbringing.

The contrast between Alastor and yourself brought about many whispered rumors and questions.

“How’d a sweet little thing like her end up with him?”

“Doesn’t he want someone better suited? Whats so special about her?”

“I hear, he married her for the fathers money. Don’t blame him for it either…she’s a real peach…”

“A little young for him don’t you think? She’s a lovely broad though…”

You’d heard it all. Every sort of rumor or piece of gossip people had to offer you’d picked up on rather quickly and at first it bothered you, but overtime seeing Alastor act indifferent to the scandalous comments made you less weary of them.

He’d never entertain the scrutiny, choosing to remind you his decision to marry wasn’t fueled by any ill will and as his wife you’d never need to worry about him caring for you.

Alastor’s always had, even when he’d left New Orleans to build his career he still thought of you from time to time, but that’s all he’d ever done.

Cared for you…

Love seemed to allude his spectrum of emotions and vocabulary. Yes, he shows you affection, buying expensive gifts, making sure you never lifted a finger for anything other than cleaning or cooking when needed, and proudly showing you off on his arm at parties and social events he attended.

Yes, he strived to hide his murderous tendencies, taking extra lengths to shield you from his ‘hunting’ escapades by planning them weeks before, and then going as far as discreetly cleaning his bloody clothes and weapons the night he returns while you slept soundly in your shared bed.

Alastor took great care in showing you he cared but defining his love for you was never addressed.

Not even on your wedding day.

It was as if he’d scripted his vows to say nothing of the emotion and even avoided saying “I love you” back when you’d accidentally let it slip out during your own speech for him.

You hadn’t pressed the issue at all, knowing Alastor struggled with concepts of intimacy and devotion since childhood, but the lmawing teeth of doubt pricked your skin harder with each passing day of your marriage.

Had you made a mistake agreeing to marry him?

Was he seeing someone else?

Someone knowledgeable of the world, maybe more experienced in life than you were, or more attentive?

Was she prettier?

Were you not his kind of woman?

Where did he go so late at night, at random times of the month, with a leather bag in his hand and a wide smile on his face?…

Had Alastor been seeing another woman for a whole year and you were just too oblivious or infatuated to notice?

Did he even like you anymore? Could he ever love you…?

Were you not enough for him?

Thoughts plagued your mind constantly, causing you to be quieter than usual, and less receptive to Alsstors lingering presence.

Your back was to him, giving a good veiw of your small frame as you cooked in the large kitchen. The familiar sight brought a smile to Alastor’s face. You were so focused, hair tied back by a white silk bow, and a sheer floor length robe to match.

He’d bough both for you only a week prior, claiming he couldn’t just let the items sit in the display window when you’d been staring at with such bright stars in your eyes, but in truth Alastor had imagined you wearing it just as you were now and couldn’t resist buying it on the spot.

Your husband remained silent as he watched you waltz around the kitchen, chocolate brown eyes peering over the top of his glasses as he did, but his smile faltering seeing the distress in your delicate features.

You weren’t the type to frown often, always emitting warmth and sweetness, so the rare appearance of anguish in your expression perplexed Alastor.

What had upset his darling wife?

Who would he have to kill?….

Asking what was troubling you would surely give him answers to both questions.

He stepped forward, coming from round the corner to enter the kitchen fully before striding over to stand by your side as you began to mix what he assumed was dessert in a bowl.

Albeit, he was probably right knowing you had a vicious sweet tooth.

“Strawberry cake I presume?” Alastor finally speaks, making his presence known with a cheeky remark, and you nearly jump out of your skin hearing his silky voice resonate around the room.

Your head snaps up to look at him, eyes wide with slight surprise, but they quickly soften as he smiles. A blush creeps onto your cheeks as he steps closer, initiating his usual habit of brushing a stray strand of hair from your face before kissing your temple gently, and only pulling away when you squeak out a greeting back to him.

“H-hi Al…you’re home a bit earlier than I expected…” you swallow thickly, staring at him adoringly for a moment before lowering your gaze as tinges of guilt build in you. “I’m sorry dinner isn’t quite ready yet…” you whisper, feeling shameful, and more agitated with yourself than before. Alastor had and would never berate you, unlike most men of the time he saw no benefit in treating his wife like a slave, and made an effort to remind you not everything had to be perfect.

“It’ s alright, darling. You needn’t rush yourself,” his voice is low, simmering with reassurance as he lifts your chin with his thumb and pointer finger. You smile nervously as your eyes meet his again, his touch firm and electrifying all at once, and your tummy doing several flips when he smiles back at you.

Alastor studies your face, attempting to pinpoint the source of your masked sadness, “You seem…troubled, sweetheart. Is there something wrong?” His genuine question brings a shock to your heart, tongue going numb as you race to think of a believable reason for your dampened mood, “I…I just had a little mishap with this cake batter is all!..”

You step away from him, turning to face the semi clean counter with a false air of cheeriness surrounding you. The fear of sounding needy and demanding while telling Alastor the truth keeps you from being honest with him outright.

Fake it.

I shouldn’t worry him with my insecurities or doubts…

It might push him further away…

The whisk in your hand spins in tight circles as you focus on mixing the overdone batter, beginning to thicken itself more than necessary as you kept going, using the task as a distraction from Alastor’s keen observance.

Something was wrong.

He was sure of it now.

His eyes narrowed behind the circular glasses, hands finding your waist as he came to stand behind you, allowing his chest to press against your back, and his head lowering to tuck into the crook of your neck.

A shiver racked your body as he exhaled a long, steady breath onto your skin. Your hands faltered, flurried movements becoming lax as you froze in his embrace, “When’d you start lying to me, ma chère…” Alastor mumbled into your ear. Every nerve in your body was on alert, shocked that he’d went much further than his usual bounds of physical affection, but pleasantly delighted he’d given it to you.

“M’ not lying,..”you try to uphold your lie through rising pants, tempted to moan quietly feeling his lips graze behind your ear, neck, and bare shoulder while your robe shifted lower. You weren’t certain if Alastor was inching it down by his own accord or your subtle squirming against him was to blame.

The ending result was the same either way. Your upper body gradually becoming exposed to his leering gaze and the cool air. Alastor hummed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest and flooding your mind repeatedly as he placed chaste kisses on your neck.

“I wish I could believe you, darling…” he chuckled lowly, hands inching towards the lace ribbon keeping your gown tied shut, and with one gentle tug he rendered the fabric useless. “Al..” you whined in slight surprise as he snatched the ribbon off, letting it unravel into a small pile on the tile floor before sliding his cold hands up the expanse of your heated torso.

Nothing.

You were wearing absolutely nothing underneath the thin robe and Alastor audibly groaned when he realized it.

Had you planned on this?

Were you just waiting for him to venture further with you?

All this time he’d watched you frolic and pace around your shared home, wondering what was hidden under you seemingly modest clothing….just to find you wore nothing at all…

Oh, what a rare occurrence it was for him to be such a blind fool.

Your hands flew to grasp Alastor’s wrists as he held you tighter, kneading your soft flesh lovingly, and taking his time to admire every dip and curve you had to offer him.

“Al…please..” you begged, visibly shuddering as he nipped at your neck and played with your breasts. “I won’t go any further until I hear the truth from that pretty mouth of yours, sweetheart…”

Damn it….you cursed yourself, slowly losing the will to think as his lips found the most sensitive area on your neck, bruising it with his tongue teeth until you whimpered and rushed out a jumbled explanation for your heavy mood.

“I…Imscaredyoudomtlovseme…th-that you d-don’t want me- Ahm…” you soft voice reached a new octave as your husband slid his free hand between your thighs to cup your mound, gingerly kicking your legs apart with a nudge of his foot against your own, and you tensed all over as he did so.

Fuck, he could definitely feel how desperate you were now, essentially a mess already without Alastor doing much of anything, and embarrassingly unable to control your arousal.

“Love, hm? That’s what’s troubling your precious mind?…” Alastor mulls over your confession, able to maintain his composure despite heat rushing straight through him to the head of his cock as he slid two fingers into your dripping cunt. You jolted from the sudden intrusion, head lulling back to rest on his shoulder as he pumped them in and out of you at a leisurely pace, curling his deft digits fowvard every so often to make you shiver.

His thumb found your clit, pressing defined circles into it as he began to ease your worries, “Love, ma chère, isn’t what I feel for you..” Alastor lets out a soft laugh, trying to calm his own mind before clarifying his vague statement all while pushing you near the edge of your first high.

“No….I feel much more than love for you, my dear. Devotion is a better term…obsession at times…” he admits the darker side of his affection through heavy breaths, cock twitching in his dress pants when you mewl in understanding. Your warm cunt suffocates his fingers for a moment, walls fluttering as the knot in your core threatens to undo itself, causing Alastor to sharply exhale from the inviting fluctuations.

Your lips parted to warm him of your impending orgasm but only a strained moan tumbled off your tongue. Alastor needed no other sign to tell if you were close, inwardly prideful he could make you come with ease.

“Go on, come undone for me , darling,” he insists in a hushed groan, his fingers stretching your walls in a fluid rhythm to drag your climax out, and you could’ve tumbled to the floor from the sheer intensity of the knot inside you snapping on his command.

Thankfully his taller frame kept you securely trapped between him and the counter that you soon found yourself sitting on the edge of after Alastor slipped his hand away from your throbbing cunt.

You watched with a dazed eyes as the older man licked a stripe of your cum off his fingers, brown eyes sliding shut as he let out a satisfied grunt before staring at your willing form perched on the counters edge.

The sight drew a his hidden hunger closer to the surface, toying with his self control as he took it in, and urging him to act on a primal instinct he’d only ever describe as “intense affection”.

Was that a flash of red in his eyes just now?

No , it couldn’t be…

You weren’t left much time to decipher the hungry glint in his eyes before Alastor reclaimed his position near you. His slender waist slotted perfectly between your thighs, the robe now draped off your back, and your hair gradually falling loose from its simple updo as his hands traced your sides.

“Love, sweet girl, is for lonesome fools…” Alastor pressed his forehead to yours, letting you chase his lips for one heated kiss after the next, and only denying you another to whisper against your soft and slightly swollen lips.

“Neither of us are alone or fools, correct?” He huffs as you nod slowly, bringing your hands up to undo his tie, and then proceeding to expertly unbutton his vest and dress shirt.

The general charm that Alastor maintained completely dissolved into pining under your gentle fingertips, an almost desperate shot of adrenaline consuming him as you peppered kisses along his jaw and neck.

If what he said was truly how he felt about you…it was enough to stamp out your doubts, allowing the adoring side of you he’d grown familiar with to resurface, “No…we aren’t,” you respond with a small smile.

He tips your chin up, placing a deep kiss on your lips as he shrugs his shirt and vest off, setting his glasses to the side as well before reaching for the leather belt on his waist.

You paid his actions no mind, busy with fighting his tongue for dominance, but admitted defeat quite fast as his wandered your mouth in expert fashion.

Your soft hands passed over his chest, moving up to tangle in his soft curls, gently tugging the strands to earn a groan from him. Alastor pulled back, a single line of spit connecting you two as he did so, and his hair falling in front of his eyes as he stared down into your tear glossed gaze, “You’re mine, ma chère. Til death and beyond…”

You nod, halfway coherent, but mustering the will to answer him with a content smile.

“Til death…” you repeat the phrase, mind reeling further from logical thinking as Alastor hummed hearing your dazed response, head nestled in your neck once more before he trailed open mouthed kisses down the expanse of your trembling frame. He brought himself as close as possible to you, smiling on your skin as you gasp quietly feeling his clothed erection press flush against your bare stomach, leaning further back in his hold embrace him better. You feared making a mess of the counter but as Alastor trailed his lips down your body and kneeled between your legs he gave one swift snap of his fingers to eliminate the obstacle entirely.

What?….How in the world did he do that?…

Your curiosity would’ve prompted you to ask him about the absurd occurrence if it weren’t for the anticipation rushing your blood as he came face to face with your cunt. “Alastor?…” you squeaked his name softly, attempting to close your legs when he sighed out a warm breath on your glistening folds, but he held them open using one hand with ease. The other resting steady on your waist, guiding you to lay back onto the cold marble countertop, and lingering there as you obeyed his wordless command.

“Good girl…” he praised, tone deepening as you whined quietly, the sound morphing into a loud moan as he lazily flicked his tongue over your slit once…twice…and a third time.

“More…” you pant in the midst of moaning, head craning to the side while your back arched and the urge to scream built in your chest as Alastor obliged your request with vigorous intent. He hummed melodically as your taste seeped onto his tongue, walls ever so sensitive as he explored them tirelessly, and a smirk playing on his lips as you writhed in pleasure.

Your face was soon flushed completely, eyes watering as they rolled slightly with each pass of his tongue over your cunt, and your small hands returning to tug at his soft brown hair. Another coil spiraled in your stomach hearing him groan in response, seeming to enjoy how roughly you pulled his hair, and his gaze drifting up for a split second to get a good view of your satiated state.

Seven hells….she looks even lovelier like this…

Alastor unconsciously drags you closer to his face, not caring at all when you lock your legs around his head and cry out from the borderline bruising hold he has on you now. “Oh god!…” you yelp, throwing him a bewildered glance before tossing your head back as he lapped at your clit like he’d starve to death without it, and the relentless attention to your bundle of nerves was the last thing you could comprehend before the knot unwinded itself.

Your vision blurred over, everything starting to spin as your cum gushed into his mouth, and the tears you were fighting to hide slid freely down your face as he downed every single drop your body offered.

It was all too much, the hunger in his eyes, his hold on you, and your high that never seemed to subside even as he broke away from your cunt with a satisfied smile on his face.

It was all too much at once….

Your head buzzed with euphoric afterthoughts, incoherency daring to cloud your senses entirely, but the sound of Alastor’s voice near your ear successfully halted the sensations long enough for you to comprehend what he was saying.

“You taste divine, ma chère…” his musing flusters you, a light shade of pink coating your cheeks as he dips his head to steal a kiss from you, “Al…” you sigh into his mouth, biting back a keen smile, and wrapping your arms around his neck to keep him near.

He chuckles hearing the unsteady tremor in your tone, adding onto his compliment after capturing your parted lips in another deep kiss, “I presume you’ll feel just as wonderful with me inside you, sweetheart…”

His assumption proved true. So much so that the moment his cock passed through your slippery folds a heavy groan of your name was the first and only thing he could manage to say. “Y/n….mon amor…” Alastor held you underneath him, not daring to move without completely relishing in the way your cunt wrapped around him first, and your broken moans dizzying the last bit of self control he was clinging onto.

You tried not to seem overwhelmed, with your legs wrapped around his waist, and your hands cupping his face to keep him as close as possible while your body adjusted to his size. With furrowed brows and a soft smile you praised your husbands well endowed length as he finally drew his hips back, leaving nothing but the head his cock resting in you.

“You…feel…s’good….” You whisper, breathless as he slams back in, swallowing your pleased cries with one tender kiss after the next. He tasted like you, hints of bourbon lingering on his tongue from the drink he’d poured himself before leaving the station, but your essence more prominent than ever.

All that he was, all that he did, and would ever do revolved around you.

His darling wife…

His one and only….

It showed through the sweet phrases he muttered against your lips as he took his time to please you, pace slow and deliberate, but the execution precise and cutthroat.

You weren’t sure when you’d raised your voice, crying out louder as he abused your sweetest spot continuously, and only going silent when a inaudible scream begged to leap from your chest while his cock bullied into cervix. Stars collected in your vision, hands clawing at Alastor’s back as you tried to hang onto reality for dear life, but failing miserably when he sped up his thrusts.

A subtle laugh passed his lips, eyes glinting with greedy lust as your head flew back, exposing all the love bites he’d left on your delicate skin, and the sight caused his cock to twitch inside you.

“F-fuck….Al!” Your eyes watered once more, sliding shut as a familiar pressure built in your core, rapidly gaining density the longer Alastor fucked into you.

He groaned at the sound of you shouting his name in such a twisted mix of ecstasy and anguish. Your soft voice becoming tainted with an edge he’d never imagined it could have. “Close already, my dear?..” he teased you, smile as smug as ever as he stood up straight, hands gripping either side of your hips, and his gaze lowering to where you two connected.

“Look…at…that…” he mused, suddenly slowing his thrusts to a painfully harsh pace, fixated on the way your cunt continuously creamed on his length. Alastor bit his tongue to keep from growling at the view, barely registering your whines and pleads for him to go faster.

“Al…Alastor…please..m’ begging you…please…” you felt your thighs shake as he continued his lazy strokes, clearly wanting to drag the ordeal out for his personal entertainment, and his lack of sympathy for your plight in that moment edged you even closer to cumming.

He knew it too…

That infamous grin on his face as he watched you resort to quiet sobs and desperate moans was a sure sign of the fact…

Alastor knew you needed him, loved him, lived for him..

“Please what, mon chere?” He bit his lip, unhooking your legs from around his waist to push them to your chest, giving his cock a new angle to stretch your cunt with.

You felt like passing out then, all strength evaporating from your body as he reached places inside you that surely didn’t exist before. His taunting didn’t make your dazed state any better, “Please, ruin you? Please, love you?… Let me hear you loud and clear, darling..”

Before you could register the words they flew from you mouth in a hushed flurry of need.

“Please…love me…fuck me like you love me…use me…I don’t care anymore…”

Alastor immediately rewarded your answer, wasting no time as his hips snapped into yours feverishly, flooding the kitchen with the sound of skin against skin.

“Lovely…” he cooed, voice thick with tension as he stared down at your overstimulated form, and within seconds of the praise slipping off his tongue you came undone. He followed shortly after, not caring to ask where you wanted his release, and you made no protest as the warm white liquid spilled inside you.

All you could do was stare, mouth falling open as he fucked his cum deeper, “It’s high time you became a mother, mon chere. You’d like that wouldn’t you?..” Alastor rambled, hardly coherent as his high coursed through him, but his statement crystal clear to you.

“Yes…” you whimper in response, walls clenching his cock as the thought of carrying his child sprung into your mind. “I’d love it…Al.”

His heart nearly stops as a genuine closed eye smile graces your face, a light blush painting your cheeks as he kisses them gently while gingerly slipping his softened cock out of your leaking heat. Alastor then lets your legs fall, lifting you to sit up straight on the counter again before wrapping his arms around your waist.

You hang onto him for balance, feeling entirely small in his grasp, and finding comfort in the embrace as exhaustion trickles in.

Alastor breathed in your sweet scent, beginning to pull your robe back on your tired form before reaching for his dress shirt. He was careful not to stir you away from his chest as he shrugged the clothing back on

“I’d love you and our child more than anything…” he nonchalantly mumbles, kissing the top of your head, and chuckling when your tied eyes go wide with undeniable hope.

“More than anything?…”

“Anything, my dear…” he repeats himself with a soft smile, bringing a hand up to push fallen strands of hair from your face.

That was when it occurred to you…

Alastor Hartiflet could love…

He’d always been able to….

And he loved you enough to share it with another…

How surreal….

xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxx

This entire 1st part was brought to you by the Great Gatsby movie soundtrack…❤️ you’re welcome… ;)

[ BONUS CONTENT + ]

Actually it MIGHT BE 12 inches if we are being honest… ❤️ credits to creator.

[kirain]

Wall of the faithless isn't canon in bg3. They changed alot of things actually. So no Gale isn't "scared" he's just an obsessed asshole who doesn't learn from his mistakes.

Oof...

There's really nothing I can say except: you're wrong. The City of Judgement and the Wall of the Faithless are canon to BG3. If you don't like Gale, that's fine, but you don't have to make things up or completely disregard the lore to do it. Larian Studios literally hired people from Wizards of the Coast—the company responsible for all the canon lore, characters, and campaigns in D&D—to help them with the story. It took them five years, I believe, to fully study and understand the lore. They constantly conferred with the team to double, triple, and quadruple check every slice of content they added to the game, and parts of the game are now considered canon to D&D 5E.

As for Gale "not learning" from his mistakes ... when you first meet him, he literally admits he made a mistake with Mystra. Though personally I don't see it as the "power-hungry" move people seem to think it is. Gale simply wanted to be considered an equal to his partner (really his groomer), which is a perfectly healthy and normal desire for anyone in a relationship. Your partner should treat you like an equal, but Mystra very clearly saw Gale as a pet. A trophy. A worshipper. Subservient. Beneath her. A silly mortal with delusions of grandeur (which she cultivated), which is really rich when you learn she was once mortal herself. Mystra is a hypocrite.

Gale tried to prove himself worthy of equality by trying to bring Mystra what he thought was a piece of her missing Weave. For anyone who doesn't know, the current Mystra was torn to pieces by Cyric and Shar, then put back together by her Chosen. Though back to full power by the events of BG3, she's still technically missing pieces of herself, and Gale mistook the Karsite Weave for one of those pieces. Instead of simply telling Gale it was corrupted Weave, she let him go on believing it was hers. Personally I think that's because she was tired of him (maybe he got too old for her 😒) and was hoping he would do something that, in her mind, would justify abandoning him—but I admit that's full conjecture on my part. What is true is that she knew the orb wasn't hers, but for some reason she let Gale think it was. Even after she abandoned him and left him to die, she never told him. Not until she realised she could use him.

In Act 3, while the argument can certainty be made that he's thirsty for power, Gale ultimately becomes fed up with the gods because, as he knows better than anyone, they treat people like commodities. While I have no intention of ever ascending him myself, it looks like he actually makes good on his word. He doesn't threaten or toy with his followers, he inspires people to walk their own path, he only asks for prayers as payment (as without some form of devotion, gods in D&D cease to be), and if you romance him ... he ascends you into godhood as his equal. Mystra could have done this for him, she just didn't want to. And if you don't want him to ascend, it's genuinely so easy. I don't understand what people are complaining about. It takes one conversation with zero checks to convince him to completely abandon his ambitions. One. If he was truly "power hungry", it wouldn't be that easy.

Again, I would argue that Gale's true goal isn't really power, it's freedom, and divinity gives him that freedom. He has many conversations where he makes it clear he doesn't want to live under the gods' thumbs anymore; which, in a world like Faerûn, is extremely understandable. As I said in my Wall of the Faithless post, he's scared. Eternal torment for a simple mistake, one of which could've been avoided if Mystra told him the truth or treated him like an equal? When your partner is a goddess, how can you not feel inadequate? And if you convince him to give up the crown, he's perfectly content with Mystra's forgiveness. Even in the Early Access, that's all he really wanted.

Gale's far from perfect. He's arrogant and overconfident and insecure and he can be prone to emotional outbursts (most of which he apologises for, however), but he's nowhere near the heartless, power-hungry monster the haters seem to think he is. He is, in fact, one of the most compassionate companions in the entire camp, to the point that he accepts everyone, including Minthara. He votes for Astarion to stay when you find out he's a vampire. He gets mad at you if you surrender him to the Gur. He's one of the only companions who will openly marry/stay with you if you become a mindflayer. He's willing to sacrifice himself to save the world, and willing to damn himself to be with you. He loves every act of kindness, while hating every act of cruelty. I understand that the bugs from launch ruined a lot of people's perception of him ... and unfortunately some of those glitches are still present even now, but he is a good man.

[myladysapphire]

My Lady Strong (IX)

Aemond had always been protective of his neice, obssessed even, insiting on keeping her sheltered, and purley his, he never let her stray far and following the incident at Driftmark, Aemma was rarley without Aemond as her shadow. How will the kind, sheltered girl fair in the dance of dragons?

word count: 3,564

CW: MDI 18+, pregnancy, (difficult) grapic depictions of child birth, angst, manipulation, toxic relationship, dark/possessive Aemond, co dependency, self harm. not proofread!

Fem!oc x dark!Aemond Targeryen

Masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part

(birth seen between dividers by @zaldritzosrose)

authors note: sorry if this seems messy!

Two years had come and gone since the wedding.

Her mother had left, there reunion short lived, and all hope lost as her mother realised how easily she had lost her daughter to the greens.

Woven so far into their net, that it was impossible for her to escape.

Believing so blindly the words of Aemond and Alicent.

Finding no cause or reason to mistrust them, seeing any reason for Aemond to act cruel as her fault.

Aemond had inserted himself so thoroughly into her life now that it was impossible to tell the difference in their lives.

she would follow him around like a lost puppy, and he would tug her alone with him wherever he went.

She was always with him or in her chambers. Never anywhere alone.

And she liked it like that.

For when she was alone the dreams came.

Dreams of blood and dragons.

Dreams that only sought to bring her pain.

She could never stop them. Not truly, nor had she ever told Aemond of them, or of reason for the scratches lacing her body.

He had noticed them, of course he had, with his cock filling her day and night there was no way he hadn’t, and yet he had bit his tongue at the sight of them.

Perhaps because they were in the same place as her scares from the black cells. scares he had long grown used too, especially after he treated them. How he was her only comfort when that incident had happened, the only one she would let touch her.

He loved to remind her of how he was she only one truly they’re for her, both then and now

Married and bound by soul and law. She was his and he was hers, for two years now her life had revolved around him. She found little she for having her own thoughts and opinions, finding most of the time they were too silly or simple to be of any use.

At least that’s what Aemond would say.

But despite that she never felt small, only that he understood her. He knew her limits, her struggles and did not wish for her to suffer.

Though if you asked Aemond, and though he would never admit it, he liked her simple, complacent.

He had not only won her trust through guilt.

Guilt of her brothers’ actions, guilt of craving a bond between the brothers who caused him pain.

He had also won her love.

He remembers the day she had said it, near six moons into their marriage.

“Aemond” she had said, wrapped in his arms after a night of passion, “I…I think that I love you” she said, her voice so soft and worried.

As if despite his professions of love, his actions devotions where all fake, as if a disguise for the Aemond who had called her “my lady strong”, or the Aemond who had teased her and been so effortlessly cruel for years on end.

And though Aemond was cruel, still the man who craved to carve out her brother’s eye, who still bite his tounge every time he saw her, wishing to announce her bastardy to the court.

But he didn’t, the years of being cruel have shown him that being cruel to Aemma was not what he desired, not what she deserved.

She had been his only friend and only love, and though he did not regret the cruelty of him for years towards her, he regretted how rash he had been in it.

The game he had played with her for so long had come to ruin.

The game of making her the eldest pawn for him and the greens.

He loved her, that much was true, you could not argue he didn’t.

He just simply couldn’t show it, not when she reminded him for so long of the pain he had felt as her kid brother struck out his eye.

And know as she said “I love you” wrapped in his arms, her belles swelled with his babe, he knew he had won.

Not only had his plans to isolate her worked. Her family loosing hope with her and making her entirely his.

But now she loved him just as she once did.

He smiled, caressing her hair “I love you” he whispered, possessively.

She smiled, her usual timid smile, she went to say something more, but she bites her tongue, instead throng her head to kiss him softly.

The inner workings of Aemmas thoughts were so tricky to place.

A part of her knew she was being manipulated but she couldn’t understand it or understand why.

She understood the love Aemond felt for her and how the love she felt she had lost with her mother had been replaced with him.

But ever since her mother’s departure something had been nagging on her mind.

Her mother had insisted she had sent letter, and never received hers. It made no sense and yet the look Aemond would send her whenever she sat at his desk, reaching for a pen and paper. the pen hovering but never writing words as she tried and tried to think of what to write.

He sent her a look of worry; she wondered if it was for her or for what her letters might say.

She couldn’t understand the idea that Aemond would have prevented her mother and her reviving letters. It made no sense.

Her mind raced and raced with a million thoughts, and all her mindful return to be the dreams of blood. Blood on her hands, her sheets.

Even know a year after she had confessed her love her mind raced, her thoughts never stopped. She never had a moment of clarity, and she swore she was going mad.

The scratching had started again, and with a husband who never left her side she o idk not hide it.

He looked at her with such worry and concern.

Mother hemming her as he wrapped and bounds her arms, covering her scars and helping the to heal. Leavings off kisses as he went, begging for answers.

“Aemma, my love. What plagues you?” he asked his tone soft and sweet.

He was ever so soft at times, and yet other times he was could be brash and harsh.

“I am scared” she whispered, her head falling into her hands.

“What of?” he asked, no demanded. He had become such a fierce protector; it was after all his excuse for being so distant and cruel all those years.

“The tides, the sister” she spoke quickly, shaking her head, as images of head rolling flashed through her.

Her hand gripped her swollen stomach “my boy” she whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“The tides will come Aemond” she spoke in riddles. Riddles that Heleana knew all too well.

For years it had only been dreams and yet her mind was so full of dreams that sometimes they just spilled out in confusing riddles for others to pick apart.

“Tides?” he tilted his head, “the sea? Ahh the sea snake…he will recover I am sure” Aemond said softly, news had reached them of his injury, of the bids for succession of drift mark.

A part of him wanted to make his own bid, though technically Aemmas bid.

As a second son he would receive nothing, why not join the other second sons and bid for Driftmark also?

The doors to their chambers opened, Dayna, a maid, walking in with their son, a boy fast approaching his first name day, named Aerion.

“My sweet boy” Aemma said standing up with a start. She hated him being away from her, fearing he would be taken at any moment.

“Thank you, Dayna,” she whispered holding an Aerion close to her.

Aemond walked to her once more, smiling sorry as their son giggled in her arms. “you mother will be here soon” he said caressing Aerion’s cheek.

“Do you wish to greet them?” he didn’t wish to go himself, but small choices like these made Aemma feel free and not like the prisoner she truly was.

“i…I do not know” she did know, she wanted to see her mother, she had cried and cried for her, craving to see her and yet she had not once brought herself to write to her, instead she had forced herself to find the comfort of a mother in Alicent, and it was never the same.

He hummed, “I have training” he said, almost as if to grant her permission.

“I shall go then, better to introduce Aerion earlier than not” she said, nervously.

She didn’t know what she would say.

She was a stranger to all now, 2 years and passed since she had seen them, and even then, they were strangers, wishing to reignite a closeness that was long lost. Thanks to the efforts of others.

Dressed in a sea green gown, with Aerion on her hip. She stood in the courtyard awaiting her mother’s arrival. She stood alone, with few courtiers coming to great the heir, and those that had only seemed shocked when her mother stepped out of the carriage.

Sending her mother a nervous simile, Aemma walked down the steps to greet her.

“mother” she said in greeting, her voice the usual shy and timid it had always been, but never with her own mother.

Unlike her wedding, where only her mother, Jace and Luke had attended. This time, all her siblings, even the ones she had never meet and even Daemon had accompanied her.

“Aemma” her mother said breathlessly taking her in, a timid smile graced her lips.

not much more was sent between your or your family as you walked them through the halls of the keep.

Though they were greeted by few friendly faces, many turned their nose up at her mother, favouring greeting Aemma over her.

“Aemma” her mother spoke once more, sitting down in as they finally walked into her mothers’ old rooms. “How have you been?”

Huffing slightly, Aemma replied, “I have been well, muna, I- “she looked down to where Aerion sat on her hip, his curios eyes looking around the room.  “This is Aerion…your grandson” she muttered, coming to brush his hair away from his face.

He was the perfect combination of Aemma and Aemond, with silver hair and purple eyes, the shade being a perfect match of Aemmas. His face bore her nose and his shape.

“Aerion?” Rhaenrya breathed, smiling slightly as he turned to face her at the sound of his name. “I- had heard news…I am sorry that you did not writer to me of the news yourself.”

“I…it was a difficult pregnancy; I was bed bound for most of it…and with how you left things last time I- I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear from me”.

Daemond scoffed, shaking his head as if what Aemma said was a lie.

“of course…dōna riña, I would have come” Rhaenyra said, moving towards Aemma.

“You said you would visit before, and you never did”.

Rhaenrya’s heart broke, she had felt like she had truly lost her daughter. Her sweet girl had been taken from her and she had done nothing to top it, even years after realising all she had done was hide on Dragonstone wallowing in grief at loosing a daughter who still lived.

“I am sorry, tala, truly”.

Aemma softened, always one to easily take an apology and never one to hold a grudge. No matter how badly she wished too.

“Would you like to hold him?”

Her mother smiled, sighing a small sigh of relief before nodding her head and enthusiastically taking her grandson in her arms, “he looks just like you, dōna riña”.

“I think he is the perfect mix of me and Aemond” Rhaenyra flinched at the mention of him. Their conversation forms two hears prior still haunted her.

“Rhaenyra” she heard a voice say, the voice of her half-brother.

“Yes?” She answered, as Aemma was led to a corner with her ladies, trying on her wedding gown.

“Is there something on your mind?” he said teasingly.

She knew he had never liked her, especially after Driftmark. And though she had craved to be neutral with her half siblings the mere fact he had taken away her only daughter from her, made her hate him.

And now that she knew he had stolen her letters, hidden Aemmas own to her. She depside him.

Depside how Aemma trusted him and doubter her.

Rhaenyra scowled “you know exactly what’s on my mind, tell me the truth of it’.

He smirked, “hmmm, I do not know what you mean”.

“Yes, you do” she insisted, “my own daughter thinks I abandoned her, I know those are not her own thoughts”.

‘Oh, please, I only told her what she was already thinking” he smirked.

“That cannot be true” she seethed.

 “you’re not going to fix your relationship by arguing with me now are you?” he smiled, and Aemma called him over, “whether you like it or not she is to be my wife and to my Aemma, I will be here for her, and you…you will be swiftly heading back to Dragonstone, leaving her yet again” he quickly left before she could reply, not that she had much to think on as she knew everything Aemond had said was true.

The words circled her brain day and night. How had she not noticed that her daughter, her sweet loving daughter.

Her favourite child.

Had been so heavily manipulated by the greens, how her sweet girl who had promised to write every week had not sent a single letter.

And how she had let Dameon convince her to stay away. That she was better off with them her.

That she had been lost to them before she had even married Aemond.

“Yes…he is he. And the child in your belly… a boy or a girl do you think?

“I hope for a girl, though I think it to be another boy” Aemma said, smiling as her mother cooed down at Aerion.

“I believe I am to have another girl…your sister”.

“About time” Aemma joked, “I have long asked for a sister”.

“Kessa ñuha dōna riña, emā” Rhaenyra whispered, starting at her daughter as she took her son back into her arms.

yes, my sweet girl, you have.

Daemon coughed once more behind her, seeing Aemma a look she could not place.

“We should go see your grandsire now…perhaps we- I could join you for dinner?”

“I- have to ask Aemond”.

“of course…send me a note dōna riña.”

She nodded, taking her leave.

She didn’t join Aemma for dinner that night, receiving word for a smirking Aemond.

 The next day they had all gathered in the throne room, the court divided.

The blacks on one side, the greens on the other.

And Aemma, still unbeknownst to the guide, wore and emerald green dress, stood beside Aemond. Hand clutching her swollen belly.

Otto stood at the front of the throne room, speaking on behalf of her grandsire. “Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds, we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark.” Otto spoke, “As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice on this and all other matters.” He moved his head to face Vaemond “The crown will now hear the petitions. Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.”

“My Queen, My Lord Hand.” Vaemond started. “The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind.  Our forebearers came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name. I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’s closest kin, his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.” He spoke, before being interrupted by her mother, who refused to face him.

“As it does in my sons and daughter, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon. If you cared so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir…No, you only speak for yourself and for your own ambition” Otto cut her off.

“You will have chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra. Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard.” Otto said, allowing Vaemond to continue, a smirk on his face.

“What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess? I could cut my veins and show it to you, and you still wouldn’t recognize it. This is about the future and survival of my house, not yours.”

Aemmas mind began to circle. The sound of blood filling her ears, the slice of a sword yet unsheathed.

Blood dripping.

A dagger slicing.

Whores dancing.

Her mind circled again and again, in a never-ending loop of green and black fading into one and ending only with death.

Her hands were covered in blood, and no matter how hard she spends them on her dress it would not go away, how could it? When the blood had yet to be spilled?

The sound of a dragon’s roar and the crashing of tides.

She screamed, covering her ears. and a head…the head of Vaemond Veleryon came rolling towards her.

Blood spilling over her gown, and more blood lacing her hands.

A sharp pain hit her then.

Her breathing grew heavy. Her hand gripping her stomach, as another sharp pain hit.

Aemond touched her then, bringing her out of her thoughts.

His face and the face of her mother and brothers filled with concern, as pain wracked through her body.

“Aemond” she breathed, her voice scared as pain, a contraction she now realised hit her once more.

Her grabbed her to him, picking her body up and running though the halls, calling for the midwives as they reached their chambers.

Her screams filled the halls of the keep.

Cries of pain and fear as the midwives told her to push and push.

Aemond, like the first birth refused to leave her side. Insistent on staying even as her grip threatened to break his hand.

“Aemma” he said in encouragement, “ñuha jorrāelagon, kostā gaomagon bisa... jelevre”.

my love, you can do this...breath.

“I can’t…Aemond please…mazverdagon ziry keligon” she begged.

Make it stop.

Rhaenyra burst in the room, tired of waiting “dōna riña” she sighed, looking over to the midwives in concern as they stood to the side talking with the maester. “I am here, my sweet…I am here”.

The maester approached them, pulling Aemond the side.

Aemma looked to her mother in fear…”no…no”

“Aemma,” Aemond said, moving back to her side “the babe…is breach” he said, and Rhaenyra saw she saw a tear leave her brother’s eye.

“Breach? no…no” she muttered.

An image of a dagger.

Of blood-soaked sheets.

A head of silver hair rolling across the floor.

She moved from her position on her bag, swiping away the hands of Aemond and her mother.

“I must stand” she muttered, holding her back as she moved away from everyone leaning against a chair as she felt the need top push once more.

“Please…tala” her mother begged, walking towards her “they can turn the babe- “

“No…no they are wrong! I can do this! I can do this” she begged to no one but herself.

“Aemma you will only hurt yourself…please” Aemond begged.

“Will you cut me?”

“Never!” he shook his head, “I would never do that, my love. Never!” he insisted as he and a midwife slowly approached her.

“We can turn the babe” the midwife insisted, and before she could utter another word, she was dragged towards the bed, eld down as the maester forced the babe to turn.

She cried out, crying in pain as the few minutes it took felt like hours.

And before she knew it, she was pushing once more and then she heard a cry.

A cry that was not her own, but her babes.

A girl.

She smiled reaching for the babe, before she was taken out of her sight, and Aemma found she was pushing once more.

Another babe.

“Twins!” The maester said in delight, as her second son was placed in her arms.

Aemond laughed in joy, before looking down and seeing the blood dripping from Aemmas thighs.

He felt like crying as he was pushed aside, his babes taken as he watched the maester work.

As he watched Aemmas eyes flutter closed.

“No…no” he muttered, going towards her only for Rhaenrya to grip him.

“don’t” she said, tears filling her own eyes “she will be fine” she said to reassure themselves “she will be fine”.

The night was long and hard, with the birth of twins.

A boy and a girl. Named Aelora and Aelor.

Ot took her three days to recover, her form weak and still as healed.

Her mother had stayed with her, day and night.

And for once in his life, he had felt a closeness with his half-sister.

A mutual understanding.

Though it would all be lost when a family dinner was called a week later.

Authors note: dont ask me why all their names are so similar it was a good idea at the time and i can't think of any other names.

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[mountaesan]

of pomegranates and love stained fingers ; p. sungho 

pairing. idol!park sungho x reader genre. fluff , est. relationship , lots n lots of domesticity ! synopsis. in which sungho shows you that love could be found at an ordinary kitchen table , amidst a mess of pomegranate peels and love stained fingers word count. 1.9k warnings. nudity and bathing in a non-sexual context , a lot of inner dialogue , sungho is… such a gentleman i actually might have fallen in love with him while writing this (yes this is a warning) playlist. the way that i am by abby powledge  notes. this is. so. so. so. self indulgent. but oh to be loved and to be seen by park sungho (◞‸◟)

Pomegranates are a contradiction wrapped in a tough, leather-like skin. 

On the outside, they’re unassuming. Their ruby-red hue is muted by a dull, almost dusty sheen, like they’ve been brushed by centuries of history. But break one open, and it’s utter chaos. Vivid, gleaming seeds spilling out in clusters, their translucent walls catching the light like small, blood-red jewels.

The juice is relentless. It stains fingers, clothes, and countertops with a color so intense that it almost feels alive, impossible to tame. 

And it doesn’t simply mark, it claims. Eating one is an exercise in both patience and surrender. Each seed is a burst of a tart sweetness that’s worth the mess, but it leaves you wondering how something so beautiful can also be so unruly.

That was exactly why you loved pomegranates. They were a little wild, a little untamed. It was in the way the juice stained your fingers, leaving behind traces of something alive and uncontainable. It’s how every seed is a burst of flavor: tangy, sweet, and unapologetically bold. For you, pomegranates were a reminder that the best things in life aren’t always neat or simple; they’re messy, vivid, and unforgettable.

Back in your adolescence, when you were still a hopeless romantic and believed in fate and soulmates and such, you had a theory: that anyone willing to peel a pomegranate for you was to be the one. The one the universe had assigned you—your soulmate. The person you’re meant to share the messiness and beauty of life with, because, let’s be honest, peeling a pomegranate isn’t just an act, it’s a labor. 

It’s tedious, requiring patience and precision to carefully break apart the tough skin without crushing the delicate seeds. The juice inevitably smears, the tiny ruby jewels scatter, and by the end, it looks like a small battlefield in the kitchen. 

You thought of it as a test of devotion. Who else would endure the sticky fingers, the risk of stains, and the painstaking effort, all for the sole purpose of handing over a bowl of gleaming seeds? Your theory wasn’t about the pomegranate itself, it was about what it represented: the willingness to take on something cumbersome and time-consuming just to bring joy to someone else.

In your teenage mind, peeling a pomegranate was love distilled into action. A quiet, unspoken declaration that said, ‘I see the things you cherish, even the messy, difficult ones, and I want to be a part of them.’

So you used to wait, watching the people in your life with a careful eye, jokingly tossing your theory at dinner tables and gatherings but secretly hoping and wondering if someone might one day sit down, pick up a pomegranate, and show you that love can be as simple, and as profound, as peeling fruit. 

But as you grew older, your pomegranate theory began to feel like a relic of a softer, more naive version of yourself. You used to imagine someone peeling away the tough, leathery rind, their hands stained red with love and effort, and thought to yourself, ‘that’s love.’ But with time, the weight of practicality started to take hold. 

Your theory about pomegranates, something you once held close with a spark of whimsical belief, soon became just another one of those silly little things that poets and hopeless romantics dreamed up.

So, you tucked your silly theory away in a dusty corner of your mind, dismissing it as an innocent fantasy of your youth. You searched for love that was grounded, sensible, and serious about the practicalities of life. You looked for someone who could handle the demands of life without the weight of romantic idealism like yours clouding their judgement. 

There was no room for mess or chaos anymore, certainly not for the kind of love that required peeling pomegranates, both literally and metaphorically.

A loud slam of your front door made your ears perk up and you heard the familiar rustling of your boyfriend’s clothes as he shuffled through the living room. You could almost envision the way he shrugged off his outer coat before neatly hanging it on the coat hanger by the entryway.

“Baby? I’m home!” 

“In here!” you called out. The bathwater lapped at your knees, forming small waves that crashed and fell against the porcelain wall of your bathtub. Sungho knocked on the bathroom door, but only out of courtesy, before he pushed it open and greeted you with a bright smile.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he knelt by the side of the bathtub to press a warm kiss to your forehead. 

“You’re home early.” you pointed out. A hand reached out to stroke your boyfriend’s cheek, a single droplet of water running down the slope of your arm and landing back in the bathtub with a small plop. 

“Mastered the choreography first so I could come home to you,” he replied, ever so gently leaning into the warmth of your palm. “Did you just start your bath?”

You nodded, the corners of your lips lifting at his sweet words. “Just a few minutes ago. You don’t have to keep kneeling like that, you know. Your knees are going to hurt.”

“I’m fine,” he said with a chuckle. His gaze softened as he noticed the way the water cradled your form, the steam rising in delicate swirls around you. “Want some help?”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Are you volunteering to join me?”

Sungho laughed softly, shaking his head. “Maybe next time, but I can still take care of you from here.”

Before you could respond, he reached for the loofah sitting on the edge of the tub and dipped it into the warm water before lathering it up with your favorite body wash. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though he wanted to savor every second of this small, intimate moment. 

“You don’t have to, you know,” you murmured as he started gently running the loofah along your shoulder. His featherlight touch sent a slight shiver down your spine.

“I know,” he said, his voice steady and warm. “But let me.”

His voice was so soft, so filled with love, that you couldn’t bring yourself to argue. You let out a small sigh of defeat and leaned back against the tub as he started gently running the loofah over your arms. 

Sungho’s touch was delicate, as though he was handling the most fragile thing in the world. The loofah glided over your arms, his hand following to rinse away the bubbles.

“You work so hard,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he moved to your legs. “You deserve this.”

The words made your chest tighten with emotion. “You’re too good to me,” you whispered.

“No such thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, his hand brushing the back of your calf. “Taking care of my partner is the easiest thing in the world.”

You let your head rest against the edge of the tub, closing your eyes as his hands continued their tender work. The care and love infused into every motion, the way he poured his entire being into making sure you felt safe, cherished, and adored made your heart squeeze tightly.

As he finished, Sungho pressed a soft kiss to your damp shoulder, his lips lingering for a moment. “All done,” he whispered, and you noticed a hint of pride in his voice.

“Thank you,” you said, meeting his gaze. 

Sungho smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Anything for you, gorgeous. Always.”

He stood up and grabbed the big, fluffy towel from the nearby rack, shaking it out to fluff it up. “Alright, come on, let me help you out.”

You shifted in the tub, the water sloshing as you moved to stand. Sungho reached out instinctively, steadying you with his strong, gentle hands. His fingers pressed lightly against your arm and waist as he guided you to step out of the tub.

“Careful,” he murmured, his brows furrowed in concentration. 

The moment your feet touched the bath mat, he draped the towel around you, cocooning you in its warmth. You couldn’t help but giggle as he adjusted the plush fabric, tucking the edges around your shoulders like a protective shield.

“There we go. Let’s go get you dried up, and then we can go see the present I got you.”

The kitchen table was a mess—juice stains spreading across its surface, pomegranate seeds scattered among paper towels and discarded bits of rind. Sungho sat across from you, elbows resting on the table as he carefully pried apart another piece of fruit. His fingers were stained a deep crimson, the juice clinging to his skin and pooling in the small creases of his knuckles. 

“You’re making such a mess,” you teased, watching as he plucked a cluster of seeds free and placed them in a bowl.

He grinned, unfazed. “Worth it.”

He picked up a few seeds between his stained fingers, flicking away the stubborn bits of membrane, and brought them to your lips. “Here.” 

You let him feed you, the tart sweetness bursting on your tongue as he watched you with unspoken fondness. It wasn’t until you noticed the way his brows furrowed in concentration, focusing on getting a particular seed unstuck from the membrane, that it struck you how absurdly thoughtful this was.

“When did I even mention that I like pomegranates?” you asked, your voice softened with wonder and adoration.

Sungho glanced up briefly, his lips quirking up into a sheepish grin. “You told me once, when we first started dating. You were talking about how much you loved them as a kid. Said they were your favorite fruit, even though they’re a pain to eat.” 

You blinked, stunned. The memory was hazy even to you—just a passing remark in some forgetful conversation. But he’d remembered.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” you murmured, feeling your chest tighten with an unfamiliar mix of emotions.

Sungho shrugged, returning his attention to the pomegranate in his crimson stained hands. “It’s no trouble. Besides, I like seeing you happy.”

You looked down at the table and took in the chaos of it all: the stains, the mess, his juice-streaked hands, and something deep inside you shifted.

Suddenly, you were seventeen again with your heart wrapped in whimsical theories about soulmates and love.

This was it. This was what you had been searching for back then but had long stopped believing in. This was the kind of love you’d once dreamed of but had dismissed as a silly, adolescent fantasy. Yet, here it was, sitting across from you with juice-stained hands and a soft smile, proving you wrong in the most beautiful way.

Your teenage self had been right: peeling a pomegranate wasn’t just about the fruit. It was a quiet act of devotion, a willingness to embrace the mess and the effort for the sake of someone else’s joy.

Sungho broke your reverie by holding up another handful of seeds, his smile so effortlessly warm that it sent a pang through your chest.

“You don’t have to feed me,” you said with a small laugh, though your voice wavered slightly.

“I know,” he replied. His tone was gentle but resolute. “But let me.”

And as you opened your mouth for the next bite, you realized that love didn’t have to be a grand, sweeping gesture.

Sometimes, it was sitting at a messy kitchen table with stained hands and sticky fingers, peeling pomegranates because someone mentioned, just once, that they liked them.

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[galedekarios]

gale & karlach

i think out of all the dynamics between the companions, i've come to enjoy gale and karlach the most over my time with the game. karlach especially bc she's the only one who genuinely seems to care about and for gale.

she repeatedly checks in on him after the orb reveal and doesn't turn it into a joke about slurping carrots, or sipping wine, or wanting him to be gone entirely from the group.

not only does she advocate for him to stay three times, depending on which dialogue path you pick:

gale's background story reveal & the reveal about the netherese orb

Karlach: Come on. We all have our secrets - and our risks. If Gale leaves, we might as well disband completely. - Karlach: Absolutely. We're all risky in our own ways. We stick together anyway. Right? - Karlach: If having dangerous, otherworldly objects stuck in your skin is wrong, then Gale and I both have to go. We're not really splitting up, are we?

but she's also the only one who repeatedly asks him throughout the game how he is doing, to make sure how he's faring, both in general and with his debilitating condition:

act 2 - shadow-cursed lands banter

Karlach: Doing all right, Gale? Gale: Oh, you know... Still alive and kicking, despite being surrounded on all sides by an endless manifestation of darkness and decay... devnote: Almost with a sigh. That's just how things are - Grim humour to it. Karlach: I feel it too. Here if you need a pick-me-up.

act 3 - after mystra stabilised the orb

Karlach: How's the orb treating you, Gale? Gale: Oh, quite well as a matter of fact. Since it was stabilised, it's been humming along nicely. Gale: I have noticed one adverse side-effect. I seem to be losing hair in some, er, unexpected places. Karlach: I can only imagine.

i think it really bears repeating/stressing that no other companion does this. not one checks in on gale like karlach does, after his affliction has become known to his companions - with the exception of the protag potentially.

karlach also arguably has the strongest reaction in response to mystra's demands in act 2, showing again her care for gale, as well as her protective side:

Karlach: Aw, was that Gale's granddad? Player: That was Elminster Aumar - the most famous wizard in the realms. Karlach: Huh. Doesn't ring a bell. But all right! Must've had something important to say to Gale, if he came all this way. Good news, I hope. Player: I don't think it was. It turns out Gale has an explosive bomb in his chest - and Mystra has asked him to use it to blow up the heart of the Absolute. Karlach: Whoa, now. He's got a... well, I guess that would explain a little, but... Mystra... I mean, this is a lot to take in. Karlach: What's he going to do? - Player - Option 1: I think he's going to follow through with it. Karlach: Fuck me. There's devotion, and then there's stupidity. If the god of magic can't handle this without sacrificing Gale, she's no god at all. - Player - Option 2: I don't think he'd do that to himself, even if Mystra commanded it. Karlach: Good. I'm one hundred percent sure there's another way to bring down this cult. No true god would ask such a thing from her faithful. That's for certain. Karlach: Poor Gale. He must be in bits after hearing that. I'll distract him. Tell him I haven't read a book since secondary school, watch his face melt off. - Player - Option 3: I'm not sure. I think he's of several minds. Karlach: Well, tell him to pick the right one. Better yet, I'll do it. Fucking wizards, man! They always need help picking the simple, obvious option. Karlach: If Mystra can't think of another way to stop the Absolute than sacrificing Gale, she's no god worth worshipping. I'll say that to Gale - in, you know, gentle terms. - Player - Option 4: You know that bomb in Gale's chest? Mystra has asked him to use it to explode the heart of the Absolute. Karlach: She what?! Is she mad?! - Player - Option 5: Don't worry about it. Karlach: Karlach doesn't worry, she acts. So if Gale needs me, now's the time to tell me.

i particularly like that last response bc it really echoes throughout her relationship with gale ("karlach doesn't worry, she acts. so if gale needs me, now's the time to tell me.").

their banters are often playful, but also genuine. both karlach and gale tease each other, they joke with each other, showing how comfortable they are with each other despite their many differences, but there are also moments of understanding and care between them, allowing them to emphasise with each other:

Karlach: Man, it's good to be home. First round on who? Gale: She who thirsts buys drinks the first. devnote: Like it's a well-known saying Karlach: You won't pin me down with a rhyme, wizard! devnote: Jockeying with Gale (prob supposed to be Joking with Gale) Gale: She who declines gets the worst of the wines.

Karlach: Just when I was getting used to the sky again... Gale: Fear not, Karlach. Sun, moon and stars will still be there waiting for us. devnote: Reassuring Karlach: Meanwhile, this place is pretty spectacular, isn't it? Gale: No book or painting could ever do its strange beauty justice. But perhaps our stories might, when we return to the surface. devnote: Agreeing with Karlach, enjoying the sense of wonder as you explore

Gale: I've always felt flames to be a rather perfect expression of love, Karlach. Gale: Passionate, primal, capable of bestowing the most life-affirming comfort, or inflicting the profoundest damage. devnote: Listing the qualities of fire, Romantic, indulging in the poetry of the image Karlach: That's... pretty nice. Never thought about it like that. But now I will.

Karlach: Wouldn't mind a dancing axe of my own. Gale: A simple movement charm wouldn't be too hard to apply to such an object. I could conjure one up for you if you like? Karlach: Yes! I like! Gale: Very wel then. Once the city is saved, Karlach's Kinetic Cleaver will be first on my list.

Karlach: So, Gale - got any book recommendations for me?devnote: With concern Gale: You can read?! devnote: Taking the piss - knows full well Karlach can read, and that she's always claimed not to enjoy it Karlach: Very funny. Yes - I can read. School put me off big boring tomes. Sometimes I wonder what I'm missing. devnote: Friendly rather than flirtatious Gale: Say no more - I'll find the perfect book for you. I might even lend it to you from my library in Waterdeep. devnote: Jumping on the opportunity to give a book recommendation (a favourite hobby) Karlach: Ooh! Something with magic, please. And no devils.

even at his most vulnerable moments, karlach is there to support him:

before the stormshore tabernacle audience with mystra

Karlach: You can do this, Gale. And I'll be right here when you're done.

she allows herself to be protective of him and get angry on his behalf not after when it comes to mystra, but also when he is potentially kidnapped by orin:

karlach's reaction to gale being kidnapped

Karlach: That bloody freak won't get away with this. That's my wizard she took. And we're going to get him back.

once again, it's a good callback to her previous line: "karlach doesn't worry, she acts. so if gale needs me, now's the time to tell me."

she's willing to be needed by him - and he does need her. whether that is as a friend, or (if you chose to play so during an origin pt) as a romantic partner. it's a lovely dynamic either way.

[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 8/?)

Violence is a vicious cycle, one you learned long before Silco entered your life. The difference now is that he doesn't shy away from it; he embraces it, urging you to accept the brutality that once repugnant. It's your choice to accept or no.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 8,4K

Warnings: blood and violence, graphic violence, slight hints of reader's past, deaths, description of deaths, attempted murder, threats, use of drugs as medicine (shimmer), kidnapping, canon-typical Silco violence, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

This chapter was written in a non-linear manner, pay attention to the times specified at the beginning of each change of point of view to understand the sequence of actions.

Part 7

03:57 AM

It was easy to get used to.

You no longer had to prepare yourself to smile and please people whose faces would become nothing more than blurs by the end of each shift at the brothel. You no longer had to pretend to be charmed, to act as though it was all part of some glorious destiny, or that you genuinely cared. That forced smile, that nauseating submission, the feigned devotion to bodies and egos you could barely tolerate—all of it was behind you. No more idolizing them as if they were gods and you were a mere offering. With Silco, things were... different. Strangely simple, despite everything. And indeed, it had been far too easy to get used to.

Life at The Last Drop had its own kind of illusion. You walked the hallways with the apparent freedom of someone who seemed to belong there. No one stopped you; no one looked at you with disdain. You were recognized—or at least tolerated—and that gave the illusion of control. But it was just that: an illusion. Deep down, you knew. You felt the watchful eyes of the guards in every corner, aware of their constant vigilance. Pretending not to notice their scrutiny was almost a game. Just like pretending you enjoyed sleeping in, when in reality you spent your nights wide awake, staring at the ceiling or tossing and turning in bed while your mind relentlessly tormented you with things you preferred to forget.

The problem was that The Last Drop seemed to know how to unlock doors in your mind that you had fought so hard to seal shut. Every corner of that place carried an echo — not of physical memories, but of something deeper, more visceral. When you closed your eyes, the dreams came like an attack — memories of the past that you wanted to bury but now insisted on resurfacing, sharper and more vivid than ever. Mostly happy memories. But for some reason, those were the ones that hurt the most.

You were never good at dealing with grief. It had always been easier to bury it, to pretend it didn't hurt, that it didn't matter. But now, it seemed impossible. It was as if every moment in The Last Drop chipped away at that protective barrier, letting the pain seep out bit by bit.

Paradoxically, Silco helped. Not in a gentle or compassionate way, of course. His presence pushed the thoughts and memories away, replacing them with a suffocating anger and a frustrating attraction that consumed you. He was a constant storm, and being near him felt like clinging to a branch while the current threatened to pull you under. And in a way, it helped. The intensity of his presence clouded your mind, wiping away what you didn't want to feel. It was almost a relief.

But at the same time, you hated it. Hated how easy it was to deal with him, hated that he made everything simpler. You wished he were more difficult, more unbearable. Maybe then you'd have the courage to pull the trigger now.

His body lay asleep on the couch in front of you. Silco looked uncomfortably at ease, as if exhaustion had finally overpowered his eternal vigilance. You had laid him down after he'd passed out sitting up, his good eye closed in an almost peaceful expression, while the scarred one remained open, blank, as if still keeping watch — a detail that made him even more unsettling. Despite that, you were entirely certain he was deeply unconscious.

You'd made sure he was drained. Part of you took pride in that. Even though he wasn't exactly young, Silco had handled your energy well — perhaps even better than you'd expected. But that was irrelevant now.

In your hand, the weight of his revolver anchored an impossible choice. The gun was unlocked, the barrel pointed directly at Silco's head. Your finger hovered over the trigger, trembling, hesitant. It hadn't been hard to find the revolver. He kept it in one of the desk drawers, the same drawer where, curiously, you'd found something else. A piece of fine lace — your panties, which he had taken for himself during your last visit to the brothel a month ago. The memory stirred a mix of discomfort and nostalgia, but at this moment, it felt utterly insignificant.

You'd been standing there for at least fifteen minutes, motionless, lost in this internal battle. When you entered the office, this wasn't part of the plan. You hadn't come to kill him. You'd orchestrated this encounter because you needed to examine something you'd found earlier but hadn't had the time to analyze properly. You needed to act without worrying about Sevika's relentless shadow, whose routine you had memorized over the past few days. The middle of the night was perfect, with only the night guards on patrol, their steps and intervals quickly committed to your memory. All you needed was to keep Silco out of the way for a few hours. And you had succeeded.

But then you found the revolver. And now you were here.

He looked so human while he slept. His breathing was heavy but steady. The constant tension in his shoulders had vanished, leaving him almost... serene. So different from the man who seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders when awake. Even his scars looked less severe in the flickering light of the desk lamp. It was strange to see Silco like this, almost vulnerable.

But as you watched him longer, you realized that not even sleep brought him peace. Every so often, he would furrow his brow, murmuring something incoherent. Perhaps a nightmare, perhaps a memory haunting him. It made him seem even more... human. And you hated feeling that.

Silco was a monster. A trafficker who had turned Zaun into a suffocating chaos of despair and violence because of Shimmer. A manipulator who didn't hesitate to sacrifice lives to achieve his goals. A man who had very likely kidnapped a child — the child you had sworn to find. A cruel, heartless, soulless killer.

You hated him.

And yet, you couldn't pull the trigger.

Why?

You could blame that small part of yourself that had attached to him too quickly. Too strongly, like a silent plague that crept in before you realized it. The part that held onto the moments between you two as if they were precious relics, no matter how torturous they were. You had to admit, Silco had gotten under your skin, and that terrified you. It wasn't just the sex, though it was impossible to ignore how good it was — intense, almost transcendent, as if you both were trying to devour each other in an effort to feel something beyond just flesh. But it was more than that. Something you didn't want to name.

It was the little things. The subtle ways he showed affection, even in his twisted, fragmented way. Like how he always held you after sex, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin as if trying to memorize every inch of you. Or how he always seemed to want to touch you, even outside the heat of passion. Those touches were different, softer, almost reverent, as if he was making sure you were really there. And that damned look of his... A look that seemed to see right through you, beyond your armor, into the darkest corners of your soul. A look that said he saw what you were — and worse, accepted it.

Maybe that was what killed you. That unbearable acceptance.

Or maybe it was his obsession — twisted, dangerous — that somehow resembled affection. Not the kind you'd dream of, but something as chaotic and destructive as he was. Like cannibalism as a metaphor for love, a consuming that was both intimate and fatal.

And now, here you were, with a loaded gun aimed at the man you both desired and hated. Perhaps hatred was just another form of desire, a corrupted and impure version but inescapable all the same. You hated him, above all, for making you feel anything. For breaking through that hard shell you'd built around yourself.

And that was why he had to die.

Because deep down, you knew. Everyone you began to feel something for ended up dead in the end. It was a curse, a cycle you didn't know how to break. Silco would just be another name on that list; you convinced yourself of that. If there was even the slightest chance — no matter how remote — that this feeling, this damnable feeling, could grow, could become something worse, something stronger, you needed to cut it off at the root.

He had messed with your head in a way no one else ever had. More than your time at the Institute. More than the losses. More than anything.

You sighed, the sound echoing in the room like a muffled scream. Your hands trembled, but you moved with precision to open the cylinder of the revolver. Carefully, you removed all the bullets, leaving only one in the chamber. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe it was courage. Maybe it was the only way to make this decision without overthinking it. Russian roulette. That was it. Fate would decide. It would be easier this way. Easier than facing the truth — that you wanted just as much to pull the trigger as to drop the gun and fall into his arms.

You closed your eyes, letting your finger rest on the trigger. One breath, two. But before you could do anything, the metallic sound of something hitting the floor interrupted your concentration.

You quickly aimed the revolver toward the sound, your senses on high alert. Something had fallen near Silco's desk, breaking the silence that filled the room. Your eyes scanned the beams in the ceiling, searching for any movement or suspicious presence, but you found nothing. Just in case, you glanced at Silco. He was still lying on the sofa, his body unmoving except for a slight shift, seemingly caused by the noise. His breathing remained steady. He hadn't woken up.

You began reloading the revolver, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly, though caution lingered. Your gaze returned to the floor, to the object that had disrupted the quiet. With calculated steps, you approached. The tension in your chest dissipated the moment you saw what it was: a small, cylindrical metal object with a design etched on the surface. A blue rat?

You picked it up, studying the lines of the drawing. It seemed childlike, crafted with care but lacking the precision of an adult's hand. Your eyes darted between the object and Silco's ashtray on the desk. The doodles were similar, as if made by the same hand. Involuntarily, you glanced again at the ceiling beams. Why did you feel like this hadn't been there before?

Either way, it hit you like a bullet — like a cold shower snapping you out of the chaos of your own thoughts. Reason returned like a violent tide, pulling you away from the impulsive and absurd decision you had almost made. What you were about to do to Silco... it was unthinkable now, seen under the stark light of lucidity. The weight of regret already pressed on your chest, even though the act hadn't been carried out.

You clutched the metal object against your chest, not caring if it could be dangerous. In truth, it seemed almost irrelevant. The simple cold touch of that piece of metal was what brought your good sense back. You stared at the thing, still confused about how that mechanical rat — which looked very much like an invention or a toy — had ended up in Silco's office. You didn't know its origin, but at that moment, you silently thanked its presence.

You holstered the revolver and walked to Silco's desk, your breaths heavy, your hands still sweaty. Carefully, you began sifting through the papers. The reason that had started this entire plan tonight was somewhere here.

And you found it.

It was a drawing. Simple, made by small hands and scribbled in bright colors with uneven lines. It depicted what seemed to be Silco — the scar on his face and the orange eye made that clear. Beside him stood a little girl with two blue braids. The caricature was clumsy but unmistakable. Your fingers gripped the paper tighter than you intended as you looked at the drawing and compared it with the metal cylinder. There was no doubt. The same style, the same child.

Jinx.

Or perhaps little Powder, if you were foolish enough to cling to false hopes.

You held both the cylinder and the drawing tightly, as if they were relics you couldn't let slip away. With quick, almost anxious steps, you headed for the door. Your thoughts spiraled, blending with the rapid thud of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. Suddenly, that office had become suffocating, and you needed to get out as quickly as possible. You needed to go somewhere safe, to calm down, to distance yourself from all of this.

From The Last Drop.

From your turbulent mind.

From your conflicting feelings.

From Silco.

Even if you were already taking something of his with you.

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

01:05 PM

Heavy breathing, trembling and bloodied hands, the raw pain of repeated impact throbbing in his knuckles. The metallic smell of blood mingled with the scent of aged wood and sweat. The body before him was still alive — at least in strictly biological terms — but the soul of that man seemed to have been beaten out of him. He lay on the ground, each muffled groan only feeding the tension inside Silco.

Silco closed his eyes for a moment, trying to control the wave of rage threatening to overflow once more. He took a deep breath, the air entering his lungs in short, labored gulps, as if the simple act of breathing was a monumental effort. He needed to regain composure. He needed to think. But the words of that miserable fool — that idiot who thought he could open his mouth and try to explain his failure — echoed in his mind, each syllable a cruel reminder of a failure Silco was unwilling to acknowledge.

She escaped.

The idea was so absurd he almost laughed. How? How could that even be possible? He had taken care of every detail. Not just the practical ones, but the emotional ones, too. He had been... generous, more than he normally would be with anyone. He ensured her needs were met, her requests heard. He even allowed her to keep a semblance of autonomy — a dangerous concession, but one he deemed necessary. All to ensure she would stay. That she would accept her new reality without resistance.

So, why?

Why had she escaped? Why had she abandoned him now?

The word lingered in the air: abandoned.

He hated the implication. It wasn't abandonment. It couldn't be. That would imply something he wasn't willing to accept about his own feelings. Something he refused to admit, even to himself. Silco stopped. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, fresh blood staining the cuff of his shirt. He felt an internal storm, a whirlwind of emotions he couldn't control: anger, frustration... and a pang of something he hated to acknowledge. Fear.

She was important. More than he was willing to articulate, even in his most private thoughts. And the idea of losing her after finally getting his hands on her was inconceivable.

He shook his head, trying to push the thought away. No. This wasn't the time to get lost in such musings. He had a problem to solve. And he would solve it, as he always did.

With a swift motion, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands, the movements almost automatic but lacking the care needed to remove all the grime. The stain of violence lingered, in the small cuts and scratches that formed trails of dried blood. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back with a nervous touch.

"I can't believe she managed to escape because of a damn blind spot during the guard shift." Silco growled, his voice deep and low but laden with an intensity that made the air in the room feel heavier. He wasn't yelling, but the anger in his words was as clear as the blood still staining his knuckles. "A single window..." he straightened, turning fully to Sevika, his eyes cutting into her like sharp blades. "How did you let this happen?"

Sevika, with her usual steel posture, swallowed hard before responding. "I gave orders for all the windows to be checked after the bar closed." her voice was firm, but there was tension beneath it. She knew it wouldn't be enough.

Silco took a step forward, the lamplight highlighting the harsh lines of his face, his expression a mask of frustration and disdain. "Then it seems your orders were being ignored." he retorted, each word dripping with contempt. "An unarmed woman, under constant surveillance, in my territory, managed to disappear without anyone noticing... How the hell does someone like her simply vanish before anyone realized it was too late?"

"The guards—"

"The guards failed!" Silco cut her off with a tone that felt like a whip. His voice wasn't loud, but every word was delivered with cruel precision. "Idiots." he muttered to himself, venom dripping from his tongue. "All of you, incompetent. You let her slip away right under your noses. I'm surrounded by amateurs."

Sevika stood firm, but the clenching of her jaw was evident. She was frustrated, maybe even furious with herself, but she knew that at that moment, any explanation would only anger him further.

"Silco, no one expected her to—"

"That's irrelevant!" he roared, cutting her off again, his voice cold as ice. "She's out. Which means she could be anywhere. Anyone could find her before we do. And if you think that's acceptable, you're all more foolish than I imagined."

He took another step forward, stopping just inches away from Sevika. His eyes, one blazing with fiery orange, pierced into hers with an intensity that made the room feel smaller. Silco could resemble a demon now. "Find her." he ordered, his voice now low but laden with absolute authority. "I want everyone looking for her. Every corner, every alley, every damn hole in this city. No matter the cost. No matter the effort. I want her back."

Sevika nodded firmly, though there was a glimmer in her eyes betraying her own frustration. "Yes, sir." she responded, her voice controlled, though tense.

The title of "sir" tasted so bitter now.

Silco didn't look away. "And get rid of that damn dead weight on my floor." he added, indicating with a slight tilt of his head the still-unconscious, bloodied body lying in the middle of the room. He then watched as the door closed with a dull thud after Sevika left, dragging the unconscious guard.

He remained motionless for a few moments, his fingers drumming softly on the surface of the desk as his mind raced, drawing scenarios, all of them undesirable. He knew she was clever — cunning, even. But the audacity to defy him? That was something he hadn't anticipated.

He ran a hand over his face, trying to dispel the rage boiling beneath his skin. The gesture was almost useless. The headache throbbed at his temples, a persistent buzzing filled his ears, and the beating he'd delivered to the guard hadn't done much to relieve the growing pressure in his chest. Silco disliked losing control, hated succumbing to emotion, but this day was testing his limits.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to regain control. Now wasn't the time to fall apart. Not now, when everything was already slipping through his fingers. Slowly, he moved to the worn leather chair behind his desk. He sat down with a weight that seemed to drag the entire room down with him. His eyes fixed briefly on the darkness beyond the window, but he quickly averted them, reaching for the injector in his drawer.

His fingers moved automatically, preparing the dose of Shimmer he needed. He didn't think about the gesture — it was something he did almost unconsciously, like a reflex conditioned by years of habit. Then, he stopped, tilting his head slightly upward.

"How long have you been there?" to an external observer, it might have seemed that Silco was talking to himself, but he knew he wasn't.

A childish voice responded, hesitant and thin, with a trace of apprehension. "Since you started beating the crap out of that guy."

He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping in a gesture of exhaustion. It wasn't just the anger or frustration that hit him now; it was the awareness that someone else had been watching. Someone who shouldn't have witnessed that.

"You weren't supposed to see that."

Before he could say anything else, he heard the sound of something falling directly onto the desk. A few papers slid to the floor, along with some random object. He turned in his chair and found Jinx there, curled up on herself.

She was sitting in her usual position — hugging her knees, her face partially hidden between them. Her eyes, which usually sparkled with a touch of mischief or curiosity, were distant, lost in some point within the office. In that posture, with her hunched shoulders and chin tucked in, she seemed even smaller than she really was. A reflection of the fragility she rarely let show.

"I see Sevika beating people up all the time..." her voice was low but carried a faint, false attempt at disdain. "So, whatever."

Silco sighed again, this time more controlled, almost resigned. He knew the world he was shaping around Jinx didn't allow for the absence of violence. She would have to learn to live with it, to see it, and eventually to execute it with precision and detachment. Still, there was something different when he was the one committing such acts in front of her. He felt there was a specific image he needed to preserve for Jinx — and a man acting like a mindless, violent animal wasn't part of that vision.

He moved the injector toward her, watching as Jinx hesitated briefly before taking the device. Her small fingers held the object carefully, and she stepped closer to the edge of the desk. Silco leaned back in his chair, tilting his chin upward to let her position it. He felt her hands on his face, still somewhat uncertain as she tried to find the right angle.

There was a slight tremor in her fingers.

"Keep your hands steady." he said, in a tone that even surprised himself. It was soft, almost paternal, as if the irritation he'd felt moments earlier had been washed away from his body. "You're not going to hurt me, Jinx."

"But you always writhe in pain afterward."

"There are pains in life that are necessary." he replied, shifting his eyes to meet hers briefly. His heterochromatic eyes gleamed under the dim light of the office, his expression calm and patient. "You'll understand that better when you're older."

Jinx pursed her lips into a pout, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. But his words seemed to be enough to encourage her. He saw her determination slowly return, and soon she was adjusting the injector to his eye and pressing the button. The sensation was immediate. The injection released the liquid directly into Silco's system, and the pain that followed was like liquid fire coursing through his veins. He felt his nerves throbbing, every muscle in his body contracting in involuntary spasms. The heat of the Shimmer seemed to intensify with every second, his heart pounding fast, almost erratically.

Silco arched his body slightly in the chair, his fingers gripping the wooden arms tightly. A single drop of Shimmer slipped from the corner of his scarred eye, a gleaming, purple tear that fell to the floor with an almost inaudible sound. He took a deep breath, steadying the erratic rhythm of his heart as he wiped his face with the back of his hand, dispelling the lingering trace of that searing pain. He was used to it, despite everything. The pain, the discomfort, the feeling of being consumed from within — it was all part of his routine.

"She could have killed you yesterday."

Jinx's words cut through the silence of the office like a sharp knife, thrown into the air with seemingly casual indifference. Silco lifted his eyes from where he sat, surprised by the sudden comment, but before he could even ask for an explanation, Jinx continued, her voice light, almost casual, as if she were recounting some trivial story.

"You were passed out on the couch." she began, her tone as nonchalant as if she were narrating an ordinary event. "And she just stood there... still. With the gun in her hand, staring at you. She looked like a statue, you know? Didn't move for almost half an hour."

Silco tilted his head slightly, frowning as he absorbed what the girl was saying. "She could've shot at any second." Jinx went on, curling back into her previous position, hugging her knees tightly, her eyes fixed on some point on the floor. "But she didn't."

The silence that followed was heavy, almost tangible. Silco didn't respond immediately. He absorbed the words carefully, letting them settle like a slow-acting poison. He had no reason to doubt Jinx. She wasn't the type to make up stories, especially something so specific. He should have been more surprised by the revelation that the woman, from whom he expected obedience and hatred in equal measure, had once again held a weapon against him. But, to be honest, he wasn't. Of all the betrayals that could occur, this one seemed almost inevitable. What bothered him more wasn't the attempt itself but the fact that she had hesitated.

Why didn't she pull the trigger?

That question lodged itself in his mind like a blade. He knew hesitation could mean many things — guilt, remorse, a fragment of something human she carried for him... or perhaps something more strategic, a game he had yet to understand.

Silco tilted his head slightly to the side, intrigued. "And then?"

Jinx shrugged, as if recalling something trivial. "Then I decided to throw a bomb to distract her."

"You threw a bomb in my office?"

"It was just a smoke bomb!" Jinx protested, looking up at him. "And it didn't even go off."

He leaned slightly forward in his chair, his fingers drumming on the wooden surface of the desk. "Did she see you?"

"No... I don't think so." Jinx replied, frowning as if trying to recall. "She turned in my direction. Looked up, right where I was. It was close... really close. But I hid before she could spot me. Then I ran out when she got distracted."

"You didn't see her leave the office?"

"No." Jinx admitted, looking somewhat embarrassed. "I'd already bolted. I don't know how or when she left."

"You should have told me about this immediately, child."

"I thought you already knew!" Jinx shot back defensively, though she avoided meeting his gaze.

Silco turned to her, his eyes locking onto hers, sharp and penetrating like a father educating his child. He knew she wasn't accustomed to handling situations like this — at least not with the seriousness he expected from her. However, Jinx's survival instincts were an asset, and he couldn't deny that, even in her impulsiveness, she had protected him from possible death.

"Next time, you inform me." he ordered, his voice icy but tinged with a paternal tone he rarely allowed to show.

Silco leaned back in his chair with a sigh, feeling the familiar, throbbing pain behind his eyes intensify. He was trying, with all his might, to analyze the events of the previous night pragmatically, separating the emotions that insisted on creeping in. But he was growing exhausted. Every piece of this puzzle seemed out of place, and the thought that he needed to confront that woman, to make her explain what the hell was going on, only fueled his irritation.

He knew he would find her. It wasn't a question of "if" but "when." And when that happened, she would have a lot to explain. However, as his mind worked relentlessly, one detail made Silco freeze for a moment. Jinx had been in his office. Last night. The same office where he and that woman... Oh, for the Gods' sake. A sudden chill ran down his spine.

"When exactly did you get here last night?" the question came out with a casual, controlled tone, though internally, Silco was on the verge of being consumed by embarrassment. He wouldn't know how to handle the realization that the child knew exactly what he did behind closed doors.

"When she was already standing in front of the sofa."

Jinx's response brought immediate relief. Silco almost exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. At least Jinx had arrived at the end of the night. That was something. He allowed himself to relax slightly, but not for long.

"Are you worried about her?" the question caught Silco off guard, but he didn't show it. He tilted his head, casting a glance in Jinx's direction. She now looked at him with an expression that was hard to decipher.

"No. I just want her back here."

"Why?" Jinx tilted her head to the side, her face twisting into something that resembled indignation. "She's just a prostitute. You can pay for another one."

If Silco had been at the edge of his patience before, that statement dangerously pushed him to the brink. He didn't allow himself to react immediately, but internally, he was both surprised — and, in a way, irritated. Not so much at what Jinx had said, but at the fact that she knew enough to make such a claim.

He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her carefully. It was evident that Jinx had more awareness of the world around her than he liked to admit. One thing was her becoming accustomed to the environment he had provided — violence, strategy, controlled chaos. Quite another was her having knowledge and understanding of... intimate details.

"How do you know she's a prostitute?"

"Sevika told me." Jinx shrugged, her expression indifferent, as though there was nothing wrong with repeating what she'd heard. "She said you pay her to keep you company so you don't feel lonely. If that's the case, you can just find another one, or I can stay here so you won't feel lonely. I'm free."

Ah... the sweet, uncomfortable, and relentless innocence of children. Silco had to resist the urge to rub his face with his hands, exhausted. He was not about to explain the complex and often dark nuances of human relationships to her. He didn't have the patience for it, nor the will.

"Her kind of company is different from yours."

Jinx frowned, visibly confused by the vague response. Silco remained silent, showing no intention of elaborating. The explanation stopped there, and he knew it would irritate her. As expected, the girl huffed in frustration, jumping down from the desk with careless energy that sent a few papers scattering to the floor.

Silco watched her as she moved around the office with her typical restless, clumsy motions, touching things she shouldn't and completely disregarding any notion of manners or decorum. Yet, there was something reassuring about seeing Jinx being Jinx, even when everything around him seemed on the verge of falling apart.

"Right before I ran off, I heard her mumbling something about 'going to a safe place.'" Jinx's voice broke the silence, her tone casual as if she were reporting something insignificant. She was now rifling through a pile of objects in the corner of the office, tossing small metal pieces from one side to the other, clearly bored. "Maybe she's in that so-called safe place."

Jinx's words, seemingly spoken without any awareness of their weight, made Silco bring a hand to his chin, diving into careful thought. A "safe place." That could mean anything, but he knew that for someone in her position — a fugitive at a disadvantage — a "safe place" was rarely an abstract concept. He could think of a few places where she might have scurried off like a rat.

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the wooden armrest as he analyzed the possibilities. He knew Zaun like no one else. The shadows of its streets, the narrowest alleys, the makeshift hideouts where the desperate curled up, believing they were out of his reach. Silco had eyes everywhere. No one could hide from him for long.

"This could be useful." Silco murmured, almost to himself. The low tone, however, didn't escape Jinx's sharp ears.

She knocked something over on purpose — a loud crash echoed through the office. Then she turned to him with a questioning look. "You're really going after her?"

"I thought I'd already made that clear." Silco replied, not raising his voice but with enough firmness to leave no doubt that the decision had already been made. He knew it was his responsibility, not just as a leader, but as a strategist. That woman's escape wasn't just an affront to his authority; it was an inconvenient reminder that he was still vulnerable to small missteps.

Jinx shrugged but didn't seem particularly convinced. "If she doesn't want to be found, it's gonna be tough. She seemed... smart."

The corner of Silco's lips curled into an almost predatory smile, devoid of any warmth or kindness. "No one in Zaun can hide from me for long, child. No matter how clever they think they are."

Jinx, however, quickly lost interest. She climbed onto a chair and started swinging her legs, her restless movements starkly contrasting with the heavy tension lingering in the air. Silco watched the scene for a moment, the contrast between his calculated calm and the girl's restless energy almost making him smile.

He let out a low sigh, his hand resuming its rhythm of tapping against the arm of the chair. This woman thought she could disappear, that she could find some refuge in his city without him noticing. Foolishness.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

01:10 PM

You covered your mouth with your hand, pressing it firmly to muffle the sound of your breathing. Your body was frozen, pressed against the rough, cold wall of the apartment as if trying to merge with the structure. Any movement, no matter how small, could draw attention too soon.

In the next room, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed on the worn wooden floor. Two men. You didn't need to see them to know they were big and bulky — the kind of enforcers who could break bones with a single blow. The rhythm of their steps was slow, almost lazy, but the tension in the air betrayed that they were alert, ready to act at the slightest sign.

Running wasn't an option. They were in the way of the only exit — the front door of your tiny apartment, which looked more like a crumbling ruin. You knew that if you tried to run, they'd catch you before you even made it to the hallway. That left only one option: fight.

All of this could have been avoided. You knew Silco would eventually send men to your home. That's why you were here — not to hide, but to gather everything that could connect you to Vander and take it somewhere safe, somewhere no one, least of all Silco, could find it. The plan was simple, straightforward, and would've been quick if everything had gone as you'd envisioned. All you had to do was grab the bag and disappear for just a few days. They'd only notice the disappearance later, when it was too late to track you down.

But something had gone terribly wrong.

The two brutes had burst into the apartment before you could leave. Maybe they had followed some trail, or maybe Silco was faster and more cunning than you wanted to admit. Now, instead of being on your way to the mines, you were cornered in the living room, forced to hide like a trapped rat. You had no idea how they had reached your apartment so quickly. The Last Drop was far enough away that you should've had time to escape.

You heard one of them rummaging through your room. The wardrobe door slammed open and shut violently, the contents inside being tossed carelessly onto the floor. Soon after, the sound of the bed being dragged scraped through the silence, followed by the bathroom door being opened in a rush. More sounds of objects falling and hitting the floor echoed around you. And as they did this, they talked to each other, but you couldn't focus on what they were saying.

Your mind was racing like a runaway horse, each thought slipping away before you could hold onto it. You needed a strategy — something that didn't force you into a prolonged direct confrontation. Not because you were a coward — you had already proven you weren't — but because you simply couldn't afford it. There was the risk of blacking out if you overused that, and in this moment, blacking out meant dying.

In an ideal scenario, you'd need to take them both down in under ten seconds. Beyond that, your chances of success would plummet to near zero. But there was a problem: they were too far apart, making it impossible to ambush them both at the same time.

Silco's dagger in your hand was heavy, though not uncomfortably so. It was the weight of something familiar, almost reassuring. The cold metal handle felt like it was molded to your palm, as if it was always meant to be there. A bitter memory surfaced: you were made for this. Every fiber of your being, every enhancement, every grueling training session — it was all for moments like this, for killing.

That thought gave you the certainty you needed. You rose from your crouched position, your muscles already tense, ready for what was coming. Instinct took over. In one swift motion, you kicked a metal can lying near you. The clang was loud, metallic, reverberating off the walls. Silence. One second. Two.

Quick footsteps came in your direction. Heavy, determined. They were moving like predators that had finally cornered their prey. Both of them stormed into the room at the same time. Each was armed with a knife, their eyes locked on you. The bigger one had an arrogant smirk on his lips, as if he had already won.

"Come on, sweetheart." he said, his voice slow and condescending. "Just come along like a good girl before you get hurt. We've got orders to bring you in alive, but accidents happen, don't they?"

You didn't reply. There was no need. They weren't here to talk, and even if they were, it wasn't something that mattered now. Your gaze fixed on the two men as you felt the steady pulse of adrenaline course through your body. The dagger's handle pressed against your palm so tightly your knuckles were white. You exhaled through your lips in a long sigh, like a pressure valve releasing, as a wave of forced calm took over your body. It was almost ironic, given the chaos about to unfold.

And then it happened.

That familiar sensation began. The world around you slowed down, as if time itself hesitated to move forward. The tingling started in your eyes, a subtle electric current dancing through your vision. The edges of your field of view flickered, and every detail around you sharpened. The man on the left, the more confident one, had a small, poorly healed cut on his lip. The other, hesitant, gripped his knife with stiff fingers, as if afraid it might slip.

They moved at the same time.

The first came straight at you, his knife aiming for your left shoulder. You dodged before the motion could complete, twisting your body to the side and forcing his blade to slash through empty air. A swift movement of your dagger in response left a trail of blood along his side before you repositioned yourself. The second man tried to capitalize on your supposed distraction, coming at you from the side. But your reflexes were beyond what he could anticipate. Your free hand grabbed his wrist, twisting it with a quick, brutal motion until you heard the dry snap of a dislocated bone. He screamed, but you didn't hesitate. Your dagger found his throat with surgical precision, a quick, clean slash.

The man dropped to his knees, hands clutching his neck as blood poured between his fingers.

The first had already recovered from the initial strike and charged again, his confidence now replaced by fury. He attempted a wide, lateral slash, but you lunged forward, closing the distance into his guard before the knife could reach its mark. A swift motion and your dagger found the spot between his ribs. His scream echoed through the room as you stepped back, letting him collapse to the floor like an empty sack.

Your body hit the hard floor right after, your knees striking the surface with a dull thud. There was no pain — or maybe there was, but exhaustion swallowed it before you could feel it. Everything seemed distant, as if the world around you was submerged in a dense fog. Your muscles were stiff, refusing to respond, while warm, sticky blood dripped from your nose, tracing lines down to your chin.

Five seconds. You'd spent five damn seconds.

Panting, you let the dagger fall to your side, your fingers trembling too much to hold it any longer. Your eyes, previously alight with that unnatural glow, were returning to normal. You blinked, trying to adjust your blurred vision. The room spun around you, the contours of the walls blending into a strange dance of shadows and light. The metallic taste of blood filled your mouth, mingled with bile threatening to rise. You tilted your head back, closing your eyes, trying to grasp at the remnants of strength you had left. But that damned side effect was like an anchor, dragging you down, draining every last ounce of energy.

You lay there on the ground for long minutes, perhaps longer than you should have. Time lost all meaning as you forced yourself to breathe, a simple task that now felt like an endless climb. But you realized you had made a mistake. You could have won that fight with ease. You knew that. After all, you had been conditioned to handle worse situations. But after all these years, your precision and practice had rusted. Complacency was a slow poison. And now, you were paying the price.

There were three of them.

You noticed this too late. The realization only came when footsteps began to echo around the small space, drawing closer until they stopped in front of you. Your vision was blurred by the effort, but even so, you forced your eyes open enough to take in the scene. A man was crouched, staring at you with a mix of boredom and curiosity. Judging by his relaxed posture, he no longer saw you as a threat.

"She took down two." he said, his disinterested voice cutting through the silence. It wasn't directed at you — that much was clear. Something gleamed in his ear — a communicator, probably. The device emitted a faint blue glow, and you recognized it immediately: Piltover tech. The bastard was talking to someone, and you could imagine who.

"Yeah, she seems to be on 'recoil'." he continued after a pause. His head tilted slightly, as though listening to a response. "Ten, maybe fifteen seconds? I don't know, I wasn't paid to count the seconds." another irritatingly long pause. "But listen, buddy... your boss paid us to bring her in, nothing more, so stop complaining."

Your hand slid across the floor, searching for the dagger that had fallen nearby. Your fingertips brushed against it, and you grasped it tightly, ignoring the pain radiating through your body. The man kept murmuring, perhaps to someone on the other side of that device, but you no longer heard him. It didn't matter. Only one thing mattered: you would not go back to Piltover. Not again. Never again.

The idea forming in your mind was suicidal. You knew that. But the alternative was worse. Going back to them? No. You would rather die here, now.

The familiar tingling returned to your eyes — a mix of adrenaline and desperation that allowed you to ignore exhaustion and pain but also reminded you there were limits, and you were dangerously close to them. Blood began to flow from your nose again, faster this time, a clear sign your body couldn't hold out much longer.

"Send more people to clean up this mess." his voice echoed through the room, each word carrying the weight of an irrefutable command. He didn't even glance at you as he spoke, exuding the arrogant confidence of someone who believed they had already won. Maybe it was the boredom in his posture or the lowered guard he displayed, but you knew at that moment he had made a fatal mistake. "That chemical baron will be a problem if he finds out—"

The sentence died in his throat.

The muffled sound of a blade piercing flesh and the sudden shift in his expression were almost cathartic. He froze, his eyes wide, disbelief written across his face. His hand instinctively rose to his neck, trying in vain to stem the blood gushing between his fingers.

You barely had time to register the scene. Your body gave out, too heavy to support anymore. Your knees buckled, and you collapsed onto the floor. Pain exploded at the back of your head as it hit the rough wood, but you could no longer focus on anything except the sound of the man collapsing beside you.

The blade was still embedded in him, the weapon he never saw coming.

Look at that — you really hadn't lost your touch. Silco was right, after all. You were like him. A trail of ruins followed your every step. But unlike him, you had tried — truly tried — to stop being the monster they had created. Tried to believe you could be something more. Something different. And yet, here you were, falling back into the same cycle.

The edges of the world began to blur, a black void swallowing everything. For a moment, you hoped this was the end. If you had to choose between going back or dying right there, on that filthy floor in Zaun, death seemed merciful.

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

01:45 PM

The scene in that modest apartment was, for Silco, a spectacle as unexpected as it was disconcerting. Not because he wasn't accustomed to the sight of bodies, the acrid smell of blood, or the chaos of a devastated space. Silco had seen more than his share of brutality. Zaun was a land that chewed up and spat out the weak without mercy, and he had long since grown desensitized to the sight of piled corpses and spilled blood. But something about this scene unsettled him deeply — perhaps because it wasn't supposed to be this way here, in this space, in what should have been her private refuge.

He stepped forward, his heavy boots creaking against the worn floorboards, breaking the oppressive silence as he approached the focal point of the carnage. Sevika was crouched beside the two bodies on the ground, analyzing them with her characteristic calm. When Silco drew close enough, she glanced up at him, her expression a mix of seriousness and faint cynicism.

"They're not our men."

Silco narrowed his eyes and took a few more steps, stopping beside her. He examined the bodies closely, leaning slightly. The stab wounds in their torsos and necks were precise, almost surgical. There were no signs of a disorderly struggle or desperate attempts at defense. Whoever had done this knew exactly where to strike — and how to kill.

"Find out who they belong to."

"He's alive!" a shrill voice suddenly called out, echoing off the aged walls of the apartment in a tone that grated on Silco's ears. He turned slowly toward the source of the sound, his eyes narrowing with an expression teetering between disdain and cold fury.

The young, wiry medic Silco had brought along as a precaution visibly flinched under the weight of that penetrating gaze. Trembling, the medic adjusted his glasses in a nervous gesture and pointed toward the third body in the room.

"Er—This one still has a pulse." the doctor stammered, his hesitation making his voice weak. "But it's very faint. The cut on the throat... it didn't hit the main artery, but he's lost a lot of blood. If we don't treat him soon, he won't survive."

Silco strode toward the fallen man, his footsteps echoing like hammer blows on the wooden floor. His presence seemed to fill the space, his shadow looming over the doctor in an almost suffocating way. He stopped beside the body, his gaze fixed on the faint rise and fall of the chest that confirmed shallow breaths. A life hanging by a tenuous thread.

"Make sure he stays alive." Silco ordered, the underlying threat in his tone as cold as it was precise. "Or you'll join him."

There was something about the calm, measured way Silco spoke that made the threat all the more terrifying. The doctor swallowed hard, hurriedly opening the small bag of supplies he carried. Bandages, glass vials containing various substances, needles, and a small tube of Shimmer were quickly spread out on the floor, his trembling hands working to stabilize the injured man.

As the doctor busied himself, Silco let his gaze wander around the room again. That's when he saw it. Near the body on the far right — the one the doctor was trying to save — the blade still glistened with fresh blood. He crouched and picked it up carefully. His dagger. The blade he'd used with her the night before in a very different context, now stained again, but this time with someone else's blood.

The dark, viscous blood stained Silco's glove, leaving marks that seemed to seep into the leather like an uncleanable curse. He stared at the stain with a mix of disgust and restrained fury. His lips twisted into a sneer as he slid the bloodied dagger into his pocket, as if tucking away not just the weapon but the promise of vengeance it carried.

For a moment, he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to crush the fallen man beneath his boot, to reduce that pathetic heap of flesh to a pile of broken bones. But Silco knew how to control his impulses. It wasn't blind rage that gave him power, but cold, calculated anger. He took a deep breath, burying the desire to kill under layers of self-control. There would be time for that later. First, he would extract everything he could from this wretched creature. Then, he would decide what to do with the useless lump of flesh. Perhaps leave him to rot in the gutters, a feast for Zaun's rats.

"I managed to stabilize him!" the doctor's voice broke through Silco's thoughts, tinged with relief and pride, as if he had just saved the world. Silco shot him a quick glance and noticed the faint purple hue around the wound. The man had used Shimmer. Clever, Silco thought.

"Take him to The Last Drop." he ordered, his voice low but razor-sharp. The command was followed immediately by a frenzy of movement from his subordinates, who began lifting the semi-conscious body with clumsy haste. "And get rid of the other bodies." he added with indifference. Those corpses didn't deserve the privilege of a burial. Their insignificant lives had ended as they were lived: worthless, disposable.

He didn't even glance back as he left the scene. There was nothing there that warranted any more of his time. She had been here. She had fought, survived. But she wasn't safe. That was as clear as the blood now staining his gloves.

Silco would bring her back, even if it meant turning all of Zaun upside down to do so.

Part 9

AUTHOR'S NOTES: The next chapter will be a little more violent than this one, so be warned. If you're here for the obscenity, you'll have to wait a bit. To make it easier to visualize both this chapter and the next ones, you can imagine her ability as a mix of the strength and resistance of the bestial version of Vander (in this case Warwick) and the agility of Jinx after Shimmer. Destructive for both the person being attacked and the attacker. You'll understand better as the story progresses.

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[gay-dorito-dust]

Can you give us a headcanon about Jason in a relationship?

Jason is a big man with an even bigger heart, no one can take this away from me, no one. You can try but you fucking can’t.

Being with Jason automatically gifts you with scary dog privileges because whilst to you, Jason is a sweet man who’d get all pouty when you don’t kiss him in the morning or call him by the nicknames you’ve picked out for each other and will make you breakfast in bed because he wanted to show his gratitude to you for staying by him and loving him when he didn’t think you should.

To others however Jason was a this big 6ft something dude who could beat them into next week a multitude of unique ways if they even thought of looking at him funny. He radiates danger just by standing there and yet to you he was the reason that walking home at night from work had become just that little bit easier. It’s not much but it’s enough for you to know that you’ve got someone who’d watch your back vigilantly 24/7.

Jason’s fatal flaw might as well be either loyalty or devotion because this man will not act out of line with you, he refuses to betray and throw away everything you’ve ever done for him just because his eyes lingered elsewhere; which would never happen as Jason’s eyes were firmly locked onto you from morning, noon and night. You were just that perfect in his eyes that he’d rather die again than ever look at someone else the way he does you. You’re his person, his one and only simple as that because you’ve claimed his heart the moment you met.

Your trust is something he values deeply and he isn’t one to play stupid games with your trust either. So if you were to ever tell him about a boundary being crossed or talk about something that rubbed you the wrong way, you best believe Jason will honour that and promise to never do it again.

Two words; Book. Dates.

More specifically the ones where you’d a) go to those cute book cafes where you could enjoy reading your favourite books together in comfortable silences whilst enjoying a warm/cold beverage. Or b) have an in book date within the confines of your shared apartment, where Jason had this small hoard of books he’s been meaning to read, most of which were primarily Jane Austin’s body of work with some of your own recommended books in between.

It’s almost like your own little book club just for the two of you. It’s your thing that you share together that brings you closer together as a couple.

Jason loves it whenever he gets to read one of your favourite books as it brings forth and intellectual conversation between the two of you as you got to hear Jason’s view of the story and characters while Jason got to hear your own point of view; It was beautiful way of admiring the way the other person’s mind worked and find even more ways of falling in love with each other, as if you weren’t already deeply in love in the first place.

Jason loves being near you and once he gets past his aversion to touch, he’ll want to touch and hold you in any given capacity because he’s become well and truly addicted to the feel of your skin against his; so much so to the point where you’ve got him practically melting and closing his eyes in content as he humming in pleasure it almost came across as that of a cat’s purring.

If Jason could he would wholeheartedly want to live out the rest of his life within your arms, they were his safe haven, the one place he could call home as he could let down his guard and just melt into your embrace and allow you to pamper him in kisses and sweet nothings that leave him feeling more warm and loved then before, a tear of two may slip but it’s because he’s so fucking happy to have you in his life. So don’t be frightened when he starts hugging you back tightly, making it near enough impossible to escape his grasp.

Jason is your number one fan. Always has been, always will be. So may your insecurities begone because this man will pull out an exaggeratedly long list as to what about you Jason loved so much.

Spoiler alert: it’s everything. I don’t make the rules because this man will love your gap tooth, your acne scarring, your stretch marks, your love handles, your laugh, your eyes, your voice, your hair. Anything and everything that you’re majorly insecure of Jason will love tenfold because YOU. ARE.PERFECT. THE.WAY. YOU. ARE! And don’t you let some test tell you otherwise!

Also Jason falls under the ‘wear whatever you want, I can fight’ category of boyfriend because it’s not your fault you look drop dead gorgeous.

Hell you could walk in your apartment in sweat pants and an oversized shirt and Jason will stare at you with heart eyes like he would if you were wearing something that you felt confident and sexy in. Please wear it and be your sexy self you sexy bastard! Be the main character in your story!

For by the end of the night Jason will have everyone apologising to you for ruining your night because they thought they could get away with being freaks and weirdos.

Agree or disagree, I don’t care but Jason would 100% would want to take care of the dog -especially if it’s of a breed that’s massively stereotyped as aggressive- you found that was left abandoned in the rain, hurt and suffering back to full health and find it a better home or decided to keep them because he’s grown attached.