#that evening was one of the only moments he knew tenderness

[sinkuna]

୨୧ — The soft splashing of water and gentle scrapes of your nails against his scalp made Sukuna’s eyes grow heavy, lashes falling shut as you worked behind him. Your presence was… soothing, he admitted privately in his head- a word he’d never associated with anything before you.

"You’re quiet tonight," you murmur, your breath warm against his ear. The gentle curve of your stomach presses against his back, and he could feel his unborn child’s curse energy- what little he could feel promised that the brat was going to be strong.

He didn’t answer immediately, too lost in the feeling of your fingers threading through his hair. The king of curses, feared across lands, reduced to this- nearly purring under a pregnant woman’s gentle ministrations. The thought should have enraged him. Instead, he found himself leaning further back, his massive frame carefully controlled to avoid crushing you and that belly of yours.

Truth is, Sukuna couldn’t find the words to explain how your simple touch was undoing centuries of telling himself he couldn’t feel anything. How the sound of your humming as you focused on him made something in his chest constrict painfully… and how your swollen belly against his back filled him with a terrifying kind of joy and pride.

"Does it feel good at least?" You asked softly, working through a particularly stubborn tangle. The mouth on his stomach merely sighed in contentment.

"Mm," was all he could manage as he felt your smile against his shoulder, your lips brushing his skin in a whisper of a kiss.

Water droplets caught in his lashes as he opened his eyes partially, watching your shadow play across the room. Your fingers traced one of the black markings that adorned his body, and he tch’d at the fact he had to suppress a shudder.

"Suku-… Ryomen, tell me what troubles you, I can practically hear you thinking," your voice was barely above a whisper this time, your hands stilling on him, and for a moment, only the sound of dripping water filled the silence.

His multiple hands clenched into fists, "You're making me weak," he accused, "ruining me," he muttered.

Your hands moved to his shoulder, working a knot he hadn’t even realized was there, "m’not," you smiled, "I'm loving you. There's a difference."

Love... that dreaded word, and of course his child chose that moment to kick against your belly, as if agreeing with you. The little shit wasn’t even born yet and it was already picking sides.

"I should have killed you, spread your legs open and fucked your corpse," Sukuna sneered.

Sukuna could feel it, how that innocent smile of yours seared against his spine, followed by the melodious sound of laughter escaping your lips. Before you could think, the world shifted and you found yourself beneath his towering form, the waters surface fracturing into a thousand ripples around your bodies. His massive hand tapped your wrists above your head, another gripped your hip while the remaining two pressed where you womb was- where his child flourished, his hands trembling ever so slightly with the effort of gentle restraint.

He stared down at you, the water dripping from his hair leaving tracks along your face and neck, almost like blood from a fresh kill, but your eyes held no fear - only understanding. The mouth on his stomach hung open breathing heavily, "What have you done to me? I want to tear your heart out and rip your head off, but I also can't bear the thought of losing you, or that brat."

Slipping your arms around his neck, you smiled up at him, "Nothing you haven’t allowed."

"Watch your tongue, little lamb." The threat was hollow, and you both knew it. The kiss that followed was ever so desperate, sloppy and violent in its tenderness, but damn did it taste like the sweetest sin… Your response back- how you kissed him in return, your spit mingling with his, a soft moan on your tongue… It was better than any scream of terror he’d ever drawn from human lips. And he knew from that alone, you’d been right.

You hadn't done a thing he didn’t allow.

And for once, he didn't fight it.

[abigailkendallwrites]

The prince is dying as the world erupts.

His eyes are weary, skin slick

For it is hot in the air of Asphodel—

Ghostly in its hue as death incarnate, the peaceful executioner descends on swift wings.

Thanatos takes in measure the thin spindle of life, the single thread that keeps Zagreus up right.

And the quietus god cannot help but note that even in the painful strain of slaughter, the prince is beautiful.

He will do this job one-hundred

No—one thousand more times today,

And yet.

It is the smile that undoes him. The grin that spreads Zagreus’ handsome face wide as his eyes roam across death itself, no fear

Only Chthonic joy that strips him bear until he—in the glory of the underworld—is nothing but the query man of slain foes at their feet. Waiting for the reprieve of his hand.

And it occurs to Thanatos, as his scythe pauses in the space between them,

As the very god of death holds his blow,

that there is no other soul that could stave the quickness of his blade.

They are immortal gods here, in the underbelly of the world, but for just a moment,

or is it an hour?

or perhaps several days—whatever the equivalent to gods—

The little godling conjures butterflies into mother night, the dark of her stars his only company.

Even then the shades knew him by sight, the world above by name.

He is a feared child.

He is alone.

And then there were two.

And the prince and the son of Nyx are something akin to children with their hands stained red from afternoons playing in the riverbed.

It is gentle. He does not know how to be anything less to this prince of redemption.

As he scoops him into his arms, inexorably drawn,

And it is by his bare fingers, not his scythe, that Zagreus falls.

The dark head lulls, his body limp.

And even in death Thanatos can feel the clutch of his grip.

The immortal longing of two souls at rest.

in death

death

death

They plunge below worlds, into the shaded Styx,

And they hold against each other.

A waiting pattern of tender flesh

As infinite sleep burst toward the surface of an underworld set alight.

The fire rages.

His brother sleeps

And Thanatos lifts his prince from the bathing of bloodshed.

And as Zagreus awakes in the dichotomous arms of the dark cloud of demise, Thanatos cannot help but remind him that he is

His

His

His

In rebirth

And in death.

thanatos picks zagreus up after death by natural causes challenge

[seasidebubbles]

the morning after your first time with caleb

content info/warnings: caleb x afab reader. feminine terms used for the reader (such as ‘pretty girl’ and ‘gorgeous girl’). swearing. pet names. graphic depictions of sexual activities. oral sex (m and f receiving). caleb has a big dick just because okay. protected piv sex (condom use). cumshot (facial). a little bit of cum eating. word count: 5.1k author’s note: this was just an idea i had to ease myself back into writing. i'm considering doing a 'morning after' piece for each of the lnds men, but i don't have them all thought out yet, so i'm not sure if it will work out. but i hope this one is enjoyable at least! divider by @cafekitsune

Sunlight kisses your face, coaxing your eyelashes to flutter open in its warm, pale yellow glow streaming in through the window. For reasons not yet at the forefront of your mind, you are already smiling when you wake.

It might have something to do with the equally warm presence behind you, however. The heavy arm slung across your waist, completely relaxed. The slow, rhythmic breaths puffing against the nape of your neck. The lingering tenderness between your legs that brings as much heat to your face as it does giddiness to your heart.

Last night’s events are fresh in your mind, but a few moments stand out more vividly than others. An open-mouthed kiss right over his racing heart. The slow slide of your panties down your legs. The wrinkle in his brow when he pushed inside you. All of it amounts to one simple truth:

You and Caleb had sex last night.

You and your best friend made love last night.

Yes, that. That is why you are smiling. Because you wholeheartedly understand the meaning of “making love” now.

Caleb did not even say the words last night. Not before, not during, not after.

And neither did you.

But you both knew what it was, because you both knew it had been a long time coming. You cannot speak for him, but you loved him two minutes after meeting him, all those years ago when you were children.

Although his presence behind you is undeniable, you have to turn around this instant to see him again. This man you love.

You rotate as gently as you can so as not to disturb him. Caleb gives a quiet huff and nuzzles his cheek deeper into his pillow. His arm is still limp across your body. The other is bent and stuffed under his pillow.

The smile is still on your face, but wider now. You free one of your arms from the tangled sheets to brush his ashy black bangs away from his eyelids. And while your hand is already right there, you find yourself brushing your knuckles down his slightly stubbly cheek as well.

It was not your intention to wake him, but you cannot say you are disappointed to see his eyes open. Those lovely purple irises have always been your greatest—and favorite—weakness.

Caleb wakes much quicker than you, eyes opening with none of the slow blinking, and smiles when he sees you watching him. Then he inhales deeply and covers your hand with his, pressing it even closer to his face.

“Good morning.” His sleepy voice is a little gruff. A little reminiscent of the deep groans he could not seem to contain last night.

The tenderness between your legs throbs.

“Morning. How did you sleep?”

He hums and clears the rasp in his throat. “Great, actually. I slept great. What about you?”

“Same.”

“I didn’t snore, did I?”

You grin and slip your hand out from other his just to poke his cheek. “Actually, you did. In my dreams. It was terrible.”

The only response he has to that is a bigger smile. He lifts his arm from your waist so he can swipe his thumb back and forth across your cheekbone.

As the seconds tick by, both your smiles slowly slip from your mouths, but not from your eyes. The weight of last night—the culmination of years and years of love laced with unspoken tension—hangs in the cramped space between you.

“It’s—”

“I’m—”

You both stop speaking as suddenly as you started. A bit of awkward laughter floats out of your lips.

“You first,” Caleb says before you can. He moves his hand from your cheek to the back of your neck, cradling it while he waits for you to speak.

You lick your lips—briefly recalling the gentle firmness of every kiss he pressed to them last night—and say, “I was just going to say, I’m really happy. I’m happy last night happened, and I’m… I don’t know if this is weird to say out loud, but I’m happy we were each other’s firsts.”

Those purple eyes melt. Caleb sighs and leans in to kiss your forehead, lingering there for several long seconds.

“Nothin' weird about that at all.” He presses two more slow kisses to your forehead. “I’m happy too. About last night. About you being my first. All of it.”

He shifts and rests his chin on top of your head. You snuggle in closer and kiss the first patch of skin you come across, which is the base of his throat. It bobs against your parted lips when he swallows.

“So what were you going to say?”

“Mm. Sounds silly in comparison to what you said. I should've went first.”

You grin into his skin. “You never learn that lesson, do you. But now you have to tell me.”

He sighs again, winding his strong arms around you, lazily stroking his fingertips down your naked spine.

“I was going to say, it’s nice havin' you be the first person I see in the morning. I want that to happen every single day forever.”

You blink, then press your palms to the wall of his chest to lean away and look him in the eye. You expect to find mischief on his face, but he regards you patiently, curious to hear what else you have to say.

“Is that really what you were going to say?” you ask.

His eyebrows wrinkle. “Yeah… Why?”

“That wasn’t silly at all. That was sweet.”

“Ah. Well, what you said was sweeter.”

You giggle and hug him tight, snuggling back against his chest. “If I knew it was a competition, I would’ve said even more.”

“I mean, you still can,” he says. The grin is obvious in his tone. “Far be it from me to stop you, babe.”

You giggle harder and shove him until he rolls onto his back with you on top of him.

His hands automatically find a comfortable place on your thighs straddling his lap. The feeling of his soft cock trapped between your bodies stirs up more memories from last night, but you ignore them for now. The hitch in Caleb’s breathing tells you his mind is in a similar place.

“I’ll tell you sweet things every morning I wake up next to you,” you tell him softly. “I’ll tell you how I adore your eyes. And your smile. And your laugh. And your protective instincts. And your uncanny ability to dirty every dish in the kitchen when preparing a simple meal for two—”

“You—! Listen—”

He easily flips your positions to pin you beneath him on the mattress. You giggle madly. With anyone else, such a brutish display of strength would be frightening, but not with Caleb. He is the only person you would ever trust to manhandle you like this, because you know how gently he treats you otherwise.

You know how much he loves you.

“That’s only sometimes,” he defends himself weakly. His wide body forms a canopy above you, against the sunlight. Even while admiring the glowing outline around his skin, you still find the capacity to tease him.

“Right. Sometimes I adore your laugh.”

Caleb scoffs. “You think you’re soo funny, don’t you. I liked it better when you were tellin' me how much you adore my eyes.”

“Okay, okay,” you say between laughs. You wind your arms behind his neck and tug him closer. “Your eyes are gorgeous and they’ve always been my biggest weakness, all right? There. Now you can tease me about it for the rest of our lives.”

He lowers his weight onto his forearms, and his chest serves as a stark reminder as to just how naked you both are when it presses into yours. The tingling heat of him is electric, searing all the way through to your heart.

“Tease you?” he says, trailing his fingers down your cheek. “Doesn’t sound like something I would do...”

You laugh again at that obvious lie. A snarky retort forms on your tongue, but it quickly dies when Caleb leans in and kisses the tip of your nose. He kissed so many parts of you in so many ways last night, but you realize now that your nose was not one of them. Your humor softens to adoration, and he smiles back before swooping to peck your lips.

His kisses start off sweet and gentle, but as soon as you edge the tip of your tongue against the seam of his lips, he moans and changes the very atmosphere. His hold on you tightens when he licks into your mouth.

“Caleb…”

He exhales hard and maneuvers down the length of your body, trailing kisses over every patch of skin he meets along the way.

“Want you,” he whispers into your skin, still kissing, still sliding downward. “Want you in my bed, naked, every morning, every night, every chance we get, any time you want. You just tell me when. I’ll come runnin'. Just want you by my side. Always.”

It is the easiest thing you could ever promise him. You cannot remember a single scenario in which you have ever willingly parted from him, and you are not about to start now.

Caleb slots himself between your legs, easily nudging them apart with his broad shoulders. He spreads his long fingers across your lower stomach, holding you delicately, as if you might break apart at any moment.

You reach down to cup the side of his face. He looks to you through his long, dark eyelashes, blinking slowly.

“You have me. Always.”

He gives you the most dazzling, heart-stopping smile you have ever seen. As if you have given him the entire universe.

That joy quickly rolls into burning desire when he begins stamping open-mouthed kisses across your inner thighs, first one, then the other, gradually drawing closer and closer to your aching center.

“Caleb,” you moan.

“Can I have another taste, baby?” he asks, and you are not sure if it is the rumble of his voice against your skin or the pet name that sends a tremble up your spine. “Please? Can I please eat your pussy again?”

Well, when he asks so politely…

“Yes. Please.”

That is all he needs to dive in with the relief of a starved man.

His tongue is seemingly everywhere at once; gliding through your pussy lips, wriggling into your hole, circling around your clit. He truly makes good on his word to eat you. His nose digs insistently against your slick flesh, frustrated by his limits and wanting to be buried even deeper into you.

You reach down to thread your fingers through his thick hair; not to guide him, merely to soothe him and help convey your appreciation.

“F-Fuck, that feels so good…”

He grunts into your pussy. “You taste so fuckin' good, baby. Just wanna live between your legs. Wanna die between your legs, too.”

“You better not!” you laugh, tickling his scalp. “Think of how embarrassing it would be for me to tell the Fleet their Colonel died eating pussy.”

“They’d probably award me a posthumous medal. You’ll have to collect it in my stead.”

You try to contain your laughter but only end up wheezing.

“Yeah, keep laughin’, baby. Makes you taste even better.”

You don’t think it works that way, but you can’t keep laughing anyway. Not when he suddenly achieves the perfect amount of suction around your swollen clit. The pleasure spiking through your nerves winds you tighter and tighter; your toes are curling in on themselves, your back is beginning to bow off the mattress, your eyes are rolling back in your skull.

Caleb wraps his arms around your thighs to keep you grounded and spread open for him. The wetter and sloppier his work gets, the more he seems to enjoy it. Every little thing he does produces a filthy squelch, but the moans he draws from you are still louder.

“Shit, baby, the sounds you’re making…”

“C-Can’t help it—ngh—yes, Caleb, yes—”

“What else can I do to keep you moaning for me?”

With how confident and assured his actions have been, you nearly forgot he is just as new to this as you are.

“Fuck me,” you tell him, breathless. “Please fuck me.”

He swears and unwinds his arms from your legs, sitting back on his heels. Those purple eyes have darkened to a deep indigo with how wide his pupils have blown. You meet his dark gaze as he half-heartedly wipes the stickiness off his chin with the back of his hand.

“My pretty girl wants me to fuck her, huh,” he says, practically purring. “When did she get so horny, hm?”

Even while he is teasing you, he still reaches for his night stand and digs out a condom packet. You watch with a smirk as he opens it and rolls the condom onto his long cock.

“Says the one who just said he’d be okay with dying between my legs.”

He lets out a small laugh under his breath. “Yeah, you got me there,” he says. He lowers himself onto his forearms, caging you beneath his large frame. “How do you want me to fuck you, baby? Just like this?”

“Can I be on top instead?”

Something flashes across his face, too quickly for you to decipher it.

He clears his throat and says, “Y-Yeah, of course. Come here.”

His hands are warm and a little shaky when he helps position you on his lap. Rather than lying back, he remains sitting up with you, face inches from yours.

“Are you okay?” you ask, running your palms up the warm planes of his chest.

“I’m fine, just… afraid I’ll come in two seconds like this.”

More laughter pops past your lips. “I’d be flattered if you did, honestly.”

You brush his hair off his forehead, then gently trace his earlobe and finger the thin chain dangling from it.

“I’d be mortified if I did,” he counters with a self-deprecating chuckle. The rest of his breath leaves his lungs in a soft sigh when you bend down and kiss him. His lips chase yours when you pull away, unable to hide his eagerness despite his concerns.

“I’ll go slow then.”

You reach down between your bodies and line him up with your entrance. Caleb sits back a little and watches his tip disappear into your wet heat, while you watch a muscle in his jaw tick. You soothe your free hand across that sharp jawline. He leans into your touch, eyes flicking to your face for a brief second, then back down to where your bodies are connected when you take in another inch.

The stretch is still a foreign feeling, and the tenderness in your walls throbs harder against the intrusion of his cock splitting them apart once again. He does not miss the flicker of pain that crosses your face after another inch slips inside sooner than you intended.

“Hurts?” he asks, reaching for your hips, ready to lift you right off his lap.

You nod. “A little. I’m a little sore, but I’m okay. It’ll pass.”

Caleb purses his lips, clearly conflicted, and you understand why. You understand this feels nothing but blissful for him—although the condom must surely dull some of the sensation—while it is still a bit painful for you. His intimidating size does not help, but it is to be expected, considering his cock is perfectly proportionate to the rest of his large build. And he is well aware of how well-endowed he is, too. He made sure to prep you for a long time last night, stretching you carefully with his fingers, ensuring you were wet enough for there to be no resistance when he pushed inside you for the first time.

This angle feels different though. He feels even deeper this way. And maybe it’s your imagination, but he feels harder as well.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, fully focused on your face now. “We don’t have to keep goin' like this. I can go back to eating you out, maybe use my fingers again?”

“I’m okay. You’re just… big.”

He huffs and halfway rolls his eyes, but you catch the way the tips of his ears burn pink. “Well, I can’t help that,” he says, “but seriously, you can tell me you want to stop at any time, okay? I don’t care if I am two seconds away from coming. Just tell me to stop and I’ll go make us some breakfast, ok—”

“All right,” you say, grinning when you peck his cheek. “I’ll tell you if I want to stop, I promise. But I’m fine right now. I hardly even feel any pain anymore. Really.”

It might be because you can also feel his cock twitching and pulsing inside you, and it is turning you on beyond belief, pushing the pain out of your mind. You actually fight the urge to bounce on him this very second just to see if you can handle it, because you know you will regret rushing into it.

Caleb gives you a shaky nod, inhaling deeply and gulping hard. “Okay. Just… slow,” he reminds you.

You ease yourself the rest of the way onto his cock, until your pelvis is flush against his. Caleb studies your face, amethyst eyes brimming with awe and raw desire. His thumbs are rubbing mindless, soothing circles into your skin. You rock yourself back and forth a few times, testing the new angle and depth and overall fullness you are experiencing. It feels like his cock had to carve out extra space inside you just to fit.

As soon as the stretch is more pleasurable than painful, you give a few tentative bounces.

“Fucking—fuck,” Caleb breathes rather poetically. His fingers dig harshly into your hips. “S-Slow, baby. Don’t h-hngh, ugh, fuck—don’t hurt yourself.”

You moan and shake your head. “Doesn’t hurt. You feel so good inside me.”

Caleb exhales hard and leans back a little more to look again at the place where his cock is disappearing and reappearing. A particularly good bounce has him falling all the way back onto the pillows with a deep rumble.

“God, it’s so fucking deep. You take me so well, baby. You’re taking all of it so—fuck—so fuckin' well…”

It is all you can do to whimper in agreement, too focused on riding him well enough to have him groan like that for you again.

His hands glide around to your stomach, squeezing gently, then around to your jiggling ass. He is not shy about taking two firm handfuls, groping tight. The look he gives you when you meet his eyes is positively carnal.

“You’re incredible,” he groans, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. “Can’t believe my pretty girl is bouncing on my dick right now.”

You manage to smirk in between all the moans leaving your lips, but you have no response, especially when you tilt your hips just enough to have his tip pressing into your sweetest spot with hardly any effort. A high-pitched squeal wrenches its way from your throat. If you were on your hands and knees, you’re sure they would have given out and left you face-first and boneless on the mattress.

“Right there?” Caleb hisses through gritted teeth, his jaw too tense to unhinge and speak properly. “Are you hitting it, baby? Yeah… yeah, you are. I can tell by how much tighter you just got. Keep going. Keep my dick right—fuckin'—there—baby.”

When did the boy you always thought of as a human-puppy become this dirty-talking fiend, you wonder.

Though you are not complaining. Far from it. His words have your pussy absolutely gushing around him. The wet plaps of skin on skin can probably be heard through the window and down to the street. The noises are certainly echoing off the walls, at least, serving as excellent fuel to ride him faster, harder, deeper, more.

You can barely get out the words to urge him, “K-Keep talking, Caleb, please…”

He hums and sits up straight again, careful not to jostle you too much and ruin your rhythm. One of his thumbs finds your clit to press messy, sticky circles into it and edge your orgasm along.

Then he brings his full lips to the shell of your ear. His voice sounds half an octave deeper when he whispers, “My gorgeous girl. You asked me to fuck you, but here you are fucking me into the mattress. No, don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop, baby. Keep fuckin' me. Use me. Take what you need.”

You hug him tightly, nails clawing into his muscular shoulders, and whine into his neck. With his sweet and salty skin right there on your lips, you want to bite and nip and suck on it, but breathing is taking almost as much brainpower as riding him at the moment.

Caleb nuzzles his nose into your hairline, still close to your ear, and whispers much softer, “I love you. So damn much. I always have.”

Your orgasm explodes through you, catching you both totally off-guard. Caleb gasps at the sudden clench of your walls around him, and you practically scream his name as white hot bliss overtakes you. You grind your hips into his, seeking even more friction from his thumb on your clit to wring out every morsel of ecstasy you can.

“Holy shit, where did that come from, baby?” Caleb says, laughing in breathless delight. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to come in two seconds. Damn.”

You hiccup and shiver against him, panting hard into his neck as you gradually float back down from wherever he sent your soul.

When you regain your wits, you laugh as well. “I guess I just really like your dirty talk,” you admit, voice thick and hoarse. “I’m not used to you saying such filthy things.”

The shit-eating grin he gives you is somehow adorable and devious at the same time. “Oh, you’ll get used to it,” he says, “because I plan on having a lot of sex with you. And if talking dirty gets you to come like that every time?” He lets out a low whistle, and you give his shoulder a tiny swat.

“Yeah, well, now I think my legs are too weak to keep riding you,” you say, pouting.

“That’s all right, baby. You did so well for me. Let’s stop here.”

You shoot him a look. “But… you didn’t come yet, did you?”

“Nah, I’m good. If you’re tired, I’m not pushing you,” he says, which only makes you pout harder. He can’t help but smile and poke your protruding lip with his thumb. “Don’t give me that—ah—”

The rest of his words are cut off with a gasp when you pull off his throbbing cock. It falls against his abs with a solid, wet slap. You go to pull the condom off, but he catches your wrist.

“W-What are you doing?”

“I want to suck you off. Can I?”

“You r-really don’t ha-have to,” he stammers weakly. “I promise I’ll be fine with b-blue balls for half an hour.”

“Caleb, I really want to suck your cock right now,” you say as firmly and matter-of-factly as possible. “Do you want that too?”

He blinks once, twice, three times. He opens his mouth, closes it, licks his lips, swallows hard. It is strange to see him rendered speechless for once. It even starts to freak you out a little.

Finally, he lets go of your wrist and peels the condom off himself with a shaky hand, dropping it to the floor without a care. Then he reaches for the back of your neck and guides you toward his twitching length.

“Yes, I want you to suck my cock, please.”

You grin and situate yourself comfortably between his thick thighs, then reach for his cock. It practically jumps into your hand.

Caleb sucks a breath through his teeth as soon as you wrap your fingers around his burning length. The veiny hand not cradling your head fists the sheets at his side. His reaction over such a small thing spurs your confidence to keep going. Even though this is uncharted territory for you, you are determined to make him feel as good as possible and come every bit as powerfully as you just did.

But before you take him into your mouth, you experiment with varying levels of pressure, getting a feel for the motions and soaking in his every reaction, big and small. He seems to particularly enjoy it when you squeeze the spot just below his mushroom-shaped tip. He makes a sweet, soft noise every time you rub that spot, and his hips jerk every time, too.

A thick drop of precum rolls from his slit and down the side of his cock, compelling you to lean forward and lick it up. He instantly gasps at the sensation of your warm, wet tongue.

You wrap your hand around his base before wrapping your lips around his dripping tip, and it is a good thing you do because his hips buck straight off the bed, greedy to find more friction in the heavenly, wet warmth of your mouth.

He apologizes, but you oblige his body language and hollow your cheeks to give his cockhead a tight, loud suck. It sounds sloppy, unrefined, and a little cringey, but if Caleb is turned off by your inexperienced technique, you would never know it from the way his breathing changes, practically whining with every exhale.

He lifts his neck to watch the erotic show when you start bobbing your lips up and down the few inches you can comfortably fit in your mouth without choking. You be sure to tongue that spot just below his tip, not just to edge him closer to the point of bursting, but because you enjoy the way he shivers just as much.

It does not take long for your jaw to begin straining with the new, unexercised motion, but it will take nothing short of divine intervention to stop you now.

Caleb gives the back of your neck a tender squeeze and whispers, “Shit, baby, that’s s-so fucking nice.”

You nearly laugh with a mouthful of cock because surely only Caleb would describe a blowjob as nice, of all things. It is with that you realize the stern, authoritative Colonel of the Farspace Fleet is absolute putty in your hands. You almost want to come again to the thought alone.

Instead of tending to yourself, you focus on him and redouble your efforts by reaching for his balls and giving them an experimental squeeze. They are wet from the saliva pooling out of your mouth and down his length. They feel heavy, too.

“F-Fuuuck,” he groans, slumping back to the pillows. “Gonna fuckin' kill me, baby.”

“Oh no,” you coo, kissing down the length of his glistening cock, “then I’d have to tell the Fleet you died getting your balls sucked. Do you think they’d award me a medal in that case?”

Whatever his response was going to be is choked off when you do exactly as you say and suck one of his heavy balls into your mouth. The skin around it is different; a little loose but also taut, and delicate, too. Not like the smooth, velvet skin wrapped around his solid cock. You suckle it gently, minding your teeth and essentially letting it rest on your tongue as your lips do all the work.

The hand Caleb has on your head tightens harshly for a brief second, then lifts away to tear at the sheets instead. You smirk and let go of his ball with a soft pop to move to the other and pay it equal attention. Careful not to neglect the rest of him, you pump your hand up and down his wet cock tightly, quickly. He nearly chokes on his own broken breaths at one point, his body too fucked out and delirious with pleasure to concentrate on anything but his looming orgasm.

“B-Baby, I’m gonna—fuck—if you keep going like that, I-I’ll—”

His boyish voice is so warped with unbridled lust you hardly recognize it.

You immediately lift your head and take his tip back into your mouth, sucking what you can and jerking the rest of him feverishly. He bucks his hips again, and you don’t even care when his cockhead threatens to breach your throat because he whimpers so sweetly it borders on downright pitiful.

“Gonna come, gonna come, fuckfuckfuck. It’s coming baby, it’s coming, hah—”

Caleb erupts into your hot mouth. The first shot of cum coats your entire mouth from roof to tongue. You try to swallow it down, but the second shot spurts out just as forcefully, and you end up sputtering over the excess. You pull back to take a moment to properly swallow, and the rest of his cum ends up shooting over your lips and chin and cheeks. You keep jerking him, determined to get every drop out.

When you accidentally push him into overstimulation, he carefully pries your hand off his cock. It plops against his hard stomach, rosy and spent and still twitching.

He sits up on his elbows and stares at you with wet, heavy-lidded eyes. His strong arms are wobbling from how boneless his orgasm has left him.

“Holy shit. That was… you are amazing.”

You giggle and scoop a rapidly dripping streak of cum off your cheek, then place it right on your tongue, just to watch the way his face twists in torment.

“Gonna kill me,” he emphasizes, shaking his head. He picks his shirt off the floor and carefully cleans the rest of the mess off your face with it. It will do for now.

Before you drag yourselves out of bed and move on with the day, you climb up to fit yourself against his side, snuggling close. He wraps an arm around you, still fighting to regain control of his breathing. You trace mindless circles into his heaving chest. His heartbeat is erratic under your ear when you lay your head against it.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Caleb kisses the top of your head and hugs you tightly against him.

“I know.”

© seasidebubbles. all rights reserved.

[arcadia-smith]

He doesn't remember you.

But.

You stay.

Of course, you stay.

Because Bucky is still here, alive in the flesh, and somewhere—deep inside him, hidden beneath the layers of fractured memories—he must know you. He must remember.

It’s just a matter of time.

That’s what Sam says. What the doctors say.

Give it time.

So you do.

Days bleed into weeks, weeks into months.

And still, you stay.

You tell him stories—soft and steady, like a balm for the ache between you. You show him pictures, snapshots of the life you once shared, the love that stitched you two together.

You speak of your first date—how his nerves made him fidget like a storm on the horizon, pacing outside your apartment for what felt like an eternity before he finally knocked, all shaky hands and warm, unsure eyes.

You tell him about that rainy night, when he kissed you under the storm, his laughter a low hum against your lips as he whispered, “This only happens in the movies.”

You tell him about you—the version of yourself that once fit perfectly against his side.

And you wait.

You wait for the spark—the brief, flickering recognition that he once knew the rhythm of your heartbeat, the warmth of your touch.

You wait for those blue eyes to soften again, to look at you the way they used to—tender, loving, yours.

But they never do.

And then, one day, after all the days, weeks, and months spent watching and hoping—

You find him in the common room, grinning at something on his phone.

Someone.

A woman.

She’s bright, beautiful—her laughter a melody you don’t recognize.

And before you even open your mouth, you know.

But still, you ask.

“Who’s that?” Your voice is light, fragile, like a leaf trembling in the wind.

He looks up, then back at the screen, that faint, soft smile still lingering.

“Her name’s Kate.”

It’s a gut-punch. The kind that steals the air from your lungs and leaves you gasping.

“Oh,” you whisper, trying to swallow the burning sorrow that claws its way up your throat. “She’s... she’s pretty.”

He grins—wide, unbothered, as though this is just another casual conversation, nothing more.

“Yeah. I think I might ask her out.”

And in that moment, everything inside you fractures.

Not just the silence between the two of you, but the world itself.

Because Bucky doesn’t remember you.

No. Worse.

He’s moving on.

Without you.

And you can’t stop it.

You can’t tear through his shattered mind and fix what they took from him.

You can’t scream, You love me. You chose me. We were supposed to have forever.

You can’t do a single thing.

So you smile.

You nod.

You pretend that you’re not being swallowed whole by the hollow ache inside you.

And that night, when the house falls silent and empty, you don’t leave the porch light on.

Because Bucky isn’t coming back.

He already has.

And he’s not yours anymore.

You leave.

You have to.

Because staying, watching him laugh with someone else—someone new, someone with a love untouched by the scars of time—it would be like breathing in glass shards. It would tear through you, piece by piece, until nothing remained. You would cease to exist.

So you gather your things in silence, each item a memory you can’t afford to carry anymore.

You say goodbye to Sam, but there is no promise in your words. No hope. Just the hollow echo of a love you can’t save. You don’t tell Bucky. What would be the point? He’s already gone. The man you once knew is somewhere behind the locked door of his memories, and there is no key.

You leave.

And time doesn’t care.

It moves on, cruel and indifferent. Days stretch into weeks, weeks bleed into months, and the seasons change in ways that mean nothing. You rebuild, slowly. The edges of your broken heart are sealed with the soft, fragile thread of survival. You learn to exist without him. You learn to wake up without him beside you, without his breath against your neck, without the weight of his love settling around you like a warm blanket. You learn to live with the dull ache, the phantom throb in the places where he used to be.

But there are moments.

There are mornings when your fingers twitch toward the space where he should be, when your heart stutters, trapped in a fleeting memory, a touch, a whisper. And you wonder, just for a second, if he’s still there—if you’re still there. But then, the thought fades. Because he’s not yours. Not anymore.

And then—

Then you get the call.

Sam's voice is a tightrope, fraying at the edges.

"I need you to come back."

You hesitate, your breath a jagged thing. You don’t want to. You can’t go back to that place, to those ghosts. The last time you left, you left your soul in the hollow of his chest, and it never returned.

But Sam's voice cracks in a way that makes your insides twist. And you can’t ignore it. Not this time.

So you go.

And when you step into the room, you’re not ready for it. You’re never ready.

Sam stands in the doorway, his face pale and drawn, like he hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten. His hands tremble at his sides, and there’s something in his eyes that says everything you don’t want to hear.

"It’s happening again."

At first, the words make no sense.

And then, they do.

Because Bucky is in the med bay, his body tethered to the bed, his arms thrashing against the restraints. His breath comes in ragged gasps, the panic clear in every movement. His eyes are wide, full of something deep—something more terrible than fear.

You run to him, despite everything, despite the emptiness he left behind. You run because he is still your Bucky, the man you loved with everything you had. You run because that’s all you’ve ever known how to do.

“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice a breathless plea. Your hand reaches for his, but he pulls away like your touch is a thing that burns.

And then—

He says your name.

And the world stops.

The earth cracks beneath you, and you feel yourself falling into a place where nothing makes sense. The thing you wanted most, the thing you prayed for, is here. He remembers. He remembers you.

But when you look into his eyes, it’s not relief that fills them. It’s horror.

“No,” he gasps, shaking his head violently, as if to shake you away, to shake this away. His words tear from him in broken sobs. “No, no, no—please—”

“Bucky, it’s okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you thought you could carry. But it’s not okay. It will never be okay.

His chest heaves. His body jerks, as though the memories are too much to hold, too much to be.

“What did I do?” he chokes.

And that is when you understand.

He remembers you. Yes, he does. He remembers everything.

But he also remembers her.

The woman he found after you, the woman he learned to love after he’d forgotten the taste of you. The woman who is out there, somewhere, still holding his heart, still waiting for him with arms wide open.

And he loves her. He loves her the way he loved you. But in a different way. In a way that isn’t stained with time and loss and the weight of your name.

And now—

Now he has both.

Now he has the knowledge of what he lost. Now he knows exactly what he did.

And in his eyes, you see the depth of his grief. The depth of his guilt. Because he remembers her. And he remembers choosing her.

And then—then he remembers forgetting you.

And that—

That is the part that will ruin you. Because it’s not just your heart breaking anymore.

It’s his, too.

And there is nothing either of you can do. No mending, no fixing, no magic words to erase the damage.

So you press your trembling hand to his cheek. You kiss his forehead, and for a brief, fleeting moment, it’s like you’re right back there—like nothing changed. Like the world hasn’t fallen apart in slow motion.

And you whisper to him, to the man you thought you could save:

“It’s okay. I’ll go.”

And you do.

You leave.

For the last time.

Because this time, he remembers you. But it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s not yours.

And he never will be again.

And that—that—is the worst part.

Because you lost him once, but now, you’ve lost him twice.

And the pain? The pain is deeper than anything you’ve ever felt.

It’s not just a heart breaking.

It’s a soul shattering.

[aeralux]

Subby!Twin!Jacaerys (nsfw headcanons)

Subby!Twin!Jacaerys x Twin!Reader

Your subby twin brother, Jacaerys, who gets so hard just having you ride his face.

You smirked wickedly, your eyes glinting with cruel amusement as you turned your attention to Jacaerys. With a swift, forceful push of your slender foot, you shoved him onto the bed, forcing the proud prince to lay flat beneath you.

Slowly, teasingly, you straddled his face, the silken folds of your gown falling away to reveal your glistening, freshly shaved sex. You could feel the heat of his breath against your most intimate flesh, a delicious contrast to the cool air of your chambers.

"There now," you purred, a grin on your lips. "Isn't this a sight more becoming of a prince than rotting in his study? I suggest you put that clever tongue of yours to better use, Jacaerys. worship your princess properly, and I might just make you feel good too."

You punctuated your words by rocking your hips slightly, rubbing your slick folds against his lips and chin, painting them with your arousal.

With a deep breath, he parted his lips and let his tongue dart out, dragging it slowly through your glistening folds. He could taste your essence, sweet and heady on his tongue, and he felt his cock twitch in his breeches at the flavour. It was a taste he knew he could become addicted to if given half the chance.

Jacaerys began to worship you with a single-minded focus. His tongue delved between your folds, stroking and caressing every inch of your silken flesh until he found the sensitive pearl at the apex.

He circled it slowly, teasingly, before suckling on it greedily, his tongue flicking and stroking the tender bud with increasing pressure. At the same time, he slid one finger, then two, deep into your welcoming heat, pumping them in and out of your fluttering walls.

He could feel your body trembling above him, hear the soft moans and gasps of pleasure falling from your lips. It spurred him on, making him double his efforts to bring you to the peak of ecstasy. He was determined to prove himself worthy of being your devoted plaything.

"Don't you just look divine like this? Such a pretty picture–a prince, debasing himself for the pleasure of his princess."

Jacaerys moaned against your dripping sex as he felt you grinding harder, your arousal coating his face, dripping down his chin. He could taste your impending release, and he redoubled his efforts to bring you to that peak of ecstasy.

His tongue delved deep, stroking and caressing your sensitive walls, curling to hit that special spot inside that made your toes curl. At the same time, he pumped his fingers faster, thrusting in and out of your fluttering heat, crooking them to rub against that bundle of nerves.

He could hear your shameless cries and moans above, feel your body trembling and shaking with the force of your pleasure. It spurred him on, making him determined to be the perfect fucktoy for his princess.

He could feel your thighs clamping around his ears, holding him in place as you rode his face with wild abandon. Your juices gushed out, smearing his cheeks, his chin, his neck - marking him as your willing plaything.

Jacaerys surrendered himself completely to your use, to your pleasure. In that moment, he existed only to be the vessel for your unfettered lust. Nothing else mattered.

Your sweet subby twin, Jacaerys, does not mind at all to choke on your juices as you cum all over his face.

"Ohh, fuck! Yes, just like that!" You could only scream as you gushed all over your lover's pretty face, hips jerking against his mouth and nose.

Jacaerys gagged and choked as your release gushed out, flooding his mouth and nose with your sweet nectar. He swallowed desperately, trying to gulp down every drop of your essence, but it was too much. Your juices spilt out around his mouth and nose, painting his face with the proof of your pleasure.

Jacaerys shuddered as he felt your body slowly still above him, your breathing growing more even as you came down from your high. He could see the dazed, fucked-stupid grin on your face as you looked down at him.

Jacaerys tried to sit up, to wipe the lingering traces of your release from his face, but he was still weak, his muscles trembling and shaking from the ordeal. He shot you a shy look, unsure of what would happen next.

You gripped Jacaerys' hair tightly, pressing his face firmly against your dripping sex as you held your clit above his lips. "Suck," you demanded, your voice breathy yet commanding. "Taste your princess's pleasure, brother."

Jacaerys shuddered as you pressed your dripping sex against his face again. He could feel the sticky heat of your release coating his cheeks, the slickness of your juices smeared across his skin.

With a shaking hand, he reached up to hold your hip, trying to steady himself as he leaned in to obey. His tongue, still slick with your essence, flicked out to lap at your sensitive folds, tasting the lingering traces of your pleasure.

He suckled gently at your clit, his lips sealing around the sensitive nub as he drew it into his mouth. His tongue swirled and flicked, teasing the tender flesh, coaxing out the last drops of your release.

It wasn't long until you came again, shuddering above him like a leaf. Bracing yourself against the wall as you rode out your second climax.

Jacaerys shuddered as he felt your climax crashing through you, your juices gushing out to soak his face and chin. He gulped down mouthfuls of your essence as you convulsed and shook above him, your scream of rapture vibrating against his lips.

You petted Jacaerys' hair as you reluctantly lifted yourself off of him, your thighs glistening and quivering from the aftershocks of your intense climaxes. Panting heavily, you gazed down at your brother with a wicked grin, still basking in the afterglow of your pleasure

Jacaerys licked his lips, tasting the lingering flavour of your juices, feeling the sticky essence of your pleasure coating his skin. He knew he would be tasting you for days, a constant reminder of your power over him.

With shaking hands, he reached up to brush a strand of hair out of your face, his fingertips grazing your cheek. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, a silent acknowledgement of your beauty, your perfection. "You are exquisite, my princess," he murmured, his voice hoarse and rough. "I am yours, forever and always."

Jacaerys, who absolutely loves having intimate moments in the bath chambers. Making you feel good while the warm water wraps around you. Subby!Jace only lives and breathes to make you feel good, constantly wanting to touch you and please you.

The scent of beeswax and blossoms filled his nostrils as he entered the bath chambers, the flickering light of a dozen candles casting a warm, inviting glow over the marble room. At the center stood a massive copper tub, steam rising from the hot, scented water within.

Jacaerys approached the tub slowly, his gaze fixed on your form as you stood beside it. The sight of you, draped in black silk and bathed in candlelight, was almost too much to bear. He felt a deep, primal urge to cross the distance between you, to sweep you into his arms and claim your lips in a searing, desperate kiss.

But he held himself back, instead sinking to one knee before you. He gazed up at you with a mix of love, desire, and devotion.

He reached for the sash of your robe, his fingers brushing over the silken fabric, before tugging gently, silently asking for your permission to remove it and bare you to his hungry gaze.

Placing your hands over his own, you helped him tug loose the sash of your robe, the silken fabric parting like a curtain to reveal a tantalising glimpse of your skin.

"I wish to see you as well," you murmured, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of your lips.

His breath caught in his throat as your robe slipped from your shoulders, the silken fabric puddling around your feet to leave you bare before him. His heart hammered wildly against his ribcage as he drank in the sight of your naked form.

Jacaerys reached out a tentative hand, his fingers brushing over the soft skin of your thigh, marveling at the way it felt like the finest velvet beneath his fingertips. He slid his hands slowly up your legs, skimming over your hips and the gentle flare of your waist, letting his touch linger on the underside of your breasts.

He leaned in to press a fierce, desperate kiss to your belly, his lips worshipping each inch of your skin as he slowly rose to his feet. His hands slid up to cup the weight of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks of your nipples, teasing the sensitive flesh.

With a low growl, Jacaerys gripped the hem of his tunic and pulled it over his head in one swift, decisive motion. The fabric fluttered to the marble floor, leaving him bare from the waist up.

Jacaerys reached out to gripping your thighs, his hands kneading the soft flesh as he lifted you effortlessly into his arms. He carried you to the steaming tub, the heat of the water curling invitingly around your skin as you settled into the copper basin.

Jacaerys' arm curled around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His lips brushed over your racing pulse, his teeth grazing the delicate skin before he soothed the sting with a flick of his tongue.

Biting your lip, you let out a low, breathy moan as Jacaerys' hands and mouth began their sensual exploration of your body. Your own fingers danced over his sweat-slicked chest, tracing the hard ridges and valleys of his muscles. "Mmmh, Jacaerys," you purred approvingly, arching into his touch like a cat.

"Touch me," I breathed, a hint of command in my voice.

As you breathed out your command, Jacaerys' hands began to roam your body with fervent purpose. One hand slid up the curve of your breast, his palm cupping and kneading the soft swell, his fingers plucking and teasing at the stiff peak of your nipple. The other hand drifted lower, his touch skimming over your belly and dipping teasingly into your navel before continuing down, down, down...

Jacaerys' fingers glided through the slick, swollen folds of your sex, stroking and caressing, making your hips buck and writhe against his touch. He circled the sensitive bud, his fingers slipping easily through the slick arousal that coated your flesh.

"Like this, my love?" Jacaerys murmured against your throat, his voice a dark, seductive rumble. His fingers continued their sensual assault, stroking and teasing, bringing you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy with every passing moment.

"Yesss, Jacaerys! Just like that," you panted, your voice ragged with desire. Your eyes fluttered shut, your lips parting in a silent scream as the pressure built within you.

Jacaerys' fingers worked feverishly over your aching, swollen sex, stroking and rubbing your sensitive pearl with a desperate, almost frantic need. His breath came in ragged gasps against your neck, his chest heaving and hot behind you as he felt your body tensing.

"Come for me. I need to feel you come undone in my arms," Jacaerys panted, his voice high and tight with desire.

His hips jerked and humped against your backside, his rigid shaft sliding slick and hard against your skin, seeking some desperate friction, some relief from the intense pressure building within him. The copper tub sloshed and splashed with his needy movements, water spilling over the edge to pool on the marble floor.

"Please," Jacaerys whined, all traces of his former regal composure shattered, leaving only a desperate, aching man consumed by lust and the need to bring his beloved princess to the heights of pleasure.

Subby!Jacaerys, who loves it when you praise him. He doesn't mind at all if he must beg for you.

Jacaerys had made you cum yet again with his fingers, leaving you slumped against him. As you try to catch your breath, you see a pair of big brown eyes looking at you hopefully.

"You did so very, very well, my darling prince," you purred, your voice low and breathy, tinged with deep, sated satisfaction. "You pleased your princess exceedingly well, Jacaerys."

"Mmmm, thank you, my princess," Jacaerys panted, his voice rough and gravelly with need. "Watching you come undone in my arms, feeling your pleasure, is the greatest gift I could ever receive."

"Please," Jacaerys gasped against your lips, his voice whiny and needy. "I need you. I need to be inside you. I need to fill you up until you're dripping with my seed. Please, my princess, I beg of you... have mercy on your desperate prince."

You gazed down at Jacaerys through hooded eyes, your full lips curving into a sultry smile as you listened to his desperate pleas. "Mm, you sound so pretty when you beg, all desperate and needy for me." Smirking as you began to touch his throbbing cock, fingers ghosting over the sensitive skin.

Jacaerys swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly as he struggled to find his voice. When he finally spoke, his usually commanding tone was reduced to a rough, desperate rasp.

"Thank you," he growled softly, his large hands gripping your hips with bruising force.

"May I, my princess?" Jacaerys asked, his voice a low, desperate rasp. "May I touch you again, the most intimate place of my beloved queen?" He licked his lips, his gaze heavy with need and anticipation. "I promise to be... thorough."

"Such a good boy, asking so nicely," you purred, your fingers threading through his hair in mock praise before fisting and tugging sharply.

"No," you said flatly, your voice ringing with authority despite the sultry rasp.

Jacaerys shuddered as your fingers fisted in his hair, a sharp hiss of pleasure-pain escaping his lips at the sudden tug. The denial in your voice was like a physical blow, making his painfully erect shaft jerk and throb with a desperate ache. He gazed up at you, his eyes glazed with lust and frustration, watching as you denied him the intimate touch he so desperately craved.

Your twin brother may not admit it to you, but he secretly loves it how much you tease him, making him mad with desire and need.

You had waited for Jacaerys on the bed for a while now, body bare as you propped yourself up on your elbows.

Jacaerys stood in the doorway, flustered, looking tormented by the sight before him.

"Well?" You purred, your voice dripping with false innocence even as your eyes danced with cruel amusement. "What can your princess do for you...my prince?" You drew out the last two words, rolling them around your tongue like a dark promise.

Slowly, teasingly, you spread your legs, revealing the glistening, dripping flesh of your most intimate place to Jacaerys' hungry gaze. You could see the desperation etched into every line of his body, the way his cock bulged against his breeches. It filled you with an intoxicating rush of power to know that you could reduce such a mighty prince to this state of needy, aching want.

"Like what you see, my darling prince?" You cooed, your voice a low, seductive murmur. "Do you want to bury yourself inside my dripping, needy cunt and fuck me until I scream?"

You reached out with one slender hand, trailing your fingers down the elegant column of your throat, over the swell of your breasts, pausing to circle one stiff, aching nipple. You let your head fall back, biting your lip on a moan as you arched into your own touch, putting on a show for Jacaerys' benefit.

"Or perhaps..." you breathed, your voice a husky whisper, "...you'd like to watch me touch myself, to see your princess pleasure herself as you watch, desperate and wanting, unable to touch until I allow it?"

You smirked up at him, your eyes glinting with wicked, cruel promise. "The choice is yours, my love. Your princess is here to serve you...in whatever way you desire."

The sight of your slick, swollen folds made his mouth go dry, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he drank in the intoxicating view. His shaft throbbed and jerked, a fresh bead of moisture welling up from the flushed, engorged tip, betraying his desperate, aching need.

He watched, transfixed and panting, as your slender fingers trailed over the elegant lines of your body. Each brush of your fingertips against your skin sent jolts of electricity shooting down his spine, making his hips twitch and rock, his body coiled and ready to pounce. When you arched into your own touch, a low, needy moan escaping your lips, Jacaerys thought he might explode right then and there, undone by the sheer eroticism of the moment.

Jacaerys licked his lips, his voice a low, rough growl as he spoke. "I want... I want to watch you touch yourself, my princess," he rasped, his eyes blazing with hunger and lust.

Your twin may be your good boy, but if you tease him too much, he will take control (even if only for a second). Also! Loves calling you 'princess' and you calling him 'prince'.

Jacaerys' eyes flashed with a mix of hunger, lust, and a hint of annoyance as he gazed down at you, his voice a low, seductive rasp. "I am desperately in need, my princess. Desperately in need of your sweet, tight little cunt wrapped around my cock, squeezing me, milking me for every last drop of seed," he growled, his hips grinding down against yours with deliberate, torturous slowness. "But I am also a prince, and I will have my way. I will claim my princess and fuck her until she can't walk straight, until the only word she remembers is my name."

With a sudden, sharp thrust of his hips, Jacaerys slammed his thick, pulsing shaft into your dripping entrance, hilting himself inside you to the base in one brutal stroke. He threw his head back with a guttural groan, his eyes rolling back in sheer, overwhelming pleasure as your scorching, velvet walls clenched and fluttered around his aching length.

Your eyes rolled back, fluttering shut as intense, mind-numbing pleasure exploded through every nerve ending.

“Ohhh, fuuuck!” A throaty, wanton growl of sheer bliss ripped from your chest as you felt his cock stretching you open, filling you so utterly and completely that you swore you could feel him in your very womb.

He rolled his hips, grinding his shaft deeper into your sopping wet heat, his heavy balls slapping obscenely against your ass. The filthy, wet sounds of your bodies joining, the creaking of the bed, and your wanton cries of rapture filled the room, a debauched symphony of lust and desire.

Slowly, torturously, Jacaerys began to move, his muscular arms flexing as he braced himself above you. He withdrew until just the swollen tip of his shaft remained nestled inside your entrance, your lips clinging and fluttering around his flesh, before slamming back inside you with a powerful, driving thrust. He set a hard, relentless pace, fucking into you with the desperate, almost angry need of a man possessed.

Jacaerys roared, his voice echoing off the chamber's walls as he struggled to maintain control. But your pussy felt too good, too exquisite, too perfect. The hot, silken embrace of your body made it impossible for him to think of anything else except the desperate need to fuck you harder, faster, to claim you and fill you with his seed.

"Gods, your cunt... it's like a fucking fist around my cock," Jacaerys snarled, his eyes wild and glazed, his handsome face contorted in pleasure. He grabbed your hips, his fingers sinking into the yielding flesh hard enough to leave bruises as he slammed into you, over and over again. "It feels too fucking good... I can't... I can't hold back..."

"You feel... gods, you feel incredible. So fucking tight, so perfect..."

Jacaerys' hips jerked and bucked erratically as he fucked into you, each thrust of his shaft sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your core. But there was a desperate, almost frantic edge to his movements, as if he was chasing something, trying to lose himself in the slick slide of your cunt as much as he was trying to claim you, to mark you as his.

"I can't... I'm not going to last," Jacaerys panted against your skin, his breath hot and ragged. His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises as he slammed into you with increasingly erratic, desperate strokes.

But even as he struggled to hold back, to maintain any modicum of control, one thing was clear - your prince was utterly, completely lost in the feel of you, drowning in the overwhelming pleasure of your scorching, perfect little cunt.

Subby Jacaerys, who get's especially subby when you jerk him off, tugging at his throbbing cock as he whimpers.

Jacaerys shuddered and groaned as he felt your tentative touch through his breeches, his hips jerking forward instinctively as he sought more of that delicious pressure. He could feel the gentle tracing of your fingers, the way they mapped out every thick, throbbing inch of him, and it made his blood burn hotter. He wanted to grab your wrist, to force your hand to close around his aching cock and squeeze, to demand more of that pleasure-pain that only you could give him.

But he restrained himself, not wanting to overwhelm you, to frighten you away from this treacherous path with his own desperation.

So instead, he covered your hand with his own, his fingers curling around yours as he guided your touch. He showed you how he liked to be touched, how to stroke and caress and tease until he was panting and aching with need. He let you feel the weight of his balls, the way they drew up tight against his body as his pleasure built.

He leaned down to capture your lips in a slower, deeper kiss. This one was about savouring, about tasting and exploring every inch of your mouth. His tongue delved deep, stroking along yours in a sensual dance that made your head spin and your toes curl.

You kissed him back fiercely, your lips moving against his with a hunger you could no longer deny. As your tongues danced, you let your hand explore the thick, hard length of him through the fabric of his breeches. You could feel him throbbing, pulsing with a need that matched your own. It made you gasp and moan into the kiss.

Your mouth moved lower, your lips brushing over the column of his throat. You could feel his pulse jumping beneath your lips, could taste the salt of his skin. He smelled of clean male flesh and the scent of a man aroused and wanting.

"Let's go slow," you murmured against the racing beat of his heart, "I want to make this good for you."

Your hand tightened around his aching length, squeezing gently as you spoke. You could feel him throbbing in your grasp, his cock jutting making you smirk.

He could feel your fingers squeezing around his throbbing cock, could feel every inch of him pulsing and twitching with a hunger that defied reason. He wanted to grind against your palm, to rut into your touch until he found sweet relief.

Jacaerys tilted his head back to give you better access to his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He could feel your lips curving into a smirk against his skin, could hear the sultry promise in your words.

He reached up to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as he gazed down at you with eyes that burned with desire. "Slow is good," he agreed huskily.

He leaned down to capture your lips in another searing kiss, this one deeper and more urgent than the last. He licked into your mouth, his tongue stroking along yours in a filthy dance as he pulled you impossibly closer.

His hands slid down to your ass, gripping the rounded globes firmly as he ground his aching erection against you. He could feel the heat of you, even through the fabric of your gown, and it made him groan into your mouth, his hips rolling forward instinctively.

Spurred on by his needy sounds and desperate groping, you started to stroke his throbbing length with more purpose, your hand moving faster and applying more pressure. You could feel every rigid inch of him, from the swollen head to the heavy, churning balls drawn up tight against his body.

Your fingers traced the shape of him through the constraining fabric, marvelling at the way he jerked and pulsed against your touch. You could feel him leaking, the damp spot on his breeches growing as his desire overwhelmed him.

"Mmm, you're so hard," you purred, your voice rough with lust, "So big and thick and ready. Does it hurt, being so desperately aroused?"

You squeezed harder, rubbing the rigid length of him with the heel of your palm. Your touch was borderline cruel, knowing he needed more and craved the feel of your bare hand on his bare flesh.

"Do you want me to touch you properly, Jacaerys? Want to feel my fingers wrapped around your cock as I stroke you?"

He gazed down at you with eyes that blazed with hunger, his face flushed and his chest heaving with every ragged breath he took. He could see the dark, wicked gleam in your eyes, could hear the rough, lust-filled edge to your voice. It made his cock twitch and jerk against your hand, made him want to grab you and take you right then and there.

"Yes," he hissed, his voice strained and tight with need. "Fuck, yes... I need it. I need to feel your hand around my cock, stroking and squeezing until I can't take it anymore."

He reached down with trembling fingers to unfasten his breeches, his cock springing free as soon as the fabric fell away. It was long and thick and hard, the swollen head an angry red and leaking pre-cum. The shaft was covered in pulsing veins and ridges, the flesh hot and taut against your skin. He shuddered as the cool air hit his heated flesh, his cock jerking and twitching as if seeking your touch.

"Please," he begged, his voice rough and low and desperate.

Slowly, almost reverently, you wrapped your hand around his throbbing length. You could feel the heat of him, the way his flesh pulsed and throbbed against your palm. You gasped softly as you stroked down to the swollen head, your thumb swiping through the bead of moisture gathering at the tip.

"Mmm, your cock is so pretty... and you're leaking so much," you purred, your voice low and rough with lust.

You tightened your grip, stroking slowly and firmly from base to tip, feeling every rigid inch of him. Your other hand went to his balls, cupping and squeezing them gently as they rolled against your fingers.

He shuddered and gasped as your thumb swiped over the weeping head of his cock, the rough pad dragging over the sensitive skin and making him see stars. He was leaking so much, his cock weeping with the force of his arousal, and the feeling of your thumb smearing his pre-cum around the swollen crown only heightened his desperation.

Jacaerys reached out to grab your wrist, his fingers tightening around your forearm as he guided your hand to stroke him faster, harder. He needed more, craved the slick glide of your fingers along his shaft, the way your grip tightened and squeezed just shy of too hard.

"Yes, fuck..." he whined under his breath. "Make me feel good. I need it, I need you, fuck..."

Leaning in closer, you let your breath ghost over his ear as you purred softly, "Mmm, I can feel how close you are. Tell me, are you going to cum for me, Jacaerys? Are you going to make a complete mess of yourself all over my fingers like the desperate, needy boy you are?"

You could see the pleasure etched onto his face, his eyes rolled back, and his mouth hanging open in a silent scream of ecstasy. He looked utterly debauched, utterly beautiful in his desperation. You felt a thrill of power knowing you had reduced this proud, strong man to this state of wanton need.

Jacaerys let out a guttural moan, his body convulsing as his climax crashed over him like a tidal wave. His cock throbbed and jerked in your grip, pulsing as it unleashed a torrent of hot, thick seed that coated your fingers and splattered onto the sheets. He shuddered and shook, his hips bucking erratically as he rutted into your touch, chasing every last spark of pleasure.

His hands gripped your hips bruisingly tight, yanking you flush against him as he ground his spurting cock against your belly. He could feel the wet heat of his release soaking through the fabric of your gown, painting your skin with his essence. It was obscene, it was depraved, but it was everything he desired.

As the waves of his climax started to ebb, he slumped against you, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he panted harshly. His skin was slick with sweat, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He could feel the aftershocks of his release still sparking along his shaft, could feel the way his spent flesh twitched weakly against your fingers.

[maximsdeadwife]

Come Close I’ll Show You Heaven

Logan x afab!reader

1.8k words

Summary: getting with Wolverine isn’t exactly what you expect

Authors notes: this is for my beloved @heresthestorymorningglory who has been my best friend, my sister, my beta reader, my favourite writer, my supporter and everything in between since we met through fandom a year and a half ago and have been writing and having fun with our favourite characters together since. Logan’s an old love for both of us, but for her birthday he’s entirely hers. Title comes from one of her Logan songs, I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can) by Taylor Swift.

Content/warnings: nsfw, dry humping, fingering, kinda premature ejaculation but not really, alcohol mentions, fluff, crying

Logan couldn’t remember the last time he allowed himself to feel. He wasn’t sure he still possessed the ability, even if he stopped numbing every thought with the soothing sting of alcohol. It provided him the only moments of quiet he’d experienced in years, or at least, something close to it.

His kiss had been bruising; a rough, heated mess that you were almost sure would end in his hips slamming hard against yours until he found the brief release he needed and left you used and disappointed.

Because you knew that whilst you wanted him, he probably just wanted to get his dick wet. Hell, he even kept his mask on while he kissed you to keep his distance.

You knew it would be a one time thing, and now, with his lips ghosting over your throat accompanied by that delicious scratch of stubble, you had two choices – go with it and finally have him even just this once, or never know. And you had to know.

His fingertips drove into your waist as you made your mind up, grounding you back with him.

It felt so good, those heavy, muscular arms controlling your movements. Heat rushed to your core at the thought of him taking what he needed just like this, and the thought that it might not be so disappointing after all to have the Wolverine use you, feral and strong and ravaging. It was already kind of thrilling just to kiss him.

His grip loosened then and your heart sank – just a little at first, and then, all at once as he stilled above you.

‘Listen-’

‘No, it’s ok,’ you interrupted, beating him to it, ‘you don’t need to say it.’

You didn’t need to see him without his mask to know a thick line had appeared between Logan’s brows.

‘Say what?’ he asked.

‘That you don’t want me- or, I’m not doing it for you… whatever. You’ve changed your mind.’ You pushed yourself up beneath him, creating a physical distance so he didn’t have to. ‘It’s ok, we can just pretend this never happened and-’

He pushed himself forward and his lips pressed to yours again, only this time, he was ever so gentle. You gasped against them. You’d never seen him gentle. Never thought you’d feel it, either.

‘Not what I was getting at,’ he breathed, gruff, against your lips. His voice was the lowest you’d ever heard and you could feel it shiver through you. ‘Believe me, you’re doing… everything for me. It’s just- it’s been a while, alright? That’s all.’

‘Oh...’ You froze. Did you hear that correctly?

‘So, if I disappoint you-’ he broke off with a frustrated huff.

‘No, you won’t. You can’t,’ you reassured, kissing him back tenderly. You could practically feel his heart swelling at your response.

You wanted him, and he didn’t deserve anyone wanting him, but you did, and it was sincere and… kind of overwhelming.

His hand, once grabbing careless and rough at your hips, rubbed slow, tender circles into your back as the other pushed up into your hair, thick fingers tangling loosely in the strands. His chest heaved with a relief so intense it was almost tangible.

‘What do you need?’ you breathed, and he paused for a moment.

No one had ever asked what he needed. He wasn’t even sure.

‘Just you,’ he said.

You hooked a careful leg around his waist to pull him down closer to you, his hips falling easily between your thighs, and your tongue teased, warm and wet against his lower lip until he parted them and invited you back in.

You took the lead this time, slow and languid, and he hummed into it, hips rocking against the gentle movement of yours while he basked in your attention.

You rolled onto your sides to face one another, and little grunts were swallowed by your mouth as his arousal, very evident in the yellow spandex slid over yours.

Daring, you thought, since it had been how many months? Years? Since he’d been with someone else. 

You weren’t sure exactly how long Logan considered a long time, and although you were sure the alcohol consumption might help slow things a little, you really didn’t want him to peak too soon if this would be the one and only time.

You were on track to be fucked by the Wolverine for Christ’s sake — but more than that, you wanted to show him a good time, let him feel the comfort of another’s touch, let go. If he came now, you weren’t sure you’d ever get another chance to show him that.

He pulled back though, and you smiled at him, small but genuine. Reassuring again.

You fought the urge to reach up and push his mask back so you could look into his eyes, watch his reaction as you stroked his stubbled cheek with real affection.

Logan beat you to it. He slid the hand from around your back to push the mask away himself. Tired eyes turned watery as they met yours, and you sighed.

‘What?’ he grumbled, ‘Prefer me with it on?’

You couldn’t stifle your laugh. ‘No. Well, I mean… I certainly wouldn’t be opposed to it, but right now I wanna see you.’

‘Freak,’ he grinned, hand moving back to your waist.

You let your fingertips wander over his suit, bright yellow dulled by dirt and stained with blood, memorising the contours of his body beneath while he memorised the warmth of your palm.

You let out a pleased little moan when your fingers found his erection and dragged up the impressive length, and his eyes squeezed shut. 

‘Fuck,’ came a growl from under his breath. 

He’s sensitive, you delighted, and took your hand away, back to resting on those broad shoulders.

‘Fuckin’ tease,’ he smirked, eyes lighting up with a fire you hadn’t yet seen but knew lurked somewhere in the depths. Impatient, he slid his hand between your thighs. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ you confirmed, and he pressed his cupped palm against you, fingers teasing through fabric. ‘We gotta get rid of some of these layers, though.’

There was a simultaneous scramble then, during which you managed to help him shed the top half of his suit, and he tore off everything you were wearing far too easily.

You grazed his cheek with the backs of your fingers, and he leaned into it, starved, and in his eyes, undeserving.

His stomach flipped as your fingertips toyed with his hair. He was topless beside you, and you reached for his face first? Not his bare chest or abs? His eyes stung as he bit back the threat of tears.

‘That’s better,’ he hummed, distracting himself by resuming his previous position, thick fingers sliding between your folds.

‘Please,’ you gasped, trying to rock against his palm.

He liked that. A pang of guilt bubbled low in his gut again, but arousal washed it away when your fingers circled his wrist and clenched around it.

‘Jesus, you’re wet,’ he said. It was husky, and just surprised enough for you to notice.

Did he really expect you not to be?

‘All for you, bub,’ you replied playfully.

The smile dropped from your lips as he shifted from casually circling his slicked up finger over your clit to sliding a finger inside.

Logan watched closely, the way your eyes fluttered closed and your cheeks powdered red, the way your breath fell from between your parted lips in hungry little pants.

You felt warm and familiar, and his dick throbbed as he curled his finger inside you, deliberate and precise. His head dropped to the crook of your neck and he clenched his jaw to keep from nuzzling there.

‘Gonna cum for me?’ he panted, hot against your throat.

‘Gonna- ah!- f-fuck me?’ you managed between heaving breaths.

Logan didn’t answer, just chuckled against you as he fucked his finger into you faster, and lifted his head in time to watch you unravel, his eyes alight with wonder and arousal.

He didn’t rush you as you came down from your back-arching high, he simply slowed the movements of his hand. The aftershocks of your climax clenched deliciously around his finger as he massaged you down, relishing in every squeeze.

He still had it.

‘Still want me after… what do they call it these days? Post-nut clarity?’ he asked, trying hard to sound unbothered, but you heard the way his voice cracked with doubt.

‘More than ever.’

He dropped his forehead to yours as he carefully eased his finger out, relishing in the small whine that told him you felt empty without it.

‘Mmh, you feel so good,’ he dared admit as he lined himself up and gradually pushed inside to give you time to adjust, ‘so warm, so wet- oh fuck-’

You were glad he’d removed his mask. As much as the sweet burn of his cock stretching you had you clawing at his back, the blissed out look on his face was making your toes curl the most.

He rolled his hips so slowly you thought he must be holding back, being too cautious, either with you or for his own performance. Either way it didn’t matter, it was so different from what you’d expected your core throbbed.

‘You won’t break me,’ you whispered, ‘I’m yours, however you want.’

‘Feels good just like this,’ he all but whimpered, hiding his face at your shoulder again groaning, low and drawn out while his fingertips dragged over the parts of you he could reach.

He gazed down at you through those tired eyes, no longer bothering to fight the tears that slipped from the corners. 

‘Come for me,’ you breathed, and somehow it was the most romantic thing he’d ever heard.

With a low groan rumbling from his chest, he snapped his hips, once, twice. Three uneven, hurried thrusts and he roared, fists strategically moving the mattress either side of you as his claws extended with a muffled snikt! as he emptied inside you.

He pumped you so full that his release dripped back out, hot and thick around his softening cock and onto the sheets beneath.

‘Fuck-’ he growled, collapsing beside you.

 . ۫ ꣑ৎ   .  

You woke a few hours later, resting on his chest, and glanced up at him. 

Logan was still awake, deep in thought. He huffed.

‘What is it?’ you yawned, pushing yourself up to get a proper look at him. You assumed you’d wake to him long gone with his seed drying on your thigh, but he was very much still here. 

‘Just… don’t tell anyone, alright?’ he said, as if imparting a secret.

‘Tell them what?’ 

‘Yknow. That I-’

‘That you’re secretly a big softie and you fuck good? Yeah, ok,’ you mocked, ‘my lips are sealed. So long as you keep the mask on next time.’

Logan shot you a withering look and with a subtle smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth, closed his eyes as you settled back against his chest.

[bedlam-barbie]

Out of control

Or Attention part 3

Pairing: In Ho x recruiter!reader ; slight salesman x recruiter!reader for the plot

Warnings: canon accurate violence; gun; fights; hurt and comfort,some suggestive language, VIPs being disgusting,  reader has BPD, mentions of mental illness

Word count: 4.2k

Author’s note: well, somehow what was meant to be a 2 part shot, became a small series, I hope max 5 parts. The more I write, the more I’m eating up this love triangle… Please let me know your thoughts and opinions, also please reblog if you enjoyed!

Part 1 Part 2

Silence draped over them like a heavy blanket, but for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn't suffocating. There was no pressure to break it, no unsaid words clawing at the edges of their breath. Yet a stubborn part of her still burned—aching to scream at him, to demand that he care.

But she knew he did.

Maybe not as fiercely, not as openly as he once had, but the tenderness lingered in places he thought he'd hidden well. She saw it. Felt it. And that truth, fragile yet unspoken, was enough to still her restless heart.

When he finally turned to walk away, back toward the sea of masked strangers, she let him go. He hesitated for just a second, casting one last look her way before slipping the mask back onto his face.

Was that yearning in his eyes?

Her chest clenched at the thought. Did she dare believe he loved her?

Perhaps in another life, she thought bitterly, we could have been happy.

She let herself dream for a fleeting, reckless moment. 

In that imagined world, he was a celebrated detective, proud and upright, and she his beautiful, devoted wife. They had two children—a boy with curious eyes and a girl who laughed like sunshine. Their home was a charming white house on the outskirts of Seoul, with wide windows, a flourishing garden, and a bright red door.

Her days were filled with joy—cooking vibrant meals from cultures near and far, laughing as flour dusted her apron, guiding tiny hands through math problems. And when evening came, In Ho would return, his face lit with warmth, arms full of peonies just because he loved to see her smile.

After the children had been tucked into bed, they would sway together in the kitchen under the soft glow of the lights, the hum of the world fading away as they danced slowly, quietly, as though time itself belonged to them.

But dreams are fragile things. And hers shattered the moment the mask clicked back into place. Hwang In Ho was gone. What remained was only the Frontman—cold, impenetrable, and unreachable. She downed the last of her drink, forcing the bitter thought from her mind. She'd never been the kind of woman to dream of white picket fences, a loving husband, or children with wide, innocent eyes. In truth, she wasn’t even sure she wanted children at all.

And why would she?

To pass on her tangled mess of generational trauma? Her genetic curse of addiction? Her restless, fractured mind that teetered between darkness and ruin? No. It was better not to bring life into a world that already carried too much weight.

Even if some desperate part of her entertained the fantasy—who would she have them with?

The Frontman? Cold, hardened, and unreachable, carved out of stoicism like a statue of a forgotten god. The lives they lived were dangerous, unstable, always teetering on the brink of disaster. A family with him was impossible.

The Salesman?

She let out a sharp, humorless laugh at the absurdity of the thought. As if that manipulative charmer, who peddled temptations with a devilish grin, could ever love anyone beyond himself.

No, the truth was simple. Children were weaknesses, liabilities. And in their world, weaknesses got you killed.

Better to let the fantasy die before it took root. She glided back into the ballroom with practiced elegance, adjusting her mask until it sat perfectly on her face. Her sharp eyes scanned the room until they landed on Gong Yoo, effortlessly charming a small cluster of VIPs. Without missing a beat, she slipped beside him, her presence as deliberate as a choreographed step.

“There you are,” he said smoothly, his hand naturally settling on the small of her back. “Gentlemen, may I present my fellow recruiter.”

The woman offered a smile as radiant as it was dangerous. “A pleasure to meet you,” she said with a teasing lilt, “I’m the dancer—but you can call me the woman of your dreams.”

The innocence of her smile was betrayed by the spark of mischief in her eyes, a contrast that never failed to captivate. One of the men, hidden behind an ornate golden mask, took her hand with a flourish, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.

Her stomach twisted in revulsion, but her practiced mask remained intact. She was an expert at charming men who fancied themselves powerful, coaxing them into foolish investments—none more absurd than the deadly games they funded.

“The pleasure is all mine,” the man said, his gaze shamelessly lingering on her body, especially her chest. “My, my—you truly are a beauty.”

The Salesman's lips curled into an amused smirk. “Careful with this one,” he warned lightly. “She bites.”

“Good thing that’s how I like my women—feisty,” the man quipped, earning a chorus of laughter from the group. She laughed along, the sound as polished and disarming as glass champagne flutes clinking together. 

The question hung in the air, sharp and shameless:

“So tell us, Dancer. How exactly do you get those fools to join the games? Are you a stripper?”

Hunger dripped from his words, vile and brazen.

For a split second, she imagined slamming his face into the marble floor, painting it red with his arrogance. Her fingers itched to draw the dagger strapped against her thigh and gut him like a pig. But instead, she laughed—a sweet, melodic giggle that masked the storm beneath her composed exterior.

Little do you know, asshole.

Beside her, she felt Gong Yoo stiffen, his polished facade slipping just enough for her to notice the tension in his hand as it gripped her back firmly. The silent message was clear: Easy, darling. Not here. Wait until he’s leaving.

She tilted her head, her voice honeyed and playful. “Oh, Sir, you flatter me,” she teased, feigning embarrassment. “You’ve got me blushing.”

The men laughed, oblivious.

She leaned in slightly, keeping their attention hooked. “Unfortunately, no—I’m not a stripper,” she continued smoothly. “My job’s a little more... subtle. I usually find them in clubs or bars. Get them talking, loosen them up a bit.” She gestured toward Gong Yoo with a mischievous smile. “And then, as my associate here so brilliantly does, I lure them outside and invite them to a friendly game of ddakji.”

Her eyes sparkled with faux amusement as she leaned closer, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “Have you ever seen a drunk man stumbling to slap tiles in an alleyway? Truly—something for the books.”

The men roared with laughter, exactly as she knew they would. They were drunk on ego, money, and the illusion of control.Suddenly, the music faded, replaced by the delicate chiming of a champagne flute as Il Nam tapped it slowly, commanding the room’s attention.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice smooth and confident. “Welcome. I trust tonight’s festivities have been to your liking.”

From his elevated position on the grand balcony, Il Nam surveyed the sea of masked guests below. Flanking him were the ever-imposing Frontman and the Officer, their dark figures contrasting against the elegance of the scene.

His words flowed with deliberate grace, each syllable resonating with authority. “As some of you are aware, this year marks my final year as host of the Squid Games. These past thirty-three years have been nothing short of extraordinary.” He paused, allowing a wave of applause to sweep through the room. “None of this would have been possible without each and every one of you.”

The crowd clapped, their masked faces turned toward the enigmatic figure above.

Il Nam lifted a hand, signaling for silence as he continued. “With that, I am honored to announce that I have chosen my successor.” He gestured subtly toward the stoic figure beside him. “Our Frontman, who has dedicated himself entirely to the Games for the past five years, will now take my place. For his unwavering commitment and loyalty, I am eternally grateful.”

He raised his champagne flute with a celebratory flourish. “Join me in honoring our new host.” His gaze softened as he turned toward the Frontman. “You have truly exceeded my expectations.” The ballroom echoed with the sound of clinking glasses and polite applause.

From below, the dancer's eyes remained fixed on In Ho. Despite herself, a warmth bloomed in her chest—pride, quiet and undeniable. She wanted to be indifferent, detached, to mask any trace of emotion.But she couldn’t. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the Salesman watching her, his lips curled into a knowing smirk. Glass in hand, he acted as though the unfolding scene was some private performance meant for his amusement.

“Careful,” he murmured in her ear. “That heart of yours might start showing.”

Before she could respond, chaos erupted.

Gunshots shattered the air, sharp and deafening. Screams rippled through the ballroom as panic took hold. The scent of gunpowder mingled with the metallic tang of fear.

The woman’s eyes darted through the crowd, scanning for the source. A group of masked infiltrators surged forward, pulling weapons from concealed places beneath tuxedos and dresses. They moved with brutal efficiency, shoving some VIPs to the ground and holding others at gunpoint.

Pandemonium spread like wildfire. Guests in glittering masks tripped over one another in a desperate rush toward the exits. Blood splattered across marble floors, staining the opulence with horror.

The Salesman cursed under his breath, his carefree smirk gone. “Shit,” he hissed, stepping closer to her. “Stay down.”

But she didn’t listen.

A cold, determined calm washed over her as instinct took control. There was no time for fear—only action.

An infiltrator broke from the pack, rushing toward a frightened VIP who cowered behind an overturned table. Without hesitation, the dancer intercepted him, moving like liquid steel.

She pivoted sharply on her heel, her hand snapping out to disarm him in one swift motion. The gun clattered to the floor as she drove her knee into his stomach, doubling him over with a strangled gasp. She followed up with a brutal elbow to the side of his head, knocking him unconscious.

Gong Yoo watched, his usual bravado replaced by genuine concern. "You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered, eyes flicking between her and the armed assailants still swarming the room.

A second infiltrator lunged at her from behind, blade glinting under the flickering lights. She sensed him before he made contact, twisting just in time to catch his wrist. The knife hovered dangerously close to her throat, but she remained unyielding, twisting his arm until a sickening crack echoed through the room. He screamed as she drove him to the ground, kicking the blade out of reach.

Nearby, the Frontman stood rigid, his mask unreadable but his body tense. For years, he had seen countless brutal fights—but watching her now, there was something unsettling about the recklessness with which she fought.

She's going to get herself killed.

The thought gnawed at him as he moved toward the fray, signaling for security reinforcements.

Three more attackers circled her, weapons drawn. The Salesman swore loudly. “Damn it, woman, what are you doing?!”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she smirked, blood smeared across her knuckles.

"Just having a little fun," she quipped before launching herself at the nearest assailant.

The ballroom became a blur of violence—the dancer ducking, striking, and twisting with brutal precision. One attacker swung wildly; she slipped beneath the blow and retaliated with a savage uppercut that sent teeth flying. Another charged with a gun, but she was faster, closing the distance and slamming his head into a pillar with a bone-crunching thud.

Behind her, the Salesman clenched his jaw. He hated admitting it, but he was worried. Not just impressed—worried.

In Ho, still commanding the scene, issued curt orders to secure the VIPs. Yet his eyes never fully left her.

The woman moved like a force of nature—unrelenting, fierce, and terrifyingly beautiful in her defiance. But no matter how skilled she was, the odds were shifting. More infiltrators were pushing into the ballroom.

The Salesman cursed again. "She's gonna get herself killed out there," he growled, shoving past the chaos toward her.

He moved—a shadow determined to protect the woman who seemed hell-bent on proving she didn’t need saving.A tall attacker rushed toward her with wild desperation, swinging a crowbar. She sidestepped with a dancer’s grace, her footwork precise as she spun behind him. With a fierce kick to the back of his knee, he crumpled, dropping the weapon. She finished him off with a brutal punch that cracked his jaw.

Before she could catch her breath, a voice called out smoothly from behind:

“Darling, I couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

Gong Yoo stepped into the fray, shedding his usual air of nonchalance for something sharper, deadlier. His burgundy tuxedo was immaculate despite the chaos, though his eyes gleamed with amusement and danger alike.

An attacker lunged at him, and Gong Yoo barely flinched, grabbing the man by the collar and delivering a calculated blow to his temple. The assailant crumpled instantly. He dusted off his sleeve with mock elegance, smirking.

“You make it look easy,” she quipped, her voice breathless but steady.

“That’s because it is, darling.” He winked before turning to face two more assailants charging their way.

Together, they moved like a deadly duet. She dodged a wild swing, landing a bone-crunching kick to one man’s ribs, while Gong Yoo disarmed the other with a disarmingly smooth twist of the wrist before delivering a vicious uppercut.

Blood painted the marble floor as the infiltrators realized they were outmatched—not just by guards or the infamous Frontman, but by these two relentless forces who fought with terrifying synergy.

The Frontman observed from a distance, his mask concealing the turmoil beneath. His orders had secured most of the VIPs, but his focus remained on her. She was fast, brutal, and fearless—but also reckless.

One of the last attackers aimed a gun directly at her back.

“No!” Gong Yoo shouted, his usual charm stripped away, replaced by raw panic.

But she had already sensed the danger. With uncanny precision, she twisted, grabbing a broken champagne bottle from the floor. The glass glinted under the flickering lights as she drove it straight into the gunman’s forearm. The weapon fired into the ceiling, plaster raining down as he howled in pain.

She followed up with a merciless elbow to his throat, dropping him like dead weight.

Breathing heavily, she wiped blood from her face, her eyes still sharp and alert. Gong Yoo stood beside her, his hand instinctively brushing her shoulder as if reassuring himself she was unharmed.

“You know,” he panted, half-laughing, “I really thought I’d have to save you.”

“Please.” She smirked. “I’ve got this.”

The Frontman finally approached, his authoritative presence cutting through the aftermath like a blade. Guards were restraining the last of the infiltrators, and silence began to settle over the ruined ballroom.

“You’re reckless,” the Frontman said coldly, his voice devoid of emotion.

“Effective,” she shot back defiantly, though exhaustion crept into her voice.

The masked figure didn’t respond, but his lingering gaze on the woman said enough.

She straightened, brushing glass shards from her dress as she surveyed the carnage. The ballroom, once pristine and elegant, now resembled a battlefield drenched in blood and destruction.

“Well,” the Salesman drawled, his smirk returning, “guess that’s what happens when you throw such a killer party.”

The dancer huffed a breathless laugh, but the weight of what had just transpired lingered between them all. 

“It’s been a blast boys, but I need to clean myself up now.” she said and without waiting for an answer from them, she made her way to the bathroom.

She stood at the marble sink, blood swirling down the drain as she scrubbed at her knuckles. Her breathing was shallow, heart still racing—not just from the chaos but from the exhilaration that thrummed in her veins.

She had felt alive.

The crack of fists meeting flesh, the sharp edge of survival cutting through every instinct—it ignited something deep inside her, something she didn’t want to admit she craved. Even now, her hands trembled not from fear but from the fading thrill of battle.

God help her, she’d enjoyed it.

The realization made her stomach churn with guilt. What kind of person savored violence? She had brushed so close to death tonight, yet all she could think about was how addictive it was—the rush, the power.

The door creaked open behind her.

She stiffened, half-expecting Gong Yoo’s smug grin. But no—it was him.

In Ho. Damn it, why was he always there, in the back of her mind? Ready to jump in to save her.

Mask removed, his dark eyes were sharp with concern as they locked onto her bloodied reflection in the mirror.

“You’re hurt,” he said quietly, stepping toward her.

“It’s nothing,” she muttered, forcing her voice to steady as she reached for a towel.

He was there before she could pull away, taking the towel from her hand without asking. The roughness of his palm contrasted with the gentle precision as he lifted her bruised knuckles into the light.

“You’re reckless,” he muttered, his voice low and strained.

“I know,” she admitted softly.

And she did. Reckless wasn’t new for her—but tonight, it had been different. Tonight, she hadn’t just fought to survive. She’d fought because part of her wanted to. The thought made her want to scream.

But In Ho said nothing more, focused instead on cleaning the streaks of dried crimson from her skin. The room was silent except for the soft trickle of water and the faint rustle of fabric.Her heart pounded—different now, softer, raw. Not from violence, but from the weight of his presence, the tenderness in his touch despite the wall he always kept between them.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said quietly, watching his profile in the mirror.

“Yes, I did,” he murmured, his voice rough.

His words hit harder than any blow she’d taken that night. He wasn’t just talking about tonight—he never was with her. His dark eyes were focused on every little scratch, carefully cleaning them up.

“I handled myself,” she insisted, though the tremor in her voice betrayed the war raging inside her.

“I know,” he admitted, guilt flickering in his eyes. “But seeing you like this...” He shook his head as if forcing the thought away.

Her throat tightened. Why did he care? Why did she want him to care?

"Who were they?" she asked abruptly, her voice sharp, demanding an answer.

"No one you need to concern yourself with," he said, his words cold, but his eyes flickered with something darker. "I’ve already sent the Officer to investigate. But... I did hear one of them shouting, something about doing this for their son." His jaw tightened as he spoke, the weight of his words lingering in the air. "It seems some family of a former player has managed to track us down, and they’ve gathered others, desperate for revenge."

He leaned in slightly, his gaze locking with hers, and for a moment, there was a chilling intensity in his voice. "But don’t trouble yourself, little dove. You won’t need to lift a finger. I’ll make sure they’re dealt with... permanently."

“You liked it, didn’t you?” he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through her defenses.

Her breath caught. “What?”

“The fight,” he said grimly. “You liked it.”

The truth hung between them, heavy and undeniable.She wanted to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, to make a snarky remark—but she couldn’t.

“I don’t know what's worse,” she whispered hoarsely. “That I did... or that I wanted it to keep going.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he stepped closer, brushing his thumb across the cut along her jawline. The tenderness in the gesture made her ache, and for a moment, she wanted to collapse into the warmth of it, to forget the darkness clawing inside her. For just a second, she closed her eyes letting him caress her skin, her defenses fully down.

“You’re not a monster,” he said quietly, as if reading her thoughts.

She let out a bitter laugh. “Aren’t I?”

“No.” His voice was firm, certain. “I’ve seen monsters. You’re not one of them.”

Her breath hitched. “Then what am I?”

His hand lingered on her jaw, thumb tracing the faint bruise. “Someone I can’t stop thinking about,” he admitted softly. The raw honesty in his voice shattered what was left of her defenses. In a perfect world, this would have been the moment they would have kissed, where he would profess his undying love and they would have lived happily ever after.

But alas, this was not a perfect world.

“You have no right to care,” she whispered, her voice breaking trying to fight back against the feelings.

“I know.” He stepped back, the distance between them sudden and painful. “But I can’t help it. You’re all cleaned up,” he said gruffly, retreating to safer ground.

But neither of them moved. Their eyes lingered, heavy with unspoken words. In Ho’s hair remained perfectly styled, slicked back with precision, and his onyx tuxedo fit his frame like it had been tailored just for him. It was almost maddening how flawless he appeared while she stood there, disheveled and bloodied, her dress torn from the chaos.

In a way, it perfectly represented who they were: him, an image of unwavering control, and her, a whirlwind of chaos and recklessness.

The contrast between them stung—like a cruel reminder that they could never truly align. He was every inch the mask he wore: composed, untouchable. And she? She was a storm, a wild force of nature trying to fit into a world of structure.

For a moment, she hated him. Not for who he was, but for how effortlessly he embodied everything she could never be.

Her pulse quickened, the intensity of the moment feeding the restless, chaotic part of her. But she stayed still. Neither of them moved—too afraid, or too proud, to take the next step.

In Ho broke the silence, his voice as controlled as always. "You should leave," he said, but there was something unspoken in the way he said it. A vulnerability hiding behind the command, barely noticeable but undeniable.

She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the ache in her chest. "And leave you to play the perfect host?"

His jaw clenched slightly at the jab, but he said nothing, his gaze still locked on hers. The distance between them felt like miles, and yet she could feel the magnetic pull, as though the space was too small to contain the tension brewing between them.

There was a flicker in his eyes—a softness, quickly masked by the cold exterior he’d perfected. "You’re making this harder than it needs to be," he murmured, his tone quieter now, yet still holding that edge of finality.

She took a step closer, ignoring the war waging inside her. “Is it hard for you? Or is it hard for you to admit you don’t want me to go?”

The words hung in the air, too raw, too honest. She saw his eyes narrow, the slightest flicker of frustration passing through them. His body stiffened, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

"I don’t need you here," he said, his voice tight, but there was a pause before the last word—a hesitation that didn’t go unnoticed.

The dancer’s heart hammered in her chest, but she refused to let it show. "Then why do you keep looking at me like that?"

His lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but he held back, caught between something he couldn’t admit and the image he had built around himself. She saw it—the turmoil beneath the surface. He wasn’t as untouchable as he wanted her to believe.

"You should go," he repeated, but this time, it was softer. Almost... pleading.

It was too much. The fight, the connection, the tension—it all boiled over inside her, and she knew there was only one way to stop the storm in her chest. She closed the space between them.

Her breath caught as her hands came to rest on his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart beneath the fabric of his tuxedo. She looked up, meeting his eyes, so close now that she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

For a moment, neither of them moved, and in that instant, everything seemed to hang in the balance. Then, slowly, she leaned in. His eyes flickered to her lips, and the air between them thickened, charged with something far more intense than just the heat of the moment.

Just as she was about to close the distance, the briefest hint of hesitation stopped her.

What are you doing?

It was a question that hovered in her mind, but she didn’t have an answer for it. Instead, she pulled back, just enough to look at him, breathless, torn between the impulse to pull him closer and the need to protect herself from what this moment could mean.

His hand twitched, almost as if he wanted to reach for her but stopped himself. She could see it—the war between the man he was and the man she’d forced him to be.

"I can’t do this," he muttered, his voice almost a whisper, thick with frustration.

She tilted her head, meeting his gaze steadily. "You’re the one who won’t do this. But you want to."

He took a step back, exhaling sharply, his chest rising and falling with the weight of their proximity. He didn't answer—he didn’t need to.

And in that silence, the unspoken truth hung heavy: Neither of them was ready for what this could become, but neither of them could walk away, either.

Author's note: please let me know your opinions! should I make it more of a love triangle between the three or tame it down? How are you liking it so far?

[tinynicooo]

eurovision - joost klein x reader | 16+

summary: Joost is still dealing with the memories about Eurovision.

a/n: my first fic(drabble??) here!! i used to write a lot earlier but then i lost my previous acc, so here i am again:)) i also had a big pause of all this writing thing & english is not my first language! sorry!!!

warnings: rpf, angst, fluff

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

One year ago he wore that blue suit.

One year ago he performed for the whole Europe: and the whole Europe cheered for him.

One year ago his biggest dream came true - almost.

Now, one year later after all these moments, he is laying here, in his bed, with your head tucked under his chin; the soft beats of his heartbeat softly thumping in your ears; his arm draped around your shoulder lazily, such comforting weight (considering how much bigger this man was) is already making you sleepy, yet the angelic sight in front of you was just too marvelous to take your gaze away yet.

Your man, your Joost - his eyes closed, pale eyelashes and eyelids wavering from time to time: the evidence of his frequent nightmares and sleep problems, but it could fade away - even for just a bit - when you were here. His pink lips parted slightly, so kissable and always so tender to you: covering your whole face with soft pecks, murmuring words of adoration in your ear, praising you with excitement when you’ve done basically anything, laughing at your jokes - and smiling every time he saw you. And the way his blue eyes lit up every time, and the way his face beamed, and his dimples were being showed - it all didn’t change.

Yes, he himself changed. He needed so much time alone after all this Eurovision chaos, yet he also needed you close - closer, than he ever did: it was absolutely unbearable to find a perfect contrast between his mood swings, but your heart was soaring, breaking to help this man, and it still does that. Sometimes you find some papers with such simple, yet deep words - his poetry - about all this pain and thoughts he has, but never fully shares even with you. Keeping the secret, you always put these papers back, pretending you never even knew about them. The problems with his sleep started during all this court processes, what took a big tool on him and his mental state; of course, you were always anxious too, never able to relax properly while your boyfriend was on his breaking point and you couldn’t even help him.

You still don’t understand his feelings about all this stuff.

Sometimes you catch him rewatching this performance - so bright and colourful, a completely opposite of things he does now, yet you love both absolutely equally, being fascinated by everything he creates - and he smiles, a warm glance in his eyes, but this smile contains a hint of sadness behind it.

And sometimes you catch him being unexpectedly quiet, even lonely in your shared apartment. These are days when he wants to just sit in front of his laptop, pretending to work on his music, but truly just needing time to think, to be alone with all the remorse he has in his heart, and you can’t do anything to help him: you hold him when he needs it, you soothe him when he comes for this, but it can’t be enough for such big deal.

It’s a hard thing to be over it - and you get it. You get him.

His eyes flatter open, and you see that familiar sparkle again, and then the smile appears, and the dimples… you lean up, gently bumping your nose against his own, when he carefully flips you over, his massive body pining you down to the mattress and he props himself up on his elbows only. Your gentle palm covers his cheek, running a thumb under his eye and feeling the soft skin of his face. You watch adoringly as he smiles down at you - genuinely! - and his gaze lights up with happiness; sleepy drowsiness is already gone.

“You were staring, I felt it in my sleep,” he said with a soft giggle, this adorable giggle that you loved so much, and his voice was slightly raspy now after a small nap: gosh, so tender and exciting.

“Sor-“

“I love you.”

You smile, and your free hand subtly covers the Eurovision tattoo on his forearm.

“I love you too.”

[thyras]

→ of unspoken truths

PAIRING → annatar | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 7.1k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → mild abuse (he chokes her), arguments, angst, manipulation

SUMMARY → when the truth comes to light it brings with it great sorrow and tragedy, and it would seem all is lost.

AUTHORS NOTE → this chapter broke me, like i'm gonna need a few days to recover. i really had not meant for this to go this way but the characters have a mind of their own and i went with it.

masterlist // series playlist // mood board

His index finger traced slow, circular patterns below your navel as you gazed up at him, lost in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Moonlight poured through the balcony doors, bathing him in a silver glow, casting shadows along the sharp planes of his face. His sapphire eyes shimmered in the dim light, half-lidded with quiet reverence. Propped up on one elbow, he watched you with a lazy, indulgent smile, taking in the love-lorn expression that softened your features.

There was something so right about this—this moment, this union—that neither of you dared to speak, afraid that the illusion would shatter with a single breath.

Annatar leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, deliberate kiss, his fingers flattening against your stomach in a tender caress. You smiled into the kiss, threading your fingers through his silken strands. He deepened it, his tongue gliding sensually against yours as his hand continued to trace over your womb with quiet reverence. The intimate contact sent shivers of pleasure rippling through you, your body alive under his touch.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your cheeks warmed with the afterglow of his affection.

"I still can't quite believe it," he murmured, his voice edged with awe as his gaze drifted down to where his hand rested possessively over your stomach. "A child. Our child."

You smiled, your own hand coming to rest over his, fingers intertwining. "I know. It feels like a dream."

And in many ways, it was. After centuries of love and loss, of separation and reunion, the idea that you now carried a piece of both of you—a tangible embodiment of your unbreakable bond—seemed too wondrous to be real.

You shifted into your pillow, your hand reaching up to trace the line of his cheekbone, down along his jaw, before cupping his chin. Your fingers rested there as you took him in—your husband. In all the forms your elven eyes had known him, this one felt the closest to the first, the one you had fallen for so long ago.

Yet, even as you stared at him now, you could not help but wonder. His human form seemed the most natural to him, almost as if it was the one he had worn the longest. As Halbrand, he had carried himself with ease, his movements fluid in a way they had never quite been in his elven guises. There was a quiet confidence in the way he walked as a man, as though it had been his truest self all along.

But deep down, you knew the truth. The form you had first fallen in love with was the one you held dearest in your heart—the one he had fashioned for your eyes alone.

You mourned its loss.

If only, just for one night, you could see it again—to feel the gentle caress of that form, to run your fingers through fiery strands that shimmered like molten copper in the moonlight, to drown once more in seafoam-green eyes that had once held the light of the world within them.

Would he ever take that form again, if only for you?

Would he understand how much you longed for it?

Or was it truly lost, a relic of a past that neither of you could ever reclaim?

As if he had plucked the thought straight from your mind, he spoke, his voice low and intimate.

“I can take that form for you and only you, my love,” he murmured, his gaze searching yours for the answer he already knew lay within your heart. His breath was warm against your lips, his presence anchoring you to this moment.

You cupped his cheek once more, your fingers brushing over the familiar planes of his face. He leaned into your touch instinctively, his eyes half-lidded with devotion.

“I thought it was lost as well,” he admitted after a moment of silence. “But now that I am stronger… and now that I have your memories—I could take it again if that is what you desire.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, quick and uneven, as if it could barely contain the weight of the moment. Warmth spread through you, a mixture of anticipation and longing. The thought of seeing him once more as he had been—of slipping back into a time when the world was brighter, simpler—was intoxicating.

And yet…

You smiled, slow and tender, giving him your answer.

“Let my memories and my dreams be where that form lies, love,” you whispered, your voice carrying the bittersweet certainty of your decision. “Let it be hers alone—the one who loved you then, the one who lived in those days.”

You paused, letting your thumb trace the sharp edge of his cheekbone before sweeping down to the curve of his jaw. His breath hitched, just barely, at your touch.

“But this…” you continued, gazing into the depths of his eyes—the eyes of the being who had walked countless paths, who had changed and endured, who had loved you through it all. “Let this be the form of the one I love now, the one who stands before me.”

His lips parted slightly, as if he might argue, as if he might offer again, but something in your gaze stopped him. Understanding flickered across his face, followed by something deeper—something more profound than longing.

He lifted his hand to cover yours where it rested against his cheek, pressing it close. Then, with a reverence that sent a shiver down your spine, he turned his head, brushing a kiss against the center of your palm.

“As you wish, my love,” he murmured, the words a vow as much as a promise.

Annatar's lips lingered against your palm, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine. When he finally pulled back, his eyes shone with a depth of emotion that stole your breath—love, awe, and a quiet reverence that humbled you to your core.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with feeling. "For loving me as I am now. For seeing beyond the shadows of the past."

Your heart swelled at his words, at the raw vulnerability in his gaze. You knew what this meant to him—to be accepted, to be loved, not for who he had been, but for who he was now. With all his flaws, all his scars, all the darkness he still carried within.

Slowly, you reached for him, drawing him close until your foreheads touched, your breaths mingling in the scant space between you. Your fingers curled against the nape of his neck, grounding him, anchoring him in the moment.

"I will always love you, Mairon," you whispered fiercely. "In every form, through every trial. That will never change."

Annatar’s eyes fluttered closed, a shuddering breath escaping him as he absorbed your words, letting them wash over him like a balm. A muscle in his jaw tensed as he fought to contain the storm of emotions within him. When he opened his eyes again, they gleamed with unshed tears, reflecting the moonlight that bathed you both.

"Mori," he breathed, the single word carrying the weight of centuries—of love and loss, hope and heartbreak. His fingers ghosted along your cheek, reverent, hesitant, as if afraid you might fade like a dream. "My divine. My everything."

Then he captured your lips once more, the kiss deep and consuming, filled with a desperation that spoke of long years of separation, of an ache that had never truly faded. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, as if to imprint your very essence into his soul.

You melted into his kiss, surrendering to the desperate hunger of his touch. Your fingers threaded through his hair, holding him close as you poured every ounce of love, every shred of devotion, into the meeting of your lips. In this moment, nothing existed but him—his warmth, his scent, the steady beat of his heart against yours.

When you finally parted, breathless and flushed, Annatar’s eyes were dark with desire, his pupils blown wide. His hand slid down, fingers splaying possessively across your stomach, his touch searing through the thin fabric of your nightgown. A shiver coursed through you, not from cold, but from the raw intensity in his gaze.

"Every day, I am in awe of you," he murmured, his voice low and rough, as if the weight of his emotions threatened to consume him. "Of the strength you carry, the light you bring to my world. And now..." His fingers flexed against your belly, reverence and something almost fragile warring in his tone. “I finally feel complete.”

Your heart ached with tenderness as you gazed up at him, your fingers lifting to cup his cheek. He leaned into your touch, eyes searching yours, as if committing this moment to memory. A quiet beat passed, the night air thick with unspoken emotions, before he spoke again, softer this time.

"I wish we had done this sooner."

A giggle bubbled past your lips, light and teasing, as you brushed your nose against his. “If it had been up to me, we would have,” you murmured, a playful smile dancing across your lips. You let the moment stretch, reveling in the warmth of his hold before adding, “But it has always been your choice, my love. You had to want it, not I.”

His breath hitched, his fingers tightening ever so slightly against your skin, and in his eyes, you saw it—the understanding, the unspoken gratitude, and the love that ran deeper than words could ever express.

And when he kissed you again, it was slow, reverent, a silent promise written in the language of his touch: I have always wanted you. I will always want you.

As your lips parted, you caught a flicker of something in his eyes—an emotion buried beneath his adoration, fleeting yet undeniable. Concern. Doubt. Something unspoken.

You ran your finger across his bottom lip before nipping at it playfully, a mischievous glint in your eyes, hoping to draw him back to the present, to chase away whatever shadowed his thoughts. But the worry lingered, stubborn and unresolved.

“What’s the matter, love?” you asked softly, settling back against your pillows. You pulled the linen sheets up over yourself, cocooning in their warmth as the night air whispered through the open balcony. Annatar’s gaze drifted past you, out into the darkness beyond, his eyes distant, lost in thought.

For a moment, you wondered if he would answer at all. But then, he turned back to you, offering a smile—pleasant, practiced, but not quite reaching his eyes.

“Nothing I wish to burden you with,” he murmured, his voice gentle yet evasive. He reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a second too long.

Your heart clenched.

Reaching up, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist, stilling him, holding his gaze for a moment longer. "Mairon," you murmured, your tone a quiet plea, an unspoken invitation to share what troubled him.

His lips parted as if to speak, but instead, he exhaled slowly, his thumb tracing absent circles against your skin. The weight of his silence pressed against you, thick with meaning, with hesitation.

And yet, you did not push—only waited. Because you knew, eventually, he would let you in.

“I am worried that Lord Celebrimbor no longer wishes to continue in this venture,” Annatar admitted, his voice quiet but laced with tension.

You frowned, confusion flickering across your face. “And what makes you think that?”

His jaw tightened slightly. “He refuses to aid me in forging the Rings for Men.”

A weight settled in your chest at his words. You swallowed hard, the action small yet unmistakable, and Annatar’s sharp eyes did not miss it. The warmth of his touch left your skin as he shifted, sitting up against the headboard, his fingers pressing against his temples. A long sigh escaped him, weary and edged with frustration.

“And now you are refusing,” he murmured, half to himself, his voice tinged with something dangerously close to disappointment.

Your breath caught. “Mairon,” you said, disbelief threading through your tone. You sat up beside him, searching his face, but his eyes remained closed. “I am not refusing. I only wish to understand—why does Lord Celebrimbor object? What are his reasons?”

A silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken things. Annatar’s fingers stilled against his brow, and when he finally opened his eyes, they burned with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

“I do not need his reasoning,” he said, voice low, measured. “I need his obedience.”

The words hung between you like a blade’s edge, their weight settling uncomfortably in the space you shared. And for the first time in months, you saw the light dim from his face, fading like the last embers of a dying fire.

Mairon.

This was not something he would have said before—not unless he was slipping back into the darker recesses of his mind, the shadows he had fought so hard to escape.

You took a slow breath, steadying yourself, then reached for him, seeking the warmth of his hand in yours. But before your fingers could close around his, he pulled away—subtle, yet deliberate.

Your heart clenched.

“Mairon,” you whispered, the ache in your voice betraying the sting of his rejection. It was rare for him to deny your touch, rare for him to shut you out like this. And yet, he did not so much as glance at you, his gaze locked on some distant point, lost in the tangled threads of his thoughts.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, a quiet chasm between you that you weren’t sure how to bridge. You swallowed hard, the weight of the silence pressing against your chest like an unseen force. Without another word, you slipped out of bed, the cool air brushing against your skin as you reached for your silk dressing gown draped over the back of your dressing table’s chair.

The rustling of fabric caught Annatar’s attention, and for the first time since the conversation had turned, his gaze lifted to you. His brow furrowed, his expression puzzled by your sudden movement.

You turned to face him, meeting his gaze with quiet resolve. The silence between you stretched for another beat before you finally broke it.

“I am going to see what this is all about,” you said, your tone measured but firm. “If you wish to come, then so be it. But I will not stand idly by while you let this consume you.”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came.

You took a breath, gathering your thoughts before continuing, softer this time. “You have worked too hard these past few months to fall back into old habits, Mairon. Do not let this undo everything.”

His expression shifted—something unreadable flickering across his features. Guilt? Frustration? Perhaps both.

But still, he said nothing.

You tightened the belt of your gown and turned toward the door, determined to find the truth for yourself. Whether he followed or not, you would not let this fester in silence.

You strode down the dimly lit corridors with determined steps, the soft rustle of your silken dressing gown trailing behind you. The cool night air whispered against your skin, but you paid it no mind, your focus set on a single purpose—to uncover the truth behind Lord Celebrimbor’s reluctance and Annatar’s growing frustration.

The halls were silent at this hour, save for the distant crackle of torches lining the walls. You moved with purpose, your thoughts a storm of questions, doubts, and the lingering ache of Annatar’s retreat into himself.

As you neared the forge, the familiar scent of molten metal and parchment filled your senses. You hesitated only briefly before pushing the door open with deliberate care, trying to remain as quiet as possible.

Inside, the forge’s fire had long since dimmed, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. And there, hunched over his workbench, was Celebrimbor. His brow furrowed in deep concentration as he scribbled across a sheet of parchment, utterly absorbed in his work.

The moment you stepped inside, a strange sensation rippled through you—a pull at your very core. The ring on your finger pulsed, subtle yet insistent, a warning whispering through your blood.

Something was amiss.

Before you could dwell on it, Celebrimbor’s voice broke the silence.

“Thilwen?” His head lifted, eyes widening slightly in surprise as he took you in. “It is late. I thought you would be sleeping.”

You exhaled softly, schooling your features into a pleasant smile as you stepped forward, the phantom pulse of the ring fading as you willed it away.

“I could say the same of you, my lord,” you mused, ascending the steps that led to his small study. The glow of the fireplace cast deep shadows across his face, accentuating the lines of exhaustion that marred his otherwise noble features.

You came to stand beside him, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder as your gaze flickered down to the parchment beneath his hand.

“What is keeping you awake?” you asked, voice laced with quiet curiosity.

You felt the subtle tension beneath your palm, the way his shoulders stiffened ever so slightly before he let out a slow breath.

“Many things,” he admitted, though there was something guarded in his tone. His fingers tightened briefly around his quill before he set it down. “But I suspect you already know that.”

Your stomach tightened.

So he was troubled.

“I do,” you breathed, shifting to sit beside him on the bench. “Would you care to tell me?”

Celebrimbor turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he studied you.

“He sent you, didn’t he?”

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the suspicion in his tone. Shaking your head, you met his gaze with quiet honesty.

“I came of my own accord,” you assured him. “He mentioned you were troubled, and I realized I have been remiss in my duties as your faithful partner.”

A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips before he turned back to his work. “It feels as though Lord Annatar has replaced me in that sense.” you finished.

But before you could say anything further, Celebrimbor reached for your hands, enclosing them gently within his own. His touch was warm, steady, reassuring.

“No, my lady,” he murmured, his voice rich with sincerity. “There is no one who could ever replace your wisdom—not even an emissary of the Valar.”

A warmth bloomed in your chest at his words, and a soft heat crept to your cheeks. You glanced down at your entwined hands, momentarily lost for words.

“You are too kind, my lord,” you whispered, then hesitated before continuing. “Can I offer you any of that wisdom to ease what troubles you?”

A heavy sigh escaped him as he withdrew his hands, turning back to his parchment. “I dare not burden you with that.”

A light laugh bubbled from your lips, though there was an edge of exasperation beneath it. “You know,” you mused, reaching up to touch his cheek, gently guiding his gaze back to yours, “you are the second person to say that to me tonight.”

He blinked at you, something shifting behind his eyes as you smiled softly.

“So tell me, mellon,” you urged, your voice dipping into something quieter, more intimate. “I do not wish for you to be burdened by whatever weighs so heavily upon you.”

For a moment, he only looked at you, his lips parting as if to speak. Then, at last, he exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough for you to know that he would tell you—if only you were willing to listen.

“I feel as if he is not willing to listen to reason,” Celebrimbor began, his voice edged with frustration.

You bit back a knowing smile, amusement flickering in your chest despite the weight of the conversation. Mairon, unwilling to listen to reason? That was a tale as old as time. He had never been one to accept resistance, nor did he take the word no particularly well. It seemed that, even after all these ages, some things had not changed.

Celebrimbor exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “He wishes to craft something for those who are so easily swayed—so easily corruptible. Do you not see the danger in that? These rings would not be a gift; they would be a temptation. A power that many would wield not for good, but for malice.”

His words carried a quiet urgency, a deep-seated concern that weighed on his every syllable.

You studied him, the flickering forge light casting sharp shadows across his face. There was no doubt in his mind, no hesitation in his belief.

And yet, there was doubt in yours.

You had seen the best in Mairon, had known the warmth beneath the steel, the brilliance behind the ambition. He had changed—or at least, you had believed he had.

But had he truly?

Or had you simply wished so desperately for it to be true?

Had the cloud of joy—the miracle of carrying life within you, the warmth of being back in your husband’s arms—made you so blind to what was unfolding right before your very eyes? Had love softened your vigilance, dulled the instincts that once warned you of the dangers lurking beneath the surface?

You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself before speaking.

“I agree with you,” you admitted, choosing your words carefully. “I think it would be a terrible idea. I have never lived among Men, but I know enough to understand what they are capable of when given power. And I remember well the ruin they can bring upon this world.”

Celebrimbor released a slow breath, relief flickering in his eyes as a small, weary smile touched his lips.

“I am glad we see eye to eye on this,” he murmured.

You nodded, reaching out to brush your thumb against his cheek, a small gesture of comfort, of familiarity. He leaned into the touch for the briefest of moments before reaching up to take your hand once more, his fingers curling around yours with quiet reassurance.

“We have always seen eye to eye, my lord,” you reminded him, your voice soft, steady. “It is why we have accomplished so much together.”

His grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly, his expression unreadable. And yet, beneath the warmth of his touch, beneath the quiet understanding that had always bound you, you could not shake the lingering unease that settled in your chest.

Because for all the certainty in his words, for all the trust between you—there was another bond, one just as strong, just as deep.

And you were not sure how long you could stand between them before you were forced to choose.

When you returned to your chambers, you found Annatar exactly where you had left him—sitting against the headboard, unmoving, lost in thought. The dim candlelight cast flickering shadows across his face, deepening the furrow in his brow, the tension in his jaw.

His gaze lifted as you entered, tracking your every movement as you crossed the room. You shrugged off your dressing gown, draping it over the back of the chair by your dressing table, and let out a slow breath, exhaustion settling into your bones. The weight of the conversation with Celebrimbor still clung to you, and you could feel Annatar’s silent scrutiny pressing against your back as you slipped beneath the sheets.

The silence between you was thick, suffocating.

Then, at last, he spoke.

“So… will he do it?” His voice was calm, but you could hear the tension coiled beneath it, like a blade pressed too tightly against its sheath.

You did not face him. Instead, you turned toward the open balcony doors, watching as the night wind stirred the gossamer curtains. You knew what was about to come out of your mouth would not go over well. But it had to be said. And coming from you—perhaps it would wound him less.

“No.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before. You could feel it stretching between you, fraying at the edges. Then, suddenly, the bed shifted violently as Annatar rose in a swift, almost volatile motion.

You let out a slow breath, steadying yourself before turning to face him.

His eyes burned.

It was not the smoldering warmth you had grown accustomed to over the past months—not the quiet intensity of devotion or longing. No, this was something else. Something dangerous.

Something you had not seen in a long time.

And it frightened you.

“I agree with him,” you murmured, voice steady despite the way your heart pounded against your ribs. “You should not be giving power to them. They will only use it to hurt, Mairon.”

His name fell from your lips—a plea, a warning.

But the fire in his gaze did not wane. If anything, it burned brighter, sharper, flickering with something dark and unreadable.

And in that moment, you realized—this was not a conversation.

This was a battle.

One that neither of you could afford to lose.

“So you wish to turn your back on me as well?” Annatar’s voice was low, but there was an accusation woven into it, sharp as a dagger’s edge.

Your chest tightened.

“No,” you countered firmly, sitting up as the sheets pooled around your waist. “That is not what I am trying to do at all.”

But he was not listening—not truly. His stance was rigid, his gaze burning with something raw and unyielding.

Frustration bubbled up inside you, tightening your throat. “I am trying to make you see that you are pressuring someone into something they do not want to do. You are manipulating them, ignoring their warnings, dismissing their concerns as if they mean nothing.”

Your voice wavered with rising agitation, your emotions spilling over like a dam beginning to crack.

“The Dwarves needed our help,” you pressed, eyes locking onto his. “Men do not.”

The words left your lips with finality, each syllable deliberate, pointed.

Annatar stared at you, his expression unreadable, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

For the first time in a long time, you wondered if he even heard you at all—or if he had already made up his mind.

What came out of his mouth next sent a tremor down your spine.

“I never thought you to be so prejudiced, Mori,” he said, his voice low, measured—dangerous. “You think like every other Elf.”

Your breath hitched, but your glare did not waver. Anger still churned hot in your chest.

“You feel you are better than them,” he continued, eyes burning into yours, “but as I see it, you are afraid of them.”

Your hands clenched against the sheets, nails biting into your palms.

“Why do you care so much?” you shot back, your voice laced with frustration. “You are not one of them.” Your gaze narrowed, sharp and unyielding. “You hardly seem to care what your Elven wife thinks these days, so why are they so much more important than me? Than our baby?”

The moment the words left your lips, you knew you had gone too far.

A flicker of something dark crossed his face, his anger boiling over, raw and unchecked.

A crack of thunder rumbled in the distance, as if the very air had sensed the shift between you.

The silence stretched, suffocating.

And for the first time, you were not sure whether the heat in his gaze was born of fury—or something far more dangerous.

“Get out.”

Your voice was low, a warning, a plea wrapped in trembling restraint. You needed space. You needed him to leave before this spiraled into something you could not control.

“Get out of my rooms.”

His eyes darkened further, shifting into the fathomless void of black that once haunted your worst nightmares. Your pulse pounded in your ears, sharp and unrelenting. But then—a chime.

The ring on your finger hummed with warmth, its presence grounding you, wrapping around your senses like a shield. Whatever he wished to do, it would protect you.

Annatar moved before you could react, closing the distance in a single, fluid motion. His fingers wrapped tightly around your neck, the pressure firm enough to cut air, though not entirely. A low growl rumbled from his chest as another clap of thunder echoed in the distance, the storm outside mirroring the one within.

“I am doing this for you,” he snarled, his grip steady, his breath warm against your skin. “For our child.”

Your hands flew up, grasping at his wrist, struggling against the strength that once felt so safe, so sacred. But now, it terrified you.

“As I always have,” he continued, voice laced with a desperate conviction that sent a shudder through you. “This has always been for you. I endured centuries of torture, of agony, so I could heal you—so I could give you the world you longed for.”

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring his face as you searched those black voids for something—anything—that remained of the man you loved.

The soft patter of rain began, the first drops whispering against the stone balcony as your tears slipped free, rolling down your cheeks.

“This isn’t love,” you choked out, your voice raw, breathless. “This is an obsession—an obsession to right a wrong you could never fix.”

His grip trembled for just a moment. Just long enough for you to see it—doubt. Pain. The ghost of something human.

And then it was gone.

The rain began to pour, heavy and unrelenting, mirroring the storm that raged between you. Your tears fell just as freely, unchecked and wild, carving silent paths down your cheeks.

“I have the power now to fix it,” Annatar growled, his voice filled with something between desperation and conviction. “And with these—”

“No,” you gasped, choking on the word as his fingers tightened just a fraction more.

Your vision blurred, a mix of tears and the pressure against your throat, but you forced yourself to speak, to reach him.

“I do not want it,” you rasped, each breath a battle. “I want my husband—the man I wish to welcome a child into this world with.”

Your chest heaved as you fought to keep your composure, licking your lips in a desperate attempt to steady your voice, to push past the sobs that clawed at your throat—not just from fear, but from the sheer, aching grief of what was slipping through your fingers.

“The man my very fëa sings for every single day.”

Something flickered in his eyes, but it was gone before you could grasp it. The moment hung between you, heavy, fragile.

And then—

“He’s dead, Mori.”

His voice was quiet, but the weight of those words crashed over you, drowning you in something colder than the rain that drenched the world outside.

“It’s about time you realized that.”

Your breath stilled.

Not from his grip.

Not from fear.

But because in that moment, you understood.

The man you loved—the man you had fought for, the man who had cradled your face with reverence and whispered your name like a prayer—

Was already gone.

The realization shattered something deep within you, a truth you had refused to accept for so long. The flicker of warmth in his gaze, the tender caress of his hands, the quiet promises whispered in the dark—they had all been an illusion. A fragile, desperate attempt to hold on to a memory, to a dream of what once was, of what could have been.

But now, as you stared into the fathomless void of his eyes, you saw it with painful, unrelenting clarity.

The man before you was not your husband.

Not anymore.

He was a shadow, a hollow echo of the being you had once loved with every fiber of your soul. He stood before you, flesh and form changed, but his fëa—his essence—had unraveled into something unrecognizable.

And no matter how desperately you wished it, no matter how fiercely you fought to bring him back—

He was lost to you.

Forever.

A sob tore from your throat, raw and aching, as the weight of that truth crashed over you, suffocating in its finality.

Annatar’s grip faltered for the barest moment, his fingers trembling against your throat, as if even he had not been prepared for the depth of your anguish.

But it was fleeting.

His jaw tightened, the storm within his eyes raging, though whether in frustration or something else—something weaker, something human—you could not tell.

You no longer knew him.

And that broke you more than anything ever could.

The cold, harsh reality of Annatar’s words settled over you like a leaden shroud, smothering the last embers of hope that had stubbornly flickered in your heart. The aching void his loss carved within you yawned wider than ever before, a chasm so deep, so vast, it threatened to swallow you whole.

You had spent so long believing in him, believing in change, in the quiet redemption you had sworn you glimpsed in the softness of his touch, in the reverence of his whispered vows. But it had been nothing more than a mirage—a cruel trick of the fading light.

Annatar’s grip on your throat finally loosened, his fingers slipping away as he pulled back. His face was an impassive mask once more, cold and unreadable, as if the firestorm of a moment ago had never existed.

But you hardly noticed the relief of air flooding your lungs, the easing of pressure against your windpipe.

All you could feel was the shattering pain radiating from your very core, splintering through you like fractured glass, sharp and unforgiving.

Your body buckled beneath the weight of it, and you sank onto the bed, your shoulders trembling as silent, wracking sobs overtook you.

Tears streamed down your face, unchecked, unstoppable, as you curled in on yourself, arms wrapped tightly around your middle—protecting, shielding, as if you could hold together the pieces of yourself that were breaking apart.

But nothing could stop it now.

Nothing could undo what had already been lost.

Annatar watched you crumple, his gaze unreadable, a flicker of something—hesitation? Regret?—passing across his features before it was swiftly buried beneath impassive coldness. He stood motionless for a long moment, his presence looming, the silence between you broken only by the harsh rasp of your uneven breaths and the relentless patter of rain against stone.

Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and strode from the room. The door shut behind him with a dull, final thud—an ending, a severing, a wound that could never be stitched back together.

But you barely registered his departure.

You were lost in the storm of your own grief, in the cruel, crushing realization that everything you had believed, everything you had hoped for, had been nothing more than a beautiful lie.

Your mind reeled, memories of tender moments and whispered endearments twisting like thorns in your heart, mocking you with their falseness. The warmth of his touch, the devotion in his gaze, the soft murmurs of love in the dead of night—had any of it been real? Or had you simply wanted it to be?

How could you have been so blind?

How could you have deluded yourself for so long?

A strangled sob escaped your lips as you curled further into yourself, clutching at the ache in your chest as if you could physically hold yourself together.

But you couldn’t.

You were breaking.

And this time, there was no one left to save you. Or the child that now grew in you.

The harsh, cold wind howled through the open balcony doors, carrying the scent of rain and the bitter sting of betrayal. It curled around you like a phantom’s touch, seeping into your skin, chilling you to the bone. You shivered, curling tighter into yourself, your body wracked with silent sobs. Each gasping breath felt jagged, each shuddering exhale a cruel reminder of how utterly alone you were.

Alone.

The word echoed in your mind, hollow and unforgiving.

After everything you had endured—centuries of longing and heartache, of hope and despair—you had somehow ended up right back where you started.

Bereft. Abandoned. Shattered beyond repair.

And now, there was no illusion left to cling to, no lingering dream to convince yourself that the man you loved was still somewhere beneath the ruin.

He was gone. Once more.

Yet, even as the realization tore through you, another truth settled over you like a second, heavier weight—a life stirred within you, a fragile ember in the darkness. A piece of him. A reminder of everything you had lost.

Your breath hitched, your trembling hands drifting to your stomach as the crushing reality pressed down upon you.

How could you do this alone?

How could you bring a child into a world where their father—their true father—would never brighten their skies?

A fresh sob tore from your throat, raw and aching, as the storm outside raged on.

And deep in your soul, you felt it—the quiet, suffocating certainty that nothing would ever be the same again.

The rain continued to fall outside, its steady patter a mournful requiem to your grief. The world beyond the open balcony blurred into darkness, the storm swallowing the distant lights of the city, leaving only the sound of the wind and the hollow ache in your chest.

Time itself seemed to still as you lay there, cocooned in anguish, your breath coming in slow, uneven shudders. The cold reality of Annatar’s words sank deeper into your bones with each passing second, anchoring you in a truth you had refused to accept.

He was gone.

The man you had loved, the man you had fought so desperately to save—he was nothing more than a memory now, a fading dream slipping through your fingers like smoke. Every whispered vow, every tender touch, every quiet moment of warmth had been built on a fragile hope that had shattered beyond repair.

And in his place stood a shadow.

A twisted reflection of the brilliance that had once burned so brightly within him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if doing so could erase the image of his void-black gaze, of the fire that had flickered into something cruel and unrecognizable. But it was too late. It had already seared itself into you, a wound that would never fully heal.

And you were alone.

Truly, utterly alone.

Left to shoulder the weight of the life growing inside you without the warmth and strength of the one who had helped create it. The thought sent a fresh wave of despair crashing over you, suffocating, relentless.

You pressed a trembling hand to your stomach, feeling the faintest swell beneath your palm. A new life. A fragile ember in the midst of ruin.

How could you protect them?

How could you bring them into a world where their father—the man who should have been their guide, their protector, their light—had become something unrecognizable?

A sob broke past your lips, raw and aching, as the storm raged on outside.

His feet carried him away from you, the fire of his anger still burning, an inferno raging unchecked within his chest. Annatar strode through the darkened halls, his jaw clenched tight, his hands curled into fists at his sides. The storm outside roared in tandem with his fury, thunder shaking the foundations of stone, rain lashing against the walls like a relentless assault.

Each step took him further from you, from the sound of your broken sobs echoing in his ears, from the raw devastation etched across your face. The weight of your words clung to him like chains, an accusation, a wound he had not been prepared to receive.

For the briefest of moments, something inside him wavered.

He could still turn back. Could still return to you, take you into his arms, murmur soft reassurances until the pain ebbed away. The instinct to protect you, to keep you, still thrummed beneath the anger, an old and stubborn part of him that refused to die.

But no.

He forced himself forward, pushing past that flicker of weakness, burying it beneath layers of steel and ice. He could not afford it. Not now.

He had meant what he said.

The man you loved, the man you clung to with such desperate hope—he was dead.

Long lost to the ages.

Everything he had shown you over the past months—every lingering touch, every whispered vow, every tender look—had been nothing more than an illusion. A reflection of something that no longer existed.

And if you could not accept that, if you still clung to the past as though it could be salvaged—then you would be left behind, just like the rest of them.

His footsteps echoed through the empty corridors, each one a hollow reverberation of his bitter thoughts. Annatar moved with single-minded purpose, his robes billowing slightly as he strode forward, his eyes as dark and tumultuous as the storm raging outside.

He would not be deterred.

Not by Celebrimbor’s hesitation.

Not by your pleas.

Not even by the fragile life growing within you—the child he had sworn to protect and cherish above all else.

That promise, once sacred, now felt like a distant echo of another life. Another man.

It was as if something deep inside him had fractured beyond repair, a vital piece that had once tethered him to who he had been. The warmth, the compassion, the love that had softened his edges and guided his actions for so long—it had drained away, slipping through his fingers like sand, leaving behind only an aching void.

A void he filled with cold, unyielding resolve.

This would not be another failure.

This would not be another loss.

The world did not change through hesitation, through softness, through fear. It changed through will. Through fire. Through power.

And so he would see this through.

He would forge the rings, with or without Celebrimbor’s aid.

Let the world resist.

Let you resist.

It would not change what had already been set in motion.

[shrillow]

Winter Flowers - Ch 3

sylus x reader; dragon!sylus x human sacrifice!reader

Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3

NSFW: gore, smut, cunnilingus

You spend the winter in the dragon’s lair. 

At first, neither of you seem to know what you’re doing. Where to start.

Shall he begin with the dead languages of a people whose last descendants no longer walk the earth? Will he show you the fashions of the world? Should he recount the doctrines of the hundred religions he knew? Perhaps he still possesses those old star maps which sailors once used to brave the seas?

In the end, Sylus begins with a story. Many stories. Whatever your hand brushes—an instrument, a piece of furniture, a weapon—he unravels its history with the steady, patient rhythm of his voice.

“It was an heirloom passed down through a royal bloodline that ruled two thousand years ago . . .”

“The fae believed that sword was forged by a sun god when he was banished to the mortal world . . .”

“This was a popular instrument used for herding sheep. You place your fingers over these holes and blow here . . .”

From sunrise to sunset, the dragon recalls the stories of things with eidetic precision. To your delight and amazement, Sylus has a seemingly limitless memory. And despite the spontaneous nature of your lessons, the dragon is a surprisingly good teacher.

“Only because you’ve proven yourself to be a prodigious student.” The affection laced through his words softens his smug grin.

You blush and bury your nose back into the astronomy text you’re translating.

Nights in the cave are your favorite, for you and dragon select a book from his expansive collection and read together.

Sylus’ tail loosely curls around you while you decipher a collection of mariners fables. Something about a sea serpent who’s hunting a group of sailors after they stole a legendary treasure from it—a brooch? The interpretation is frustratingly vague.

It’s slow work, and the ink has either faded or smeared, but you persevere through the ages it’s endured to be read by you.

The dragon corrects you occasionally, but otherwise is content to rest his head in your lap.

Through the night, your voice fills the cavern, drowning out the winter noise. So engrossed in the book, you don’t notice when Sylus grows quiet.

You glance down to see if he fell asleep, only for you to catch him staring at you. His gaze is honey in the light. Skin like the golden shade of the wheat fields. Even his silver hair seems to catch fire and all his sharp edges are burned down to something tender.

You have not touched each other since the rut, and you dare not now. Why would you? You are not his mate.

Oh, but it’s moments like these, where time turns to liquid and the earth quiets until it’s just your and the dragon’s hushed murmurs, when you want to melt into him and never leave.

How long can you pretend? At least one more night.

“Why’d you stop?” he murmurs, “Are you bored?”

You shake your head. “I just lost my place.”

Sylus lifts himself up, and you mourn his closeness until he gently grasps your hands beneath the book. “Would you like me to take over?”

You ignore the way his thumb circles your knuckles. “Only if you teach me the rest tomorrow.”

His next words leave a dull ache in your chest.

“I’ll teach you everything I know.”

So as the world darkens to its last season, and the snow quietly gathers outside your alpine sanctuary, you and the dragon weave a tapestry of the universe, of everything that once or continues to sleep below the ageless stars.

Sometimes, your mind wanders back to the village. To your siblings and father. To Tara. Not because of some longing for those sleepy huts and worn fields. Only because that is the nature of memory, and as all these treasures that pass through your searching hands inevitably remind you of them.

“Tara would love this.”

You flip through a manuscript on herbology, searching for a more effective salve for Sylus’ injuries. You recognize only a handful of the plants mentioned, Tara would know at least half.

Sylus’ tail flicks out. “Who?”

“My friend,” you elaborate, “She’s a healer. She knows every plant in the valley, when they grow, which ones work together and which don't.”

You grind the dried herbs Tara had stuffed into your bag before you left. She’d almost given you her entire stash, even though those same plants would not be seen again until spring. You're grateful for her generosity as you peel back the dressing and gently clean the dragon’s wounds.

His injuries are surprisingly slow to heal. It may be weeks yet until his full strength returns. You suspect it is due to whatever magic the bounty hunters used to subdue him. The very thought makes your blood boil every time.

“Why were those men after you?” you ask Sylus. You force your hand to steady as you apply the new salve.

He tries to look over his shoulder at you, only to pull at the stitching. “Ngh. I thought you would’ve guessed by now, sweetie.” He holds up a bloody bandage. “Healing blood, remember?”

The answer does not sit well with you.

“And the collar?”

“Useless runes and mage tricks,” he sneers, “I’ve broken every one they’ve put on me.”

Images of the dragon collared flash through your mind. You’re extra gentle when you clean around his neck. “How often do they come?”

“A couple times a century.” He shrugs. “It’s to be expected. Dragons are a valuable commodity.”

Your hands pause over his skin. “What do you mean?”

“Our blood heals. Our scales make excellent armor. Witches use our tears to brew love potions.” You stare at him horrified. Sylus just smiles. “I was once told our livers are boiled to a paste to reverse one’s aging.”

“You’re just messing with me now.”

“I haven’t even gotten to my best parts.” His eyes take on a sudden, unmistakable heat. 

Only Sylus would joke about something like that. Regardless, your face starts to burn.

Sparks fly from his mouth when he laughs. “It’s nothing to worry about, sweetie. They would have to kill me first, and I’m very difficult to kill.”

Perhaps it’s the trick of the light, a dance of shadows, but the red veins on his chest catch your attention as he heaves with laughter. You swear that they have shifted closer to that hollow above his heart.

Difficult, you worry, but he never said impossible.

-

You and Sylus discover your affinity for music.

He presents you with a zither, a fiddle, hand drums, and panpipes. He gifts you sheet music and ancient canvases depicting grand banquets so you can study the hand placements of the musicians who were painted into the scene.

Most of the time, however, you learn by trial and error, copying from the simple melodies you learned in childhood. You hum those tunes to yourself, plucking at your pipa until you strike the right notes.

“You have a good ear,” the dragon compliments, “have you played before?”

“No, but I sing,” you tell him, “mostly to calm the herd. My father played the lute, but it broke and he never bothered to fix it.”

Your focus drifts to the pipa in your hands. A couple strings are missing, but with some tuning, the remaining ones ring out clear and strong.

“Do you miss him?”

You stare at Sylus. He works on a strange contraption, various tools and something he calls a magnifying glass sprawled before him.

You follow your father across the hills as he plays a tune to guide the flock back to the village for shearing and butchering. You listen to his easy strumming as you fall asleep by the hearth. You hear its strings snap under your brother’s young fingers.

“Not in the way I should,” you say.

Sylus looks up. “There’s no wrong way to miss a person.”

“Is there someone you miss?”

The question catches both of you off guard. 

“Sorry,” you amend, looking away, “I shouldn’t pry.”

Sylus doesn’t say anything at first. He fidgets with the object, turning it over and over while silence permeates between you.

“The music stopped,” he observes, “could you play it again?”

A few days later, you find the device he was working on in your room. It’s a mechanical bird, with articulating metal wings and a beak that can open and close with a twist of a gear. Its eyes are the same shade as yours.

-

Tell me what you desire.

His eyes are fountains of truth, pouring with the ageless, nameless, and forgotten. Waiting for some soul to drink from its waters.

Take what you want.

Is it that easy? You open your hands and feel them grow heavy with the weight of this world.

Do you want more?

You bring your hands to your mouth and sate yourself until you are bursting.

Poetry, music, medicine, dragons.

How strange to think that you were scared to plunge beneath the surface. What might you find? What might you unleash? Only to find that it is a bottomless well; the more you consume, the deeper it becomes.

Not all of it is good—of course it’s not.

War, disease, tyrants, curses.

You recognize the beauty, the cruelty. And as any true glutton, you drink more in the hopes of understanding it.

Selfish girl.  Your mother's ring leaves a scar on your cheek as she strikes you. Wanton daughter.

When Sylus offers you starlight from his hand, you hesitate.

“I thought dragons were possessive creatures.”

“I was unaware that generosity would damage my reputation," he quips, “Won’t you at least try this on for me, Dear Shepherd?”

Shimmering diamonds of various sizes are fastened to a silver chain. Fractals of light splash onto the walls. Only the river that passes through the valley has sparkled so magnificently.

“We don’t wear jewelry in the village.”

Jenna’s pendant dangles near your face as she reads to you. You watch your reflection in its scarlet body. Your village boasts no riches and disdains all vanity. But Jenna—

It is her greatest treasure. It is her only treasure. Yet, sometimes you catch her grasping the pendant like a knife to her chest.

Sylus considers you for a moment, a small cluster of lights glint in his eyes. “Then it’s a good thing we’re not in the village.”

Sylus turns you around. His breath caresses the back of your neck as he secures the necklace. “There,” he breathes, “beautiful.”

Your mouth is painfully dry. “It’s heavy.” 

“Beauty should not be taken lightly.” His hand twitches—you think he’s going to touch you—but Sylus bends down instead, hovering over your shoulder like an owl.

“It’s yours if you want it.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” His gaze drinks you in. “This was once a betrothal gift. A man promised his beloved that he would fashion a necklace from the heart of a star.”

“Very romantic,” you hum, “but was the price worth it?”

“I’m sure the star didn’t mind,” Sylus reassures, “they don’t have feelings, after all.”

One beauty for another. The whole earth is merely an appetite to satisfy. What are you within ouroboros’ hunger? The eater or the eaten?

With the dragon looking at you the way he does, you feel like you are both.

-

Your chamber slowly fills with trinkets.

New bedding, chests full of garments, bronze mirrors, all sorts of musical instruments, and towers of books.

"Even the greediest dragon would be impressed by your hoard," Sylus comments, but he never asks for anything back. Nor does he demand for something in return.

You understand sacrifice. You are descended from those who brokered a deal with an ancient power and irrevocably bound your fate to him thereafter. He is owed your soul, your body. And yet . . .

You stand beside Sylus before a grand tapestry.

“What is this?” you ask him.

“The world,” he replies, “at least some of it.”

Your mouth falls open. Continents and oceans are rendered from thousands of dyed threads. Even the borders are lined with gold patterning. Artistic portrayals of various plants and creatures fill the bare spaces. Foreign words hover across specific parts of the map.

“Where are we?”

“Not here,” he says.

You trace your hand down the old weaves, frowning at his words. “Did my people come from these lands?” As you examine map, your attention catches on a set of words floating above a strange looking animal. “What does this say?”

A strange expression crosses his face. “‘Here be dragons.’”

You realize the creature beneath the words is supposed to be a dragon, but it’s no dragon you’ve ever seen. Triple-headed, slavering, and grotesque. No expense was spared in portraying the dragon as a beast.

“You’ve been alone a long time, haven’t you?”

He doesn’t deign you with a response.

He claws at his skin. He fights against a fever that will ravage his body until all he knows is the mark that claims you as his. You have never known a creature more hateful towards its own nature. He told you several times that you could leave; you think he wishes you did, but not for the reasons you think. 

“Sylus,” you choose your next words carefully, “Why did you make the deal with my ancestors if you were just going to let us go?”

A stillness ensnares the both of you in a kind of limbo, tethering you to a precipice you’re not sure you would survive.

“Do you think I would force you?” His voice is the current in the air before a lightning strike.

You aren’t under any delusion that he isn’t capable of violence, however, you’re not prepared for his anger—

No. Not anger.

His body is coiled tight, brow furrowed and eyes so dark and red like gaping wounds. When your hand searches for his, he retreats as if you are a pair of dancers forbidden from touching.

“Of course not,” you tell him, meaning it.

You think he might answer you, but then he hesitates, and you know you’ve lost him. “Then you need to stop.”

His words feel like a brand.

“If you don’t,” he continues, “you’re not going to like the answers.” 

-

Sylus doesn’t talk about what happened. Neither do you.

The dragon speaks in offered books and mechanical gifts, through muted smiles and old literature.

His quiet touches lessen. His lingering gaze fades.

You hold your silence like a noose around your neck.

You miss the Sylus who clutched you in the dark, helpless with need. Who kissed your scars and named you huntress. Who could not pretend that he was a thing without feeling. 

Only in the secret hours after midnight do you let yourself imagine tiptoeing into his chamber and slipping into his nest, allowing his body heat to close around you like a summer day.

From outside, just before sleep catches you in that lovely dream, you hear the baying whine of something suffering, some creature dying.

-

The weather eases; you explore the mountains with Sylus.

He shows you glades that hide the best views of the valley. He takes you to waterfalls from which you drink the freshest water you’ve tasted. You meander through the woods at sunset when the light turns the snow pink and orange. You can see the lake and a herd of caribou making their way across the open plains. You’re too far away to be of any concern to them. Meanwhile, the dragon ambles by your side, scoffing at your jokes and flicking snow at you.

You ask him no more questions about the past. It turns to smoke when Sylus’ eyes settle on you. He plucks a winter camellia and threads it into your hair. 

“I’ve read about this before,” you say as you gather twigs and start weaving a crown.

His eyes flash. “Oh?” 

“A knight gives a flower to a princess.” You creep toward him until your coats brush and your breaths mingle in the cold air. “She tells him to take her back to the palace . . .”

His tail brushes your leg. “And?”

You toss the crown onto his horns. “Then she asks him to make her mooncakes!”

Sylus’ laugh echoes wonderfully through the mountains. You wish you could bottle the sound.

He brings you out in the evening when the skies are clearest, and he points out all the constellations.

“To the west is the Tortoise, it shares a star with the Old Fisherman. And over there—a bit higher—is the Tiger and the Crane . . .”

You stay up well into the night listening to the dragon spin tales from memory. With his head tilted to the heavens—face open and white hair glowing with the light of the full moon—it reminds you strangely of Tara.

You shiver as a sudden gust barrels up the mountain.

“Cold?” Sylus brings his coat tighter around you. With a snap of his fingers, a flame flickers to life in his palm.

“Thank you.” You sigh at the warmth. “That’s a pretty neat trick.”

Sylus hums in agreement, though his mood turns melancholic. “I learned it from a witch.”

“That’s something you needed to learn?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Dragons are creatures of magic. All magic is a matter of patience,” he explains, “and will.” A hesitant smile begins to form. “I believe you have much of both.”

Your heart flutters. “Do you really think . . . ?”

Sylus stares at you incredulously. “You could call down the stars if that is your desire.”

There’s that look in his eyes—an unwavering intensity you’ve only seen glimpses of since the rut—before it’s gone again.

“Besides, it’s a useful skill to know when you leave,” he goes on, “people will be disinclined to mess with a girl who can wield fire.”

-

You don’t notice it at first. How can you, when you spend every day with the dragon?

You are removing the last of Sylus’ bandages when you realize how dull his scales have become.

After that, you notice everything else.

There are bruises under his eyes when he reads to you at night. His hair has lost its luster. The red veins on his chest glow brightly as if inflamed.

Valley-born that you are, you’re unfamiliar with the signs of starvation.

His indifference vexes you. It terrifies you.

You’re paranoid that Sylus will disintegrate from your very touch. You are one sleepless night away from wringing all his dreadful secrets from his throat.

Fear. What a violent animal.

The dragon guards his silence and pretends that nothing is wrong.

-

You watch him with his automatons, tinkering away at their intricate joints and handmade gears. You follow the curve of his back as he hunches over his worktable, lost in his craft. It’s so human. 

You can’t help but stare at his profile. His lips are slightly parted; you want to rediscover the shape of them, find common ground between soft skin and stilted breaths. The light behind him casts a golden halo around his head. It reminds you of sunsets in the valley, how the mountains’ silhouettes are carved from the brilliant hues of a dying sun.

How beautiful. How unreachable.

Although you’re grateful for everything he shares with you—the more you learn about the world, the more questions you have about the dragon himself.

How did you learn this? Where did you acquire it?

Why did you come here? Why do you remain?

The answers to your questions cannot be found in a book.

You pore over mythology texts, bestiaries, religious anthologies, and epic poems. All are more or less the same.

An evil dragon terrorizes a kingdom; a monster kidnaps the princess; a winged serpent tricks the hero into killing his beloved. 

You open a hunting manual on a whim, but immediately regret picking it up.

‘A dragon’s underside is the softest part of their body. As such, make your first incision under the jaw. Continue slitting around its mouth, then down the stomach. Now, you can begin peeling back its skin—’

The words sink into your flesh like rot. You slam the book shut.

You think you know why Sylus has been alone all this time. Why he will always be alone.

-

The dragon is not yours.

Stitch stitch stitch.

Yet, he comes to you when his wounds have torn open. You strip off his ruined cloak and don’t question it.

He has given you—books, tools, jewelry, and music. He has given you himself in the only way he can.

It’s enough it’s enough it’s enough.

You thread a needle through his skin. It feels like sacrilege.

His long fingers grasp your shaking hand, warm and unafraid. It feels like worship.

“You could never hurt me.”

A dragon’s roar is swallowed by the violent storm. Nothing warm-blooded can survive the cold.

The spot beneath your ear tingles.

“Sometimes I want you to hurt.” 

His gaze does not waver. “I won’t stop you.”

Tell me of your shame, you want to say to him, as I have told you mine.

“Are you dying?”

“If only fate were that kind to me.” His mouth twists into a mockery of a smile that quickly evaporates when he sees your stricken expression. You wait for him to say more; he doesn’t.

Oh, he might give you the world, but he cannot give you this.

You gather his tattered old cloak, torn and bloody, and neatly fold it in your lap. It is good fabric. You want to believe that you can fix it.

“I will leave come spring,” you tell him.

Sylus’ expression is indecipherable. He strokes the back of your hand, committing every vein and knuckle to memory. “Then we mustn’t waste our time together.”

-

One night, when the sky is tinged a deep purple, you glance down into the valley and notice the blazing lights of your village.

You motion to Sylus. “Look.”

Several dozen lanterns drift into the night sky while music trickles up the mountain. Although you cannot see the villagers, you know they’re gathering in the town center for the dances.

“I can’t believe it’s already the new year,” you breathe. If you close your eyes, you can almost smell the sweet tarts you and Tara made together.

“Is that what you’ve been celebrating,” Sylus muses, “I wondered what all that noise and revelry were for.”

You turn to him, realizing that the dragon has been watching your village celebrate for the last thousand years without knowing the reason. Has perhaps sat alone on this very ledge to watch the lanterns pass over his head and the festivities down below.

“Stay here.”

You scurry back to the cave to retrieve your pipa.

His tired eyes settle on you when you return. Even now, you want him. Whatever is left of him. Whatever will remain after tonight, even if it falls away like water through your fingers come morning. You will remember him like this: snow in his hair, phantom smile, and bleeding gaze heavy with all the things he cannot say.

You press your fingers to the strings, and begin to sing.

-

He comes to you at night.

You gasp when you blink awake and see his silhouette above you.

He wordlessly slides in behind you, under the furs. It is muscle memory when his arms snake around you and his face finds the crook of your neck. He carries the scent of pine and woodsmoke and . . . something sharper. His skin is hot to the touch as you press your hand against his chest and prompt him to look at you.

A faint tendril of red mist spills from the corner of his eyes.

“Do you want me to leave?”

His voice sounds like cracked glass.

Without a word, you guide him back down until his skin is against yours. You would savor this moment if sleep did not find you all too soon, even as the air smells faintly of blood.

-

There comes a day when Sylus slips off into the mountains and does not return. 

You suspect the worst.

The winds are fierce, but your will is iron. You trace his path down the mountain and through the trees, listening for the beat of dragon wings.

You call his name but all you receive is the mountain’s echoing response. The snow and wind beat against you, punishing your determination.

You trudge through the forest past sunset, until the moonlight casts the woods in a lonely grey. Still, you find no sign of the dragon.

Did he really leave? Did hunters get to him?

One fear after another hurtles through your mind, urging you farther and deeper into the forest. You brought your spear, having learned from experience that predators have no issue encroaching on the dragon’s territory.

What else did your village get wrong? What would happen to your people if Sylus could no longer protect them?

What would you do if you cannot find him?

A violent heat pulses from your nonexistent mating bite. Your legs and face are numb, and you can barely see in front of you.

You snap your fingers, whispering a word of power just as Sylus taught you. Sparks fly off your trembling fingers. You try again and again until the smallest of flames swells to life amidst shadow and snow.

You can only maintain it for a few more moments before your foot catches on something and you crash to the ground.

The flame gutters out. The winds wail through the barren trees. You lift your head, wipe snow off your face. You look back to see what made you fall and you scream.

The unseeing eye of a caribou stares back at you. Its blood oozes from the gashes along its body and pools beneath your hands. Still warm.

You stagger to your feet, and nearly trip again over another carcass.

An entire herd of reindeer lie in mangled puddles, slaughtered in the dozens. Steam rises from their bodies. Torn limbs and viscera stain the once spotless snow.

Just like the sheep.

You grip your spear until your knuckles turn white, the grain of the wood biting uncomfortably into your skin.

The trees close over you like the bars of a cage, their shadows smothering out light and sound. You cannot see where you came from.

Between the trees, you see the dragon. But everything about him is unrecognizable to you.

Sylus crouches over a carcass, tearing and consuming its flesh with razor-like teeth. Black spikes jut out from his skin. He’s elbow-deep in gore and red smoke spills from blood-bright eyes when he spots you.

You run.

-

His screams shake the mountain.

You hide in the dark with your spear, keeping watch outside the dragon’s lair.

You wait for days. You wait long after his cries have died out.

You should leave.

The thought pecks at your mind.

The dragon will not return.

You stare out across the mountains as another storm rolls in. Snow gathers in a frenzy, the world so bright your eyes sting.

The dragon is mad.

You read one of Sylus’ books to distract yourself.

The dragon is a liar.

He emerges from the whiteout like a spectre. He is as you remember him, a quiet ancient power exudes from his decaying body. But when he stumbles upon seeing you, you see his mortification.

“I thought you would have left already.”

Your grip tightens around your spear. “You killed my flock.”

He does not deny it.

“Is that why you’ve remained,” he asks, “to extract my apology?”

Your nostrils flare. “I would have the truth.”

“It will ruin you.”

You regard the dragon. Does he think you are a child in need of protection? You are not so feeble-minded, you never have been. He allowed you to believe that he was sick, that he was dying—and even after seeing the worst of him, he resists. So you will force his hand.

You unsheathe the dagger he gifted you, and slice it across your arm.

The dragon springs toward you and freezes. Red mist pours from reptilian eyes, his claws extend and his skin splits to reveal mangled spikes. Sylus’ knees dig into the earth as he collapses and emits a vicious growl. The red veins writhe across his chest.

You quickly wipe the blood away and press a thick bandage to the cut. “You didn’t just need a mate,” you whisper, “you also needed blood.”

Sylus bows his head. “Abhorrent, am I not?” His distorted voice slices through the air, guttural and raw. The red mist dissipates, his scales slide back under his skin. “How do you feel knowing you’ve bedded a monster?”

Monster. What a cruel word.

“I would not forsake you for this,” you say.

His eyes flutter before they harden in disbelief. “One second,” he threatens, “is all it would take to raze the entire valley.”

Tara and your family flash through your mind. You take a steadying breath. “But you haven’t yet.”

“I found a way to delay it.” With a mate. With blood—your blood.

There’s something else he isn’t telling you.

“Why did your rut come early?” 

He’s quiet for so long, you think he might turn and fly away for good. Until he admits, “I didn’t take her blood before she left.”

“Why not?” you press, “What happened last time?”

The look on his face will haunt you for years to come.

“They sent me a child.”

-

The dragon steals glances at you, waiting for you to speak—to leave—anything. He moves as if to touch you before thinking better of it.

He anticipates your censure, but you cannot find the words to reassure him.

“Only those who’ve had their first blood can be chosen.”

“I know.”

Your blood continues to soak the bandage, though you barely feel the injury’s sting.

“What did you do?” you ask.

“I took her across the lake, and told her to never return to the valley,” he answers.

Your village never spoke of the last girl who was chosen, and you, like a sheep, never asked. Never wondered about their lives until your fate mirrored theirs. How could your village send a child up the mountain to be his mate believing what they do about the dragon’s brutality? 

You don’t realize you’re crying until Sylus wipes your tears away. “I never harmed any of you. I swear it.”

He looks as distraught as you feel.

“I believe you,” you rasp, and he sags with relief. “But Sylus. Couldn't you have returned her? Demand we choose someone else?”

His expression shudders with pain. “The last time I did that, they put her to the torch, convinced that she disappointed me.”

You feel sick.

Memories of the harvest season. Children’s games. The mead hall’s lively music and Josephine’s patient guidance as she walks you through a new embroidery technique—

“I am sorry.” 

—All tarnishes as Sylus kneels before you. He seems to be the only solid thing keeping you anchored to this moment. Diminished as he is. Self-named monster that he claims to be. “You deserved to know before I ever placed my mark on you.”

Remorse darkens his face when he glances at your bleeding arm. You see his hunger. Sylus takes a sharp breath before he retracts a claw and prepares to cut his own palm. His hands shake.

And you—you cannot resent him for withholding the truth. Not when it takes everything he has to resist the bloodlust.

Would a monster cut himself for someone else? Would he yield when told to stop? Would he teach you how to chart the stars? How to speak an ancient language? Would he read to you long into the night, or ask you to play that song one more time?

You stop him before he can draw blood. A bewildered, helpless expression crosses his gaunt face.

“I am already cut,” you say, raising your arm to his mouth, “Why let it go to waste?”

-

His strength returns. The red veins retreat.

You lie in his nest, sleepy and surrounded in his warmth.

“Is there any way to fix it?” you ask the dragon, “This—this bloodlust?”

He sighs and shakes his head. You press yourself against him in a way you haven’t since the rut. 

Who cursed you?

The question sits heavy on your tongue as you follow the haloed edges of his lean body. Hard and soft in equal measure. Violent and innocent.

You press your hand over the hollow of his chest. “Did any of them stay with you, Sylus? The way I had?”

He swallows.

“You’re the only one.”

-

You stare down into the valley. For a village of inconsequential size, it casts long shadows across the white expanse.

They sent me a child.

The dragon may have lied about the sheep, but your village elders—well—what more did they lie about?

You cannot let it happen again. But if you return to the village, would your family and neighbors heed your words, or would they put you to the torch as well? What would stop them from sending another little girl up the mountain?

By the time Sylus' rut returns and his bloodlust needs to be sated, you’ll be nothing but rot beneath the earth.

Your neck burns from the very thought when you hold up the finished cloak to Sylus.

“I’ve made some repairs. Do you like it?”

Sylus cautiously takes the cloak, examines the patched holes and new fur lining with round eyes. His fingers run along your even stitching, stopping at your embroidery. An elaborate pattern of wildflowers and knotwork Elder Josephine taught you long ago.

“I hope you don’t mind,” you say, “I also replaced the old fur with the wolf’s pelt. It should be much warmer now.”

As if the dragon has to worry about the cold. You mentally shake yourself as Sylus slips the cloak over his shoulders, surrounding himself in a field of flowers.

“Your skill knows no equal,” he praises, halting your train of thought. He bites his lip, looking uncharacteristically rueful. “I will probably ruin it again.”

“Then I will mend it again.”

And again and again and again.

A light blush tinges the edges of Sylus’ ears. You watch him smooth down the collar of his cloak, and the memory of the hidden words you embroidered there flash in your mind.

You glance away. “Think of it as something to remember me by.”

In a hundred years, the next woman may find a trace of you here, and know there is nothing to be afraid of.

-

You find yourself staring across the lake more often. Dreaming. Planning.

You have studied the maps, languages, and histories. But there is only so much you can learn from a book.

You spot Sylus some distance away, crouched low. His hair blends in with the snow. He extends a hand towards a fox peeking out from the underbrush. It snarls at the dragon before scampering away.

Something in your chest twists. It's a familiar sensation, so why does it hurt so much more now?

What you're leaving behind feels larger than what's ahead of you.

When Sylus notices you across the clearing, his regal horns shimmering in the winter sun, you think you will long for him forever.

He crosses the distance between you, and says simply, “Thank you."

“You're welcome,” you reply, because you know what he means.

Sylus leans down until your foreheads nearly touch. “May I?” he asks. When you nod, you feel his mouth brush your temple as he inhales deeply. “Your scent haunts my dreams.”

Your breath quickens.

“What do I smell like?”

His gaze settles on you, revealing the jewel of his eyes in all their warm devotion.

“Like flowers.”

-

You do not want winter to end. But end it will.

The frozen lake gradually thaws. Although the snow never truly stops in the mountains, the slow melts creep up through the forests.

You wander through the mountains for one of the last times. The sun casts its glare across the pale landscape, but the persistent cold is not easily vanquished.

You come across a meadow overflowing with wintering blooms. Their colors stand out against the blinding white. You run your hands over their delicate yet hardy petals.

Yellow daffodils and primrose. Snowdrops and winterberries. Jasmine and blue violas.

You follow the meadow until you’re on the outer edge of the mountain proper. Out here in the open, its strangely quiet.

Vibrant red flowers pepper the mountainside, standing out against the pristine white. They sway in the breeze, their sweet fragrance calling to you.

You've never seen their like before. As you bend down to pluck one of them and bring it to your nose, you hear the beat of wings.

The flower is ripped from your hand. You don’t have time to cry out as Sylus wraps a hand over your nose and mouth.

“Don’t breathe!”

But it’s too late. You feel your mouth go dry and your heart beats madly against your ribs. You latch onto Sylus as your legs start to give

“Fuck,” he growls, covering his own face. Your grip slips as your skin breaks out into a sweat and your palms turn clammy. Sylus holds you fast, and drags you away the meadow. You watch his lips move, but you might as well be underwater from the way you can’t make out a single sound.

“Sylus, what—” Inks spots of color flood your blurring vision. Your heart is racing so fast you think it might explode. You swear you hear your mother calling for you.

You reach for the dragon but you no longer have control of your limbs.

When you look at yourself, your skin is melting off your bones.

Your mind fractures. You fall through the seams of reality, to a place where not even the dragon can follow.

-

Heat. Ash. Blood.

You wince at the intense light. Your eyes are slow to focus, all you see are warping colors and loose shapes crossing your vision.

You cannot feel your body. You wonder if you have one.

“ . . . hear me?”

What? You try to speak, but you’ve forgotten how.

“Do you remember your name?” A face sharpens before you. Hauntingly familiar and achingly beautiful. 

What is a name? Why do you need to know?

Your silence shatters that pretty face. His voice breaks as he babbles apologies and pleas at you. 

You want to help him, you do. But your tongue feels swollen and some of his words don’t make sense to you . . . you want to wipe away his tears but you cannot find your hands.

“Do you know who I am?”

Of course you do.

“Sylus."

His eyes flutter, and he releases a soul-deep, relief-filled sigh. He presses his forehead to yours; you realize he’s shaking.

“I thought I lost you.”

When you brush your knuckles against his cheek, they come away damp. “What happened?” 

“Those flowers,” he explains, “can fell even the greatest animals. Inhale their scent and you’ll sleep forever.”

You swallow, your throat feels as dry as kindling.

“How . . .” You survey your surroundings. You’re back in the cave. Tara’s herbs, your mortar, and a bowl of dark liquid lie beside you.

Your mouth tastes like iron and salt. “Thank you.”

Sylus reaches for your face before pulling his hand back at the last second. “Consider it part of my debt to you.”

You take in his tense posture—how he shelters you with his body even though the danger is internal. His tail is tightly coiled and his claws are out. There’s a deep furrow between his eyebrows. You have not seen him so fierce since the rut.

Oh, this won’t do.

“Is that all we are to each other,” you ask him, “debts and deals?”

His throat bobs. When he doesn’t answer, you sit up and run your fingers down his face, across his sensitive chest He makes small, airy gasps that light a fire in your core.

“If I still bore your mark,” you murmur, “maybe you would be more honest with me.”

His breath hitches.

You wait for him.

You do not have to wait long; Sylus cups the back of your head and then he’s kissing you.

-

In some ways, it’s much like the rut, but in many others, it’s completely different.

Sylus kneels between your legs at the edge of his work table. His tools and unfinished projects lie discarded on the ground. He drags the flat of his tongue against your sex and drinks the juices that spill from your twitching entrance. You roll your hips against his face and welcome the searing heat of his tongue inside you.

He whines as you stroke his twisting horns, from base to tip, sharp enough you could prick yourself. He swirls his wet lips around your clit before sucking deeply on the tender nub. His fingers slip between your folders with ease, and crooks them until they press against that spot inside you.

“Sylus!” You arch off the table, grabbing the edge as wave after wave of pleasure cascades through your body. He continues to work your clit as you clench around his fingers.

The dragon gazes up at you, face and ears flushed, panting wildly.

You pull him to his feet and crash your lips against his. His mouth opens immediately. You taste yourself and moan as his hands slide up your body and begin undoing the rest of the laces of your dress.

His mouths down your neck, lingering where his mark used to be, before continuing lower to pepper your bare shoulder with kisses. He pulls down your sleeves until your breasts are exposed and he can take one into his salivating mouth.

You fumble with the buckles of his trousers, only for him to brush your hands away.

“Let me taste you again,” he implores. He gives you several small kisses on your lips and you sigh in response to the onslaught of affection. “Let me do this for you.”

“Don’t you want . . . ?” You gasp when he teases your entrance with his fingers. Your legs wrap around his waist and pull him as close as you can to yourself. You feel his hard length and your thighs shake with need.

“What I want—” Sylus strokes your breasts with his other hand “—is for you—” you hear his knees strike the ground once again “—to cum on my face.”

His breath teases your clit, already swollen up with renewed interest. 

“Can you do that for me, sweetie?”

You nod weakly, before Sylus buries his face between your legs and proceeds to steal your ability to think.

-

He kisses you before you fall asleep. He kisses you during your daily walks through the mountains. He kisses you while he spills deep inside you, exchanging names with a shared breath, until you smell like fire and he of wildflowers.

He kisses you as if he's starving. Perhaps he is. Perhaps he always was.

“I thought—” He shivers against your lips as you trace his naked spine “—that you merely tolerated my rut. You only stayed for what I could teach you.”

You brush away the lock of hair from his forehead. "Couldn't you tell?" you say in disbelief, "I stayed for you."

His eyes widen.

You look away, suddenly shy. If you still had his mating bite, you think it'd burn a hole right through you. "But I have no right to covet you."

You are not his mate.

Sylus threads your fingers together, your interlocked hands are molten gold in the firelight. He kisses your knuckles as he stares at you with a reverent expression. And you realize, suddenly, he's only ever looked at you that way.

“You always had that right.”

You are not his mate, but you are everything else.

When you make love to him, it is less impatient than the wildfire from before. The two of you are more like embers, not yet ready to die.

-

The night sky above the city is alight with every color. You watch them explode and pop and burst across the lake. 

“What’s happening over there?” you ask Sylus.

He sits beside you on the cliff, one leg propped up while he lets the other swing beside yours.

“Tarus City has its own celebrations,” he explains, “this time of year marks the opening of the gates to the underworld, when demons began entering the mortal realm.”

“Is there any truth in that?”

“Perhaps.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Why don’t we find out for ourselves?”

Your eyes light up. “Is this fearsome dragon asking me to attend a festival with him?"

"That depends entirely on your answer."

The joy in Sylus' eyes is more addicting than the rarest of wines. When you extend your hand, he meets you halfway.

"I'd like nothing more."

To be continued

Can also be read on ao3!

[sh1-n0bu]

managed to unlock intimacy lvl4 story of calcharo and brb i need to sob

[vaguely-concerned]

I've been picking mostly only the essential flirt options with lucanis in the romance so far (I've personally found the dynamic much more natural and mutual when you do that, more like forming a solid friendship slowly and inevitably becoming something else and less like you keep pushing on him and getting little back b/c he seemingly just gets overwhelmed and goes into freeze instead), and I think rye is a pretty hard person to read at the best of times even though he's been Down Real Bad from pretty early on and their chemistry as people is naturally really good. so the way the almost-kiss plays out in this playthrough feels a lot like it has the added layer of lucanis realizing that no but for sure rook is flirting and not just being kind or a good friend* it IS actually happening it's not just wishful/fearful thinking!!! and then uh. maybe going a bit too hard a bit too fast in all the excitement at that revelation haha

*in lucanis' defense he has seemingly literally never had a friend who wasn't his cousin-brother before, under those circumstances I suppose some confusion is extremely natural if not outright expected lmao

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

Good enough

Tags: Caleb x fem!Reader, smut, unprotected angry sex, Caleb’s back and he’s jealous, breeding kink, mdni, not proofread sorry, this shit is NASTY i fear.

An: This one is for a dear friend of mine 🙂‍↕️ Thanks for making me pull out of my writer’s block. LOOK i’m so sorry if this is bad but i had to write SOMETHING to pull me out of this funk… i hope you all enjoy

How did you end up trapped underneath your half-cyborg best friend who was legally deceased while taking the meanest deep strokes of your life? Well, there’s a simple answer. Caleb knew Xavier was home.

Actually, he knew everything: the dates, the tender moments, the secret times, the nightly rendezvous. Pissed was an understatement.

Had you forgotten? Had you forgotten all the promises you two made each other when you were younger? Had you forgotten that you were fucking made for him? You had to have. That’s why you were stringing along 4 different guys. You were trying to fill a hole that only he could fill.

That had to be why.

Regardless, Caleb knew Xavier was the type to listen to you through the floorboards of his upstairs apartment. He was a lot alike Caleb in that sort of manner. They were both possessive freaks who couldn’t stand the thought of you being with somebody else.

That’s why Caleb was fucking you so hard — pounding your pretty pussy so deeply into the mattress that you were seeing stars with each mean thrust.

He used his size to his advantage. It was fitting. He’d always loved how much bigger he was than you. That’s how you received your adorned nickname: pipsqueak.

He planned on his first time with you being a lot more gentle than this. He planned on being sweet and loving. He planned on cherishing your body the way you deserve, but you just had to go and give yourself to 4 other guys before him.

“Stop crying.” His voice rumbled as his piercing gaze found yours — so much different than the sweet childhood friend you had. His hand covered your mouth as he hunched over your figure, still ramming his cock head into you ruthlessly. “I know you can take it. I’ve watched you take it before.”

Your eyes blinked back tears as you looked up at him. He was being so mean. You couldn’t believe this was the same doting Caleb that you grew up with, and you didn’t even want to think about the face he had been watching you…

“Fucking pussy’s made for me, and you’ve been letting other men try to make her feel good.” He growled as he used his less-than-human arm reach down and gently rub against your small button of nerves.

“Caleb-!” You choked out as your body writhed beneath him. You could feel every ridge and vein of his thick cock splitting you apart, making you wholly his and his alone.

“That’s right… Say my name, baby. Tell me who’s making you feel so good.” He prompted with a confident smirk before he hauled your legs up above his shoulders, sinking even deeper into your dripping cunt.

Clawing at the bed, your back arched as you tried to cope with the intrusion. He’s so fucking deep it feels like you’re going to choke on him. “Caleb-“ You sob as your cunt pitifully clenches around him.

Feeling you wrapped around him so sweetly, crying out his name as you’re so overwhelmed with pleasure has Caleb revitalized with a new vigor. His hips work in tight circles, pumping his fat cock in and out of you as your cunt makes the most obscene squelching noises he’s ever heard.

“Such a fucking noisy girl. I should’ve know you were going to be a crybaby.” He teased before placing open mouth kisses along your neck snd shoulder.

“W-wait Caleb- calebcalebcaleb. I’m gonna..” You pant out nervously as his metal fingers were still rubbing languid circled around your cunt, and his tip was smooshing globs of precum against your cervix.

His fingers suddenly pinch down on your clit, making you cry out from the sensation. Your body went taut as you were being dangled on the edge of pleasure. His robotic arm wasn’t quite letting you get there.

You thought his arm was literally malfunctioning until you heard him chuckle from your suffering.

“You’re going to cum when I saw you can, okay baby?” He asked in that same condescending tone he always used when you two were younger.

His hips continued to roll after he was sure that you weren’t going to fall off the deep end, and he let out deep guttural groans, feeling your pretty pussy soak him. It was like you were practically trying to suck him in. He couldn’t believe he had waited this long to sink into your cunt like this.

and the best part about it was he knew your stupid upstairs neighbor was listening! Xavier knew you were down here getting railed, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Hell, if he even tried, Caleb would use his evol and force him kneel beside the bed as he drilled you even harder.

Fuck, the thought of slutting you out in front of every single one of your little boyfriends had his stomach tightening. His hips snapped forward into you with a pace that could only be described as feral.

You were a complete babbling mess at this point — utterly cock drunk as Caleb had you folded in half, filling you up to the brim with his length.

“Ohhh, that’s my girl.” He purred as he saw your glossed over look. “It’s coming, baby. I’m going to give you want you need.” He promised as he pressed a sweet kiss to your forehead that completely contradicted the ruthless way his hips were rutting into you.

“C-caleb- Caleb no, wait.. Don’t cum inside-“ You stuttered out in a panic. You hadn’t been by the pharmacy yet to pick up birth control, so technically, this was all unprotected.

“Why?” He growled as his back curled over. He was fucking mounting you while holding your thighs in the prettiest mating press he’d ever seen. “You fucking let them fill you up. Am I not good enough to breed this pussy?”

His hips slammed into you. It felt like he was trying to push his way straight into your womb. It was mind-numbing pleasure, making black orbs and stars dance across your vision.

“Look at me, baby.” He ordered, dragging your face to look back up at him. You could barely see straight. It was all too much. “You’re going to let your best friend breed you, and you’re gonna fucking love it. You’re going to cum all over this fat cock until you can’t breathe. Understand?”

You dumbly nodded your head, halfway hearing his words. Your pussy was aching to cum. Your swollen puffy folds were greedily accepting him in with every thrust. You wanted this. Birth control be damned. Everyone else be damned.

Caleb gritted his teeth together as he gave you a few more good harsh thrusts for good measure. He then crushed his body against yours, burying himself all the way to your womb before his cock started to jerk and pulse inside of you, shooting rope after rope of his thick potent cum. The only thing on his mind was the need to see you, his childhood best friend, round with his baby.

He needed to see the look on each other of those pricks’ faces when they realized you were spoken for.

The cherry on top was when he felt your walls clenching around him, happily milking his cock for everything he had while you sobbed and hiccuped his name. It seemed like his childhood best friend was maybe just as twisted as he was. He’d have to give her an extra good reward for being such a good girl.

As the room went still and quiet — only filled with shared breaths and pants for air, the sound of someone stabbing a sword through the ceiling was heard, and Caleb chuckled deeply. He had definitely pissed Xavier off.

[khioneee]

tap out. pt ii.

warnings. mentions of death, emotional distress, grief and loss, pregnancy.

a few years later, another tap-out ceremony arrives, but this time, the air feels different—heavier, somber. simon’s been gone for over a year, his deployment unexpectedly extended due to an incident overseas. you’d been told he couldn’t come home for a while, but that didn’t make the waiting any easier.

today, you stand among families who aren’t just here to tap out their loved ones but to say goodbye to those who didn’t make it home. tears stream down faces as loved ones gather around caskets, grieving the soldiers they’d lost. the sight fills you with a mix of dread and relief, knowing simon is still out there, waiting.

simon stands in formation, rigid as always, but he has a sense for you. before you even appear in his line of sight, he knows you’re near. but imagine his surprise when he catches a glimpse of you in his peripheral vision, a small bundle wrapped securely in your arms.

his heart hammers in his chest, quickening as he realizes what this means. his breath catches, his eyes fixed on you as you approach. you look up at him, your eyes sparkling, a knowing smile on your face as you watch the subtle changes in his expression—the slight twitch of his eyebrows, the way his breathing picks up as it dawns on him.

both of you had been trying for a baby before he left, and now, standing before him, you hold that precious life in your arms. it had been a struggle going through pregnancy without him, feeling his absence during every kick and every sleepless night. but seeing him now, looking more than ready to meet your child, all the pain fades away, replaced by a joy so profound it fills every inch of you.

‘daddy’s home,’ you whisper softly, tilting the blanket so simon can see her tiny face, fast asleep, a perfect mirror of him in miniature. she’s got his nose, his quiet strength already etched into her tiny features.

with tears in your eyes, you reach up, your hand finding his cheek, tapping him out in the gentlest of touches.

the moment your hand connects, simon moves, breaking formation as he pulls both of you into his arms, holding you close as if he’ll never let go. his voice is thick with emotion, barely a whisper as he murmurs, ‘my loves.’

you knew your husband had a reputation in the military—a man as cold and unyielding as steel, a fortress no one could break. but as he held you and your newborn in his arms, that carefully built facade cracked, revealing a vulnerable side of him that only you ever saw. the tough soldier was gone, replaced by a man whose heart lay entirely with his family.

‘do you want to hold her?’ you ask softly, watching his eyes light up with a blend of surprise and joy.

‘her?’ he whispers, voice catching on the single word, as if it’s almost too much for him to believe.

you nod, smiling through a haze of happy tears. ‘her.’

with slow, reverent movements, you pass your daughter to him, watching as she looks impossibly tiny cradled in his strong arms. simon looks down at her with a mixture of wonder and fierce protectiveness, as though he’s already memorizing every detail of her face.

as if sensing her father’s gaze, the baby yawns, a soft little sound that makes simon’s eyes shine with awe. you catch the faintest smile pulling at his lips, a rare, tender expression that he reserves only for moments like this.

he leans down, pressing his lips gently to her forehead. ‘never gonna let anything happen to you,’ he murmurs, voice thick with love and quiet promise.

while simon was lost in his quiet moment with your daughter, a loud shout cut through the air, breaking the peaceful silence.

‘is that our baby i see?!’

simon’s head snapped up, his expression immediately shifting to something harder. he turned to see soap grinning widely, practically bouncing with excitement. with a sigh, simon reached over and smacked the back of soap’s head, though his movements were careful not to jostle the sleeping baby in his arms.

‘there’s people grieving, you idiot,’ simon muttered, but soap only snickered, completely unfazed.

‘and what do you mean, ‘our’? she’s y/n’s and mine. you’re not part of this relationship, mate,’ simon added, his tone dripping with mock irritation.

but soap, undeterred, just ignored him and held out his hands, wiggling his fingers in a display of exaggerated excitement. ‘oh, come on! let me hold our child!’

simon groaned, looking down at you with a glance that seemed to ask, ‘do i really have to put up with this?’ but he couldn’t hide the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as soap’s enthusiasm filled the air around you.

reluctantly, and with another sigh, simon finally leaned over, carefully passing your daughter to soap, though not without a low, ‘if you don’t keep her calm, you’re not holding her again.’

soap just grinned, taking her into his arms as if he’d won the lottery, cradling her gently and cooing softly.

soon after, the rest of task force 141 gathered around, drawn by the excitement, each member eager to catch a glimpse of the new addition to the family.

you and simon stood to the side, watching with cautious eyes as they took turns holding her, each one adopting a careful gentleness you wouldn’t have expected from hardened soldiers.

price held her with a proud grin, murmuring something about ‘training her to be the next captain,’ while gaz made her giggle softly with his gentle cooing. even the usually reserved roach softened as he held her, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

you glanced up at simon, watching his face as he stood beside you, arms crossed in a show of casual indifference.

but you knew him too well. beneath the mask of stoicism, there was something warmer, a subtle softness in his gaze as he watched his team, his family, sharing this moment with him. this gruff, unbreakable soldier, who had once thought he’d lost everything, had found a new family among them, one that shared in his joys and sorrows alike.

reaching over, you took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. he didn’t say anything, just gave your hand a quick squeeze in return, a quiet acknowledgment. but you could see it in his eyes, that gratitude for a family he never expected to find—a family that had now become part of yours.

[cosycafune]

MATING PRESS!

1.0k words. kento's a little tipsy, a pussy-strucken mess. all he wants is to divulge in his precious housewife's cunt, consistently engaging in a mating press. he's desperate, wanting all of you...entirely. maybe, just maybe, he'd stuff you enough to corrupt you.

acts: messy sex, nasty sex, unprotected sex, mating press, slight corruption kink, breeding kink, teasing, overstimulating, crying, submission, creampies, sloppy kissing, consensual intimacy. mdni. 18+. masterlist.

a/n: kento likes messy sex, when he's slightly drunk.

YOU'RE TREMBLING, faced with the sight of a partially drunk Kento – flaunting an intimidating manspread. Nothing within you could face his wrath, sensing the itching lust that captures his low eyes. Naturally, you knew what Kento longed for. It’s so obvious, the moment you’re settled between Kento’s thighs – shaking with yearning you can’t shed.

Intoxicated with your presence, Kento pushes himself into drawing you nearer – toying with the ends of your frilly summer dress. Hungrily, Kento’s gaze darts up to you – sporting an intimidating aura. Whenever Kento drank in tolerable amounts, he’d become pent up – tinted with an insatiable urge for you.

Gluttony adorns him. Kento wanted to consume you, filling you up endlessly with his fruitful seed. Just seeing you, nervous, unable to control your lust, in front of him, drove him crazy. Even with him warmed by the alcohol, he always longs to stuff his beautiful wife, no matter where he lingers.

Shit, he’d take you on the couch he’s sitting on, the table, the floor, on the wall. Kento just wanted to take you on any spot he could, he didn’t fucking care in the slightest. All he longed for was to stuff you with his heavenly cock, pounding and decimating your cunt with everything he had. Sexually, he longed to suffocate you — driving into you to listen to every squeamish sound you make.

“Kento?” Meekly, you speak – gasping at his burly fingers kneading your doughy bubble butt.

“Hm?” Consumed by longing, Kento lowly greets your eyes – barely muttering a fruitful sound.

“‘Sure you wanna do this?” Squeezing your eyes close, you question him, “You’ve been drinking.” Frowning, you warm at Kento drawing you nearer to you – sitting you upon his tender lap.

“I’ve only drank a little, my love.” Reassuring you, Kento removes his lime glasses – displaying the aged contours beneath his eyes.

“If you’re sure, Ken’,” Teasing him, you fall tender – smitten at Kento’s fingers roaming over the fabric against your hips.

—⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

You’re an unredeemable mess, your lips sloppily capturing Kento’s while his fat, angelic cock passionately pounded your plushy pussy. Gasps, desperate, dirty moans and pleasurable squelching sounds flooded the room. Unspoken tension riddled each one of Kento’s crazed thrusts, pooling into the subtle alcoholism that tints his breath. It’s so obvious, your decimated pussy tells its story – singing a sinful melody.

“Kento! Ngh! Warm!” Overstimulated, you frantically warm – enclosed by Kento’s physique in a mating press. 

“Love…when you’re like this,” Needy, Kento’s smooth tone adorns your ears – paring with his eager thrusts.

“‘Ts too…deep,” Mewling frantically, you feel Kento grab your jiggly ass cheek – gripping it to lodge his cock further into you. 

“You can…handle it,” Subtle aggressiveness tints Kento’s voice, leading him into softly kissing your lips.

“‘Can…Mhmm! Handle…it,” Cock-driven, your moans are breathless — consumed by Kento’s extreme neediness.

“That’s…my baby,” Hazy, Kento gently praises you — allowing his heavy balls to slap against your ass.

“So…warm,” Mewling, so, so, out of it, your eyes flutter — lifelessness tinting your battered eyes.

“Mhm, you ready… for my cum?” Kento’s tone holds a fragment of degradation. 

Instinctively, it causes him to pound into you with a might he knows you’re unable to handle. You’re barely able to breathe, your breasts perched up while his lips greedily meet your own. Ironically, your cognitive functions are limited — filled with the deepness and manhandled by Kento’s large cock. Every ounce of your physique is stuffed with Kento — intoxicated — tickled with the deepest elements of him.

“Baby, please!” Pleading, you tremble frantically — unable to function or breathe without Kento’s cum.

Within his presence, you always longed to be stuffed and decimated by him — every string of you wrapped around him. Your eyes were always flooded with love hearts, blooming further with the more cum Kento poured within you.

When it comes to hardcore intimacy, Kento’s extremely nasty — ruining you until you’re absolutely nothing. It’s a tad worse when he’s drunk and whiny, but able to consent enough to function. Hours would flow by, but Kento wouldn’t release you — honing his body with each thrust. None of him cared about drifting into overtime, he would simply expand on his nastiness.

Like, right now, the bedsheets are town, soaked with cum and squirt. The room’s thick with the blissful smell of sex, the sounds of inhumane struggling, cock handling and everything indecent. This imagery contrasted with Kento’s clean imagery, especially since he’s a man of hygiene. 

Yet, currently, he’s extraordinarily sweaty, his cock decorated with your dripping cum. Kento’s blonde locks stick to his forehead, his narrow eyes greeting yours as he bucked his deepest within you — feeling his previous rounds of cum clinging to his thighs. The whole room is extremely trashed, riddled with marks, and scattered furniture; everything’s clustered and unjust.

“Shit, I’ll give it to you,” Satisfied, watching you extensively beg for his cum, Kento responds — grinning.

“Please, I've… earnt it, Kento,” An external and internal mess, you plead heavily – your stomach churning at Kento fulfilling the mating press.

Mentally conquered, Kento tugs at your bubble butt – thrusting himself so deeply within you. So deeply, you’re unable to remember your name. You groan, thrash, basking within his company – eerily complete. Complete before he suffocates you beneath you, his diabolical cock pulsating deeply within you.

Wickedly, Kento glances down at you – his precious wife – enjoying the discipline he gifts you. When it comes to you, Kento’s unable to resist corrupting you – someone he’d spoil more than anything. Obviously, you loved it when Kento’s rough with you – pulverising you. Even with you as his precious housewife, Kento couldn’t help but gift you baby batter – so you can nurture a bun in your oven.

“Mhm, you…have,” Proud, Kento harshly finishes inside of you – filling you preciously with his manly spurts of cum. Every ounce of his cock was structured for you, no matter what moment remained. Shit, this moment compelled him frantically – toning him with love, devotion and solace.

Filled, Kento kisses your tender lips – observing the explicit mess he has made of you. Right now, you’re beautiful marked – submissive for him. Every crevice of you is structured for him, especially in this mating press.

He knew he would have to try this position again.

--

do not copy, modify or claim any of my works as your own. all rights reserved; cosycafune. 2024. banner by cafekitsune <3

[readwritealldayallnight]

You had never seen him look so utterly human before

Laid up amongst the scratchy, thin sheets of the hospital bed, with only a plain surgical mask covering the bottom half of his face, everything else above Ghost’s shoulders exposed to your eyes for the first time, while his own eyes have been shut for nearly four days straight now

You had never seen your Lieutenant without the signature mask that haunts the dreams of even the deadliest foreign mercenaries, had never seen him look anything less than intimidating, commanding, powerful without so much as even trying to, his presence alone striking fear into those who’ve heard whispers of the fearsome Ghost

Now however, with an IV hooked up to his arm and a nurse that comes to check on his vitals periodically, it’s hard to picture him as such a gruesome soldier, rather than a simple man who bleeds like any other human

In spite of the evident vulnerable position he finds himself in, his pale skin appearing nearly translucent under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital, there was no denying that Ghost remained someone to be feared

A particularly nasty blow to the head during a field op gone wrong had knocked the burly soldier out cold, and though doctors were optimistic he would make a full recovery, they couldn’t exactly tell the extent of the damage done until he woke up

You and the men that made up the remainder of the 141 had been taking turns remaining by his side, not wanting for Ghost to wake up alone, whenever that would be exactly

You wonder how he would feel about this, the fact that you are currently the one on shift for the unofficial rotation of visitors who’ve stuck by his bedside throughout his injury

You’re well aware of the fact that the Lieutenant doesn’t like you, has never liked you, and probably never will, though you’ve never been able to get a straight answer as to why

From the moment you’d met him, he’d been cold to you, distant, making no effort to get to know you nor welcome you to the team, opposite to the way the Sergeants and Captain had welcomed you with open arms and hearts

No matter how much you poked and prodded at them for an answer, some sort of inclination as to what you could possible have done wrong to have Ghost dislike you so much, the men always bit their tongues

You saw the way they exchanged knowing glances and sly smirks, believing they were being more cunning than they really were, insisting to you with carefully chosen words that it wasn’t something you should worry about too much, that the LT had a different way of expressing his feelings than most

“So long as he doesn’t wake up and want to ‘express his feelings’ by punching me in the face for being the first thing he opens his eyes to.” You thought to yourself, glancing up from your book at his still sleeping form, shaking your head at your silly thought

No, he’d never been particularly kind to you, but he’d also never gone out of his way to be cruel to you either you supposed

Perhaps he found you to be more of a nuisance than anything else, a pest he couldn’t seem to swat away hard enough, an annoying pimple he couldn’t quite pop

Your eyes scanned over his face once more, cursing whatever Gods might be listening that the man hiding beneath that Ghost facade had to be so … intriguing

You could see old scars running across his face, some of them peeking out from under the surgical mask while others ran across his brow, his crooked nose evident even under the fabric of the mask

He was handsome in his own, rugged way, a fact you were displeased to learn when you first saw him laying here, switching off with Soap who’d been sat at his side earlier

Ghost may not care for you, not that he had given you many reasons or chances to care for him, but you cared about your remaining members of the task force, and knew how important Ghost was to them, and so for the 141, you’d do your duty and care for a Ghost who apparently wanted no such love and tenderness from you

You looked the large man over, brows furrowing when your eyes landed on his neck, noting that the pillow supporting his head was getting a little flat

You stood from your chair, setting your book down, and approched him carefully, almost as though any sudden movements would somehow wake the comatose man from his slumber

As gently as you could, you attempted to adjust the pillow behind him to hopefully be more comfortable, quickly realizing just how heavy he was when he was nothing more than dead weight

You slowly slipped your hands behind his shoulders, pulling him forward as best as you could until you were able to adjust the pillow one handed

Slipping your hands back down his shoulders to ease him back into the bed, your palms naturally ending up sliding onto the back of his neck, the tips of your fingers brushing against the hair at the base of his skull, an involuntary shiver running through you at what you realized too late was a bit of an intimate touch with a man who’d been touch starved for years

It was hard to say who was more stunned at first, with how quickly things transpired, when you suddenly felt a pair of strong hands reaching up to grip your wrists and hold them in place

You hadn’t even realized you had let out a gasp as your eyes flicked down and met none other than Ghost’s own wide open orbs only inches away from you, staring right at you as though he was seeing a ghost

Stunned into silence, worried that you truly were about to end up on the receiving end of Ghost’s anger for having invaded his space like that, you barely had enough time to process that he’d somehow woken from his coma when his grip on your wrists tightened further, and somehow, whether it was a trick of the light or you imagination, his gaze softened before his scratchy, out of use voice said:

“Love.”

Your ears were ringing, hardly taking notice of the way a flurry of alarms and bells had gone off as soon as Ghost had woken up, his heart rate soaring through the roof and alerting staff

Medical personnel rushed into the room before you could wrap your mind around any of what was happening, Ghost’s grip on your never loosening until the doctor finally approached you both, sensing the tension in the air

“Lieutenant Riley,” the man said, gently landing a hand in Ghost’s bicep to hopefully help him ease his strong grip on you. “Let her go.”

His grip on you disappeared instantly, as though your skin had suddenly burned him, but his eyes never wavered from your own, even as he began mumbling unintelligibly beneath his medical mask

“What was that?” The doctor asked, trying to bring calm back to the room and ease Ghost into a state where he could be properly examined

“My girl.” The Lieutenant’s gravelly voice echoed throughout the sterile room

“Pardon?”

“My girl.” Ghost repeated, never once breaking eye contact with your now widened eyes

“Do- do you know who this is, Lieutenant?” The doctor posed the question, slowly gesturing towards you with a confusion that was spreading amongst you all

“‘Course I do.” Ghost spoke with certainty. “That’s my love.”

Part two