#the lash shadow puppets

[justmychampagneproblems]

“Describe yourself”

[a-leg-without-fear]

Sweet Dreams, TN🩸🔥

shower smut with logan won the poll because of course it did. i love y'all, you horny bastards (affectionate)

Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader🩸

Rating: 18+

Worcount: 4.7k words of pure sin

Warnings: cursing, shower sex, foreplay, choking, groping, fingering, grinding, biting, bloodplay, marking, Logan's dirty mouth, light dom/sub, overstimulation, unprotected p in v sex (use protection pls), uneven refractory period

Song: Sweet Dreams, TN by The Last Shadow Puppets

Hot water rained down on you from the shower head. Steam poured off your warm body, lavender soap washed away by the thin streams of water, hair plastered to your scalp and neck. A small hum came from between your closed lips. Something indistinct, a little off key, to keep your mind occupied while you rinsed off your arms.

It had been a good day in the mansion. Class went well, the students following your instruction on pinch pots to the T, hardly any children lashing out during your instruction. One of the kids, Shauna, had stayed behind after class to give you a drawing. A scribbled sketch of you, her, and a handful of other classmates drawn in colorful crayon. That had earned her a tight hug and a heartfelt thank you. The drawing was now pinned to the corkboard above your desk amongst dozens of other students’ drawings.

You loved your kids. You really, truly did. Having the good fortune of being able to teach them art was one of the best parts of your long life. Spreading the joy of artistic expression to the young folks around you, the calming aspect of coloring a sketch or the soothing feel of clay between your fingers, was what got you out of bed in the morning.

Just as you were reaching for your hair conditioner, the leaf-patterned shower curtain rustled and drew back from the wall behind you. You let out a hum of acknowledgement.

“Evening, Lo,” you said over your bare shoulder, a warm smirk turning up the corners of your lips. Your gaze was graced by the sight of a naked Logan behind you.

Warm, brown hair styled in two fluffy points, toned chest covered in dark curls, pronounced abs leading into more crisp, dark hair. You snapped your eyes back to his face to keep from staring. A cocky grin tugged on his lips.

“Hey there, doll,” he replied. Thick arms wrapped around your waist, gently tugging you backwards. Your back, covered in water droplets, collided with Logan’s chest. A breathy laugh came from your widening smile.

“Impatient, are we?” you asked teasingly. Your question was met with Logan trailing his lips up and down your exposed neck. An occasional nip with his canines here and there, scruffy beard scratching on your sensitive skin.

“You were taking too long,” Logan uttered as he nipped under your ear. Large, calloused hands began smoothing over your soaked skin. You shuddered against Logan, letting your head fall back against his broad shoulder.

“I’ve only been in the shower for ten minutes, Lo,” you breathed. You felt a puff of air brush against your neck as he huffed. 

“Still too long,” he said, snapping his teeth next to your earlobe. Logan’s hips rolled against your thighs. You could feel his half-hard cock grind between your legs. A choked moan leaked through your lips.

“Logan,” you whimpered under your breath. One of his warm hands traveled back up your body and wrapped loosely around your throat. You whined, high-pitched and needy, as your eyes fell closed.

His other hand continued its path south, smoothing water into your twitching skin, fingers pinching and teasing as they went. Sharp teeth scratched at the skin under your jaw.

“Tell me to stop and I will, doll. Don’t wanna interrupt your shower routine,” he whispered kindly into your skin. 

Your mind was utterly reeling. Consciousness split between a hand on your throat, fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip, Logan’s cock against the back of your legs, hot water pouring on your front. It was nearly impossible to form a coherent sentence with how wrecked you already felt. You cleared your throat, swallowing a knot the size of a baseball.

“All I have left is hair conditioner,” you said. Logan’s chest rumbled with a thoughtful hum. His hands retreated in their path to rest gently on your waist.

“Then don’t let me keep you,” he purred, thumbs massaging at your lowest ribs. His lazy grinding against your ass had stopped. You whined, nuzzling your nose into Logan’s stubble-covered throat.

“Please, Lo,” you uttered. You licked at the droplets of water gathering under his jaw, trying to tempt him back into touching you. Logan hummed again. His hazel eyes peered down at you.

“Once you’re done, doll. Then I’ll reward ya,” he said reassuringly. He used his shoulder to nudge you forward, practically prying your naked bodies apart. 

You huffed, frustrated and horny, as you leaned down to pick up your conditioner bottle. The white container sat mockingly in your wrinkling hand. Why should it control whether you get dicked down by the gorgeous man behind you? What right did this bottle of hair conditioner have to keep you from a good fucking?

“Staring at the conditioner ain’t gonna put it in your hair, doll,” Logan teased from behind you. You grumbled at his words, popping open the lid and squeezing the pale conditioner into your palm. You set the accursed bottle back on its shelf.

“It’s an asshole,” you said. That earned you a surprised laugh that shook Logan’s chest. The deep sound bounced off the tile walls and settled deep in your bones. A small grin pulled at your deep frown.

“And what did the bottle do to earn that title?” Logan chuckled. His thumbs continued to trace the lines of your ribs. You sighed while massaging the conditioner between your palms.

“It’s a fucking cockblock, Lo. How dare it keep your hands off me?” you griped, raising your arms to rub the conditioner into the ends of your hair. The flowery, clean scent filled the steam rising from both your and Logan’s bodies.

Logan’s fingers squeezed the soft flesh at your sides, earning a shocked yelp and an elbow to his ribs. He smirked at your response, “My hands are still on you.”

“You know what I mean,” you groused. 

Your fingers wove through your hair as you lathered the strands in cream-colored conditioner. You could just barely feel Logan’s chest brushing against your back. His hands smoothed up and down your sides, a hum of adoration slipping from his lips now and then.

When it came time to rinse your hair out, Logan’s grip on your waist tightened, keeping you from sticking your head under the water.

“Wait,” he said, hands lifting to rest on your shoulders. You cocked an eyebrow at him from over your shoulder. His brow furrowed, clearing his throat, “I… Can I wash your hair for you?”

The pure, unadulterated affection that flowed from that question punched you in the gut like an MMA fighter. You were utterly stunned. Mouth hanging open, eyes wide, breath halted in your lungs. Logan shifted uncomfortably under your perplexed stare.

“Forget it, it’s not-”

“Yes!” you said loudly, cutting him off. He looked taken aback at your exclamation. You turned in his hold so you could face him, palms resting on his chest, “You can wash my hair, Lo. It’s just… The last thing I expected you to ask.”

“Oh,” he sighed, relieved. A small, fond grin grew across his previously grumpy expression. He used the grip on your shoulders to walk you backwards. 

You matched his movement, eyes tracing the crow’s feet around his eyes, until you felt the hot water raining from the shower head pelting your back. Your eyes squinted as water dripped from your scalp and into your face. Logan breathed a chuckle at you, then his hands traveled up your neck and buried his fingers in your hair.

An involuntary, quiet moan slinked up your throat as rough calluses scraped along your scalp. Your eyes fluttered closed. Logan’s fingers massaged between strands of soaked hair, hitting all the spots that made your eyes roll back beneath your eyelids.

“Feel good?” Logan muttered, breath fanning across your damp cheeks. His pinkies dug into a spot at the base of your skull that made your toes curl. You gnawed on your bottom lip to prevent any more embarrassing noises.

You felt the faintest brush of Logan’s lips on yours. A ghost of a feeling, like the whisper of a summer breeze. Your fingers twitched against his chest. 

“How do I know your hair’s rinsed?” he asked. The buzz of the words on his lips vibrated your own. A needy whine clawed at the base of your throat.

“Not- Not slick anymore,” was all you could murmur. Your back arched, chest pressing against his, when he started massaging at the tense muscles in your neck. Heavy, warm strokes that eased any tension remaining along your shoulders. Logan chuckled above you.

“Your hair, or your cunt?” he whispered against your chewed lips. Your thighs clenched together around nothing. Burning arousal pooled in your stomach, your spine shivering beneath your flushed skin.

“Definitely hair,” you replied, a breathless laugh leaving your clenched jaw. You felt the smirk dance on Logan’s lips against your own. His fingers pulled through your hair, ringing the last remnants of conditioner out of the soaked strands. A light groan rattled your throat as he pulled on your roots.

Satisfied with his work, Logan slipped his fingers out of your hair and placed his palms on your waist again. It took a lot of effort to open your eyes.

Some of the water showering down on you had apparently reached Logan, as his dark hair laid flat against his scalp, slicked back away from his face. Thick droplets of water dripped from his soaked beard. Fond, wrinkled eyes traced along your face.

“How’d I do?” he asked. You lifted a hand from his chest, the limb feeling a hundred pounds heavier, and felt along the ends of your hair. Perfectly rinsed. Not a spot of conditioner left. You grinned up at him.

“A plus. Top marks,” you answered. His chest rumbled with a fond hum as he pulled you tighter against his chest. Knuckles traced along your spine, the rough joints digging into your back every other vertebrae. 

“And what do I get for such a high grade?” he questioned, hands shifting from stroking your back to gripping the plush skin of your ass. A startled gasp burst from your closed lips. Your nails dug into the firm muscle that lined his chest. 

“I thought you were rewarding me?” you replied shakily. Firm, rough squeezes of Logan’s long fingers on your ass kicked the air from your lungs. You could feel your knees start to buckle.

Logan ducked his head to nip under your chin. Sloppy, open-mouthed kisses trailed along your quickly heating skin. Sharp drags of his teeth elicited quick, quiet moans from your lungs. His hot tongue trailed up the underside of your jaw and stopped just below your earlobe.

“I suppose I can make an exception this time,” he drawled in your ear, breath stirring the falling drops of water on your skin. Your hips bucked forward involuntarily. The trembling skin of your stomach rubbed against Logan’s fully hard cock. He groaned, pressing his cheek to yours, grinding his leaking tip into your abdomen.

“Logan,” you whined, nails scratching deep crescents into his skin. The grip on your ass tightened, pulling you impossibly closer to him, a deep growl rolling through his chest. Hot pants fell from his mouth as he continued to grind into you. 

The tile walls blurred as Logan spun you in his arms. Your back pinned against his chest, his cock wedged between your legs, his right arm wrapped around your throat, left hand gripping your hip. A startled moan punched its way out of your mouth.

“How many times do you think I can make you come, hotstuff? Three, four times?” he purred into your ear. The arm around your neck squeezed, choking you lightly, making your head spin. 

Gasping whimpers cascaded past your swollen lips. The heat gathering between your thighs spread through your whole body like a tidal wave. A sinful, aching need coursing through your veins. 

Logan’s fingers trailed down your stomach as he loosened his hold on your throat. The room around you swam amongst a sea of clouded desire. Your breath came back to you in brief spurts, your chest heaving and legs trembling.

“Hmm. Guess we’ll have to find out,” Logan said, then nipped at your earlobe while his middle finger traced a lazy circle around your clit. Your head flew back against his shoulder. Electric shocks of bliss radiated from where he rubbed at your bundle of nerves.

“God, fuck! Logan!” you exclaimed through clenched teeth. He placed a firm kiss beneath the hinge of your jaw. Your mind was short circuiting. It felt like your entire existence was focused on Logan’s fingers rubbing and pinching and lightly scratching at your clit. Your knees threatened to give out. You clawed at the arm wrapped around your neck.

“That’s a good girl. Shh, you’re being so good,” he breathed into your skin. Rough grunts filled your ear as he continued to grind against your ass. 

He shifted his hand, his palm digging into your clit as his fingers stroked up and down your folds. You squirmed in his tight hold. Nails scratching at the skin of his forearm, pinpricks of blood left in your scrabbling wake. Logan pressed his lips to your temple.

“I’ve got you, doll,” he whispered, breath stirring the hair along your forehead. 

The pressure from the heel of Logan’s palm lessened as his middle finger pushed inside you. Rough skin and bony knuckles hit every single nerve ending. The stretch of his finger was absolutely exquisite. Not nearly enough to dull the burning need inside you, but filling you just enough to leave you panting and wanting more.

He brushed the pad of his fingertip against that spongy spot inside you. White stars dotted along the edges of your blurred vision. Euphoria poured into your veins like a raging waterfall. The loud moan that threatened to escape your lips was cut off as Logan squeezed his arm, choking you. Your eyes rolled back in your head again.

The sensation of his finger sliding in and out of you was only intensified by the vice he had on your throat. Soft-edged pleasure filled your mind with nothing but Logan. His fingers on and inside you, his warm breath on your temple, his cock grinding against you.

He added his pointer finger on the next push inside you. You stretched around the digits, arousal coating them in slick. Logan grunted in your ear.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned. The grip on your throat lessened once again, humid air filling your strained lungs. His fingers glided inside you and brushed that spot, making you keen and whimper, then slid back out. 

A quick, brutal pace was set as he fingered you. Heel of Logan’s palm grinding against your clit, fingers pistoning in your cunt, arm squeezing and choking your neck. All you could do was cling to his forearm for dear life. That knot in your core twisted and churned with every shove of his fingers inside you. Unbridled ecstasy coated your bloodstream, shoving you further and further under the brutal waves drowning you with pleasure.

An enormous wave threatened to crash over you. The knot tightened, your breath hitched, your knees gave out. Logan cradled you against his chest as he continued to finger-fuck you. Delicate praise whispered through gritted teeth filtered through your swirling senses. You distantly thought of how lucky it was that Logan could support your entire weight, seeing as your legs no longer functioned.

The brief, wandering thought was quickly shoved from your mind when Logan added his ring finger inside you. Three thick, long digits fucking into you at a brutal pace. Every shove inside you brushing against the spot that held you beneath those waves. Warm, honeyed pleasure filled your lungs. That tidal wave crested over your helpless body. Your cunt clenched around Logan’s fingers. You felt a feral grin spread over the lips pressed to your temple.

“That’s it. Come for me, sugar,” Logan grunted into your ear. With one final squeeze around your throat, the wave came crashing down on top of you.

World-encompassing rapture flooded your senses. Violent swells of utter euphoria crashed into you, over and over again. Your mind exploded into fractured glass, your lungs stuttered behind your ribs, your eyes screwed shut. Loud, choked moans threatened to break through the barrier Logan built with his arm locked around your throat.

You barely felt alive. The destruction and devastation that lay in the wake of your climax left you shivering in Logan’s arms. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, your chest heaved when the vice around your neck loosened, your fingers gripping limply at Logan’s arm.

But he didn’t let up. He kept pounding into you at the same brutal pace, palm slapping wetly against your clit. You squirmed in his hold. Desperate pleas fell from your lips. You clawed and scraped at his forearm.

“Lo- I can’t- I- Logan, please,” you begged. Logan nipped at your hairline, shifting the arm around your throat down to grip around your waist, holding you flush against him.

“You can, doll. You can give me one more,” he said, biting at the column of your neck. The grinding of his cock on your ass ceased as he focused entirely on dragging you into another orgasm. You writhed against his chest, a sob rattling inside your chest.

The growing wave above you climbed higher and higher. Every pound inside you sent ripples of sharp heat coursing through your body. It was nearly nauseating, how quick the knot built up in your core. Almost painful how the surges of pleasure overtook your dazed mind.

Your orgasm rocked through you like a kick to the chest. Choked sobs wracked your trembling body, splashes of rapture coating your lungs and throat, leaving you a shaking and blubbering mess. Incoherent strings of curses and Logan’s name fell from your gaped mouth.

It seemed Logan had taken pity on you, as he withdrew his hand from between your thighs. A strained, relieved sigh broke through the incomprehensible noises and words streaming from your lips. He placed chaste kisses along the side of your face.

“Shhh, good girl. That’s my good girl,” Logan murmured against your temple. He rubbed soothing circles into your oversensitive skin. Heavy pants heaved out of you. The floor swayed beneath you, jets of hot water beating at you like hail on a window.

You gulped the steam-filled air into your lungs. Electric aftershocks made you shudder at each brush of Logan’s fingers on your body or his lips on your neck. The room around you returned to your vision in bits and pieces. White tiles lined in gray grout, yellow shower curtain decorated in painted leaves, silver handles and shower head, white hair conditioner bottle sitting on a clear plastic shelf.

“H-Holy shit, Lo,” you gasped. You felt a proud smile cross the lips pressed against your jaw. The arm tucked along your waist smoothed up and down your stomach. Gentle glides of his palms and fond kisses along your neck cleared the cloud that filled your mind. 

“Back with us?” he asked, setting you down on your unsteady feet. He held you upright as you found your footing on the slick shower floor. 

“Yeah. I think so,” you said as you turned to face Logan. As soon as your chest was pressed to his, a warm hand tucked under your chin and brought your lips to his. Gentle, sweet, relaxed. His tongue passed through your lips and licked into your pliant mouth. A light sigh escaped your throat and slipped between you.

“We can pause for a bit,” he whispered as he pulled back. A touch of concern furrowed between his dark brows. His thumb ran along your chin as he searched your eyes for hesitancy.

“No need,” you said, throwing him a lopsided smile as you carded your fingers through his drenched hair. You looped your arms around his shoulders, “I’m good to go. Wreck me all you want.”

The same feral grin you felt against your temple stretched across Logan’s lips. Sharp canines bared, eyes wide and looking at you like you were dinner. Excitement reawakened the arousal that had subsided in your abdomen.

Logan’s large hands scooped under your thighs and slammed your back against the slippery tile wall, your legs wrapping around his hips, as his mouth crashed into yours. His cock grinded into your oversensitive folds, flushed tip brushing at your clit. High, airy moans filtered from your throat and into the space your mouths shared. Your fingers buried themselves in his drenched hair.

A low growl left Logan’s chest when you tugged at his roots. His hips snapped forward, fingers digging into thick flesh, crisp hair at the base of his cock scraping the inside of your thighs.

“Shit, Lo, please just fuck me already,” you whined into his open mouth. Your hips moved in rhythm with Logan’s, desperation beginning to claw at your throat. Scalding waves of needneedneed coated your body in thick honey. 

Water cascaded down your bodies as Logan angled his hips to line up with your entrance. Anticipation burned away at your nerve endings.

The slow push inside, stretching and straining your soaked cunt to the limit, thick cock brushing against every bump and ridge. Your back bowed off the tile wall, pain and pleasure making an intoxicating concoction between your thighs. Blunt nails scraped at Logan’s shoulders. 

When, at last, he was fully sheathed inside you, he paused to allow you to adjust. His hazel eyes remained locked with yours, fingers squeezing at the skin along your thighs, gasping breath mingling with yours. 

He released his hold on one of your legs and directed you to bear your own weight. Your other leg remained hiked up over his hip. His forearm rested on the tile by your head as he leaned over you. The change in position drove him impossibly deeper inside you. Your eyes squeezed shut as you moaned.

“Ah- fuck, doll. Good?” Logan grunted next to your ear. You nodded, fingers burying themselves deeper in his hair. 

He tightened his grip on your leg as he pulled out. The slick glide overpowered your mind, sparks igniting on the edges of your vision. Logan wasted no time before thrusting back inside you to the hilt. A sharp groan shot out of your lips. His mouth crashed into yours as he set a slow, grinding pace. Hips barely leaving the inside of your thighs before rutting his cock against that spot inside you. 

“Sh-it!” you whined into Logan’s mouth. Every slow pull along your walls knocked the breath from your lungs. The skin above his cock, firm with taut muscle, rubbed at your aching clit. Shockwaves of pleasure centered on your cunt ricocheted through your body. 

You wouldn’t last long. Not with the remnants of your two previous orgasms hanging over you like a dense fog. You felt submerged in an ocean of sin. Dancing sunlight filtering through roaring waves above your head. Deep blue surrounding you on all sides. Thick, molasses leaden desire filling your lungs and making you gasp.

Logan’s teeth scraped at the skin above the artery in your neck. Canines digging into the flesh and drawing small droplets of blood. The arm he had braced above your head tangled in your freshly washed hair. He tilted your head to drink from the wine your body willingly provided.

This orgasm didn’t wash over you, it yanked. Grabbing you by the ankles and pulling your feet out from under you, sending you careening into a void of white hot ecstasy that coated you like black ink. 

“Fuck, yes, that’s a good girl,” Logan groaned against your throat as he withdrew from your cunt. Before you could blink you were spun in place, chest pressed against the tiled wall, knee hiked up by Logan’s hand. 

Tremors from your climax still rattled your joints as he pushed back inside you. His chest pressing into your back, lips wrapping around the cut in your neck, hand not supporting your leg squeezing at your breast. Rough fingers rolled your nipple between callused pads.

You could barely breathe after Logan started pounding into you. Cock ramming into you so hard you knew you’d walk funny for a week. Your hands scratched helplessly at the white tile. His teeth scraped at the thin skin under your ear, grunts thick with pleasure bouncing off the wall in front of you. You reached a hand over your shoulder and threaded your fingers in his hair, holding his mouth to your throat.

“B-Bite me, Lo. Mark me,” you breathed. He needed no further encouragement. His sharp canines pierced your skin and dug into your veins. You cried out at the intrusion in your flesh. Fresh, hot blood leaked from the bites and into Logan’s waiting mouth. You felt his breath hitch against your neck.

“God, vampire. I- fuck!” he panted. The hand holding your leg squeezed bruises into your thigh, the beginnings of painted blues and purples covering your flushed skin. Logan’s hips stuttered against your thighs. You could feel his chest heaving. It seemed the relentless fucking was absolutely destroying you both.

The large hand playing with your breast slipped between your thighs. Lazy, distracted circles rubbed into your overstimulated clit. You lurched against Logan’s chest. Head falling back on his broad shoulder, fingers squeezing damp hair, hips bucking to match his steadily slowing thrusts. 

A jagged groan stirred against your throat as Logan came undone, cock buried deep and spilling inside you. His heavy head fell to your shoulder. Heaving breaths gusted from his lips and blew the remaining water droplets off your heated skin. 

You only had a moment to breathe before he rubbed at your clit with new fervor. Cock still within your cunt, release leaking out of you and down your legs, teeth nipping at the underside of your jaw. 

“Gimme one more. C’mon, vampire. You can do it,” Logan said. He licked up the streams of blood spilling from the cuts in your neck. Your head spun, lungs feeling far too empty, cunt pulsing around his softening cock.

An explosion of stabbing, almost painful euphoria burst from your core and burned the rest of your body. Rubble crashed into your skin, fire burned at your senses, smoke filled your already heaving lungs. Your vision blacked out as your climax wiped your mind clean. 

You felt like you were drifting on a raft in a lazy river. Cool water ushering your limp body down a calm stream. An occasional wave rocking the raft to and fro. Warm sun streaming through breaks in the trees and heating your skin.

A light caress on your cheek broke you from your revere. Your eyelids peeled open, blurry gaze focusing on an incredibly hazy Logan sitting in front of you. When did you end up on the floor?

“There you are,” he said, breathing a small sigh of relief. You were both sprawled out on the floor of the shower. Logan must have shut off the water at some point as the steady stream wasn’t bouncing off the white tiles. Your tired gaze flitted over Logan’s seated body.

He was still naked. That much was delightfully obvious. Remnants of water from the shower head dripped from his soaked hair and down his face. Hazel eyes inspected your exhausted body from head to toe.

“Hey,” you mumbled, a weak smile gracing your lips. You felt utterly drained. It took everything in you to keep your eyes open and your head up. 

“Hey. You alright?” Logan replied while moving to kneel in front of you. Warm fingers brushed against the sides of your face. You gave him a tired nod. “Yeah, I’m good,” you said. Logan pressed a brief kiss into your hairline. You hummed in response, “Don’t know what I did to warrant all that, though.”

Logan breathed out a chuckle, “Nothing special. Just couldn’t deal with you getting all hot and wet without me.”

You weakly slapped him in the stomach. The attack was met with an amused sigh and another kiss to your forehead. A whisper of “asshole” left your reluctantly smiling lips.

i have been writing this for a solid eight hours now. enjoy

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[endless-ineffabilities]

Diet Mountain Dew

chapter 2 of the National Anthem series

President Aemond Targaryen x f!reporter reader

synopsis: a reporter finds herself entangled in an affair with Aemond Targaryen, the President of Westeros.

in this chapter: In her new assignment, the reader has to immerse herself in political affairs. But will she get caught up in another kind of affair altogether?

word count: 6.5k

themes/warnings: smut! (18+), tension!, language, pining, power imbalance, infidelity, a bit of a slow burn then a decisive unravelling

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

How did you get yourself into this?

You’ve been asking yourself that question a lot lately.

You’re not sure when your job as a reporter became quite so complicated. But you had prepared yourself for hard work, for late nights and challenging deadlines. Highgarden News granted you this assignment—a high-profile, career-defining opportunity to shadow President Aemond Targaryen, as he campaigned from city to city. It was the type of assignment that could make a career, a ticket to bigger stories, bigger roles, maybe even a permanent spot in King’s Landing.

Yet here you are, two weeks into the campaign trail, and you already feel yourself slipping.

What started as an assignment became something else, something you’re almost afraid to name.

Only one news team is granted access for each region, with yours being the one assigned from The Reach. The reporters from the other regions had arrived in droves in Lannisport weeks earlier, and then now in Riverrun, trailing Aemond’s every public appearance. In each city, his campaign team organised luxurious setups, from lavish hotel suites to VIP access at his events. It was a calculated display of power and promise—a future where the country could have all the sophistication and glamour it desired, all thanks to the Targaryen name.

And you are always closest to him. You.

As you move from one city to another, you can feel it growing, that silent speculation from your colleagues. You’re special, they whisper. His favourite. His go-to for the tough questions, the tough days. 

At first, it was easy to ignore. But when Aemond singles you out in every briefing, when his publicist Margaery—almost maternal in her role as his chief handler—asks if you need anything on behalf of “the President’s office,” it gets harder to deny that connection lingering between you and him.

Every day, it’s something else: a small smile sent in your direction, a private nod, a comment to you and only you when a question gets a little too personal. It’s like he’s let you into his inner circle, and even your best friend Theon, who kindly volunteered to assist you throughout this assignment, has become more insistent in his insinuations.

And, as much as you tell yourself otherwise, you find it impossible not to watch him just as closely.

Aemond is, without a doubt, relentless. It’s as if he’s constantly at war, a one-man show of steely-eyed ambition and razor-sharp wit. He doesn’t just address his audience; he commands them. His campaign team circles him like hawks, eager to please, but he always keeps them at arm’s length, rarely indulging in their advice.

His grandfather and campaign manager, Otto Hightower, is the only one who gets close, hovering, guiding Aemond’s every move with a careful hand, though it’s clear they clash. Otto wants a puppet, someone to execute his carefully curated, well-worn tactics to keep the Targaryens in power, and Aemond… Aemond wants something else entirely.

He’s made it clear—he will not be controlled.

“I’m the one they’ll listen to,” he snaps in a rare, private argument you overhear in the hotel corridor one evening. You can almost feel the electric charge in his voice, the tightly controlled anger that lingers beneath the surface. He’s too smart, too keenly aware of his image to lash out publicly, but in these quiet moments, the crack in his polished exterior shows.

“And you’ll destroy your own campaign if you keep refusing to listen,” Otto fires back, with a ferocity that is reserved for his grandson, not the President. “You think they care about you? They want to see power preserved, to see someone they can trust and control—”

“They trust me,” Aemond interrupts, his voice a low, cutting whisper. “And I won’t be controlled by you, or anyone else.”

There’s a silence after that, and you find yourself stepping back, pressing against the hallway wall, your heartbeat spiking as you try to blend into the shadows.

Otto’s voice drops to a chilling calm. “You’d do well to remember, Aemond, that being president means knowing when to bend.”

But Aemond doesn’t bend. Not for anyone.

He finds you, always. In each press briefing, his attention always seems to land on you, pulling you into his orbit whether you want it or not. Because no matter how you deem it to be—inappropriate, overwhelming, distracting—he’s simply too intoxicating.

He relies on you—most of the time only you—when he’s tired, frustrated, or just seeking a confidante. With each private moment, each conversation, the promise you made to yourself of keeping things professional grows weaker and weaker. 

The occasional brush of his hand on your hips or on the small of your back as if letting you know that he’s got you, that he’s there, is nearly enough to get you to break.

And then, there’s the pen incident.

In an afternoon meeting, a few people from his inner circle gathered around, including Margaery, Theon, and Aemond’s loyal security guards, Steve and James. You’re taking notes, barely listening to the endless back-and-forth about strategic points in the city that will “swing the voters,” when Aemond turns to you, breaking the hum of conversation.

“Could you grab that pen from my pocket?” he says, his voice low and casual, as if it’s the most natural request in the world.

Your hand falters, and you glance at him, wondering if you misheard. But no—he’s watching you intently, with that strange, intense expression that you can never quite read. There’s a faint curve to his mouth, a glint of challenge in his eyes. He knows you can’t refuse without drawing attention, yet his request feels deeply, absurdly personal. It feels like a dare.

Aware of the eyes on you, you slip your fingers into the front pocket of his suit jacket, which haphazardly rests on the small table beside you. You begin to suspect that he placed it there deliberately, just for this moment, and this suspicion is confirmed when your fingers brush against something unexpected—something soft, delicate, and unmistakably familiar.

Lace. Your lace panties.

Your breath catches, and you feel heat rise in your cheeks as you realise exactly what he’s done. Those were the same ones you had been missing since that night—the same night you made out in his car, crossing a line you’d sworn you’d never approach.

His gaze doesn’t waver, a flicker of satisfaction flashing across his face as he watches your reaction. It’s a possessive look, a reminder of that moment, of the way he had drawn you in, breaking every rule you’d set for yourself. You quickly pull your hand back, clenching the pen and clearing your throat, avoiding his gaze.

“Something wrong, angel?” he asks smoothly as he retrieves the pen from your outstretched, near-trembling hand. Oh shit. Not here, not now.

Margaery raises an eyebrow at the name, her lips twitching in amusement, and Theon, standing off to the side, looks like he’s holding back a loud, theatrical laugh. But Aemond doesn’t break, doesn’t show even a hint of embarrassment. If anything, he seems pleased, his eyes glinting with amusement as he seamlessly segues into the discussion at hand.

After the meeting, Theon doesn’t waste a second before sidling up to you, eyes glinting with barely concealed amusement. 

“Angel, huh?” He draws out the word, savouring each syllable. “Didn’t realise we’d upgraded to pet names with the Commander-in-Chief. That’s new.”

You give him a deadpan look. “Theon, don’t start.”

“Oh, but I’ve already started,” he says, all faux seriousness. “I mean, what’s next? Is he going to give you a little heart emoji in his messages? Add a winky face?”

“Don’t you have something better to do than dissect my life?”

“Normally, yes,” he replies, feigning deep thought. “But in this case? Absolutely not.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “In fact, I think I owe him a thank you for giving me endless material. And you know Margaery caught it too—she’ll have that eyebrow arched for weeks.”

“Are you done?” you sigh, but he’s relentless, clearly enjoying himself.

“Oh, honey, I’ve barely begun,” he says, leaning in as he glances around to make sure no one’s listening. “Because let’s be real. You’re not getting called angel for, what? Your groundbreaking, objective reporting?”

“Theon, what the fu—”

“Yeah, I bet he’s covering you too… literally...”

“You’re gross.”

“...with his tight body, and his thick c—”

“Okay! Okay, I get the picture!”

The next day, it becomes ever clearer that Riverrun—a critical, symbolic region—has remained steadfastly out of reach.

The Tullys, who are influential in Riverrun, have held a deep-seated mistrust toward Aemond’s family for generations. Once allies, the Tullys and Targaryens grew increasingly distant over the years, tensions flaring over each slight, each perceived grab for power by either family. Riverrun is deeply traditional, loyal to old values and wary of Aemond’s ambitious plans, which feel to them like unwelcome interference. And with Cregan Stark—Aemond’s primary rival—making calculated moves to win over the Tullys, Aemond’s approval ratings in Riverrun are slipping even further.

Cregan Stark is as adept at appealing to people’s hearts as Aemond is at appealing to their logic. With his easy smile and steady presence, Stark has positioned himself as the family man, the man who values every corner of the country and pledges to protect its heritage.

Aemond, on the other hand, is seen as a firebrand—a Targaryen not content to merely lead but determined to change, to push, to innovate. Stark’s connection to the Tullys is not just strategic; he has endeared himself to them, winning over not only the common people but Governor Edmure Tully himself, the unyielding leader who holds significant sway over Riverrun’s political landscape.

Still, Aemond persists, though his methods grow sharper and less forgiving by the day.

The morning in Riverrun is bitterly cold, as if the city itself has turned on Aemond. After his latest speech, which was met with only a polite smattering of applause, he retreats with his team to a private conference room in the hotel, his jaw clenched, his demeanour taut as he listens to Margaery brief him on the polling numbers.

“Riverrun isn’t budging,” she says, her voice hesitant but steady. “They’re not warm to us—and to be honest, Cregan Stark’s campaign is winning them over. He’s made a point to connect with the locals, attend Tully family events, visit their memorials. His team’s doing an incredible job of selling him as someone who’s part of their world.”

“Their world?” Aemond repeats, his voice laced with disdain as he leans back in his chair. “Is that supposed to mean something to me? I don’t run campaigns based on sentiment.”

“Sentiment isn’t useless,” she counters, glancing around at the team with a knowing look. “Especially not here. Riverrun values its heritage, its ties to old families. Stark’s giving them exactly what they want—a friendly face who promises stability.”

You observe him from the far side of the room, notebook in hand. You’ve been watching him closely, taking mental notes, seeing just how he ticks under pressure. And right now, his restraint is paper-thin.

Theon nudges your arm, leaning close enough to whisper, “You know he’s never going to win them over with these tactics, right? Riverrun doesn’t want what he’s selling.”

You nod slightly, acknowledging Theon’s point, but say nothing. It’s true: there’s no sense of warmth or nostalgia in Aemond’s approach. Instead, he comes off as cold and unyielding, refusing to play the game of familiarity and tradition that Riverrun adores. Stark, on the other hand, seems to step right into that world effortlessly, casting himself as the everyman with a steady hand and the charm that disarms even the most sceptical locals.

Aemond’s voice breaks your thoughts. “The Tullys can have their nostalgia, their small-minded ways. But it’s a relic of the past,” he says, a sharp edge in his tone. “I’m not here to coddle them. I’m here to bring Riverrun—and the entire country—into the future, not keep them mired in their ancestral grudges.”

Otto clears his throat, his gaze calculating as he turns toward Aemond. “If you ignore the Tullys, you risk alienating a significant power base. And frankly, this region is one you can’t afford to lose. Stark may look like an innocuous threat, but don’t underestimate him, Aemond. He’s winning because he’s using tactics that work, that make him appear… sympathetic.”

Aemond’s mouth twists, barely masking his contempt. “Sympathetic isn’t the same as capable,” he says icily, his gaze flicking to you. “But maybe the press has some insights they’d like to share?”

You feel the weight of his gaze and everyone else’s as the team shifts their attention toward you. For a moment, you hesitate, caught off guard. You meet Aemond’s intense stare and try to keep your response measured. “Cregan Stark’s strategy here seems to be focusing on shared values,” you say slowly, choosing each word with care. “He’s connecting with people on a personal level. He’s convincing them that he’s one of them, someone who understands them. And while you’re pushing for change, they may not feel ready for it… or see the need.”

Aemond’s eyes narrow, his expression unreadable as he takes in your words. “So you’re saying I should be more like Stark?” he asks, his voice carrying an edge that raises goosebumps along your arms.

“No, not exactly. But it might help if you met them where they are before asking them to follow you somewhere else. Sometimes, people need to feel seen before they’re willing to listen.”

His expression tightens, and for a second, you think you’ve overstepped. But then he lets out a low, humourless laugh, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do nostalgia tours,” he says finally, his voice low. “I’ve already won once before, that’s why I’m sitting here. They still don’t know who I really am? Fine. I’ll show them. But I’m not going to beg them to like me.” 

It doesn’t take long before he dismisses the team, instructing them to meet later in the evening for the next round of campaign preparations. Everyone files out of the room in a silence that feels heavier than it should, but you’ve only just stood from your seat when he commands, “Stay.”

You look around, and it is only Margaery and Theon left in the room, but they barely pause on their way to the doors, communicating their understanding that Aemond pertains to you. They’re used to it by now. 

“So,” he says, his voice smoother and more level than mere moments ago, “we’re here, angel. Riverrun.” He’s perched on the front edge of his desk—his usual spot, whenever he calls you in for a word.

You only emit a noncommittal hum, legs crossed as you sit on the chair in front of him. A small act of defiance because he continues to ignore your request for him to stop calling you angel. Never mind that there is no one else within earshot at the moment, save for Steve and James patrolling the hallway outside. 

“Nothing to say…” he posits the question, and you quickly jump into a response.

“Well, there is—”

But then he adds, purposefully cutting through at that moment to catch you off guard, with the slyest of smirks gracing his lips. “...angel?”

You sigh in defeat. “I told you—”

“Not to call you angel, I know, I know.” He waves a hand dismissively, and you know he’s just going to disregard the repetition of your plea. “But it’s the only name that feels right. That or… I don’t know… Baby? Sweetheart?”

Mortified, you look away from him, scanning the view outside the windows and ignoring the warmth you felt from hearing baby roll smoothly off his tongue. “None of those, Aemond, please. You know what, nevermind.”

He carries on, laughter still evident in his voice. “Tell me, are the people here in Riverrun right to be sceptical of me?”

“They’re wary, yes,” you admit, choosing your words carefully. “You’re a Targaryen; the older generation still remembers your family’s history. Frankly, many of them are wondering if you’re actually here for them or if you’re just trying to settle old scores. It also doesn’t help that Cregan Stark has endeared himself to the Tullys, and if he has their endorsement—”

“Then I’ve lost Riverrun,” Aemond states, his eyes darkening at the possibility, but he doesn’t lose his composure. Or if he feels the slightest hint of worry, he doesn’t let it show. If anything, he’s much calmer now, with just the two of you in the room, as opposed to when he was surrounded by his team. “And what do you think?”

“Well, the Tullys—”

“No,” he clarifies sharply. “What do you think of me?”

He stands perfectly still, all of his focus directed at you. Your stomach twists with the sudden intimacy of his question, but you meet his gaze, refusing to back down. 

“I think you’re ambitious. Smart, ruthless when you need to be. But I also think you haven’t shown enough respect to the values of tradition and ancestral heritage. It’s clear in how you talk about the opposition, how you dismiss their concerns. People feel that.”

His jaw clenches, a flash of anger in his eyes. “I dismiss what doesn’t matter,” he says coldly. “I’m not here to appease everyone, nor to waste time on people who aren’t willing to listen. I’m here to make real changes.”

“You’re here to secure your legacy, Aemond,” you counter, unable to hold back the accusation. “It’s about power as much as it is about the people. Maybe more.”

The air becomes charged, and his stony mask almost falls to give way to surprise. You’re willing to wager that no one in your position has ever spoken so directly to him before. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve crossed a line. But then his lips curl into a smirk, and he lets out a low chuckle.

“Perhaps it’s both, angel,” he concedes, surprising you. “But ambition isn’t a sin, you know. Everyone in this room wants something out of this campaign.” He gives you a pointed look, as if daring you to argue.

You’re unsure whether to feel guilty of the truth he’s pertaining to. You did accept this position because of the prestige that it offers, the way it can doubtlessly do wonders for the trajectory of your career. And only that… right?

Aemond can’t have been a motivation, no matter how strong his pull is. No matter how often you have imagined that it were his fingers, in the place of yours, stroking your wet folds before you fall asleep.  

You cross your arms, standing your ground. “There’s ambition, and then there’s ruthlessness. People don’t trust a man who’ll do whatever it takes to win. They need to believe you’ll put them first.”

His expression shifts, something flickering in his eyes that you can’t quite read. He crosses the space between you with slow, measured steps until he’s close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, and he plants his hands on the armrest of your seat, caging you in.

“And what about you, my angel?” he asks, voice low, his gaze intense. “Do you trust me?”

Your breath catches, his proximity affecting you more than you’d care to admit. His hand brushes against your arm, featherlike and tantalising, and you feel your resolve hanging on by a thread. How soon until you surrender another pair of your lace panties to be his salacious keepsake?

“I trust you to be who you are,” you say quietly. “The question is whether that’s enough.”

He lets out a long sigh, his gaze softening, and for a moment, you  see a glimpse of something more—a vulnerability hidden beneath the polished veneer of the aspiring president. He watches you with a strange intensity, as though he’s trying to read your every thought.

“We’re not so different, you and I,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “We both know how to play the game.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you force yourself to look away, breaking the spell. You know the price of getting too close, of letting yourself get sucked into his orbit. It would be so easy to lean into him, to let yourself be caught up in his ambition, but you can’t afford to lose yourself.

“I’m just here for the story,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel. But even as you say it, you know it’s a lie.

“Go ahead then, say it,” he murmurs, coaxing you. His gaze is trained on you, hard yet unmistakably interested. “Tell me how I’m arrogant, tell me how you don’t need this job, don’t need me,” he taunts, but his eyes betray him—they’re daring you, almost pleading, though he’d never admit it.

You hold your ground, refusing to let his words twist your resolve. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” you retort, but the bite in your voice only seems to amuse him. The corner of his mouth curves, barely a smile, yet somehow even more alluring than a full one. 

He leans closer, his scent enveloping you—something fresh and faintly musky, muddled by the thick aroma of premium-grade cigars. “Then why don’t you walk away?” he asks, as though he already knows the answer. “Are you still here because of your job?” he murmurs, voice dripping with sarcasm, “Or maybe… you enjoy this.”

Your words falter, caught in your throat. Because you don’t want to lie. Not here, not with his gaze stripping away every pretense, every defense you’ve carefully held between you.

He reads it on your face before you can speak, and it emboldens him. His fingers trail up your arm, over the thin material of your white blouse, and his touch is maddening. His hand moves to cup your face, and the tenderness in the gesture is an almost unbearable contrast to the edge in his voice.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he whispers, daring you.

You can’t. And in the silence, he makes his move.

Without warning, his mouth is on yours, fierce and unyielding, a kiss that speaks volumes about everything you’ve both left unsaid. The world blurs, narrows down to the way his hands move against your back, the press of his lips on yours. Every nerve, every inch of you feels ignited, drawn helplessly toward him.

Aemond pulls you from your seat, carrying you to his expansive desk without much effort. He sweeps an arm across the desk, papers and official documents scattering to the floor, pens clattering with a reckless abandon he rarely lets show. For once, the President’s carefully curated world is disrupted—by you.

Your ass slides along the smooth surface, his arms bracing at your sides. And even as you resist, pressing your palms against his chest in some futile attempt at defiance, he only pulls you closer, responding with a hunger that’s every bit as intense as his usual restraint. 

Aemond steps back just enough to tug his tie loose, letting it fall to the desk before undoing the buttons of his shirt, each one revealing more of the hard lines of his chest. When he finally shrugs the shirt off, he returns to you, his hands trailing down your thighs, his touch firm, almost searing.

“You don’t want to leave,” he breathes against your lips, his voice roughened by need. His mouth traces a path along your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. “Tell me you do, angel, and I’ll let you go.”

Your lips part, but no words come, just a breath that’s half sigh, half surrender. And the truth is, you don’t want to. Not even close.

He pulls back to catch your gaze, the weight of his stare laden with desire. “You understand what this means, don’t you?” he asks, his voice thick with urgency. 

“Wh-what does it mean?”

His mouth curls into a sly smile, one that’s both playful and predatory. “It means you’re all mine, angel,” he declares. 

Before you can respond, he lowers his mouth to your neck, trailing soft, heated kisses along the sensitive skin. 

“Do you know how much I’ve craved this?” he murmurs against your skin. “I’ve fought every part of myself to keep this professional, as you wished. But every time you look at me, I can’t help but want more.”

His fingers trace along the zipper of your pencil skirt, and as he slowly pulls it off, his eyes stay locked on yours. When the skirt falls away, followed by your blouse, and finally, your undergarments, he leans back, taking in the sight of you with unabashed greed. For a brief second, his gaze softens, a look of admiration flashing across his face, before his jaw tightens and he regains his control. 

He tugs at your thighs, urging you to wrap your legs around his waist, and as you obey, your body instinctively pulls him closer, pressing against him. You can feel the hard length of him against your core, and a soft moan escapes your lips as he grinds against you.

His fingers dig into your flesh as he rocks his hips into yours, so firmly that his signet ring is sure to make its marking. You arch your back, pushing against him, craving the friction, the connection, the release that feels just within reach. “Aemond,” you manage to gasp, the sound barely above a whisper. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Oh yeah, baby? Shouldn’t… Or wouldn’t?” He knows exactly how to push you, and he revels in it, his gaze flicking down to your lips before returning to your eyes.

“Shouldn’t,” you decide, feeling emboldened.

“Good,” he growls, a glimmer of triumph in his eyes. He captures your lips once again, and you can taste the desperation in his kiss, a hunger that ignites something primal inside you.

In a sudden movement, he grips your waist and lifts you off the desk, his strength almost overwhelming. He turns you around, pressing you down against the cool surface, your cheek brushing against the scattered papers and pens, the remnants of his work now a forgotten afterthought. He holds you there, his body cocooning you, and you can feel the heat radiating from him, the way he’s anchored in the moment, unyielding in his intent.

You hear the rattling of his belt buckle as he hurriedly shimmies off his suit trousers, until he’s left as naked as the day he was born. The fucking President, in all his glory, his glistening cock fully erect as if saluting the bastard it belongs to. 

You can’t help but gasp as he positions himself behind you, his tip propped against your ass. His hands roam your body, gliding over the curves of your hips, the swell of your thighs, and you shudder when he trails his index finger along your slick folds, prepping your hole for entry. The thrill of being so exposed, so completely vulnerable before him, only makes you feel hotter.

Aemond leans closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Are you ready for me, angel?” he asks, the question hanging heavy in the air, thick with implication.

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze, feeling the undeniable chemistry that crackles between you. “Yes,” you whisper, and the admission feels like a declaration.

And with that, he pushes himself inside you, entering you with a powerful thrust that steals the breath from your lungs. You gasp at the sensation, a mix of pain and pleasure that ignites every nerve ending in your body. The desk creaks beneath you as he moves, holding you tightly, anchoring you against him as he finds a rhythm that’s both unforgiving and intoxicating.

You push back against him, matching his rhythm, letting the heat and pleasure wash over you in waves. Every thrust sends sparks racing through your body, and you can’t help but moan, the sound echoing off the walls, mingling with the soft, urgent sounds of skin against skin.

“Uhh, yeah, baby, just like that,” he growls. “Let me take you—”

Your body responds instinctively, tightening around him, drawing him deeper, and you feel the rush of euphoria just within reach.

“Aghhh… please, please!” you gasp, your words bordering on desperate, a testament to the need coursing through you.

He grips your hips, urging you to meet him, to give in to the wild abandon of the moment. “Not yet,” he snaps harshly, but the smirk on his lips betrays the pleasure he finds in your desperation.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to change positions, and before you can fully process what’s happening, he lifts you up, urging you to wrap your legs around his waist. In a fluid motion, he shifts you both, and he climbs atop the desk so that he has you in missionary, your body flat against the cool surface. 

He thrusts into you again, even deeper this time, the sensation overwhelming as he fills you completely.

As he looks down at you, the image of your flushed cheeks, beautifully fucked expression, and the way his name rolls off your tongue in sensual mewls loops in his mind, each time with a sharper pang of satisfaction.

“Look at me,” he growls, gripping your jaw when your head flops to the side. He demands your eyes—he wants to peer into your soul when you finally crumble. “Look at me when you fall apart, baby. I want to see you unravel.”

“Aemond, fuck yes—” He sees you give in, eyelids fluttering as you obey. He likes being in control, but having you like this might be enough to make this part of him fray. Just say the word and he’s yours. You’ll be the only one who can command the Commander-in-Chief.

“Oh, my angel,” he purrs, a sensual melody that is soft and rough all the same, as he stretches you with his girth and brings you to ecstasy with every roll of his hips. “My beautiful, beautiful angel. You like this, don’t you? You like when I take your body like this? You’re so fucking hot, baby…”

“Yeah, yeah… I fucking love it—”

“You’re gonna love me,” he murmurs, his tone dropping to an intimate hush. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

You’re gonna love him. Whatever the president wants, the president gets. 

“Yes, yes, yes—”

Aemond thinks of making you swear it. To promise that you will love him. Perhaps, if you say it in an official capacity—under oath, for instance—you’d actually fall in love with him for fear of perjury. It’s a childish thought, but he considers it, and mulls it over with as much seriousness as he does the labour policy frameworks Criston is proposing.

He can make you do it. He wants to. 

Please, please, angel. 

“You mean it, baby?” Aemond asks you, not minding that your pupils are blown out from sheer pleasure and your mind is probably going haywire. “You swear you’ll love me?”

Your lips quiver around a gasp as the swollen mushroom tip of his cock drives roughly into your g-spot, the whites of your eyes visible as they roll to the back of your head. “Whatever you want, Aemond.”

You said it. So he has you now. No takebacks.

He sits back, eyes glued to your writhing figure from above, lording over you like you’re his most prized possession. He takes one hand and uses it to lift your hips, raising your pelvis a few inches off the mattress, while his other hand comes to rest firmly on your lower belly, pressing on your flesh as if sensing his cock buried within. He feels it all—from the outside, the outline of his pulsating length sliding in and out of your core, and inside, your walls clenching on instinct when he slams deep. 

The ruthlessness in his gaze spurs you on, as well as how he handles your body, positioning you right where he wants you. His angel, in the perfect angle, a vision as he hits the right spot with every wet-sounding squelch. Your glistening juices coat his cock, and he has to keep himself from bending down and drinking them all up from you. It’s an exercise of willpower to resist sucking your folds and licking every bit of the sticky, tangy moisture. All his, just as you’re all his to eat, to devour.

But that’s for afterward. Now he has to cum in you first, and decorate your insides with his seed. May the gods bless Westeros, his constituents all recite. 

But nothing compares to you. The gods don’t hold a candle to your light.

There is only his angel, taking his cock so well like a good girl, like a good little slut.

“I’ll fill you up, angel,” he murmurs, his voice rough and dripping with lust. “Give you everything I have. Bless you with every bit of my fucking… patriotism.”

“Fuck yes, Sir,” you whine helplessly. He is so gone.

“Oh, my angel is so needy, isn’t she?”

“Yes, Sir… need you so much…”

“So mouthy, baby,” he says proudly, a deep laugh rumbling in his chest. “Are you going to sound this pornographic in the morning? Ask me… ask me how I like my pussy in an interview?”

You reach for him as you sweetly giggle at his words, your fingers curling at the back of his neck as you pull him down for a kiss that’s hot, messy, and all-consuming. He moans in your mouth, looking at you all cunt-drunk with heavy-lidded eyes. 

You trace his jaw as you attempt to come up with something coherent. “That’s—” Slam. He slows his pace, punctuating your words with rough thrusts that take your breath away. “—a good question—” Pound. “—Sir.” Plunge. “So… how do you like your pussy, Mr. President?”

He laughs. Now that’s one question he could get used to hearing more often. But only if it’s from you.

“Hmm.” He curls his lips, pretending to consider while caressing your face. “Let me see… I like my pussy… wet, tight, and completely fucking yours.”

“Good answer.”

“Warm around my cock… just like this.” His aforementioned member twitches as it massages your inner walls, and it feels so good when you tighten around him, that he has to bite his lip to restrain from letting out a feral growl.

“—s’that so?”

“Yeah, angel,” he smirks, reaching down to flick your aching bud. “You see, it’s gotta be on this body right here.”

“Sure,” you say in mock defiance. “Bet you tell that to all your women.”

“No,” he breathes, his roguish smirk in place, “only the journalists.”

With an indignant whine, you slap his chest. “You ass!” Your voice is light, full of warmth, and it prompts him to make a face at you, pulling the corners of his lips downward. Your laughter echoes freely, and something in him switches, as if he’s been disarmed. 

He lets his forehead rest against yours. He knows he’s teetering on a precipice of something he won’t be able to pull back from, but he feels like jumping into the void if it means being with you. “Are you calling your president an ass? My, my, angel, that could be a felony,” he teases, his brows quirking. 

“What, are you going to send me away?”

Aemond’s expression hardens for a moment. “Not a chance.”

He increases his pace again, his hips blurring in the motion. The two of you desperately chase your climax, settling in an unforgiving rhythm—your ankles suspended in the air with your legs spread wide, him ducking down to suck your tit or bite along your jawline, his balls grazing the flesh of your ass. 

When the moment overtakes you, his grip tightens, an unspoken command, and you give in, your whole body quivering underneath him. He follows you over the edge, groaning deeply as he reaches his own release, warmth spilling into you as he involuntarily shudders. His breathing is heavy against your skin when he finally collapses beside you, his arm slipping around your shoulders, holding you close as the last ripples of pleasure fade.

“You know, if I’d known what it would take to get that fire out of you,” he murmurs with a smirk, “we’d have done this sooner.”

You raise a brow, playfully challenging. “Assuming, of course, I’m even coming back after this.”

Aemond rolls his eyes, drawing you even closer, but there’s a hint of vulnerability lingering there.

His forehead presses against yours, and his pulse steadies as he allows himself a moment of closeness, a silent confession. "Stay with me," he whispers, and he is suddenly stripped bare, because the words slipped out without his permission.

“Aemond—”

“I don’t want you going anywhere, okay?” Though his words are possessive, there’s a plea just beneath the surface.

You don’t answer with words; instead, you let your hand reach up to cradle his face, thumb brushing the faint scar underneath his ghost-white prosthetic.

And he deems it more than enough.

The next morning dawns bright and unyielding, the weight of Aemond’s words lingering in your mind, but you’re determined to focus on the task at hand, burying yourself in notes and strategies for the day’s events.

But your sense of composure shatters, when you’re met with the imposing figure of Floris Baratheon, the First Lady herself. She glides toward you under the harsh lighting of the hotel lobby, impeccably dressed in a tailored fuschia suit that speaks of authority and sophistication, her presence commanding the room’s attention. 

“So, you’re the flavour of the month,” she says, a mocking lilt colouring her voice. “I’ve… heard about you. Honestly, I was expecting more.”

You straighten, feigning confidence despite the nervous flutter in your stomach. “I’m here for the campaign coverage, ma'am,” you reply, keeping your tone professional, but she’s not having any of it.

Her eyes dance with cruel amusement. “How quaint. Must be quite the thrill, getting special treatment from the President himself. Access like that must mean you’re more than just another reporter. Just a passing phase, I’m sure. A little distraction to help him cope with all this pressure.”

You bristle at her insinuation, indignation rising within you, along with the inevitable shame. “I’m just doing my job.”

She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let me give you a word of advice—don’t get too comfortable. My dearest husband has a habit of moving on when the novelty wears off.”

The venom in her words strikes a nerve, and you’re struck speechless, searching for a retort that won’t come off as surprised or defensive—and finding none.

Floris laughs at your expression, a cold, biting sound that sends a chill down your spine. “You know, you’re not the first ‘angel’ Aemond has forcibly inserted into our marriage, and I assume you certainly won’t be the last.”

With that, she flicks her hair over her shoulder and walks away, but she glances back one last time, adding, “Enjoy your little fling, angel.”

a/n: and so it officially begins! It's going to be tough out here for our girl, getting involved with a married man. The fucking President, at that! Oh well. As long as she doesn't fall in love. Let me know what yous anticipate from the story (apart from even more filth that's sure to come) 🤍🤍🤍

Vhagar taglist

@kravitzwhore @litchifaerie @g-cf2020 @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @noxytopy @fan-goddess @m00n5t0n3 @diannnnsss @nsr-15 @the-awkward-barbie @rockstwrsz @yellowstonebaby @urdeftonesgrrrl @eddieslut69 @callsigncrushx @starwarsdinosaur @qweq-6802 @tulips2715 @joyismm @just-mj-or-not @crystal-siren @all-for-aemond @alokaaaaa @vhwyrm @purpleskiesandroses @technicallystrangereview @jjkysnk @inesdiary96 @weirdblob21 @lonelyladyghost @tssf-imagines @nurtargaryen @paula-lkr @queenofshinigamis @breezyjin @empfm @amanda08319 @unrealwinchester @optimizche @seamaiden @spoffyos @subliiminals @believeinthefireflies95 @ex0tic-vgh @anukulee (cont.)

[dilemmaontwolegs]

The Perfect Life || CL16 {8}

Summary: Life has flipped upside down: the people supposed to protect you hurt you and the man who hurt you protects you. Warnings: angst, fluff WC: 2.3k F1 Masterlist || One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight Taglist: RETIRED Head over to my dedicated library blog @dilemmaslibrary and opt to get notifications from there.

Nausea churned your stomach and you were grateful dinner hadn’t been served or it would surely be making its return. Blood rushed past your ears and throbbed in your head as you tried to focus on the sheet music in front of you and not the cold touch of sweat beginning to coat your skin.

“Don’t fuck this up,” your mother warned.

You vividly remembered the last time you messed up, fumbling over the tune in front of her friends. She had sent them on their way to the pool house bar and the moment the door closed she slammed the lid of the piano down before you could react. You hadn’t been able to fight for weeks with the thick bandages that kept the finger splints in place.

With trembling hands you lifted the lid that protected the ivory keys from dust. It weighed more than it looked and your eyes scanned the wood for any sign of the blood that had stained it. There was no point searching for something that couldn’t be seen, you found the housekeepers were able to clean blood out of anything.

“You’re shaking,” Charles whispered as he took a seat on the bench with you. His hands took yours and concern bled into his green eyes.

“I’m fine, I just need to get this right. It has to be perfect.”

He frowned at the detached tone and let you pull your hands free, but he didn’t leave as you raised your hands to the keys and stared vacantly at the music book on the shelf. Fingers he had seen clenched tight into fists and fighting with raw strength now moved delicately across the keys and your eyes closed. To anyone in the room it would look serene, divine even, but close up Charles could see the shimmering of tears beneath the lashes.

Something, or someone, had utterly broken the woman beside him and Charles found out just how much he could truly hate when he looked up to see your mother. Her watchful eyes were eager but it wasn’t for the music. The eyes that were the same exact shade as yours were too invested in your performance. It was a stark comparison to when his mother watched him play. There was no pride, merely cold calculations and the anticipation of a mistake.

“Shit,” you cursed under your breath as your little finger seized up and failed to reach the key needed.

Fire ignited in your mother’s eyes at the mistake, not that anyone else would have caught it unless they were pianists too. Cruel intentions played across her face as Charles shifted closer on the seat and reached for your hand, slipping his beneath yours and taking over the piece, finishing it almost perfectly.

“Such a delightful duet,” your mother clapped, accepting the applause as if she had done the work. “Dinner will be served in a moment.”

The crowd dispersed to take their appointed seats but you couldn’t move as you sat with your hands slumped on your lap. A shadow fell across you and you tensed, waiting for the pain to come.

“Come on, baby, we’re leaving.” Charles rose to his feet and planted himself between you and your mother.

“The evening isn’t over.”

Charles curled his arm under yours and pulled you to your feet but you felt like a puppet, not in control of your own body. “It is for us, and every other evening too.”

“I don’t know what game you are playing at, boy, but she belongs to me and she isn’t going anywhere.”

“Y/N is a person, not a belonging. She isn’t a price in a deal or weight in a business decision.” Charles snickered as her eyes widened. “Yes, I know about that. I wonder what the world would think of this family if they found out the truth too.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

You finally had the strength to look at him and see utter seriousness set in his handsome features. He was willing to make a scene for you with some of the nations most affluent figures in the next room, but that was exactly why your mother ceded to him.

“Go,” she snapped, an angry finger pointing to the door before she stared down her nose at you. “I won’t forget this when you come crawling back to me.”

You barely spoke a word as you followed Charles outside where he called his brother. “Tur, I need a favour. Can you come and pick us up? No, we haven’t been arrested.”

You didn’t realise you were shivering until he unbuttoned his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. Warmth and his scent enveloped you and you immediately started to feel better, your fingers unfurling from the stiff fists they had been closed into.

“He’s going to be at least half an hour,” Charles said as he tucked his phone away and looked around, spotting curious eyes watching from the window. “We should get a taxi and wait somewhere else.”

“Can we walk?”

Charles glanced at your heels. “Do you want to get changed?”

You shook your head and started to make your way down the driveway. “I would say the door is already locked.”

When you reached the gates you knew Franco was already advised of your impending departure. The mountain of a man took up almost all of the security booth and his sad eyes followed each step, but you kept your head high.

“Take care of everyone for me, big guy,” you said as you passed the open gates. He gave the smallest of nods before his lips pursed and he hit the button to close the gates as he had been ordered.

“You’re taking this rather calmly,” Charles commented as he laced his hand in yours and crossed the road to walk along the waterfront.

“I’m sure she was expecting a tantrum.” You smiled at the thought of her disappointment before a laugh bubbled up. “God, she is going to hate you.”

Charles laughed along with you and pulled you to a stop to watch the sun setting over the water. His chest pressed to your back as he held the safety rail either side of your body and his lips warmed your cheek. “She can hate me all she wants, it was worth it. You are worth it.”

You rested your head on his shoulder as the sun dipped below the horizon and sighed. “You make it hard for me to hate you.”

“Good, I don’t want you to hate me.”

With the red hues of light fading quickly you continued on the walk out of the suburbs and into the city. The smells from the fine dining establishments reminded you that you had missed dinner but when Charles asked where you would like to eat there was only one place that called to you.

“McDonalds?” he double checked, frowning as you looked up at the golden arches with what he could only imagine was childish wonder. “Wait, you’ve never had McDonalds?”

“Do they serve caviar?” you shot back.

“They might start when they see you,” he teased, pointing out how massively overdressed you were as he opened the door to the fast food chain. “After you, my lady.”

Charles could see you were uncertain of yourself as you checked what was on the menu. Your posture was relaxed but your eyes were darting around the room, taking in the exits and the other patrons who weren’t dressed nearly as nice as you. “I don’t know what to get,” you finally admitted after spending too long trying to choose one combo.

“Why don’t you go choose a table and I will order for you?”

You chose a booth in the back corner with some privacy and ignored the strange looks you were given as you walked by in a Dior gown. It was only when you sat down that you realised how silly it was to be wearing a 20 carat diamond necklace with no security personnel so you unclasped the chain and bundled it into your hands beneath the table.

A few moments later Charles arrived with a tray of food and slid in beside you.

“So we’ve got the classics: cheeseburger, Big Mac, nuggets, fries and a sundae.” He opened all the packaging and tore the top off a sauce punnet before dragging a nugget through it. “Here, sweet and sour is the best.”

You parted your lips and took a bite, surprised by how sweet and tangy the sauce was with the crunch of the crispy nugget. Your eyes widened and Charles grinned. “Good, no?”

“Holy fuck,” you moaned. “That is delicious!”

“Try this,” Charles said as he dunked a bunch of fries into the ice cream.

“Seriously?”

“Trust me.”

You were dubious but opened your mouth for the food he offered and frowned at the contradictory tastes on your tongue. Hot met cold, sweet met salty, crunchy met creamy. You didn’t hate it but couldn’t decide if you liked it either so you gave it another attempt.

Charles took a burger for himself and quietly ate while you took a bite out of everything before choosing the cheeseburger as the simplest yet satisfactory item of them all.

“It’s like watching a newborn try food for the first time,” he chuckled.

You scrunched up the paper napkin you had dabbed your lips with and tossed it at his grinning face. “Asshole.”

“What? You’re cute.”

“Thank you, you’re not too bad yourself, brother,” Arthur said as he dropped into the booth beside you and flicked a finger at the layered chiffon sleeve of your dress. “You look gorgeous.”

You tossed your hair back over your shoulder and tucked a hand under your chin with a dramatic pout. “This is the look of a homeless woman, Tur. I have nothing but my name and the clothes on my back, but your brother plans to take them both off me.”

Arthur tipped his head back with a laugh and stole the remaining chicken nuggets. “You can ditch the wedding plan now if you have been successfully thrown out. What happened anyway?”

Charles watched as you shrugged and murmured quietly, “She had me play for her important guests and I messed up.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed and he picked up your hands, turning them over to check for any injuries. “Did she hurt you?”

You gently removed your hands and tucked them back on your lap. “Not this time, Charles intervened.”

Charles had never seen such a look of relief or gratitude from his brother and despite knowing he had done the right thing, he wished he could have done something sooner. Clearing his throat of the lump of regret that clogged it, Charles started to collect the rubbish on the table before picking up the tray.

You frowned and looked around for staff. “Isn’t someone going to do that for you?”

“Not here, no,” he said as he disposed of it himself before holding his hand out. “Ready to go home?”

Your argument to stay at the rundown factory was vetoed by both Leclercs so Arthur had driven you back to Monaco with Charles. It was strange to walk back into Charles’ apartment with your worldly possessions in a gym bag and briefly wondered if you were truly prepared for the consequences. You might act brave but there were really only two worlds you knew, the one in the gilded cage and the one in the iron cage. Both involved fighting of two very different kinds but both were for survival; of status or life.

This was foreign.

“I’ll take you shopping in the morning before we go to the track.”

You pulled the necklace from the pocket of his jacket you still wore and placed it on the table. “I don’t know how much this is worth but it’s Cartier.”

Charles frowned at the change in the confident woman he knew and he picked up the heavy chain embedded with diamonds. “You don’t have to worry about money,” he promised as he stepped behind you and clasped it around your throat. “I promised I would take care of you.”

He turned you in his arms and smiled as he ran a finger along the gems resting in the valley of your breasts. “You were born to wear diamonds.”

You couldn’t quite find the words to thank him because a simple thank you wasn’t enough so you slipped his jacket off and draped it over a chair before reaching for the hidden zip at your side. You brushed the sleeves off your shoulders and let the dress float to the floor under his watchful eyes before stepping closer. With each step another item of clothing was lost - heels, bra, panties, gone - until there was only one thing left. “The necklace?”

Charles smirked as he pulled you flush to his body and tipped your chin back to meet his darkening eyes. “Leave it on.”

[verysmolnerd]

Being the spouse of a Supervillain

You're the only person who he won't hurt. Why would he? You've been at his beck and call since he couldn't remember when.

However, you feel that you're walking on eggshells at times when the actuators have control of his psyche.

He keeps urging you to move on, that there was no place for you here; in the rickety old building you've shared since he bought the place. He honestly doesn't want to see you have a close encounter with the reaper again.

That being, you stay put, that the man you married is still in there. The shadows of his smile is hidden behind that snarky smirk. Some of the -rarest- most quiet nights, are spent on the torn up couch. It's almost like nothing changed at all.

You put your life on pause for a moment, you didn't go into work at all for weeks. You knew there would be questions, there always would be.

When you do come into work, you were given reduced hours because your boss wanted you to mourn the man you once knew, you refrained from answering any of those prying your personal life for issues. You normally report them within a few days, and then they're working in a whole different complex.

Even if the actuators are permanently a part of him, it's still Otto. His habits are still there, no matter what he tries to tell you.

You've also noticed that the arms still respect their creator to some extent, they never lay a finger on you. If they grab you, they are slow and patient never brutal.

One time you had gotten bruised from the pressure that the arms gave when they placed you away from the project. They soon fell limp while Otto had the nastiest look on his face. He never looked at you when he was like this.

He is always a gentleman to you, through layers of frowning.

The actuators only want his project done, therefore your Otto is just their puppet. However, they see you as a distraction until the beings of machine realize that Otto is human.

So, there isn't long lunch breaks together as you're used to before this mess. However, he eats in silence; in fear of the actuators lashing out on you for just seemingly wanting shreds of your life with him before.

You don't comment on his encounters with Spider-Man, you know all too well that the superhero gets bad press on the regular. Not to mention, Otto- sorry, you end up correcting yourself when the actuators are in control- Ock isn't entirely fond of him.

You knew exactly when Otto was too tired to fight the AI influence, because there have been consecutive all nighters the closer the reactor gets to being completed.

The times when the actuators keep him glued to the desk are when you try to get him clothing and alter them to accommodate the four tentacles protruding from his lower back.

There was one night that you consider was very special within the past few months that his magnum opus welded themselves to his back.

He had found some of his old outfits that weren't destroyed, and pressed down any urges from the arms.

"May this broken man take you out on a date?" You were near tears as you accepted.

He brought you to the top of a building with a makeshift table. It reminded you of your first dinner with him back in college.

He tells you that he's going to find a way to remove the arms and start anew. He wanted you to buy an apartment and to bring him to it on a specific day.

Considering that he's fighting for his life to look like the man you knew and loved -although you've reassured him multiple times that you still love him- you agree in a heartbeat. Happy that you'll both have a semblance of what life was before this.

The day to pick him up from the docks comes and you find no sight of him or the shambles of your house. It's all deep in the river below.

You can't recall how long you stayed there, but you had to live on. Live, that's what he always wanted you to do.

It's very hard at first, but life goes on.

One night -you can't quite remember what day it was specifically- you got a knock on the door.

You open it a little and it's Otto, with a small smile, holding a bunch of flowers.

Tears are brought to your eyes as he walks in, "I had a feeling that you'd buy the one we got back then." Any snakiness left him when he realized that you thought he was dead.

He promises to explain everything, but tonight he holds you as long as you needed it.... you ended up holding him hostage in your bedroom until the next morning. Even then, you don't let him out of your sight for a while.

He then explains in terms that you both can understand -because he finds himself not believing anything of it even after he's here. He was brought to another world just like this one where he was given a new component that prevented the arms from taking him over.

So, he starts the rejuvenation process, and does the community work to get back into society. He's stayed off nuclear fusion snd stuck strictly to advanced robotics.

However, you both still stayed at that apartment you first owned with him years ago. Never wanting to live on the water again.

There was one day where he brought you all over town, he brought you to so many places you visited together in your past. He had to be careful of the press patrolling for him since he returned. A former supervillain and a scientific powerhouse? That get's the press moving all over the place.

He then brought you where it all started, and proposed to you again. "I stand before you as a changed man, I love you so much. Will you marry me one more time?"

How could you say no?

It seems that you still have to alter his new clothes, but you don't mind considering how much more appreciative since he doesn't go around shirtless anymore.

He's cautious when using the actuators, only having them clean up and not touch you. Until you reassure him multiple times that you are fine with it... a few months later he's using them to trap you in his embrace.

You have him back, a second chance, and neither of you are going to screw it up.

[kentstoji]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ BLESSED , part 1.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤparing. platonic scaramouche & nahida.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤsetting. genshin impact.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤtype. headcanons (tw. impostor au, mentions of violence, ooc nahida, terrible worldbuilding.)

"Did I do something?" Before he could suppress his thoughts, the question spontaneously flowed from the Wanderer's lips, capturing the Archon's attention.

Nahida's green eyes, accentuated by long white lashes, left the pile of scrolls—courtesy of Alhaitham, the detestable scribe—to analyze him with interest.

"Sorry, I didn't understand." She granted him her characteristic smile, warm and genuine.

He swallowed hard, wondering if it was worth expressing the insecurities growing within him. Clearly, he was motivated solely by the initial emotion. The shadow of his traumas manifested, making him act impulsively.

His porcelain face, pleasant and unchanging, was adorned with red hues. Nahida bit her lower lip to keep from smiling. Frankly, seeing him shy was fascinating. Adorable.

"You've been studying me since you took me in," the puppet replied, irritation marking his voice, always accompanied by a strong Inazuman accent.

"Oh? I hadn't noticed." It was never the Lesser Lord's intention to revive his past. Keeping him in the same cycle was never part of her plans, as it would be minimally cruel. However, there was truth in his words. Nahida was indeed examining him.

He was admirable, unique.

"I'm sorry, Wanderer. I'm not being transparent with you." The apology was sincere, and he could relish the honesty that accompanied it. "I'm working on a thesis, and you are indeed my inspiration."

The Puppet's lips curled in disdain.

"Tell me more." It was ironic and brief. He demanded the truth. He felt he had such freedom to address her informally. Their relationship, although recent, was built on sincerity.

"Well, it might seem stupid, but I have reasons to believe that you are an acolyte of the Creator." Kusanali replied, as if it were simple.

For her, an individual pliable by logic, facts, and evidence, her revelation was easy to digest and accept. All the parameters she used to reach this conclusion were plausible.

"What are you talking about? Only Archons can be Acolytes." The Wanderer retorted, harshly. In another life, if the Electro Archon wasn't a selfish goddess, he might be on his knees before the golden throne, living off the Creator's crumbs.

"Not necessarily. An Archon is just another, victorious in the battle Celestia waged among the gods. Merely a title." Little Nahida shrugged. She took a deep breath and continued with her explanation. "You, however, possess a suspicious particularity."

Still unconvinced by the conspiracy, he asked, "What would that be?"

"Power. And I don't mean elemental power, but your growth." The Lesser Lord sat on her swing and stretched her legs, seeking a brief moment of relaxation. "Perhaps I'm talking about blessings. I thought this whisper of power existed only in the Traveler, but you were consecrated."

"I still don't understand." With a calmer voice, the Puppet approached the young goddess, intrigued.

"You have something that neither I, nor Baal, nor Rex Lapis possess. The Creator's grace." Nahida explained calmly as he approached. "However, when we visited them in Liyue, they didn't even recognize you, which makes me wonder if the one sitting on the Throne might be a impostor.”

(Nahida needed to be honest, to respect her own feelings. To validate her thoughts, even if they might be treacherous. She felt nothing in front of the Creator. No spark or connection.

Staring at the person comfortably seated on a throne of gold and gleaming jewels, she wondered if she would escape with her life if she cut them, solely to examine the color of their blood.

It had to be golden, like the gold that Liyue flaunted — and Rex Lapis would bring her eternal judgment if she succumbed to the darkness of her desires. But the thought was seductive, malicious.

By the gods, she was becoming as sadistic as the Dottore, yet the image before her was not pleasant to contemplate. If she closed her eyes, she would be back in the Cage the sages of Sumeru locked her in, where she could be saved by her subjects' dreams and their faith.

She was still fervent. But that person did not awaken hope in her.

And Kusanali's instinct dictated that she should flee. Take the Wanderer, and run.)

"You still don't understand. And I don't expect you to comprehend it now." The goddess of wisdom sighed, gathering the strength to continue her monologue. "But one day you will. Until then, I hope you know just how lucky you are.”

[bloodycassian]

Striking a Deal - Reader x Azriel

Reader is a demon, capable of granting information in exchange for things she wants. When Azriel summons her, she may be more than he can handle. 

Warnings - ‘forced’ sex due to circumstance, bondage, unbreakable ties, choking, teasing, orgasm denial, HFO/hands free orgasm, cock milking, squirting, cum paly, g-spot and clitoral stim, fingering, mention of knot (no knotting), hand job, wing play, mention of blood ingestion (not super sexual, not in scene),

As always, skip to ++++++++++ for just the nasty stuff. <3

NSFW 18+ MDNI

Azriel was desperate. Fully, truly desperate for stooping this low. 

Still, he chanted on, plowing through verse after verse of the summoner’s spell.

He had little regret over what he’d done. Scaring away fifteen priestesses hadn’t been hard, but finding the right tome had been. He should have asked for the book first. 

“Of blood, and by this flame I summon you.” He finished, slicing a cut into his wrist deep enough to coat the pile of bones and herbs he’d gathered for this ritual. 

And there was silence. He glanced around, taking in the painted walls of the temple and carved archways. The moon was little more than a sliver, the thing he’d summoned could be anywhere. He scented his own fear and clamped down on it, forcing his mind to ease. 

To fear would be fatal, now. 

“I expected someone more powerful than a shadowsinger.” Her voice was like honey dripping into his ears. His neck went stiff, as if a puppeteer was controlling him. His shadows lashed out into the darkness, quickly finding the owner of the voice and wrapping them - no.. her - in bindings. 

Very much her. Gorgeous proportions and the hair, his mind went foggy with lust. He saw her now that his shadows had pinpointed her, and was wholly overwhelmed with the perfection of her. Something deep inside him rumbled with warning, though. 

This was no witch or sorcerer, not even a Queen. This was something far more powerful and deadly, and he struggled to remember that.

“I may be more powerful than you know.” He said, attempting to put on the saam air of seduction the female radiated. 

She walked through his shadows as if they weren’t even there, and again his mind quaked with unfamiliar fear. 

“What is it such a powerful shadowsinger needs then?” She hummed, bending beside him and plucking a bone from the floor. She stuck out her tongue and lapped at the length of it, staring at Azriel the whole time. His cock surged, and he cleared his throat. 

“I seek a weapon. Something to end a God.” Azriel began, gauging her unimpressed reaction. 

“And?” She prompted, taking another lick of his blood. Goosebumps broke out along his flesh.

“Would you be able to help with something like that?” He his his irritation behind an easy smile, watching her tongue. At least her beauty made up for such informality. 

“I suppose. It depends how much the asker is willing to pay for such a thing.” 

“I have gold.” He supplied, not convince his lowest bid would be enough. Especially not with a demon this peculiar. 

“I do too.” She smiled, and waved a hand. His vision went blurry for a moment, then all around him appeared as if he were in a vault of gold marks, gold pillars, stretching from the floor going up and up into the blackened sky. A hot breath fell on his neck, and when he whipped around, the golden eye of a massive beast greeted him. 

He jumped backwards, knocking his ritual items over, sending them clattering through the temple. He whirled back around, facing the demon he’d brought here. She shrugged, casting the bone aside and approaching him. 

“Show me what you’re really willing to lose, Shadowsinger.” She walked two fingers up his abdomen, to his chest and rested them under his jaw, forcing him to look up. “A weapon that powerful is going to cost more than anything I sense you carry.” 

“What do you want?” He hissed, hating how much her touch turned him on. Her nails scratched down his neck, and it was like a branding iron on his skin. Chills raced along his arms. 

She sighed, admiring the way his throat bobbed, the way the tendons in his neck stuck out when he was so tense. “I’ve been so… lonely, stuck in the Pit by myself.” She pouted, making his cock ache with the suggestion of what she was proposing. “No one summons us anymore. All you fae and mortals trust so much in your common magics and healers. No one is desperate enough to call upon us anymore.” 

He took a steadying breath, his heart hammering in hsi chest. She leaned in, so close to his ear he could feel her hot breath against it. “I want you… to summon me. To bring me back to this planet and allow me to live. Even for the short while before they pull me back. Cast this same ritual, and bring me back.” She took his hand and brought it to her breast, squeezing his fingers tight around it. A groan fell from him, and before he could even think about the implications of striking such a deal, his mouth was on hers. 

The deal had been struck.

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

The searing burn of his tongue upon yours was so deliciously delightful, so full of need and challenge that you could hardly feel the brand of the deal writing itself on your neck. 

The kiss had sealed the bond, the rest of this would be just for fun. 

“Your weapon-” You say between moans, pulling his tunic off and freeing his muscled body. “Will be found in the deepest lake on the highest peak-” 

He rips your clothes off, tearing and urgent with need. “I didn’t summon you for a riddle.” He growls, dipping his head to catch a nipple between his teeth. A sharp gasp escapes you, and you squeeze his cock in your hand. 

“You didn’t summon me as your whore, either.” You correct, yanking him back by the hair. He bares his teeth, and his shadows wrap around your ankles, thick and cool against your skin. 

“You certainly act like that’s what you’re here for.” He grunts, and those shadows snake farther up your exposed legs until they’re massaging into your thighs. A ripple of want shoots through you at their closeness to your waiting cunt. 

You’re too distracted by his hands and shadows on you to really give him a comeback. Truthfully, his filthy mouth could be saying anything at this moment and you wouldn’t care, not as long as he was touching you. It’d been a century since you’d seen anything other than the black pit of your home, and with such a gorgeous male before you, how could one resist? Your blood had been thrumming with need the second you’d crawled out of your home.

He pulls you forward, onto one of the short steps that leads to the recessed center of the room. “Now, what do I have to do to get you to bring me this weapon?” He rasps against your skin, biting your shoulder as he sat you down on the step. He pulls away, only to start lapping down your body until he is between your thighs, joining his shadows there. 

“You want another deal, Shadowsinger?” You pant, leaning back on the step behind you and spreading your legs wide for him. He groans and the shadows ghost over your folds with teasing, almost-touches.

“Tell me.” He demands, and laps at you with a flattened tongue. “Such a pretty pussy.” He praises. 

Your legs snap together, squeezing his head. “I cannot retrieve it for you, but I can take you to where it is.” You promise, and the half - truth of it feels sour on your tongue. You could retrieve it, but it’d take much more time than you had after you were released from the Pit. 

He hums, seemingly content with the answer as he laps at you. His shadows join, dipping into your pussy and writhing there, fucking you softly but with ferocity. Your breaths are coming in shallow, frantic spurts as you focus on not coming on his face. 

You want his cock for that. 

A lick of your power lashes out, breaking his shadows away and freezing him in place with a leash of your own making. Magic bound, he straightens at your command and the sight of his surprise sets you giggling. 

“You’re eager.” You critique. Sitting up, you take his cock in your hands and admire it, loosening your magic on him when you feel him relax and sigh at your touch. “Much too eager.” You observe the thick rivulets of pre-come dripping from his tip. You dip down and take a taste of him, humming at the sense of it. The salty, needy taste of him. 

You wrap your hand around him and give him a long, slow pump and he shudders. His cock is magnificent. You can barely touch your fingers together around him with his thickness, and the knot at the base of him is hardly formed. Was he one of the fae able to change his cock at will? A ripple of excitement rolls though you at the possibility of it. You stroke him again, and another drop of precome wets his tip and you tap the tip of your finger with it, trailing it over his shaft and up his abdomen until you reach his lips. He takes it eagerly still, enjoying the taste of himself it seems. 

You bind his hands to his sides, and ghost your fingers over his cock. Barely touching him, just as his shadows had teased you. He spits venom, cursing you with each delicate touch. You stroke him hard and through occasionally, but watching him be so needy for the touch is such a turn-on.

Your nails trail from his balls and up his shaft, then you circle the tip of him gently with the pad of your finger, swirling his lubrication there. He’s watching you the entire time, his brows pulled together and his lips a deep shade of red that matches the tip of his cock.

“I am glad that you were the one who’s summoned me.” You hum, getting up and going behind him. Even with him on his knees, he still reaches the height of your breast. He’s huge and lithe in his build, even his wings are a powerful kind. You touch them gently, humming when he hisses curses under his breath. 

That gets your attention.

“Sensitive. Illyrian wings are different than the wings of other winged species, aren’t they?” You question, raking your nails over the arches of them. He cries out, lurching forward but your magic catches him, hauling him back up and in place before he can fold onto the step. 

You kneel behind him, and wrap an arm around to take his cock into your hand again. He shudders and thrusts forward, into your grip. He’s needy and desperate and with you touching his wings he’s going to cum embarrassingly quickly. He hates how much he’s loving this, how the control you have over him is making him so fucking desperate. 

He fucks into your hand, his precome wetting him enough that it heightens the experience further. Your hand is wet and hot and not nearly as good as your mouth had been but it’s better than the teasing touches you’d been giving him earlier, and he’s grateful. His need is rising and his muscles are working, his balls going tight with the need of release. 

Then, you pull away. Your hand is gone and he’s left fucking the air like an animal, and he’s shuddering. “You fucking- bitch..” He grinds out, his abdomen flexing with how close he’d been. His balls tighten and relax, his cock twitching and slapping against his stomach. 

You stand and go back to be in front of him, watching him twitch and writhe uncomfortably. His cock is surging and desperately seeking more stimulation, The angry redness of the tip a delicious strawberry color that makes you salivate. 

You go back to tracing over him, and you can feel his power, his every fiber struggling against your magic. He’s close, so on the edge that you’re sure he’ll break with only a few more strokes. Good. You want him to. You want him to remember the only female who’d bested him at his own desires. You want him to fuck you endlessly, if that is the only time you have on this planet.

His balls are tight and heavy, and when you trace a finger along his ridge he shudders, leaning forward again. You allow it this time, catching his lips with yours and letting your tongue flick over his own. He groans into your mouth and snaps his hips forward when you make a loose fist over his cock. 

His needy cries echo across the temple like a song. 

You tighten your hand, allowing him to fuck into it for a few more strokes before pulling away again. But it’s too late. You pull back and watch as he thrusts into the air, his cock pulsing with his orgasm. He’s snarling and cursing as the pleasure takes him in a violent way. You watch in supreme pleasure as he gets what he finally wants. His cum shoots out and lands on your legs, your belly. The stone floor and steps. His spend is hot and dribbles from his tip when you release his bindings. 

He wavers, and his shadows return slowly. His muscles flex as he leans forward, clearly exhausted with the experience. 

His hands shake when he leans over you, catching your chin in his hand. “You are a horrible little thing.” He curses, then forces his tongue into your mouth.

He forces you back, so you’re arched against the steps, and the fingers of his other hand go between your folds, slickening them before plunging in. The most exquisite burn fills you, and is then eased by his curling fingers. He draws out your wetness, coating your clit with it and rubbing firm circles for a moment before pushing deep back inside of you. 

He uses his entire forearm and wrist while he does it, truly fucking you with his hand. His fingers are thick and they do satiate a part of your own need, but it’s nothing compared to what his cock would be. 

But this part of the game is up to him. You’d had your fun, and now it was his turn. 

His tongue is aggressive in your mouth, fighting your own and showing you exactly what he’d been doing against your pussy before. He pulls away, leaving drool on your chin. His shadows go to your wrists, and you allow them to lock you in place, legs spread wide and wrists bound to the floor. 

This is his turn. If you want him to stay true to his bargain not just for bargaining sake, you’ll let him have his turn. You could use him, sure, - force him in place and take him as you wanted - but where was the fun in that? 

“Azriel-” You pant, and he takes your throat in a hand. Not hard, not dangerous, but certainly a silent command. 

He’s working you deep and swiping against your g-spot with every stroke, and if he doesn’t stop you’re not sure if you’ll be able to either. 

“Making me cum without even letting me really touch you first?” He scolds, punctuating it with his thumb stroking over your clit. Your yes clamp shut, your thighs desperately trying to do the same but his shadows - as weak as they are - won’t allow you to. You moan, the pressure of his hand against your throat a devious thing. 

Your body is betraying you, reaching your high peaks so quickly while he rubs your clit. Your walls squeeze him, wanting more. Needing more than just two fingers. But his thumb is relentless and consistent, you try to fight the building orgasm but it only makes your g-spot more sensitive. 

“Azriel please-” You whine, panting and squirming as much as you can under him. His hand leaves your throat and instead goes to the back of your head, knotting in your hair there. He forces you to watch his hands word, how spread you are for him, the way your wetness shines against this dark skin. He’s humming something in your ear but you can barely hear it over the mounting pleasure, the cascade of twitching need that writhes inside you, begging to be released. A dam too overflowed, your control slips, and slips.

 You push against the heat, the pressure of the orgasm but again, he brushes into that spot inside you and your clit again, and you’re shaking - coming apart in his grasp. Wetness coats him, your own juices flowing out of you in an intense way, splattering against the floor and coating his arm. The wet sounds of his fingers still working you echo against the high ceilings and stone walls. 

You’re shaking, shuddering and breathing hard when he gently removes his fingers then laps at them. 

The sight nearly sends you into another orgasm. 

“Safe to say you’ll be summoned often, little demon.” He says, offering you a finger wet with your own juices. 

You take it greedily, sucking on his finger the same way you wanted to suck his cock.

“Next time I expect you to last longer.” You critique, earning a laugh from him. 

“If I make that promise now, does that mean we get to fuck again and seal that bond?”

[ninibeingdelulu]

Cuddling ✧

Plot: A comforting moment between Cloud and you after an exhausting mission.

The hazy tendrils of weariness tugged heavily at your eyelids as you finally allowed yourself to relax into the threadbare mattress.

Joints still thrumming with a dull ache from the day's grueling mission, you exhaled a deep, contented sigh nonetheless.

Here, nestled amidst the modest shelter of your shared quarters, the chaos of battle faded into a distant memory - at least temporarily.

At your side, the solid warmth of Cloud's form radiated pure comfort and solace. He lay on his side facing you, those vivid blue eyes you adored already slipped shut in the first blissful throes of much-needed slumber.

One arm draped possessively over your waist, palm splaying against the dip of your back as he instinctively tucked himself closer.

His tousled spikeswayed with each slow, even exhale fanning across your collarbone.

It always amazed you how someone as formidable as Cloud Strife - AVALANCHE's most elite mercenary who routinely stared down bioengineered horrors without flinching - could appear so disarmingly boyish and vulnerable when he surrendered to sleep's embrace.

The harsh lines etched into his features by years of combat and deprivation eased, leaving his expression bizarrely serene and youthful.

Unable to resist indulging that private fixation, you lightly trailed your fingertips along the stark angles of his jaw, mapping each rugged contour.

From the aquiline slope of his nose to the faint cleft carving that perpetually intense look between his brows. Every stroke drank in the textures of taut, weathered skin over finely sculpted bone and sinew as intimately familiar yet endlessly captivating.

You traced higher along his hairline, earning a sleepy mumble from Cloud as the gentle caresses ghosted over the sensitive nape before coasting up into his mess of sunny spikes.

A barely audible rumble, deep and masculine, vibrated against your chest - not quite a purr, but certainly contented nonetheless.

One azure eye cracked open to regard you through thick lashes, radiating equal parts drowsy indulgence and curiosity.

"Sorry," you whispered without stilling your ministrations, the hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

The last thing you wanted was to rouse Cloud if he'd managed to find that elusive serenity amidst the violence and turmoil constantly shadowing you both.

"Go back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you."

With impressive effort, he mustered a lethargic shake of his head, still resting heavily atop your sternum.

"It's alright..." Cloud rasped, voice roughened by fatigue and thickly slurred as he nuzzled closer to your touch. "Keep goin'..."

A helpless swell of pure affection flooded your chest as you studied the man in your arms with ardent tenderness.

So powerful and courageous, commanding entire squads of dedicated warriors into hellish combat zones without ever batting an eye.

Yet it was these fleeting, unguarded moments stripped bare of his usual frosty stoicism that truly captivated you.

This was the real Cloud Strife - not the unflinching legend or ruthless juggernaut lauded and feared across the ranks of AVALANCHE.

Just a man baring his soul and all its myriad flaws and vulnerability for your eyes alone away from the puppeteering manipulations of Shinra and its cronies.

Even if he didn't vocalize those delicate emotions often, allowing you to soothe and shelter him in the sanctuary of your battered sanctuary spoke volumes.

The man you loved. Scars, shattered past, and all.

With a quiet hum of indulgence, you resumed languidly raking your nails along his sculpted scalp in lazy, soothing patterns.

Cloud melted bonelessly at your side with a ragged sigh, eyes slipping shut once more as the tension seeped from his muscles.

Plush lips parted on a final exhale before his breathing evened out, easing him back into the tranquil depths of slumber without conscious thought.

Admiring the finally serene picture he painted, you allowed yourself to savor the simple delight of observing your warrior finally at peace.

Who knew how many more reprieves like this lurked on the ever-darkening horizon before the next onslaught of nightmares and demons came howling?

No, right now you would cherish this quiet intimacy and the wholly trusting soul beside you.

With a last, lingering caress ghosting through those wild blond spikes, you settled more fully into the coverlet's tattered embrace and willed your own eyes to drift shut.

The final dregs of consciousness slipped away to the sound of Cloud's deep, steady breaths lulling you into blessed oblivion at long last.

[ddarker-dreams]

"kabukimono... i'm really flattered, but could you please stop trailing after me like a lost puppy? it's exhausting."

He has to bite down on his bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

The eccentric thinks to take a step back — granting you the space you so desperately long for — but he can’t. He’s frozen, the soles of his feet stuck to the ground. There’s a surge inside his chest. A dull ache that has him wanting to scratch at his perfect skin if it meant distracting him from the pain within. 

Apologies stumble from him, quiet and rushed. You don’t depart from him right away, much to his immense relief. He knows it’d agitate you further if you walked off and he still acted as your shadow. He can’t help himself, it’s an instinct, the same you humans have and act on all the time. If you’re hungry, you eat. If you’re thirsty, you drink. For him, if he sees you, he must follow. 

Would you believe him if he confessed this? That basking in your presence is as essential to him as breathing is for you? 

How can he make you understand when he barely grasps it himself? 

You sigh, heavy and tired. He can’t help but wince when you close what little distance remains between you both. He watches with wide, doe-like eyes as your thumb comes to brush against his lower lash line. There’s a glimmering sheen on your skin when you pull away. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you implore, and he tries. Tries to give you what you ask for, what you want. He always does. “I’m... I’m sorry. It’s just been a stressful past few days is all. You’re fine, just— I worry about you, y’know?” 

“You worry... about me?” He repeats the foreign concept back to you. He would’ve had an easier time believing you if you confessed to being an Archon in disguise or if you told him the sky wasn’t real. 

“Yeah. If you’re always hanging out with me, then you’re missing out on making a whole lot of other connections. There’s plenty more out there for you to see.” 

The puppet thinks your argument is sound, yet he can’t abide by it. “But I only want to see you.” 

He says it so sincerely too. 

“T-This is what I mean! You need to be careful when saying stuff like that. You might give someone the wrong idea.” 

You turn on your heel and start back down the path to your abode. He watches your retreating figure with a tilted head, ruminating. You humans make less sense the more time he spends among you. He meant every word of what he said, so it’s beyond him why you’d think he didn’t. 

Just when he’s trying to remember the best angles to see in through your windows while remaining hidden are, you stop, glancing at him from over your shoulder. 

“Are you coming? There’s gonna be a thunderstorm tonight, I can feel it in the air. I don’t want you to be without shelter.” 

He tries not to break out into a run to catch up with you. Elation soars through his artificial veins — the ease in which you can ruin or rebuild him should be frightening. However, he isn’t scared in the slightest. Whichever of the two you choose... so long as it’s brought by your hands, he’ll happily accept any fate you mold for him.  

[lovelybunn]

human!wally darling w/ u wearing apple scented perfume…

warning(s): reader being a socially awkward loser, flirty wally

author's note: the main reason i clairified that he was human is bc a puppet isnt anatomically allowed to do most of what hes doing here lmao + i love melanated wally 🩷 (lowkey got ooc on last paras, we don't talk about it...)

Wally places gentle strokes against his canvas, his mind and body completely relaxed. Just as he finishes the final touches, he feels a presence behind him. He smiles, “Hello, neighbor.” He swivels around in his stool to face the figure. “Hey Wally! What is that your painting?” He looks over his shoulder back at his work. He shrugs. “No clue. I just paint how I’m feeling.”

He crosses his legs and places his cheek in the palm of his left hand. “What brings you here to visit little ol’ me, neighbor?” His eyes lidded while he bats his long lashes. You grin sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck. “Well... This may be a little random, but I’ve bought this new perfume, and I wanted to hear someone else’s opinion on whether it flattered me or not.”

He purses his lips and tilts his head in bewilderment. “Why did you come to me, specifically? Personally, I would’ve asked Julie, she’s very skilled in these kinds of things.” You nod, “Yeah, but you’re more, how do I say this? … Blunt, then she is.” He laughs in response, a noise almost like a broken record. “Is that so?” He uses two fingers to gesture you to come forward, “Then come here, darling, if you want to know what I think.”

You step closer to Wally and give him your hand. He takes it, observing the delicate lines of your palm before carefully pulling it to his nose. He breathes in deeply, taking in your scent. His face contorts, trying to recognize the fragrance.

With a flash of dopamine, his pupils dilate intensely, the black shadowing over the natural color of his irises. “You smell absolutely astonishing, (Name). This perfume is the absolute most.” He returns your hand, it slowly resting back at your side.

Your eyes avert as your cheeks warm up to a fresh shade of red. It slightly reminds Wally of a bright red apple ripe and plucked right off the tree. “I’m glad you like it so much, Wally.” You stammer; he smiles gently in response.

“I think I’m starting to understand why you asked for my view on this, (Name).” Wally looks straight into your eyes. He has read you like a book. “It’s apple scented. You knew I would love it, neighbor. My reaction got a kick out of you, didn’t it?” His words flow like velvet off his tongue.

You quickly scramble out an apology, “I'm so sorry, It's just that I–” Wally cuts you off by caressing your hand again, this time placing a sweet peck on its surface. “You're adorable, neighbor. If anything, I'm flattered for you wearing this, to get a reaction out of me." He pulls away, his eyes never leaving yours. His smile grows, canines flashing welcomely at you. “I think the way you smell has worked up an appetite in me.”

He hops off his stool and offers you his right arm, “Why not we go and do some apple picking, neighbor?” You take his arm, but pause to glance at his unfinished work. “Sure, but what about your painting?” He shrugs, “Well, I didn't know what it was to start with. It'll be fine.” Wally's expression beams with giddy intent, “Well then, neighbor, let's go! The apples are delicious this time of year.” His head turns to you. “I'm so excited! I hope I find one that tastes as sweet as the perfume you have on smells. I doubt it, though. After all, you are the sweetest apple of my eye, my darling.” Wally playfully winks as the two of you head off to the apple orchard.

[orangeave]

not even ghosts are this empty

wednesday addams x gn!reader

summary: you dug a grave for two but you lay in the casket alone.

words: 1.2k

orange speaks: part two to the great war, with more angst (whoops?). hope y'all enjoy.

Plumes of smoke echo slowly out of your mouth, the blunt in your hand burning the edges of your fingers. You make no move to ease the subtle ache, secretly enjoying the weight of the blisters that form in their wake. A cough flowers in your throat when you inhale the sharp sting of night air afterwards but you hold it in place, forcing it to expand downward to create a rattle in your chest. It encompasses the entirety of your ribcage, swallowing the meat of your organs whole. 

The sensation is fleeting and you mourn it as it fades. There’s an emptiness that follows, one you’re making an unwilling acquaintance with since you left Wednesday’s dorm those short months ago. Time has been infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things, passing by in hiccups of memory that never truly stick. 

The first few days following that night go by in denial, refusing to believe you had lost her. A hollow ticking resounding in your ears proves it to be true; vaguely signaling a countdown that tells you that you now carry a solar flare where your heart should reside, and it’s only a matter of time before it implodes. 

Loving Wednesday isn’t easy but neither is letting her go, and when the denial dwindles into tormenting acceptance, you are left with only the ghosts of her. They haunt each corner of your existence – both mental and physical – creating dark circles beneath your eyes that resemble tattoos more than they do skin. 

You attempt to exorcise Wednesday from your being and the vacancy within you becomes a cathedral; you pray at its illusionary, cobblestone steps but you are bent at the knees before a false god, incapable of offering reprieve. Wraiths have risen in relief’s stead – fallen too far to be ghosts any longer – and they are starving, snarling at the altar of your shortcomings. You will find no peace here when your body, laden with a lifetime of grief that ages you, is pirouetting upon crumbling earth. 

Resorting back to the roach in your trembling hands, you yearn for it to bring some semblance of life into the space you ache to fill. As you exhale, a shadow gathers in your peripheral in the shape of a girl you cannot escape. 

“I see you’ve come to dislike functioning lungs.” Wednesday dishes out, coming to stand by your sitting limbs that stretch out into the pond in front of you. Fathoming why she’s here, in the spot that once belonged to the two of you, is something you can’t grasp. 

Casual conversation is the last thing you want to participate in. It feels cheap; hollow. You deserve more than astute observations and meaningless slights. Something she’s averse to giving you, it seems, and the part of you that continues to die in its place hates her for it.

Youthfulness is forgotten when you are a rotting carcass forcing itself to breathe to a tempo that no longer comes naturally, dangling on flimsy strings that Wednesday commands, waltzing to the tune of her desires. A puppet master is what she is and you find no solace in this dance, not when the past lingers so close to the surface; of who you were to each other but will seldom be again. 

“Something like that.” You monotone, a slight shrug lifting your shoulders. 

There’s a tense set to her own shoulders at your response, the lack of expression in your voice pulling her entire body taut. A vengeful part of you revels in it, only to diminish into nothingness just as quickly, as everything else before it has. 

Your desolate eyes finally raise to meet Wednesday’s, causing hers to widen almost imperceptibly. They trace the heavy bags beneath your lashes then down to your still shaking hands and you come to understand her astonishment because up till now, you’ve managed to avoid her – a feat you were proud of. 

“Y/N…” She murmurs, reaching out for you. Wednesday’s fingers barely get the chance to brush against your arm before you’re recoiling away from the touch, water splashing up into your lap from where your legs hang in the pond. 

Oh, god.

There’s something to be said about the inbetween of dreams and reality; a certain dissonance that easily perpetuates the disruptive cognitive faults which riddle a half-aware person that the past haunts. Nightmares of memory which lead to dark, twisting backdrops that muddy the truth and serve to create monstrosities of unchecked thoughts. 

Falling asleep has always been a terrifying experience for you. In a moment's notice, you are suddenly the backseating, side character in the fluttering reel of torment plagued by the emergence of day. You have absolutely no control over the fate of each suffering you were forced to face and only hold the capacity to watch as it unfolds once again.

You are not asleep but you have spent the past months half-awake, and Wednesday’s touch yanks you right back to that night where your roles were in reverse. The details are still so fresh and it’s too much. It’s not fair the hold she has on you even now. 

“No, you don’t get to do this. Not now.” Your voice cracks, clumsily lifting your limbs from murky depths and rising to your full height. Water cascades down your form, leaving you shivering in the night air. A gasp chokes in your throat, panic seizing you and the ticking in your ears reaches a deafening roar. “I- After all this time, why now?”

Wednesday hesitates, the pause hanging in the air between you.

“Say something!” You bellow, panic turning into anger at her silence.

She shrinks back as you close the distance between you and it is wholly unlike her but you ignore it, invading her space. 

“I will never be good enough for you, will I?” You unevenly gasp out, realizing a long forgotten truth, “I plead, and I bargain, and I sacrifice, in the name of love. To heal the cracks in our façade but you stand before me, stoic as the day I met you, and give absolutely nothing in return.”

Her eyes follow your stance, expression shuttering to impassive and unseeing – hollow in a way you’ll never be able to change. All the anger drains out of you and when she goes to finally respond, mouth tentatively opening as she comes to know the sickness sinking beneath your mirage that you were never able to cleanse, you simply shake your head. 

In loving and losing her, you have lost yourself. You no longer know how to breathe air she does not exhale and disgust flares at who you’ve become; at who you’ve let her make you. Some cowardly thing, bent to the whims of a devil in the disguise of a god. 

Love is a fickle thing, so easily transforming into a monstrous being when betrayal hangs heavy in the space once wrought with the finer side of a bottled heaven. The feeling you welcome in love’s place should terrify you – for a moment, it does – but power is a corrupter in the hands of a widow. 

The implosion within you is beautifully damning – strings held in commandeering fingers snap, the corpse of you reborn in the ash of your submissiveness; flesh of the burnt coagulating into an armor made to pressurize the weight of your footsteps until the force of them cracks the earth, widening the gap of reality between the duality of life and death till it is but a mere phantom pain. 

Say, what’s a soul really worth?

You’ve already lost everything, what’s a little more? 

(– vultures have come to feast upon your bones; only the vulture is you and you’ve gorged upon yourself.)

[swoonbots]

Wally: Good Ol' Fashioned Lover Boy

CW: N/A

Summary: Wally Darling is cartoonishly silly about being in love.

---

You are Wally Darling's first love. Whether it's because he's only ever existed in this neighborhood, or because he's never noticed anyone else, you've caught his attention.

Because he's a puppet, he can't be normal about it so he's cartoonishly out of character.

He's blushing, he gets heart eyes, he even gets felt hearts flying out of his head.

Although, he gets to be very shy instead of getting very confident. Suddenly, making eye contact with you is overwhelming. A rush of emotion crashes into his small frame and leaves him sputtering and stumbling.

Wally doesn't really understand what's going on. Just that he's really happy and he wants to be around you.

You know that thing anime girls do? Where they grab onto a guy's arm and hug it against their chest, he does that too. He's very clingy and agreeable in the first phase of his love.

It takes someone making a comment poking fun at how silly Wally is acting before he realizes that this feeling isn't normal. It was probably Frank.

"Oh, will you just confess already? This is getting pathetic," Frank says, rolling his eyes.

"Confess what?"

"... Are you being serious?"

Wally admits that he doesn't understand the feelings he's having towards his precious neighbor, and isn't sure what to do.

Frank, having felt the same feelings towards some of his neighbors as well, can understand the sentiment so the two begin planning a confession.

They finally settled on sending a letter. A simple note, asking you to meet 'your secret admirer' under the blossoming great apple tree.

It's something out of a romance novel. Definitely Frank's idea, but Wally finds it so unironically charming!

Wally goes back and forth on what to do, eventually settling on his normal outfit and a gift of your favorite kind of chocolate.

Anxiously, the small man rocks on his feet, holding a nice apple shaped box behind his back.

The patchwork grass crunches ahead. He peeks up, large onyx pupils hiding under his lashes.

It's you. His favorite neighbor!

His fake felt heart is pounding in his ears.

"Wally..?"

Your voice rang out, like a heavenly bell blesses his ears.

Your frame casts a shadow when you tower over him, but he doesn't mind. He just stares up before his face feels burning hot and his gaze meets the flora again.

Without a word, he shoves the box into your hands. Opening you'd find home made chocolate shaped like an apple, and a note.

".. 's for you."

"Oh! I see..." You read over the note. It's short and sweet. Kind of like wally.

It reads:

I love you. Even if you don't love me back, I will be content with loving you and supporting you on the sidelines for as long as you'll have me.

Do you accept my confession?

If you accept, he'll be over the moon. Wally would gesture for you to bend down and will hug your head against his chest. Mumbling about how happy he is, and how happy you make him. As a boyfriend, he never really leaves the crush phase. He still feels bubbly when you smile or laugh with him, although it's a lot more toned down than from before.

If you don't, he'll be a bit gloomy for a couple of days. Wallowing in rejection alone in his home, but will eventually get over it. Even if you don't love him the same way, he's more than happy just to be your friend. (Although he'll insist on being your greatest friend instead.)

---

A/N: Apologies for vanishing, I had a brief crisis about my art and writing. Anyways, good ol' fashioned lover boy! Based off of the post I made previously

[bokettochild]

hello! I have an ask for you! I’ve seen a post or two of yours mention that four ends up corrupted and was curious if this is a head cannon and what it’s based on! I don’t know much about four at all, so I’d love more background on his cannon and what your head cannons for him are!

Alright, so this is somewhat founded in canon, but the long of the short is this.

Nintendo released a GameBoy copy of A Link To The Past that was packaged with LoZ: Four Swords. In this special edition of the game there was a bonus addition to ALTTP. In the dark world, at Ganon's Pyramid, there was a small hole in the wall of the pyramid that hadn't been there in the initial release. If you'd already completed Four Swords, you could enter this hole in the wall which would take you to a bonus dungeon: The Palace of the Four Sword

In this dungeon, Link (Legend) must face off against four hero look-a-likes as the bosses in different rooms, before reaching the main chamber where he faces off against all four together.

Because it's called the Palace of The Four Sword, some fans believe that the four beings within are, in fact, the Four Sword heroes. How would that happen though? Why would the hero still be alive almost a thousand years after his time? Why would he attack the new baby hero who stumbled across him?

A couple of theories include:

The Hero of the Four Sword (from here on he will be called "Four") died some time after his adventures and was buried in a crypt beneath Hyrule Castle as an honor for his service to the kingdom. Ganon's power animated Four's corpse, and when a young hero stumbled into the crypt through the Dark World, the demon used Four as his puppet to try and get rid of the hero.

After his adventures, Four decided to try and find a way to revive Shadow. This led to meddling with dark magics and becoming corrupted, forcing princess Zelda to seal him away. Because he's her dear friend (or lover, depends on the writer) she can't make herself kill him, but rather locks him away until she can find out how to rescue him. Corruption of his soul prevents him aging, so that when, a thousand years later, Legend stumbles across him, he's the same as he was the day his experiment failed and he became corrupted.

The beings within the Palace of the Four Sword are not Four, but rather the spirit of the damaged sword lashing out to protect their blade. Because he forged it, and was their only user, they maintained a similar form to his own.

Hope this helps!

[jadegretz]

Shermie: Electrifying Diva of the Ring by Jade Gretz

Rain lashed down on the Southtown Coliseum, the metallic clang of each drop echoing through the deserted stands. A lone spotlight pierced the downpour, illuminating a figure standing center stage. Shermie, her crimson cheongsam clinging to her curves, surveyed the arena with a steely gaze. The annual King of Fighters tournament had taken a sinister turn this year.

Gone were the familiar faces of Kyo Kusanagi or Iori Yagami. Instead, a chilling silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the rhythmic drumming of rain. Whispers of a shadow organization, NESTS, manipulating the tournament for their own nefarious purposes, had reached Shermie. Now, she stood alone, the weight of responsibility etched on her beautiful face.

Suddenly, the air shimmered and distorted, and a figure materialized before her. It was a monstrous parody of Yashiro Nanakase, his once-human form twisted and warped by cybernetic enhancements. Wires snaked from his exposed flesh, interfacing with glowing metal implants. His eyes – once filled with mischievous glee – now burned with a cold, artificial light.

"Shermie," he rasped, his voice a distorted echo of his former self, "you shouldn't have come."

Shermie met his gaze unflinchingly. "Neither should you, Yashiro. NESTS has turned you into a grotesque puppet. Fight me, and maybe, just maybe, there's still a shred of humanity left to salvage."

Yashiro let out a humorless chuckle, the sound devoid of warmth. "Humanity? NESTS has offered me power beyond your wildest dreams. Power to reshape the world in their image."

A flicker of anger crossed Shermie's face. "Power without compassion is just another form of imprisonment," she retorted, raising her hands. A crackling energy, the crimson flames of her signature 'Wild Invitation' technique, ignited around her fists.

Yashiro chuckled again, a chilling sound that seemed to echo in the rain-soaked arena. Metal blades extended from his forearms, humming with a malevolent energy. The battle lines were drawn.

The first clash was an explosion of raw power. Shermie, her mo …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

[secret-smut-sideblog]

A Dangerous Thing

Astarion x F! Dark Urge

18+ violence, possession, near death, implied self harm, bhaal being fucked up, injuries, fear, hurt/comfort, fingering (f!), oral (f!), sub/dom, (mild) restraint, overstimulation

Almost losing her to Bhaal's influence, Astarion wont let her out of his sight again...

-

In trance he becomes aware of an absence at his side, her divine warmth missing.

"Darling?" He mumbled, fingers searching for her. A breeze on his cheek.

Eyes flashing open to the chasm of his tent door.

Gone.

Scrambling to feet he lunged out into the night, eyes frantic.

It was getting bad, he knew. Saw the way she would freeze, muscles clenching all at once. Paralyzed as she fought for control.

Would do his best to touch her with love, speak reassured to her rigid body. Help her back into herself, though he didnt know how much good it was doing.

We're close. She had sighed. The temple is near, I can feel it. Shuddered. I feel it everywhere.

Fuck. Fuck. He ran tent to tent, looking for those pale horns, those haunting eyes.

He had gotten sloppy, losing focus. Gods why did she put him in charge?!

"Whoa, Fangs! What's going on?" Karlach called, already pulling her boots on seeing the panic in his face.

"She's gone! Hells we have to find her!" He shouted, hands shaking. Eyes everywhere, in every shadow, every space between.

"Shit!" She went to wake the others, sounding out like an alarm.

Finally he saw a sign of her. Sharp footsteps leading into the forest, the heels deep in the mud. She had been running.

No time, he sprinted after her ghost. Calling out her name in big gulping shouts. Heard the others following behind.

I think if I couldn't control it anymore. She had whispered, their hands intertwined. Laying in blissful quiet. I'd end it. Said with such certainty, eyes resolute. It would be my last offering for the world. To stop myself. To leave it untouched.

He couldn't lose her. Not now. Not when she has given him so much. Not before he can tell her he loves her one more time.

Gods let him have this, this one bright beautiful thing.

He gasped out her name when he spotted her silhouette in a clearing. Sitting on knees in the dark.

His voice curdled in his throat as he drew closer, took in the full sight.

Her arms laying limp at her side, face wrenched up to the sky. Bhaal's red lights dancing sickening circles around the crown of her head. Eyes blown wide, glowing red hot.

"Here!" He shouted shakenly to the others somewhere behind, hovering around her. "She's here!"

Terrified into indecision. Hands reaching out, he had to do something.

"Get out!" Her jaw clenching down so hard he thought it would crack. He jumped back, breath caught.

"You are not welcome here. You are not me. You are not in charge." She hissed through her teeth, speaking to something unseen, rage dripping from every word.

"I guided your hand when you spilled your first blood." A deep nauseating voice erupted from her mouth, forming words with her lips. "I have always been here. I am all of you. I am eternal."

Her face going slack into a sickening smile. "You will to say yes to me, child."

Eyes clenching shut, face twisting, pulling back into her mind. "Fuck. You." Her voice venomous.

Lifted invisible by her throat she hovered in the air, legs slack beneath her. Feet grazing the ground. Sigils burning and whipping angry around her.

"I love you." Lashes emerging across her torso. "I love you." Cracking of ribs. "I love you." Arm wrenched from socket, flopping down at her side.

"Stop," Astarion breathed, despair flooding his vision. "Stop, stop, stop!" A rising scream chanted.

Her head lolling puppeteered to look at him. Eyes wide, all radiating crimson. A horrible smile smeared across her angelic face.

"The interloper..." It sneered in her features, amused. "Tell me, little waste..." Turning her in one motion to face him, hovering far higher above the ground. Her full body weight on her throat. Yet it still it spoke.

"Do you really think you can stop her?" Leaning her head down to stare condescending into him. "How long do you think she will resist her call? To deny her birthright?"

"I molded her myself, my body, my blood. She will heed to me."

"You're just another master, another piece of shit that needs control. You dont impress me." He spat. "I've killed one of you before, and I'll enjoy doing it again."

It laughed, booming. Lifting her arms wide, sigils spinning hurricane around her.

He heard the others coming up hot behind him, a flurry of noise. Spells, arrows, enchantments soaring through the air. All hitting mute against the cyclone. It cackled, delighted at their attempts.

Suddenly she wrenched back to the surface, body twisting. "Get away! Go!" Her desperate eyes reaching his. "I can finish this!"

"No!" He bellowed, enraged. "Let us help you! For once let us be the strong ones!" Bloody tears streaming down his shouting face.

Her eyes crumpled at his words and something in the hold broke.

In a piercing wail she fought against her restraints, hair whipping around her head. Pulling her limbs with incredible force against its control. Balling into herself. Releasing them out in a deafening scream. An explosion of force leaving her, pushing them all to their knees.

Prone, he watched her fall. Thudding silent to the ground. "No, no," He begged, crawling to her unmoving body. "Dont leave. Dont leave me."

Cradling her head he stared through thick water. Searching. Desperate. Hands coaxing, pleading, for her to come back.

Shadowheart, Halsin, and Minthara appearing quick at her side, pummeling healing words into her. Lighting her up in waves of blue.

"You can't go. I wont let you." He gripped her as they shouted around him, his tears dropping onto her mottled bruised neck. "I will search every corner of the afterlife and drag you back to us."

Giving it everything she had Shadowheart shouted one last spell, her hands bracing against her still chest.

Silence. Then with a heaving, gasping cough she returned. Hand instinctively finding his cheek.

A deep wail left him, pulling her into him, inconsolable. Body shaking with great heaving sobs of relief.

"Ow." She laughed wetly. Good arm shakily holding him. Eyes bright, meeting the tear stained faces that surrounded them through the window of his shoulder. "Hi everyone."

They all rushed around her, touching her, hugging her, voices all melding into one joyful choir. Still gripping her to his body they held him too.

Karlach planting big kisses on her face. Even planting a quick softer one on his forehead. "Welcome back, soldier!" She boomed. "Dont ever do that shit again!" Yelled with the same smile.

She laughed painfully, clenching her side. "Fuck, okay. You've convinced me."

"We need to get her back to camp." Shadowheart gently squeezed Astarion's shoulder. He agreed but still had his face buried into her. Tremoring.

"Let me lend some aid." Halsin smiled, offering his arms. Waiting for Astarion to release.

Loathe to let her go but knew he wouldn't be able to carry her in this state he nodded.

The druid lifting her gently into his arms she was absent from him. She gave a little sigh into the wide chest. He trailed close, never taking his eyes off her.

She smiled gently at him, reaching out for him. Finding his fingers in hers. Gods, she was cold.

He kissed them, pressing them against his cheek.

"You're okay to sleep, love." She hushed, trailing her hand down his back. "I can get one of the others."

In her tent, made into a makeshift infirmary he shook his head. Only last night she had nearly been lost and his body was still vibrating with anxious energy. Trying not to pace.

"We've moved camp, we're far enough away from the temple now." She tried to reassure. He waved her away, back still turned.

Her hand stopped on his back. Quiet. Still.

"I'm sorry I'm the one you love." A whisper.

He whipped his head, angry. The tears on his face that he had been trying to hide from her laid bare.

"No. No you dont get to do that." Eyes alight in equal parts adoration and indignation. "I have been broken apart countless times and you are by far the best thing that has ever happened to me. The only person who could ever understand me."

Face twisting in grief, in determination. "I have waited lifetimes for you. How dare you apologize."

Catching the light her tears slipped quiet out of her eyes. Even in this state unbelievably beautiful, always catching him off guard. Neck still patches of green, purple, yellow. Arm slung snugly in a sling. One tip of her horns now notched, caught in her fall. He trailed his hand along it tenderly, never to be the same again.

"I'm sorry." She choked, hearing the heavy catch in her throat.

"Stop." He stared hard into her eyes.

"I'm so sorry."

He pulled her hard into his body. Burying his face in her hair. "I love you. I love you. I love you so much." He pressed his words into her.

"I will never regret you. I will never have something like this again. Even in a hundred years I will never stop thinking of you."

A sob wracked her chest, shaking into him. One arm gripping his shirt. Releasing her grief, her fear into his cool body.

He stroked her hair, wrapping his legs around her lower back. Pulling her fully into him. Yes, let it out.

They stayed like that for a moment, hands anchoring eachother. Her waves of sorrow striking his chest. Breathing in, out.

"When I die I'm haunting your ass so hard." She whispered raggedly, her tears finally slowing. He laughed, wiping his own wet face.

"I'd be offended if you didnt, my sweet."

Pulling back to look at him, eyes overflowing with love. "Ow, damn it." Readjusting her arm in its sling as she shifted. "How long did Shadowheart say this should take again?" She huffed. He tried to hide his smile.

"What's the point of healing magic if it doesn't get the job done..." Grumbling her frustration.

"Already thinking about the next task? Gods you're relentless." He teased.

"We have things to do!"

"Oh how could you possibly take a break, the torment you must endure." He admonished, trailing kisses along her face.

She giggled, the sound lighting up his heart. Caught her sweet mouth in a kiss. Slow. Deep.

She moaned lightly into him, hand cupping the back of his head. Pulling him in deeper.

He sighed contentedly, so glad to do this again. That they had more time. More time for him to get lost in her.

Her hand pulling the ties of his tunic.

"Wait," He breathed, to her discontented whine. Hand still trying to pull him open.

Threading his fingers in hers, he pulled away. "My sweet, slow down." Took her eyes in his. Her mouth slightly swollen from their kiss making him stifle a groan, despite himself.

"You're in no state-"

"Then be gentle." She countered.

"Darling..." He started, unsure.

"Please," She whispered, pushing her forehead into his. Threaded fingers tightening on his. "I need you, I need this."

Gentle, he thought. Gods did he know how to fuck gentle? Had he? Maybe some time in the past, long before.

Could see the nervousness in her eyes as well, asked for entrance to her mind.

She obliged, and he found their thoughts mingling. Not the exact same, but rhyming. Fear. Longing. Love. Pain. Things lost. Things terrified to be found.

He smiled warmly, pulling her back into his kiss. I told you. He spoke to her.

What? She thought.

You and I know eachother. I see you, you see me. See me so clearly.

So is that a yes? Could feel her cheeky smile against his lips.

He sighed, defeated. Trying not to prove his rising arousal as she gave a little squeal of triumph.

Now, how to do this delicately. He pushed them forward, laying her down onto her back. Hand bracing her slow descent. Though he focused on undressing her as softly as he could, his kiss was searing.

Her hand pulled his shirt hard over his head, he maneuvered his arms to assist her. Her leg hooking up under his, pushing it out to be straddling over her.

"Oh so only I have to be gentle..."

"Do you want me to be?" She rumbled in his ear, sending a shudder down his spine.

"Gods no,"

Pulling the last of her clothes off he stared down at her, breath taken. Both by her beauty and the state of her body.

Criss cross slashes stretching across her torso, sewn deftly closed. Bruises that veiled over her ribs. Could see the discoloration between the tight bandages holding her shoulder.

Trying not to be overcome again, he leaned down, ghosting soft kisses over her angry skin.

"You'll tell me if we need to stop, yes?" He urged.

She smiled down at him, carding her fingers through his hair. "Of course, my love."

Satisfied he continued his feather light lips down her front.

"How are you so beautiful?" He marveled.

Delighted in the blush that crept up to her cheeks. To make a bhaalspawn blush, his bhaalspawn.

"Darling this position you've so graciously put me in gives me an idea." He mused, absentmindedly swirling little circles on her clit. One leg over her hip, one between her thighs. He stood up on knees, getting a better feel. Oh this could work.

"Good thing your lower extremities are unscathed, sweet thing." Grabbing a pillow he lifted her by one plush thigh and pushed it under her hips. Heard her little aroused groan at being manhandled. "Yes this will do nicely." He preened, now had the perfect angle.

"I never doubted you for a second." She tried for teasing but couldn't hide the lust in her voice.

His free hand dragging soft up and down her entrance, joining his fingers already worshipping her hard mound. Hands busy he had the perfect view to watch her unwind under him.

Her head fell back, arching slightly. Horns digging against the pillow.

He slowly inserted two digits into her, shallowly pumping. The angle perfect to go as far as he could, but not yet. Just teasing her entrance. Fingers on her clit pushing more force. Her little gasping breaths goading him on.

Started pushing inside her with earnest, fingers curling in the way he knew made her mewl. Hand on her clit feather light.

Alternating his force back and forth between his two hands he could tell he was driving her mad. Slick already dripping down under his fingers.

"Astarion," She groaned, hand gripping the sheet.

"I'm all pointy ears, darling." He teased, switching hands again just to make her gasp.

"Gods, please fuck me already." She panted, looking into his eyes.

"Ah, but we need to be careful." He purred, smiling like a fox cornering a hen. "Nothing too strenuous, you know. Gotta make sure you're-" Both hands with pressure, her eyes rolling back in her head. "Up to it." He finished.

"You know I can kill you, right?"

"Oh we're doing threats now," He hissed, smiling down over her. "How rude."

Both hands working in a blur she was an incoherent writhing mess. Hips trying to get away. He sat his weight on her side, pinning her there. "Oh come on now, I know you can take it."

He knew she was so close to being undone as he watched. Her hot panting groans getting more frantic, higher. Hips squirming helplessly under him.

Leaning over he looked into her eyes. "I want you to come all over my hand."

Her eyes went wide then squeezed shut. Face contorting in anguished pleasure. Clenching down hard on his fingers she wailed an esctastic cry. Hips jutting up into his body, hiking him up. Shocked by the strength of her.

Moving down quickly he pushed his mouth into her, tongue working rapidly. Taking up the pace of his fingers.

She almost screamed, hand gripping his hair.

Wrapping his arms around her retreating thighs he ravaged. Groaning into her, already so much creamy slick pushing out of her. All for him.

Already on the cusp of a second orgasm he watched her through her spread legs. Suckling down hard on her clit, merciless.

"Oh gods, oh fuck," She whimpered, head craning back. Pelvis shaking.

So perfect, you taste so sweet. He thought to her, connecting their minds. Honeysuckle... Groaning into her.

Her mouth falling open in a silent scream, eyes hitching. Seizing under his mouth, head lolling. Her body an arched bridge. Sharp talons leaving his hair and ripping into the sheet.

He palmed over her overstimulated core as she collapsed, knew his cool hand would bring relief. Kissing softly below her navel. Her body still trembling, breath regaining from the drown of her pleasure.

"If I wasnt already in the infirmary.." She breathed when she found her words again.

He laughed, sliding in next to her. Adjusting her slightly so he could slot under her. Wrapping his leg around her side, straddled behind her.

She fell back into his chest, already spent.

"Damn, maybe I'm not as ready as I thought I was." She laughed, threading her hand into his.

"Told you." He murmured into her hair. Pulling their joined hands to his lips.

She got quiet for a moment, knocking her head gently into his.

"I'm going to get better, I promise." Speaking on more than her injuries.

"I know, my sweet girl."

~

Part 5

[imaginary-polysemy]

Katya’s Death!

CW: Major character death (Katya), angst, death.. ALTAIR THAT BITCH—

Written by Dango 🍡!

Tagging… @happy--prince

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the quiet streets as Katya Lyubov wheeled herself away from Oscar’s house. The familiar weight of her past pressed down on her, but today felt different. She needed this—an escape, a chance to breathe even just for a few minutes. Leaving her phone behind, she thought it safer to keep her movements hidden from prying eyes like the World Serpent, or Anti-Entropy..

As she navigated the winding paths of the park, the rustling leaves accompanied her thoughts, offering a fleeting sense of peace. But as she ventured deeper into the shadows, a familiar sensation began to creep in—an unsettling prickle at the back of her neck. It was a feeling she had learned to trust, an instinct honed through years of danger.

And then she saw them.

Emerging from the trees like wraiths, figures cloaked in darkness surrounded her. Assassins from Anti-Entropy, their eyes glinting with predatory intent. Katya’s heart raced as panic surged through her, but she fought to maintain control. Drawing upon her connection with her puppets, she summoned her main protector, Mashenka, feeling the familiar rush of power surge through her as the puppet came to life.

“Машенка, защити меня!” she commanded, her voice steady, though fear gnawed at her insides.

(“Mashenka, protect me!”)

The battle began, and Katya directed Mashenka with fierce determination. But the numbers were overwhelming, and as the assassins struck, she felt the pain of each blow as if it were her own. It was a connection deeper than mere magic; it was a bond forged through countless struggles and their shared soul.

As she fought, a figure lingered at the edge of the chaos. They watched from a distance, cloaked in shadows, their expression inscrutable. Where was Kotoko when she needed he— Oh. Right.. Kotoko was dead. Katya needed help. She didn’t want to die yet, not before she cleared her name.. or apologizing to Alexsei for how she treated him.. or—

With each strike against Mashenka, Katya felt a visceral pain blossom within her, a heart-wrenching sensation that tore at her very essence. "Нет!" she cried out as her puppet fell, the sound of tearing fabric echoing through her mind like a death knell. The connection was severed, and in that moment of loss, the world around her blurred.

(“No!”)

“Машенка!” The anguish in her voice shattered the stillness of the park. The weight of despair crashed down on her, and she fought back against the assassins, desperation lending her strength. But Altair remained hidden, a silent observer, his gaze unyielding, betraying nothing as chaos unfolded.

(“Mashenka!”)

With one final, brutal strike, Katya’s last connection to her power was shattered. Mashenka lay destroyed at her feet, and the pain that surged through Katya was indescribable—a deep, penetrating agony that made her heart falter. She felt as if a piece of her soul had been ripped away.

In that agonizing moment, she caught a glimpse of a shadow from the corner of her eye. Their face was hidden by a hood, and it chilled her to the core. Who was that? Why weren’t they helping her? A girl in a wheelchair being attacked.?

“Help me!” she cried, but her plea fell on deaf ears. The person did nothing, merely stood as a shadow against the setting sun, a haunting figure in her final moments.

With her strength waning, Katya fought on, swinging her remaining puppets against the relentless assassins. But it was futile. As the darkness closed in, she felt the icy grip of despair tighten around her heart. Altair’s presence haunted her thoughts, a betrayal woven into the fabric of her final breaths.

“Нет! Я не позволю этому закончиться!” she shouted, lashing out one last time, but the assassin’s blade found its mark. Pain sliced through her, sharper than any she had ever known. The world blurred, and she crumpled to the ground, the darkness pulling her under like a tide.

(“No! I can’t let this end!”)

Hours later, the assassins disposed of her lifeless body at the edge of a cliff, dragging her like a discarded puppet, empty and forgotten. They hurled her over the edge, and she plunged into the depths below, the cold water swallowing her whole.

But as her body sank, a flicker of something stirred within her—a whisper of hope and resilience. In the silent depths, she sensed a connection, a bond with certain people that would never be severed, a promise of rebirth. And lingering feelings of betrayal, loneliness and despair…

And far above, Altair remained, a silent guardian cloaked in shadows. He had watched it all unfold, the betrayal of trust mingling with his own secrets. In the aftermath of her loss, his heart twisted with regret, but he made no move to intervene.

As the darkness closed in around Katya, a spark ignited within her, waiting for the chance to rise again, leaving behind the pain of betrayal and the promise of a new beginning.

DANGO’S NOTES: SCREAMING. Now Isa-chan, finish the wholesome. Right now.