#the power is written in her blood. what is she doing about it?

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

ৎ୭. . . REVENANT ─── Bruce Wayne & Batfamily

Silly Little Bat

⊹ ٬  Headcanon. In a dark mansion, a broken doll becomes the reflection of a man who has lost everything. Bruce Wayne, trapped in his pain, embraces it as a substitute for the irretrievable, while his family watches in horror and desperation. The line between obsession and sanity blurs, and the war for the truth erupts, each word cutting deeper.

⊹ ٬  Word Count.  2,18k

⊹ ٬  Content. MDNI. Dark themes, violence/death, blood, family war, trauma, invasion of privacy, kidnapping (of a doll), Angst, disturbing content, corruption, isolation, paranoia, manipulation, emotional abuse, family conflict, abuse of power, emotional manipulation.

「 a person who has returned,

especially supposedly from the dead. 」

When the doll appeared, no one knew where it had come from. It was in an elaborate package, an impeccable wrapping, with a bow that seemed intended to disguise the horror it contained. The note, written in a handwriting that seemed familiar, read: “For Bruce Wayne.”

Alfred was the first to notice the package. He didn’t want to touch it, but in the end, he did. What else could he do? When he opened it, the expression on his face changed from curiosity to a mix of confusion and dread. He couldn’t help but let out a breath, his gaze fixed on the contents.

“What’s wrong, Alfred? Is it something about Y/N?” Bruce asked, a trace of hope still lingering in his voice.

But as Bruce approached, that hope vanished as quickly as it had come. What he saw before him was more terrifying than any monster he could have imagined.

It was her. Or rather, the cruelest version of what she had been. A doll so identical to Y/N that it seemed as if life itself had been condensed into a piece of plastic, fabric, and hair. The same clothes she had worn on her first arrival at the mansion. Her disheveled hair, as if the chaos of those difficult days had become embedded in her locks. But above all, that empty look, of abandonment, of desolation, as if the only thing left of Y/N was her shadow, trapped in that object.

It was an echo of tragedy, a cruel caricature of that moment when he lost his parents. A macabre mockery.

Bruce’s throat tightened, but he didn’t allow his face to soften. He stood frozen, staring at her, until his body succumbed to a spiral he couldn’t control. Memories assaulted him mercilessly. The dark street. The shadows that enveloped him as his parents fell, helpless to do anything. The violence of that moment, the anguish that still dragged him down, the pain that never left.

Bruce slumped in his chair in the Batcave, turning his face away so Alfred wouldn’t see him. His chest heaved, and with trembling hands, he embraced the doll. He squeezed it desperately, as if it were the only link he had left to the past, to her, to the girl he had once been. He held it as if he could, for an instant, relive those days when everything seemed to make sense.

He cried silently. Tears fell like an invisible river, but the sound that accompanied his weeping was the same as that of a broken city. And so, for a second, he felt like a child again.

Alfred, with a dull expression, left quietly, but he saw it. He saw how that doll was the last drop that spilled Bruce Wayne's sanity.

What Alfred couldn’t foresee, what he couldn’t even imagine, was what happened the next day. When he entered the dining room, while setting the table with the usual routine, he saw Bruce. It was not the upright posture of a man facing the day, but that of someone who had fallen into an invisible trap. With a disturbing stillness, Bruce placed one more plate on the table. A plate that didn’t fit, that didn’t belong in the place it was meant to be. Next to his place, he set it down. The doll.

The butler observed in silence, unsure if what he saw was a macabre joke or the manifest pain of a broken man. The doll was now dressed in clean clothes, her hair neatly arranged with a meticulous care that could only have come from the hand of someone who had too much time to think, too much time to feel. He doubted Bruce was the one who had arranged it, but in the end, he was the only one who knew of its existence. The only one who knew that emptiness.

When the kids arrived, their gazes fell upon the doll. There weren’t many words, just murmurs in low voices, comments under their breaths, attempts to ignore it. But there was something in the atmosphere, a tension that filled it with a presence that refused to be silenced. Everyone, except Damian.

When the little one entered the room, he saw it, and his eyes widened. His gaze didn’t reflect confusion, but pure disdain. As if something in his mind had exploded, as if that scene had become the manifestation of everything he didn’t understand, everything that terrified him.

“What the hell is that thing?” he roared with venom, his voice piercing like a sharp dagger. He looked at his father, then at everyone else at the table with an indomitable fury. “Who was the jokester who dared to make that stupid replica of my sister?”

The air tensed, and time seemed to stand still for a second. Damian's rage was like thunder, but no one was willing to respond. There were no words. However, Bruce's response came as a deadly whisper, cold and definitive, an answer that was for no one but himself, for that abyss within his soul that had always swallowed his fears.

“It’s not a thing,” he said, his voice tinged with an unsettling calm, a calm that froze everything around him. “It’s Y/N. And sit down and shut up. She’s bothered by loud noises.”

The room fell into an absolute silence. No more words. No attempts to contradict him. The others didn’t dare to breathe, as if the air itself could ignite and consume them. Everyone looked down, unable to face the truth hidden in the delicately dressed figure, a figure that represented more than just a toy. It was a reflection of Bruce's desperation, a reminder of the deep cracks that had never healed.

The glass of milk that Bruce poured with a too-calculated precision on the table was not just for the doll. It was an offering. An attempt to feed what could no longer be nourished. The mansion, so big and empty, felt even lonelier in that moment, like a labyrinth with no exit. The anxiety that hung in the air was not just from those present. Bruce was trapped in his own cycle of pain. And the doll, the damned doll, was the only one who understood him.

The others, though silent, understood: the thread that held Bruce wasn't visible, but it was on the verge of breaking.

Days slipped by like shadows, each dragging with it a sense of unease and growing anxiety. The doll was no longer a novelty. It had become just another presence in Wayne Manor, as if it had been there all along, as if its existence was natural. Wherever Bruce went, she was there. In the office, in the Batcave, her small figure sat there, still, with the unsettling perfection of someone who could not move on her own. Though her face held no expression, the doll “played” like a lost child in a world she didn’t understand, simulating a normality that didn’t exist.

During breakfasts, snacks, and dinners, the doll occupied a special place next to Bruce. Her glass of milk, always empty, always vacant. The milk slid down her plastic lips, like a routine, as if it were a ritual that could not be interrupted. Sometimes, Bruce tucked her in to sleep, his trembling hands as he draped the blanket over her. The gesture was strange, almost paternal, but beneath that apparent calm, his mind was a whirlwind.

At first, he thought it would all end there. Bruce and the doll, a tacit agreement between them. The others would search for the real Y/N, the one who should be out there, lost, missing. But, as always in his life, things were never simple, never stayed in place.

It was a gray morning, one in which Bruce couldn’t help but feel trapped in the same cycle of anguish. As every day, the doll was at the table, by his side, with her glass of milk, but something was wrong. Alfred, upon entering the living room, was the first to notice it. A sound, a fragility, as if everything that had been built around the doll had shattered.

When he saw it, his heart stopped for a second. The doll was broken. Her porcelain body was cracked, her hair disheveled, her face a distorted grimace that it had never had before. And there it was, in the middle of the living room, like a brutal reminder of what was happening, of what Bruce had created.

The air cut sharply. A deadly tension spread through the house, as if a bomb was about to explode. Bruce, upon seeing the doll, said nothing. His breathing became heavy, his eyes fixated on the doll's cracks, as if that fracture were a reflection of his own broken self. Something inside him crumbled.

And then, the war began. It was not a war of weapons, nor of blows. It was a psychological war, a war of unresolved emotions and guilt. The members of the Wayne family, those who knew him better than anyone, began to speak. The words crossed, like daggers thrown mercilessly.

“What the hell have you done, Bruce?” Dick said, his voice tense, marked by a mix of fury and concern. “You’re losing control.”

Damian, with disdain in his eyes, looked at the broken doll. “Do you think you can replace Y/N with this? With that?” His voice was cold, cutting. “It’s just a piece of plastic."

Barbara, on the other hand, remained silent, but her eyes spoke more than a thousand words. She knew what was happening, saw the imminent collapse in Bruce. No one dared to say it out loud, but they all knew: Bruce was not just searching for Y/N. He was searching for a way to save himself.

“It’s just a doll!” Tim shouted, the rage evident in his tone. “It’s not going to bring her back!”

But Bruce, with his gaze lost on the broken doll, couldn’t hear. His mind, tormented by guilt, pain, and anxiety, couldn’t process any more. “She’s here,” he murmured, almost like a prayer. “She’s here with me. She’s always been here.”

And Bruce broke.

The war was not about the doll. It was about the pain, about the inability to accept the irreparable. Bruce was fighting against his own demons, a battle that no one could win. The doll, in its broken state, was just a reflection of the fractures that already existed within him. And now, they were all trapped in the same spiral, in the same darkness that he had created

Note ───── This story came to me as an anonymous request, something unexpected but incredibly interesting. I had never heard of such dolls before, but there's something unsettling about the idea that an inanimate object could carry so much emotional weight. As I wrote, I couldn't help but imagine Bruce at his most fragile, holding that doll as if it were all that remained of his humanity.

And honestly, I was more than sure that Bruce would crucify the Batkids for what they did to the doll, especially Damian. He was the one who, in some way, broke it, an act that would only multiply Bruce's guilt. The Batkids would surely never forget that day.

[allseeingdirt]

me :

me : bloodline magic as an allegory for inherited privilege send post

[friendrat]

The problem with the church today is that so many "Christians" do not actually believe in redemption.

[cheriecoke]

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ SAFEGUARD — dazai, chuuya, akutagawa

summary . . . they save you after you've been injured and captured by an enemy.

contents . . . sfw, f!reader (chuuya & dazai) and gn!reader (akutagawa), violence / blood, threats, injuries, hurt/comfort, angst, established relationship, and it's pmboss!dazai bc i can't help myself — 3.5k total

notes . . . i got this request so long ago lol. not my best work, but i have been in the worst writing slump ever and just wanted to finish something. i've also never written for akutagawa before so pls be nice <3

𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 . . .

there are very few times that chuuya feels he’s been outsmarted. he knows he’s not the mastermind of the port mafia, but he certainly isn’t a fool. when it comes to you and your well-being, though, his mind short-circuits, half of his intelligence draining away while his emotions take hold. 

your relationship isn’t a secret to anyone in the port mafia, which means that it isn’t a secret to your enemies either. and while most people know it’s hard to land a finger on chuuya directly, his pretty little girlfriend doesn’t have the power of a god nestled inside of her.

the rage sparks through him, growing fiercely into the blaze of a forest fire, until all he can think of is getting you home safely. he thinks of your sweet smile as he rips the door of the enemies’ base off the hinges, crushing it into a million pieces with the force of gravity. 

the men are quick to react, but chuuya hurtles the crushed door towards them, knocking three of them to their feet. another group charges at him, but their guns do little against his skill. after years of fighting some of the strongest ability users, simple criminal organizations are as easy to step over like ants. 

chuuya kills them all — except for one.

the man’s knees are wobbling, hand shaking around the gun as he realizes that these will be his final moments. there is fear in his eyes, brown ones that rest wide open, and chuuya almost hesitates. his remorse doesn’t last long, though, before he’s wrapping a hand around the man’s throat, thrusting him backwards. 

“where is she?” chuuya asks, voice sharp and commanding. 

he can feel the man swallowing. 

chuuya knows that backup is probably on the way, but it won’t matter whether they show up or not. he’ll crush the rest of his enemies just as he’s crushed the last twenty men. the poor soul in his leather hold seems to know that as well. 

“i-i’ll take you to her,” he rasps, dropping his gun to claw at chuuya’s hand. 

he drops him, lets him take a few heaving breaths and coughs, before he’s kicking at him, forcing him back to his feet.

the young man takes him up the elevator, weaves him through a hallway as chuuya leaves a scattering of bodies in his wake, not hesitating to kill a single man that gets in his way. there is nothing that can keep him from you. 

how fiercely and loyally he loves you — it drives him to near insanity. 

finally, with blood coating his face and his clothes, the young man enters a room, locked with a code, revealing you. 

chuuya’s rage is almost as blinding as his corruption, as he gazes at the sight of you. bloodied and bruised, tied up in a chair, so visibly harmed. his hands clench into fists. “get the fuck away from her,” he says to the man who seems to be monitoring you.

“what are you doing in here?” the men left in the room panic, but they don’t have time to react before chuuya throws them back at the wall, so quickly, with so much force, that their spines snap. they hit it with a sharp crack, skulls shattering against the plaster, the wall crushing beneath the weight of them. 

limply, they fall to the floor. 

chuuya rushes over to you. 

the young man that led him here disappears, but chuuya isn’t worried about him. he’s a coward; he’ll likely flee from the country and never look back. the men that truly hurt you are already dead, and he’ll burn this building to the ground once he’s gotten you away from it. 

“hey,” chuuya says, cradling your cheeks gently, trying to coax you back awake. he’s not sure if it’s exhaustion, blood loss, or the obvious head trauma that caused you to pass out in the first place. but you’re still breathing, so he counts that as a blessing. 

“hey,” he whispers again, kissing your forehead, like it will heal all your ailments. “wake up, baby. we gotta get you out of here, okay?” 

it takes you a few seconds to come to, eyes glazed over and shell-shocked as you blink at him. “chuuya?” you say; your voice is so hoarse it makes chuuya want to keel over and vomit. “is it really you?” 

guilt gnaws at him, almost crushing, at the fact that thirty-six hours passed, and you’re delirious enough not to recognize him. you probably haven’t eaten, either. 

he should’ve been there. no one should’ve ever had the chance to hurt you, yet…

“it’s me, i’m here,” he says, kissing your lips, your temple, brushing your hair away from your face. the strands are sticky with blood. “shit,” chuuya nearly shouts, pulling a knife from his pocket, sawing through the thick ropes around you as quickly as he can. “i’m so sorry, i’m so sorry.” 

he can’t get you free fast enough, and you smile at him, drowsy, your eyes fluttering shut once more. “it’s okay, chuuya,” you say, leaning your head on his shoulder. “you’re here now.” 

“you have to stay awake,” he says desperately, realizing your head is still bleeding. he doesn’t know how hurt you are. chuuya’s no expert when it comes to medicine, but he’s smart enough to know that internal injuries could be even worse than the external ones. 

“stay awake for me, okay, honey? i’ll get you back to the boss and we’ll find you a doctor. you’ll be just fine.” 

“okay, chuuya,” you hum, weakly gripping his back. seconds of silence pass before you mutter, “i just want to go home.” 

"i know." his heart pulls, and he almost lets out a cracked sob. but he refrains, knowing that there is plenty of time to drown in his sorrows later. 

finally, he gets the ropes under, lifting you from the chair. you’re so much lighter, weaker, and it makes him sick as he carries you. “let’s get you home.” 

𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐖𝐀. . .

the call comes just as akutagawa is getting ready to head home for the evening, his tasks completed, eyes heavy with exhaustion. 

normally, he doesn’t stick around to say any goodbyes, sneaking off into the darkness of the night like a shadow, blending right in. but, something about the evening, so gloomy and drizzly with spring rain, feels off. 

with a heavy knot in his chest, so much different than an incoming fit of coughs, akutagawa heads back up to mori’s office, if perhaps to only ensure that everyone else’s jobs had been completed. he’s a lot of things, but he’s never been a slacker; and he’ll do what it takes to ensure that his position in the mafia is eternally secure.

though, he doesn’t have the opportunity to get all the way upstairs before he run into the boss, who is calm, but with an air of irritation clouding him. 

he explains the current situation to akutagawa in a clipped tone, bored — an enemy group has kidnapped you, holding you hostage. 

“how rude is it to bother a man, just as he is getting ready to go to sleep?” mori says, sighing histrionically.

but what is a minor inconvenience to mori sends an entire wave of dread through akutagawa, his entire body feeling as if it’s been dipped in ice. he can’t explain the horror that washes over him, not really, because he shouldn’t feel so panicked. it is rare for him to get worked up about the danger his subordinates find themselves in, save for his sister, of course. 

but you… you’re different. 

“can i trust you to diffuse the situation?” mori asks, impatiently glancing at his watch as if that will change anything. “i can call someone else, but they will not be so quick.” 

akutagawa doesn’t even think before he accepts the job, hating the way he sounds pathetically desperate for more details. his hands flatten the edge of his cloak, as if his ability is going to take on a mind of its own. 

he calls for a driver, calm but breathing so heavily that an aching cough rises up in him. his throat feels as if it may begin to bleed, but he swallows, glances away from the driver and gets himself under control.

there’s a ransom — bring them the money and they’ll return you, mori had told him. you’re only a lower ranking member of the mafia, and someone that makes for a pretty poor bargaining chip, so the motive is questionable. 

mori probably would’ve let you die, akutagawa knows, his teeth gritting together, so much so that a splintering sound comes from it. but the boss, in his infinite, concerning wisdom, seems to also know that his loyal dog has an soft spot for you. 

as regrettable as that may be.

akutagawa has no doubt that whoever the enemy is, they are no match for him. still, a twinge of anxiety settles in his stomach, fingers jittery as the driver, despite the decreased traffic of the hour, seems to drive impossibly slow. 

“are we not in a rush?” akutagawa snaps, leaning forward.

“apologies,” the driver, says, not daring to even look at akutagawa from the mirror. but the car speeds up, enough for akutagawa to be able to notice, at least. it cools the simmer that has already begun deep in his chest.  

even so, the car seems to go at a snails pace, minute upon minute flying by, with you in the clutches of an enemy. 

akutagawa doesn’t care who they are. he doesn’t care why, or how they captured you. he wants them dead. he’ll rip them apart, easily, and he’ll make them suffer — they’ll be alive for all of it, for every second that he peels the skin from their bones, ripping the smaller ones out of their sockets. 

what he feels for you… well, it’s too hard for him to admit to himself. he has no experience with what it means to care for another person, doesn’t even know if that’s his goal. he just knows he wants to protect you.

and he can’t do that if you’re dead.

finally, the car pulls up to an old warehouse, one at the very outskirts of the port, beyond the docks and the shipping carts. it’s tucked far back, an obvious lair for some villainous organization that doesn’t want to be found. 

akutagawa gets there, but there is nothing. he hears nothing, feels no signs of life as he trudges through the puddles left behind from the earlier rain. 

a small string of panic begins again, as he wondered if maybe the call that mori had told him was only a ruse. maybe this entire time had been a distraction, a way to lure him away. there are other skill-users in the mafia, but none quite as dangerous as him. 

though, he hears it, then. a small little sound, muffled and hoarse, full of pain. 

he ducks into another corner of a warehouse, and you’re there — bound with chains and a gag across your mouth, one of your eyes blackened with bruises, your nose bleeding. 

his heart aches. never in his life has he so quickly made his way over, used the sharp edges of his ability to shear through the chains, falling to his knees as he unbinds the cloth from your lips. 

“where are they?” he rasps, mouth opening and closing, hating the sound of his own voice. he recognizes his desperation, his anger, but the affectionate sound that clips at the end is unfamiliar, as he shakily pulls himself closer to you. 

you glance up at him, eyes glossy and wide, and though you are scared, hurt, he’s so thankful you are alive. his heart flips once, as you grasp at his cloak, the material that has the blood of so many staining the threads. 

“gone,” you say, throat chalky, words nothing more than a note against the wind. “they fled when they heard it was you coming.” 

“and left you?” he asks, jaw clenching, as he hopes that the emotions aren’t as visible on his features as he thinks they are. “were you not a ransom?” 

“no,” you swallow, hard, as if in pain. he notices bruises around your neck, the shape of fingerprints indented there. “i was bait.”

anger rises up in him like a wave, engulfing him, wholly and relentlessly. he is no stranger to that, like he is the kindness you show him, the way you look at him as if he is your protector, rather than a bringer of destruction. “i’ll go after them. where are they headed? they’ll pay, i’ll slaughter—”

“ryunosuke,” you say, reaching for him as he stands, expression pleading as he backs away. “stay.” 

he has half a mind to ignore you — the enemy escaped, after all. but your voice. your eyes… you look so small sitting there, bloodied and bruised and broken. 

“please,” you try again, near tears, and though he has never been good with obvious displays of emotion, something within him snaps at the desperation in the word. 

he nods, slowing his pace as he returns to you, lets you wrap yourself in him, cling to him. his hands fall, naturally, to your waist, somehow knowing where they belong, even if akutagawa never has a clue what he’s doing with you. 

“i’ll call hirotsu,” he says simply, before pulling out his phone, not bothering to untangle himself from you. 

𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 . . .

dazai is not a forgiving man, and will never learn to be. forgiveness is not a luxury he is often able to indulge in in his line of work, and his heart has hardened enough that until the end of time, those that are branded his enemies will remain his enemies. 

though, in his blackened heart, one soured over the course of time, you have carved out your own little space, lit it up with golden rays of light that are fiery enough to melt the stone casing of his chest. 

his only love — his only weakness. but it is a weakness that his enemies know about as well. 

dazai tries his best to keep you safe. he always has, and he knows that, sometimes, his grasp on you can be a little too tight. that the way he tries to keep you under his watchful eye can sometimes be stifling, frustrating. 

but he can’t always be there to protect you. and it is in times like these, that he regrets letting you go without a bodyguard. he regrets that he listened to your insistence that you could keep yourself safe. 

he should’ve at least told you to take a friend. 

“boss,” his subordinate says, bowing his head, his voice pleading, desperate. “i’m so sorry. your wife—”

“if anything… anything happens to her, you will be the one responsible, do you understand?” dazai says, his eyes cold as he glowers down at the man, only a few inches shorter than him, but feeling so much smaller. “i will personally see that this act does not go unpunished.” 

“of course, sir,” the man says, and he, at the very least, has the decency to sound resigned. to accept his fate and suffer the consequences, for allowing the boss’s wife to get herself into such a situation. 

and dazai means it, every last word; if he finds you in a state closer to death, anyone who put you in harm’s way will be torn apart from the inside out. he isn’t able to think of anything but bringing you home safely, his hands shaking with rage as he sends more than enough people out on a search to find you. 

with all the strings he’s able to pull as the mafia boss, it doesn’t take long to find you, for those that have bravely — or stupidly — used his wife as bait to come forward, and offer an attempt at some sort of negotiation. 

there’s little of the conversation that dazai remembers on the phone, even less that he remembers after that. the anger bubbles up in him and grabs hold of his conscience, the emotion directing his movements with a mind of its own. 

he’s already sent out every last one of his people into the field, ensuring that the organization that had the gall to threaten you is wiped off the face of the earth. deleted from every corner of the world, buildings flattened to the ground. by tomorrow, they won’t have ever existed. 

today, he doesn’t care what happens as long as he finds you alive. 

you’re held hostage by two men — so completely beaten that they’ve given up on any restraints. whatever they wanted from you, you seemed to refused to have given up, lip bleeding, eyes swelling so badly that you can’t even open them. 

dazai doesn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger on the first man, then turning to the other, shooting the hand that holds the pistol. the man recoils, shouts, and drops the weapon completely, as dazai lands another bullet to his knee, causing him to fall. 

slowly, dazai walks up, firing again to his other arm, a loud snap echoing throughout the room. the man winces, trying to crawl to the gun, one last desperate attempt to stay alive. 

he kicks the gun away, watching, as, pathetically, the expression in the enemy’s face changes — any of his remaining hope vanishes. 

“you told me she was unharmed,” dazai says, bending down, his coat flaring out behind him as he squats. 

the man coughs, gasping for air as the blood seeps out of him. “we lied.” he smiles cruelly, and though he shares the same sort of darkness as those in the port mafia, there is something even more twisted in his smile. 

dazai hums. “you the leader?” 

the man doesn’t give an answer, but the slight twitch of surprise on his face is all dazai needs. he’s no one — just a grunt whose life was put on the line to guard you. 

“didn’t think so.” dazai shoots him once, straight through the forehead, instantly killing him. but he is vindictive, angry, and the man he truly wants to destroy, the one who took you, is nowhere to be found. another bullet lands, tearing apart the flesh of his temple, then another, and one more, his skull beginning to cave in from the force of it all. 

dazai heaves, letting the gun clatter to the ground as it runs out of bullets, and then he realizes, all this time, you’ve just been watching him. the ugliest side of him — the worst side of him. 

you’re no stranger to it, of course. how can you be, when you’ve shared a life with him for years? but that doesn’t mean he wants you to see it, see how bloodthirsty he can become. 

he stumbles over to you, where you’re still sitting on the ground, your wrist in your lap, bent at an angle that he knows isn’t right. bruises are littered across your skin, and your hair is matted from the blood that pools at your temple. 

it takes every ounce of restraint he has to stay calm, a million feelings swirling under his skin. ones that he was never familiar with until he met you. 

“i’m sorry,” he says, taking your face in his hands so, so softly, worried that he’ll hurt you even more. “i’m sorry, darling. i should’ve — i should’ve been there.” dazai notices his hands are shaking and he balls them up into fists, leaning back. “fuck. fuck — i’ll kill them all, just tell me who it was. anyone who laid a finger on you. i’ll cut them down one by one.” 

“osamu,” you say, and your voice is raspy, cracking, as your unbroken arm reaches for him, squeezing his shaking hand. “i—”

you open your mouth to continue, but only tears come streaming down your cheeks, over your bloodied lips, saltiness soaking your jawline. no words don’t leave you, but a soft sob chokes itself up your throat.

“hey, hey, hey.” dazai’s voice softens, every muscle in his body relaxing as he draws you nearer to him, into his chest with a touch that’s barely there. “you’re safe. i’m here, okay? they’re not going to hurt you again, sweetheart.” 

you sniffle, barely making a sound, but he can feel the tears drop onto his clothes, soaking the material.

“can you walk? are you hurt anywhere else?” 

you hesitate for a moment before answering; he’s not sure if there’s a reason you only answer the first question. “i can walk.” 

dazai nods, and though the rage is still bubbling there, underneath the surface, there is a coolant streaming through him at the vision of you alive. the men who did this will pay the price, but he still has you — and that’s all that matters.

thank you for reading !!! ❤︎

[navybrat817]

(Im)Patiently Waiting

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Single Mom!Reader

Summary: Bucky is trying to patiently wait for your call.

Word Count: Over 1.4k

Warnings: Fluff, slight feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning and already whipped, okay?)

A/N: Continuing with Moving in Slow Motion and Heart and Home, the phone call! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky looked down at the phone in his hand. He was never the kind of guy to constantly check his device, but he hadn’t stopped looking at it since he met you. Hell, he checked it while he was still at the museum, hoping for a text or something so he’d have your number, too. He didn’t think it was possible to become whipped so fast, but life still surprised him.

He sighed when the screen went dark. Why hadn’t you called yet? Maybe he came on too strong? He didn’t think he had. Were you just busy? Probably. You had an adorable daughter who needed you love and attention and-

“Bucky!”

His head snapped up to find Steve, his best friend and second-in-command, staring at him. He didn’t look impressed and pursued his lips more when Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t hear a damn word I said, did you?”

“No,” he replied, not bothering to lie. “Was I supposed to be listening, punk?”

“Yeah, you were, jerk.” Steve ran a hand through his golden hair, plopping down in his chair. “Still hasn’t called yet?”

“Not yet,” he said, setting the phone on the desk in front of him.

“I’m sorry.”

Bucky sighed again, staring off at the books that lined one of the walls of his office. He didn’t divulge much of his personal life to others. It was safer that way, to both protect himself and the people he cared about. But meeting you and your daughter, he told Steve and their small circle all about it. How Sweet Pea bumped into him and his heart melted. How seeing you set his heart on fire.

They were stunned to say the least and were naturally curious about you since you caught his attention. Each of them offered in some way to do their research on you and make sure there was nothing suspicious or dangerous about you, but he refused. His gut instinct told him all he needed to know.

“You know,” Steve began, pulling his attention back. “We can get you her number if-”

He cut him off with a glare. “I already said no,” he growled, taking a breath. He wasn’t going to snap at his best friend. “I’m doing this the right way.”

Bucky was powerful, extremely powerful, but he wouldn’t use his influence over you. It wouldn’t be right. His hands were dirty as it was, and this could be his chance to have something pure.

With his hands up in surrender, Steve nodded. “Sorry. I just… I haven’t seen you like this before and you haven’t even gone on a date with her yet,” he smiled a little. “She must be something special.”

Bucky smiled a little, too. “She is,” he whispered. Things that didn’t make sense before did after he looked in your eyes.

“Yelena will be the judge of that,” the blonde winked.

“Yelena will take one look at Sweet Pea and declare that she’s her aunt,” Bucky teased, both of them chuckling.

If Bucky’s group taught him anything, it was that blood wasn’t always thicker than water. Friends were the family he got to choose. He would defend and protect them with his life. He imagined you were like that with your daughter, perhaps even more.

Who defended and protected you?

A ring echoed in the office and Bucky stared at the device as it lit up. He held his breath when a phone number popped up with no name. His gaze flickered to Steve as it kept ringing. Was it you?

Steve stared back at him like he had grown two heads. “What the hell are you waiting for? Answer it!”

Clearing his throat, he waved for his friend to go, who did so quickly. If it was you, he didn’t want anyone eavesdropping. If it wasn’t you, he didn’t want any witnesses when his face fell.

Releasing his breath, he finally quietly answered, “This is Bucky.”

“Hi, Bucky,” you spoke on the other end, stating your name as well. He slumped in his chair at the sound of your voice, his heart skipping a beat. It was really you. “I don’t know if you remember me, but we met at the science museum.”

“Of course, I remember you. You and Sweet Pea.” He couldn’t forget either of you if he tried and he didn’t want to. Did you think of him as much as he thought of you? “How are you two doing? Did she win the contest?”

“We’re doing just fine. She keeps talking about the museum and wants to go back, but no word if she won the contest or not.” He could hear the smile in your voice and it put a smile on his face, too. “How are you?”

“I’m doing just fine,” he replied, getting up and heading to the sofa so he could relax a bit more. He was better than fine since he was talking to you.

“Sorry it took me a bit to call you.”

Should he admit that he kept checking his phone in anticipation? “No, no. You don’t need to apologize,” he said. You didn’t owe him an explanation either. Whether you were busy with Sweet Pea or you didn’t want to call right away, that was your business. “I’m just glad you called.”

“I am, too.” There was silence on the other end. “So, I, um…” Your nervous giggle was beautifully endearing. “God, I’m really out of practice with this.”

“Practice with what exactly?” he smiled, laying back and looking at the ceiling. He wondered if you were sitting on a sofa, too. Or maybe you were in bed, comfortable, unwinding.

“Talking, I guess. At least with someone outside of work or parenting.” There was that giggle again. He wanted that sound on a loop. “I’m not even sure where to start.”

“Why don’t you start with what you did today?” he suggested.

“That might bore you.”

“I don’t think anything you could say could possibly bore me,” he sincerely said. If you decided to pick up a phone book and read it to him, he’d listen. But he was genuinely interested in your day. The little things would help him get to know you better and build more of that connection, both with who you were as a mother and as a person.

“Okay, but only if you tell me about your day, too,” you said.

“Now my day might bore you,” he chuckled. He wouldn’t start anything with you built on a lie about what he did, but he had to be careful with the truth.

“Mmm. I don’t know. You don’t strike me as a boring kind of guy.”

“Oh, I’m not boring,” he smirked. He would love to show you just how thrilling he could be some time. “But my day might be.”

“Try me,” you smiled.

“Can I ask you something before we talk about our ‘boring’ days?”

“Yeah, anything,” you answered.

Butterflies filled his stomach. Jesus, he was nervous. When was the last time anything made him feel nervous? “Would you like to get a drink with me?”

The pause on your end didn’t soothe his nerves. “A drink?” you repeated, your voice smaller than before. He detected uncertainty, like when he offered you his number.

“Yeah. Coffee at a cafe or wine at a nice restaurant, whatever you want,” he replied, exhaling slowly. He didn’t want to mess up your schedule or over complicate anything for you. “What do you say?”

Bucky stared down the barrel of a gun more than once in his life. He experienced torture. Had come close to death. Waiting for your answer was a different kind of torment. It would either be a killing blow or his saving grace.

“I’d love to get a coffee with you,” you stated, allowing him to properly breathe again. He wanted to pump his fist in the air. “Tomorrow, maybe? Unless that’s too soon. Is it too soon?”

“No, no, that’s great,” he smiled. He couldn’t stop smiling. Even if wasn’t free tomorrow, he’d clear his schedule. “Give me the time and place and I’ll be there.”

“Great.” The uncertainty was long gone. “There’s a cafe not too far from me. I can text you the place and time.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he promised, and he wouldn’t be late. “Now… tell me about your day.”

He was going to soak up every single word until he saw you in the morning.

You called! He's whipped! You have a date! I still need to name this AU. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

Hi sweet angel, I have to admit that I'm new to your profile, but my obsession with your writing is almost as great as my obsession with snow, I have a request that changes the story a little bit.

Coryo is completely obsessed with the reader, but she thinks he is just an affectionate friend, both become mentors and instead of snow falling in love with lucy, it is the reader who falls in love with her tribute, and begins to move away from Snow, he can not accept this and manipulates the games, Not for lucy to win, but rather, to get rid of the reader's tribute. (Sorry for any mistake, English is not my mother tongue, so I use Google translator)

Slipping Through My Fingers || Young!Coriolanus Snow x reader

GIF by i forgot sorry :( divided by @firefly-graphics

A/n: this took me forever to finish idk why 😭 also this has to be the longest fic i've written so far.

Warnings: mention of blood, possessive coryo, mentions of death

Wc: 2,975

Coriolanus Snow Masterlist

"Can I see you tomorrow morning?" Coriolanus looks down at you with hope in his eyes, you open your mouth but close it before sighing. "I can't, sorry. My parents want me to be home when my grandparents are there," You lie through your teeth as he hums, nodding.

"That's fine, tomorrow afternoon then?" His hand touches your waist as you smile up at the boy. "Of course Coryo, I'll see you then?" You touch his hand that was at your waist as he nods. You give him one final smile before disappearing around the corner.

You felt bad for lying to him but you didn't know how he would take it if he found out that you were actually going to meet your tribute first thing when his train from the districts arrived in Panem. Your tribute, Dean, from district 8 intrigued you. You couldn't keep your eyes of the screen when he appeared. He caught your eye immediately.

Coryo couldn’t stop complaining all day about his tribute from district 12, Lucy Gray. Saying that she would not last a second in the game. Unlike him, you had faith in your tribute.

So here you were, standing on the platform waiting for the train to come to a halt as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. A smile on your face, dimples on display as the doors open revealing Dean. He was taller than you imagined, but nonetheless, he looked surreal. There was no denying that Dean was good looking, incredibly good looking which you would imagine would play a role in the amount of donations he would have.

"Dean. Y/n Y/l/n. I'll be your mentor." You extend your hand out in front of him as he looks you up and down before shaking your hand. His shake was firm, his fingers calloused. An indication that he was a hard worker.

"Are you supposed to be here? I don't see other people like you around here," He says as he looks around the train station. You notice Coriolanus' tribute, Lucy Gray walking by and staring at the two of you questioningly. You make eye contact with her before clearing your throat and looking back at Dean who hadn't kept his eyes off of you.

"No. I'm not supposed to be here." You confess, your hands fidgeting with the ends of your skirt as Dean raises an eyebrow at you. "Then.... what are you doing here?" You pause. What were you doing here? You could have waited like the others for tomorrow to meet him.

"I uh- I wanted to welcome you to the Capitol." You offer him a smile. Silence. "Can I be blunt with you Dean?" Your head slightly tilts, a habit of yours when you ask questions. "Sure," He shrugs. "I see potential in you," You hold his hands in between yours as he glances down at your intertwined hands with an expression you couldn't quite figure out.

"You can win this hunger games. And I will do everything in my power to make sure that you do. Such potential like you for a bright future shouldn't be wasted," You solemnly smile at him. Dean stays quiet for awhile, his hand still in yours before a peacekeeper roughly pulls him away from you.

"Hey!" You shout as you follow the two. "It's time for them to go Miss." The peacekeeper says as he throws Dean into the back of a van. Just as he walks away from your view to close the door, you jump into the van along with the rest of the tributes. "What are you doing!" Dean whispers yells at you as you stay hidden behind him.

You let out a sigh of relief once the doors close. "What's this? Is this your mentor, Dean?" A girl you recognised to be Carol asks with a sinister smile. You push past Dean and extend your hand out for her to shake. She looks at your face then your hand and lets out a laugh.

"Why would I shake hands with someone like you." She spat as a few others laugh alongside her. You notice Lucy Gray once more, sitting there silently. "Why do you get special treatment Dean, huh?" Carol pushes you backwards catching you off balance as Dean catches you.

"I could kill her right now," Carol chuckles like a maniac. Dean moves you behind him, "Leave her alone," He voices out, his tone screaming authority. Before Carol could respond, the van shook violently as you all lose your balance. You let out a groan as you felt your body slam against the van door before it flies open, causing you all to roll out onto hard rocks.

You let out a groan as you slowly lift up your head, squinting your eyes at your surrounding before you hear Dean's voice. "Y/n! Are you alright?" He asks worriedly as his grips your bicep, aiding you to stand up as you realise where you were. You were at the zoo cage.

You place a hand on your head as you let out a low groan. "Excuse me! Hello! Over there! Can they not hear me in there?" You hear a familiar voice belonging to Lucretius Flickerman. Dean takes a hold of your forearm, helping you keep balance as he whispers to you, "Own it." You look up at him with a small smile. He offers his arm to you as you link arms and walk towards the iron bars.

"Y/n Y/l/n, one of the mentors for the 10th hunger games." Lucretius says to the camera as he then directs his gaze towards you. "The game makers did tell you to jump into the cage with them," His tone was skeptical. Dean looks down at you as you glance at him before looking at Lucky.

"They didn't tell me not to. They just said it was a mentor's job to introduce our tributes to the citizens of Panem, and I thought well if Dean is brave enough to be here, then why shouldn't I be too?" You say with confidence, "For the record, I didn't have a choice," Dean butts in.

"What is Y/n doing there?" Arachne gasps as she ctaches the attention of Snow and the others as they look to the screen. There you were, linked arms with a tribute, looking awfully comfortable with him to add. Snow furrows his eyebrows at disbelief that you were there.

You told him that you were to be at home, but clearly not. Coriolanus watches with intent as you look at Dean when he spoke. His fists bawl up as Clemensia makes a comment. "You alright Coryo? You look.... bothered," Her hands rest on Snow's upper arm as he pries her touch off of him.

"I'm fine," He snaps as he leans forward on his seat. He was bothered. Very bothered seeing you so close with a tribute. "He's obviously not fine, he's bothered seeing Y/n so touchy with her tribute, isn't that right Snow?" Arachne teases as he slams his hand on the table causing her to shut up. "Shut it, Crane." Coriolanus says through gritted teeth as Arachne puts her hands up in surrender.

"They look really close. Can't blame Y/n honestly, she got a good looking one," He hears Clemensia quietly say before he had enough and stood up, storming off.

~

"Coryo," You call out as you catch up to him, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you offer him a smile. He says nothing, his face stern as he continues to walk, not bothering to look at you. "Hey listen, I'm sorry I stood you yesterday, I just got super busy-" "Yeah I saw, busy with your tribute right?" He gives you a sarcastic smile as you scrunch your eyebrows.

You were all making your way to the enclosed cage to talk to your tributes. "What?" Snow rolls his eyes at you, finally stopping. "I saw your interview with Flickerman. Looked awfully close to your tribute," You let out small chuckle as his face shows no sign of amusement.

"Coryo, I was just introducing myself to him and getting to know him that's all. I have faith in him that he will win and I wanted him to know that. Wouldn't you do the same with your tribute if you had faith in her?" You touch his arm as he looks at your hand.

"Right?" You try and get a response from him as he sighs, "I guess," Is all he says before intertwining his hands with yours. You look down at your hands, a sweet gesture from him. When you both get closer to the tributes, you unclasp your hands with Snow and walk towards Dean who has already seen you and was making his way closer to you.

"Hey," You greet Dean as you look through your bag and find the half of your sandwich and cookie which you put away for him. You hand it to him as he thanks you, immediately taking bites as you watch him. He could feel your stares as you look away. Your eyes land on Coriolanus and Lucy.

He was talking to her about something as Lucy looks towards you and Dean. Snow finally looks at you, his expression cold as you gulp and look at Dean who was already looking at you. "He your boyfriend or something?" He asks as he takes another bite of the cookie. Your eyes widen. "Who? Coryo? No." You laugh as Dean stares at you.

"He's just a close friend of mine." You say as he nods, unbothered. "Do you? Do you- uh- have a-" "No." He deadpans as you slowly nod. From afar, Snow was watching the two of you interact the entire time. "Do you want to win Lucy Gray?" He turns his attention from you to his tribute.

"Do you think I can win?" She asks him as he thinks. "Honestly? no." He admits as Lucy scoffs. "But if you listen to what I say and do what I tell you to do, you will." His tone was stern as Lucy nods, her eyes following his eyeline which led to you and Dean. "That your girlfriend? That girl who was with us yesterday in the van."

"Her and Dean seem to be close, don't you think?" Lucy watches Coriolanus' face, his jaw clenching at the mention of the two. "They're not close, she just knows how to play the game," Coriolanus snaps before standing up and backing away from Lucy Gray.

~

You hadn't spoken much to Coriolanus the past couple of days. You were with Dean quite a lot, making up strategies and scenarios for when the games started. "I care about you, Dean. A lot." You take his hands in yours, the sound of his iron shackles making you cringe as you look him the eyes. Dean looks around the room before caressing your hand.

You and Dean have gotten very close over the past days. You both had faith in each other, trusted one another. Coriolanus narrows his eyes at the two of you, 2 desks away from him before his gaze settles on your touching hands.

He lets out a quiet scoff as Lucy Gray looks over to you and Dean. "Do you know him?" Snow asks her as he cocks his head towards Dean. Lucy shakes her head. "You want to win, don't you?" He leans in close to her.

Lucy hesitantly nods her head, "Yes. Yes you do Lucy." He answered for her, his gaze hard on her as she squirmed under his stare. "You need to kill Dean first. You need to before he kills you. He's a strong competitor, I can tell, that's why you need him out first. Then, it will be a piece of cake." He smirks as he leans back on his chair. "What do I need to do?"

~

“Y/n,” Coriolanus calls out as you turn your head to his direction, a small smile on his face as you beam at him. You run to him, throwing your arms around him as you hug him tightly. Coryo was caught off guard but eventually hugs you back.

“Good luck,” You say, although it was slightly muffled against his shirt. “You too,” He says back, his hand rubbing your back as you pull back, giving him your pearly white grin that only a few were able to see. Coriolanus felt a pull at his heart for he knew what was going to happen would break you.

Your other classmates arrive as you get settled for the 10th hunger games to start. Your eyes were trained on the screen as you watch Dean kill 2 people. You bite your fingernails as you continue to watch it play out infront of your eyes. Coriolanus offers his hand as you take it, squeezing it as you watch Dean.

A couple hours pass by and everyone sits up when they watch Coryo's tribute, Lucy Gray being corned by a few of the others, Dean included. In the corner of your eye, you watch Coryo come up to his screen and rapidly click.

Your eyes flicker back to the screen as drones of water come flying at the tributes, knocking them out as the room erupts in gasps. "These drones are not very good," Flickerman comments. "Hey! What are you doing?" Vipsania shouts as she stands up.

"You can't attack the tributes Coryo!" You snap at him. "I'm just sending water," He coolly says as you shake your head and scoff. Dean managed to dodge them luckily. You watch as Lucy Gray runs, Dean chasing after her as your leg bounces.

She manages to hide in one of the vent holes as you notice Snow let out a sigh of relief. Dean punches the vent in anger as he eventually leaves her. A few more hours pass by as you fell asleep, the sound of banging wakes you up. Coryo was nowhere to be found.

Your eyes focus on the screen as Dean and Coral stand underneath a vent pipe. Coral's pitchfork was reportingly stabbing at the vents above. Dean follows the noises, his gaze on the vent. "Coral. Coral she's right here," He whispers to her as she continues stabbing at the vent. Coriolanus then runs in, "Lucy Gray, is she okay?" He says out of breath.

"She wont be for long," Festus comments as everyone's eyes are trained on the screen. All of a sudden, Dean touches his nose as he looks confused. You immediately stand up on your feet, "Wait, what's wrong with Dean?" You move closer as he falls on his knee making your heart race.

"Did Coral do something to Dean?" You panic as Dean starts spazzing out on the floor. Coryo glances at you. Lucy Gray did what he told her to do. He had snuck her rat poison to use, if a small amount was to be inhaled, it would be deadly.

You cover your mouth as your eyes widen. Dean was laying on the ground, not moving at all. You flinch at the sound of a buzzer going off, indicating that he was in fact dead. Dean was dead. And you didn't even know how it happened. You storm out but before you could, Coryo grips your arm, "I'm sorry," He says as you furrow your eyebrows at what he meant before snatching your arm from his grip. "Dean is down. Good afternoon Miss Y/l/n," Flickerman calls out.

You storm out with rage. Dean was supposed to win. He was supposed to make it out alive. You even promised him he would come out alive and go back to his family. One moment he was perfectly fine, and then the next, he's on the floor spazzing out and then dead. Your mind drifts back to Coriolanus' words, I'm sorry. What did that even mean? You assumed he was just apologising that your tribute was dead.

~

Lucy Gray had managed to win. You were happy for Coryo of course. But Dean’s recent death still plagued your mind. “Y/n,” Coryo breathed out the moment you opened your door to him; he reached out for you, pulling you against his chest.

It caught you by slight surprise before you hugged him back. The pent up emotions finally releasing the moment he rubs your back affectionately. “Shh” He softly shushed you as waterfalls fall down your cheeks. Everything was chasing up to you.

“I-I don’t even know what happened to him,” You sob in his embrace as he traces shapes on your arm. You continued to rant to him as he brought you to your living room.

You rested your head against his chest as he listened, sometimes he would bite his tongue at the things you were saying about Dean. "He was just a tribute y/n-" "He was not just a tribute." You snapped, lifting your head up as you stared at his blue irises.

Coriolanus rolls his eyes the minute you turn your head back around. "He's human, just like you and I. He had dreams, he had a family to go back to Coryo, do not just sit there and tell me he was just a tribute. He's more than a tribute," Coriolanus listened to every single word that came out of your mouth.

He did not agree with most of the things you said but for the sake of it, he said nothing. When you spoke about Dean, it grew on Coriolanus that you infact liked him, alot. Perhaps even more than like. And that was why he felt the need to kill him. You were his, only his. And after all, he couldn't have some lowly district boy taking over your body and soul.

[igbylicious]

under the new moon [yunsan x reader]

pairing: yunho x f reader x san

rating: 18+

genre: werewolf au, smut, hurt / comfort

summary: an altercation with a hunter leaves you wounded, trapped in an aggressive frenzy, but Yunho and San know exactly how to safely bring you back home to them.

wc: 2.9k

general warnings: established relationship, supernatural werewolf strength for everyone, she/her pronouns for reader, pov switches, mentions of blood & injury, reader killed a werewolf hunter in self-defense, a pinch of angst, reader is literally feral and tries to fight yunsan first, they calm you down w/ sex yay

smut warnings: dom Yunho & San, feral sub reader, rough sex, manhandling, scratching, choking, biting, breeding kink, belly bulge, they got big dicks ofc, cum inflation, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, knotting, DP (vaginal & vaginal / anal), vaginal / anal fingering, bodily fluids as lube, unprotected sex, pet names (good girl, darling)

a/n: idk yall, it’s not even themed for the mv i don’t know what happened??? maybe it was San’s fur coat maybe it was just the wolf living in my chest cavity. either way this was written in an unedited frenzy in the dark hours of the night, have fun! ( ˘ ³˘)♡

The forest is dark. Only stars shine overhead, the new moon casting no light on the trees and underbrush. Two large wolves prowl through woods, their path guided by the thick, metallic scent of blood.

The forest is quiet. Even during a new moon, its wildlife knows better than to cross the two predators. Even when unable to tap into the full height of their powers, they are dangerous.

Even more so when they are agitated with anger — and worry.

Yunho sniffs at the blood streaked over the bark of a felled tree. It’s still fresh. It’s yours.

San whines in concern, pressing his snout into Yunho’s neck to hurry him along. His black fur makes him near invisible in the cover of night, yellow eyes shining in the darkness. Usually the younger wolf is too rash, but tonight his impatience is justified. They don’t know how badly wounded you are. How much time you still have.

They found the hunter about two miles back, or what was left of him. Torn apart; a gaping hole in his abdomen opened by furious claws, his neck shredded by sharp teeth. (Deservedly so, Yunho had thought with quiet rage, when he saw a bloodied spearhead by the hunter’s side. The wooden shaft was shattered to pieces.)

Your trail leads them deeper and deeper into the forest, the night cold doing its best to penetrate Yunho’s thick silver fur. He tries to keep his head clear, to focus on finding you. He can’t afford to be distracted now, not by anger, not by fear, not by guilt.

It was a mistake, to let you go off on your own tonight. He knew the pack would be vulnerable tonight, he knew the human village nearby has been restless.

But Yunho can punish himself for his regrets later, because he also knows two other truths; the blood is still fresh, and you are strong.

They will find you. Alive. They will.

San growls in frustration when your bloody trail dissolves into a shallow river, the scent lost. The two wolves shift back into their human forms, wrapped in large fur cloaks, the ones they can take with them even when they turn. San’s pitch black, Yunho’s streaked with silver, matching the colour of their fur; and now their hair.

“She’s close,” San murmurs lowly, restless as he looks around the seemingly abandoned forest. “I can feel her.”

You are close. Closer than either of them realised.

The underbrush rustles, and San doesn’t even have the chance to blink before a shape pounces him from the shadows, snarling wildly. San curses as bloodied nails claw at his face, and he grabs at his assailant to hold them at bay — to hold you at bay.

Yunho’s eyes widen at the sight of you, feral and growling; your body human, but pure primal aggression in your mind. Fur cloak tattered, skin covered in scratches and bruises, an ugly gash on your shin. The injury does nothing to slow you down, momentum and surprise on your side as you pin San to the ground.

Yunho swears under his breath, leaping forward to help San to subdue you.

Fuck. You went too deep.

Had to push yourself too hard under this new moon, dug too deep for the power you needed to survive. Your wolf has overtaken you; and she is too frenzied to recognise friend from foe. To recognise her mates.

You yowl when Yunho grabs you by the scruff, yanking you away from San. You instantly turn on Yunho, scratching at his chest while you try to bite at the hand on your neck.

“San,” he grunts, hissing at the red marks your nails leave on his skin. “Now.”

San throws himself around you, pressing against your back as he grabs your wrists and locks his arms around your waist, engulfing you in his black furs. You snap at him, teeth flashing, but Yunho’s hand slips around your throat and he forces you to face him.

“Calm. Down,” Yunho growls, his own wolf instinctively rearing up against yours.

You can’t calm down. You can’t. Something is familiar about the two figures surrounding you, their scent like an itch in your memory — but it can’t penetrate the feral haze that’s taken over your mind. Your wolf trashes against their hold, howling danger, pain searing through your injured leg.

The bleeding has stopped by now, your regenerative powers feeding off your frenzy, but no matter how you struggle, you aren’t strong enough to break free from the two men and their strangely enticing smells. The hand on your throat tightens, your growls forced down to a weak wheeze as your body sags in their hold.

“Good. Good girl.” The hand relaxes, but does not release you entirely. Slowly they go down on their knees and lower you to the mossy forest ground, keeping you propped up between them. Long fingers brush up against a scarred patch of skin in the crook of your neck, and sudden heat lashes through you at the touch, drawing a sharp moan.

The one behind you groans and presses his nose into your hair, breathing in deeply. “Yunho…” he rasps, pulling you closer into him. Familiar name. Familiar scents. Familiar touch, fire licking sharply at your core. He is naked under his furs, same as you — and the growing hardness that twitches against your lower back is not unknown to you either. “F-fuck, she’s…”

“Yeah,” Yunho murmurs, rubbing his fingers into the mating bite he left on your skin years ago. “Her body remembers who she belongs with. Come, Sannie, let’s help her mind remember too.”

He pushes your tattered furs away to drop on the ground, and San takes immediate advantage to lap at his own newly exposed mark on your shoulder. You jolt in his hold, your wolf pulled in two directions. Yunho instantly tightens his grip again when you snarl and try to bite at San again — but he can smell your other, stronger instincts flare to life. His free hand finds wet slick when it slides between your thighs, a strangled whine torn from your obstructed throat.

San whines at the soft squelch when two of Yunho’s long fingers press inside you. Relief and hunger melt together inside him. You’re safe, back in his arms. They will take care of you now.

A primal need stirs in San’s blood as his teeth scrape over your skin, suckling at his old mating bite like his tongue can tease the memories out of you. Maybe it can. Or maybe it won’t be enough — maybe he needs to fuck them out of you. He groans, feeling dizzy on your scent, and ruts harder against your backside.

You’re trembling, gasping sharply as you’re pushed deeper on Yunho’s fingers by San’s humping. Every noise only fuels San’s need to fill you up, to ram his cock into your leaking hole until his knot catches, reminding your sweet cunt how the shape of him was made to fit inside you.

“Wanna touch…” he groans, gathering your wrists in one hand so he can reach down the other. Weakly you squirm against his hold; but it’s barely a fight, your aggressive haze subdued by your two mates.

Yunho grunts at the sight; he can’t deny it, his wolf preens at your submission. An animalistic urge to claim you, like he’s mating you for the first time all over again. Blood rushes down to his cock, revelling in your whimpers when San pushes another finger into your sopping cunt alongside his.

He watches how your stomach tenses and your thighs shake, telltale signs of a budding release, and he knows damn well his hand on your throat has long become unnecessary. He does not take it away.

Instead Yunho tilts up your head and he leans in, slotting his lips over yours. He groans when your lips part willingly for him, desirous for your mates. You whine as Yunho filthily licks into your mouth, adding another finger as he and San stretch you open for them. They’ll both take you tonight. Together. It hasn’t been said, but Yunho knows that San also knows this.

Mindlessly you grind into the fingers opening you up. You pant into the heated lips pressed against yours, a greedy tongue mapping out the wet cavern of your mouth. Wanton moans spill freely, growing louder with every added finger to your twitching cunt. Every time you think this must be your limit, and every time they prove you wrong, sending your head spinning.

You’re chasing something, barely knowing what it is, but hunting it down with every buck of your hips all the same. Something familiar again, pulling taut inside your aching cunt. It pulls, pulls, tighter and sharper until finally the strings snap. You cry out a ragged yowl as electrified heat tears you asunder, convulsing in the strong arms that hold you up.

You don’t even notice those hungry lips pulling away from your mouth — not until two sets of teeth sink deep into your shoulder and neck, into those two scarred spots that make your heart sing like it can finally come home.

With a wretched sob you clutch onto them, your hands finally released from San’s iron grip. He presses rough, reverent kisses against the broken skin of your shoulder, clumsy with urgency as he slips his fingers out of your cunt and grabs onto your waist. He barely waits for Yunho to pull his hand away, too frenzied to finally sink his cock into the wet hole where it belongs.

Yunho chuckles with dark fondness at San’s impatience, running his slick fingers through San’s hair as he presses a kiss on his matted forehead. “That’s it. Show her,” he whispers, and San whines at the encouragement, fingers digging harder into the meat of your hips.

“Y-you too,” he grunts tightly, strained as the last shreds of self-control slip through his grasp. “Our mate— she needs you too.”

Yunho hums in acknowledgement, pressing another kiss on San’s forehead before he pulls back. He takes your arms and loops them around his neck, and his cock twitches at how pliantly you let him move you, nuzzling into his chest. Still trapped in your delirious haze, but your wolf tamed and rendered docile by their command over your pleasure, willingly surrendering you to them.

You whine beautifully, your glistening folds parting to make way when Yunho guides his thick cock inside your loosened cunt. For all their efforts to stretch you open, both of them are big, and Yunho groans when he sees how your stomach bulges as he presses deeper inside. He takes San’s hand and guides it so he can feel the swell of them in your belly.

And something snaps inside of San.

He bares his teeth with a wild snarl, bucking his hips as he fucks into you recklessly. Fresh bites litter your shoulders, future bruises forming under his grip on your waist. You’re jostled by his rough thrusts, whimpering loudly as you claw at Yunho’s shoulders.

Yunho growls at the sting of your nails, meeting San’s violent pace. You’re moaning helplessly against his chest, hiccuping soft “ah ah ahh”s as they hit deep inside your needy, sopping cunt.

“Gonna fill you up,” San growls, lost in his frenzy. “Fill that belly with every drop of seed we got. Not gonna stop until we got you stuffed and bred. Won’t even know whose litter it is, won’t even matter. Ours, you’re ours.”

You whine in mindless agreement, trembling between them.

“You like that, hm? Like the thought of carrying our pups?” Yunho chuckles, though it comes out more a groan. You’re still so tight around him, San’s cock sliding against his in the snug space they made for themselves inside you. “You remember who you belong with now?”

His last question causes a hesitation in your squirmy moans, but it only spurs Yunho on harder. He can’t feel his knot begin to swell yet, so he just slams into you, drowning in every wet squelch of your leaking hole, only needing a few hard thrusts before he groans and spills inside you. Yunho hisses when San does not slow down — but his own cock does not soften yet. This night is far from over.

San moans at the smoother slide as he fucks Yunho’s seed deeper inside your hole. It does not take him long to follow, his hand on your stomach feeling every thrust as he buries himself into you, hips stuttering when he comes with a low growl. He pants against your shoulder, nosing at his mating bite, barely even slowing down through his release. Yunho starts moving again too, drawing fresh moans from your lips.

You feebly gurgle something against Yunho’s chest, the foggy haze in your mind consisting of nothing but white-hot pleasure now.

It’s overwhelming and yet you can’t get enough of it; addicted to the stretch, to the fullness that grows every time they cum inside you, until you can’t take more, their seed leaking out past their thick lengths and bubbling at the rim. You’re losing count, just as you’ve lost count of all the times you’ve clenched around them, milking their cocks as another orgasm was ripped from your worn-out cunt.

You can’t tell anymore where you end and where they begin, their hands and cocks melded into your body — until one hand wanders, first down to your sodden folds to slick up his fingers, then back to your ass. You whine as a thick finger eases past the tight muscle; but your body is so pliant and relaxed, melting away in the haze of pleasure, and soon the slight burn only makes you greedy for more.

San groans when you weakly press your ass back into him, two fingers now working you open, and then another. He will knot soon, he can feel it pulsing at the base of his cock; and no matter how well they stretched you out, they will break you if they both knot in your cunt.

But San does not mind taking your ass instead — he can feel the beautiful swell of your stomach, distended from the sheer amount of cum that you took so well from them. He did his part there, now happy to bury himself between your plump asscheeks.

You whimper when San pulls out, a sudden emptiness at the loss of him, but bite down a gasp when he pushes back inside your other hole. His cock is slick with cum, smoothly continuing his rough pace.

Yunho sighs contently at the loose and easy slide of your cunt, using this chance to fuck harder into you. He guides you to sit upright, cupping your chin to steady you. He tilts your head up, giving himself a good look at the blissed-out expression on your face. Nothing but empty pleasure behind your teary eyes, all your earlier fear and aggression wiped clean. Leaving yourself vulnerable and exposed between them, knowing you are safe here. That you can let it all go.

“Got one more for us, darling?” he grunts, trying to hold back a little longer. “Show us how good we make you feel?”

The words come to you through a thick fog, but you heed them all the same. You can’t help it, not when nimble fingers suddenly press against your clit, pinching at the swollen, oversensitive nub. Your entire body seizes up with a strangled cry, and you sob at the pure, overwhelming fullness as two knots swell up inside you, plugging both your holes.

You’re shaking, tears spilling down your cheeks as you slowly come down. Four hands move warmly over your body; rubbing your back, your shoulders, the distinct swell of your belly. One of those hands cups your cheek, lifting you up to meet a pair of shiny brown eyes.

Yunho’s eyes.

He smiles tiredly with rounded cheeks, long fingers gently caressing your jaw. Your breath catches at the recognition, staring back at him with wide eyes before you whip your head to look back. There, San gives you a slow, satisfied grin, his cheeks flushed and sweat beading on his forehead.

Relief breaks through your haze, and the sudden outpouring of emotion is too much for you to carry.

San startles when you hiccup a weak sob, and he immediately presses soothing kisses on the scattered bites he left on your shoulder. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. We’re here,” he murmurs. “We got you.”

“I know, I know” you snivel, grateful for Yunho carefully wiping away your tears. “You found me. I knew you’d find me.”

“Of course we found you,” Yunho smiles as he gently rubs his thumb over your cheekbone. “You wouldn’t let us lose you. You always find your way back to us.”

Your shoulder shake silently as their arms wrap around you, engulfing you in their body heat. You slump into their solid, strong frames and relish how they’re still connected inside you. It will take time for their knots to come down, and they fully intend to use every second of it to lavish you with tender affection. You sink away into the comfort of them, knowing you are safe and home again.

[miryum]

An arranged marriage with James Potter

Something had happened over the summer that made James Potter the most love-sick fool in all of Hogwarts. Purebloods being purebloods, it wasn’t uncommon for children to be paired up early on to secure the bloodline. While this happened mostly between the old-arching Slytherin families, an example being Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black, every once in a while, the other houses would participate too. 

Such was the case with James Potter and Y/n L/n. The L/n’s had spanned generations, stretching back to even the Gaunt’s time. But, such as the Gaunt family, the L/n family had run into some bad luck. Stocks didn’t go the way they wanted or something of the sort and now they were in ruining trouble. 

Euphemia Potter was usually one to scoff at arranged marriages, wanting the children to find love for themselves, blood status be damned. However, the L/n’s were good friends of hers and James had written home multiple times about their daughter. From his letters, it seemed as if the two were already dating. It was a perfect coincidence. Euphemia and Fleamont agreed instantly, lifting the weight of a thousand bricks off of the patriarch of the L/n household. 

However, James and Y/n were not dating. Much to James’ annoyance, the only thing between them was his unrequited infatuation towards Y/n. 

So that’s where the pair found themselves at the beginning of seventh year. Y/n L/n trying to fly under the radar and not draw any attention to herself or the new ring on her finger, and James Potter doing everything in his power to show off their relationship and spoil her in front of everyone. 

It began at the start of the year feast. James had an arm around Y/n’s shoulder the entire time. When a third year nervously asked if the two were dating, staring reverently up at James, the boy grinned and looked to Y/n. “I don’t know, love, are we?”

Y/n pushed James’ arm off her shoulder and indelicately said, “no. Take him.” The third year blushed and mumbled their way out of the conversation as James clutched his wounded heart.

During classes, James would loudly correct the professors from Miss. L/n to Mrs. Potter. It earned him wry smiles from McGonagall and Sprout, chuckles from Slughorn and Flitwick, and a cold glare from Y/n. The students all looked a bit confused whenever this happened, but chalked it up to the usual antics of James Potter. 

In the courtyard or by the Black Lake, James would lay his head on Y/n’s lap, even if she pushed him off or was sitting with her knees up. There were roses on her bed and notes in her bag and it got to the point where Y/n didn’t even question how James had snuck into her dorm. 

If Y/n ever went to Hogsmead, James was sure to follow. No matter what she bought, he would pay for. Even if she got frustrated, he would slip the galleons up onto the counter, grinning at the cashier. He wanted to show her that he could provide for her and give her a nice home. As she would walk from shop to shop, he would point out colours of shops, saying, “oh, that would be a good colour for our bathroom. Look at that little cuckoo clock! Y/n, we have to get it.”

He would follow wherever she went, asking what seemed like meaningless questions. Have you ever had any pets? Do you like the country or city better? Any aspirations for your career? What’s a place you always wanted to visit? Y/n thought nothing of it, but to James, her answers were slowly sculpting his future. Would she want a dog or a cat in our home? Where should our house be? I would like the country so our kids could run around more, but we can easily make the city work if she wants. Should I be a stay-at-home dad? Or could we juggle two careers? Where should our honeymoon be? 

Quidditch games were no better, because after every goal the chaser scored – and he scored a lot – he would look to the stands, find his fiancée, and blow her a kiss. Before every match, one of his spare jerseys would be laid out on her bed, a small note attached, begging her to wear it. She never did and he always gave her a pout when he realised it. And God forbid she didn’t go to the games. Once, she had been studying for an upcoming exam and hadn’t been able to make it. James had thrown a fit. Sirius had to drag him away from Madame Hooch before he secured an entire year of detention, but the boy still refused to get in the air. Madame Hooch threatened to start the game and make Gryffindor play a catcher down, but thankfully Remus and Peter had just found Y/n and dragged her to the pitch. The moment James saw her, he beamed and kicked off, broom now in the air. They had ended up winning. James spent the afterparty with his head on Y/n’s lap, arms reaching up to encircle her waist. He continuously reminded her how awful it would’ve been if she hadn’t shown up and only shut up when she began running her fingers through his hair.

And every night, no matter if he went to bed first or she did, James would always go over to Y/n and give her a soft kiss on the forehead and a whispered, “sweet dreams.” No matter where she was, this became a daily occurance in Y/n’s life. At first, she tried to avoid it by sneaking off to the library whenever James began yawning and tossing around the idea of going to bed. But he would find her. She tried the kitchens, hoping he didn’t think to look for her there. But he would find her. She tried being in a group with her friends, in animated conversations. But he would weave his way through the group, step in front of her, and still say goodnight. It was like he had this magical map that told him where she was at all times. It was bloody infuriating. 

Much to James’ dismay, no progress seemed to be made. At least she was staying faithful to her fiancé, the Marauders reassured him as James griped and moaned. He would sling himself onto a common room chair, conveniently in the earshot of his dearest. Y/n would just roll her eyes. 

The majority of Hogwarts didn’t know what to do with them. The girls would swoon when they heard the new thing James Potter had come up with to woo Y/n L/n. The boys would huff and grumble about needing to step up their own game when it came to their girlfriends. James was setting the bar too high. The teachers would sit around, taking time to sip a well-deserved drink, as they complained how if L/n didn’t soon see the boy that was right in front of her, helpless to his love, then Potter was going to have a breakdown.

Yet, Y/n continued to push him away. James could be patient. He had been waiting practically seven years – he could wait a little more, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hurt whenever she brushed him off. She could’ve said no to the engagement. She could’ve punched or hexed him. It didn’t seem like she truly hated him, more like she was embarrassed and tired of him. 

“I don’t get it,” James said finally one night. He laid out on his bed, long limbs stretching over the place as Peter and Sirius played Exploding Snap on the floor. 

Remus was reading on his own bed. The werewolf sighed, knowing where this was going. “What don’t you get, Prongs?” 

“Why doesn’t Y/n like me?” James murmured, looking at his friends with large, hurt eyes. 

“Mate,” Sirius said. One of the cards exploded, making Peter flinch. “Listen. She likes you, yeah? How else are you able to get close to her? I swear, you were practically on top of her a couple days ago.” He scoffed and laid down a card. 

James groaned loudly and exclaimed, “but I’ve tried everything! Hell, we’re literally engaged! I can’t go through an entire marriage like this. Especially not with the woman I love.”

Peter piped up, smiling sincerely at James. “Hey, I’m sure she’ll realise it soon enough. I think she loves you back. She’s just scared.”

“But I’m me!” James shouted out. “I’m not scary!” He looked around wildly at his friends. “Am I?” he asked pathetically.

“I think if you have to ask if you’re scary,” Remus pointed out, “then you’re not scary.”

Sirius grinned. “Excellent point, as always, Moony.”

Remus sighed and gave James a pointed look. “Perhaps, the best thing to do is talk to her. Since she is your future wife, after all.” 

“I do talk to her!” James argued. “I ask her about her day and tell her about our pranks. She- she responds. She’s very sweet, you know, but she never shows any affection.”

“Maybe you’re pressuring her,” Peter commented. “By being all lovey-dovey. You could try being her friend first?”

James didn’t think he could do that. He already thought of Y/n as his wife. He already thought of her as one of his best friends. But what else could he do to get her to feel the same way?

The next week, James took Peter’s words into consideration. Instead of leaving flowers in her dorm, James asked if he could join her in the library for a study session. Instead of blowing her kisses during Quidditch games, he just waved. Instead of envisioning their future, he focused on the present. 

It wasn’t until three weeks had passed that James noticed the results. Y/n began coming to him with some questions on schoolwork. Y/n waved back at Quidditch games, shooting him a thumbs up in encouragement. Y/n wouldn’t fiddle with her engagement ring nervously, as if worried someone would spot it. 

The girl noticed her changed behaviour too. On a random Thursday, when James came to kiss her goodnight, she paused her conversation and whispered back, “sleep well,” angling her body so he wouldn’t have to reach as far to kiss her temple. Soon after, she excused herself from her friends, flustered. Y/n paced around her dorm, twisting the ring back and forth. 

A knock came at the door. “Hey,” James murmured as he pushed open the door. “Are you okay?”

Y/n turned to face him. “You actually care about me, don’t you?” she whispered. 

James couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course,” he replied. “Why on earth would you think otherwise?”

She shrugged. “It seemed fake, you know? Like this one big prank to single me out. But then you actually seemed excited and willing to marry me, James. Marriage. This is the rest of our lives and we haven’t even kissed!”

James cracked a smirk. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I can fix that really easily.”

“But you think you’re in this for the long run?” Y/n asked desperately. “For- for the fights? The late nights? The chores? And we haven’t even talked if we want kids or not!”

“Love,” he interrupted her spiral. “Have you thought about the waking up every morning in my arms? The dancing in the kitchen for no reason? The anniversary dinners where I profess my love over and over again?” He stepped forward, placing his warm hands on her arms soothingly. “And if you want, I would love to have mini replicas of us running around, waking us up in the middle of the night because of a night terror. I would love for them to disrupt our dancing in the kitchen by demanding they want to dance too. And I would love for them to groan when they see me being all sappy towards my wife.”

How could any girl say no when James Potter was standing before her, promising her endless devotion? The kiss was slow, James’ lips slowly moving against hers. He revelled in the warmth of her body and how her head tilted to him as he cupped her cheek gently. All short and lovely and sweet, the kisses were exactly how James had dreamed. 

The couple parted and the boy stared down at her. His finger went up to brush her bottom lip before murmuring, “will you marry me?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

[buttercandy16]

Mistress

PAIRING(s): Vampire!Agatha Harkness x Maid!Reader

SUMMARY: Your mistress becomes obsessed with you, leading to a dark, twisted relationship where love, power, and obsession collide.

WARNING(s): Obsession, Manipulation, Possessive, Blood, and SMUT.

A/N: Been a while since I've written some smut. Enjoy!

The halls of the Harkness estate were vast and cold, like a labyrinth of secrets etched into its ancient stone walls. Candlelight flickered across shadowy corridors as you carried a silver tray of wine toward the parlor, your heels clicking softly against the marble floors. You tried to focus on balancing the tray, but you couldn't ignore the eerie stillness of the estate or the way the other servants whispered nervously about their mistress.

Agatha Harkness.

Even among her wealthy contemporaries, her name was uttered with equal parts reverence and dread. She was a woman of unparalleled elegance and power, known for her biting wit and an aura of danger that clung to her like a second skin. Rumors swirled about her cruelty, her temper, and her insatiable appetites—not just for luxury but for something darker.

You’d taken the job as her maid out of desperation, knowing little of her reputation. Now, after only a few weeks, you wondered if the warnings had been an understatement.

And yet, you found yourself drawn to her in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

The moment you entered the parlor, you felt her eyes on you.

Agatha lounged in a grand velvet armchair, her long fingers elegantly wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. Her gaze slid over you like a caress, sharp and assessing, making your skin prickle under the weight of her attention.

“Finally,” she purred, her voice smooth as silk. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”

“My apologies, mistress,” you said quickly, setting the tray down on the table before her.

“Hmm.” She didn’t look away, her lips curving into the faintest smile. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yes, mistress,” you said, fighting to keep your hands steady under her piercing stare.

She stood slowly, her towering frame somehow both graceful and intimidating as she circled you. The scent of her perfume—a dark, heady mix of amber and spice—wrapped around you, making it hard to think clearly.

“I noticed you the moment you arrived,” she murmured, her voice dangerously low. “There’s something… unique about you. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.”

Her fingers brushed your shoulder lightly as she moved behind you, and your breath caught.

“Tell me,” she said, her breath warm against your ear, “do you enjoy working for me?”

The air felt heavy, and the words got caught in your throat. “Y-yes, mistress,” you managed, though your pulse quickened for reasons you couldn’t fully name.

Her low chuckle sent a shiver down your spine. “Good. I have high expectations, and I’d hate to be disappointed.”

Over the following days, her interest in you only grew more intense.

She began finding reasons to summon you alone—fetching her wine, helping her dress, accompanying her on her nightly walks through the moonlit gardens. Always, she kept close, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of you.

At first, you thought it was simply her eccentric nature, but soon it became clear there was more to her obsession.

“I can hear your heart racing,” she said one evening as you stood in her chambers, tidying the delicate lace cuffs of one of her gowns. Her tone was amused, but her eyes burned with something primal.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you replied, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

“Oh, but I think you do,” she said, taking your wrist in her hand. Her grip was gentle but unyielding as she pulled you closer. “You’re quite… intoxicating.”

One night, you found yourself summoned to her private chambers. The room was dimly lit, the scent of wax and roses thick in the air. She stood by the fireplace, her long dark gown catching the light like a pool of ink.

“Come here,” she said, her voice low and commanding.

You hesitated but obeyed, stepping closer until you were standing just inches from her.

Her hand reached out, her fingers trailing over your cheek. “You’re shaking,” she whispered. “Are you afraid of me?”

“N-no, mistress,” you lied, your voice barely audible.

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You should be.”

Before you could respond, her grip tightened on your arm, and she pulled you against her. Her other hand tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her gaze. Her eyes glowed faintly in the firelight, hungry and unrelenting.

“You don’t understand yet, do you?” she murmured, her voice dripping with dark amusement. “The hold you have over me. Your scent, your warmth, the taste of your fear…”

Her lips brushed against your neck, soft and deliberate, and your breath hitched. You wanted to pull away, but her presence was overwhelming, suffocating, and somehow… thrilling.

“I could devour you,” she whispered, her voice tinged with both lust and menace. “Body and soul. And I don’t know if I could stop myself.”

You felt her teeth graze your skin, a soft scrape that sent electricity coursing through you. But instead of biting, she pulled back, her expression carefully controlled.

“Not yet,” she said, more to herself than to you. “Not yet.”

Her fingers lingered on your wrist as she let you go, her touch burning long after she released you.

“Leave me,” she said abruptly, turning away.

You didn’t wait for her to change her mind.

The next day, she was colder, more distant, as though trying to suppress whatever had taken hold of her. But the heat in her gaze never dimmed when she looked at you, and you knew the storm wasn’t over—it was only just beginning.

Every interaction with her left you more confused, more tangled in her web of obsession. The line between fear and something far more dangerous blurred, and you found yourself standing at the edge of a precipice, unsure whether to flee or to fall.

And as her lips curled into a knowing smirk, you realized that decision might not be yours to make.

The air in the Harkness estate grew heavier each day, as though the house itself was responding to the tension between you and its mistress. Agatha’s presence loomed everywhere—her perfume lingering in the hallways, her voice echoing in the back of your mind, her piercing eyes locked on you at every stolen glance.

You told yourself it was just her nature, an eccentricity fueled by wealth and boredom. Yet deep down, you knew it was more. Agatha wasn’t merely interested; she was consumed. And despite the gnawing fear in your chest, part of you couldn’t help but lean into it, daring the flame to burn brighter.

One evening, you were summoned to her private chambers yet again. The summons itself wasn’t unusual by now, but the tone of her note was: “Tonight, you’re mine.”

You smoothed your trembling hands down the front of your uniform as you knocked on the grand wooden door. Her voice drifted through, low and sensual.

“Come in.”

Pushing the door open, you stepped inside, only to be greeted by a sight that made your breath hitch.

Agatha stood in front of a gilded mirror, her silhouette framed by the glow of the roaring fireplace. She was in a deep plum silk robe, tied loosely at her waist. The fabric clung to her curves, revealing far more than it hid. Her hair tumbled down in dark waves, and her gaze met yours through the reflection.

“You kept me waiting,” she said, her tone soft but full of unspoken weight.

“My apologies, Mistress Harkness,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Agatha,” she corrected, turning to face you fully. “When we’re alone, you’ll call me Agatha.”

Her smile was slow and predatory as she crossed the room, her bare feet silent on the thick rug. She stopped just in front of you, her presence commanding every ounce of your attention.

“You’ve been working so hard lately,” she said, reaching out to brush a stray hair from your face. “Have the other servants been treating you well?”

“Yes,” you replied, though the closeness of her fingers to your skin made the word come out shakier than intended.

“And yet,” she continued, tilting her head, “I can see the exhaustion in your eyes. Do they know how much you give?” Her fingers lingered on your cheek, her touch as delicate as a whisper.

“I—”

“Shh,” she interrupted, pressing a single finger to your lips. “No need to speak. You’ve already given me enough with just your presence.”

The air between you crackled with an intensity that was impossible to ignore. Her eyes roamed over you, her gaze so unashamed and hungry that you felt exposed even in your modest uniform.

“Have you thought about me?” she asked, her voice a low, dangerous hum.

Your throat tightened. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

Her smile deepened, a sly curve of her lips that seemed to peel away every pretense. “Don’t lie to me. I see it every time your hands tremble when I’m near. The way you avoid my gaze, yet I catch you staring when you think I’m not looking.”

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, your heart thundering in your chest. “Mistress, I—”

“Agatha,” she corrected again, more firmly this time. Her voice softened as she leaned closer, the scent of her perfume intoxicating. “Do you feel it too? This… pull between us? Don’t deny it.”

Her hand trailed down your arm, her fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your wrist. The touch was light, yet it left a trail of fire in its wake.

You stepped back instinctively, trying to create distance, but she followed. Her movements were slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring its prey.

“You’re nervous,” she said, her voice almost teasing. “Good. I like the way your pulse quickens when I’m near. Like it’s calling to me.”

Her fingers brushed the delicate skin of your neck, lingering for a moment as her gaze followed the motion.

“Do you know how hard it’s been to restrain myself?” she whispered, her voice dripping with hunger. “You’ve awakened something in me—something dark, something primal. I can hardly stand it when you’re near.”

Her lips ghosted over your ear, her warm breath sending shivers down your spine. “Every time I see you, every time I smell you, I wonder… how would you taste?”

Your knees threatened to buckle beneath you, but her hand moved to your waist, steadying you. It wasn’t just her words—it was her voice, her touch, her presence. It was overwhelming.

“You should go,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Her laughter was soft and rich, like the purr of a satisfied predator. “Go? You’re the one in my chambers, darling.”

Agatha’s other hand slid around your back, pulling you impossibly close. The silk of her robe brushed against you, her warmth seeping into your skin.

“Tell me to stop,” she said, her lips hovering dangerously close to yours. “One word, and I’ll let you walk out of here. But if you stay… you’ll belong to me.”

Your breath caught as her fingers tilted your chin upward, her dark eyes blazing with intent. It felt like the world had stopped, like the only thing that mattered was her—her lips, her touch, her dominance.

This was no longer just your job, your duty. This was something much deeper, darker, and inescapable. And as her lips brushed against yours, soft and commanding all at once, you knew there was no going back.

The kiss started soft—tentative even—but there was no denying the fire that ignited the moment her lips claimed yours. Agatha wasn’t the kind of woman to ask twice, and now, her dominance poured over you like molten honey. Her hand tangled in your hair, holding you in place as her lips parted yours, the taste of her intoxicating.

“Do you feel it now?” she murmured against your lips, her voice like a low growl. “How you’ve bewitched me?”

Your body trembled under her touch, your breath hitching as her sharp nails dragged lightly down the curve of your neck. The trail they left tingled, a shiver that rippled through you like electricity. She stepped back, just slightly, her hungry eyes roaming over you as though she was calculating her next move.

Then her expression shifted—intense and dark, her pupils dilating as she fixated on your neck.

Before you could speak, she moved, gripping your waist and pressing you against the cold stone wall of her chambers. Her lips brushed your collarbone, soft and deliberate, as she inhaled deeply.

“Your scent…” Her voice broke, heavy with need. “It’s… maddening.”

Her mouth trailed along the line of your throat, kisses becoming hungrier, rougher. Then you felt it—the sharp press of her teeth.

"Agatha—" you gasped, half-panicked and half-lost in the thrill coursing through you.

“Shh,” she cooed, pinning your wrists above your head with surprising strength. “You’ve already given me your lips… your trust… What’s one more thing?”

Her teeth broke the delicate skin of your neck with a swift bite, pain mingling with the heat of her lips. Your cry was stifled as she pressed her mouth fully against you, drinking deeply. It was unlike anything you’d ever felt—the sharp sting giving way to a strange, dangerous pleasure as her body molded against yours.

The world blurred at the edges, your heart hammering as she drank, the wet, visceral sound filling the chamber. Your pulse slowed, your knees weak, but Agatha didn’t falter. When she finally pulled back, her lips and chin were smeared with your blood, crimson standing out stark against her pale skin.

“Look at you,” she whispered, her voice husky, her eyes glowing faintly with an otherworldly hunger. “So fragile, so perfect. Do you understand now what you do to me?”

Her hands slipped to your waist, her grip firm yet somehow tender, steadying you as you sagged against her. “You taste like heaven,” she murmured, licking the remnants of your blood from her lips as though savoring a fine wine.

“You—” You tried to speak, but the words didn’t come, your breath hitching as her thumb traced over the fresh wound on your neck.

“Shh, don’t speak,” she said, her voice softening, almost tender now. “You’ve given me so much already. Let me take care of you, darling.”

She lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the massive bed draped in deep violet and gold linens. You felt the world sway as she set you down, her robe falling open just enough to reveal the smooth curve of her shoulder. Her predatory grin had returned, but now it was laced with something gentler—a strange, possessive affection that made your stomach twist.

“I told you, didn’t I?” she murmured, brushing your hair away from your face. “You belong to me now. Completely.”

She leaned over you, her bloodstained lips brushing yours in a kiss that was gentler this time. It was possessive yet worshipful, as though she was memorizing every inch of you.

The blood loss left you lightheaded, the line between fear and desire blurring until it vanished entirely. Agatha’s hands roamed over your body with reverence, her touch burning like fire.

“Such strength,” she purred, her lips hovering over yours. “Yet so vulnerable.”

She pressed another kiss to your neck, careful to avoid the wound this time. Her tongue flicked over the edges of the bite, soothing the sting, even as her hands trailed down your sides, setting every nerve ablaze.

The fire in the hearth crackled, casting flickering shadows across the room as Agatha’s lips left your neck, her tongue lapping at the wound she’d made. Her hands were everywhere—tracing your collarbone, gripping your hips, sliding up your thighs with a possessiveness that left you breathless. She pulled back slightly, her eyes dark and glinting with something primal, something that made your stomach twist in a way that was equal parts fear and desire.

“You’re trembling,” she murmured, her voice low and rough, like the growl of a predator savoring its prey. “Do you want me to stop?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your body was betraying you, your pulse racing as her fingers slipped under the hem of your uniform, brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Her touch was electric, sending shivers up your spine, and you bit your lip to stifle the moan that threatened to escape.

“No?” she teased, her lips curling into a wicked smile. “Good. Because I don’t think I could stop even if you begged me to.”

Her hands moved with purpose, yanking the fabric of your uniform up and over your head in one swift motion. The cool air hit your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of her gaze as she took you in—every curve, every inch of exposed flesh. Her eyes burned with hunger, and you felt utterly exposed, utterly at her mercy.

“Beautiful,” she whispered, her voice dripping with reverence. “Every part of you.”

Her hands were on you again, rough and demanding, as she pushed you back onto the bed. The satin sheets were cool against your back, but her body was a furnace as she climbed over you, her robe falling open to reveal the smooth, pale skin beneath. Her breasts brushed against yours, and you gasped at the contact, your nipples hardening instantly under her touch.

“You’re mine,” she growled, her lips trailing down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. “Every inch of you belongs to me.”

Her mouth closed over your nipple, her tongue flicking against the sensitive bud, and you arched into her, a moan escaping your lips before you could stop it. She chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against your skin, and her teeth grazed you lightly, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through your body.

“That’s it,” she murmured, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Let me hear you.”

Her hand slid down your stomach, her fingers dipping between your thighs, and you gasped as she found your wetness. She groaned, low and guttural, as she felt how ready you were for her.

“So eager,” she purred, her fingers teasing your entrance. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

You couldn’t answer, couldn’t think, as her fingers pushed inside you, curling just right to hit that spot that made your vision blur. She moved with a practiced precision, her thumb circling your clit as her fingers worked you, and you writhed beneath her, your hands gripping the sheets for dear life.

“Look at you,” she said, her voice dripping with dark amusement. “So desperate for me. So perfect.”

Her pace quickened, her fingers thrusting deeper, harder, and you felt the coil in your stomach tighten, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, “Come for me, darling. Let me feel you fall apart.”

As the firelight flickered in the darkened chamber, her mouth found yours again, her kiss consuming you entirely. She poured everything into it—her obsession, her hunger, and her unspoken claim over you.

When you woke, you were wrapped in satin sheets the color of freshly spilled wine. The dull ache in your neck reminded you that last night hadn’t been a fever dream. You touched the spot cautiously, your fingers finding tender flesh but no wound. Agatha had tended to it somehow; you could still feel the faint sting of her tongue against your skin.

As you turned, you realized you weren’t alone. Agatha sat on the edge of the bed, her robe draped loosely over her, revealing more than it hid. She held a glass of dark red wine in one hand, her other hand lazily tracing patterns on your thigh.

“You’re awake,” she said without looking at you. Her voice was calm, almost casual, but there was a sharp edge to it—possessive, in control.

You tried to sit up, but the room spun, and Agatha’s hand was on your shoulder in an instant, pressing you gently back down.

“Easy, darling,” she murmured, her fingers cool against your flushed skin. “You’ve given me so much already. You need to recover.”

Her words were kind, but her tone betrayed her satisfaction—like a predator who’d gorged herself on her prey and was now savoring the aftermath.

“Why?” you managed to whisper, your voice hoarse.

Agatha smiled, setting her glass aside. She leaned down until her face was inches from yours, her dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that stole your breath.

“Because I couldn’t resist,” she said simply. “You’re… exquisite. Every look, every breath, every drop of blood.” She cupped your face in her hand, her thumb grazing your cheekbone. “You have no idea the effect you’ve had on me.”

You flinched as her lips brushed over your forehead, but you didn’t pull away. There was a strange tenderness to her touch that made it impossible to move, even as your heart thundered in your chest.

“I should have left you alone,” she murmured, almost to herself. “But I’m not that strong. Not when it comes to you.”

The days that followed blurred together.

Agatha no longer kept her distance. She was everywhere—in the gardens during your morning chores, in the kitchen as you prepared meals, in your dreams every time you closed your eyes.

And always, her hands were on you—brushing against your arm as she passed, grazing your neck when she adjusted your collar, lingering on your waist as though she couldn’t stand to let you go.

“I’ve been patient,” she said one evening, pinning you against the cool stone of the hallway. Her voice was low, dangerous. “Do you think I’m a patient woman, darling?”

You shook your head, your words stolen by the heat of her body pressing into yours.

“No,” she said, her lips curling into a wicked smile. “I’m not.”

Her hand slid up your thigh, her touch searing through the thin fabric of your uniform. “Do you understand what you’ve done to me? How you’ve consumed my thoughts, my dreams, my every waking moment?”

Her mouth found yours before you could reply, the kiss rough and commanding. You couldn’t think—only feel. The way her hands gripped your hips, the way her teeth scraped your bottom lip, the way her breath mingled with yours as though she intended to drown you in her need.

The next morning, you woke again in her bed. She was watching you, propped up on one elbow, her fingers idly playing with your hair.

“Good morning,” she purred, her voice soft and lazy, though her eyes held that same dangerous glint.

“Why… why me?” you asked, your voice trembling.

Her smile widened, and she leaned down until her lips hovered just above yours.

“Because you’re mine,” she whispered, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

Her teeth grazed your ear, and you shivered. “And I don’t share.”

The days turned to weeks, and the line between fear and desire blurred beyond recognition. You found yourself waiting for her touch, aching for her attention, even as a small part of you screamed to run.

But there was no escaping her.

Agatha Harkness had claimed you in every way that mattered—body, blood, and soul.

And as her lips trailed down your neck, her sharp nails leaving burning paths along your skin, you knew you didn’t want her to let you go.

Because no one could consume you like she did.

No one could burn you so beautifully.

You belonged to her, entirely and inescapably.

And somehow, you didn’t care.

_-_-_

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[novaursa]

The Flames We Share

- Summary: You tell your son the truth. He has more than the blood of dragons in his veins.

- Pairing: Gwayne Hightower/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is Rhaenyra's younger sister and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after The Blood We Choose. If you want to read all parts before this one in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Word count: 5 198

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

The dungeons beneath Dragonstone were a cold, damp place, lit only by flickering torches that cast shadows that seemed to dance mockingly on the rough-hewn walls. The stench of rot and mildew clung to the air, seeping into the very stones of the fortress. Gwayne Hightower sat chained to the wall, bruised and dirty from his days of captivity, but his eyes were clear and resolute, fixed forward as he awaited what was surely his fate. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere—focused only on you, the woman he had risked everything for.

The sound of heavy boots echoed through the stone corridors, and he looked up as the iron door creaked open. Daemon Targaryen stepped inside, a predator’s smirk twisting his lips. He tossed a crumpled message onto the filthy floor in front of Gwayne’s feet. The black wax seal was unmistakable—bearing the sigil of House Hightower.

“Your father sends his regards,” Daemon drawled, a cruel edge in his voice. “He offers to trade his traitorous son for some stronghold I care little about. Imagine that—a worthless fortress in exchange for his even more worthless offspring.” Daemon’s eyes gleamed as he studied Gwayne’s reaction, searching for any sign of weakness.

But Gwayne’s expression remained stony. “You can say what you wish, Targaryen. My fate was sealed the moment I brought her to you.” His voice was hoarse but steady. “As long as Y/N is safe, I care not what becomes of me.”

Daemon’s lip curled in disdain. “Is that so?” He took a step closer, as if to loom over Gwayne. “Safe? You think she’s safe, having fallen from the sky, bleeding and broken? You think I would allow the woman who bore my son—my heir—to suffer any harm under my roof?” There was a dark gleam of possessiveness in Daemon’s eyes, as if the very notion of another man daring to care for you was an affront to his pride.

Gwayne’s gaze sharpened at that. “I want to see Vaeron,” he demanded suddenly. There was a tremor in his voice, a desperation that Daemon did not miss. “I want to speak with my son.”

Daemon’s anger flared at the insolence of the request. “Your son?” he hissed, voice low and dangerous. “That boy is a Targaryen—a dragon, not the product of some dishonorable tryst! Do you think I would allow him to be tainted by the shame of what you nearly brought upon my niece, siring a child on her without even the dignity of wedlock?”

Gwayne’s eyes darkened, yet there was a hint of mocking amusement in them as he stared up at the Rogue Prince. “And you believe yourself to be the righteous one? The man who slew his first wife in pursuit of power? Who consorts with whores while claiming the love of dragons? Tell me, Daemon, what makes you any different from me?”

Daemon’s smirk faltered, his face tightening with barely controlled rage. But Gwayne continued, his voice laced with bitterness. “She was denied to me—Y/N, I mean. If your brother had seen sense, had given her to me rather than feeding your ambitions, we could have avoided all this bloodshed. The boy would have been raised in Oldtown, under the guidance of both our Houses, and this war might never have happened.”

“Nothing could have prevented this war,” Daemon snarled, eyes flashing. “It was written in fire and blood long before you or I even took breath. But do not delude yourself into thinking you have anything resembling love, Hightower. What you claim as love is mere possession—an attempt to bind what you could never truly have.”

Gwayne’s jaw clenched at the words, but he did not respond. The two men stared at each other, the tension between them crackling like a drawn sword. Daemon took a breath, his composure returning as he straightened.

“I’ll have the boy brought to you,” Daemon said at last, his tone laced with scorn. “You may look upon him and see the life you were never destined to have. But do not forget—he is mine, and Y/N belongs to me now. She is a Targaryen, and you are nothing more than a failed traitor.”

With that, Daemon turned and strode toward the door. Before he left, he paused, throwing one last taunt over his shoulder. “Do not hope for mercy when your father trades you away like the pawn you are, Gwayne. Your life is worth little, even to those who should care most.”

The door slammed shut, leaving Gwayne alone in the darkness once more. But he did not feel defeated. Even with the chains biting into his wrists, he had no regrets for what he had done, for saving you and ensuring you were delivered safely to Dragonstone. In the end, it was not his fate that mattered—it was yours. Even in the heart of this cold, bitter place, the thought of you kept the warmth alive in his heart.

Because in the quiet shadows, despite all the titles and power Daemon clung to, Gwayne knew one truth that Daemon would never fully grasp—he loved you, wholly and without condition. And in his mind, that was a victory far greater than any throne or dragon could ever grant.

The soft crackle of the hearthfire filled the chamber, mingling with the scent of herbs and ointments from where Maesters had tended to your wounds. You sat by the window, Silverwing’s scales still etched into your memory, the pain a constant reminder of the battle you had narrowly survived. The healing was slow, but the bruises and cuts were nothing compared to the deeper ache in your chest. You weren’t sure what stung more—the death of your dragon or the desperate, foolish bravery of the man who had risked everything to save you.

A knock at the door broke your thoughts. “Come in,” you called, and the door creaked open to reveal Vaeron. The boy’s silver hair glinted in the evening light, and his blue eyes—so much like his father’s—fixed on you with concern.

“Mother,” he said quietly, stepping inside. “How are you feeling today?”

You smiled softly at him, though your heart ached as you looked upon him. “I am mending, sweetling. Stronger with each day.”

Vaeron nodded, yet his expression was troubled. He came closer, sitting on the edge of your bed, the worry in his eyes clear. “I heard… I heard Daemon talking about him,” he murmured. “The man in the dungeons—the one who saved you. Is it true he defied Ser Criston Cole and fled with you from Rook’s Rest? They say he’s a Hightower. An enemy.”

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. The boy was no longer the child you had once cradled; he was growing, his curiosity sharp and his mind keen. He deserved the truth.

“Yes, it’s true,” you replied, voice gentle. “The man who saved me is Gwayne Hightower. He… he betrayed his own kin, risked his life, and rode through the chaos to bring me here, to safety.”

Vaeron’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But why would he do that? Daemon says he’s just trying to make amends for his family’s treachery. That he’s nothing more than a desperate fool.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s more complicated than that, my dear. Gwayne… he did it out of love, out of loyalty to someone who meant the world to him once.” You hesitated, the words heavy on your tongue. The truth was a blade you’d kept sheathed for too long, and it was time to draw it, no matter how much it might wound.

Vaeron looked at you expectantly, sensing the weight of what you were about to say. You reached out, taking his hand in yours, needing the touch to anchor yourself.

“Vaeron… the man in the dungeons, Gwayne Hightower… he is your father.”

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Vaeron’s eyes widened, the shock raw and unfiltered in his young face. He pulled his hand away, as if trying to distance himself from the revelation. “What?” he breathed out, voice barely above a whisper. “My father? But… Daemon… I always thought…”

You nodded, pain lancing through your heart as you watched him grapple with the truth. “Daemon has raised you as his own, and in many ways, he is your father. But you have another father, by blood, and that is Gwayne Hightower. You were conceived out of a moment we both knew would never be more than a fleeting dream. He wanted to marry me, to build a life, but—”

Vaeron shook his head, backing away as he struggled to process it all. “No,” he muttered, as if denying the words could somehow make them untrue. “Daemon’s always told me I’m a Targaryen, that my blood is pure, that I am his son, a prince of the realm. How could—why didn’t you tell me? Why now, when he’s chained beneath us like some criminal?”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. “I didn’t want you to bear the burden of that knowledge before you were ready. You were always meant to be strong, to carry the legacy of the dragons. But Gwayne… he isn’t just a Hightower, he’s the man who saved my life when no one else dared. Whatever his blood, he does care for you in his own way, even from afar now.”

Vaeron’s lips trembled as he stared at you, his confusion and hurt palpable. “I need… I need to think,” he stammered, turning abruptly and nearly stumbling over himself in his haste to leave the room.

“Vaeron, wait—” you called after him, but he was already gone, the door slamming shut behind him. The sound echoed in the emptiness of the chamber, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Your chest tightened with regret. You had known this moment would come eventually, but you had hoped it would be under different circumstances. There was so much more you wanted to tell him, so much more to explain. But for now, all you could do was hope that he would find a way to understand, to see beyond the conflict of bloodlines and names.

In that fleeting moment before he vanished, you had seen the storm raging behind his eyes—a storm you knew would not settle easily. And in that storm, you glimpsed the boy he had always been and the man he was becoming, torn between the truths that defined him.

But you could only wait, knowing that the choice between dragons and towers was his to make, even if it broke your heart in the process.

Vaeron’s footsteps echoed through the winding corridors of Dragonstone as he fought to steady his breath. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a heavy drum drowning out the world around him. The truth his mother had just revealed rang in his ears like a cruel jest—Gwayne Hightower is your father. The words were a blade lodged deep in his chest, twisting with every thought, every doubt that now swirled within him.

He turned a corner, the air cool against his flushed face, and found himself in the dimly lit dining hall. The large table at its center was set for the evening meal, though the room was mostly empty save for one figure seated at the end, absently twirling a goblet in his hand.

Jacaerys Velaryon looked up, catching sight of Vaeron. His dark curls fell loosely over his forehead, and his brown eyes narrowed in concern as he took in his cousin’s strained expression. “Vaeron?” he called out, his voice low but filled with the warmth of kinship. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?”

Vaeron stiffened, his gaze flickering away as he hesitated at the threshold of the hall. The weight of the revelation clung to him like a shroud, and for a moment, he wondered if it would be easier to bury it, to pretend that nothing had changed. But Jacaerys’ patient eyes, filled with genuine care, drew him in like a tether.

With a resigned sigh, Vaeron walked over and slumped into the chair opposite Jace, the firelight casting shadows on his troubled face. He didn’t speak for a moment, merely stared at the table as he tried to gather the words that had lodged like stones in his throat.

Jace leaned forward, the lines of worry deepening on his brow. “Vaeron, you’re scaring me. What’s happened?”

“I…” Vaeron’s voice cracked, and he swallowed hard before continuing, “I just learned something that changes everything.” He finally looked up, his eyes rimmed with uncertainty. “The man in the dungeons—the Hightower who brought Mother back from Rook’s Rest… He’s my father. My real father.”

Jacaerys’ eyes widened in shock, his goblet nearly slipping from his grasp. “What? But—Daemon’s always—”

“I know,” Vaeron cut in, voice strained. “I thought Daemon was my father, too. I grew up believing I was his son, a true Targaryen. But Mother told me just now that Gwayne Hightower is my sire. I’m… I’m a bastard.”

The word hung heavy in the air between them, laden with shame and confusion. Vaeron felt his chest tighten again, the sting of doubt gnawing at him. What did that make him now? Was he even truly a part of this family? A dragon in name only, born of a union that should never have been?

Jacaerys’ expression softened as he saw the pain in Vaeron’s eyes. He set down his goblet and leaned closer, trying to find the right words. “Listen to me, Vaeron,” he began, voice steady and laced with a touch of empathy. “We’ve both been raised with more lies and expectations than most people could handle. But if anyone understands how it feels to question who you are, it’s me.”

Vaeron blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

Jacaerys gave a rueful smile, leaning back in his chair as he stared into the flames. “I’ve heard the whispers, the taunts—people saying I’m no true Targaryen because of my questionable blood. They mock the fact that I don’t have silver hair or violet eyes, that I look more like a commoner than a prince. And sometimes… sometimes, I wonder if they’re right.”

The honesty in Jace’s voice caught Vaeron off guard, pulling him out of his own turmoil. He had always admired Jacaerys—his confidence, his sense of duty. He had never imagined that his cousin carried doubts of his own.

“But you’re still recognized as one of us,” Vaeron murmured, brow furrowed. “You’re still heir to the Iron Throne, still a dragon. No one would ever dare deny that.”

Jace nodded, but his gaze remained distant. “True, but that doesn’t erase the whispers. Even with the dragon blood flowing through my veins, I’ve always felt like I had to prove I’m worthy of the name Targaryen. But you…” He looked back at Vaeron, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You look like a Targaryen. No one would ever question your blood—silver hair—you were born a dragon, even if your father wasn’t one.”

Vaeron’s breath hitched at the kindness in Jace’s words. But it didn’t soothe the ache gnawing at his heart. “Does it even matter, Jace? If I’m truly a bastard, what does any of this mean? My whole life, I’ve been told I’m meant for something great, but now… now I don’t even know who I really am.”

Jacaerys’ expression grew firm, his voice taking on a rare edge of command. “It means you choose who you are, Vaeron. Blood alone doesn’t decide it. You were raised in this family, loved by your mother and Daemon alike. That is what makes you one of us. Not some Hightower who’s rotting in a cell.”

Vaeron’s throat tightened at the thought of Gwayne, the man who had defied his own House, who had thrown everything away to save the woman he loved. Did that make him worthy of being called a father? Could that kind of loyalty outweigh his bloodline, or was it too little too late?

“I need time to think,” Vaeron murmured, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just… a lot.”

Jacaerys reached across the table, placing a reassuring hand on Vaeron’s shoulder. “You’ll figure it out, cousin. You’re not alone in this, alright? Whatever you decide, you’ll always have me and the rest of your family behind you.”

Vaeron nodded numbly, grateful for Jace’s support but still lost in the sea of confusion and emotions swirling within him. The questions gnawed at him relentlessly, leaving him torn between the man he had always believed himself to be and the truth that now threatened to shatter that identity.

The tension clung to the air in the dining hall like smoke, heavy and suffocating. Vaeron sat in silence after Jacaerys left, lost in the maze of his thoughts, unable to untangle the twisted knots of his emotions. His whole life had been built on one truth: that he was a Targaryen, son of Daemon, a prince destined for greatness. But now that truth had shattered, and he felt like a child cast adrift on a stormy sea, unsure of where to turn.

The sound of footsteps approached, measured and deliberate, and Vaeron looked up to see Daemon entering the hall. His expression was unreadable, though his sharp eyes missed nothing as they swept over Vaeron’s troubled face. For a moment, the prince said nothing, merely studying his son—his real son in all but blood—with a calculating gaze.

“You’re brooding,” Daemon finally said, his voice low and tinged with an edge of dry amusement. “A trait you didn’t inherit from your mother, I’d wager.”

Vaeron clenched his fists on the table, unable to meet Daemon’s eyes. “Everything I’ve ever known about myself is a lie,” he muttered, his voice thick with anger and confusion. “How am I supposed to believe anything now?”

Daemon’s gaze softened, but his voice remained firm. “You think this changes who you are?” he asked, stepping closer. “You think some whispered secret about your parentage wipes away the blood that runs through your veins? You are still a Targaryen, still my son in every way that matters.”

Vaeron’s eyes snapped up, a flash of frustration crossing his face. “But I’m not,” he insisted, his voice cracking. “I’m not truly your son, not by blood. I’m just… a bastard. A mistake.”

Daemon’s expression darkened, and he took a seat across from Vaeron, his presence commanding and unyielding. “Is that what you truly believe?” he asked, his tone both gentle and sharp. “That blood alone defines who you are? You were raised in the shadow of dragons, with the legacy of kings and conquerors shaping your every step. That is no lie. I’ve taught you, guided you, prepared you for the world because I chose you as my heir, not because of whose seed sired you.”

Vaeron looked away, struggling with the conflicting emotions swirling within him. “But… why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice a whisper now, tinged with the pain of betrayal. “All this time, you let me believe…”

Daemon sighed, his gaze growing distant as if recalling a memory long buried. “Because you needed to grow up without that burden,” he said quietly. “What good would it have done to burden you with a truth that might have only confused you, made you question everything? You were born a Targaryen in all the ways that matter. I’ve treated you as such, and so has your mother. That will never change, no matter who your true father is.”

Vaeron’s chest tightened at the mention of his mother, and he shook his head. “But now I know, and I can’t just pretend it doesn’t matter. That man in the dungeons… he’s the reason I exist, and yet he’s a stranger to me. How can I make sense of that?”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the wood. “Gwayne Hightower might be your blood father, but that doesn’t mean he has any claim over you,” he said with a hint of disdain in his voice. “He made a choice back at Rook’s Rest—one that I don’t entirely understand myself. He risked everything to bring your mother back here. Perhaps he thought it would redeem him somehow, or maybe he truly cared for her in his own way. Either way, he’s asked to speak with you.”

Vaeron stiffened at the words, his heart lurching in his chest. “He wants to see me?”

Daemon nodded slowly. “He does. He requested it, though he knows the choice is yours to make. I told him I’d send you, but the decision is yours. You can go to him, or you can ignore it and leave him to rot where he belongs.”

Vaeron’s mind reeled, torn between the curiosity gnawing at him and the fear of facing the man who had upended his world with his very existence. He shook his head, his voice trembling as he spoke. “I can’t. Not today. I don’t even know what I’d say to him… what I’d ask.”

Daemon studied him for a moment before nodding in understanding. “That’s your right. You don’t have to face him until you’re ready—if you ever are.” He reached out, placing a hand on Vaeron’s shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “But know this, boy: whoever sired you, you are still my son. You bear the Targaryen name because I have claimed you as my own, because you were raised with fire in your blood. No man, be he Hightower or otherwise, can take that from you.”

Vaeron looked up at him, searching Daemon’s face for some trace of deception, but all he saw was the fierce loyalty and pride that Daemon had always shown him. For all his faults and ruthlessness, Daemon had been the only father Vaeron had ever known. And in that moment, the boy clung to that truth like a lifeline.

“Thank you,” Vaeron murmured, his voice small but filled with genuine gratitude. “I just… need time. To sort through it all.”

Daemon’s lips curved into a rare, almost affectionate smile, one reserved for the few he held dear. “Take all the time you need,” he said quietly. “But remember, you are a Targaryen, and no truth will ever change that. Not in the eyes of those who matter.”

With that, Daemon rose from the table, giving Vaeron a final nod before turning to leave the hall. Vaeron watched him go, the conflicting emotions still swirling in his chest, but there was a newfound clarity in his heart. The path ahead was clouded, and the shadow of Gwayne Hightower’s existence hanged over him like a specter. But for now, he knew where he stood—with the family that had shaped him, that had loved him despite the secrets and lies.

But deep down, in the quiet recesses of his mind, he knew that one day he would have to face the man who had saved his mother and who claimed the title of his father. Just… not today. Today, he would hold on to the identity he’d always known and trust that, in time, he would find his way through the tangled web of blood and loyalty.

For now, he was still Vaeron Targaryen, son of Daemon—trueborn or not, dragon or not, he was still a part of the legacy that burned brightly in the heart of House Targaryen. And that was enough to anchor him, at least for tonight.

The corridors beneath Dragonstone were dark and damp, the oppressive chill seeping into Vaeron’s bones as he made his way toward the dungeons. It had been a week since his world had been upended, a week of wrestling with the truth of his parentage. He had tried to push it aside, to focus on the training sessions with his cousins, the books his mother insisted he study, the words of comfort from Daemon. But every night, when the candles burned low and the castle quieted, the thought gnawed at him: if he didn’t face the man in the dungeons, he would never truly understand where he came from—or who he was.

So here he was, descending deeper into the belly of the fortress, the iron doors looming ahead. A guard nodded and stepped aside, allowing him entry. The door creaked open, revealing the shadowed cell where Gwayne Hightower sat slumped against the cold stone wall, chains rattling faintly with his every breath.

Gwayne’s face was bruised and gaunt, the days of imprisonment leaving their mark on him. But his eyes, so strikingly similar to Vaeron’s own, flicked up the moment the boy entered. Surprise and something softer—something like hope—flashed in his gaze.

“Vaeron,” he murmured, as if testing the name on his lips. “You came.”

Vaeron stood just inside the threshold, tension thrumming through his body. He wasn’t sure what he had expected—anger, indifference, desperation? But all he felt was a tangled mix of emotions that refused to settle.

After a long silence, Vaeron finally took a few steps closer, his voice tentative as he asked, “How could I not? I had to face you… or I couldn’t live with myself.”

Gwayne’s expression softened, a flicker of pride and sorrow crossing his face. “You’re braver than most would be in your position,” he said quietly. He shifted slightly, wincing at the pull of his wounds and restraints. “How… how is your mother? Is she recovering?”

Vaeron’s heart tightened at the genuine concern in Gwayne’s voice. Despite everything, despite the shame and anger swirling within him, he could not deny the sincerity of the man’s question. “She’s getting better,” Vaeron replied, a hint of guardedness still in his tone. “But her injuries are still bad. The fall from Silverwing was…” His voice trailed off, unable to find the right words.

Gwayne nodded, his jaw clenched as if in shared pain. “She’s strong. She always has been. I knew if I could just get her here, she’d fight her way back.” His voice grew hoarse with emotion, and he averted his gaze for a moment before looking back at Vaeron. “Thank you for telling me.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint drip of water echoing through the dungeons. Vaeron swallowed the lump in his throat and finally spoke the question that had been burning in him since he decided to come here. “Daemon says you’re a traitor,” he said, his voice low but unwavering. “That you can’t be trusted, that you’ve betrayed your family and your House. But… you saved my mother. You risked your life, your honor, everything.”

Gwayne’s expression didn’t change, but something deep and resolute flickered in his eyes. “Daemon’s right—I am a traitor to my own kin, to my House. I turned my back on everything I was raised to uphold. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

The simple conviction in his words struck Vaeron like a blow. He could see the truth of it written in every line of Gwayne’s face, in the quiet determination that had driven him to this point. Vaeron wanted to challenge him, to demand answers, but instead, he found himself asking, “Why?”

Gwayne’s lips curled into a faint, sad smile. “Because she was worth it. Your mother was worth more than any loyalty to my House, more than any honor I might have clung to. You see, I loved her long before any of this war came to pass. I wanted to marry her, to build a life with her, but your uncle, King Viserys, had other plans. When she was given to Daemon, I knew my place would only ever be on the outside, looking in.” He paused, eyes darkening with the weight of old wounds. “But that didn’t change how I felt. When I saw her falling in battle, when I saw Silverwing plummet… I didn’t think about anything else. I just acted. I’d rather be a traitor and live knowing I saved her than be a loyal man and watch her die.”

Vaeron’s chest tightened, torn between resentment and reluctant understanding. “You say that like it was noble, like it justifies everything. But it’s still treason. You abandoned your family. You betrayed your own.”

Gwayne’s expression grew more serious, his voice a low rumble in the dim light. “Yes, and I will face the consequences of that. I know what I’ve done, and I’ve made my peace with it. But you must understand, Vaeron—whatever Daemon tells you, whatever anyone says—you are my son. I know I have no right to claim you, not after all these years, but it doesn’t change what you are to me.”

Vaeron felt the words hanging in the air like a challenge, daring him to acknowledge the bond that existed between them, even if he wished it didn’t. He looked down, his fists clenched at his sides. “I don’t know what I am,” he admitted, his voice strained. “I was raised to believe I’m a Targaryen, that I’m Daemon’s son. Now everything feels like a lie. How can I be both?”

Gwayne’s gaze softened, the hardness of his demeanor giving way to something almost tender. “You are both,” he said quietly. “You were raised as a Targaryen, with all the fire and pride that comes with it. That is a part of you. But you’re also my blood, whether you like it or not. And you get to decide what that means for you.”

Vaeron’s mind spun with conflicting emotions—anger, guilt, a flicker of something like pity. He wasn’t sure if he could ever see Gwayne as his father, not in the way Daemon had been. But he couldn’t deny that the man who sat before him had risked everything for his mother, for the chance to protect her even when all seemed lost. And for that alone, he couldn’t simply dismiss him.

After a long silence, Vaeron finally shook his head. “I can’t face you—not today. There’s too much I don’t understand, too much I still need to figure out.”

Gwayne nodded, accepting the decision without protest. “I won’t ask for more than you’re willing to give,” he said softly. “But know that I’m here, for as long as they allow me to draw breath. And whatever choice you make, whatever path you choose—I will always be proud of you.”

The words stung, leaving Vaeron with a raw ache in his chest. He wanted to respond, to say something more, but the weight of everything—his own confusion, the war, the fractured loyalties—was too much. He turned abruptly, leaving the cell without another word, his thoughts swirling in a tempest of conflicting emotions.

As he walked away, the echo of Gwayne’s voice lingered in his mind, a reminder that some truths, no matter how painful, couldn’t be ignored forever. But for now, he needed time to reconcile the man he had always believed himself to be with the truths he couldn’t yet fully accept.

And so, Vaeron returned to the world above, leaving the man who called himself his father to the shadows, knowing that one day—perhaps too soon—he would have to confront the reality of who he truly was.

[andy-15-07]

Heyyy , I love your blog❤️! Can you do a fic with Feyd Rautha, where y/n gives birth to their first child

Seraphina

masterlist ! pairing:Feyd Rautha reader

Dune Masterlist

In the dimly lit birthing chamber of House Harkonnen, the air was thick with anticipation as Feyd-Rautha stood by your side. The momentous occasion had arrived, and the echoes of your shared breaths reverberated through the room. The Harkonnen legacy was about to be expanded, and the weight of the future seemed to rest in the hands of the next generation.

As the contractions began, Feyd-Rautha, usually an enigmatic figure of political maneuvering and calculated decisions, displayed a rare vulnerability. His gaze never wavered from you, his eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and anticipation.

The midwife, clad in the rich fabrics of Arrakis, guided the process with a calm authority. "Lady Y/N, the time is near. Brace yourself for the final push."

The room seemed to hold its breath as the culmination of your love and lineage unfolded. Feyd-Rautha, known for his unwavering confidence, now stood at the edge of uncertainty, his hand tightly gripping yours.

With a final, intense push, the cries of a newborn filled the air. The midwife's hands worked swiftly, placing the newborn in your arms. Feyd-Rautha's eyes widened with a mixture of awe and overwhelming emotion as he caught a glimpse of your child.

"Our child," he whispered, his voice filled with a depth that transcended his usual stoicism.

As you cradled the newborn in your arms, a wave of love and protectiveness washed over you. "Our legacy, Feyd-Rautha. She carries the blood of House Harkonnen."

The newborn, wrapped in the regal fabrics of Arrakis, squirmed in your arms, her eyes opening to reveal a gaze that seemed to hold an ancient wisdom. Feyd-Rautha, a formidable presence in the political landscape, now knelt beside you, his eyes locked on the tiny being that symbolized the continuation of House Harkonnen.

"What shall we name her?" Feyd-Rautha pondered, his usually sharp mind momentarily softened by the enormity of the moment.

You exchanged a knowing look, a silent agreement passing between you. "Seraphina," you suggested, a name that carried the essence of grace and strength, a name befitting the union of your love.

"Seraphina," Feyd-Rautha echoed, a rare smile playing on his lips. "A name worthy of our House."

As the newborn Seraphina rested in your arms, Feyd-Rautha by your side, a newfound sense of unity enveloped your family. The once-feuding houses were now intricately connected through the birth of this child, a symbol of love prevailing over the shadows of political intrigue.

In the birthing chamber of House Harkonnen, the cries of a newborn marked not just the beginning of a new life but the dawn of a future where love and legacy intertwined. Feyd-Rautha, the enigmatic figure of power, now stood as a father, embracing the vulnerability and joy that came with the arrival of his firstborn. The legacy of House Harkonnen continued with a new chapter, written in the cries and whispers of the newborn Seraphina.

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Taste of the Devil

!!!!MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!! 18+

Summary: When your girlfriend needs your help, you are more than willing to offer your services.

Warning: vampire!Kate Bishop, super solider!Reader, smut, fluff, lots of talk of blood, dom!reader, sub!Kate, mention of subspace, fingering (Kate receiving), nipple play (Kate reciving), reader is a little freaky, pet names, swearing, no y/n, no physical description of reader but they are strong, poorly written smut lol

Word Count: 2.4K

“Shit, fuck,” you heard your girlfriend say when you entered your shared apartment. Kate swore like a trucker, so that was no surprise to hear, but her worried tone made you realize something was wrong. You toed off your shoes and gently closed the door behind you. No one heard you come in, not even your girlfriend’s four-legged companion. The dog was trying to provide some comfort to his distraught owner. The archer was on the couch, her hands covering her face and leaning back.

“Katie girl,” you said softly, not wanting to startle the girl, and sat down next to her. Lucky’s ears pricked up at your sudden appearance, but he kept his head on Kate’s lap. “What’s wrong?” she threw her hands to the side with a huff.

“Problem at the blood bank,” she mumbled. Her left leg started to bounce. “Tony can’t get any.” Ah, there it was. She was hungry.

“When was the last time you ate?” You whispered, even though no one else was in the apartment.

“Last week, maybe. I can’t remember. It’s been busy,” Kate was right. Usually, you were better at picking up on her cues when she was hungry. But you were stretched thing with helping the Avengers and Yelena. “Tony said it might come in tomorrow or the day after, but I-”

“You’re hungry,” you placed your hand on the back of her neck and gave it a comforting squeeze. The contrasting temperature of her skin against yours was one of your favorite things about dating Kate. You knew the archer was different the moment you were introduced to her. With your enhanced senses, you could never hear a heartbeat and never hear her inhale air into her lungs. Sometimes, you caught her eyes flickering from blue to red—her healing ability was on par with or better than yours.

You became fascinated with the archer, and a close friendship turned into you asking her out on a date. She told you the truth about what she was: a vampire. The Bishop family can be traced back to the 18th century.

Sometimes, you forget how powerful your girlfriend is. Most of the time, she was gentle and soft. She was easy to fluster, and she stumbled over her words when you told her how beautiful she looked. She was your Katie girl, the best dog mom, and a little clumsy from time to time. Under all that, she was a predator, and predators needed to be fed.

Which led to the current predicament. Her kind stopped feeding on humans centuries ago due to the donation of blood banks; Tony was in charge of all the paperwork. She was an animal lover and hated the idea of hunting. Besides, she told you that blood tastes weird if the animal had a disease. The same was said for humans. Humans poured junk into their bodies - drugs, alcohol, even vitamins, and it could be tasted in their blood. Clean blood is hard to come by, Kate said.

However, that got you thinking about what you tasted like. You knew you smelt good to her. On movie nights, her nose would be pressed against your neck, and her deep inhales and exhales caused goosebumps to form on your skin. She said you smelt earthy, like the smell of rain - a dampened forest, a mixture of pine and mass. The deep, earthy scent of the Earth after a storm.

Maybe it was wrong to fantasize how it would feel to have her drink from you. The sharp pinch of her teeth and the way she would be filled with your blood. You pushed those selfish thoughts away. “You know,” you said slowly, playing with the baby hairs that couldn’t be pulled into her ponytail. “You could drink from me.” Kate physically recoiled away from you. Your hand fell to the couch.

“No,” she snapped.

“Baby,” you tried to move closer to her, but she stopped you. “You can’t hurt me.”

“We don’t know that,” she countered. Yes, but you’ve endured worse injuries. Even Professor Xavier was impressed with your healing ability. It was as good as Logan’s. There was one time you traveled from Russia way back to the city with a piece of rebar in your side. You were proud of yourself, and you only passed out once.

“You need to eat. I bet you are starting to get a headache,” she allowed you to touch her temples and massage the area. She moaned quietly at the relief. “My little bat,” you cooed. “Aren’t you a little curious about what I taste like?” Her eyes turned red, and every bit of blue was gone, as she looked at the vein in your neck.

“Do you want me to bite you?” Her voice shook. Her resolve was breaking.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t 100% okay with it,” you wondered if she could hear your heartbeat. The very idea of it sent your body into overdrive. You were excited, nervous, and maybe a little turned on.

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Okay,” you repeated.

*

Kate brought Lucky upstairs and locked him in your shared room with a Kong, bones, and toys. You changed into a white tank top and a pair of sweatpants. You sat on the couch, patiently waiting for Kate. Tapping your hands on your thighs, you took a few deep breaths to calm yourself down. “You can change your mind,” you turned to see Kate. She also changed into one of your shirts and sleep shots. “I can hear your heart pounding from upstairs.” You chuckled.

“Just anxious,” you told her as she sat beside you. “Just don’t go all Dracula on me.” The archer glared at you.

“I hate that movie,” she said. “It ruined the image of my kind.” You laughed and cupped her cheek.

“I’m sorry, baby, I trust you,” you kissed her softly. “It’s okay. Feed.” You felt her letting out a shaky exhale against your lips.

“Stay still, okay?” You nodded and tried to control your breathing as she leaned into your neck. You expected her to sink her teeth into your skin. Instead, you felt her lips kiss the spot, gently soothing the area with her tongue. It was a nice gesture, but it did not help the beating of your heart. Her cold fingers touched the vein. “Just stay still,” she repeated. “I-” she stopped before she could finish her sentence and sunk her teeth into you.

“Shit,” you grunted in pain, face contracting briefly. Soon, it was replaced with pleasure that washed over your entire body.

You remembered Kate telling you how intimate it was to drink from a person. It was why she tried to avoid it even when it was allowed. This feeling was euphoric, something you’ve experienced before. Her lips on your neck as she sucked and fed on you was sending you into a spiral. Adrenaline was pumping through your veins, and you loved it. You were addicted to it.

You grabbed the nap of her neck and pulled her against you, demanding her to be closer. Her hand moved to your chest, pinning you to the couch. It was a silent reminder to stay still, but the sudden display of strength caused your hips to buckle.

“I said,” she detached herself from your neck. “Stay still,” she licked the wound she created. “Shit,” she said in disbelief. “You do heal fast.” You chuckled and turned to look at her. Her eyes were slowly returning to their normal color, but she needed more. Without any words, you pulled her onto your lap. She gasped at the sudden movement.

“Then bite me again,” you whispered, breathlessly. Kate looked you over, probably checking to make sure you were okay with continuing. The second bite was much less hesitant, and you knew the type of pain to expect. Instead of holding onto her neck, you moved your hands to her hips. Both of your hips buckled into each other. Her moan rattled through your body.

“Fuck,” your eyes rolled in the back of your head and grabbed her ass. It was on instinct to start moving her hips against you. Your body was on fire. Every sense was Kate. Her cold skin against yours. The soft moans in your ears. The smell of her arousal hit your nose. “So fucking beautiful,” you groaned. Your hands traveled underneath her (your) shirt and covered each inch of her skin with your hands. You pinched one of her nipples, and she removed her teeth from you as a quiet moan ripped through her. Kate’s hips stopped moving as her forehead rested against yours. Her eyes were closed, but her chest was heaving like she ran a marathon.

“Did I tell you to stop?” you asked. Her eyes snapped open. Gone was the red, but they were glossy—a look she only got when you pushed her into a certain headspace. “Awe, my poor baby,” you cooed. Did your head get all fuzzy because you are full of my blood?” She wined, eyes rolling back slightly. “Do you always get wet when you feed?” you joked.

“Do you always get wet when someone bites you?” She used your words against you.

“Cheeky little bat,” you smiled, connecting your lips with hers. You pushed your tongue into your mouth and moaned at the taste of your blood. Shit, when did you turn into a freak? “How do I taste?” It was your turn to press kisses against the column of her throat.

“Sweet,” she began to move her hips against yours. “Like honey,” she chuckled breathlessly. “Better than the blood bags.” You took great pride in that statement. You knew you weren’t the greatest with your body, drowning your past in alcohol and the occasional drug use. It must be the serum she was tasting that ran through your veins. Still, if those were going to be a recurring trend, you made a promise to yourself to treat your body better.

“I guess you have your personal blood bag,” you teased, and your hand moved over the top of her shorts. “Shit, baby,” you ran the tip of your fingers over her folds and collected the wetness. “You’re soaked.” Her head fell to your shoulder.

“Please,” the archer mumbled. A simple kiss to your neck sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

“Please, what, Katie girl?” You teased. “Use that pretty mouth of yours and tell me.” She huffed and sat up straighter to look down at you.

“Need-” A moan interrupted her as you began to rub her clit. It was such a beautiful sound that made your clit throb. “Need your fingers.” She added a pout and gave you her best puppy dog eyes she could muster; you chuckled and applied more pressure.

“My fingers?” You questioned with a confused tilt of your head. “You have my fingers. I’m touching you right now. Is this not enough?” You were being mean. You knew it was hard for her to form words when she got like this. But you would give it to her. All she had to do was say it.

“Inside,” she groaned, her hips became frantic. “Need your fingers inside. Need to cum all over them.” Bingo. There it was. Usually, it took her longer, but she must be desperate for release. With how busy it has been, you haven’t had time for this.

“Good girl,” you praised. She was wet enough to slip two fingers inside her easily. She gasped at the sudden feeling; her hands gripped both your shoulders, and her eyes rolled back. “So wet and warm, baby,” you moaned and pushed her shirt up. “Come on, little bat,” you encouraged. “Take what you need.” She did, and damn, it was a sight to behold.

Kate rode your fingers with a fierce determination to get herself off. She was gorgeous, and you counted yourself to see her like this. Her pussy squeezed your fingers, and the smell of her arousal mixed with her moans and the blood loss was bringing you embarrassingly close without being touched. Ignoring the ache in your wrist, you leaned forward and swirled your tongue around her nipple. You smirked at the gasp.

She was close. All these months together with Kate, you knew her tells. Her hips would begin to stutter and lose their rhythm. She became more vocal. Your girlfriend wasn’t loud during sex, but it always excited you when you could pull a loud moan from her. The final tell was her eyes. The blue of eyes darkened, almost black. It was intoxicating that you were the one giving her this pleasure. She wore your shirt. She fed on your blood. Your fingers were going to make her cum.

“Close,” she moaned. “‘M so fucking close. I need-”

“Take it, baby,” you encouraged. “Take whatever you need.” You expected her to push your hand closer to her so your palm would be against her clit, or she wanted you to kiss her. Instead, she leaned forward and sunk her teeth into your neck.

“Fuck yes,” you moaned and used your free hand to lite Kate up slightly. The sound was obscene. Your fingers moved faster. You felt her witness drip down your hand. “Cum for me, baby, please,” you pleaded. Her body went ridged against you, and you felt the coil snap deep in the pit of your stomach. You kept your fingers moving to help ride out her high and only stopped when she slumped against you. Her teeth released from your neck, and her nose nuzzled against you. Her breath tickled you. “I’m going to pull my fingers out, okay?” You felt her nod. Removing them slowly, you cooed softly as she hissed from the overestimation. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she mumbled. Sleepy.” You chuckled and kept her against your chest as you moved to lay follow on the couch. Slowly, you removed the ponytail from her hair and brushed the strands with your fingers. A list of things ran through your mind. You wanted to draw Kate a bath, let Lucky out, and eat something for yourself. Helen would give you a juice box and an orange when you had donated blood.

“Baby,” you hummed, so Kate knew you heard her. She moved so her chin rested on your chest. Her eyes were back to their normal blue—your favorite color. They were like diamonds—calm but bold, warm but cold. They were windows to her soul, and her gaze felt like home. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Always,” you smiled. “I love you, my little bat. Now and forever.”

[sarahghetti]

blood on your lies; m.s.

pairing: marc spector x reader centric, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: after an argument with marc, you go missing. he tears himself apart trying to find you.

warnings: a dive into the mind of marc spector, angst, hurt with some comfort (i.e. jake and steven), kidnapping, vague descriptions of violence.

word count: 3.0k

notes: kind of a continuation of all the echoes in my mind, but can be read as a standalone. written as part of the @moonknight-events bingo! prompt: "insecure", I promise that not all my entries will be this sad lol

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

You’re not home yet.

It’s nearly been three hours. Marc paces the apartment like a caged animal, likely wearing the hardwood underneath his feet. Steven and Jake have run their course about how stupid he is, how he shouldn’t have said what he said, how he should’ve run after you the second you stepped out the door—

But jokes on them. There can be no harsher critic of Marc than Marc himself.

He checks his phone again in case you’ve responded to his many texts and calls, but there’s nothing. As far as he knows, you haven’t even seen any of it.

His temper still lingers under their skin, and he holds it tight with both hands; anger is easy. It’s easier than admitting that the peaks in his heartrate and the sweat on his brow is from anything other than his own self-flagellation.

Anger is familiar.

This, however? The waiting for you to walk through the door, or to give them any sign of life—so much of his sanity rests in the comfort of you being safe. Marc didn’t realize how lucky he was to not know what this was like. Now, he doesn’t know if he can ever forget it.

Jake’s voice is clipped. “Check again.”

They’re all on edge, and it’s terrible. Most of the time, at least one of them manages to keep a level head during stressful situations—usually Marc. Jake is prone to anger, Steven to anxiousness.

“Marc!” Steven yanks him out of his head, and his phone is in his hand without any memory of having taken it out of his pocket. He does a dutiful look through his notifications—nothing.

Three sets of disappointment and concern pile on top of one another and drags them all down so much further.

“Do…” Steven’s voice is quiet. Unsure. “Do you think something might’ve happened to her?”

There is no dissenting opinion, no devil’s advocate. Marc doesn’t try to calm his alters down, and only clenches his jaw.

You’ve never gone quiet on them like this. They’ve never let you leave the flat at night like this. They always opted to be the one to go take a walk because even in the middle of an argument, they wouldn’t risk your safety.

The lingering silence is Steven’s answer.

When the suit wraps itself around his body, the accompanying burst of power in his veins is suffocating. His wounds begin to numb over, but Marc barely notices. He hasn’t spared them a thought since you left.

The cool air does nothing to assuage him. Clouds blot out the sky, leaving nothing but a murky backdrop as he scales up the nearest building for a vantage point. A quick scan over the horizon—nothing. Not a hint of your silhouette under the streetlights, and a lump forms in his throat.

“Khonshu!”

A gust of wind signals the god’s arrival, who, even with a bird’s skull for a head, looks remarkably bored as Marc is clinging to any semblance of sanity. He must already know what’s going on but frustratingly just spreads out his hands, a silent question—what?

Marc grits his teeth. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Khonshu.” The name is a snarl on his lips.

He simply scoffs. “You have the gall to make demands? As if I need to be involved with your lover’s spat?”

“She’s not answering her phone.”

A lingering pause.

“She might be in danger,” Marc snaps, trying to get the god to understand even a fraction of the severity of the situation. They might bloody their hands night after night, staining London’s streets each time they go out on patrol, but it’s never enough. There are always more monsters to take their place, and the thought that you might have run into one of them—

Khonshu cocks his head. “Maybe she’s just finally had enough of you.”

Marc hates how that’s a possibility. Still, desperation crawls out of his throat. “Can you find her?”

Khonshu turns to look over the city, the silence stretching out between them. Whatever divinity he’s channeling, Marc isn’t privy to; all he can do is stand there like a useless dumbass and wait for some hint of you to show up on the god’s radar. Even if you had had enough and never want to see him again—he’ll swallow down that fate in stride as long as he knows that you’re safe.

When Khonshu finally breaks from searching, his head cocks slightly to the side. “Interesting.”

This is hardly the time for theatrics. “Do not—”

“I cannot find her,” the god admits. Not apologetic or ashamed, but—awed. “Where she is right now, her footsteps through the city—there is nothing, Marc Spector. There’s not even a trace of her in your own home.”

The blood rushes in his ears. His chest constricts until he can barely breathe at all. Marc barely manages to wrap his head around the information before Jake and Steven come roaring back again, shocked and confused.

“Stupid fucking bird—”

“She was right here!

“Let me out, pendejo, I swear—”

“What the bloody hell does he mean—”

“How?” Is all Marc manages to get out, every one of his senses on overload.

“Something is hiding her from me; whatever took your lover is very powerful indeed.”

Took. Not a single doubt about it now: something took you. Kidnapped you because Marc couldn’t keep it together for ten-fucking-minutes. Jake and Steven can prattle all they want in the background—his mission is clear.

“Where do we start?”

-

The flat seems even bleaker when they return, your absence all the more chilling. Steven clamours to take the reins with the obvious assumption that research is the first step they need to take, but that’s quickly dashed away when Khonshu returns with a name.

“Apep.” God of darkness and disorder, Steven supplies from their head. “He’s been cast away for eons, but there have always been those trying to get him to return.”

“It’s another cult?”

Jake swears under his breath. “Figures.”

Ignoring them, Marc presses on. “Who are we dealing with now?”

“If it were easy to find them, I would’ve done it already,” Khonshu bristles. “Apep is helping them—hiding them as they work. I will continue to do what I can.”

“Fine.”

The god disappears in a whirlwind of loose papers, and Marc switches gears. Steven might have the advantage in research, but tracking? The skills he’s honed as a Marine and as a mercenary wait for him like an old pair of shoes; the others can’t help but let him work in peace.

He finds some old tourist map that spans over the city and unfolds it across the dining table. There are only so many places you would’ve gone, so many routes you could’ve taken. London doesn’t become deserted at night and barring any divine intervention, kidnapping someone would cause a scene—you would have caused a scene, he thinks, imagining you fighting tooth and nail against your assailants, screaming for someone to help—

Marc closes his eyes, clenches his jaw. A wave of pain washes over him, and he languishes in it for a minute, not a moment more.

His eyes reopen, spots dancing across his vision as he analyzes the map again. The feeling has been sealed shut into a box, shoved into a corner of his mind. Steve would throw a fit about his mental state if it were any other time, lecturing him on coping mechanisms and compartmentalization, but there’s no time for him to feel sorry for himself.

He grits his teeth and refocuses his train of thought. If they’re up against a cult, then they probably would’ve sent multiple people to grab you. Would’ve had to lure you somewhere quiet if it was by force, or they could have convinced you to go with them somehow. Or threatened you. Or…

The more he gets into it, the more he feels himself detaching from the situation, piece-by-piece. The memory of you is like a minefield; it’s a testament to his will that he can recall anything about you without breaking down. What you were wearing—and not the look on your face—when you left. Your favourite park—and not how your hand fits perfectly into his as you walked down the paths—that you might have passed through.

He reduces you to intel, just another folder on his desk. It’s not unfamiliar to him. He wouldn’t have made it this far if he couldn’t take an objective approach to his work. But it’s different because it’s you, because the stakes include you, and when he looks up to try to ground himself again, he spots your favourite mug on the coffee table. Half-empty.

-

If Layla were here.

The words bounce around his head as Marc stares up at the ceiling. He didn’t mean it. Steven and Jake are both better with words than Marc, but he’s never loved you any less—he’s never wanted you to be anyone but yourself.

It’s been almost two days since you left, and it’s only now that he’s allowed himself to be corralled into bed. His grip of the hot seat is ironclad, however, which means that the body isn’t getting any sleep tonight. The sun will rise soon, and he’ll pick up his work right where he left off.

Quietly, from the back of his head: “Marc?”

“Could’ve taken the victim anywhere,” Marc murmurs, mind still whirring in the dark.

“’Victim’?” Steven’s voice shifts to be full of indignance. “How could you possibly call her that?”

“Ay, easy on him,” Jake pipes up. For Jake to immediately to jump to his defence means that Marc must be worse off than he thought, but he can’t bring himself to care. “How’s it going, hombre?”

“No sightings on any security cameras. Nothing reported to the cops.” Hours of his time—your time—summarized in a breath. His face remains blank. “I’m going to sweep the remaining areas tomorrow. Find some people who might’ve seen something.”

He’s been doing nothing but cross possibilities off his list. It’s barely any progress and his remaining leads are weak, but his resolve is as strong as ever.

“Nothing from Khonshu?”

“No.” Marc has no idea what the god is doing.

They lay in silence for a bit, listening to the maddening tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall. Anger is unsustainable, but Marc wishes that they’d return to yelling at him again. At least he knows what to do with that.

Instead, all he gets is Steven’s restrained tone: “Something has to change, you know.”

“Are you really telling me to go to therapy right now?”

“Can’t do much else.” For a moment, Steven’s bitterness resonates. There’s another conversation to be had here—one about their individual capabilities and protective natures—but Marc lets it rest for the night. He knows he’d be driven up the wall if their situation was reversed, if you were in danger and he had to rely on someone else to save you.

He still deflects. “Not the time for this.”

“Maybe not,” Steven concedes, “but you need help, Marc.”

Distantly, Marc recognizes that he’s always needed help. Even after reconciling with Steven and Jake, even after meeting you—the wounds are still there, despite how hard he’s tried to ignore them. He’s stubborn and self-destructive, not stupid.

“We’re with you, always,” Jake adds. Discomfort crawls under Marc’s skin from the supportive words, and he knows that his alters are well aware of it. It’s never stopped them, of course.

“We can talk about this after—after we save her.”

A general murmur of consensus. Marc quickly regains his footing, eager to move on from this line of conversation.

“I’ll find something. Or Khonshu will.” Steady and reassured—trying to convince them and himself. “We’ll get her back.”

Steven’s voice is small, even in the confines of their head. “But why would they take her in the first place?”

-

“He needs an avatar?” The body hasn’t slept in days. That void of feeling pulses with anger, desperation, fear—it simmers low in their gut, a torch passed along between them.

“Apep will need a vessel once they release him.”

“Here I thought one of his cultists would volunteer.”

Khonshu taps his staff against the ground thoughtfully. “They knew we would come after them, and we’re not the only ones.”

For the briefest of moments, Marc feels hopeful, like the odds aren’t as stacked against them as they thought. It disappears just as fast—Khonshu doesn’t deliver hope. The blood drains out of his face as he actually starts to consider the god’s words.

“If Apep possesses your precious lover, would you really be able to stop her? To take up arms against her?”

Khonshu leans in close then, hollowed eyes burrowing into him.

“Would you let others do the same?”

-

Over the next week, things begin to look up.

Someone’s girlfriend’s cousin says that they saw someone who looked like you walking down The Mall. There’s a fuzzy image of a car with no license plates. Khonshu catches the briefest hint of you on Westminster Bridge and follows you far, far east—it’s a mere grain of information that’s slipped through Apep’s power, but it’s enough for Marc.

They find the car abandoned in Dover, near the water. It rules out France—driving through the Eurochannel would’ve been the fastest route there, after all. Trying to take a public ferry would’ve been stupid with a captive, which means that they probably chartered or owned a boat.

The remaining pieces fall into place, and he can feel the anticipation from the others build in the background. Marc has led the charge so far with very few breaks to let Steven and Jake breathe a little. Steven misses you so much, he cries whenever he fronts. Jake has gone eerily quiet, and Marc knows what’s simmering underneath the surface; when the fighting starts, Jake will be called to action. His excitement is brutal.

It's all coming to an end soon. Laying on some dirt in the Norwegian countryside, shrouded in darkness, Marc’s never seen more stars in his life. If he’s right—and he is right—they’ll be bringing you to a nearby compound for the final step of their ritual. He couldn’t care less about the how or why. Come the morning, you’ll be here. Marc will get them inside. Jake will get to you. And then…

Marc will probably never be the partner that you deserve, and you never should’ve been subjected to his life. To sleepless nights and patching up his injuries and comforting him after nightmares that has him thrashing in the sheets—

But he can’t survive without you. It’s a simple little fact that gives him the power to move mountains; there are none bigger than the mess of his own head.

Exhaustion creeps up on him, and he can’t help but struggle against it. Fighting to keep his eyes open, his thoughts spill into the air. “Need to take care of her first.”

“Taking care of yourself is taking care of her,” Steven says gently. Have they had this conversation already? Marc’s been so singled in on this mission that everything else has fallen by the wayside. He can’t remember the last thing he ate, or what he’s wearing under the suit. The ground is the softest thing he’s ever felt.

If there’s any comparison to be made between you and Layla, it’s that he’s failed both of you. Maybe he could be different this time. Even if you decide that you want nothing to do with him after all this, he could still get help. He’ll have Steven and Jake. He’ll have himself and his scrappy resolve and the memories of this heart-aching pain, and maybe he’ll finally get better.

Marc lets his eyes close; the body needs rest for what’s to come. You don’t deserve any less than their best.

Just a few more hours.

-

Marc watches the fight from their headspace. Jake doesn’t miss a single shot and never so much as falters when one of them manages to land a hit. This is the longest break Marc’s gotten from fronting in a while, but he can’t bring himself to look away.

Jake loops their arm around the neck of cultist unlucky enough to be nearby, gripping his hair so hard Marc can nearly feel the strands through his fingers, feel it when Jake jerks their arm to the side and twists—

-

Your handlers left you alone in another room with nothing but a hard cot to curl into as you waited for them to retrieve you again. Locked inside but unbound—Marc hates how you startle when he breaks through the door.

Eyes wide, your mouth opens and closes multiple times without success. “You—you came.”

Marc wishes there weren’t so much surprise in your tone. Of course he came for you, it was never a choice for him—for any of them.

But clearly there was a part of you that thought he wouldn’t, wasn’t there? That he might just leave you in the clutches of some power-hungry cult because—because what, you’re not his ex-wife? Because you think he doesn’t love you?

The need to rectify that pierces his heart. He pulls you close, knuckles white in your shirt. “I love you.”

You shake in his arms. “Marc—”

“I love you.”

The words don’t stop; they fall from his lips like a prayer. Even as you weep, soaking the suit with your tears, he says it. I love you. I love you. I love you. In every variation, in every way—he’ll never let you believe otherwise again. He’ll say it over and over, work tirelessly to become the man you both deserve. For the rest of your lives. For the rest of time.

However long you’ll give him.

[nyrasvoid]

A Knight’s Prize pt.2

Gwayne Hightower x Fem!Reader

Summary: you overhear a scheming conversation between Otto and Alicent Hightower, leading you to doubt Ser Gwayne’s true intentions.

Warnings: none i think?? if you find any let me know

A/N: this second part was written based on one of the comments of part one

- Word count: ≈3.5k

Part 1

The day after your encounter with Ser Gwayne, you find yourself wandering the corridors of the Red Keep. You wore a teal dress, a perfect blend of Velaryon blue and Hightower green, with gold embroidery down the fabric. A simple gold tiara adorned with tiny pearls rests on your head, while a silver pendant shaped like a dragon, its eyes gleaming with emeralds, hangs around your neck. Your heart flutters with a mix of hope and anxiety as you walk, your thoughts consumed by the image of Ser Gwayne. You can’t help but wonder if your paths will cross today, if perhaps he might seek you out again, this time not as a competitor but as a suitor.

As you turn a corner, the sound of voices pulls you out of your imagination. You recognize them instantly, calculating tone of Lord Otto Hightower and the softer voice of Queen Alicent. You pause, turning around and hiding behind the column where they could not see you.

From your position, you peeked around the corner and saw them standing near the entrance to the library. You feel your pulse quicken as you lean closer, trying your best to hear their conversation.

"Father," Alicent begins, her voice filled with worry. "This match between Gwayne and the Princess... it troubles me."

Otto watches her calmly, his expression unreadable. "And why should it trouble you, my daughter? The girl is a Princess of the realm, of Velaryon and Targaryen blood, and a potential queen one day. A union between our houses would solidify our influence over the Iron Throne."

"But she is a bastard," Alicent argues quietly. "The rumors about her parentage... they are known throughout the court. If Gwayne marries her, it could stain our house, taint the Hightower name with whispers and scandal."

You feel a chill run down your spine, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your dress. The word 'bastard' feels to you like a knife, a painful reminder of the whispers and glances that have haunted you all your life.

Otto remains calm, his tone firm and decisive. "Alicent, you must understand the greater game we are playing. Whether she is a trueborn daughter of Ser Laenor Velaryon or not, she is still the granddaughter of King Viserys and the heir to the throne after Rhaenyra. To have her as a daughter-in-law would elevate our house beyond any stain that her lineage might bear."

Alicent hesitates, her gaze fixated towards the ground. "But what of Gwayne? Does he know of these ambitions? Has he agreed to be a pawn in your game?” she paused and took a deep breath. “If he is to marry a bastard and stain our name, he must at least have a say in this.”

Otto smiles, a cold, calculating smile that sends a shiver down your spine. "Gwayne knows his duty, as we all do. His personal feelings are of little to no matter, compared to the power our house could gain. He will do as he is told."

You feel as though you have been betrayed. Could it be true? Is Ser Gwayne merely a pawn in his father’s game? Have his charming words and tender touches been nothing more than a farce, a way to secure your hand and, with it, the power that comes with your name?

You take a step back, tip-toeing slow and carefully to avoid being discovered. Your thoughts becoming a storm of confusion and hurt. Is this the true nature of the man who seeks your favor? Does he see you as nothing more than a prize to be won?

Just as you’re about to leave, you hear Alicent speak once more, her voice filled with doubt. "But what if she learns of this? What if she refuses him? The Princess has her mother’s spirit and the blood of the dragon. She will not be easily controlled if she feels betrayed."

Otto simply responds - "Then we must ensure she does not learn of it. The Princess is young, and like any young woman, she is vulnerable to the charms of a skilled and handsome knight. Gwayne will win her over with affection."

You finally decide to retreat, wanting to hear no more words of their scheming. As you walk through the halls of the Red Keep, you can’t stop thinking about Gwayne. How could you have been so blind? Could Ser Gwayne be part of this plan, or is he a victim of his father’s ambition too?

The sounds of the tournament grow louder as you approach the field, but you no longer feel the same excitement. You watch as Ser Gwayne enters the field, facing the famous Ser Loras Tyrell. Ser Gwayne’s armor gleams in the sunlight, a shining steel plate adorned with the green fabrics of House Hightower. His cloak, bearing the Hightower sigil. A plume of green feathers decorates his helmet, making him stand out against the other knights. He carries his lance with confidence.

Ser Loras, wearing an armour decorated with the golden roses of House Tyrell, sits on his horse, his gaze fixed on Gwayne with a look of superiority. The two knights lower their lances, and at the signal from the herald, they charge.

The first clash is brutal, their lances meeting with a deafening impact, both knights remain mounted. The crowd roars in excitement, eager for more. Again, they charge, and again their lances crash together, breaking into pieces. But neither man yields.

On the third pass, Ser Loras leans slightly into Gwayne’s track, his lance striking against Gwayne’s shield. With the force of the blow, Ser Gwayne is knocked from his horse. He hits the ground hard, and you feel a shiver run down your spine.

You rise from your seat, your heart pounding in your chest as you lean on the gallery’s fence to see what is happening on the field. Rhaenyra and Daemon exchange looks, as they notice your concern. They have not forgotten the disrespects and insults of the Hightowers towards your family, and your growing interest in Ser Gwayne is not something they view favorably.

From behind your seat, Otto Hightower watches with a smirk, his eyes catching the worry on your face. He seems almost pleased by your reaction, his mind already thinking about your betrothal to his son.

As you slowly sit back down, your brother Jacaerys, seated beside you, leans in and whispers, “Do you have any interest in that Hightower cunt?”

You glare at him, your voice low as you reply, “It is of no interest to you, Jace.”

He frowns but says nothing more, his gaze returning to the field as the match continues.

Ser Gwayne, rises from the ground and calls out to Ser Loras, his voice carrying across the field, “Dismount, Ser Loras, and face me with steel if you dare!”

The crowd murmurs in excitement as Ser Loras hesitates for only a moment before dismounting. The two knights draw their swords, the clash of steel ringing across the field.

Ser Loras is fast and agile, but Ser Gwayne fights with a relentless ferocity that soon begins to wear his opponent down. You watch in distress, worrying for Gwayne, your earlier doubts momentarily forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Finally, with a powerful strike, Ser Gwayne forces Ser Loras’s sword from his hand, sending it to the ground. Loras stumbles back and Gwayne presses the tip of his blade against the Tyrell knight’s throat.

“Yield,” Ser Gwayne commands, his voice firm.

Ser Loras meets his gaze for a long moment before finally lowering his head in surrender. “I yield,” he says.

As the day’s events draw to a close, you retreat to the gardens of the Red Keep, seeking solace in the cool evening air.

You reach a secluded corner of the garden, where the scent of blooming roses fills the air, and there, waiting for you, stands Ser Gwayne. His armor has been removed, he smiles as you approach, but the warmth you once felt in his presence is now overshadowed by the coldness in your heart.

"Princess," he says gently, "I've been looking for you. Is something the matter?"

You hesitate, your mind racing with the memory of what you overheard in the library. The scheming of his father and sister, the way they spoke of you as if you were nothing more than a pawn in their game. You swallow hard, unable to meet his gaze fully.

"Nothing is the matter, Ser Gwayne," you reply, your voice cold and distant.

His brow furrows, sensing the change in your behaviour. "We are betrothed now," he says, "Should we not start spending more time together? I want us to know each other, to trust each other."

"Trust?" you echo, your tone filled with sarcasm. "Trust is a rare luxury in a place like this, wouldn’t you agree?"

He looks taken aback by your sharpness but remains calm. "Princess, I understand your apprehension. But we are to be married. We must find common ground, if not for our sake, then for the sake of our houses."

The mention of your marriage—the idea of leaving your family, your mother, your brothers—. You glance away, "It’s not so simple, Ser Gwayne.”

He steps closer, his voice softer. "Should I come to your chambers before the dinner to accompany you? We could speak more... openly."

You nod, though your enthusiasm is lacking. "Very well, Ser Gwayne. If it pleases you."

You return to your chambers, there, you prepare for the dinner. The thought of marriage, the thought of leaving behind everything you’ve ever known to go to Oldtown, fills you with sadness. And then, of course, there’s the matter of children—something that makes you sick to your stomach just thinking about it.

As you finish dressing, you hear a light knock on your door. You take a deep breath and open it to find Ser Gwayne waiting for you, dressed in elegant dark green attire.

"You look beautiful, Princess," he says with a small smile, his eyes tracing the lines of your gown as he extends his arm offering you to hold onto it.

"Thank you, Ser Gwayne," you reply, your voice polite but distant as you accept his arm.

As you walk together through the corridors of the Red Keep, he tries to make conversation. "I’ve been thinking about Oldtown," he begins, his voice calm. "It’s a beautiful city, with a rich history. I think you will grow to love it there, as its Lady."

You nod, but your thoughts are elsewhere. "Perhaps," you say, not wanting to engage in the conversation.

He senses your hesitance and changes the subject. "And what of children?" he asks gently, "I imagine we will have many, strong and healthy. You will be a wonderful mother, I am sure."

The thought of children—of bearing his children—unnerves you. "We shall see, Ser Gwayne" you reply coolly.

As you enter the grand dining hall, you take your seats beside each other. The hall is filled with the noble houses of the realm, and King Viserys announces your betrothal with a smile. There are cheers and applause.

Ser Gwayne turns to you, "Would you honor me with a dance, Princess?" he asks, his voice soft.

But the last thing you want is to dance with him, not after everything. "I’m afraid I do not wish to dance," you reply, turning away from him.

Moments later, Ser Loras approaches and asks for the honor of a dance. Despite your earlier refusal, you accept his offer, rising from your seat and allowing him to lead you to the dance floor. You can feel Ser Gwayne’s eyes on you, a mixture of hurt and confusion in his gaze, but you ignore it.

When the dinner finally ends, Ser Gwayne is there to escort you back to your chambers. The walk is silent, tension in the air. As you reach the door, he stops, his hand gently grabbing yours.

"Princess," he begins, his voice low and strained, "why have you been so distant with me? And why did you dance with another when I asked you first?"

You pull your hand away, feeling the anger within you begin to boil. "I am not distant," you say, though the lie is evident in your voice.

He steps closer, his eyes searching yours. "We should not start our marriage based on lies, Princess. If something is troubling you, tell me. We are to be husband and wife. We must trust each other."

The pressure of his words, finally breaks you. "You want to know what’s wrong, Ser Gwayne?" you snap. "I overheard your father and sister speaking in the library. They spoke of using me, of marrying me off to you to gain power, to strengthen their hold on the realm. How can I trust anything you say?"

Ser Gwayne’s eyes widen in shock. "I had no idea," he says, "I swear to you, Princess, I was not aware of any of this. My feelings for you—my desire to marry you—are my own, not theirs. You must believe me."

You turn away, tears threatening to spill over. "How can I? How can I believe anything when everyone around me is filled with ambition?"

He reaches out, gently turning you back to face him. "Because I will prove it to you," he vows. "I will confront my father and sister. I will not allow them to manipulate us, to use you as a tool for their own gain. I promise you that, Princess."

You stare at him, a storm of emotions going through your mind. Without thinking, you reach up, grabbing his face in your hands. The softness of his skin under your fingers sends a shiver down your spine, leaning in to press your lips against his.

The kiss is desperate, filled with all the confusion you’ve been holding back. His lips are warm and firm against yours, and for a moment, you lose yourself in the sensation. His hands come up to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss.

When you finally pull away, your breathing is uneven, your heart pounding in your chest. He looks at you, his hands still resting on your waist.

"We must wait," he says gently, his voice tinged with both desire and restraint. "I do not wish to dishonor you, Princess. We should save this for our wedding night, as it should be." He takes your hand, lifting it to his lips and placing a soft kiss on your knuckles.

You nod, unable to say anything, but before you can even try to speak, Ser Gwayne steps back, “Goodnight, my lady," he murmurs, "I will see you tomorrow."

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing at the doors of your chambers, your heart pounding in your chest.

Slowly, you retreat into your chambers, closing the door behind you. You move toward the vanity, removing the silver pendant from your neck and placing it carefully on the table. Your hands are trembling. You slip out of your dress, replacing it with a simple nightgown. As you slide into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin, your thoughts race.

You try to push the events of the evening from your mind, but it’s impossible. Ser Gwayne’s words echo through your mind, his touch still lingering on your skin. He seemed sincere.

Your thoughts go to the future, to what it means to be Lady of Oldtown, to be married to a man whose family you cannot fully trust. The idea of leaving your mother and brothers fills you with a deep sadness. Perhaps, despite everything, Ser Gwayne might be different. He could be a good husband, a good father. He could make this marriage something more than just a political arrangement.

Pt 3???

[mytheoristavenue]

Aki, Denji, & Power Period Comfort!

Summary: Having four roommates in a two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment is complicated enough, but it's even worse when you discover you're the only one to have a period.

Warnings: All platonic, fem!reader, period comfort, fluff, takes place just after season one, just three idiots trying their best

🌸 None of you were very enthralled when Makima ordered you to move into Aki's apartment, seeing as it was already overcrowded. He had half a mind to pile you in with Denji and Power, or make you sleep in the living room but Makima convinced him to accommodate you properly. To his dismay, that meant sharing his room with Denji and letting you share with Power.

🌸 As much as you hated the arrangement, you adjusted. Luckily, Power tended to end up sleeping on the floor in a nest of blankets and dirty clothes, cuddled up with her cat, which gave you the bed to yourself most of the time.

🌸 That came especially in handy in times like these. This was the first period you'd had since moving in and it was especially bad. You'd been in terrible pain all morning, curled up with a hot water bottle like it was your lifeline. Luckily, Meowy had sensed your discomfort and came to cuddle with you for a change.

🌸 "Cat thief!" You heard from your roommate as she stirred awake to find her beloved companion's betrayal. "Unhand my darling Meowy!" Yeah, you definitely weren't in the mood for her crap today, lifting the cat, much to it's dismay and setting it on the floor.

🌸 "It came to me, jeez," You groaned, pulling the blanket over your head. "Not trying to steal your cat, you psycho."

🌸 Before you knew it, the feral girl was pressing her nose into Meowy's fur in pursuit of something, turning her face to the air, sniffing it as well. "The scent of blood is in the air, did you hurt my cat?" She asked accusingly before giving a smug grin. "I see, you tried to take him and he scratched you, is that it?"

🌸 "No, dipshit, I'm on my period." You groaned, patience already thinner than trace paper. Power gave you the most condescending look she was capable of, explaining that a period was a grammatical symbol of punctuation, not a physical thing you could lay on. You paled, staring at her blankly. "Power, do you not have a menstrual cycle?"

🌸 "Of course not!" She huffed. "Fiends are incapable of organic reproduction! Such is a human weakness!" Great, the only other girl in the house had no clue about girl problems. You went on to explain a few things to her, such as what a period is and why it had you so disgruntled. "Ahh, so that explains your paler complexion, you're suffering from blood loss!"

🌸 If there is only one thing Power understood, its blood and how a lack there of can affect the performance of the body. She thought to herself before getting an idea. "Iron, you need iron!" She decided, scrambling to her feet, darting to the kitchen.

🌸 You couldn't help but laugh. She wasnt not the brightest, especially when it comes to human affairs, but it warmed your heart to see her so eager to help solve your probelm, even if she didn't fully understand it. Just as you were about to get out of bed and see what she was up to, you heard a voice that makes you cringe.

🌸 "Yo, stop pullin' everything outta the fridge, dumbass!" Your shoulders slumped, knowing Power would surely explain her antics to Denji, who you were certain would be disgusted.

🌸 "Unhand that contianer, I'm on the hunt for red meat!" Your roommate shouted, sparking an altercation. "(Y/N)'s life hangs in the balance! She's bleeding out, she needs iron!" Her words seemed to quell his irritation and before you knew it, he'd barged into your room, panic written all over his face.

🌸 "Holy shit, are you dying?!" You couldn't hide your annoyance, pinching the bridge of your nose as his eyes scanned you worriedly.

🌸 "I'm not dying, I'm not bleeding out, and my life does not hang in the balance." You grumbled, brow twitching. "I'm just on my period."

🌸 "Oh, gross," The look on your face told Denji he'd made a mistake with that comment and he was quick to backtrack. "I-I mean, uh, it's cool, it's totally natural! I-I think..."

🌸 "You're an idiot." You deadpanned, pointing out the door to usher him out. To your dismay, he came right back with a stale pillow and blanket. He nervously fluffed the naked pillow and shoved it behind your back, spreading the blanket out on top of you. You couldn't stay mad at him, he was trying.

🌸 "Oh shit, periods like- hurt, right?" He thought aloud, leaving again and returning with a bottle of generic painkillers. "Oh wait, you need a drink, uh, hold on." He tossed the bottle at you and scrambled back to the kitchen, before bringing you a soda.

🌸 "Can I have some water instead?" You asked politely, trying to hide your amused smile. He looked between you and the soda can, puzzled.

🌸 "I mean, I guess," He accepted suspiciously. "What, you don't like soda anymore?" Before you can explain to him the link between the pain and the caffeine in the drink, Power bursted into the room, shoving him to the side and pushinng a plate of raw red meat into your lap.

🌸 "You dumbass, humans can't eat raw meat, it's bad for us!" Denji scolded, grabbing the plate and handing it back to her. "You have to cook this shit!"

🌸 "I don't know how to cook!" Power argued back childishly. "Besides, the bloodier the meat, the more iron it will restore to her bloodstream! It has to be raw!"

🌸 "Listen, humans can't digest raw shit like that! If (Y/N) eats that she'll probably die of salmonella or somethin'!" You didn't have the heart to explain that that's not how such a bacteria was passed on, but you did agree that, knowing Power's hygiene habits, she could give you salmonella.

🌸 You groaned, letting them bicker until the front door opened, slamming shut. "Why the hell is my kitchen in shambles right now?" Aki bellowed prompting both of your 'care takers' to scurry away.

🌸 "(Y/N) is dying of blood loss!" Power informed him, urging how dire the situation is.

🌸 "Nuh-uh, dipshit, she's just on the rag." Denji rolled his eyes at her concern.

🌸 "And that means you destroyed my kitchen and piled all the raw beef we had on one plate, why?" Aki narrowed his eyes at the pair. "Mind explaining further?"

🌸 "She has to build up her iron levels!" She growled, irritated that nobody is listening to her expertise. Denji continued to argue, thinking surely, she's full of crap.

🌸 "No, that's actually true," Aki admitted with a heavy sigh, already beginning to clean up her mess. "Red meat contains iron and when you lose a lot of blood, you develope an iron deficiency. Eating iron rich foods help replenish your iron levels faster." He explains, finally putting Power's words in a way the boy would understand.

🌸 "But she just can't eat a fuck ton raw meat!" Denji huffed, more irritated that he was wrong than anything else.

🌸 "Also true," Aki sighed, taking out a skillet and setting it on top of the stove, pulling the plate closer. "Look, I'll take care of this. Denji, go run a hot bath, Power, you go see what kind of products she uses and what snacks she likes."

🌸 Power came back and asks you what you prefered for this time of the month. After both of their tasks are completed, Aki sent them both to the nearest corner store with a specific list of what to buy.

🌸 After they left, he peered into the room calmly. "Denji ran you a bath, go ahead while I make you some food." He suggested kindly tilting his head towards the bathroom. You thanked him, relieved to have someone who sort of understands.

🌸 By the time you got out if the bath, you were much more relaxed, muscles no longer as sore. To your suprise, your fuzziest pajamas were sitting on the sink along with a warm towel. Exiting the bathroom, you realized Denji and Power were back, bags still in hand.

🌸 Aki waved you over to the table, inviting you to sit down with them all. When you did, he served you a portion of broccoli and beef. After lunch, he took the dishes, giving the other pair a chance to pass off what they bought you.

🌸 You didn't miss the pink in Denji's cheeks when he handed you a specific bag, tied off at the top. You correctly guessed that it was the one containing the products you'd asked for. Aki walked back over and sits back down as Power starts to hand you snacks.

🌸 She piles your arms with junk food, decaffeinated drinks, and dark chocolate. "Aki forbade us from buying anything with caffine!" She explained, annoyed, as if the idea was inconvenient for her specifically.

🌸 "Caffine will make you feel worse than your already do." He explained, passing over a still packaged electrical heat pad and a small stuffed bear. "These are just for comfort."

🌸 After spending a bit of time them, thanking them for their help, you decided to curl up in bed and test out the heating pad. You most definitely didn't expect to find your bed with many more blankets and pillows than you'd left it with. It had effectively become a nest of comfort and Meowy was already waiting to do its part in helping you recover. The sight made your eyes water a bit.

🌸 Power had tried to cuddle with you as well, reasoning that her body heat would also help, but Aki quickly shut her down, banishing both her and Denji to the living room. To ensure they left you alone, he sat on the balcony, watching them while blowing through a pack of cigarettes. Though he'd tried not to let on, he was a bit worried about you, texting you frequently as the day drug on. He'd seen you take bullets with less trouble so it was hard to imagine what kind of pain had you doubled over in bed.

🌸 'You okay?' 'Need anything?' 'Idiots being too loud?' He'd silently check up on your throughout the day, never going to physically check unless you'd left him unanswered for longer than an hour. He wanted to let you sleep if you could.

🌸 When you felt better, you were sure to wear your mood outwardly to show them how well their caretaking had worked. You thanked them endlessly in the next few days, always willing to spend time with them to show your gratitude. Power was happy to have you at full strength again, and to once again be the center of her cat's attention. Denji was glad he would no longer be subjected to your mood swings, at least for a while. (also that Power would sneak him some of your snacks after she deemed them unnecessary due to your period ending.) Aki was just relieved to see you felt better, being the 'dad friend' of the house.

🌸 Ranking of how they handled it:

🌸 Power: 7/10

Very willing to help, just clueless of where start. She feels a kinship with you, being the only other girl in the apartment. Blood is her area of expertise, so she knows a surprising amount about what will help on a logical level, she just doesn't really get how to safely put that knowledge to practice.

🌸 Denji: 5/10

Doesn't really care as much as the others, but they're freaking out about it so it must be important! He's mainly concerned with your pain. Knowing he's seen you take some serious blows that left you with little change in demeanor, it makes him a little nervous to see you so pale and dizzy. He doesn't really know how to help, but he's not opposed to learning. He secretly does think it's pretty gross, but when Aki explains he'll have to know this stuff if he ever wants to get a girlfriend, he's a over it.

🌸 Aki: 10/10

Knows exactly what you need, thanks to his experience with the women around him, especially Himeno. She definitely overshares with him enough for him to understand what to do. He knows the fundamentals and is able to steer the other two in the right direction. Very knowledgeable and level headed, but a bit of a worrier. Will text you if you are in the bathroom too long and will remind you to pack products before you leave for work.

Let's face it, me writing for Chainsaw Man was only a matter of time, I've been cooked since the first episode.

[l-artemisia-del-secolo]

You almost missed the meeting regarding the new exhibit. You had to validate a few showpieces. Books mostly this time. On one of them... what was it... runes... Red cover with rubies, one could think it was painted with blood itself.

Your own reflection in the stones was teasing you. This object was powerful, it was alluring, it was dangerous. You didn't notice how others left.

You were left with the book in the storage. Who created it and why? You were not new to artifacts of presumed witchcraft. But this... it was different. As if the blood on the cover was instantly flowing changing the shades.

Oh, it was one of those days. Time didn't matter.

"Fascinating, isn't it?"

"Oh yes, it is." You didn't even look up. "Have never seen anything like this."

"Oh, I did. A very long time ago. This book belonged to ruthless people."

"What?"

She was a foreigner in this brightly lit room. Nonchalantly sitting in one of those uncomfortable chairs. When did she come in?

"We need to close the storage. All your colleagues left a few hours ago."

Hours? Really? What was she even talking about? You checked your phone. A few missed calls and messages.

Brunette was smiling at your confusion.

"Have we met before?"

"No, I'm instead of Jeff."

"What happened? I saw him yesterday."

"Oh..." Brunette was kinda lost for an instant. "He had to leave. You know. Another department. My name's Rio".

She stood up and very officially offered you her hand.

"Pleased to meet you. My name's..."

"I know everything about you."

Rio was still holding your hand. Maybe you did see her before. Those green eyes. They were mesmerising.

______

A few days passed. You didn't have time to examine the book, but you kept thinking about it. Weirdly your thoughts were coming back to it. In what circumstances something like this could be created? What was written there?

You wanted to feel that book again. Sharp edges and ancient pages.

From the book your mind wandered to the stranger. You asked your colleagues. They knew Jeff was gone, but who was instead of him - no idea. You wanted to see her again. you wanted to lose yourself in those gentle touches again.

___

A few more days. You were giving a lecture. Confident and charming you were in your element. Until you noticed those green eyes amongst the audience. Rio was catching your every move, your every word.

"You were amazing." Brunette caught you after the class. "Truly a master of your craft."

"Well, I do have a certain area of expertise."

"What a tease."

Oh, now you were definitely blushing.

"I haven't seen you at the museum." You tried to find a more safe subject.

"I was busy with other projects. I'm kinda like a consultant for confused people."

You nodded. Why was looking at you like this? As if expecting something, as if waiting for the answer.

"Well, you did find the time for the lecture."

"I found the time for the lecturer."

"I appreciate both the time and the effort."

"Yeah, you have no idea how determined I can be."

Rio winked at you. She was busy, she had to go. She chose to leave you with just a hint of satisfaction.

"Oh, and the book., It is waiting for you."

____

Rio was right. You had to concentrate on your work. Exhibit was approaching, your input was needed. You were spending more and more time with the remains of the old times. You were spending more and more time with that damned book. Those runes were not known to you. As the symbols. Looked like an interpretation of the maiden-mother-crone myth, but there was a green halo around them.

"You need coffee."

That wasn't a question. With Rio nothing was.

"Thanks." You took a sip "Oh, double espresso. How did you know?"

"Had a feeling, you like it... intense."

"Sure."

"So..." Rio nudged your shoulder to get all the attention she always required. "How is this thing going?"

"Good."

"And this?" She pointed at the book.

"Waiting for the answer from a few colleges."

"Well, I'm sure the answer is going to be fascination. But..." She took your phone and bag without asking. "you need to be someplace else."

___

Why did you even let her command? You just blinked and suddenly you were near an old theater.

"Magic show?"

Rio had tickets for the first row.

"What can I say? I was always fond of illusions."

It was noticeable. She was cheering even for the simplest tricks. She adored theatricality and tension. Except for maybe the tricks that involved cheating death. Yeah, Rio huffed in annoyance a few times.

"Well, this is not how I expected my evening to go."

Street was completely silent. You and Rio were the only ones who decided to enjoy the autumn night.

"I can tell you how all the tricks worked."

Oh, for sure Rio knew.

"It's your hobby?"

"Let's say, I've seen these shows quite a few times."

"That would destroy all the magic part of the performance, don't you think?"

Rio stopped, snapped her fingers and in the other hand a flower appeared.

"Oh, you're smooth." You laughed at the present. "So, you're into tricks."

"No, I'm more into magic."

______

It was a book of protective spells. It was supposed to save from evil and wrong, from hungry and desperate. And not protect, it was supposed to hide from the sight of darkness. Someone was supposed to be hidden in the blood of the killed. You spend hours trying to find the recipient of this protection.

"Well, that's an interesting observation." Rio put her legs on the table. You were having a dinner at your office. "Amazing."

"I'm glad you're happy with my research."

"I truly am. Do you know how those spells are supposed to be activated."

"I assume by the blood of the protected."

"Yeah, guess it could work." Rio shrugged. "Witches were never that imaginative."

It became some kind of a routine. At the beginning you didn't see Rio at all. But now she was always near. With lunches, coffees, books and affection. And whatever she was calling magic.

Rarely you could feel comfortable with someone so close. For years you preferred to be on your own. It just never clicked with anyone. But Rio... she knew you. Your tastes, your dreams, your desires. Her affection was a given, just a fact that you stumbled into. It was a weird feeling. Like you were continuing to live something you never had.

____

"I don't think you're doing it right."

You could feel Rio was close. Her hair was almost tickling your neck. There was no need for her to stay right behind you. But it apparently was the best spot to watch you translating the text.

"You're being a little distractive, Rio."

"How? I'm helping. This sign here. It clearly doesn't mean death."

"Well, that's a woman with a skull instead of a face."

"I'd say she's more about the natural order of things.'

"Maybe."

___

You were working more, you were sleeping less. You were distracted. Your dreams changed, in them you could freely read the spells. Voices without purpose were helping you. Sometimes even Rio couldn't have you all for herself.

"I brought you something."

"Huh?"

Rio was holding a dagger. Black stones, same runes.

"Just don't play with it often."

"Where did you get this?"

"It was here all the time. Kinda lost in the mess."

"Yeah."

You didn't care whether she was lying or not. Was it the other part of the story? Was it the threat or help?

You took it. Heavy with cold and sharp with pain it fit your hand properly.

"Every witch was supposed to have such a dagger." Rio took the knife. "Usually it was carved with the symbols of a greater entity, You know for protection."

She was holding your hand, caressing the palm with the cold of a steel. Still dangerous, still deadly. You didn't dare to look at her movements.

"And what entity protected this blade?"

"I think you know. You read the spells."

You could feel your skin almost succumbing to the blade. But it was so much more unbearable to have Rio so close. She was the perfection itself. You didn't care about the blade, you leaned into her.

"Fuck." you muttered under your breath. But it was too late. Your blood was spilled.

You were her prey, Rio pushed and you and the blade cut deeper, but you didn't care. She was kissing you, she was hurting you.

Dagger fell on the floor. Without breaking the kiss Rio guided your hands to the support of the table. Your wound touched the book.

Suddenly the pain shot through your whole body. You wanted to scream, but Rio didn't let you. Holding you, making you feel her passion, brunette was only deepening the kiss.

You opened your eyes. The room was on fire. Games of the primal flame were everywhere. Everything was melting away. Instead another reality was forming.

You groaned into the kiss. It was familiar. It took all the strength you had to push Rio away. She was breathing heavily.

"What the..." you looked at your palm. It was healed. "What... what happened..."

Those voices were right. Rio. It was all because of Rio.

"It was the only way..."

Her voice was trembling. You heard this already. Her plea, her apology.

"I know you." You took the book from the table. Now those spells made sense. "Rio Vidal."

"I thought... " She was choking on her regret and doubt. "I thought I wouldn't be able to find you."

"I remember..."

Rio gently touched your cheek. You didn't feel it. Suddenly there was a wall with the thickness of centuries.

"My love..."

"It was always you, wasn't it?" Your fingers were tingling. "You were always the reason."

"I don't..."

"They died because of you."

"What? No."

You grabbed her wrist. You were strong, stronger than you remembered. Purple magic was pouring from your veins. It didn't let Rio move.

"Because of you all those people were dead. You attacked innocents."

"No."

"My coven tried to hunt you. And in return you destroyed others."

'"No, no, no. These are not your memories. It's an illusion your coven gave you."

You pushed her. Rio was the plague. You remembered it. Your sisters warned you.

"I will banish you from here."

Rio didn't even think about defending herself. She needed to let you be closer.

You grabbed her by the throat. Rio only obeyed. You needed to cut out her black heart.

You waved and the dagger appeared in your hand. You were calling for your weapon. It returned to the magic that created it. But the second you were ready to swing, it burned you.

You were holding the same knife Rio gave you. It wasn't possible. Your enemy was protecting you.

"No. It's not true..."

Yes, you didn't remember. But what if... you were holding a piece of your old life. Rio was in every cell of your body. How long were you like this? How long were you far from her? You were still washed over by hate. But not because of Rio. No, you couldn't hurt her.

"I can help you..."

You shook your head in disbelief and disappeared in purple smoke.

_____

You didn't know where to go. The life you remembered wasn't yours, just as a life you were living for the last who knew how many years.

Your sisters betrayed you, they were not the only ones. Such strong magic required the assistance of the sorcerer supreme.

It doesn't matter what you were thinking about, you always were coming back to Rio. She saved you, she broke the spell. But if she was the one lying. What if she forged the blade? No, no, not possible. Not your Rio. Your Rio? What these weeks meant for you? Were you in love?

Not only your head, your blood was boiling with magic. You forgot this feeling. You were trying to control the shaking in your hands but it was just getting worse.

"Rio." you whispered.

"Yes, my love."

She appeared in front of you. Her crown was glowing in the dark. No point in playing pretend anymore.

"This blade belongs to me."

Rio nodded.

"You're the entity that is protecting me."

Nod again.

"What happened?"

"They wanted to separate us. They were afraid that you would have special treatment. And with that become too powerful for them to handle."

"Special treatment?"

"Yes." Rio hesitated. "You were the only one who could have my... favor."

"I don't understand."

"You could be invincible. I wouldn't let anything happen to you. You were one of the more powerful wielders of magic. And that was a dangerous combination. So they hid you. Sealed you in the book. It took me centuries to find you."

Your heart was aching. If it was true, your life was taken by those whom you considered family.

"And we..." You blinked away a memory. "Did we ever have a garden?"

"Oh, yes." Rio dared to come closer. "I created a pocket dimension for us. Just us. We could do whatever we wanted."

"I also remember that Rio is not your only name."

She was dreading this moment. For her only hope was left. But for you it was finally the beginning. Not the memories, but affection was guiding you. All those memories of Rio's betrayal. You had to trust your heart. Hate wasn't yours, it wasn't real.

 Yes, it was the truth. It was always Rio. The only thing you wanted was for her to be your reason for existence. And it only could be explained with memories that you couldn't fathom.

You were gravitating towards her. It was easier for you to believe in the ghost of ancient love than lose Rio. Your Rio.

"No, it's not."

For the first time Rio wasn't looking you in the eyes. You had to lift her chin. She was barely breathing, she was barely even functioning, waiting for your sentence. Regal entity reduced to a mortal.

"I'm in love with Rio, but Lady Death..." You pulled her into a kiss. This time your powers entwined with the glow being almost unbearable to be around. "...is a part of me."

"I will help you remember. I will help you return everything they've stolen from you."

"Oh yes." You smiled into her skin. "Right after I punish those who separated us."