#they are beautiful and I will fight God for them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

distuff · 1 day ago

Note

ahhhh thank you for writing such beautiful work...

baby when the reader gets pissed at him for saying something mean during a fight, so she ignores him? AND not only ignores him but chooses to spend an abnormal amount of time with Jinu/any other (Jinu cause the tiger and the bird) saja boy to rant about how obnoxious baby is and stubbornly refuses to interact with baby? and baby just going nuts because what do you mean he's getting ignored? (and maybe abby and romance trying to help him figure out why reader is pissed and get him to swallow his pride and apolgize?)

Answer: Oh my- I actually had fun exploring this dynamic ngl khahaha! You my dear readershi are also gettin' a renewed author (la mOi, obviously) who is more confident in my vers of the boyz. Gotta thank all the support (my beloved anons/ askers, taggers ( I see you @sleepylion ! ), commenters and even those who are silent enjoyers ) who showed support on stories I was unsure of. sO ! Pls, enjoy~ ( = ⩊ = )

Note. Please ! Do not take anything here seriously. These are my versions of the boyz where I'm tryin' to figure out their character through these prompts and make em react as canon as possible. Nothing in here is aimed at anyone just a faceless MC whose traits are created around the prompt. Arigatou ( _ _)人

📍Requests: Please check HERE

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

Baby SAJA: Apology?

Featuring: Baby Saja Reader: female

It was a rainy night. The rain tapped gently against the windows, and dark clouds covered what few stars were ever visible—even on clear nights.

Their studio sat on the highest floor, close to the heavens, yet Jinu could rarely see more than two faint stars, even on a good day.

The only “stars” around were the distant lights from neighbouring buildings, all of them standing a few floors lower than the building their company had chosen for them.

It always reminded Jinu of a story Mystery had once told him—something about humans trying to build a spiralling tower to reach the heavens, only to be cursed by the very god they were climbing toward to.

Babilion? Bubilion? Tower of Bebil? He couldn’t remember the name. Never cared to. It was the idea that stuck with him.

Seems like that desire never left them, he always thought. Whether humans realised it or not, they always craved more.

Speaking of humans and their insatiable wants—

"Can you believe that smug—ugh!"

Jinu turned slowly from his desk to face you. You were pacing his room, eyebrows furrowed, hands flailing like you were about to strangle someone.

He let out a soft sigh and dropped the pen in his hand, casually covering the card he’d been working on. A loud, pink bird with spindly legs danced beneath the text Let’s Get Flocked Up!!—whatever that meant. It looked like a poorly drawn phoenix in his opinion.

He’d ask the phone to identify the bird, but for some reason you decided he was good for whatever conversation you were trying to have with him.

Jinu would shrug your words off and let you talk to yourself in hopes of you having some devine realisation, but he couldn’t risk drawing your attention to what he was writing. That would lead to questions. And Jinu was terrible at dodging questions. Which would only made him more suspicious.

Just thinking about Mystery giving him signs he was beginning to suspect Jinu of something made him wince.

So instead of kicking you out—which would only make things worse—jumping out the window, which wouldn’t solve anything—or trying to change the subject, which your expression made clear you weren’t going to let happen, Jinu gave in.

He dropped his arm over the card and leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking over to you with resigned sigh.

"Alright, I bite. What did you do?" he asked flatly. He didn’t even bother pretending to care.

Where were Romance or Abby when he needed them? What possessed you to bring this kind of thing to him? Not questions he voiced, of course. The carpet was white, and he had no intention of getting blood on it. No, thank you.

That, he quickly realised, was also the wrong question to ask.

You stopped pacing and turned to him slowly, glare sharp enough to make him consider jumping out of the window did actually sounded quiet helpful for this situation.

If human looks could kill demons, Jinu was pretty sure he’d be dead already. Moments like these reminded him why he appreciated your honmoon wave being bright crimson for more than easy snack. At least it didn't tried burning him while you were clearly distress.

And under all that curled one single feeling that most demon's would salivate at.

Hurt.

Funny, he thought dryly, how wrath is just crushed expectation throwing a tantrum.

You pointed at yourself, incredulous. “Me?” you repeated. “Me?! What I did—? I didn’t do anything!” you shouted, and Jinu winced, pressing his hand to his left ear.

You were off again, pacing as your frustration and sadness poured out.

“It’s him who can’t see past himself! He can’t shut up long enough to listen or—or understand that what he says hurts!”

Your voice cracked as your frustration pushed through. “It’s like I don’t even exist to him. Like I’m just… here. I expect something. Anything to show I’m not the only one who cares in this relationship!”

Your eyes were starting to glaze over. The shine of unshed tears formed as your honmoon line pulsed with that bitter sadness Jinu hated to taste but his body craved anyway.

Too bad he already ate tonight. No excuse to feed off you now.

Which meant, unfortunately, he had to listen.

He sighed again, bracing himself, and opened his mouth—fully prepared to be the voice of reason you’d ignore anyway, in the hope that maybe, just maybe, you’d use your last brain cell to hear what he had to say.

"Alright," he said calmly, his voice instantly drawing your attention. You stopped pacing, staring at him with that same look—expecting something. Jinu had to stop himself from shaking his head.

Expectations, were formed around the false believes one had about themself, fueled by the fear of unknown, they only built blueprints for reactions, and always ended in disappointment. Humans never learn, he thought with a quiet sigh. Funny how becoming a demon gave him the clarity to spot flaws he never noticed as a human—flaws now repeating in front of him like clockwork.

It was as if the behaviour had been coded into the human DNA.

No matter. Lifting his head—which he hadn’t realised had dipped—Jinu met your eyes. You’d calmed enough to sit on the edge of his bed, your attention fixed solely on him.

"I mean, this might sound crazy," Jinu began, his tone light as he straightened up, rolling his shoulders. "But did you consider—just maybe—that Baby is a demon?" His hands gestured to you like he was making a groundbreaking point, his face marked by exaggerated innocence.

The sound of Tiger rising from where he’d been lying beside the bed draw both yours and his attention to the spirit—giving you a pause from the conversation as the two of you watched it quietly prowling over to you with steady steps.

Its amber eyes didn’t blink as he stared at you—curious, and clearly reading the cocktail of emotion your body radiated. That, and shielding Jinu from your honmoon wave to give him a moment to breathe.

Magpie, on the other hand, looked wholly unimpressed. It blinked slowly between the two of you, flicking its head toward Jinu as if to say, Want a shovel to dig your grave deeper?

Jinu would have a full blown conversation with that ungrateful chicken if his attention wasn't stolen by your following words.

"Yeah, and?" you replied flatly, starting to pat Tiger without looking at Jinu. The spirit stood still, purring faintly, though it didn’t break his stare.

It was a stupid question. Jinu was going to say that aloud—but thankfully your voice cut through before he could.

"You're also a demon, and you're showing a clear interest in Rumi-nim." You met his eyes with a deadpan stare that made his spine tighten. His gaze flicked, involuntarily, toward the greeting card on the desk. Don’t look at it, don’t look at it, don’t look at it!

"I—I mean, as a fellow idol, it’s natural to be... cordial—"

But again, you cut him off, turning away as you focused on Tiger. Jinu stiffened, eyes falling on Magpie who continued preening its feathers with Tiger’s stolen hat, completely ignoring his discomfort.

"As a 'fellow idol', you owe her polite interactions and the occasional mention on your lives," you said, eyes locking with his again. "You’re doing more than that."

Jinu felt cornered. Accused of something he couldn’t explain to you. His brows knit as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"Alright. And if I am—what of it? Doesn’t change how Baby behaves, does it?" His voice was flat.

He regretted it the moment the words left his mouth.

You froze mid-pat, inhaling sharply. Your posture turned rigid—but thankfully, being in contact with Tiger meant you were also being bathed in his calming aura. Instead of shouting or throwing something, you spoke through a strained breath,

"It does. If you can act like Rumi-nim matters, then so can Baby."

Jinu had to resist the urge to groan, roll his eyes, and laugh into his palm. Of course. Of course. That was how you saw it.

You thought he was being “attentive.” You assumed that meant some grand revelation. Maybe you thought his "heart" was changing, that he was maybe starting to think differently about humans.

But no—he was just using Rumi. She was a means to an end: the path to reclaiming his soul from Gwi-ma. If satisfying the Demon King meant playing the role of a human idol—luring in as many souls as possible with the hope that it might make the King more willing to return his one meek, pitiful soul—then so be it.

And yet, just the thought of what Rumi might feel—what her soul line would pulse with if she ever found out—made his hollow chest tighten as he wondered what emotion she'll willingly feed him once she finds out what his real goal was.

It wasn't even a betrayal… it was Rumi's naive nature to trust something with no soul. Just like you with Baby... Rumi had created unrealistic expectations of him too.

Still, none of this was something he could say to you. He couldn’t tell you that he wasn’t any better than Baby.

The fact that you even knew they were demons was already crossing a line. They couldn’t offer you anything more than this simply because it could jeopardize what they have build.

Humans were fickle like that.

With a long, drawn-out sigh, Jinu let his hand settle over his mouth, trying to string together a sentence that would sound coherent enough to explain the situation from Baby's point of view.

Jinu's eyes flicked to you as you continued to pat Tiger, who still stood unmoving at your side. Both spirit animals focused on him—Tiger clearly anticipating the greeting card meant for Rumi, while Magpie looked far too smug for Jinu’s liking.

"How to put it..." Jinu muttered, gesturing for Tiger to come closer. The spirit prowled forward with deliberate slowness, unblinking eyes locked on him. Magpie, in contrast, glided down next to you, probably in some noble attempt to keep your nerves from fraying any further.

You trailed your eyes after Tiger, the stress and fatigue bleeding into your gaze, but then you gently started to trace a finger down Magpie’s spine. Jinu noticed that at least the tightness in your shoulders eased slightly.

“Well, I don’t know exactly what he said,” Jinu admitted as he folded the greeting card, keeping his tone even. “But there’s a high possibility that he just… bluntly said what he though at the time.”

He pressed his lips together. Tiger tilted his massive head to the side, bulbous eyes looking through him, clearly thinking: You're a fool

Not like Jinu needed reminding that he was probably making things worse. But sue him—he didn’t know what you expected him to say.

If he lied, you’d just march back to Baby, and that little bastard would crush all the soft hope Jinu managed to build with some sugary words. So all he could really do was try to soften the truth on Baby’s behalf.

Why can’t she go to Romance or Abby~ he whined internally, rolling his eyes as he turned, greeting card in hand.

With a flick of his wrist, he offered it to Tiger, who obligingly opened his mouth and rolled out his tongue. Jinu placed the folded card atop it with a sigh. No point hiding what you were clearly already aware of. Hopefully, you had some sense to keep it to yourself.

He gave you a sidelong, sceptical look, but it fall off when he caught the quiet way your body had curled in on itself. You were gently stroking Magpie’s feathers, your expression unreadable, but distant.

Jinu exhaled, placing a hand under Tiger’s jaw and gently guiding it shut, patting twice to signal the spirit to deliver the card to the purple-haired huntress. Then he turned back to you with a bit more urgency in his voice.

“Alright then. What do you want Baby to do?”

Maybe—maybe—he could actually get the brat to play along for once, just to calm you down. ...Maybe.

“Apology,” you said flatly, your eyes locking with his, hard as steel.

Jinu blinked.

And then— —he lost it.

He toppled sideways with a choked wheeze, clutching his stomach as laughter wracked his frame. Just the image of Baby apologising was absurd. Utterly beyond imagination.

Handing a cat a Bible and asking it to lead Sunday mass had higher success rate than Baby apologising. The young demon would no doubt look at him like he’d grown three heads before confidently diagnosing him as clinically insane.

As Jinu laughed himself breathless, he didn’t even register Tiger and Magpie slinking away. What he did notice was your now-throbbing honmoon wave, no longer behind the barrier, and radiating frustration.

Honestly, he was just impressed you were still this emotionally attached to the SAJA after what Baby had put you through. Wiping an invisible tear from his eye, Jinu sat up and met your glare head-on.

Arms crossed, expression locked down tight—you were not amused.

“Mind explaining what’s so funny about that?” you asked, voice dangerously calm.

He opened his mouth—and an involuntary snort escaped. Seeing your irritation bubble, he straightened quickly and cleared his throat.

“Well... you see,” he began, in the universal tone of a man about to say something you wouldn’t like.

“Uh-huh,” you prompted flatly.

“Apologising means the person believes they did something wrong,” Jinu continued, choosing his words carefully. “And I can very confidently tell you that Baby—”

- - -

“I don’t even know what I did wrong,” Baby groaned, fisting his hair as he stared down at the dark carpet of his room like it held all the answers to this frustrating and frankly uncalled for situation.

The constant pitter-patter of raindrops against the windows wasn’t helping. It only made Baby’s fingers twitch harder, itching to tear into something that would resist—something he could press against until it ripped.

Irritation, mixed with fury? Check. But only because you, for some incomprehensible reason, had to go and get upset over words. Characters.

Honest to Gwi-ma—invisible, untouchable things that just poured out of someone’s mouth. How could anyone get hurt by that? If you wanted pain, Baby could show you exactly what he did to humans who fought back during his feeding.

And yet... there was bitterness too. A hollow ache clinging under his skin. It made his jaw itch to sink into your honmoon and just roll in it.

He didn’t mind emotions—he wasn’t a picky eater—but fury? That tasted stale. Always just a layer for hurt, and hurt was the sweetly bitter flavour he never turned away from.

But when that hurt was tangled with anger, it tasted like a dessert coated in mould.

And now, with you still inside the apartment—your honmoon wave loud and heavy—it was impossible to ignore. He couldn’t take it anymore. So he dragged the closest brother of his with him to his room: Romance.

As they passed Abby, the other had to be grabbed by Romance by the back of his shirt just like Baby did to him as he could hear Abby curiously ask, “Oh? Where we goin’?”

Now, the two of them were seated on the bed in Baby's room, listening as he explained what had happened—though “explaining” was generous.

More like pacing in circles and hissing between clenched teeth as he began mentally debating whether licking bleach would soothe the sting in his mouth or if petting your honmoon would be more effective albeit risky with the state you were in.

Kicking you out would only make things worse. He knew that much.

His eyes finally left the carpet when Romance let out a long sigh—the kind that sounded straight out of one of Mystery’s dramas, complete with the tone of a tired, exasperated mother. He crossed one leg over the other, that dreamy smile curling over his lips.

“Aah, one has to admire humans for their shameless displays of selfishness.”

Baby shot him a sceptical look, hands finally dropping from his tangled hair. Why didn't I gone to Mystery instead?

Before he could voice the thought, Romance continued, voice light and knowing. “But it’s easy to understand what your human wants, my sweet little junior.”

“Call me that again and I’ll put that vanishing ability of yours to the test—”

“Mm, always so charming,” Romance said, waving him off as he leaned back, supporting himself on his arms. He locked eyes with Baby and smirked. “She’s dissatisfied~ You’re not giving her what she wants. Touches. Attention. Acts that make her feel special.”

He fluttered his lashes dramatically. Baby rolled his eyes, straightened, and arched a brow.

“Not everyone can act like you, shitty senior.”

Romance beamed. “Not as good, but they can try!” he chirped, holding up a finger like he was announcing a divine truth.

Baby exhaled hard, shaking his head. Then both he and Romance looked to Abby, once the other spoke, “If it’s so much hassle, why’d you even bother starting something with her?” Abby tilted his head, expression completely genuine.

They stared and he blinked back at them with the slow confusion of a dog not understanding another creatures speech.

Romance bit his bottom lip, visibly entertained, and reached over to pat Abby on the head. Abby blinked, but let him.

Baby, however, just stared at his so called senior like he’d said the most ridiculous thing in all of world's history.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Baby said dryly, narrowing his eyes. “Maybe because Jinu told me to accept her confession?”

Abby raised a brow while Romance, now fussing with his hair, didn’t even look surprised. Of course he knew. He had a habit of sticking his nose where it didn’t belong—especially the first time Baby had brought you home.

Abby, meanwhile, had just treated you like a living chocolate fountain he could snack on whenever you were around.

“Since when do you listen to anyone?” Abby asked, genuinely baffled.

Romance snorted and sat up proudly with hands on his hips, satisfied with his perfectly fixed hair. “Don’t worry,” he said with a laugh. “Baby didn’t hit his head. He only agreed because Jinu promised he could skip seven shows of his choice.”

That made Abby let out a long, exaggerated “Aaaaaaah!”—right before freezing and clamping his mouth shut. His eyes flicked back to Baby, confused again.

When is he not confused? Baby thought, already bracing himself as Abby opened his mouth to ask another question.

“But that still doesn’t explain… why you’re tolerating it.”

That gave Baby pause. He blinked, caught off-guard. He hadn't expected that level of insight from Abby of all beings.

Romance, on the other hand, didn’t even look surprised. He simply turned his attention from his hair to Baby, eyes glinting with curiosity, waiting, alongside Abby, for his answer.

They looked like those humans from that movie they watched “Dumb and Dumber.” Fantastic.

Baby sighed. Why does it even matter? But he gave a blunt reply anyway.

“Her soul helps suppress my hunger. I figured if I’m being forced to play pretend, I might as well get something out of it.”

He’d noticed it early on—whenever you were near, the gnawing void in his chest dulled slightly, tricking his instincts into thinking it was getting a full meal.

There was also another benefit to this bravado. As long as you didn’t try comforting him with words when Gwi-ma turned his skull into a private arcade, your touch was... grounding.

Of course, none of that was something he’d ever admit to these two jackals. And yet, even with the bare scraps he’d given them, both Romance and Abby were already grinning like they’d cracked some forbidden code. Jackasses.

The look they exchanged told Baby everything: Silence was the only safe option around these two, truly.

Why can’t they be this creative with the mission? he thought, mildly annoyed as his body instinctively tensed. He leaned back, away from Abby, who now wore a smirk that practically screamed bait.

“Well, that makes sense,” Abby drawled, eyes still on Romance as if Baby wasn’t even there. “Baby needs a pacifier during the day to keep calm.”

Romance nodded sagely, finger pressed under his chin like he was seriously contemplating Abby's words rather than suppressing a grin.

“Pacifiers do have the ability to keep Baby's nasty little temper in check, mm?”

At that, Abby flashed his sharp canines with a pointed look, practically daring Baby to lunge.

Baby knew they could’ve easily been referring to that snivelling pile of human meat that never stopped crying—but the words could also be taken another way. One that he knew was the correct one. He could feel his human glamour fading just slightly. Faint demon markings crept along his cheekbones, his own fangs peeking out as his claws dug into his palms.

His lips, darker now with a lack of oxygen, parted as he exhaled. And then he spoke—voice low, gravelly, and deadly calm.

“If I could… without alerting those three bitches to where we are… I’d slash every inch of your body, bit by bit, scatter the pieces across Korea, and watch your head roll around trying to put yourself back together.”

Yet instead of getting the reaction he wanted, Baby watched with half-lidded eyes and an involuntary twitch in his brow as Romance let out a delighted coo. Hands clasped together, the older demon gazed at him as if Baby hadn’t just threatened someone ranked above him. Worse, Romance even went and stretch out his hand, finger aimed at Baby’s nose for a little boop, and chirped, “Cute.”

Baby’s eye twitched.

And to make matters worse, Abby—arms crossed, muscles bulging in that infuriating way he knew was deliberate—wore the smuggest grin as he added in a teasing tone, “Can’t bring yourself to get fully rid of me? You must truly love me. Oh, I can just feel how much you care for me! ” He let out an exaggerated wail, swiping an invisible tear from under one eye and clutching the wrong side of his chest—the side where a heart wouldn’t be, even if he were human.

“Alright then,” Baby growled lowly.

His glamour frayed further as he rolled up his sweater sleeves, a malicious grin cutting across his face. His small tusks peeked from under his top lip, canines gleaming, and purple flames began licking off his skin. The pressure in his skull surged as Gwi-ma stirred, laughing in pure euphoria, egging him on with a hungry rasp: “C̶̛̩͈̋͑̎̽̈́l̵̲̥̫͚̳̞̗͒̊̽͘͝a̷̯͕̲̰̖̟̦͊͝w̵̛̬̱̦̻̟͗̄̄̋͜s̴̢̞̺̮͖͇̽͋̍͆̈́̔̍͂ ̴͉̯͕̹̞͖͈̈́͐̿̓̍̏̾͒t̷̡̢͉̖̠̺̺̝͗͊̐͛͒͠͠h̴̲̼̞̥̲̖͍͒͗͑̽̕r̸̙̘̟͍̺̟̲̱̋͑͒̿̇̒̚ơ̸̬̿̌̍͋́͗ų̴̘̟̤́̓͌̍̓͗g̶̠̝͍͈̼̦͕͐͋̅̋̀̈́h̵̛͇͗̏͋̄̍̈́̕ ̷̬̯̯̲̞̐̔̿̓̍͘͝͠t̵̺̖̩̦̳͖̯̜̉̈́̅̈́̚h̴̰̬͈͚̠̲̋̈́͗̽́͘͠ͅe̵̢͚̞̦̱̘̅͒̾̒̿͛͐͑͜ ̶̢͍̗̖͇̺͌̅͊̽͛͌̚c̶̳̤̞͈̬̩̬̐̄͜h̷̼̜̳͓̦̳̙̤̿͐̓̋͠e̵͖̰̰̲̼͕̅́̑̓͒̚͜s̷̢̢̱͖̠͓̈́̎̐̿͝t̶̛̤̖̬̟̮͌͂͠͝͝—̵̢̥͕̦̤͇̖̘̀̓̓̍̇̀͛̚s̷̘̱̼̋̈́̏͛̏̔͂͘l̴̞̮̱̞̬̩̏̈́o̵̠͎̤̮̥̫̔̈́̇́͝w̶̛̮̼̺͓͚̄̀̆͋͘͝ͅ ̴͇͎͍̖͓̒̅́͊̔͝͝a̴͖͓̰̳̲̞̍̒̎͗͊̕͘͜n̶̩̯͓͛͝d̸̹̮̟̰̺̼͈̏̏̽̾̏̀̕ ̵̻̯̥̞̺̪̙́́͛̑̽͝p̵̬̘̖̳̥̐̈́͊̚̚ͅa̵̢̨͖͇͈̲͐̈́ͅi̸̘̲͎͓͇͐͗̇͋̔̓̍͝n̷̙̟̙̮͑̍̓̿͆̅́ͅf̴̘̯͔̳̺͓͚̐̈́̇́̾͘ū̵̘̬̠͎̫͇��̿̚l̵̢̢̺͚̜͇̐̽̐̐̎͘ͅ!”

Visions flickered across Baby’s mind, dizzying flashes of how to use abelites he didn't even knew possible—and for a moment, his vision blurred as he shook his head to fight it off.

He barely registered Abby’s widening grin as the older demon cracked his neck, clearly eager for the brawl. But before either of them could move—

They froze.

The air didn’t grow heavy like it did when Mystery was done tolerating their idiocy. No, it grew light. Too light.

Disorientingly so, like a false calm before something sharp breaks through. Baby almost wanted to laugh and flip Gwi-ma the middle finger as he felt his Lord disappear with furies thrashing before leaving Baby's head empty.

Only Romances aura was capable of submerging the demon King. He may not know the real reason, but he has a theory. Unlike the others, Romance never flooded them with his demonic presence like Mystery.

He let it slither—wrap and squeeze. It wasn’t choking—it was holding, threatening to shatter them from the inside if they so much as twitched. Baby felt it keenly in the way his ribs ached and his core pulled taut. And judging by the way Abby’s eyes widened beside him, he felt it too.

It didn’t help that Romance was older than both of them. Which made the subtle restraint feel effortless—unavoidable.

Baby knew, logically, that Romance didn’t have the kind of power that could cancel their regeneration. But it didn’t matter. The illusion—the intoxication—was enough to press every instinct into submission. He let out a slow breath, reluctantly pulling the frayed edges of his human disguise back into place, a silent show of compliance.

Only then did Romance smile wider, bringing his hands together with a gentle clap before easing off. As the pressure lifted, both Baby and Abby exhaled sharply, shoulders loosening.

Their eyes met.

A silent nod passed between them. Later.

If Romance noticed, he chose to ignore it. After all, what came later wouldn’t be his problem. Instead, he steered the conversation back to its original course, locking his brilliant eyes onto Baby’s with a quiet sort of focus.

“So?” Romance asked, folding his hands over his crossed legs. A lock of hair curled against his cheek as he tilted his head, flawless as always, voice soft with curiosity. “What are you planning to do, then?”

Great question. A slow smirk curved across Baby’s lips as he cracked his knuckles.

Now that the banter cooled him down and the storm of your emotions from your wave was drowned out by Abby’s demonic aura—still pulsing faintly from when he’d nearly launched himself at Baby—his head was clearer than it had been in days.

“Easy. Kill ’em.” He said it flatly.

Sure, he’d lose his easy snack. The occasional grounding effect you gave him when Gwi-ma got especially insufferable. Those moments when you simply enjoyed yourself without demanding anything, letting him exist without expectation. Moments when your happiness spread through him, and he did enjoy himself—those would vanish too.

But in return, he’d get back something far more valuable: the freedom to just be himself.

No more forcing conversation. No more awkward attempts to explain things you could’ve asked about without sounding like a guilt-ridden martyr. And that constant, nagging feeling—like you were trying to make him feel bad for you.

How? Baby always wanted to ask. He didn’t feel anything unless you did first. And when you were caught in that swirling mess of insecurity and longing, it made him want nothing more than to rip your soul out and consume it just to silence the white noise in his head.

So yes—pros outweighed the cons. Any day of the week.

And hey, maybe you'd finally find someone who was your actual match.

His words had barely finished leaving his mouth before Abby choked on his saliva, then cackled hysterically—head thrown back, heels of his feet thudding on the floor. Romance winced, pressing a manicured hand to his chest as if personally wounded, eyes flicking to Baby’s deadpan expression.

“Please don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Your kills are always so... messy.” His nose crinkled as he pulled a face of exaggerated distaste.

Baby crossed his arms and raised a brow at him. “Alright then. What should I do instead?” His tone was bored, but he was listening.

That was all it took. Romance perked up immediately, and just as Abby’s laughter began to taper off, they both blurted out two completely different responses at once:

“Suck ’em dry,” Abby grinned.

“Apologise,” Romance said at the exact same time.

Baby blinked, owlishly at first, then narrowed his eyes with growing scepticism—just as both Romance and Abby snapped their heads towards each other, startled.

For a brief moment, Baby swore the two of them were having a full telepathic conversation. Then, without a word, they nodded in perfect synchrony.

Romance turned back to him, casually, while Baby—still with arms crossed—had leaned down slightly, watching the pair with thinly veiled disbelief, scanning between them for any trace of logic. Naturally, he found none.

Romance shrugged. “Calm her down by apologising. Then devour her. No soul ever tastes good angry.”

Huh. Baby straightened up, expression easing as he nodded slowly. Romance had a point. Even if Baby wasn’t picky, it was common demonic knowledge that rage-flavoured souls only appealed to a rare few with weird palates.

Before he could open his mouth to agree, a soft click broke the moment.

The doorknob to his room twisted, the door creaking open. All three snapped their attention to it, wide-eyed—no doubt looking like startled hares caught in torchlight.

Baby didn’t know who to expect. But it definitely wasn’t Mystery, half-visible behind the slowly opening door.

He blinked. His spine snapped upright as his usually droopy eyes widened into doe-like. Romance, unfazed, lifted a hand in a pleasant wave. Abby grinned like a proud idiot for some reason.

While Baby continued to stare at Mystery as if the man didn’t live under the same roof, it was Romance who broke the silence.

“What are you doing here senior?” he asked, smiling, his tone laced with genuine curiosity.

Mystery stood motionless, one hand still on the doorknob. They couldn’t see his eyes, but Baby had the creeping suspicion the eldest had blinked once before speaking, voice as soft and chilling as ever.

“I was told to come... by him,” he replied coolly, raising two perfectly shaped fingers to point directly at Abby—who only grinned wider.

That snapped Baby out of his daze. He flinched slightly, turning sharply as Romance—seated next to Abby—did the same.

“Why?” Romance asked with a calm tilt of his brow, voicing what Baby had been about to bark out himself.

Abby looked far too pleased with himself, arms crossed over his chest like a smug lion. “Since Baby was being dramatic, it had to be important. So I figured Mystery would be perfect for solving it! While Baby was yapping and growling, I texted Mystery to come over.”

He said it like it was the most obvious, brilliant solution in the world.

Romance and Baby both gawked at him. Abby didn’t seem to notice. He turned back to Mystery—who remained standing in the doorway like a weathered statue—completely unreadable.

“What took you so long, old man?”

That was usually the kind of thing no one dared to say to Mystery—ranked as he was, not to mention his power—but Abby lacked the instinct for self-preservation. Always had.

Mystery, for his part, didn’t react in the slightest. He merely responded with a quiet, clinical jab, “Saw your name.”

Baby snorted, lips twitching into a grin. Romance chuckled softly behind his hand. Abby, oblivious, beamed.

“Ah! Still learning how to open the magical boxes in the phone?” he asked brightly, already launching into a pointless explanation. “You just gotta—”

Mystery stepped back without a word, shutting the door slowly.

That alone pulled Baby back into focus.

Wait. Abby might’ve actually been on to something.

And Mystery did have the most functioning brain cells out of anyone here. That alone made him worth listening to.

Baby stepped forward slightly, expression softening again, a rare earnestness in his voice. “Would Mystery-nim consider... having a moment still?”

For once, there was no sass or smugness behind it. Just a sincere question—he wanted to hear what his senior had to say.

A silence followed. Romance and Abby glanced between the two, waiting.

Mystery didn’t move right away. He remained still in the hallway, back to them. Baby couldn’t feel nervous, that was taken together with his soul by Gwi-ma. Baby could only stand quietly, watching, waiting for a respond to react to.

Finally, Mystery turned his head just enough to face him. Though his eyes were covered, his aura gave a brief flicker of contemplation. Then, he finally gave a short nod.

With a shift of his shoulders, Mystery stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him. He stood inside the room, saying nothing—but making it clear he was waiting for Baby to explain the issue.

Baby didn’t waste a second.

He launched back into the explanation—this time without the growls, or slipping into demonic dialect that made Romance and Abby squint or read his aura like a weathered text. Now, it was just words. Clear, sharp, and finally spoken with some composure.

Once the full story was out, the room fell quiet.

Mystery hadn’t moved from where he first stationed himself, still standing near the door. The only change was the tilt of his head—chin lowered as he absorbed Baby’s words in full silently but most importantly thoroughly.

The three waited, clearly too eager despite trying not to show it.

Finally, Mystery straightened. He turned his head towards Baby. The attention made his fingers twitched slightly, resisting the urge to clap like an overeager child. Instead, he sharpened, silent, listening with his full focus.

“Humans are needy creatures,” Mystery began in his cool, steady tone—echoing Romance’s earlier words—before continuing without pause. “You should have taken that into account before letting Jinu sway you.”

Ah. Baby’s eyes flicked to the side.

It wasn’t a reprimand, exactly—Mystery wasn’t one for scolding—but the truth stung all the same. That was the reminder. Baby had been just as selfish as you, and this? This was the cost of that.

Fair. His eyes dropped to the carpet, shoulders heavy as Mystery’s voice carried on, calm and unbothered.

“However,” he said, “she is not one to leave.”

That snapped Baby’s head up. Mystery continued, head tilting slightly, fringe shifting, though never revealing the sharp briliant eyes hidden behind. “So... even if the two of you had a mindless argument over a foolish disagreement—which, I agree, could’ve been handled more peacefully if she wasn't blinded by her lack of self-worth—she’ll return. Even if you give her space and don’t speak to her.”

Baby grimaced, subtly. That didn’t help.

It wasn’t that he disliked the idea of keeping your cooling wave around... It was the thought of you returning anyway. Coming back while still expecting something from him he visibly couldn’t give.

But Mystery, unfazed, didn’t pause.

He lifted his chin to glance at the ceiling. “Of course, humans are fickle. So if she does surprise us and doesn’t return—worst-case scenario—she may attempt to damage your name. And, by extension, SAJA’s name. On those human gathering zones—”

“Socials, senior,” Romance cut in, smiling as he gently corrected.

Mystery paused only to nod, then continued, barely missing a beat. “...‘Socials’,” he echoed, as if the word were a foreign incantation. “The humans under the company that manage our images and interactions on those... 'Socials', would easily turn the narrative. She’d be painted as overbearing. You, as the wounded victim.”

He turned his face back toward Baby, cool and direct.

“That way, Jinu still gets the attention he wanted from the relationship,” he said plainly. “And you—get your ‘time’ back.”

Mystery finished with the same calm he always carried. He offered no emotional comfort, no praise—only clean-cut logic and resolution, as if he were stating a weather report.

The lack of him commenting on you potentially revealing they were demons spoke volumes too. No one would believe you and even spin it into one of those wild theories that would just give SAJA more attention through the content the humans would spin out of it.

Romance gave an approving clap, fingers snapping in a polished, regal manner. “Brilliant, as always.”

Abby just groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Too many turns and curves. I think I got whiplash.”

Baby sighed heavily. His arms folded again as he rocked back on the heels of his feet, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

“So much fucking unnecessary drama...” he muttered, his voice trailing off, drawn out by the pitter-patter of rain tapping steadily against the windows, ringing in his ears and echoing in his mind.

#kpop demon hunters #kpdh #saja boys #request #ficrequest #baby kpdh #baby saja #saja boys x reader #baby saja x reader

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mysteriousxgirls · 2 hours ago

Text

Harmony heard him. Every shout, every desperate plea and every stay with me, like it could stitch her soul back together. But she couldn’t answer. She wanted to. God, she wanted to. Her mouth wouldn't move, her throat burned, and her limbs felt like stone. Everything was slipping, blurring right before her eyes, the colors fading into gray. She was trying so hard.. for him, for Ace but the darkness was seductive, whispering sweet lies in her ear: Just rest. Just let go. It’ll be easier this way. It told her she had suffered enough. That it was okay to close her eyes now. But she knew if she did, she would never open them again. She wouldn’t see Nate’s face. Wouldn’t feel Ace’s little kicks. Wouldn’t hold them. Ever again. Even when Lily rammed the car one last time, jolting them with violent force, Harmony didn’t move or scream. She had to save her strength. Every ounce of it had to go toward surviving. Then.. quiet. Stillness. The screech of brakes and the smell of burnt rubber. It seemed like Lily had finally let them go because the next thing she felt was Nate getting her out of the car and carrying her limp body. His arms, he was so warm but he was trembling. Nate. His voice was breaking as he carried her inside, whispering that she had to stay with him. That he wasn’t letting her go. That she was everything.

The sliding doors. Fluorescent lights. Shouting voices. A nurse yelling for a gurney. And then she was moving again, wheeled away into chaos, into the blur of sterile white and frantic urgency. She forced her lips to part. “N-Nate…” It barely escaped her throat, broken and soaked in tears. “If… if I don’t make it…” Her voice was so thin now, so close to gone, but she had to say it. Even if it was the last thing she ever said. “I… I love you. So much. I’m sorry… for everything. Mi amore…” A tear slid down her cheek, hot and aching. She tried to hold on. To stay. But she couldn’t anymore. “I never… meant to hurt you. Not then… not now…” Her words dissolved into air. Her eyelids fluttered shut. And the world went dark again. Nate’s voice faded behind the flurry of footsteps as the nurses rushed her into the OR. A firm hand pressed to his chest. “Sir—stay here. We’ll do everything we can.” And just like that, she was gone from his sight. Time passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. Maybe longer. But the doctors worked tirelessly. They stopped the bleeding. Stabilized her vitals. But the baby boy, fighting to live inside her, couldn’t wait any longer. Her body, exhausted and battered, couldn’t protect him anymore. They had no choice. Emergency C-section. Too soon, six weeks too soon, but it was the only way to save him.

And then.. came the cry. The cry everyone was waiting and hoping for. Strong & fierce. Loud enough to shake the whole damn room. Their boy had arrived. Tiny but perfect. A fighter. Just like her. Just like them. As if summoned by the sound, Harmony’s lashes fluttered. Her body trembled. And slowly she opened her eyes. Everything felt fuzzy and too bright, her body ached but she had heard him. That loud cry. “A-Ace…” she croaked. A doctor turned toward her, a rare softness in his eyes. Cradled in his arms was the smallest, strongest soul she had ever seen. “Miss Diaz,” he said gently, “He’s beautiful.” And then, he placed her son in her arms. Her hands were weak & trembling, closed around him, pulling him to her chest like he was the only thing that mattered. And then she broke. Tears streamed down her face as she held her son for the very first time. He was warm and he was real, he was fucking alive. Her little fighter, her miracle. Just then, the door opened again. The nurse stepped out, her smile quiet and tender. She found Nate, probably pacing, breathless, torn apart. And with everything in her, she gave him what he needed to hear. “Come on in,” she said softly. “She’s awake. And… he is too.”

“Harmony—” His voice cracked, raw from shouting her name over and over like it might anchor her to this world. One hand white knuckled the steering wheel while the other gripped hers, slick with blood, with fear, with everything he couldn’t say fast enough. She was slipping. He could feel it. Not just in the tremble of her hand but in the way her voice frayed. Her words hit like gut punches, I don’t think I’ll wake up. Please… don’t let her take him… God, no. “No—hey. Hey. You stay with me, you hear me?” His voice was shaking now, the calm cracking under the weight of watching the woman he loved bleed out beside him. “You don’t close your eyes. Not now. You stay here.” He couldn’t lose her. She was everything. Her. The baby. Their boy. The life they were building together, the promise of it, the quiet joy of mornings and the fierce love wrapped in everything she did. He wasn’t about to let that be stolen.

The tires screamed again as he swerved around debris, Harmony’s blood soaking through her towel and into the seat. The dashboard was flashing something but he couldn’t take his eyes off the road long enough to care. His pulse pounded in his ears louder than the engine, louder than her gasping breaths. Then— There. A green blur overhead. HOSPITAL – 1 MILE. He nearly sobbed. “Almost there, baby. Please hold on, we’re almost—” But his relief was swallowed in an instant. Headlights surged beside them, too fast. He looked right and... Lily. Cold. Stone-faced. Eyes forward like they didn’t exist. She wasn’t ramming them this time. She overtook them, tires shrieking, her car swerving dangerously close before she gunned it ahead. Like she had made her point. Like she’d decided to spare them for now. But the message was loud and clear: If I can’t have you, no one can.

“I’ve got you,” Nate ground out, voice low and trembling, his foot slamming the accelerator. The car surged forward, weaving between the lines, every second stretched tight with desperation. “You’re not dying. He’s not dying. No one—no one is taking either of you from me.” Tears blurred his vision, silent and hot, streaking down his cheeks as he gripped the wheel like a lifeline. The moment the hospital entrance came into view, he yanked the wheel hard and skidded into the car park. Tires shrieked, brakes screamed. He threw the car into park, flung the door open, and was already tearing his shirt off as he sprinted around to the passenger side. She was barely conscious now, blood soaking through the towel, her lips parted in shallow breaths. “Stay with me, baby,” he whispered, slipping his shirt over her like it could protect her from everything that had already happened. Then he gathered her into his arms, her body limp against his chest, and ran. Through the sliding doors. Into the sterile blur of light and voices. Through the shouting. The chaos. The rush. He didn’t have to say much. One look at her was enough. A nurse shouted for a gurney. Hands reached for her. And still—he didn’t let go. Even once she was lowered onto the bed and wheeled away down the corridor, he stayed right beside her, breath ragged, hand clutching hers like he could tether her to life itself.

#brklynbxby #;harmony x nathaniel;

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keraiiszn · 2 days ago

Text

ꜱᴏʟᴇɴᴇ

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

ᴛᴡ: ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʙɪʀᴛʜ, ɢʀɪᴇꜰ, ʜᴏꜱᴘɪᴛᴀʟ/ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ

ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴀʀᴇ.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

The house was too quiet.

Not the peaceful quiet of Sunday mornings when you'd curl against his chest, tracing lazy circles on his skin while coffee grew cold on the nightstand. Not the comfortable quiet of rainy evenings when you'd read aloud to him, your voice weaving stories that made the whole world shrink down to just the two of you and the lamplight.

This was the quiet that came before everything fell apart.

Smoke stood in the hallway outside the bedroom, back pressed against the wall, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked like kindling. The midwife's voice was soft behind the door, but the urgency in her tone kept slipping through the wood like smoke under a closed door. He caught fragments — "push," "almost there," "I can see the head" — and each word was a knife twist in his chest.

He'd been through a lot in life. Grown numb to a lot. Bar fights that left him bleeding on concrete. Nights when his father's fists found their mark and he learned to swallow screams. Years of building walls around his heart until it felt safe and small and distant.

But nothing — nothing — prepared him for the sound of your scream when the final contraction tore through you.

It wasn't just pain. He'd heard pain before. This was something primal, something that reached into the deepest part of him and twisted. Your voice, the voice that whispered "good morning, beautiful" and sang off-key in the shower and laughed at his terrible jokes, was now raw and desperate and breaking.

And then it stopped.

The scream cut off mid-breath, and what followed wasn't relief. It was your silence afterward. The kind of silence that felt... wrong. Like the world had forgotten how to breathe.

He pressed his ear to the door, heart hammering against his ribs. Waited for your voice. A laugh, maybe. A sigh of relief. The sound of you asking to hold your baby — their baby — for the first time.

Instead, he heard the midwife's voice, sharp now, professional. Clinical. Words he didn't want to understand: "haemorrhaging," "losing her," "do something."

The hallway tilted. The walls pressed in. Smoke slid down to the floor, head in his hands, and for the first time in years, he prayed to a God he'd stopped believing in. Please. Please, not her. Take anything else. Take me. But not her.

When they let him in, his knees almost buckled.

You were still. Too still. Your chest didn't rise and fall like it should, like it had every night for the past three years when he'd watch you sleep, memorizing the rhythm of your breathing like a lullaby. Your hands were cold, tucked over the soft bundle you barely had time to meet — a daughter. Your daughter.

His.

The baby was perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes, a mess of dark hair that looked just like his. But she was so small, so impossibly fragile, and she wasn't crying. She should have been crying. Instead, she lay against your chest, eyes closed, breathing in that slow, steady way that new-born's do.

The midwife's words came from somewhere far away: "She's healthy. The baby's fine. But..."

He didn't hear the rest. Couldn't. Because all he could see was you.

Your face was peaceful, almost serene, like you were just sleeping. But there was something missing from your features, something that had always been there before — that spark, that light that made you you. Your skin was too pale, too grey, and when he touched your cheek, it was cool under his palm.

"Y/N?" His voice cracked like he was seventeen again, calling your name across the high school parking lot. "Baby, wake up."

No answer.

His hands hovered over yours, not wanting to move them. Not wanting to disturb the way you held your daughter, even now. Not wanting to feel the truth of how cold your skin had become, how still your pulse was under his fingertips.

But he saw the stillness in your face. The soft slack of your lips that used to smile when you saw him walk through the door. The way your lashes didn't flutter anymore against your cheeks, didn't cast those shadows he used to kiss away on lazy mornings.

You were gone.

The realization hit him like a physical blow, stealing the breath from his lungs. The woman who'd taught him how to love, who'd shown him that his hands were meant for holding instead of hurting, who'd looked at him like he was worth something — you were gone.

His chest heaved, and the kind of sound that ripped from his throat wasn't made for this world. It was animal, guttural, the sound of something breaking beyond repair. He'd never cried in front of anyone. Not even you. Had trained himself out of tears before he was old enough to understand what they meant.

But now he sobbed like a boy who'd lost his first love — because he had. The only person who ever made him soft, made him laugh from the chest and not just the mouth. The only person who held his face when he got quiet, when the darkness crept in, who whispered, "You're safe here. You're safe with me."

And you were right. For three perfect years, he'd been safe. Safe to love without fear, safe to dream about futures that didn't involve running or hiding or pretending to be someone else. Safe to imagine Sunday mornings that stretched into forever, your hand in his, your voice in his ear.

You died bringing life into the world. Their daughter. A girl who now wailed in the midwife's arms, red-faced and screaming like she knew something had gone wrong, like she could feel the absence of the heartbeat she'd listened to for nine months.

The sound of her crying was like a blade through his chest. She sounded like you — that same stubborn determination, that same refusal to be ignored. But underneath it was something else, something that made his hands shake: she was crying for you. For the mother she'd never get to know, never get to hear sing lullabies or read bedtime stories or kiss scraped knees better.

Smoke crawled forward on his knees, each movement feeling like he was walking through quicksand. He kissed your forehead, lips trembling against your skin. "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice breaking on every word. "I'm so fucking sorry. I should have... I should have done something. Should have gotten you to a hospital. Should have..."

Should have what? Loved you less? Wanted this baby less? Should have known that happiness like this came with a price he couldn't afford to pay?

He cradled the baby when they handed her to him, and she fit perfectly in his arms like she belonged there. Like she was made to be held by him. She had your nose, delicate and slightly upturned. Your lips, bow-shaped and perfect. Your breath was still warm on her skin, and for a moment — just a moment — he could pretend you were still there, still watching, still whispering instructions about how to hold her head just right.

But then the baby opened her eyes — your eyes, that same deep brown that had seen straight through all his defences — and the illusion shattered. You were gone, and he was alone with this perfect, terrible reminder of everything he'd lost.

He didn't name her for three days.

Couldn't.

The words wouldn't come. Every name felt wrong, felt like a betrayal somehow. How could he give her a name when you weren't there to help him choose? When you'd never get to call her by it, never get to teach her how to write it in careful kindergarten letters?

He sat with you in that room until the light outside changed and the walls no longer looked like home. The midwife had left hours ago, promising to return in the morning with "arrangements." The baby slept fitfully in his arms, waking every few hours to cry for milk he couldn't give her, for comfort he didn't know how to provide.

The house filled with the sound of his failures — the baby's hungry cries, his own ragged breathing, the terrible silence where your voice should have been. He'd never realized how much sound you made just by being alive. The rustle of sheets when you turned over in bed. The soft hum you made when you were thinking. The way you'd call his name from the kitchen, voice warm with affection.

Now there was nothing. Just the echo of his own grief bouncing off walls that had witnessed your laughter, your tears, your love.

He memorized your face in those long hours. The way your hair fell across the pillow, still soft despite everything. The small scar on your chin from when you'd fallen off your bike as a kid. The freckle just above your left eyebrow that you'd always said was your "beauty mark." He touched each feature gently, desperately, trying to burn them into his memory because he knew — God, he knew — that this was the last time.

Tomorrow, they'd come and take you away. Tomorrow, he'd have to figure out how to live in a world without you. Tomorrow, he'd have to learn how to be a father to a daughter who looked exactly like the woman he'd lost.

But tonight, he could pretend. Tonight, he could hold your baby and whisper about the life you'd planned together. About the house you'd dreamed of buying with the white picket fence and the tire swing. About the way you'd wanted to teach her to bake your grandmother's cookies, to braid her hair, to be strong and kind and brave.

"She's perfect," he whispered to you, knowing you couldn't hear him but needing to say it anyway. "She's so perfect, baby. She has your eyes. Your stubborn chin. I think she's going to be just like you."

The baby stirred at the sound of his voice, and for a moment, her crying stopped. She looked up at him with those familiar brown eyes, and he saw something there — recognition, maybe. Or maybe just the first stirring of trust.

In the end, he named the baby Solène — from the word solace.

Because she was all he had left of you. The only good thing to come from the worst day of his life. The only reason he had to keep breathing when every instinct told him to follow you into whatever came next.

And every time she cried, he heard you again — in the silence that followed. In the way his heart stopped for just a moment, waiting for your voice to soothe her. In the terrible, beautiful reminder that love like this doesn't die just because the person who taught it to you is gone.

Solène would grow up hearing stories about her mother. About how you sang to her before she was born, how you'd place his hand on your belly so he could feel her kick. About how you'd already picked out her first stuffed animal, a little grey elephant you'd hidden in the closet. About how much you wanted her, how much you loved her, how you'd given everything — literally everything — to bring her into this world.

But she'd never know the sound of your laughter. Never feel your arms around her when she had nightmares. Never hear you say "I love you" or "I'm proud of you" or "You're safe here."

The funeral was three days later.

Smoke stood at the back of the church, Solène sleeping in his arms, and felt like he was watching someone else's life unfold. The pews were filled with people he barely recognized — your co-workers, distant relatives, friends from college who'd driven hours to be there. They all had stories about you, memories they shared in hushed voices that made you sound like someone he'd never met.

But he knew you. He knew you hated the taste of coffee but drank it anyway because you liked the ritual of morning cups together. He knew you cried at dog commercials and left the radio on when you showered because you were afraid of silence. He knew the way you'd trace patterns on his chest when you couldn't sleep, the way you'd hum without realizing it when you were happy.

None of them knew that you.

Your mother sat in the front row, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. She'd barely looked at him since arriving, and when she did, her eyes held an accusation he couldn't argue with. This was his fault. If he'd been different, better, richer — if he'd gotten you to a hospital instead of trusting some backwoods midwife — maybe you'd still be here.

The pastor spoke about God's plan, about how you were in a better place now. Smoke wanted to laugh, but it came out as a sound closer to choking. Better place? You belonged here, in his arms, complaining about the terrible hymns and whispering jokes that made him bite his lip to keep from smiling.

"She was taken too soon," the pastor continued, and Smoke's grip tightened on Solène. "But she leaves behind a beautiful legacy."

A legacy. Like you were some kind of monument instead of the woman who'd dance in the kitchen while dinner burned, who'd argue with him about movies and always win, who'd look at him like he was worth something even when he couldn't see it himself.

When they opened the floor for people to speak, your best friend from high school stood up. Sarah, he remembered. She'd been at your birthday party last year, had gotten drunk and cried about her divorce while you held her hair back in the bathroom.

"She was the kindest person I knew," Sarah said, voice thick with tears. "Even in high school, she was always the one taking care of everyone else. She'd give you the shirt off her back if you needed it."

More stories. More people who knew pieces of you but never the whole picture. Your college roommate talked about your terrible cooking and your habit of adopting stray cats. Your boss mentioned your laugh, how it could fill a whole room.

Smoke closed his eyes and remembered your laugh differently. The way it sounded at 2 AM when he'd said something ridiculous. The way it hitched when he kissed that spot on your neck. The way it turned into a giggle when Solène kicked particularly hard during your pregnancy, like she was already demanding attention.

Nobody mentioned that laugh. Nobody mentioned the way you'd curl up in his lap during thunderstorms, or how you'd leave little notes in his lunch box, or how you'd sing to your belly every night before bed, promising Solène that her daddy was a good man even when he didn't believe it himself.

When it was over, when they'd lowered you into the ground and thrown dirt on top of the coffin that held your body but not your spirit, Smoke stood at the graveside long after everyone else had left. Solène was fussy, probably hungry, but he couldn't move. Couldn't leave you alone in this cold place.

"I don't know how to do this," he whispered to the headstone that bore your name in letters too small for the life you'd lived. "I don't know how to be her father without you. I don't know how to be anything without you."

The wind picked up, rustling through the trees, and for a moment — just a moment — he could have sworn he heard your voice. You're stronger than you think, you'd always told him. You're going to be okay.

But he wasn't okay. He was broken in ways that would never fully heal, carrying a baby who looked more like you every day, living in a house that echoed with your absence.

Solène opened her eyes then, those familiar brown eyes that were already breaking his heart, and made a small sound — not quite a cry, but something softer. Almost like she was trying to comfort him.

"Yeah," he said, his voice rough with unshed tears. "I know, baby girl. I miss her too."

He kissed your headstone once, lips trembling against the cold marble, and then he walked away. Not because he wanted to, but because Solène needed him to. Because somewhere, somehow, you were counting on him to take care of the most precious thing you'd ever given him.

The house was waiting when he got home, still too quiet, still too empty. But it was theirs now — his and Solène's. And maybe, if he was lucky, he'd find a way to fill it with new sounds. Her laughter, her first words, the patter of little feet on hardwood floors.

Maybe he'd even find a way to make it feel like home again.

And Smoke would spend the rest of his life trying to love her enough for both of you, knowing he'd never be enough. Knowing that every day she grew more beautiful, more like you, would be both a gift and a wound that would never fully heal.

The house was too quiet now.

And it would be quiet forever.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ

@queenofklonnie22, @plan3tch1ld, @lizbehave, @vintigepimpzinio, @tnychellee, @nanamiismine

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

#keraiiszn writes #raiiszn #black reader #blackfemreader #michael b jordan x reader #smoke x reader #angst #elijah smoke moore #sinners fanfiction #mbj x reader

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bloodandiron-if · 16 hours ago

Note

ROs reaction to MC dressing slutty for the first time? Doesn't matter if they're going out or just in the privacy of their room 👀

- - -

⚠️ CONTENT INCOMING ⚠️

- - -

OPERATIVE D-6

They stop moving. Like, completely.

Whatever they were doing—it just halts. Their eyes track you with the kind of intensity that usually comes before a fight, but there's no danger here. Just awe. Confusion.

Their gaze dips, lingers, but they don’t reach for you. Not at first. They blink slowly, like they’re trying to make sense of what this means. You chose to show yourself like this.

To them.

And when they finally do move, it’s careful. Like you’re something sacred. Like they’re afraid even touching you wrong might ruin the moment.

- - -

DETECTIVE JUNO REYES

They see you and do a double take—real, classic sitcom style. Then they blink, once. Twice. And smile.

But it’s not cocky. It’s slow. Honest. That little smirk they give when they’re trying not to be obvious about how wrecked they are deep inside.

They lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you like you just solved a case they’ve been chasing for years.

“Guess I’m not getting anything done for the rest of the day,” they murmur. “You plan on walking around like that or was that just for me?”

And they mean it. All of it. Because there’s something about seeing you this way that softens all their hard edges—and tightens something low in their gut.

- - -

NICO/NIA RUSSO

“Oh. Okay. So we’re doing that today.”

They say it like they’re unimpressed, but their voice has gone just slightly hoarse and their face is working overtime to hide how much they’re staring.

Their jaw twitches. Their tongue presses into their cheek. And then they turn dramatically to the side, shielding their eyes.

“This is entrapment,” they mutter, pretending to fan themself.

But you catch them peeking. Again. And again.

Eventually they come closer, hand tracing your side with mock casualness—until they whisper, “Hope you didn’t wear this just to tease… ‘cause now you’re stuck with me.”

- - -

KIERAN/KIERA MYLES

They’re quiet when they see you. Still.

You’d expect a sharp comment. A tease. Something layered and flirtatious. But their silence says more. They’re taking their time—tracing the lines of your body with their eyes like they’re memorizing something precious.

And then…

“Well,” they finally say, voice low, smooth, just a little dangerous. “I see you’ve decided to ruin me.”

They cross the room slowly, never breaking eye contact, the corner of their mouth twitching in the barest hint of a smirk.

“Tell me,” they add, “was this for a reaction… or were you hoping I wouldn’t handle it well?”

- - -

ALEX/ALEXI MONROE

They drop whatever they’re holding. Literally. A mug, a book, a cassette tape—gone.

“Oh my god.”

They cover their face with both hands, groaning like you just murdered them with one look. “You can’t just—walk in like that! That’s illegal!”

Monroe is red from the neck up. Stammering. Spinning in place. Trying not to look and failing miserably.

But eventually they peek between their fingers.

“You look… wow. Like, seriously. Wow. I don’t—what do I do with my hands?!”

They absolutely melt when you laugh. And their hands do eventually find a purpose.

- - -

ROWAN/RHEA CARTER

They go quiet. Like a wave just hit them.

You see their throat bob with a hard swallow. Their knuckles tense at their sides. Their eyes—dark and molten—take you in like you’ve just set the whole damn world on fire.

“…Is this how you kill me?”

The words are low, reverent, touched with that same kind of awe they reserve for the moments that matter most.

They step toward you, voice barely above a whisper now. “Is this how you bring me to my knees?”

And if you tease them, if you smirk, they smile back—slow and devastating.

Because Carter? They’ll treat your beauty like a rebellion—and they’ll follow it into war.

#bloodandiron-if #interactive fiction #interactive story #wip game #ro asks #wrote 6k words today and i'm still on a roll so now you get some more asks answered 😎🤘#also using the vampire pallet and it literally makes writing so much cooler

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samsswife · 2 days ago

Text

"𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐧" - 𝐬.𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: for the last few weeks you’ve been attached to sam, going everywhere with him. doing everything with him, being like his little guardian angel.

older!sam x younger fem!reader. SFW

wc: 1.6k

"14 years apart" series

m.list + sam m.list

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

it’d been around 3 weeks since the little kiss you’d given sam, since he told you that your crush was just a crush because he was too old. but that didn’t stop you, it challenged you. challenged you to make him want you. or atleast notice you.

and you could’ve sworn it was working.

you were following him around all the time like a shadow, anytime he asked for help with something you were the first to jump up. you didn’t care about the questioning looks you got from dean or bobby, or the way bobby told you to mind yourself. you were a grown woman, you knew what you were doing.

he felt guilty for it, but he loved it, loved how willing you were to him. but slowly it started to feel like he wasn’t taking advantage of you because of your age, you were mature and smart. smarter than he was in some ways, that information couldn’t be water boarded out of him though. he kinda liked the way you just mindlessly followed him, he was almost certain he could walk off a cliff and you’d follow him skipping- not that he’d do that, he wouldn’t wanna hurt you.

he just knew you were willing to oblige to his every request.

you, sam and dean were on a hunt. you didn’t like the action and the fighting, you’d step in if necessary and god were you good, but you preferred to do research. you loved reading old, dusty books from bobby’s library. you must’ve read some of them at least 3 times front to back, you found all the lore so interesting and you’d constantly ‘nerd out’ - as dean called it- when you knew something. sam admired that about you, how you had a big brain and weren’t afraid to use it to your advantage.

you and sam were in his motel room he was sharing with dean, you had your own room for privacy reasons. dean had gone out to interview victims, you think, you honestly wasn’t listening to a word he said to you before leaving. you were too busy admiring sam, he looked so handsome even when he was doing nothing. the stares and admiration didn’t go unnoticed by him, he knew when you were looking at him. he could feel your big… beautiful eyes on him as if they were putting him in a spotlight.

he was suppose to be researching but you kept distracting him. whether it was sitting so close to him that your leg was against his, or you kept talking and making him laugh. but he couldn’t focus with you around. you found it quite endearing honestly, a man with sam’s wits being distracted by you? someone who was too young, too pure for him.

you’d finally shut up to let him research, looking around the room and tidying up a little. but you easily got bored. you saw a pair of sam’s shoes on the floor, you’d never actually realised how big sam’s feet were. you walked up to them and looked at the sole of them, gasping softly.

“you have size 13 feet?!” you exclaimed dramatically.

he looked up from his book and smiled, a small chuckle coming from him.

��well what did you expect? i’m 6’4. rest of me isn’t exactly small.”

you raised an eyebrow.

he stammered a little which earned a small chuckle from you.

“relax. i know what you mean.” you paused, walking over and sitting next to him. you lifted your foot up, putting your leg over the other so your shoe was near him.

“put em’ up.” you said with a small smile.

he raised an eyebrow, you were honestly perfect. you were so funny, beyond beautiful, smart, did he mention beautiful? but he kept that down, he had to tell himself you were too young. he’d be taking advantage of a young thing like you. he then shifted back a little to mirror you, putting his leg up until the bottom of his shoe touched yours.

the difference of shoe size was almost comical, yours were almost half the size of his. you couldn’t help but laugh.

“oh my god you have clown feet!”

sam gasped dramatically, mocking offence.

“how could you!” you laughed at his response, god he loved your laugh. he wanted to listen to it all day. “besides. my feet aren’t clown feet, you have tiny feet. that’s not my problem.”

you laughed again. you then noticed something.

“hey look at that- we have pretty similar shoes on.”

sam eyes darted from his own to yours, a small smile coming to his face as he looked at you.

“yeah… we do..”

for a moment everything went silent. your eyes locked, and for a moment you could’ve sworn he was looking at you differently. like you weren’t this kid or someone he had to take care of. you were someone he could actually be with. but the moment was over quickly.

he cleared his throat and shifted back into a sitting position.

“i uh… i need to get back to this.” he said casually.

you were a little disappointed. you couldn’t understand truly why he didn’t want you like you wanted him. you didn’t see the age gap like he did. you smiled softly though and nodded.

“you need some help?” you asked, you just wanted to be near him honestly.

he sighed softly. he knew what you were doing. he shook his head.

“i’m okay… i’m almost done anyways.”

you nodded and got up, walking a few steps before turning around to speak to him again.

“you want a drink?”

he looked at you, you were so desperate to make him happy. a part of him hated it, hated how much you obviously liked him. but he hated even more that he couldn’t let this happen. he shook his head.

“you su-“ he cut you off, slamming his hand on the table.

“dammit, Y/N i don’t want anything.” he said frustrated. immediately regretting it when he saw the look on your face. you looked like a puppy who’d been kicked. he sighed and ran his hand over his face.

“i’m sorry i-“ you cut him off shaking your head.

“no its.. its okay. i shouldn’t have pushed… im sorry.” you were trying to keep that smile on your face, the one that you painted and pinned on everytime you wanted to do nothing but curl up and cry. you then walked into the small kitchen of the motel, grabbing a cup and pouring yourself a glass of water. trying to control the tears that threatened to come.

you felt like a idiot. you’d just been shouted at and now you were on the verge of tears like some child. no wonder sam didn’t want you.

after that the air was filled with tension, it was awkward and uncomfortable. he knew he’d upset you, you were too quiet. too distant. he didn’t like it. you were sat across the table from him, your head in a book. but he knew you’d read that book 3 times before, you knew everything that it said. the book was a distraction from your emotions. he had to say something, he couldn’t bare the silence.

“i uh… i think i do need some help.” he said quietly.

you looked up at him, you didn’t look happy now. you looked upset and almost embarrassed.

“with what?” you asked softly. not wanting to embarrass yourself even more than you had by being a damn fool, head over heels for someone who doesn’t want you.

that softness in your voice… god. it made him feel terrible.

“i’m not sure… i just can’t find much.”

“can i see the book?” you asked, sam raised an eyebrow slightly.

“you not gonna sit here?” he said pulling the chair out that you were previously sat at.

you eyed the chair up hesitantly. you wanted to sit there, you wanted to feel his leg against yours. you wanted to be able to smell the faintness of cologne on his flannel. sam grounded you in ways he wasn’t even aware of, he kept your mind at bay just by his presence. but he’d upset you, embarrassed you. made you feel small.

“do you want me to?” you asked looking down at your hands.

he didn’t say anything for a moment. of course he wanted you to, he wanted you to talk his ear of while he pretended like he didn’t adore you. he wanted you to sit way too close to him… in a way he knew he was feeding off that in a negative way. but maybe he was developing feelings. he sighed softly and got up from his chair, walking over to you and crouching next to your chair. he hesitantly put his hand on your knee.

“hey..” he said gently, when you looked at him you could tell he felt guilty. “have i upset you?”

you felt like a fucking child.

you nodded and he sighed again.

“i’m sorry Y/N… im so sorry. id never want to upset you, you know that right?” his voice was so gentle and soft, you practically melted.

“it’s okay…”

he shook his head.

“no it’s not, i shouldn’t have shouted at you like that. you were only trying to help, weren’t you?”

the ‘weren’t you’ came off a little more condescending that he intended. but you were partially putty now, a mixture of gratitude and something else flooding you. you nodded.

he stood up and sat on the edge of the table, causing you to look up at him. he’d never admit it but he loved when you looked up at him, you looked so beautiful when the light shone on your face. the way your eyelashes seemed to flutter a little more, the way your head tilted a little. you were perfect.

“i promise i wont shout at you again..”

him being so kind and apologetic really healed something deep inside you. something you’d buried so deep you didn’t even think it could be healed. you smiled softly and nodded.

“okay” he couldn’t help but smile at your smile, it was contagious.

“now… i really need your help. care to join?”

you chuckled softly.

“awh does sammy need help from a girl?” you said teasingly, alreadly standing up to walk over to the seat next to him.

he rolled his eyes playfully, glad that you were now okay again. he would hate if you were mad at him. he stood and sat back in his seat next to you, you’d alreadly scooted it closer to him. that soft smile on your face was honestly worth it all.

“so..” he began, explaining what he needed help with.

and you helped him every step of the way.

because at the end of the day you’d do anything for sam, you’d follow him anywhere he went. you’d do anything he said and more.

you loved him.

love does crazy things to people.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

i’m giggling and kicking my feet at this

comment if you want to be added to this tag list!

2/9 -> part 1 ‘Too Sweet’.

tgs: @whoisar1anna @summerr2006 @fernsplace @adorifyy @xoxo-sarah @kassie333

#sam winchester #jared padalecki #supernatural #emsspeaks #sam winchester x reader #sfw #sam x reader #sam winchester x fem!reader #older!sam #older x younger

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whoreunderthemountain · 3 days ago

Text

Not-love by wudm

Bilbo x Thorin aka bagginshield

fluff, realizing feelings, everyone survived Smaug, light read, short story, for funsies, heartwarmer, funny, found family, glass closet I'm writing it as a comfort story so it's no shaekspeare

Chapter 3 - I found you. 1004 words

<- previous chapter|chapter list

if you know the og artist please let me know so i can credit them!:(

Bilbo closed the door feeling conflicted. Then shook his head with a heavy sigh and placed the little pouch on one of the many stacks of books so tall it was reaching his hips. Maybe the late Erebor had genious economists and advisors, someone to be the brain behind the operation, but right now all that was left on Thorin's shoulders. He, of course, had more pressing matters than counting and filling up charts: that's why Bilbo stayed with him and Balin to help them late into the night.

To be honest, he was surprisingly into what he was doing, how his life looked even after the crazy journey reached it's end. Because what if it never did? What if staying by Thorin's side he could have both: adrenaline and sulitude, and home and family?

He really thought Thorin was acting weird lately. Maybe the wounds he suffered from the war, or the post-traumatic reaction... Whatever the reason was, Bilbo was willing to stand on his head to see the dwarf actually settle down, find the peace in peaceful times and stop the anxiety vividly raging within him. That's why he stayed. That's why his home was here. With him.

But what was THAT about? - he plopped on the soft bed and making many cussions jump up a bit. - Did Thorin actually think that Bilbo was lacking, even after all they've been through? Did he notice all of Bilbo's shortcomings and thought now was the perfect time to correct them?

"No." he shook his head rolling onto his side. - Thorin is not like that. He knows my worth, and he wants me to stay here. He wants me to... He wants me to stay here, right?

"Oh for God's sake." He groaned after four hours of turning and tossing restlessly on the bed. The red glimpses of the sun were already glistening through the slits of the windows in the rocky walls, letting in irrititingly idle whistles of birds announcing the morning came. There's that for not overthinking...

"Morning" He heard the minute he came into the dining hall. Some dwarves, known and unknown were already sitting at the tables, feasting on meat prepared by today's cooking shift. Few of them glanced curiously at the tired hobbit in his oversized fluffy sweather (the mountain was unbearably cold in the mornings), who was known to be the famous 'Burglar', 'Dragon slayer', 'King's consort' or other less or more accurate rumours he couldn't even keep up with at this point. King's consort. As if Thorin, THE Thorin, would even fall in love with Bilbo of all people.

Shire was a pretty conservative society, male - male relationships were gossipped about and looked down upon so he never really even entertained this idea. To him it was just a given: one day, maybe when he'll be sixty he'll find a little nice lady from Hobbiton, maybe other part of shire, or perhaps just settle down in his nook as an old bechalor enjoying his pipe and green herbal tea he grew in his garden till the end of his life. But then the adventure happened, of course.

The main problem started when they entered the Mirkwood and got arrested by slim and beautiful elves. While being invisible, Bilbo saw a lot, and he means it, a lot of things strange to a poor little hobbit. Men with men, women with women, multiple elves being with each other, all that stuff. Bilbo was always considered very open-minded for a hobbit but it was a bit hard to wrap his head around at first. It was distracting: the constant image and pressure making Bilbo imagine himself with another guy. How could this even work?

He slowly, quietly explored this idea during their journey, of course in those few moments when he was not fighting for his life of course. No, he meant these silent nights when they hid on a hill, under bushes or in small abandoned caves, all dwarves entangled in blankets and each other's limbs, the nights where he acted to be asleep but really glancing at Thorin's sharp features, the King's eyes scanning the terrain, constantly looking for dangers.

Because what exactly was even Bilbo looking for? Did it even matter what his love had in their knickers? Has he even met someone he could consider attractive before? Women were beautiful, of course. So were flowers, and clouds on a sunny day. Some women made his heartrate quicken but so did enjoying a new, perfect type of tea or biscuit. What was he looking for? Someone he could hug and kiss? Or just a family he could call his own?

Maybe it became clear during the journey. Maybe finding the mountain, his... found family made him also find himself. He wasn't bored anymore. He wasn't counting days till the next season. He was truly, seriously and deeply enjoying his life now. He was enjoying the person he was becoming.

"What's with the long face?" Fili's voice startled him out of deep thoughts he got lost in over his breakfast. "Anything bad happened?"

Kili sat in front of them on the other side of the table suspiciously quiet but it wasn't what Bilbo was worried about right now.

"It's nothing" Bilbo sighed "Hey, did you... did you also notice that Thorin is acting a bit... odd, lately?"

"Weird how?" Asked Kili resting his elbows on the table while his blonde brother stuffed his face full without much care

"I'm not sure." Bilbo shook his head getting up "Forget about it, I'm overthinking lately"

"Sure... take care-" Kili managed to call after the hobbit who already dissappeared inbetween the tables, leaving the dwarves alone at the table. "Thorin is courting Bilbo" he said quietly leaning towards his brother, who was happily sipping on his big warm mug of mead. Mead which quickly ended up spurted all over the table when Fili spat it out.

"WHAT?"

"I'm glad you didn't overreact." Brunet wiped his face beginning to chuckle. Poor Bilbo...

1st divider source: @huraxy

<- previous chapter | chapter list | to be continued ->

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yanderslutt · 3 days ago

Text

✦₊˚.🕊️‧₊ ⌕ Chapter 1 - Stoic Widow ⌕ ₊‧🕊️˚₊✦

You didn’t want to come.

Your fingers still ached from gripping the carriage window too tightly, the rhythmic rattle of the wheels pounding through your temple like a curse. You sat stiff and silent, arms crossed over the embroidered bodice of your dark crimson gown, refusing to meet your mother’s eyes across the velvet-lined cabin.

She wore crimson—not the soft pinks of maidenhood or the golds of hopeful wives-to-be. No, this red was deep, dark as dried blood and twice as scandalous for its meaning. It whispered danger and dignity, not desire.

The gown was tailored in the imperial court style but lacked the usual frills. It clung to her figure with unapologetic structure, the bodice fitted like armor, boned with polished lacquer rods that created a straight, defiant line down her spine. A high collar framed her throat, almost militaristic, fastened with a single gold clasp in the shape of a lion’s head—an heirloom piece from her grandmother’s collection.

Long sleeves cascaded like drapes down her arms, silk layered over lace, ending in delicate cuffs that brushed her knuckles when she moved. Embroidered along the cuffs and neckline were cursed warding sigils—barely visible, stitched in black thread, a private rebellion against the Empire’s obsession with cursed power. They weren't traditional. They were personal.

Her skirt flared only slightly at the hips, layered with black and oxblood underskirts that swirled like shadows when she walked. No jewels adorned her—only a single obsidian hairpin that held her dark hair in a precise twist, and a thin leather cord tied around her wrist, the frayed ends hidden beneath her sleeve. A relic of someone long gone… or perhaps not.

Her face was bare of powder, her lips painted in deep wine. Her eyes lined with coal, not for beauty—but for sharpness.

“We could at least pretend to be agreeable,” she had hissed, adjusting her fan with venomous grace. “Just for one evening.”

You didn’t answer.

You hadn’t answered her in weeks.

Gojo sat across from you, a vision of winter in his ivory suit—one hand resting lightly on the hilt of the ceremonial blade he always wore, even as a butler. His snowy hair was tied back, the strands that framed his face softening what should have been an intimidating figure. But only you could see the tension in his jaw. The quiet worry in his expression when he glanced your way and whispered, “Just... try not to pick a fight tonight. Please.”

You had only scoffed. “I don’t pick fights. I end them.”

The ballroom doors opened in a chorus of trumpets and perfume. Heat swept over you—the heat of bodies, chandeliers, and too much wine. The nobles of the Geto Empire, dressed in layers of brocade and power, moved like vultures in silk.

They danced in circles of influence, smiled with teeth, and whispered like vipers.

You were announced by name, your father practically shoving you forward as if to say look, see, she came after all. His last daughter. His last bargaining chip. His last hope.

You walked in with your chin high, your gown a sharp contrast to the saccharine blushes and fluttering pastels worn by the other unmarried women. Yours was a deep blood-red, high at the neck and fitted at the waist. A woman’s gown. Not a girl’s.

You passed groups who fell silent the moment your footsteps echoed near. You heard the familiar titles tossed in hushed tones:

“The Stoic Widow—still unwed?” “The Ox-Tamer. Gods, I’d slit my wrists before courting her.” “Her father must be desperate by now. I heard they offered her to the Northern Duke’s hunchbacked cousin—twice.”

You didn’t flinch.

Let them laugh. You’d been raised among wolves and taught to growl before you could curtsy. What did their powdered sneers mean to a girl who trained with swords behind the stables?

You stopped beneath a lattice of gold light filtering from the high chandeliers, the sound of the imperial string quartet swelling around you like theater. You didn’t dance. You didn’t smile. You folded your hands in front of you, nodded politely when people tried not to stare, and waited—like a lioness among lapdogs.

Your eyes wandered the ballroom, catching the painted faces of women you once called friends. Their lives had bloomed in ways yours hadn’t—they held titles beside their names, rings on their fingers, and children in their arms. But none of them looked free.

You remembered each rejected proposal. Each failed arrangement. Each time you’d been told to "soften your tone" or "lower your gaze." And each time you refused, your mother stopped speaking to you for a week.

You had been ten years old the first time she told you, “No man will want a girl with a sword in her hand.”

And you had answered, “Then I’ll die holding it.”

The scent of incense and perfume hung heavy in the air—too sweet, too artificial. Y/N hated it. It clung to her like expectation, thick and cloying, crawling up her throat like a lie.

She stood at the edge of the ballroom, poised like a statue carved in defiance. A silver tray of tea rested in her hand, but she hadn’t taken a sip yet. Not because it was too hot—but because she refused to give the room the satisfaction of seeing her waver. Her gown rippled like blood in the candlelight, all clean lines and sharp silhouettes. The way she stood—unbothered, regal—was itself a form of rebellion.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gojo.

He stood just beyond the archway leading into the ballroom, half-guard, half-ghost. His white uniform stood out against the gold-trimmed walls, his silver hair catching the light like frost. Most mistook him for a high-ranking servant—or at worst, a bodyguard too beautiful for his station. But Y/N knew better. She’d watched him grow from a boy to a blade. His eyes found hers across the room, and in that one glance, she felt it: the anchor he had always been. Unmoving. Silent. Loyal. She exhaled through her nose and lifted her chin slightly in acknowledgment.

Then came the boy.

He was maybe twenty—a lesser noble with delicate features and trembling hands. His mother stood behind him, stiff with silent fury, nudging him forward with a gloved hand pressed into his back. He looked like he’d rather walk into battle than approach her, but duty was stronger than fear, and fear was stronger than pride. He cleared his throat as he stepped before her.

“Lady Y/N,” he stammered. “You... look quite ravishing this evening. The color suits your—ah—complexion, I mean.”

She arched a single brow, not even gracing him with a full turn of her head. “How courageous of you to say so. I wasn’t aware your house still permitted its sons to speak without adult supervision.”

He paled.

Behind him, the ballroom grew still. The pause was long enough to draw attention, short enough to set flames.

“I-I meant it as a compliment,” he mumbled, eyes flicking to his mother, who looked ready to disown him on the spot.

“I’m sure you did,” Y/N said smoothly, finally lifting the teacup to her lips. She took a slow sip, then added, “But it’s a shame you brought your courage tonight and not your spine.”

Laughter rippled through the nobles—sharp, short, cruel. But it wasn’t aimed at the trembling suitor. No, not tonight.

It was aimed at her.

“Still unwed,” someone whispered with false pity behind a jeweled fan.

“She’ll rot in that dress before she finds a husband,” another voice added.

“I heard her father’s threatening to sell the family estate if she doesn’t marry before the summer solstice.”

The words cut through the air like knives laced with perfume. But Y/N didn’t flinch. She kept her eyes forward, kept her spine straight, kept her expression neutral and cold. Let them talk. Let them circle like vultures.

At least she had teeth.

Her gaze drifted again, searching for Gojo—and there he was, still watching. Still steady. His expression hadn’t changed, but his hands had curled behind his back. Not clenched, not twitching. Just... aware. Ready.

She wondered if he’d heard them. She wondered if it mattered.

Her younger cousin twirled across the floor in a flurry of pastel silk, laughing with a suitor whose hand lingered just a bit too long on her waist. The girl shot a glance toward Y/N—quick, smug, triumphant. Their aunt stood by the columns, watching Y/N with narrowed eyes and tight lips, as if counting the ways she had failed the family.

But Y/N only took another sip of her tea and smiled. A private, razor-edged thing.

Let them laugh, she thought. I’d rather die alone than belong to a fool.

The cold hit her like a blessing.

She pushed open the gilded side door with trembling fingers, stepping out into the twilight-stained garden. The heavy murmurs of the ballroom dulled behind her as the door clicked shut. Out here, the world was quiet—save for the distant chirp of cicadas and the rustling of silk in the breeze.

The garden was lit by low lanterns, casting pools of golden light across winding stone paths and tall cherry blossom trees. Most of them had shed their petals by now, but the branches still reached skyward like prayers.

Y/N exhaled slowly and pulled her sleeves tighter around her wrists. Her fingers were still curled from holding that cursed teacup. Her cheeks burned—not from shame, but from restraint. How many more times would she have to parade herself like a trinket for men with more ambition than sense?

She didn’t realize she wasn’t alone until she felt it—that presence.

He always approached like a ghost. No footsteps. No sound.

“Your hair’s falling,” Gojo said softly behind her, his voice barely louder than the wind.

She turned her head just enough to see him step out from the shadows of the stone pavilion. His white suit caught the light, but his eyes—those endless pale blues—remained in the dark.

“I didn’t ask for a report,” she replied, but there was no bite to it. Not for him.

Gojo stepped closer. His gloved hands reached forward without hesitation, gently adjusting the pins in her hair, fingers brushing against the nape of her neck. She froze—just for a second.

“You always get tense when they talk about marriage,” he murmured. “That hasn’t changed.”

Y/N gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Neither has your habit of watching me too closely.”

“It’s the job,” he said. “Your father pays me to.”

“You and I both know he didn’t hire you to protect me. He hired you to watch me.”

Gojo didn’t respond at first. His hands stilled in her hair. His breath was warm against the back of her ear when he finally said, “I watched you long before he told me to.”

That silenced her.

The memory came unbidden: a rain-soaked summer night years ago. She was sixteen. He was barely twelve. They’d been arguing—he wanted to follow her into a restricted part of the estate. She told him he was reckless. He said she was boring. They ended up wrestling in the mud like idiots. Later that night, after the servants went to sleep, she found him in the hallway outside her chamber—holding a bowl of stolen dumplings and grinning like a criminal.

“Eat with me,” he had said, “so I don’t get executed alone.”

They had been inseparable ever since.

Flashback:

It had been three years ago—the height of spring. She had just come of age, and the pressure to marry had reached a fever pitch. Suitors were showing up weekly. Her father’s temper grew shorter by the day.

Gojo had just come back from a six-week training retreat arranged by her father to “toughen him up.”

She found him in the stables that night—half-drunk, shirtless, his hand still bleeding from punching a guard who insulted her name in passing.

She told him he was reckless. He told her he’d do it again.

Then she kissed him.

Pressed him back against the stable wall, fingers tangled in his silver hair, mouth hungry and angry and aching all at once. His body had trembled against hers—not in fear, but in disbelief. The way he’d looked at her—gods, like she was salvation—had nearly broken her.

She broke it instead.

The next morning, she ended it. Her father had heard the rumors. Had Gojo whipped for disobedience. She didn’t speak to him for a month—not because she was ashamed—but because she knew if she did, she’d never stop.

Back in the garden, Y/N’s voice cracked softly. “Do you ever think about it?”

Gojo blinked. “About what?”

“That night.”

He looked away. The lantern light caught the edge of his profile, softening the tension in his jaw.

“I think about a lot of nights,” he said. “But that one’s the one I regret the least.”

She turned to face him fully now, chest tightening. “Gojo...”

“Don’t,” he interrupted gently. “If you say my name like that again, I’ll do something stupid.”

Her lips parted, but the words never came.

Then—

Trumpets.

Loud. Sharp. Regal.

The doors to the ballroom reopened, and the sound rolled over the garden like a tide of gold.

Y/N and Gojo both turned their heads toward it, their moment ruptured by imperial expectation.

“They’re back,” he said.

“The Emperor?”

“And his beast.”

She didn’t ask who he meant.

Gojo straightened his coat. His voice shifted—cool, composed, professional. “Let me escort you inside, Lady Y/N.”

She hated when he called her that.

But she offered him her hand anyway, and together they walked back through the door—two ghosts returning to the fire…

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ashblooddragons · 2 days ago

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The Red Queen (Chapter 18/?)

(Please read the little AN at the end it'll explain a couple things about my absence from this fanfic)

Series Masterlist

Daemons pov

Daemon watched as the seamstress worked on your new dress. One of seven for Rhaenyra’s wedding.

He couldn't help but wonder if he would go this far for your wedding, if he would have seven days of feasts and entertainment for you. He didn't like that he couldn't even imagine it, that he couldn't see Viserys caring that much.

“You said you wanted gold embroidery along the bodice and sleeves, correct?”

Daemon looks at the seamstress who works on your dress and realizes he must have missed this question once or twice already.

“Yes, and make sure to add Dragon motifs.”

Daemon watched you now, watched how you eyed the red and gold dress. He had asked if you wanted a different color, purple, blue, gods even green. But you seemed shocked and more stressed by the idea of choosing your dress color than realized to wear something other than red.

It broke him to see the little girl who wore anything but her house colors. The girl who ran through the gardens with pastels adorning her as if she were a flower herself. Gentle, soft, beautiful, and yet so very fragile. But now you wore your house colors, and that soft flower was no more.

Daemon wouldn't be shocked if thrones slowly grew from you. A defense and weapon held by something of beauty.

“Why did Father rush the wedding? He said that Rhaenyra still had a year or two before her and Ser Laenor had to wed.” You asked curious eyes looking up at him like a baby fawn looks at a beast. Trusting, and innocent, too naive for your own good.

When he saw you again for the first time bile rose in his throat. Because seeing those trusting eyes filled with love and kindness just for him reminded him of all the children he saw bleeding out in villages those damned pirates pillaged. Reminded him how he couldn't save them, and probably couldn't save you.

“I don't know, ñuha riña. Maybe Lord Corlys rushed it along. He has waited many years for this betrothal to bear fruit.” Daemon lied, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

He knew, of course he did, he was accused of putting the idea in Rhaenyra’s head.

“Tell me why you put this idea in Rhaenyra’s head!” Viserys demanded fist slamming onto the small council table. Deep red wine spilling from the force of it.

“What idea?” Daemon asked, brows raised showing his confusion.

He thought of every conversation him and Rhaenyra had the day before. Only one speaking, her congratulating him on his victory and him thanking her. Nothing else, he spent the rest of his time trying to dodge Viserys drunken laughter and jokes and speaking with you.

“Don't play a fool! Rhaenyra was caught in bed with her guard this morning. I know you put that disgusting idea in her mind.” Viserys snarled, looking far closer to a rodent with rabies than a beast about to pounce.

Daemon had to bite back his laughter at his brother's attempt at looking formidable and fierce. But more than that Daemon had to fight laughter from the fact Rhaenyra, the girl who called the Queen a whore for marrying Viserys, had now fallen into bed with her Guard.

“You dare smirk in a time like this?” Viserys asked, face shocked and furious. Daemon wondered if a vessel would burst any moment now.

“I had no hand in that decision, Your Grace. Though I'm not shocked, there were rumors of their…extensions even in the Stepstones.” Daemon said, waving off his Brother's attempt at threatening him.

“What?”

The sound of cold, breathless shock in his brother's voice brought a chuckle from his throat. Did he truly think no one knew? That him sending ravens telling lords to silence the rumors would truly do anything?

“I wouldn't be shocked if this is a common accuracy between the two.” The half jest rolled off Daemon tongue like silk. He knew it wasn't, if only from Viserys' pale and wary face. “There wasn't blood on the sheets, I'm guessing.”

Viserys didn't respond, instead looking down as if the world was crumbling around him. And that was the only answer Daemon needed.

“How could I have given Rhaenyra the idea, if she were already pursuing such actions? Seems to me you just want to blame someone other than yourself or Rhaenyra.” That was the final twist of the dagger before his brother truly started to sob. Broken and childish ones, similar to that of your little brother Aegon when he was told he couldn't have any more sweets.

Daemon turned and left after that only to be greeted by the lady of the hour herself.

“Do whatever he says, you've already brought him enough trouble.” Daemon suggests before fixing his leather jerkin and turning to leave her there awaiting her punishment.

“What's that supposed to mean?” She demanded with a tone far too full of herself for a lady who was just caught in bed with her Guard. One who is supposed to be celibate at that.

“Who do you think hushed the whispers of the two of you? Who do you think was scoffed at as you only further ruined your reputation? It certainly wasn't you.” Daemon said taking slow steady steps towards her, tone that cold kind of calm that could male even a grown man tremble. “So when you go in there, you don't argue. You don't blame anyone but you and your guard. And you certainly don't make any demands, because this is a mess of your making and you will deal with it as such.”

He watched as her confidence slowly crumbled with each word. And when he was sure she truly understood what position she was in, he turned on his heel and walked away. But not before giving one last jab.

“Oh and please do tell me if it was worth it when his head is put on a spike.” He couldn't help but smirk at the sound of her sobs.

Serves you right, finally learning actions have consequences. He thought before deciding on whether you and him should go for a fly or a walk in the gardens this afternoon.

“How is this, Milord?” The seamstress asks as you smile at your reflection.

The dress is a crimson red with gold embroidery throughout the whole of the dress besides the underskirt. The design reminded him of lace but if looked closely one would notice dragons and flames. It's a structured style often worn in the Vale. The sleeves were fitted showing off your slim childish figure that is hidden. The skirt is large and billows out, it reminds him of the bells the faith uses each time they start service.

“Perfect, the Queen has good taste.”

Daemon was shocked he meant that statement. He was prepared to watch her put you in Septa clothes but instead she found fashion from each Kingdom for each celebration. Well except Dorne but he didn't blame her there, a scandal would follow if you went to an event with one of their wraps.

For the first night she chose something inspired by Reach fashion. For the tourney she picked something from Crownland fashion. Each dress is extravagant and compliments your looks perfectly.

He was surprised she asked him to oversee the making of the dress. Handing both him and the seamstress and her team drawings of each dress. But when he came with three of the finished dresses the other day he realized why.

There the Queen sat, tiredness clear from her features. In front of her stood Aegon trying on different tunics and jerkins.

It was clear the boy was over being dressed up, and Daemon didn't blame him. What boy wants to be dressed up when he could be running through gardens causing havoc?

But that wasn't important right now, not when you haven't given your approval of the dress.

“What do you think, ñuha riña?” He asked tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You looked up at him and he could see from the swell of red on your lip had ripped the delicate skin there again.

“What did I say about that?” He gently reprimanded.

You looked down, embarrassment blooming across your features.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to.” You all but whispered out gripping the delicate silk of your dress.

He sighs quickly remembering the scolding you got from Viserys the night before. He was especially cruel, saying how no one wants to see bloody lips on their heir. It shocked Daemon how Viserys didn't seem to realize you are still a little girl and not a grown woman who knows better.

“Don’t worry about it, I just don't like seeing you in pain.” He said making sure his tone was gentle and calm.

You quickly nodded before looking at yourself in the mirror once more. His heart tightened when you smiled at your reflection with eyes shining bright with joy, and he knew that you didn't just like it, you loved it.

“It's perfect.”

He smiled at the confirmation as he ran his fingers through your hair.

He remembered it being around the middle of your back when he left, but now it's well past your waist. He didn't even want to imagine the maintenance of taking care of your hair. But from the oils lining the shelves above your bath it wasn't hard to guess it was a long and precise process.

“Your hair has gotten long, ñuha riña.” He said feeling the silky strands. It was healthy, that was for sure.

“I know, but Father says it looks better long. Says it shows good health and strength from the heir.”

Daemon knew for a fact you must've heard your Father say this to you a thousand times by now. Just like how he knew Viserys made sure you believed you couldn't wear anything but red.

But Daemon also knew he couldn't say this to you, couldn't break the image Viserys has made himself in your mind.

“Well, it looks beautiful.”

He watched as your smile grew brighter, as if his simple compliment meant the world to you. And that broke him, that four simple words seemed to mean so much. Has no one given you a compliment just to give it? Has Viaerys held them back to the point you feel they must be earned?

Daemon didn't want to dwell on it more than he already had.

No instead he would take in that vibrant and pure smile that always made him feel like maybe there was goodness in the world.

Your pov

You carry the new pile of books your Father told you to read. There were five of them. You couldn't help but both that each were on war and battle strategy. One even about how the Conquerors won easily with theirs.

You couldn't figure out why he would want you to read these, especially since he's always said war and battle were for soldiers not monarchs. And on top of that just a fortnight ago he wanted you to read about the traditions of each region of Westeros.

Said he wanted you prepared for your reinstatement and Rhaenyra’s wedding. Though you also noted that he didn't give Rhaenyra the same demand as she still got to gossip with her Lady's in waiting and ride Syrax whenever she pleased.

The only thing that could lead him to change his mind on lessons had to be how everyone praised Kepus about his victory. But you didn't see why that meant you had to learn these things.

“Ser Criston, you've been to war, correct?" You asked, looking up at the knight who walked right behind you.

He quickly nodded, ever silent, ever obedient.

“Will these books really help me guide armies if there were a war?”

He paused and looked at each title. “They would, I suppose. Though those books only give a rough idea of war. It isn’t just fighting, you also have to worry about innocents and the casualties of innocents.”

His answer seemed simple enough, but it told you everything you needed to know. Your Father knew nothing of war, and only wants to brag that you're learning such subjects to make people quiet about Kepus.

“Thank you.” You said, the habit never truly leaving you no matter how many times your Father tried to remind you an heir doesn't thank the staff.

You turned to look at the training yard, you watched the rain twinkle down only to become a downpour.

You were going to try and move further into the hall hoping to not damage the books when you noticed Ali sending her Father off.

She looked sad, but also relieved. But that didn't matter right now, if she tried to walk in this rain she may get sick.

“Ser Criston, please help the Queen back into the castle. Try your best to cover her from the rain.” The command left you without you realizing, and next thing you know Ser Criston is rushing down to her.

You couldn't help but be reminded by the story you finished last night. A knight devoted to his lady, giving up his cloak as a shield against the rain as a storm raged only to be thanked by a kiss.

You had blushed when you read that, especially when Lady Catherine described the kiss.

But sadly no kiss will be gifted between Ali or Criston. For he's a knight of the Kingsguard, celibate, not to bear any children, nor take any wife. And Ali is the Queen, married to your Father.

Even though you knew these facts, you couldn't help but wonder if in another world they were Lady Catherine and Ser George. A part of you, a secret part, hopes so.

But when they come up to you, Criston putting on his now soaked white cloak, and Ali wiping stray droplets of rain from her face, you realize it's only that, a hope it can't be more.

“That rain came out of nowhere.” Ali jested but I could see the pain in her eyes.

“Yes, I'm glad Ser Criston could help you.” You responded, fighting the blush that wished to rise and kiss your cheeks.

Alicent nodded before turning to watch her Father's carriage leave. It slowly became smaller before it turned seemingly going towards the Kings road.

You watched Alicent though, watched the way her shoulders slowly relaxed and eyes seemed to fill with freedom.

You couldn't help but think about what you heard her and the former Hand talk about. You had a sneaking suspicion it was the reason he was renounced as Hand.

You knew you shouldn't eavesdrop, but to be fair the door was cracked open and you were asked to have tea with Ali.

“This is beneficial to us, it will make the Court believe if Princess Rhaenyra believes she can bed whomever she wants then the heir will most definitely do the same.”

What does he mean Rhaenyra bedded someone? Does it have something to do with the looks her and Ser Daniel looked at each other? You wondered as your hands slowly reached for the door only to stop at Ali's response.

“No. No, I won't allow you to slander a little girl's name all for your ambitions. She's ten summers, ten!”

You'd never heard Ali this mad before. Not when Aegon threw food at her ruining another dress. Not when Helaena didn't stop crying. And even with you, someone not of her blood she never raised her voice like this. Never sounded like a Queen.

There was a pause before the Hands spoke. His voice was cold as ice, and you didn't want to think of the danger Ali faced in there if only his tone brought your hands to trembling messes.

“What? After all I did to make you desirable, made you Queen, you won't do a simple thing such as this?” There was a pause followed by the sound of footsteps and you saw him leaning over Ali from where she sat. His stare made you want to curl in on yourself but Ali held strong meeting his eyes.

His next words were nothing but a whisper but it still brought tears to your eyes.

“She's not your daughter, Alicent. Stop protecting her as such.”

You knew Ali wasn't your Mother, that she had nothing to gain by being kind to you. But you never realized others thought your relationship was wrong.

Alicent stood meeting her Father's glare with one as cold as ice and eyes blazing like iron in a flame.

“That's where you're wrong. I may not have birthed her but that is my little girl. Just as Helaena is mine. And Aegon is most definitely my child, so if I hear you demand my methods of raising him are wrong one more time I will ban you from seeing him.”

Alicent's voice was cold, controlled, authoritative. You realized that is how a Queen sounded, not shy and quiet like you. Strong and resilient like Ali's.

“And one final thing before you go.” Ali said as Otto scoffed, turning to leave her chambers. He turned lips pinched. “It's, Your Grace.”

You couldn't tell if you saw pride or rage in the Hands' eyes but when he whipped around storming for the doors you quickly rushed behind a statue. You prayed he didn't see you and when he walked off without demanding to speak with you, it gave you a little more hope.

You waited there for what felt like forever only coming out when you heard Ali ask her guard to find you.

“Sorry, I had to study longer than expected.” You said rushing towards her with a smile that felt a little too wary to be real.

She smiled, a genuine one, reaching for your hand guiding you in. But you didn't notice how she looked where you came from. It was towards the King's chambers, not yours.

You felt like those words had been rehearsed. That Ali must have said them to herself a thousand times. But for some reason you wanted to understand what Otto meant. Why Ali was so upset by the idea.

“But what did he try to do that was too ambitious. Everytime I ask Father he tells me I'll learn when I'm older.” The irony wasn't on you. A simple explanation for the Hands leaving isn't within your right because of your age. But you could and were told to read war strategies.

Ali paused looking ahead, eyes vacant as if contemplating whether to tell you or not.

“He wanted Aegon to be heir.” She says, tone stiff, almost fearful.

“I don't understand–” You start only for Ali to interrupt.

“I know sweetie, but we need to protect your claim. If Aegon were to become King he would only become a puppet. You already show much more competence which is why my Father wanted Aegon named heir. Because he knows he can't control you.” Her words were soft, kind even, but there was an obvious sign of fear in them. As if she wondered if her Father would take this humiliation quietly or make more of a ruckus. You hoped for the latter, and Ali seemed to as well.

“No, what I don't understand is why don't you want that? I'm–” You start voice choking on the words you knew would destroy you. ��I'm not your daughter. Aegon is of your blood.”

Ali froze and looked down at you with eyes that showed so much pain you wondered if she ever felt a day of happiness.

“Listen to me carefully.” She said as she bent down to your level. Your eyes level with one another, lavender and ice blue meeting warm chocolate. “You are my daughter. I may not have birthed you, or carried you in my womb. But you are my daughter. My first child.” Alicent's words were steady yet filled with authority, and the brought you to tears.

Before you know it she is holding you in her arms, kissing your brow and wiping your tears. You kept crying though. A mix of joy and guilt leaving you in sharp sobs.

Joy, because this is all you ever wanted, even if you didn't realize it till now. For Ali to call you her Daughter. All you wanted was for herhigs growing up, her soft voice as she sang. You seemed her out if you were hurt, you even remember gripping her as tight as you could as she carried you to the Maesters for your scrapped knee. You were only four summers but it was one of the only moments where you felt safe that Kepus, Laena, Caraxes, or Stormchaser weren't there. But most of all you want her to say it to you. Because deep down in a place you never wanted to go to, you wondered if she only said those things to the Hand to one up him.

But you felt guilt as well. Guilt because you already had a Mother who loved you dearly. You didn't want to take Ali away from Aegon or Helaena, and you didn't want to make your Mother feel like you were abandoning her just because she died.

As you spiraled Ali held your face between her hands forcing you to look at her.

“I'm not your Mother, I would never claim to be your Mother for that honor goes to the late Queen Aemma. But you will always be my daughter, even if I am never going to be your Mother.”

You reached out hugging her close once more, gripping her so close you knew she felt your desperation.

You buried the words you wanted to say in that moment. Placed it in a special place in your heart where all the people you hold most dear you

I love you Mama.

(Firstly I want to a how sorry I am for not updating in *checks date* about 5 months, life has been busy and wild lately. I haven't been in a writing mood for a long time and I'm slowly crawling out of this slump with oneshots and working on the series I have slowly at a time. A big reason this took so long is I knew what I wanted to happen in this chapter but couldn't figure out a plan of how to get them into words. It took about seven tries before this one worked out (which I wrote in about 2.5 days) I hope you all will understand or at least not be completely pissed at me. And I also wanted to say there is a Playlist now (incase anyone missed the post) so please check that put if you want the link is here.)

Huge thank you to my bestie @sugutoad for making the header for this fanfic!

TAGLIST: @sugutoad @ilikefelines @themoonlitquill @athzhowakar @classicsimpforaaronwarner @talknerdytome5391 @mmogurl @technicallylegendaryenemy @thesimpofnonexistantpeople @sachaa-ff @thelastemzy @fallenxjas @baybaybear1

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relenafanel · 22 hours ago

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For Xie Lian's birthday, I'd like to offer 🫴 my favourite god with this canon-divergent au idea I've been playing around with:

But can't quite get perfect 😭

👑 Xie Lian ascends in somewhat the same fashion, but he arrives in a heaven where Jun Wu isn't evil and doesn't target him.

(Maybe he's a little weird? But not Calamity weird, and it doesn't really matter for the plot - I'm digressing. I do think something funny could be done with the virginity sword, but my sense of humour isn't that sophisticated sometimes.)

👑 Xie Lian ascends. Xianle is so proud of their prince. There are parades and statues in his honour, and amid all that the child XL caught during the festival is praying to his god.

👑 San Lang grows up singularly devout in that way only HC is towards XL. His prayers to XL range from the mundane to critical, and he prays as easily as he breathes. They're intense, and almost constant, sometimes even as he sleeps. XL is tangentially aware of them, the same way he has awareness for all his loyal devotees.

👑 Only, San Lang is different. San Lang prays with such fervour that he ascends as one of XL's junior officials.

👑 The way junior officials work (partially canon, partially for this au) is that they represent their gods in answering prayers and do things in the mortal realm in their name. Any merits received go towards their god and a kind of common fund. But there is, of course, some flexibility. They can have their own devotees and do their own good, and a lot of junior officials get to heaven and are like blehhhh because they've found themselves at middle-management and hate it and are just kind of 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️ about following the rules when they can be.

(this is what happens when cultivators are usually rich young lords, princes, and the high ranking officials to an emperor but i digresssss again)

👑 San Lang ascends and fucks this all up by being 100% on top of always giving XL credit for everything, every single merit is for his god, and he is all in and angry at anyone who wouldn't be

👑 he is immediately a rebel and immediately disenchanted by everything else about heaven beside XL; and he'll fight anyone who tries to suggest he be less devoted

👑 XL is mostly amused. He, too, thought things would be different and instead found heaven more restricting in some ways so he gives SL a long 'leash' so to speak.

👑 The biggest casualty to the status quo however is not suddenly getting an intense junior official, though FX and MQ aren't that happy (and they weren't even bad at their jobs like some of the other JO), it's that XL can suddenly hear SL's prayers in surround sound.

👑 San Lang, when speaking to XL, is very respectful and maybe a little quiet. He takes orders well, asks intelligent questions, and is always very very good at whatever task he's assigned.

👑 San Lang, when praying to XL during the same conversation is very fervent in his thanks for XL's trust, thinks XL's robe is very beautiful, promises to do better than FX & MQ could, wants to be the best he can, and then visualizes himself kneeling in front of XL and XL gently tilting up his chin---

👑 ANYWAY IT'S A PROBLEM.

👑 For XL specifically.

👑 He learns to filter SL out, mostly. Junior Officials are supposed to be able to contact their god if needed, and the communication system between heavenly officials works so closely to intense prayers that sometimes it misfires. He does what he can to stop that from happening, like setting up a password SL can use when he wishes to speak directly.

👑 But more often than not he's still hearing more than he should. He hears SL when they're both sleeping. He hears SL when he's in danger. He hears SL when he's having *cough* time alone. He hears stray thoughts sometimes when SL defends him to others.

👑 IT'S STILL A PROBLEM.

👑 They get closer. SL becomes XL's favourite. Everyone else thinks he's XL's rabid guard dog, and he is - he can be a terror, but he's always so, so soft towards XL. SL dreams of love and wakes up and asks for atonement. SL dreams of love and XL gasps awake, his heart rate elevated for hours.

👑 And that's how SL's brand of devotion spends centuries emotionally edging XL until he's forced to change his cultivation.

#hualian #hua cheng #xie lian #tgcf #adoptable fic idea

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nemumiruku · 2 days ago

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I've always known Artorias and Ornstein were massive, but I never knew they were THAT big. Not until I saw the size comparison between them and Ciaran. Gawd lord :))

Also, finally got this one off my list, yay!

wc: 14.5k

tw: non-con, dub-con, coercion, tentacles, ooc, yandere themes, spanking, humiliation, breeding, belly-bulge, size difference, emotional manipulation, vaginal sex, deadly grammars,...

To the very east of Anor Londo, he had arrived at a small village. A night like any other, Ornstein and his knights were sent on. His memory was as clear as day.

It was before dawn, when the sky was still gray with smoke and the flames were dying down to embers. The dragon was easy to hunt. It was still there, rooting through what was left, and perhaps too careless in its hunger for flesh and blood. Because it didn’t even see him approach until it was too late.

Ornstein made quick work, barely breaking a sweat gutting the dragon over and over. That was the point of this march. No spectacle nor drawn-out fight was needed for these vile creatures, but a spear thrust through the eye with a touch of flashing lightning in the dark before it fell in a shuddering heap that smothered the last of the fires.

He stood over the carcass for a moment. The air was thick with the stink of scorched timbers as well as flesh. It never bothered him much, for it was just another part of the job he had to fulfill. As long as he was alive, no dragons should be able to fly the skies.

After the dragon fell, the man moved through what remained of the village. The air was heavy with the stench of death. The sagging, warped, and blackened roofs made him duck his head each time he stepped inside the small cottage.

Even though they told him to look for survivors, it was just a formality anyway, one he followed because he was ordered to. His Lord didn’t expect his knights to save anyone. He expected them to kill dragons.

Still, he pushed open the wreck of a door with his boot, only to be met by a wild, uncivilized thing that lunged at him with the speed of light. Its filthy fingers clutching a dull blade, trying with all its meager strength to cut his throat.

Ornstein tilted his head slightly, a hint of amusement in his eyes as it kept trying while clinging onto him, the worn kitchen knife glancing harmlessly off his gold-plated armor with every frantic stab.

He then grabbed it by the collar of its torn shirt and hauled it up, bringing it close to inspect the defiance behind all that thrashing.

Turned out it wasn’t an animal after all. just a little girl with a face smeared with ash and tears, glaring at him with hatred in her eyes.

“Cunning little one, art thou? I barely heard thee crawling above,” he said evenly.

Teeth clenched, you could only glare up at him, absolutely hating how that snarling lion helm looked so much like the monster that burnt your home down.

“My lord, is all well?” one of the knights asked as they entered, having finished their search through the ruined village.

“Aye, all is well,” Ornstein replied simply. He kept you dangling by your collar, turning slightly to show you to them.

“Take this wretch back to Anor Londo. I shall speak with Lord Gwyn on her fate,” he commanded in a calm voice, as though you weighed nothing more than a stray pup he’d found in the mud.

And so, that was how your new life began in Anor Londo—the shining city of the Gods, where the marble floors gleamed and the sun seemed fixed in the sky.

It looked beautiful from afar, but you learned quickly there was nothing kind about it.

You were just a human, dragged in from the wreckage of a village no one would bother naming. The knights didn’t speak to you unless it was to give orders. The clerics averted their eyes as you passed, as though your very presence reminded them of everything they chose to ignore. Servants whispered about you in the halls, calling you the little rat or the dragon’s orphan when they first washed you from the charcoal.

You didn’t get special treatment. The caretakers fed you well enough to keep you standing, and gave you clothes warm enough to keep you comfy. Aside from that, you also got your own tiny room, though it wasn't anything fancy, just a bed and a chair. The only positive thing was, no one beat you for no reason, but no one comforted you either.

The only thing given freely by them was intensive training. Every morning before the sun rose, they pulled you from your narrow bed and sent you out onto the cold stone courtyard while your breath was still misting in the gray light.

Training was relentless, just as it was exacting with hours spent drilling footwork until your legs ached and practicing with daggers until your fingers were numb from gripping. On top of that, you were taught to move like a shadow, to place every step with care so no one would hear you coming when you slit their throat.

It only made sense. They expected nothing less if you were meant to follow in Ciaran’s footsteps.

Aside from intensive body and tools traning, mixing poisons was also treated like an art. You remembered making mistakes and having to start over countless times, no matter how long it took. The instructors were kind of harsh, though. They didn’t offer any praises to encourage you, only several coldings here and there when you did wrong. Yet, they were at least patient.

Though you must have admitted, their words were extremely harsh whenever they opened their mouth. It wasn’t cruelty for its own sake. You told yourself it was their own way of shaping you into something useful for the system, an assassin who wouldn’t hesitate, who could set emotions aside and do what needed to be done without backing away.

Soon enough, with lord Gwyn’s favor granting you real missions, you had the chance to prove yourself. You showed your worth with every completed task, until even the others had to admit you belonged among the Lord’s Blades—an elite circle of assassins who served Gwyn’s will without question.

From then on, life began to change. You were fed well, given better clothes, and granted your own small quarters in the castle. And you had more friends, too. Those were the signs you were no longer just a useless addition.

Much to everyone's surprise, you weren’t the inexperienced new blood anymore. You’d become an instructor at a surprisingly young age, trusted to train the next generation. People showed you respect when you passed, and some even looked up to you, watching carefully for every lesson you had to offer, eager to learn what you knew.

Nevertheless, you wouldn’t have made it that far without Ciaran’s guidance. As one of Gwyn’s Four Knights, she trained you more thoroughly than anyone else could have. Her lessons were sharp and efficient, leaving no room for weakness or doubt, perfect for someone like you.

It was through her that you first crossed paths with Artorias.

Unlike Ornstein’s strict and formal manner, his presence was warm in a way you hadn’t expected. The first time he spoke to you, he knelt slightly to meet your eyes, asking your name, where you were from, and if you’d eaten. You remember trying to hide behind Ciaran’s legs, peeking out nervously at his towering frame, surprised that someone so imposing could sound so gentle and heart-warming.

He became a constant presence in your life. You were never sure if it was simply in his nature to look after a lost human child, or if he was just curious to see how you would handle the unforgiving demands of assassin training.

Calling it "care" might have been generous. But he was there often enough to tell your handlers to ease up when they got too rough. Always stepping in calmly when you ended up on the ground with something broken, only to make sure they didn't push you past the point of getting back up.

You remembered crying on the days he wasn’t there, when the training turned harsh and left you bruised and hurting. Then later on, you would find yourself looking for him without even thinking, hoping to catch that soothing cobalt-blue. It was tragic how you were quite drawn to the quiet comfort he offered.

Because Artorias tended to more than just the wounds on your outsides. He had been the only one to listen to you when no one else would, letting you speak about things you’d never told anyone—not even Ornstein or Ciaran.

You told him about your old home, the hard life you’d left behind, and how, despite everything, you would have given anything to have it back. A lonely human girl yapping about her horrible past, yet he never interrupted or judged you. He just took everything in, with a quiet understanding that felt rare in a place ruled by beings who seemed too distant to care. Then, after you had sobered yourself to sleep, you would wake up with your head on his lap instead.

He’d bring you small gifts when he returned from missions, simple human food you actually liked, or little things that reminded you of your old home. The man paid attention to what made you smile, even if you tried to hide it. And when there was news or truths he knew would cut too deep for someone like yourself, he kept them from you.

He also had a puppy named Sif, with big, curious eyes and oversized paws that tripped over themselves. Whenever you cried telling Artorias about how your peers had treated you, Sif would nuzzle close and lick the tears from your face, tail thumping against the floor, determined to cheer you up in the only way she knew how.

It was almost fatherly, the way Artorias treated you. Some whispered he had a soft spot for the human girl among the Blades, while others insisted it was simply his nature—kind to anyone, whether they were gods or humans, friend or foe. No one really knew which was true, least of all you.

Perhaps the only one who truly knew was Ornstein. He was Artorias’s closest friend and comrade, after all.

Now, Ornstein was a special case for you, too, if only because of how closely he worked with Smough—the executioner you’d despised from the moment you arrived in Anor Londo.

Smough was everything you feared in a man: cruel for the fun of it, smiling at screams and shrieks. You’d seen enough to know he enjoyed his work too much. Just watching Ornstein stand beside him, calling him “partner” had always made your skin crawl from a thousand miles away. Plus, Smough had a boogeyman laugh, and it was terrifying for it almost made you piss yourself as a kid.

You would never ever dare to be in the same room as Smough if Ornstein weren’t there. His presence was the only thing that made it bearable, the only assurance that the executioner wouldn’t take things too far just because he felt like it.

If Artorias was like a gentle father figure, then Ornstein was the strict older brother who never let you relax. Training with the other assassins was already demanding, but he insisted you train with him too.

It wasn’t exactly required, yet he claimed it was good for you to learn from his strength, insisting that once you were old enough, you would come back and thank him. And once he decided that, there was no escaping it. He made sure you never missed a single session, no matter how tired you were.

Orstein the Dragonslayer was known for his pride and his strict, disciplined manner. But with you, that sharp edge often softened into something more playful, full of quiet teasing.

Every time you insisted he treat you seriously, reminding him you weren’t that scrawny child he’d once lifted by the collar while chuckling at your fury, he’d just wave it off. He loved to bring it up, though, saying you were “adorable” back then, pouting at him with such murder in your eyes the moment you first laid eyes on him.

Despite all the teasing and that tough, almost brotherly discipline, you knew deep down he was always the one in your corner. When the vassals whispered about your mediocre human blood, hinting you didn’t belong and urging Gwyn to send you away, it was Ornstein who spoke up.

His words were so firm, they left no room for argument, calling out the potential in you to lord Gwyn that you were worth keeping. And once he made that clear, no one dared to challenge it.

One thing you appreciated about him was that he didn’t treat you the way Artorias did. Where Artorias would fuss when you got hurt, suggesting your instructors give you days off to recover, Ornstein barely acknowledged it.

Ornstein would pick you up before pushing you to keep going like you always did. But you weren’t stupid. You knew he paid attention in his own way. The man always seemed to find out exactly who was pushing you too far. You figured that was why one particularly cruel instructor suddenly stopped showing up one day.

They were caring in their own ways. With them, you found something like belonging. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt like a family in its own, strange way—except for Smough, who was more like the deranged uncle everyone avoided.

You lived among them, trained with them, and learned to appreciate every single moment duty didn't call you. Trying to carry out someone else’s will with a dagger in your soft, delicate hand.

It was going perfectly fine, in its own rough way, as you felt safe around them enough to crawl out from your hermit shell.

Until you were old enough that everything started to change. Suddenly, you weren’t just the scrappy kid they’d taken in. You were someone they all looked at differently.

You’d grown taller, though still dwarfed by the gods and beings around you. Your body had also matured, blooming into a beautiful woman with smooth curves and a flush of youth in your cheeks. At the age where men and women started to look at you with either want or jealousy.

Maybe the final blow was that mission. When Ciaran was away, they had to send you in her place to eliminate a high-profile target, a traitorous noble who needed quiet killing.

You carried it out, but it almost cost you your life, too. When the help came, they had found you half-conscious, bleeding out as you tried dragging yourself through the dark streets with your dagger still wet. So heavily wounded, they had to carry you back to Anor Londo.

Both Artorias and Ornstein came to see you while you were laid up in the infirmary, bandaged from head to toe. Even through the haze of pain and half-sleep, you could sense the tension between them. You didn't think you had ever seen them get this worked up.

Their voices were low at first, but you remembered the way it rose...sharp, angry, guilty. You couldn’t make out every word because you were too dazed from your wounds. But the sound of armored boots shifting and harsh tones cutting through the quiet room stuck with you. You remembered their shapes, looming and rigid, refusing to back down even at your bedside.

Then came the changes.

Artorias grew more distant with each passing day. It wasn’t obvious at first, just small things you usually let go of. The way he would fall quiet around you, his gaze dropping when you tried to catch it. And how he started finding reasons to be elsewhere during your training, offering fewer corrections, fewer words at all.

It almost felt like he was trying to avoid you entirely, blaming it on the missions, as if keeping his distance was the only way he could deal with something he didn’t want to admit, even to himself.

You missed his company, though you wouldn’t have said it out loud. Instead, you told yourself it was probably because of Ciaran. There had always been rumors about the two of them. And honestly, it wasn’t hard to believe, not with the way she watched over him, or the quiet looks they sometimes shared when they thought no one was paying attention.

It was easier to think he was pulling away for her sake than to consider any other reason. You were no longer a kid but a proper woman now, after all. So any type of interaction with him must have put your mentor in a weird spot and made things awkward in some sense.

Meanwhile, Ornstein was easier to figure out. You spent far more time with him now than you ever had before. As a child, you’d always tried to slip away from his training sessions just to run off to find Artorias instead.

But now it was quite the opposite. Nearly every mission you took, he was there too—if not officially assigned, then somehow showing up anyway. He always brushed it off as a coincidence, but you weren’t so easily convinced.

Every time you asked if he’d been spying on you, or if he’d sent one of his knights to follow you, because there was no other way he could know every detail of your missions. He’d just give you that calm, unreadable look. Sometimes he’d act like it didn’t matter at all, other times he’d play dumb and change the subject, leaving you fuming but with no real answer.

Even the friendships and connections you’d worked so hard to build started to fall apart, one by one. People you trusted began avoiding you, their sudden distance leaving you confused and uneasy.

It all came to a head the day one knight, someone you’d been close with for years, resigned without warning. He found you before he left, eyes troubled, and asked quietly if he’d done something to offend you, if that was why both Artorias and Ornstein had sought him out. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t even know how to answer, let alone talk to them.

And after that, the rumors started. Ugly whispers about you sharing both their beds to earn all that “special treatment.” It wasn’t hard for people to believe, not when both of them had always been kinder to you than to anyone else. They spoke well of you to Lord Gwyn himself, made sure you had the finest weapons and tools for your missions, and no one missed how carefully they watched over you.

To them, it all looked like proof. To you, it felt like something you couldn’t defend without sounding like a liar.

What you didn’t know was everything they did behind your back. About Artorias going straight to Lord Gwyn to have you taken out of Ciaran’s care and put under his instead, making sure the missions you received were short, simple, almost insultingly easy compared to what you were used to.

Meanwhile, Ornstein quietly made it his job to scare off anyone who got too close, using little more than a glare and his reputation to keep them away. He even followed you himself sometimes, convinced he was the only one who could keep you safe, even if it meant you never realized how often you were being watched.

They only grew stranger with time. Neither of them stayed too close, but they never let you get too far away either. It was like they were always circling, watching, waiting for something to snap. You tried to ignore it, tried to tell yourself it was nothing, but the doubt kept gnawing at you.

That doubt became certainty the day you overheard them on the training field.

You hadn’t meant to listen, truly. You were just passing by, steps slowing when you heard your name in the quiet. They didn’t notice you at first, too caught up in whatever argument had been brewing for who knows how long.

"Stop coddling her, Artorias. She is no child." Ornstein’s voice was sharp as his hands were already folded. And based on your own experience with him, whenever he did that, he meant business.

"And you? Do not pretend you have not been trailing her on every mission." Artorias narrowed his eyes. You noticed his grip becoming firmer on the sword's handle. What were they even talking about?

Ornstein fell silent for a moment, head tilting slightly with a hint of wry amusement, for he wasn't able to provide an answer. That's why Artorias's voice cut through the stillness.

"Admit it. You have feelings for the girl."

"So you would let me have her then?" Ornstein’s tone turned mocking, a rare edge you didn’t often hear from him.

He probably struck a nerve because Artorias’s reply was cold, unwavering. "I do not see so."

It took you a moment to really understand what was happening. You didn’t stay to hear the rest. Instead, you slipped away before their words could dig any deeper into your thoughts.

After that, you buried yourself in missions—anything to keep yourself busy. Easy, hard, it didn’t matter. You took them all, even when it meant going against Artorias’s wishes. It was the only way you knew to avoid them both. You were confused and overwhelmed. You didn’t know how to handle any of it because they had been family to you. Especially knowing you didn’t have just one, but two gods chasing after you.

Much to your surprise, neither of them took it well. When they realized you’d been avoiding them, they started seeking you out at every opportunity. Whether it was to simply be near you or to hold onto you in some quiet, desperate way, you couldn’t tell anymore. Sometimes you wondered if you were imagining it.

You used to think you’d never understand why. But you did now. Because they’d said it themselves.

You remembered the moment clearly. In some dark corner of the castle, the two of them cornered you, their imposing forms blocking you from any easy escape. Their voices were calm but also demanding as they pressed you with question after question about why you’d been gone so much lately.

And if they had done anything to offend you. That was the part that caught you off guard...the way they actually asked. Their manners were nicer then, but no less intense. It was almost frightening, the weight of their presence in those godly armors, the way their eyes locked onto you like your answer was the only thing that mattered in the world.

You mumbled some poor excuse just to slip away, all the while feeling the tension in the air, the way both of them seemed to be holding themselves back from simply grabbing you and keeping you there. When you finally made it back to your room, you didn’t take any chances. You locked the door, bolted the windows, and checked it all twice, heart still racing at the thought of their eyes on you.

The real nightmares began when Gwyn’s firstborn betrayed him to stand with the dragons, and the Abyss began swallowing Oolacile whole. In response, Gwyn had to send Artorias to confront the spreading darkness, while Ornstein was tasked with hunting down his own mentor, his brother-in-arms.

Everyone else was tangled in politics and strategy, too busy to care about anything else. You were sent on mission after mission as well, which you counted as a blessing. Because they kept you busy, and more importantly, kept them both away from you for a while. You needed that break, even if you wouldn’t admit it out loud.

But that break didn’t last.

They gave you command of a small team for a special mission, one meant to root out a single traitor who’d fled Anor Londo with secrets too dangerous to be left alive. It was supposed to be simple, clean, and precise, until it wasn't.

You hadn’t expected betrayal within your own ranks. But one of them turned on you, and suddenly it wasn’t one traitor you were facing, but many. You watched your comrades fall one by one, heard their screams echo in the dark. By the time it was over, you were soaked in blood, some theirs, some yours, and shaking so hard you could barely hold your dagger.

Regardless of the fleeting feelings, you finished the mission. You had tracked the traitor to their home and did what you were sent to do. Your blade was cold when it ended their life.

It was only when you turned to leave, your hand on the door, that you heard a thin, shaking cry.

You froze.

Slowly, you turned back and saw them. A child, no older than you’d been when Ornstein found you, crouched in the corner, tears cutting tracks through the dirt on their face. Clutching at the fallen body that you had left cooling on the floor.

Your fingers felt numb around the dagger. You couldn’t move, couldn’t even think anymore. You just watched as their sobs filled the small room, the sound tearing something inside you wide open.

When you returned to Anor Londo, you barely felt like yourself anymore. You spent most of your spare time shut away in your room, locking the door, shutting out everything beyond those walls. It all felt unreal, like something you couldn’t quite believe had happened.

Your missions had never been like that before. The people you were sent after didn’t have families waiting in the next room. They were just targets. Names on paper. Faces to forget once the job was done.

But this time there had been a child. A life you hadn’t meant to ruin. And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the sound of their crying or the way they clung to the body you’d left behind.

It turned into weeks. Then months. You had tried burying yourself in work, taking any mission they would give you, hoping the blood and routine would drown out the guilt clawing at your insides. But it never went away.

You couldn’t eat properly. Sleep came in restless snatches with nightmares waking you in a cold sweat. There was no deny that the guilt sat heavy in your chest, a terrible weight you couldn’t shake.

Dreadfully, it started to show. You were slower in training, careless on missions. Mistakes you never used to make piled up, and for the first time in a long while, you felt weak. Breakable even. Like the life you’d built around blades and shadows was finally cracking apart.

You needed comfort, needed something to hold onto before you lost yourself completely. So you turned to the few you trusted. Ciaran listened, quiet and steady, offering gentle words that tried to soothe the raw edges. Gough laid a heavy hand on your tiny shoulder, voice deep with that calm wisdom only he seemed to carry, telling you that no warrior leaves every battle unscarred.

They did their best. But it wasn’t enough. Their words couldn’t reach the hollow ache that had settled in your chest, the heavy despair that refused to lift no matter how you tried to reason with it. All you could ever do was nodded, and thanked them. Yet nothing really eased the weight pressing down on your heart.

You were so deep in your own hopelessness that you didn’t even notice the day Artorias finally returned. Prior to that, rumours had whispered about his disappearance, stating he had long been swallowed whole by the Abyss in Oolacile. Just another hero claimed by the darkness.

You barely looked up when the knights dragged him through the gates. One of his arms was limp as his armor was scorched and cracked, that inky corruption clinging to him like a living thing.

They carried him to the infirmary with grim determination, doing their best to avoid the seeping blackness that writhed across his form. The people’s voices were hushed, tense with fear and pity, yet remained with supreme respect for their lord.

But you didn’t see much of it. You stayed in your room. The curtains were drawn tight, and the world outside felt just as black and suffocating as the thoughts you couldn’t seem to outrun.

It took you a few days before you finally gathered the will to visit Artorias, the famed Abysswalker. Even with all that had passed between you, you couldn’t ignore what he’d been through. His obsessiveness might have made you uneasy, but you couldn’t deny the truth of who he was. A kind man at heart, one who had never failed his people.

And you weren't in the wrong when the others adored him like they always had. You heard them speak in secret tones about the hero who’d braved the Abyss to save Oolacile and its princess from destruction. Thus, you felt a flicker of guilt twist in your chest for ever doubting his intentions.

When you finally stepped into the room, you found Artorias already awake. He sat propped against the infirmary bed’s headboard, motionless except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

His hood was drawn low, casting his face in dense shadow. Even in the dim light, you could see how changed he was. The edges of his armor were blackened and cracked, dark tendrils of something foul still curling along the seams like smoke that refused to clear.

His eyes were hard to catch beneath the hood, but you could tell he wasn’t really looking at anything in the room. It felt like he was locked somewhere else entirely, lost in some deep, silent struggle you couldn’t reach no matter how hard you tried.

You wondered if he had fully healed when looking at his limp arm. The very arm that he was best at when holding his sword.

When he finally seemed to notice you standing there, he turned his head slowly and managed a small, tired smile.

"Good evening, (Name)."

Your eyes shifted away from his hollow gaze, landing instead on the small bundle of flowers resting in a chipped vase beside his bed. You wondered if Ciaran had left them there for him.

You forced yourself to meet his eyes again, giving him a polite nod. "Lord Artorias."

"No need to be so formal." His voice was quieter now, but firmer than before, as he gestured to the chair beside him. "Sit with me,"

You hesitated, yet obeyed by lowering yourself onto the chair. He watched you for a moment before speaking again, eyes shadowed beneath the hood.

"I heard from Ciaran. She told me what happened."

The words caught you off guard, tightening something in your chest. You tried to straighten your posture, forcing the guilt back down where it belonged. And here you were, wondering why Artorias never failed to know everything about you.

"My Lord, I apologize. I-"

Artorias’s gaze softened at your apology. He cut you off before you could even finish. “It’s alright. What happened was unavoidable. You did what you could.”

You swallowed hard, the words landing heavier than you expected. The aftermath had been haunting you for days, taking every ounce of sanity from you the more you kept on.

Trying to push the guilt aside, you shifted in your seat and told him everything that had happened while he was gone, while trying to hold back tears.

He seemed quite happy to finally catch up. Until you cracked a question out of curiosity.

"What about your expedition to Oolacile? How was it?"

At that, something in him seemed to tighten. His eyes suddenly dropped. “Ah...”

"…" You frowned, hesitating whether or not to pry any further due to the atmosphere changing in the room.

His hands flexed against the blanket. Then he finally found the strength to speak, spilling out his heart like how you did to him before.

"The Abyss. It was far more terrifying than the rumours themselves." His breath hitched, the words tumbling out like something he’d been holding back too long.

His shoulders trembled slightly, armor creaking as he struggled to hold himself together. The truth was only unfolded when he finally took a breather.

"They praised my name...but it was all a lie. It was not I who saved the Oolacile, or the princess. I was merely a coward who ran away.”

To see Artorias like this, crumbling under the weight of his own words, it wasn’t like him at all. He had always been so noble, so unshakable...that watching him struggle to keep himself together made something twist painfully in your chest.

Your body moved before you could even think.

Halfway through his confession, you reached out and pulled him in, arms wrapping around the cold metal of his armor. Holding tight as if you could keep him from falling apart any further.

Unlike the gods, whose emotions were nearly nonexistent, you were human. Your flesh could be torn, your bones could break, and you felt for the man before you.

Artorias didn’t hesitate. The moment your arms wrapped around his larger form, he returned it by leaning in closer. It was almost desperate how his armored arms locked around you, holding you so tightly it was difficult to breathe.

You could feel the tremor in his grip. It wasn’t just from exhaustion or pain, but something deeper. His head rested against your shoulder, raspy breath warm against your ear. He held you like he’d been starved for this simple contact.

"Don’t leave," he said with almost desperation.

You shifted, uneasy at how hard his fingers pressed into your back, like he was afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold tight enough.

Then he drew in a slow breath against your neck, one that you could barely catch. “I’ve wanted you close like this for so long,”

When you tried to ease back, his hold only tightened further. You could feel his fingers tighten under the gauntlets, as if trying to physically restrain himself from pulling you even closer. His breath was warm, uneven, ghosting against your skin.

For a moment, you realized you weren’t comforting him anymore. He was claiming you.

You found yourself making it a small routine to visit him, slipping into the infirmary when your duties allowed, just to sit by his side. It felt like the least you could do for all the times he’d comforted you when you were younger.

Whenever you were there, he seemed to relax. The tension in his shoulders eased, the harsh set of his jaw softened. The darkness that clung to him, the Abyss twisting in the edges of his gaze, seemed to settle for a while.

With anyone else, he was cold and distant, sometimes even frightening with that coiling corruption beneath his skin. But with you, it was different. He spoke softer, and looked at you like you were something grounding him to what little humanity he had left.

Then Ornstein’s return came a few days later. His armors were heavily dented when you saw him walk through the gates, still looking every bit the Dragonslayer. Even from a distance, you could tell something was wrong, the way he seemed so calm and eerie.

He didn’t speak to anyone unless forced to, and when he did, his voice was somehow colder than usual. For some reason, whatever kinds of expression he wore behind that lion helm felt darker than anything you’d seen on Artorias.

You didn’t need anyone to tell you he had failed in his mission. He hadn’t brought Gwyn’s firstborn back. And what had happened out there in the darkest places of the world had followed him home, heavy on his shoulders and festering behind his tired eyes.

Unlike Artorias, he didn’t wait for you to come to him. He showed up at your door one night without warning, armor traded for a sleeping tunic, and the lion helm was nowhere in sight. It was the first time in so long you’d seen his face instead of that regal headwear.

He looked so...dead. Like something essential had been carved out of him, leaving nothing but a shell. His eyes were flat and dim, as if his purpose had been stolen and he was on the edge of going hollow right there in your doorway.

You waited a long moment before finally opening the door to him after a while of peeking. The scent of alcohol immediately caught your nose, sharp and heavy. His expression back then was so out of touch, clouded with something you couldn’t quite explain. You cautiously asked him what had happened. He didn’t answer but stared at you for a long moment, chest rising and falling like he was trying to keep himself in check.

Then he suddenly closed the distance in one step, grabbing you with hands that felt almost rough. His dry mouth crashed onto yours in a kiss that was all but gentle. Tongue and teeth, raw and claiming, like he’d been holding himself back for far too long and couldn’t anymore, pouring whatever sadness he had onto you just because you were his joy and pride.

It felt wrong the moment your lips met. Because you’d always seen him as an older brother, someone who pushed you past your limits but watched over you all the same. The admiration was too much to be twisted into something else.

But there was nothing brotherly in the way he kissed you, though. His grip tightened around your waist as he kissed you feverishly, strong enough to lift you off the floor without even meaning to. The height difference was making you float ridiculously in the air. Yet his mouth was diligent, all bruising insistence, as if he wanted to devour every ounce of love from you.

You could feel the desperation in it, the way his fingers dug in, holding you like he’d never let go.

You didn’t think you wanted to see either of them after that night. The memory of Ornstein’s mouth on yours, the way he’d held you off the ground like you weighed nothing...it haunted you, made your skin crawl every time you thought about it.

So you threw yourself back into your old habits, trying to reclaim the routine of an assassin, anything to feel in control again. But it didn’t last long, for grand words had come down from Lord Gwyn himself.

You were finished. Released from the Lord’s Blades.

Hells, they didn’t even try to soften it. Like a bucket of cold water to your face, they stated you were “no longer fit” for the role as they stripped you of your rank and duty.

What made your blood run cold was what came next. Gwyn’s decree wasn’t just dismissal; it was also meant to convey ownership. You were handed over entirely to Artorias and Ornstein. Like you were nothing more than something to be given away, something to be claimed.

The fury had burned hot in your chest, mixing with something cynical and hurtful. You’d given everything to this place. Your skill, your youth, your soul, your everything. And in the end, they treated you like property to be owned. It was more than enough to make you feel sick to the stomach.

People had always whispered that a human had no place among the gods. Maybe they were right.

And for a second, you decided to prove them right in the only way you could. You did them all a favor.

You went back to your room and started packing your things. Your hands were shaking from anger as you grabbed what little you owned, stuffing clothes and weapons into your own satchel. Every movement felt so heavy, like the betrayal was pressing down on your shoulders. Making you feel like you were dying from the inside.

You didn’t want to see the grand halls or those towering marble statues ever again. You didn’t want to hear another order barked at you, or see the pity in anyone’s eyes the moment you walk away from everything.

Because you were ready to leave it all behind. To leave this gilded cage once and for all. Because if this was how they saw you, something to be tossed away and handed over like spoils, then there was nothing left here for you.

Then the next thing you knew, everything went black. You didn’t even remember falling or tripping. There was only a single moment of the suffocating darkness when it swallowed you whole.

When you finally came to, your head was pounding and your vision was blurry. You blinked hard, trying to make sense of the room around you. It was unfamiliar...too clean, too richly furnished. Velvet curtains decorated barricaded windows, there was a thick rug underfoot, and a heavy oak door with a lock so sturdy nothing could break.

This place looked nothing like your messy little room in Anor Londo.

Panic began to hit when you tried to move and heard the clinking of metal. When you looked down, your breath was stuck in your throat. One of your ankles was shackled to the bedpost with a thick iron chain.

No. No, this couldn’t be real. This had to be some twisted joke.

Your heart hammered as you clawed at the shackle, fingers slipping every so often due to the unfamiliarity. Then you noticed what you were wearing in the mirror next to the bed.

A lacy nightgown, soft and delicate, nothing you’d ever owned. Someone had undressed you. Then put you in this. The thought made your skin crawl even more.

You forced your shaking hands to work, scrabbling at the lock, testing the links, tugging until the metal bit into your ankle. Anything to get free. Your breathing turned harsher and rougher in the silence of the room as you realized there was no easy escape.

Out of sheer frustration and blind panic, you didn’t even think straight. You lunged for the door, wanting to slam your shoulder against it in a desperate attempt to break it open.

But the chain snapped taut with a harsh metallic clank, jerking you back so hard you lost your balance. You fell hard, scraping your poor elbows on the rug with your face planted on the ground.

You lay there for a moment, gasping, eyes fixed on the doorknob that was just out of reach. Your ankle throbbed where the shackle bit in, a cruel reminder you weren’t getting anywhere.

Then came the hot sting of tears gathering in your eyes, making the fury and terror even more ugly in your chest. This couldn’t be happening. But the cold weight of the chain against your skin told you it was all too real.

You scrambled back upright and fumbled for the small pick you always kept hidden. With shaking hands, you jammed it at the shackle’s side, searching for any catch, any lock to work at. But there was nothing. No keyhole or seam but solid iron clamped around your ankle.

Your heart sank as you realized that it wasn’t even locked. It was forged shut. As if someone smithed this onto you while you were unconscious. The pick fell from your fingers as you stared at the unmoving metal. You felt sick at the thought of them working over you while you were limp and unaware, binding you like some animal.

A sudden click echoed in the quiet room, and your head snapped up instinctively, making you go still on the velvety rug.

The litte doorknob began to turn slowly, in perfect time with the frantic pounding of your heart. The metal then creaked as it twisted, and you could only watch in terror at the cobalt-blue that was slowly peeking from behind the frame.

“Good evening, my dear. You are awake at last.” Artorias’s voice was calm, almost gentle, as he stepped through the door. He didn’t even take his eyes off you while he shut it behind him with a quiet click, then turned the key in the lock with care.

The softness in his tone sent a cold shiver down your spine. You hated it.

“W-what is the meaning of this?!” Never had you ever dared raising your voice at him. But you guess it didn’t matter anymore.

Artorias didn’t even flinch. He didn’t even bother answering your question. Instead, he simply lifted the small sack in his hand, the sound of wrapped food rustling as he shook it lightly.

“You must be hungry yeah? You have been asleep all day, after all.”

His tone was maddeningly calm, patronizing even, as if you were a child throwing a tantrum instead of someone chained to a bed. The worst part was he didn’t even try to hide it, like he was waiting for you to stop fussing and behave.

The man crouched down in front of you with unsettling ease, as though the chain on your ankle didn’t exist. He opened the sack with his usable arm and carefully took out a piece of crispy bread with a small container of hot stew, setting them on the floor just within your reach.

Then he settled there, elbow resting on his knee, chin propped in his palm, watching you with that infuriating tilt of amusement as your stomach betrayed you with a loud rumble.

You glared at him, the heat of your anger mixing with something far more bitter.

Because you recognized that meal immediately. Your favorite childhood dish. The very one he used to sneak you when the standard rations for training made you gag.

You never thought he would stoop this low, using old comforts against you like you were still that scared little girl clinging to him for safety. You could feel your jaw tighten, and the anger simmering in your chest. If he thought he could buy your obedience with warm food and old memories, he was wrong.

Without breaking eye contact, you lifted your hand and slapped the bowl away, sending the hot stew splattering across the polished floor in a messy arc. The rich, familiar smell filled the room as it soaked into the rug.

Your glare was unflinching, even if guilt twisted in your gut at the waste. You just wanted to see something from him other than that stupid void where his face was. Anything to prove you could still get under his skin so you could talk some sense into that thick head of his.

There was a moment of numbing silence.

“Hm. I do not recall you ever behaving quite so badly,” Then Artorias remarked, his voice hauntingly calm, an indication that the spilled meal on the floor meant nothing at all to him. He didn’t even blink, either, only watching you with unsettling patience.

Your fingers dug into the rug so hard your nails bent painfully. Every muscle in your arms became tense. “Stop with this stupid play and release me right now!”

He had yet to answer, as if waiting for you to tire yourself out.

“Artorias!”

Your voice cracked as you shouted, rage and fear spilling out all at once. Yet it couldn’t get a reaction out of him, like your words were wind against stone, a cup of water to raging forest fire.

“Naughty girl. You should learn never to raise your voice at your lord.” The man sounded so collected after a while, but there was nothing kind in it anymore.

He rose to his full height, towering over you so completely that craning your neck to meet his gaze actually hurt.

Your stomach twisted as he stepped forward. Before you could even think of backing away, his hand already clamped around your arm.

“Wait—!”

Artorias dragged you across the floor, the chain rattling harshly with every movement until you hit the edge of the bed.

“And I shall teach you that.”

You barely had time to gasp before he hauled you onto his lap like you weighed nothing at all. The chain clinked and tugged at your ankle with every struggle, but it didn’t slow him in the slightest.

“Stop! What are you doing? Stop—stop!” Your voice cracked in horror when you felt him lift the delicate fabric of the lacy gown, cold air hitting your exposed skin.

Then the slap came. It landed hard and fast, the sharp crack ringing out so loud it felt like it split the silence in two, making your ears ring. The excruciating pain flared instantly across your skin, sinking deep enough to drag a startled yelp from your throat.

Tears stung your eyes as you tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened, refusing to let you go.

“It hurts! You're hurting me—” Your voice cracked as you clawed at his limp arm, nails scraping uselessly against the cold metal of his gauntlet. In return, he only pressed you harder against his lap, locking you in place as another harsh smack landed, and then another, then another.

Each strike burned hot across skin that had never been touched this way before, the sensitive flesh stinging and throbbing in brutal waves.

You'd had your bones broken and flesh torn before, but nothing felt like this. Like every humiliating, punishing impact was designed not just to hurt but to brand you. To remind you exactly who held you there and why you couldn’t do a thing to stop it.

He only stopped once he decided you’d had enough. When your voice broke pitifully, and your sobs turned frantic. The beautiful eyes that had once looked at him with admiration, were now wet and shining with humiliation.

Artorias’s breath came heavy as he finally let his hand fall still. He watched you for a moment, the rise and fall of your shoulders, the way you refused to look at him.

His gloved hand moved then, slower, gentler. He rubbed the reddened skin where he’d struck you over and over, feeling a tinge of guilt coiling around his chest.

But then his eyes flicked downward, catching the shift of your hips, the subtle tremble in your thighs...and the unmistakable glistening wetness between them. Not only were you a naughty girl, but a lying one as well.

“Ah,” he murmured. “So that is it. Look at you. Did you enjoy this? Being reminded where you belong?” The corner of his mouth must have twitched as something dark flickered in his tone.

“No…” You whimpered as you fought to steady yourself.

But your breath hitched in betrayal when one of his thick fingers pressed firmly between your folds, spreading you open.

“No?” he repeated softly, mocking the quaver in your voice. His head tilted as if studying you from a new angle, and you stopped breathing when that gloved hand settled fully between your thighs.

“Then what is this?” He pressed in harder. That single finger slid along your slit, dragging slowly from your entrance up to the sensitive nub, spreading the wetness over your skin. The noise was so shameless, you actually whimpered, biting your lip hard enough to hurt.

“Listen,” he ordered. He moved the finger again, even slower this time, letting you hear every squelch that filled the silent room. Your whole body jerked in his lap at the humiliation.

“Does that sound like ‘no’ to you?”

You struggled under his painful grip, your throat worked as you tried to answer, but all you managed was a sob. He clicked his tongue and stroked again, thumb joining in now to part you further, exposing every glistening fold to his scrutiny.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, leaning close enough you could feel his breath against your ear. “Absolutely drenched from getting spanked like a disobedient child. Do not lie to me.”

Artorias resumed stroking, fingers gliding over your slick folds to tease your clit, coaxing fresh wetness with every friction. In response, you thrashed helplessly on his lap, but your frail human strength was nothing against his unyielding, godlike grip.

"How about we put this place of yours to good use."

He shoved you down onto the bed, pinning your wrists tight despite your frantic struggles and shrill screams. In seconds, black tendrils of abyssal darkness slithered around them, coiling and tightening until they bound you like cuffs.

"Hey, stop it—"

Your words got cut off in a gasp when his face dipped between your thighs. You couldn’t see him clearly beneath the shadow of that cobalt-blue, but the hot breath ghosting over your aching core made you cower.

He held your legs wide apart with such strength, the armored weight of his arms pinning you so firmly you could barely twitch. From the roiling darkness beneath his hood, the slimy tendril uncoiled fully, glistening black and wet as it snaked down between your thighs.

You sucked in a desperate breath, eyes wide with terror and humiliation as it slithered over your folds. The first contact was cold and slick, making you jolt and cry out, your cunt reflexively clenching around nothing yet.

“Easy,” he rumbled with dark amusement. His grip only tightened, keeping you spread open and vulnerable while the tendril stroked you endearingly, dragging hot trails across your sensitive flesh.

It prodded at your entrance and your clit in turn, rubbing circles that left you soaked and twitching. Every squelching noise it made filled the room, drowning out your high-pitched whimpers.

Then it pressed in, punching a sob out of you when it forced its way inside, the cold slickness stretching you open, making your walls clench. He let out a guttural sound of pleasure at the sight, head dipping lower.

Much to your horror, from the hooded void, more blackness pooled out, tendrils wrapping around your thighs to hold you even more still..

He didn’t give you time to adjust either. The main tendril inside you began to pump, slow first, while another smaller one emerged to flick and lash at your swollen clit. Your back arched hard off the bed as you shrieked, breathing heavily when that second tendril wrapped around your nub and squeezed, pulsing with a rhythm that sent brutal sparks through your belly.

Your slick drooled down onto the bedding below, strings of it glistening in the evening light as he kept working you with those abyssal limbs.

“Listen to yourself,” he growled, voice muffled from where he watched between your legs. “So damn wet for me.”

For a moment, he let out a deep moan of his own as if savoring your taste through the tendril. It pulsed in response inside you, grinding mercilessly against that sweet spot until you were thrashing in his hold, babbling nonsense and sobbing for mercy.

"Ah...stop. Stop this, please..." you cried out. Yet, your hip wouldn't stop thrashing for more.

The tendril on your clit tightened, vibrating just slightly, making you spasm around the one buried in you. Artorias watched it all with amusement, holding you down so you couldn’t squirm away.

He blamed the Abyss for making him this obsessed.

The abuse your clit was getting soon became too much when he hauled your hips clean off the bed, folding you nearly in half without a hint of care for your frantic cries. The chain on your ankle swung wildly, clanging against his armored shoulder with every desperate kick, but he ignored it completely.

If anything, it only seemed to excite him more.

Your eyes watered from the burn in your stretched muscles as he forced you open even wider, leaving you shamefully exposed to the writhing tendrils. They lashed and rubbed with merciless precision, one flickering your swollen clit to squeeze and pulse until you screamed, while another kept thrusting deep inside you, the lewd noises sounding impossibly loud.

Every time you struggled, he let out a hungry laugh, the shadows under his hood churning with feverish delight. The more you resisted, the more brutal the tentacles became—fucking you harder, tighter, wringing out every single reaction from you.

Your orgasm slammed into you before you even realized it was coming, ripping a raw, strangled scream from your throat. Your body convulsed hard in his grip, back arching until it hurt.

Artorias actually flinched in surprise when your tight little hole spasmed and squirted a sudden gush of glistening fluid all over the probing tendril and his armored torso, splattering wetly as if your body itself was trying to reject the overwhelming pleasure he forced on it.

For a moment, he was stunned at the mess you'd made. Then a delighted laugh rumbled from his heaving chest. The slick tendrils finally slid free from your drenched cunt with an obscene squelch, leaving your hole twitching and gaping slightly from the relentless abuse.

You barely had time to come back from the high when the door behind Artorias creaked open. Heavy, thudding footsteps echoed through the room, so familiar they made your blood run cold.

Ornstein stepped inside without a word, golden armor catching the glow as he surveyed the scene. He set his spear casually in the corner, its bottom scraping the floor. Then the lionhead turned slowly toward you, taking in the scene while you were completely sprawled out and shaking in another man's grip.

“I was out there fighting for my life with the dragons,” he drawled, folding his arms over his broad chest. “And you two were having fun without me? That hurts.”

You didn’t miss the mocking tilt of his head, the false wounded tone. He was lying, obviously so. If anything, you knew the dragons had been the ones fighting for their lives just to keep him at bay.

"You are back early, Ornstein," Artorias remarked. His attitude was deceptively calm as he shifted just enough to let his comrade approach, though his hand stayed clamped possessively around your waist, fingers digging in.

"Lord Gwyn let me off early this time," Ornstein replied with a lazy smirk in his tone. "Plus, I missed the girl."

The bed creaked under his weight as he sat down beside you, the thick golden armor now gone, leaving only the layered cloth and lean muscle beneath. He stretched an arm across the mattress behind you, eyes roaming over your spent, trembling form with open hunger.

"Ornstein, if you were wise, you would let me walk out of that door." You ground the words out through clenched teeth, still pulling frantically at the writhing darkness binding your arms together above your head.

Your defiance drew a moment of silence from Ornstein. His visor tilted slightly, studying you in that eerie, predator's stillness before he finally reached out, gloved fingers brushing your tear-streaked, sweat-dampened cheek.

"You are as amusing as ever," he murmured, voice dropping to a condescending softness. "Why would you wish to run away now, when we are both here for you?"

Until he leaned in closer. "You should know the moment you walk out of this place, you will make all of Anor Londo your enemy. Would you want that?"

Then it twisted into something worse, just enough to make your blood run cold. "For us to hunt you down and kill everyone you love?"

"What? W-what are you blabbing about?!" You spat, voice shaking with anger and terror.

"Now, now. There’s no need to be so agitated," Ornstein cooed, sounding downright soothing in his condescension. "Be a good girl and let us make love to you, okay?"

Right when the words left his lips, he pushed them your dry, cracked ones, trying to coax them open. You turned your head frantically, trying to escape the kiss, disgust churning in your gut at the thought of him daring to threaten you one moment and feign tenderness the next.

But Artorias wouldn’t allow it. He held you down ruthlessly, one massive hand splayed over your stomach to keep you pinned while the other flipped the delicate lacy gown up, bunching it around your waist. His hooded face dipped low, shamelessly basking in the sight of your supple breasts spilling free, his breath hitching with raw hunger at the sight of your vulnerable, exposed flesh.

Ornstein’s tongue pushed insistently into your mouth, tasting you deeply, drinking in every muffled whimper you couldn’t hold back. His kiss was wet and greedy, forcing you to gasp and shudder beneath him.

At the same time, Artorias lowered his head to your chest, lips sealing around one of your perky nipples. He sucked carelessly, tongue flicking and lapping at the sensitive bud as if he expected milk to pour out for him before grazing it lightly with his teeth, making your back arch helplessly despite your muffled cries into Ornstein’s devouring mouth.

From below, you felt a hand slide possessively over your inner thigh, fingers pressing into the soft, abused heat that had been left pulsing and raw from Artorias’s earlier torment. The contact was firm, almost casual in its cruelty, dragging your folds apart to expose you fully.

You let out a muffled cry against Ornstein’s mouth when two thick fingers pushed in without warning. The obscene squelch filled the room once more as he spread you open around them, forcing your walls to stretch and squeeze around the rude intrusion.

He didn’t pause to let you adjust. Instead, he fucked you with those fingers immediately, pumping in and out with a steady rhythm that made your hips twitch with each thrust. The chain on your ankle rattled uselessly. You tried to squirm away, but Ornstein’s arm kept you pinned in place, his mouth still locked over yours, swallowing your every broken noise.

The soft tongue explored your mouth desperately, hot and heavy, coiling around yours and forcing it to dance with him. You whimpered, trying to turn your head away. Yet his grip on your jaw was iron, making every protest die in breathless gasps while his fingers curled inside you, seeking out that sensitive spot.

When your walls fluttered helplessly around him, betraying you with gushes that made each pump wetter, noisier, he moaned approvingly into your mouth.

Above you, Artorias was just as sedulous. His hood shadowed his face but couldn’t hide the deep, scary sounds he made as he worshipped your chest. His mouth latched onto one nipple, sucking hard enough to make you cry out, tongue swirling over the swollen bud until it ached and tingled.

He shifted to the other breast, licking wet stripes over your skin before sealing his lips around the peak. You felt his teeth graze it back and forth again. He became creative when his gauntleted hand came up to squeeze and knead your breasts roughly, toying with them like they were stress-relieving tools.

“Look at you,” Ornstein finally murmured against your lips, voice hoarse with lust as he pulled back just enough to speak, thumb brushing your spit-slick lower lip. His fingers never stopped moving inside you, pressing ruthlessly at that sweet spot until your legs shook. “Making such a mess on my hand. You are so, so wet it’s dripping.”

He twisted his fingers with a wet squelch, making your hips buck despite yourself, while Artorias’s tongue lashed at your nipple, warm breath heating your skin.

“Stop…please…” You sobbed from the humiliation and overstimulation.

But they only chuckled at the adorable plea.

"Artorias has a thing for helpless, begging girls, you know?" Ornstein drawled with a smirk. His fingers suddenly sped up, thrusting faster, thumb slipping down to grind circles over your clit until your entire body shook in their grip.

"Only when it’s her," Artorias growled in response as he dipped lower. Mouth pressed to your chest, teeth sinking in to leave stinging bite marks all over your tender skin.

They worked you over and over, hungry in their assault of kisses, roaming hands, and shameless teasing touches. Every wet lick, every squeeze, every thrust of fingers made you squirm and sob so bad, your heat coiling in your belly until you were right on the edge of cumming again.

But just as you were about to burst, they stopped.

Your breath came in broken sobs as you were left dazed and aching, core throbbing with cruel, unsatisfied need. Frustration twisted in your gut. Your head rang with static noise, making you wish desperately that this was all some sick nightmare you’d wake from.

Too bad it wasn’t.

You barely realized what was happening when Artorias shifted behind you, his massive arm sliding under your limp, trembling form. He hoisted you up easily, as if you weighed nothing at all, settling you in his lap with your back pressed firmly against his chest.

Your eyes flew open in panic when you felt Ornstein move in closer, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you wide open. The cold, heavy weight of his cock rested against your slick, abused entrance as he lined himself up, his golden eyes burning with predatory hunger at the sight of your hole twitching and dripping for him.

“W-wait—!” you babbled, thrashing weakly in Artorias’s iron grip, but all it did was make Ornstein’s smirk widen as he pushed the swollen head of his cock insistently against your yielding folds.

He moaned out loud as your prepped little cunt clamped down on him with a near-death grip the moment he forced his thick length inside. After so many years spent yearning for you, his lovely, stubborn apprentice, finally having you like this, spread open and trembling, felt like a gift sent from above.

"Refrain yourself from breaking her," Artorias said from behind you, his arms like iron bands around your legs to hold you steady even as you thrashed.

"Don't think I can guarantee that," the dragonslayer shot back with a savage grin.

Then he laughed lustfully in his chest, chivalrous eyes locked on the sight of you stretched tight around him, before he thrust in again, harder this time, pounding into you without mercy as your pitiful cries filled the room.

Your head lolled back onto Artorias’s shoulder with every pound. Hazy eyes glazed with tears, every breath coming out of you either as a whimper or a scream. And Artorias hadn't looked away—not for a second. He held you open for Ornstein.

Massive, clawed hands gripped your thighs so hard to keep you from sliding forward, you’d feel the bruises for days. He forced your legs wide apart, spreading you indecently so Ornstein could drive in as deep as he wanted, your stretched pussy swallowing every inch of him despite your body’s resistance.

Artorias’s hood shadowed his face, but his breathing was harsh. Beneath the dark folds, his eyes burned with naked hunger, sp locked on the sight of your hole clenching around his comrade’s cock. Not to mention, he could feel the heat of your slick dripping onto his armored thighs, and the way you spasmed every time Ornstein’s length dragged along your walls.

He was painfully hard himself.

You could feel it, the thick ridge pressing insistently into the small of your back every time you writhed. But he didn’t move to take you, not yet because of the promise he made with Ornstein.

“Good girl,” he growled in your ear. “Take all of him.”

Ornstein let out a laugh, head thrown back slightly as he felt you squeeze tighter with every savage thrust.

“She’s so fucking tight,” he panted, licking his lips as he watched your breasts bounce from the force of his thrusts. “Listen to her, Artorias. She’s crying for it.”

Artorias’s arm tightened across your waist, pulling you back hard against his chest as he forced your legs even wider in response.

“Don’t break her too soon,” he warned again, but his voice shook with lust and betrayal at the sight of you being fucked to the brim.

You squeezed your eyes shut, but curiosity and horror made you peek down at where your body was joined with Ornstein’s. You were so slick that your cunt swallowed his thick cock without protest. It only terrified you more.

There was no hint of the brotherly love you once remembered. That was long gone, replaced by some twisted perversion and obsession. If only you knew, you would have left this wretched place before they could even make it back.

"Fuck, think I'm close," Ornstein grunted. He slammed into you harder, making the entire bed shake with each brutal thrust. His eyes then flicked up to Artorias’s larger frame, a mocking grin twisting his lips. "You think I should do it inside? Give her a child and have you be the uncle, yeah?"

Your eyes went wide in horror. A sob tore from your throat as you started thrashing wildly in Artorias’s iron grip, chains rattling madly against the bed.

"N—no, you can’t!!" you screamed, voice cracking with terror.

But Artorias didn’t budge. His arms were unmovable bands of steel around your waist and thighs, forcing you open even wider for his friend. His dark, hooded head turned slightly, watching with gleaming eyes as your body was pounded without mercy.

"If you are so confident in your seed," His tone was low and mocking despite the lust that thickened every word, "then be my guest."

The mental image of you swollen with child made his cock twitch so hard he wished he could pounce you right now.

Ever since you were a kid, just a tamed little wild thing. Trouble always found you, or maybe you went looking for it. Always so damn hard-headed, forever talking back but never knowing when to shut up. Always so eager to square up with him, too, even though you never stood a chance.

Maybe having another little version of you didn’t sound so bad.

He could see the appeal in it, actually. The thought of you waddling around carrying his child, of helping you raise it, of scolding a stubborn little brat with your same spark and fire, made something fierce and almost possessively tender burn in his chest.

Yeah. He could get used to that.

Without warning, Ornstein’s grip on your waist tightened like a vice, fingers digging deep enough to leave bruises as he hauled you flush against him in one savage motion. The swollen head of his thick cock rammed hard into your cervix, sending a sharp, dizzying shock up your spine that made your vision blur and your toes curl helplessly.

You choked on a scream, eyes rolling back, whilst he groaned loudly with satisfaction. In a matter of seconds, you felt the hot, thick spurts of his cum flooding deep inside you, coating your walls and painting your womb white. The wet heat spread through you in humiliating pulses, leaking around the seal of your stretched cunt as he stayed buried to the hilt, making sure not a drop could escape.

It took Ornstein a moment to catch his breath, his chest heaving with each inhale. Sweat glistened on his forehead, matting fiery red strands of hair to his skin; the usually tidy mane was now wild and tangled.

He let out a satisfied chuckle as he finally pulled out, a wet squelch marking his exit. Sharp eyes instantly locked on the mess he’d made—thick, pearly ropes of his cum spilling freely from your abused, gaping cunt, trailing in lewd strings onto the sheets below.

“With that much,” he drawled lazily, completely mesmerized, “I wouldn’t even be surprised if you were with child by tomorrow.”

He laughed again with the same cruel amusement gleaming in his eyes.

"Shut up, you—you—" you stammered, trying to think of some insult as you weakly kicked out at him.

Ornstein just caught your ankle effortlessly, smirking. He pressed a teasing, mocking kiss to the inside of it, the gesture making you shudder in disgust.

"Complain to me later," he murmured with a lazy drawl. "Because I doubt Artorias can wait any longer."

With that, he shifted to the side, finally giving the other man room.

Artorias wasted no time. He leaned in close, the shadow under his hood pressing to your tear-streaked cheek, like he was kissing you. But all you could feel was the cold, suffocating Abyss that clung to him, seeping into your skin and making you shiver.

Then he moved back with predatory calm, letting you fall limply onto the bed. In a blink, the black tendrils binding your wrists vanished into nothingness, freeing you just in time for you to throw your hands over your chest in reflex.

You tried to push yourself up with terror pounding in your veins, but froze when you saw him loosen the front of his dark trousers.

It sprang free with a heavy, lewd slap against his own stomach, massive, pale, and veined so thickly it looked monstrous. Far thicker and longer than Ornstein’s had been. Your eyes went impossibly wide, throat closing up.

There was no way you could take the head alone, let alone the entire thing.

Artorias watched you stare with shaking horror. One of his massive hand wrapped lazily around the impossible length, stroking it.

“Impressive, right?” Ornstein drawled lazily, now lying on his side next to you, head propped on his palm.

His eyes gleamed with open amusement as he watched your face twist in panic. Meanwhile, his free hand roamed over your chest, fingers squeezing and kneading your bite-marked, sensitive breasts, rolling your sore nipples between rough fingertips until you squirmed helplessly.

“No way…I-I can’t take it, he’ll tear me up,” you choked out in fear as you gripped the sheets so hard your knuckles turned white. Sweat dripped from your temples, your whole body trembling.

“No need to worry,” Artorias said from above. “Soon enough you’ll take pleasure in it.”

You sobbed once in horror as he shifted closer, heavy weight pressing the mattress down on either side of your quivering hips. He angled his thick, monstrous cock with one massive, armored hand, lining the veiny length up perfectly with your entrance.

You could feel the hot, heavy head nudging insistently against your drenched folds, the threat of it sinking in making you writhe and squirm in mindless panic.

His grip on your waist was so strong you couldn’t move an inch even if you wanted to. You could only thrash weakly, crying out when you felt the swollen head of his cock press hard against your slit, trying to spread you around something impossibly thick.

Artorias let out a growl the moment he pushed forward, the wide head catching on your stretched entrance but refusing to slide in.

“Too tight,” he snarled with frustration before withdrawing an inch only to shove forward again, grinding the head against you in delicate thrusts that forced your folds apart. Yet still couldn’t bury him even halfway.

You screamed, tears streaming, fingers clawing at the sheets. Your legs kicked weakly.

“Stop. Ah—too big! It won’t fit!”

Beside you, Ornstein let out a dark laugh, watching you squirm with gleaming eyes. He reached over, strong fingers wrapping around one of your thighs to hold it wide and steady. His other hand went between your legs, fingers parting your slippery folds even further, spreading you for Artorias.

“I’ve got you, little assassin,” Ornstein crooned, still using that childish nickname he gave you in the past.

Artorias groaned. He pressed in harder, feeling the resistance given by cruel, grinding inches.

You nearly died when he finally bottomed out inside you, the fat head of his cock slamming into the very deepest part of your core. Your breath hitched on a silent scream as you felt your belly distend slightly with the sheer size of him, the obscene bulge tracing his length beneath your skin.

Your cunt clamped down violently around him, the slick, trembling walls spasming in panicked reflex. It was too much—too big—forcing you open in ways you never thought possible.

Artorias shuddered at the sensation, fingers digging bruises into your hips as he held you locked in place. His breath grew laboured and unsteady. The hood shadowed his face, yet unable to hide the way he trembled with need.

“Gods,” he hissed, voice breaking with dark delight. “You’re too tight…it’s—fuck…it’s perfect.”

He didn’t want to move yet, simply savoring the crushing, molten grip of your cunt around him. The way it pulsed and squeezed like it was trying to force him back out, even as it held him in a vice, was undeniably deadly that...

“I might never want to leave you.”

All hells broke loose the second Artorias began to move. His hips snapped forward with brutal force, dragging that impossibly thick cock almost all the way out before slamming back in, making your entire body jolt against the mattress.

The pain was immediate, tearing a raw scream from your throat as your walls fought to accommodate the brutal intrusion. But with every thrust, the searing burn slowly blurred into something else…hot, tingling pleasure that crawled up your spine, making your legs tremble and your toes curl.

It was humiliating. Psychotic even...how you were falling apart under his charm.

You went from shrieking in pain to letting out these breathless moans you didn’t even recognize as your own. Your mouth fell open, eyes already rolling back with drools slipping from the corner of your lips as Artorias forced your traitorous body to submit.

He didn’t slow down. If anything, he thrust harder, grinding so deep you could feel the head of his cock battering the very entrance to your womb, making your belly bulge slightly with each stroke.

Beside you, Ornstein lay propped on his elbow, watching with predatory glee. His sharp eyes tracked every twitch of your face.

When he saw your drool glistening on your chin, he let out a chuckle.

“Look at you,” he drawled, fingers idly playing with the bruises and bite marks on your tits. “Already drooling for him. Didn’t know you could get so desperate for cock.”

Your sobs mixed with keening moans as Artorias’s thrusts only grew faster. The room was soon filled with wet, rhythmic slaps and your own pitiful sounds of unwilling pleasure.

“A-Artorias!” Before you knew it, you were already cumming. Your back arched violently against him, every muscle locking tight while your cunt clamped down in spasming pulses around his thick cock.

He let out a breathless laugh, sounding more like himself.

“Goodness,” Artorias groaned, the sensation of your walls milking him nearly buckling his control. He had to brace himself, arms trembling as he fought to keep from spilling inside you right then and there. Every pulse of your tight heat was sending bolts of unbearable pleasure through him.

Despite the savage need in his eyes, he was generous enough to slow down, pulling his cock out with a wet slide that left you gasping and twitching on the sheets.

He let you ride out your own orgasm. With tears streaming down flushed red cheeks, you shook with the aftershocks, your chest heaving for breath, clinging onto Ornstein's hand when it took yours in.

Then Artorias moved, looming over you in the dim light. With unsettling ease, he lay back and hauled your limp, quivering body on top of him, settling you astride his broad torso like you weighed nothing at all.

Your arms trembled uselessly at your sides, unable to hold yourself up as he lined himself up again. This time, slick with your own wetness and the copious remnants of Ornstein’s cum leaking out of you, he sank back in with disgusting ease.

From this angle, his size was even more apparent so holding you like this was like having an oversized doll in his lap, completely at his mercy.

Without waiting a second longer, Artorias’s massive hands clamped around your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he yanked you downward at the exact moment he thrust up from below.

“Ah—ah!!”

Your shriek split the air as his cock slammed impossibly deep, the new angle forcing him even further inside you. The fat, veined length speared into that devastatingly sensitive spot deep in your core, the one that made you see stars and scream every single time he hit it.

Your voice cracked on a desperate wail with tears streaming down your cheeks. Even Artorias couldn’t keep quiet, for he groaned and moaned, sounding more like the animal he was becoming.

“Fuck yes,” he growled ferally as he bottomed out once more, grinding that swollen tip against your sweet spot again just to hear you scream so sweetly. “So fucking tight…so good.”

He kept that savage rhythm the same, hauling your hips down every time he thrust up, using your limp body like his personal toy, making sure you felt every last inch of him splitting you open.

When the days were harsh with doubts dangling in his clouded head, you were the answer he had been longing for.

He loved you so much it hurt. The consuming obsession that had festered for years in him, loving you, knowing deep down you would never feel the same way. The Abyss might have ruined him, but it had also given him the courage to take you like this.

Every muffled scream, every pleading sob that fell from your lips would forever be with him in ways he’d never admit. As he forced your hips down onto his rod over and over, feeling you clamp so tight and hot around him, his mind was heavy with the weight of that truth.

Because he remembered.

He remembered every time you’d run to him crying, pleading for that everlasting comfort. Every time he had sat there, ever the stoic knight he was, offering you his shoulder while your tears soaked through his heart. It had taken everything he had to hold back then, to be the good man you needed instead of the selfish monster he felt himself becoming.

But he was done faking it. He was done being just the shade you found comfort in on a hot summer day.

He wanted to be something else to you entirely—a lover, a mate, the only one who could hold you like this, make you feel this way. Even if it meant forcing himself on you.

You were the final flicker of light holding him back from tumbling completely into the madness the Abyss had brought about. He would never let you go, even if it meant death.

As his thrusts grew more desperate, the hand from his non-limp arm snaked up your trembling body to find your neck. His fingers wrapped tight around your throat, squeezing firmly until your breath hitched in a strangled gasp, eyes flying wide with panic.

The pressure was like a stimulant, making your walls clamp down even tighter around his thick cock, eager to milk him with every involuntary spasm.

It felt so damn good that for one brief, perfect moment. That Artorias actually believed your cunt was driving the Abyss right out of him. Every squeeze, every flutter of your adorable, helpless cunt, felt like it’s chasing away the corruption in his bones.

He let out a roar as he came with one brutal, final thrust that drove you down onto him to the hilt, grinding so deep you saw stars. Hot, thick spurts of his cum flooded your puffy pussy, warmth spreading as he filled you up, claiming every last inch of space inside you.

Yet, Artorias kept moving. Hips jerking in messy, unsteady thrusts, he fucked you through the gut-wrenching high. To the point his cock throbbed and pulsed inside you, still unloading more with every spasm, refusing to pull out.

It was like you were some succubus conjured to drain him dry—your body sucking the very life out of him, taking every ounce of his strength, his sanity, his love. He groaned in your ear one last time, voice breaking with a helpless desperation when he gave you all he had left, thrusting sloppily until his limbs trembled and gave up.

You unconsciously clung to his massive frame, fingers digging weakly into the hard lines of his armor when he crashed down, barely holding himself up with one arm.

He had given your womb a second, merciless chance to get bred full of him. And you loathed how your body betrayed you completely when his seeds flood your garden. Because the pleasure he brought was too much, searing your nerves until you couldn’t even tell what was happening anymore.

Maybe you came. Maybe you pissed yourself.

You weren’t so sure. Your body convulsed and shook, leaking slick and seed and everything else onto his thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you.

The only thing grounding you in that dizzy, drowning haze was Ornstein’s slow, surprisingly gentle kisses pressed to your temples. His lips were warm and patient, brushing over your sweaty, salty skin as if to remind you to come back to them.

The redhead clicked his tongue, shaking his head with feigned annoyance when he saw how heavy your eyelids had grown, fluttering weakly before finally closing. You looked so small like that, limp and boneless in Artorias’s bruising hold.

Artorias let out a low, uneven exhale as he finally lifted himself off you, the creak of the bed groaning beneath his weight. His hands then moved with uncharacteristic care, adjusting your slack form so you wouldn’t suffocate under him, though the worry flickering behind his abyss-tainted eyes was unmistakable. He looked down at you, taking in every detail. From your tear-streaked cheeks to your swollen, well-fucked cunt, which was leaking with their mixed release.

And in that moment of quiet, your body finally gave up its fight.

Your breathing slowed prominently with relaxed shoulders. Foggy head lolled back against the pillow seconds after, you drifted off without another sound, slipping into a deep, healing slumber.

Ornstein watched you with a small, knowing smirk, thumb brushing idly across the bruises on your thigh.

“Soft little thing,” he muttered, voice softer than he’d admit.

“Think she’ll want the north wing for a nursery?”

Artorias didn’t answer. He was watching your face with quiet hunger, as if memorizing it for every nightmare the Abyss would give him.

“I like the east wing better. It is more secluded there.” He finally spoke, pulling out just enough to let his seeds spill freely.

“No one would have to know about her whereabouts.”

Ornstein then huffed in defeat, watching over your sleeping form before admitting the corruption out loud. “The Abyss sure did change you, huh?”

#dark souls #soulsborne #x reader #imagine #yandere #tw noncon #tw dubcon #artorias the abysswalker #dragon slayer ornstein

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doflamingo2000 · 2 days ago

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Gojo Satoru:

The Birth of Infinity “Throughout heaven and earth… I alone am the honored one

Born Different. Built Different. Chosen by the Cosmos.

Satoru Gojo didn’t come into this world to blend in. He came in like a glitch in the matrix — the first in 400 years to inherit both the Limitless technique and the legendary Six Eyes. From day one, he was the event, not the consequence. Reality didn’t just bend around him — it cracked open and rearranged itself in his presence.

He didn’t learn the rules. He rewrote them.

🌐 The Strongest. Period.

“Untouchable” isn’t a metaphor. You literally can’t touch him. His technique creates infinite space between him and everything else. Try to punch him? You’ll just slow down… forever.

Gojo is the kind of sorcerer who pulls up late to the battlefield, blindfolded, cracking jokes, and then solo wipes a threat designed to destroy humanity.

He’s not just powerful. He’s overpowered and knows it — and somehow that just makes him hotter. Cocky? Yeah. Annoying? Definitely. Wrong? Never.

🥀 But strength like his… it isolates.

Gojo Satoru’s story is tragic wrapped in swagger. He’s the strongest — but that means no one can stand beside him.

He watched the world break his best friend, Suguru Geto. Watched him fall. And in the end… he was the one who had to kill him.

That? That changed him. Behind the blindfold? Grief. Behind the jokes? Loneliness. Behind the power? A man who carries everything, and dares not drop it.

🎓 Sensei Gojo: The Last Line of Defense

Despite it all — the weight, the trauma, the losses — Gojo still shows up for the next generation. Yuji. Megumi. Nobara. He trains them, trolls them, protects them. Because he knows they’re the future. And he’s willing to carry the past if it means they don’t have to.

He doesn’t just teach them how to fight. He teaches them how to survive in a world that tried to break even him.

🔥 And then there was Shibuya.

You know. THE moment. He descended like a god. Took on thousands of curses. Made it look easy. Made us believe no one could touch him.

But then? He got sealed. And the world went still. Even the manga panels looked empty without him.

That’s how you know someone’s different. When their absence feels louder than a war.

💀 Gojo vs. Sukuna.

The fight of the century. Infinity vs. the King of Curses. We laughed. We screamed. We cried. And when it was over? We were left with a silence so brutal, it echoed through the fandom like a curse itself.

Win or lose… Gojo was never just fighting Sukuna. He was fighting fate. He was fighting every chain jujutsu society wrapped around him. And he broke them. Even in death, he won.

💬 So yeah… “Gojo Satoru” isn’t just a name.

He’s a movement. He’s a myth. He’s every fangirl’s fantasy and every curse’s worst nightmare. He’s strength laced with sorrow, arrogance built from trauma, and beauty soaked in blood.

The blindfold isn’t to hide — It’s to protect us from seeing a soul so heavy it might blind us.

“Don’t worry, I’m the strongest.” And somehow, even now… We still believe him.

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esther-dot · 21 hours ago

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In working on my JEALOUS JON FIC LIST, I stumbled across a time when certain s7 events were disappointing to Jonsas, so they looked elsewhere to have some fun, all the while knowing, Dickon would only live for a few more days...

2017 AUGUST 8 - first post I could find about it:

[link]

2017 AUGUST 11 - Everyone 100% knew poor Dickon was toast, so it was a ship in defiance of the GoT gods...

[link]

2017 AUGUST 11 - Sansa Stark x Dickon Tarly gifset

2017 AUGUST 11 - True Knight 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 fic series by @zip001

When they brought him to her, this bandaged giant of a man on a stretcher, she gasped and initially thought it was Sandor. He was dying. She had hoped that those rumors of his death, the death of the Hound, were wrong about him as they were about her. She had no wings. Jon held her shoulders as she was still trembling. “He is Sam Tarly’s younger brother. He needs comfort.” Sam, Sam was Jon’s closest friend at the Wall. This was his younger brother, like Ric- He should not die alone.

2017 AUGUST 11 - An Unexpected Song ficlet

Sansa marries Dickon For Reasons, is pleasantly surprised. and sequel

2017 AUGUST 12:

[link]

2017 AUGUST 12 - where jon meets someone brave gentle and stronger and immediately needs to fight him gifset

2017 AUGUST 12 - Everyone loves a good hard Dicksa ficlet by @vixleonard

The direwolf scares him. Dickon wouldn’t ever voice such a concern, especially since he’s seen Sam scratch its ears like a common dog, but King Jon’s white wolf is a fierce thing to behold. There’s nothing like it in the Reach, and though its never made a move on Dickon, he’s wary of it. His lady wife finds this hilarious.

2017 AUGUST 13 - Dickon & Sansa | I'll crawl home to her (AU) video edit

2017 AUGUST 13 The Measure of a man 2k

Preparations for Sansa's wedding are shaping up rather nicely.

2017 AUGUST 13:

[link]

This, “even when we lose, we win!” attitude is something I deeply love about our fandom. 💗

A lot of Sansa fans, not just Jonsas, got in on it, and even though their fears were correct and Dickon did get toasted, death cannot stop shippers, the shipping continued!

GIFSETS - CANON AUs: #I will not. - aggressive!Sansa/adorkable!Dickon (2017 AUGUST 17) - AU + SANSA AS THE LADY OF HORN HILL (2017 AUGUST 25) - the new Lord and Lady of Horn Hill (awkwardly) starting their life together (2017 SEPTEMBER 1) - dickon survives and joins winterfell with dany’s army, where he meets sansa (2017 SEPTEMBER 7) - wedding at winterfell (2017 OCTOBER 3) - looking (2017 NOVEMBER 24)

GIFSETS - MODERN AUs: it looks liked they're in a calvin klein commercial (2017 AUGUST 17) - because she has red hair and he is melting (2017 SEPTEMBER 12)

GIFSET OTHER AUs: Dicksa sail the Dicksa ship themselves. - GOTxBlack Sails AU (2017 AUGUST 22)

EDIT CANON AUs: Dickon at Battle of the Bastards (2017 AUGUST 14) - Y’all, Dickon is going to have such a good time on Bear Island (2017 AUGUST 14) - i'll be your soldier (2017 AUGUST 23) - maybe we should kiss a little (2017 SEPTEMBER 10) - beautiful and kind but sad (2018 FEBRUARY 15) - It must be the hunter's moon (2018 NOVEMBER 29) - Sansa and Dickon found love into each other's arms. (2019 JULY 30)

EDIT MODERN AUs: sweet winter (2017 AUGUST 25) - city girl, country boy au (2017 OCTOBER 7)- And I wanna kiss you (2019 MAY 8) - Sansa can already count on more than one hand the amount of times her and Sam’s brother, Dickon, have been mistaken for a couple at this wedding (2019 AUGUST 25) - i do for the rest of my life (2019 SEPTEMBER 7)

EDIT OTHER AUs: phantom of the opera (2018 FEBRUARY 24) - pirate au (2020 JULY 14)

And there are more fics!

Those skies, they soon will clear (in my life, now you’re here) 2k (2017 AUGUST 14)

Let's just pretend the Tarlys bent the knee and Dany didn't turn them into grilled meat. Or, what could have happened if Dickon's arms were still attached to his torso and the world of Westeros were a much brighter place.

The Warmth Of Close Observation 1k (2017 AUGUST 18)

A sweet homecoming

Give My Hands Their One True Purpose ficlet (2017 AUGUST 19)

He wears his hair cropped short and close to his head, a style completely unlike the shaggy length favored by the men of the North. Sansa delights in touching it, in letting the pleasing bristle of it sift through her fingers. She loves to leave it mussed and untidy; it makes him look so boyishly handsome that the remnants of her young girl’s heart throbs as it once had for a boy who was entirely unworthy.

The Snow It Melts The Soonest When The Winds Begin To Sing by @blackholeofprocrastination (2017 AUGUST 22)

Super buff Dickon throwing sacks of grain around Winterfell? You’re talking my language nonny!

Jon has to marry them fast because she’s pregnant. ficlet by @justadram (2017 AUGUST 24)

“You wanted to see me?” Sansa asks, her furs sweeping the rushes, as she comes to stand before Jon. “I did,” he says, pushing himself to his feet from where he was seated, pouring over a map and trying to focus on battle plans with Dickon’s words playing over in his head. “I had an interesting meeting with Dickon Tarly this morning.”

Dickon arrives in the North and meets Sansa ficlet by @justadram (2017 AUGUST 30)

She notices the awkward reunion between Sam and Dickon Tarly, as awkward as the reunions she had with her own younger siblings. It is familiar to her, the way they don’t seem to know what to say to each other, the ghosts that seem to follow them, the way they try in spite of everything. She sees how the younger brother treats Gilly with the respect most men deny women. She hasn’t seen him be disrespectful yet. Not with anyone.

counting the stars ficlet (2017 AUGUST 31)

Dickon wakes alone, in a haze of confusion–he hasn’t heard Sansa leave the bed, but when his eyes open she is not there besides him. His panic lessens when he glimpses her nightgown through the curtains when a soft summer breeze stirs them.

modern, wedding au ficlet (2019 AUGUST 16)

He was taller than her, broad and bulking and with a head of nicely styled light brown hair. Frankly, he was attractive, but in a way that had fucked her over before. An “I know I’m attractive” sort of attractive.

#jonsa #dicksa #jonsa fandom history #our fandom is wonderful and wonderfully hilarious! <3

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imnotsoscaredofsufferingnow · 2 days ago

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dear @piggledy-higgledy i feel like you and me might be the only two people on this website (or maybe anywhere) who dislike mercedes so i feel obliged to come out and support your point ALSO because i think this is just a stellar take!!

about your first point, i so often think about this and i have never seen anyone else talk about it: to me, mercedes and edmond at the beginning are not the epitome of true love. they are two extremely young people experiencing their first love, with all its intensity and idealization. dumas meant to capture this feeling because it is a pretty common thing people experience, but is it true love? i don’t know. in reality, they could have very well ended up being incompatible in the long run, especially because if you pay attention, edmond was already showing signs of his count persona (dark intensity, quick temper) in the beginning of the book.

the point is that we will never know, and neither will they, because they were robbed of that opportunity. that is why the fandom ships them so much i think. it’s so easy to fantasize about something that was never realized: it could have been the most amazing beautiful love story but what a damn shame it never happened!!! this is what mercedes’ tragedy (as well as the fandom lol), that she is pining for their lost life together, her lost happiness, and for edmond, who is now fundamentally changed. she does not love the count as he is NOW, and would probably be horrified to learn what he has done throughout the novel. also what would they even talk about? 'so mercedes, ever since we didn't see each other i became interested in drugs, types of executions, alchemy, and all things from the east! teehee' this is a joke but yeah. come on now. in the beginning, they were kind of in the same socio-economic bracket, so it was easy and natural for them to bond as they lived in similar worlds: that is not true anymore.

i don't definitely judge her for marrying someone else, or that she has different priorities (her son, obviously) in the second half of the book. i don't dislike her because i think she is a bad person. the reason why i dislike her is hard to pinpoint because from the moment she appears, i just had an off feeling about her lol (sometimes you just don't vibe with a character please let's normalize that again), but the way she purposefully gives up her free will (the quotes you chose illustrate this perfectly) is something that really bothers me.

the novel is full with women exercising their free will even in a society where they are allowed very little (eugénie, valentine, hérmine, héloïse, and ofc haydée my best girl). it is not easy for them, but they fight for it with fucking tooth and nail, and i am so proud, even if they do questionable things because they are doing what they want!! this wretched world can't take that away from them. mercedes willingly gives her agency up, shifting the blame on god.

"If I believed that God had given me free will, what would remain to save me from despair!" uhm.

i saw someone on youtube call mercedes a mafia wife, and i thought that was... well, first of all kind of hilarious with a grain of truth to it. i am sure she did not know about what her husband did, but being sometimes blissfully sometimes not ignorant is kind of a character trait for her, and the quotes reflect this as well.

i also very much agree with your point that lots of characters are accomplices in their own punishment (this is a reason why i am less hard on count for the crazy shit he does) and in several occasions, they could have avoided their downfall if they stopped being shitty. like the big three (villefort, danglars, morcerf) did horrible things OUTSIDE of what they did to edmond and showed no signs of stopping.

after i read their final interaction, my takeaway was to vow to never be like mercedes. to never be someone who gives up on life, just because life did not work out the way she originally planned. life is about failing and picking yourself up back again again again AND AGAIN. this is also what the book teaches.

i'm sorry but mercedes is technically the antithesis of the message 'wait and hope'. the book makes this clear by awarding the people who wait and hope with happiness or at least the promise of rebirth.

and yet again i know she married fernand for economic reasons i get it!! I GET IT! but at the end, she does have the choice to reinvent her life in any way really, and chooses not to take it. (i do not mean she should forgive the count after what happened with her husband and their life, again i think that ship has sailed a LONG FUCKING TIME AGO, but she could still find her happiness.)

i never want to be a person who loses hope, and trust me that life "has so shaken me with storms" as well. there is no quality of mine that i am prouder of than being hopeful, and it reassures me to think that edmond be would proud of me for that.

(to anyone reading who is very bothered by this take: feel free to block me, and i say this with this love and peace, i promise! you deserve to have a good time interacting with this fandom, and i deserve that, too. we don't need to interact if my opinions are upsetting to you, genuinely, there are many blogs who love mercedes and think completely differently.)

Continuing my ongoing series about the count of Monte Cristo:

I have read the chapter where Mercedes reveals that she knew who he was. She knew, from the moment she heard his voice, that he was in fact Edmond Dantès (the name has not been written since… how many chapters? How many thousands of words?) and she begs him to not kill her only child. He accepts. He foregoes his revenge, put it aside, and decides that he will die instead in the duel that opposes him against Albert.

And she is ok with it.

It breaks my heart. Even HE is surprised by how readily she accepts that he will die, even after hearing his revenge, and how he has been wronged. She is just happy that he has remained the kind Edmond that she loved, and that her son will continue on living. She is wretched and she is miserable living with Fernand de Morcerf whose reputation has been ruined (for the murder of Ali Pacha).

How can one love a man so much and refuse him even one’s tears, when he is so ready to die just to avoid you pain?

#i ended on a very personal note bc this book is very important to me #love you for this take dear mutual #we are in this together even if everyone else disagrees

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formulapookie · 10 months ago

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🎀💕

under the cut to read

blowjob brothers bez/edo, 3.6k words (smut)

He doesn’t even know how many drinks he’s had, but who cares?

Everyone’s so far gone no one will judge him for being wasted at this party.

There's music so loud he’s glad they rented a house far from pretty much everything else, because if they ever did this in one of their homes they’d already have been sued and reported to the police for disturbance.

Bez has thrown himself in the pool like four times already, Edo downed something like ten shots in a competition with the other DJ, and he had taken picture of every fucking thing which happened during the party.

“Aleeeeee” Bez calls for him, laughing like an idiot, wet from the pool he just came out of.

“Ale Ale bro” “Yeah?” “Imma - Imma get Edo jealous y’know?” “Why? He’s not doing anything” “Exactly! Should be doing me” “Bez you two have sex every moment of the day, it’s not a tragedy this one eh” “It is because I want him to -” “Yeah no I’m not listening” “Oh come on as if you didn’t enjoy when you joined us”

And Ale has to stop talking for a sec because yeah, he can’t deny he enjoyed it more than just a little.

And it’s not new for the two of them to be close and affectionate, but right now Bez is basically wrapping himself sorta koala-style on him, and Edo is watching.

As is staring a hole through him smelling like jealousy and possessiveness.

Because yeah, the three of them did have sex together a few times, but it was something coming from all of them and certainly Bez didn’t act like this, ignoring his boyfriend and latching only onto Ale.

And Edo tends to be somewhat territorial when it comes to Bez, because it’s not a secret more than just one guy or girl wants to spend their night with him, and even if he’s ok with threesomes he also wants to have his boyfriend for himself.

“Bez come on Edo is staring, you gotta get away” “Nah” “Bez. I don’t want to die because you’re horny” “Edo is not gonna do anything”

Meanwhile Edo is very much doing something, which is rapidly ditching the convo he’s stuck in to come get his boyfriend who’s decided that apparently Ale is the entertainment for the night instead of him.

“May I have my boyfriend back or do you think you want to keep him?” “I told him to go to you! He’s - he’s just not listening” “Go back to your conversation with that guy Edo, keep ignoring me” “Bez it’s a guy from RR, we gotta talk about the merch” “Ah ha, yeah go back there keep ignoring your boyfriend” “Bez.”

He doesn’t answer, just keeps ignoring Edo and hugging Ale, who honestly has had enough of these two since they met half a year ago.

Knowing that before Edo Bez hadn't even fully realized he was bi is crazy to think.

Even because he had the most obvious crush on Pecco since they were teens.

He remembers when Bez finally got his sexuality and had come to him in a rush.

“Ale Ale Ale I gotta tell you something”

He was dragged away from the conversation he wa having into an alley of the paddock

“Ok calm down Bez you seem crazy” “Yeah I - do you know Edo? ok the DJ?” “Yes Bez I know him he’s my friend”

Bez took a deep breath and looked around

“Ok. He’s - he’s bisexual right?” “Yeah, why?” “I - fuck I think - I think I like him”

Oh. So all it took for Bez to get it was a morally dubious Dj and tattooer.

“You finally realized you like dick?” “I - HOW COULD I HAVE KNOWN I NEVER LIKED ANY GUY” “Pecco.” “What does Pecco has to do with anything” “Bez you had a crush on him since forever” “No I didn’t!”

Ale had looked at him as if he was the dumbest person in the universe, which in that moment he probably was.

“Bez. Bro. You looked at him in a way you didn’t even look at Anne Hathaway” “I did not” “Yeah” “But that’s not the point Ale, the point is I like Edo I think I like want to ask him out” “Ask him then” “And if he doesn’t like me? If he rejects me? If he already has someone?”

Bez was gonna get him bald by his thirties.

“He likes you, he won’t reject you and he’s single now” “Are you sure Ale?”

He let out a huff and tried to get back to his unfinished conversation, reassuring Bez with a nod.

“yes Bez trust me, go for it”

And oh God had he gone for it.

That night at the party Bez was constantly talking to Edo, following him around and trying to steal all his attention for himself.

Finally Edo had put a stop to the almost embarrassing flirting act from Bez and had kissed him, Ale never asked what or where the two did or went afterwards.

“Bez come on let me go Edo is here”

Bez listens, for once, and turns around, looking Edo up and down, a half pout on his face.

Edo is not better, sunglasses resting on top of his head and a cap with the number 72 hung on his belt loop, looking at Bez the exact same way.

“Does your friend still want all your attention or can I steal you back?” “Bez I swear it looks like I never stay with you” “Stay with me just a bit more” “Bez it’s work I-” “I can suck you off in the kitchen if you stay”

And Edo is just a man, and if his boyfriend is offering him head in a not so private area of the house they’re hosting a party in as a corruption method he just can’t refuse.

Edo bites his lip before grabbing Bez by the shirt and pulling him in for a kiss, hands everywhere and tongues messily overused in the kiss, Ale finally freed from the situation snaps a picture, uploading it onto his private account

“Mi fate battere forte il cuore”

Their friends all know, mostly because it’s disgustingly inevitable not to walk in on them making out or having a quickie somewhere.

Poor Cele had found them jerking each other off in the VR46 Garage one night post race, and it took him more than just a few days to forget it.

“You want to go inside?” “Please” “You really want to suck my dick eh?”

Bez just smiles at it, palming Edo through his jeans and pressing a kiss on his collarbone.

They go inside, and as soon as they’re in the kitchen they’re all over each other in a split second, Bez tugging at Edo’s pants hinting at him to remove them.

“Come onnn get them off” “You were all shy not even six months ago and now look at you” “Stop making fun of me” “But it’s true Marco, had to teach you how to suck me off properly and now you just seem to have been doing this forever”

Bez rolls his eyes and finally unzips his boyfriend’s pants, pooling them at his ankles and getting on his knees.

“Good boy”

The rider has to restrain a moan after getting called that, biting his lip and tugging down Edo’s boxers too, stroking his dick as soon as it’s freed from them.

Edo loves getting his hands in Bez’s hair, they’re so soft and curly and he can manhandle the boy however he wants.

He angles him so that he’s looking a bit to the ceiling, then guides his head towards his dick, making him swallow it almost entirely.

“Ah fuck Marco I love this”

if this is referring to the blowjob, the relationship or the fact they’re currently in public Bez doesn’t know, but it’s a good thing Edo loves it.

Bez starts bobbing his head while Edo’s hands stay in his hair, tugging occasionally when Bez swallows a bit more than usual, gagging around his dick, a few drops of saliva coming out his mouth.

“So pretty Marco so pretty, imagine if someone came in and found you kneeling for me”

Edo smiles again, his free hand going to grip at the counter to stabilize himself, Bez might not be an expert in giving head but he’s a quick learner for sure and his eagerness makes up for the lack of experience.

The gagging sound quickly becomes the only thing the two of them can hear, music from outside long forgotten and archived as background noise, the only other thing Bez can get himself to listen to are Edo’s increasingly louder moans as he gets closer and closer to the edge.

“Can I fuck you? After this?”

Bez nods, for how much he can while sucking his dick, and swallows even more of the length, feeling Edo tightening the grip on his hair.

“Thought so, you’re hard just by sucking me off”

Bez moans at that, he’s been trying to not touch himself while giving his boyfriend head but it’s complicated, he needs to get off as well, and can’t exactly wait too much before doing it, so he imposes himself to make Edo finish as quick as possible so he can get fucked properly.

“Mh fuck careful with teeth Marco, there’s no rush”

Bez looks up at him, need and lust written all over his face, and Edo notices, smiling at him once again.

“Oh you are in a rush then? Want me to fuck you now?”

Bez quickens his movements, steadying himself with his hands wrapped around each of Edo’s thighs, never breaking eye contact with him.

He can feel Edo is close, and he needs so much for this to be over so he can drag him to the first available bedroom in the house and get railed.

“Marco ‘m close fuck you’re good at this”

he sucks harder than before, ripping out a deeper moan from Edo, and lets him cum down his throat.

He stays there for a few seconds before letting go of his dick, looking up at him and getting back up from the floor, kissing him once again.

Edo puts back on his briefs and jeans, without breaking away from the kiss.

“You always come so quick when I suck you off in public places, like when we went to the event in Bali, you like the risk of getting caught”

“You enjoy it too, don't act so innocent, mh? Now, do you want to find a bedroom or-”

Bez grabs him by the hand and drags him upstairs, they’re both laughing a bit, they feel like teenagers sneaking off at a party, which, yeah they’re doing, but somehow it feels hilarious.

“This one”

The room is not bad, a queen sized bed next to a window and some furniture, but it’s not like they’re admiring the drawers and closets right now, and Edo makes quick work of getting Bez on the bed with his back against the mattress and his legs wrapped around him.

He’s caging Bez’s head between his hands, smiling down at him as he licks his lips, and then he rolls his hips to get some friction out of the situation, making them both moan, Edo can feel himself starting to get hard again.

“Kiss me”

Bez basically has stars in his eyes everytime they are this close, and Edo absolutely loves it, he’s so beautiful when he’s like this.

He lowers himself so he can kiss his boyfriend, and one of his hands goes to unzip his pants, Bez lifts his hips and he tugs the pants down, cupping him through the boxers.

At it Bez moans once again, he’s painfully hard and needs his boyfriend inside him like right now.

Edo moves and starts kissing at his neck, eventually leaving a dark hickey on its side, then biting at it lightly.

He knows Bez is a slut for this, and one second later he’s moaning and whining under him, bucking his hips and getting a bit of pleasure from Edo’s hand cupping him.

He sounds so good right now, small whimpers leaving his mouth at the sensation of Edo’s lips on his neck.

“Come on Edo please, fuck me” “I need to prep you, can’t go like this”

Bez says something under his breath, and the older stops kissing him to listen better

“What? I didn’t hear you” “I said I already did it myself I’m ready”

Edo breaks away for a second from his neck to look at him, he truly is amazing.

“Fuck ok I love you”

He goes back to kissing and marking his neck, the wet spot on the front of Bez’s boxers growing larger and larger, it’s amazing how just a few kisses can get him like this, pliant and absolutely hooked up on need.

A few minutes later he gets rid of his boxers as well, undressing himself completely, and Bez admires him biting his lip.

But when he goes to take off his shirt Edo stops him, grabbing him by the wrist.

“What?” “Keep it on you’re hot like that, and it’s mine, I want to fuck you with that on” “Ok but just please do something” “Oh of course, I wouldn't want my little prince to get sad now would I?”

He’s fully hard again now, and Bez is so fucking hot he fears he could cum as soon as he pushes his dick inside him.

He kisses Bez again, cupping his face with one hand and using the other to help himself push inside Bez’s hole, swallowing the moan coming from him.

“You good? Can I move now?” “Yes yes yes you can”

Edo pushes inside all the way, hips touching for a second before he starts thrusting and fucking Bez with a fast pace, still kissing him to quieten the moans down.

Bez gets his arms around Edo, digging his nails in his back, continuously moaning in his mouth.

“More Edo more please”

The first few times they had sex Bez had tried to restrain himself a bit, not to seem too eager or needy.

He had tried to not make it obvious he liked to be praised a lot, that he liked when he got his hair pulled or his neck kissed, that he wanted Edo to shut him up with a kiss when he got too loud or that he liked being spoiled and leaving the work to the others.

He gave up the act the one time Edo had kissed his neck a bit too much and Bez had come from a handjob and that, embarrassingly quickly, but Edo had just found that hot.

And he had learnt that by “more” Bez means “deeper and harsher” as in fuck me deeper and pull my hair and leave hickeys all over my body.

And that’s exactly what he wants to do now.

Starting with the hickeys, his neck is already pretty full, but a few retouches won’t hurt anyone.

So he just sucks a few more marks on his neck, making him whimper as he thrusts deeper into him, then he debates whether or not to take off Bez’s shirt to get to work on his nipples.

The answer is yes, if the neck gets him like that nipples get him worse

“Pretty, so so pretty for me Marco” “Fuck” “Arms up, good”

He takes off Bez’s shirt with no problems, noticing the chill on his skin once it gets removed.

Edo goes to bite and suck at his right nipple, teasing him about how fucked out he already looks, the pace still the same.

It’s barely a matter of seconds before Bez’s hand is in his boyfriend's hair tugging at them because it already feels like too much.

“Edo please stop teasing” “Ah but you look and sound so pretty when I do”

AS if it was a spell Bez moans again, louder, and moves his hand to touch himself, but Edo is quicker and pins it on the mattress, letting go of his nipple.

“Don’t touch” “No come on please” “You tried to get me jealous before, that's not something I should reward you for now is it?” “Please”

“Next time you’ll learn not to piss me off mh? Should thank me I’m fucking you at all after what you pulled out there”

Bez groans and tries to buck his hips up to get some friction, but that only causes Edo to stop thrusting into him, and fuck no that’s worse.

“You stay put and I fuck you until you cum ok?” “Fuck you” “That’s not an answer” “Ok I will” “Good”

Edo smiles, leaving a soft pec on his lips before resuming the pace, going a bit deeper this time, Bez clenching around him.

It’s a mess of moans and heat and lust, none of the two wants this to be over.

When Edo gets his mouth on Bez’s pierced nipple it’s game over for the younger.

He already is hypersensitive there, but with the tattoo and the piercing it’s all multiplied, he probably could come just by Edo playing with him like that.

“You get so tight when I tease you here it’s crazy” “you - fuck - more please” “More? You sure you can handle it?” “I’m not made of glass” “As you wish”

He picks up the pace once again, feeling Bez getting closer and moaning louder, like he’s in fucking heat, and it makes his mind explode.

Bez is too perfect for his own good, he’s caught god knows how many people staring at him, commenting on him, his body, his godforsaken hands.

He has got those long slim fingers he absolutely loves, the small tattoo of a “12” on his ring finger.

All the other tattoos on his arms and the ones Edo did himself.

It was hot tattooing him, he wasn’t the first nor the last to get hard while getting a tattoo, but he was for sure the hottest.

Bez feels like he’s about to die, he needs to touch himself, needs to get his release, needs Edo to kiss him and make him cry from how good this is.

With a deeper thrusts Edo finally cums inside him, moaning in Bez’s ear and teasing his dick with his free hand.

“Please please let me cum Edo please” “Promise not to get me jealous anymore” “Yeah fuck I promise I swear just let me cum” “Just because you’re pretty”

All it takes is a few strokes to his dick and Bez is moaning again and painting his abs and chest white, shaking under Edo and reaching out for him to kiss him.

Their lips meet and it’s sweet now, even with the smell of sex in the room.

Edo pulls out and rolls on the bed to be next to Bez, hiding his face in the crook of his neck.

“Can’t believe I get to have you Marco, you’re so perfect” “Stop” “No you’re cute when you blush like this”

They both laugh, Bez feels once again like a teenager with his first love.

And it kinda is like that, Edo is the first guy he’s ever done something with, the one who actually made him realize he liked guys too, so it kinda is like a teenager discovering love.

Bez’s phone starts ringing, ad he ignores it, who the fuck is calling at 3am on a Saturday?

But it rings again, then Edo’s as well. This must be important.

Bez picks up the phone and he hears his PR manager shouting, he’s too tired to properly understand, just the words “photos” and “public” make it to his brain.

“Ari slow down I don’t understand anything lower your voice” “Bezzecchi I fucking swear I’m gonna KILL YOU if you don’t get your ass here in one hour! Your friend posted a picture of you and your boyfriend making out AND IT GOT PUBLIC. If I get fired because you can’t keep it in your pants I’m gonna cut it off you get me?”

He sits up on the bed, swearing and feeling dizzy.

“Ale posted the picture on the wrong account Marco”

“Yeah I fucking know! They called me and told me I gotta go to the head quarters fucking hell people saw it Edo people saw it and it’s going around”

They climb down the stairs, got dressed in a rush, clothes half creased and still smelling like sex.

“Guys guys I’m sorry I thought it was the private profile I swear sorry I didn't mean to” “No it’s - it’s ok they’re already beginning to handle it but I gotta go” “I’m gonna kill myself” “You don’t do that, thank you very much” “I stay here, you go”

Bez looks at both of them, then fixes his gaze on Edo.

“No, come with me” “Marco” “Please, if they tell me - I don’t know what they’ll tell me, I need someone with me” “Are you sure?” “Yes. Yes I want you there” “Maybe it’s better I don’t come, you can say I kissed you but you don’t like guys and -”

“Edo I don’t give a fuck if people call me slurs after seeing that picture, they already tell me all kind of shit, I won’t get depressed if they know I like guys”

He’s debating internally, of course he wants to be close to his boyfriend, but he’s scared for his future as a rider if this becomes a public relationship.

“Please don’t leave me alone”

They look into each other's eyes and Edo nods, following him to the car and climbing in the passenger seat.

“I’m sorry” “Don’t be sorry Edo we didn’t do anything wrong”

And he knows, he knows they didn’t but Bez is not just a someone, he’s an athlete, public figure, and everyone knows it’s really fucking difficult to be public with your sexuality in a sport, especially sports like these.

But Bez is Bez, they’ll find a solution, this is not the end of the world, they’ll play it off as a stupid dare or something similar, they’ll get the pic off Instagram in a few days and it’ll be ok.

He knows it’ll be when he looks over to Bez and he looks back at him for a moment before getting his eyes back on the road, moving a hand to rest on his thigh, not sexual, just reassuring.

Yeah it’s gonna be ok for them.

#alice writes #my fic <3 #this one is MAGIC #it's rivoluzione romantica guys #edo #bezz #they are beautiful and I will fight God for them #:3

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