#underline the silver

[not-poignant]

I'm very excited to see The Raven Prince in the UtR universe. He feels so layered every time you write him. Forgive the cheesy metaphor, but it's like when you tilt a diamond in and out of different light. There are so many facets to him depending on the context and who he's with. It's a delight to read him.

Honestly, this wonderful bastard man would truly adore this analogy. :D

I really love writing the Raven Prince and I'm SO looking forward to bringing Corbyn to life in the Underline universe. I'm thinking about it more and more, as we get closer (slowly) to the end of Underline the Black, and just...yeah, I'm also really looking forward to writing a story about two older men, honestly, because it's not something I get to do nearly enough of!

And Augus and the Raven Prince have always had the most amazing chemistry, I can't wait to explore that in omegaverse :D :D

[chocsra]

✧ "Salvation; Devotion"

16! stormbringer! Chuuya x fem! reader

✧ summary: being targeted by paul verlaine after being chuuyas friend, though when he comes to talk to you with a european detective, it seems to be more than friendship. ✧ content: small oneshot, fluff, angst (kinda), adam + angsty teenagers ✧ w/c: 1.4k

Chuuya - meaning "loyalty, devotion"

Nakahara - meaning "central plain"

His devotion was not only his strongest attribute, but his most tender weakness.

You knew a boy. He was young and short, but fiery and strong. He was mysterious, born with unknown origins, and walked the wrong path, that's why he's not only humanity's most destructive weapon but a lowly, pitiful, criminal.

It was something you weren't, though you didn't mind much.

But under the guise of celestial imperfections, Chuuya was a constellation falling into place. He was beautiful. Sunkissed with the kind of foreign beauty you’d see in actors that would play some sort of prince. Your first examination of him was his wealthy and neatly ironed clothing—the kind of blazers and shoes that you’d find in a modelling campaign. Even the accented cuffs of his clothing were underlined with emerald or other precious stones. Then, his silky russet hair, one thrown into a low ponytail—the hairstyle itself still retained a strong masculinity despite the length. Or maybe that came from the musky cologne he constantly wore. A hint of cigarettes, strawberries and that strong scent of virile.

The soft glow from his copper locks then shifted to the fitted collar around his neck—an odd fashion choice, but it really accentuated the ivory of his skin. Soft, sun-kissed skin that’d make its way to his face. A beautiful face, really. Delicate and angelic features with a permanent scowl tugging on his lips—soft pink lips. Chuuya's eyes reflected a fine smoky quartz. His cheeks and nose kissed with a few scattered freckles.

You wondered why a boy so sublime had the status of an onerous beast. Even he took the words that held the weight of a blade and cut himself until he was reduced to the slit of a knife.

You met that same boy, a masterpiece ripped at every edge, not in the dangers of the mafia, but where a silver line stretches to the sea. Where the sun meets the sky, where the light shines.

But even then, you treated him differently. You didn't treat him like he was something fragile. Neither did you treat him like the monstrosity he was sought out to be. You didn't worship him, nor did you greatly depend on him. Instead, you found his humanity and treated him as such. Once a stranger, then a friend, then..

Nevermind.

"Chuuya?!"

You heard the calamity of each step he took to reach you, the boy stopping to pant. "[Y/N].. we need to talk." next to the redhead, was a tall European man with short brown hair, he didn't look tired at all compared to Chuuya. "Greetings, my name is Adam Frankenstein." You cocked a brow at his monotonous voice, the way his mouth moved didn't seem in sync with his words either. "You're rather special, Master Chuuya spent almost 7 hours looking for yo-" Adam explained briefly, causing the redhead to grimace and cut him off, "Shut it, will ya?!"

...

You heaved a bothersome sigh, elbows planted on a cafe table as the two men sat in front of you. "So.. why do you need me, Chuuya?" you question, fiddling with your fingers, "And who's he?.." your gaze uplifts to the brunette foreigner, which the man carefully takes a pack of gum and begins to unfold it, popping a piece in his mouth, before swallowing it. Your eyebrows furrow in a moment of youthful distaste.

Chuuya clutches the cup of tea between his gloved fingers and murmurs something intangible, "Adam's a detective from Europole, investigating Verlaine. He wants to know more about him, which is why he's been following me around.." he finally explains, taking a calculated and almost frustrated sip of his tea.

"Verlaine. Who's Verlaine?" You ask momentarily, causing the redhead to part his lips to answer, but you quickly halt as the detective swallows another piece of gum down his throat. "And why is he chewing gum like that?"

"That's what I'm sayin'!" the teenager half-seriously slams the cup of tea on the table, "He swallows it like a nutjob. You need help, tin man." Chuuya scoffs, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat almost nervously.

"You need help. You spent 6 hours and 47 minutes looking for h-" the brunette explains with a hint of sass in his voice, the redhead's eyes widening in shock, "I said shut up!"

You shuffle in your seat awkwardly as the two men argue. Scratching the back of your neck before Chuuya finally settles down, patting down the cashmere of his suit.

"So here's the thing about Verlaine.. he's this batshit crazy assassin, and uh.. here's the real kicker.." the mafioso mutters, fiddling with his gloved fingers uneasily. "You're gonna be the bait."

Your jaw immediately drops, a hand clasping over your chest in the offence. "Excuse me?! For what?.. to get killed?!" Chuuya looks distressed at your response, seeking Adam's gaze for at least a little help in his later response.

"Your safety is ensured. We just need to lure Verlaine out, so Master Chuuya can eliminate him." the detective explains rather calmly, fishing for something in the pocket of his suit before handing a chocolate bar to you. "Here, sugar helps with stress." the redhead smiles awkwardly at Adam's response, giving a nervous thumbs up.

You snatch the chocolate bar with a bit of attitude, eyes narrowing to Chuuya as the boy inhales sharply, "I thought I wouldn't get involved in your mafia affairs, now I have to die?" you ask with furrowed brows, anger cracking in your voice. Causing the teenager to gulp in slight fear, a rare sight to Adam, as he's never sensed fear from Master Chuuya. Especially to a young girl like you.

"Well, you won't die... More like, almost die." The detective explains, hoping he'd ease your nerves at least a bit. "Doesn't matter! M'not doing it!" You shout in vexation, hopping up from your seat as you pick up your school bag. "Plus, I couldn't if I wanted to, anyway," you murmur,

"Wait.. why?" Chuuya asks with conviction.

your gaze adverts to the different sights in the area: the park bench, passersby, and the cafe's menu. Anything but Chuuya's confused face.

"Uhm.. I have a project that's due tomorrow, and I didn't start yet."

"You can't be serious!"

The teenager runs up to you in frustration, you clutch your bag as you turn to him. "Oh, but I am!" you remark, walking faster as the brunette detective catches up. "I'm very serious! After all, this is a serious project!"

The redhead pants and wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead, "You're really gonna prioritise a school project over your own life?!" he cries out, still trying to catch up to you.

"Anything is better than being bait for the Port Mafia!" You yell out, settling your argument atop a bridge, ignoring how the sun was starting to set in an arrangement of oranges and pinks. "Shit- Don't say that so loud!"

"I'd rather finish a school project than become bait for the Port Mafia!!"

You repeat again, louder this time. Chuuya pinches his nose bridge in frustration, tilting his head up towards the setting sun. And upon you halting your swift steps, the redhead finally catches up to you, and to your surprise, he grabs your hand to spin you around.

"Look, I had a shitty week too!" the boy lets go of your hand, making you huff a little bit. But instead of letting you go, he cups both of your cheeks and pulls you close, his gaze never averting from yours. "People that mattered to me died, so many of them," the teenager explains, a melancholic glint lingering in his pretty eyes, you could see it all from the close proximity of his face. "and I'd do anything for you to not be one of those people."

You gulp hard as your eyes scan over the glass of his eyes, the once stormy grey now welling holding back tears.

Silence.

Adam clears his throat, standing beside you and the mafioso awkwardly, "Apologies for interrupting. But this whole exchange is very childish. Master Chuuya, don't you think there are better words to articulate your romantic feelings towards [Y/N]?.. Perhaps after this all over, you can solve this by getting into a relationship-" you and the boy both retort at the detective in unison:

"Shut up, Adam!"

...

"Okay, I'll help you." you frown with conviction, "You owe me a school project, though."

The redhead presses two fingers to his glabella, "I'll send someone to complete it for you."

✧ chocsra™

taglist for those who interacted in this post:

@loserzai @juice1231 @silverbladexyz @soleelia @cherylpoptarts @jackiepackiee @sapphire-tears013 @sstarshroom @n0thum4ny @roujira

[tadpolesonalgae]

Rhysand x reader: Knocked up[*]

A/N: This 🤝 Rhys just makes me so happy

Warnings: smut, breeding kink😋, slight praise kink I guess?

Word count: 1,163

“Come on…darling…a little deeper…”

He’s pushing the very air from your lungs, cock pressing so deliciously against your walls, filling you from the inside up. A whimper spills from your lips, the pads of your fingers digging into the firmness of his abdomen. Thighs spreading a little wider, muscles spasming as your head lowers, pants puffing heavily from your mouth.

“Rhys…” you breathe, heavenly heat turning you dim. “Rhys…!”

His hand cups your cheek, guiding your gaze to his, star-flecked violet dancing and gleaming. “There you are…a little more for me…yeah…?” His tan skin is flushed, breathing as uneven as your own, equally near the edge. “Think you can sink down…a bit more…?”

You watch through half-lidded eyes as his stomach rises and falls with the depth of his breaths. How fluid he is, blessed with feline grace.

Biting your lip, you slide down the final inch. Pleasure crests over you, resting your entire weight on his cock, eyes rolling to the back of your skull as you—

“Woah there…”

His hands firmly grip your hip and shoulder, keeping you upright as euphoria knocks you clean from your feet. “Hey…hey, darling…look at me,” Rhys breathes, murmuring to you as you’re pulled from your stupor. “That’s it…there you go…so good, aren’t you��?”

You whimper, rolling your hips over his, both of you hissing at the concentration of pleasure. Hands go slightly limp, steadying yourself as you lean forward, spine curving. “Mmm…Rhysand…” You drag over him, eyes fluttering closed in quiet bliss. His grip tightens, one hand leaving from your shoulder, grasping the soft swell of your breast, thumbing your sensitive nipple. Flicking over its tip, grazing the crest.

“Feeling good…? Like riding me…darling?” He pants, eyes glued to your joining point, obscene squelching sounds tingling his pointed ears, like lovely silver bells. “That’s it…take it nice and deep…nice and deep…to fill you up…”

A high-pitched moan spills from your lips, gentle and needful, pawing at the soft skin of his stomach, underlined with muscle. “Deeper…take you deeper…” you pant, opening your eyes long enough to search for his hands. You swirl your hips with fervour, small bucks as you pleasurably squirm, having him hit all the good spots.

“That’s it…” he murmurs, fingers linking tightly with your smaller ones, allowing you to cling onto him as you ride his hips. “Such a good girl…aren’t you, darling?” He squeezes your knuckles and a quiet whine bursts from your lungs, spilling into the world, adding to the intimate eroticism.

“Rhys…” you whine, “Rhys…I need you…” A rough moan pulls from his chest, urgent and lustful. “How do you need me?” He breathes, “tell me what you want…” Your hips buck faster, and you flinch, air knocked from your lungs at the wave of pleasure. Lips part as your eyes flutter shut, head tipping upward as you bask in him. “Breed me…” you pant, softly. Quietly. Hardly a whimper.

He grips your hands, a reassuring heat to your nerves, rolling his hips up into you. The world turns foggy, and your body is heated butter, melting beneath the hot press of his fingertips, coating his scar-flecked skin like a protective seal. Like hot wax spilling from a candle, dripping and burning.

“Yeah? Want me to breed you?” He murmurs, watching you with wonder, head resting in the plush pillows of your bed. Teeth find your lower lip, rocking your hips faster, winding over his cock. You nod lethargically, almost drowsily, bucking onto him.

Rhysand groans, raising to meet you, touching deeper, hidden spots that have you tightening around him. Eyes squeeze shut, brow furrowing in concentration. Following the pathway that will lead you both to that wonderful dissipation of tension, pleasure flooding your bodies.

Your lips part in quiet surprise as he targets those spots with heartwarming familiarity. “Rhys…” you pant, “Rhys…!” Breathing becomes shallower, and he drags your hips over his, helping guide you, giving you the strength to move. “Come on…you can do it…give it to me.” The whispered murmurs graze your mind, basking in the swell of his cock as it presses up inside of you. Like you belong together. Perfectly fitted to slot together.

“Do it…give it to me…then I can fill you up…yeah? That’s what you want… For me to spill into you…and stuff you full of my cum…” The filthy words make you tighten around him, and you’ve tipped over the edge. Enjoy the few seconds as you soar to the peak, having taken off on sun-kissed wings. “So good at taking me…” he purrs, violet eyes latching onto yours, dark talons grazing your wobbly shields, tender and sensitive from stimulation. You hit the stars, colliding, sending galaxies spraying, nebulas bursting across your skin. His cock glides against your sensitive walls, dragging so deliciously as you reach your peak.

The moan you release sends him spilling over the edge, spurting into you as he groans, gripping you back as your fingers tighten together.

“So good…so good, aren’t you?” He murmurs, “take everything…every drop…drink it all up. So good.” The pleasure doubles…triples with every caress of him inside of you, feeling the hot, milky liquid spill into you, latch onto you, nestling deep. “That’s it…take all of it…make sure it sticks…” he groans, colour tinting his glistening skin. “Gonna fill you up so good…make sure you carry it…tucked away, to nestle inside that lovely cunt.”

You flutter around him, sporadically bucking your hips in gentle surges, moving whenever your muscles allow you to. “So perfect…doing so well…so good to me, aren’t you?” His fingers squeeze yours through the aftershocks, letting you ride out your pleasure as he grits his teeth. He wants to be gentle with you tonight, so he pushes away that urge to flip you onto your back, to worship your pretty pussy with rough, hard strokes of his cock.

Rhysand moans with you as the waves fade to gentle tingles beneath your skin, settling down on his hips, panting heavily. You move to shift off of him, but he holds you a little firmer. “Can’t have it leaking out, can we?” He breathes, rolling his hips against you. A whimper spills from your lips at the action, squeezing his knuckles as he keeps your hands preoccupied. Thighs too weak to lift off him, you’re unable to move by yourself, remaining sat on top of him, cock pressing deep inside.

“Thought you wanted it to stick, huh?” He purrs softly, thumb stroking over the bone of your wrist. “Wanted to get knocked up…to let it take root?”

Teeth push into your lip, biting it as you wind your hips over his.

You can feel it as he stiffens inside of you, turned on by the slightest stimulation.

Ready for round two.

General Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022

Rhys Taglist: @azrielshadows1nger

[hopefulceladon]

a battered light (can only burn so bright) | sunday x reader

summary: it truly was only a matter of time before he burnt himself out, wasn't it? pairing: sunday x reader word count: 4.5k (help me) notes: the self-indulgent brain worms influenced me i am so sorry. you give sunday a wing massage and he clearly has Mixed Feelings about it all. is he yearning? is he just stubborn? the world may never know.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A blanket of starlight had wrapped itself around the Dewlight Pavilion, the ethereal glow illuminated ever brighter by the governing moon.

On such peaceful nights like this, solace for the fatigued was all too simple to acquire for those who sought it, yet even still, there remained those who did not yet allow themselves the luxury of rest whenever daylight grew dim.

It was just such a terrible pity that the Head of the Oak Family was one of them—a conclusion strengthened by the restless, focused, and very much still awake Halovian displayed before you.

“Mr. Sunday,” you called for him as you balanced a silver tray in your arms, hoping to garner his attention.

Your hopes were soon drowned out by the clatter of footsteps as they treaded to-and-fro against wooden floorboards, a pace that hardly ever changed in stride and never once dared to cease.

The sight laid before your eyes was a troubling one; Sunday was in the midst of sizing up his miniscule-scale model of the Golden Hour, his weary eyes roaming over the elaborate diorama as he muttered words that fell upon your ears like muddled verses of a foreign poem.

It was also a sight that you, unfortunately, were growing all too familiar with.

When the two birds of a feather had been reunited by the scarred hands of dormancy days prior, you quite naturally—and quite foolishly—had believed they had snatched away the tension that rested upon Sunday's shoulders in exchange.

It hadn't.

The scattered plumes of both deep purple and white, the likes of which were now haphazardly skirting themselves beneath the premises of the table Sunday paced around, had already given that away, after all.

Wordlessly, you avoided trampling any of the fallen feathers by the grace of your careful footing, and you settled the tray that carried both a cup of tea and a small plate of freshly cut strawberries—Robin had let it slip that he was fond of them once before—upon his desk in the room above, before descending the stairs and continuing to observe the madness before you.

Once you decided you could no longer bear the burden of playing a helpless bystander for much longer, you took a step forward and gently tapped Sunday upon his shoulder.

Sunday's feathers bristled in reaction to the abrupt touch, but his gaze softened once he turned around to face the source.

“Ah, do forgive me, please,” he began with a cordial, apologetic smile, his eyes tearing away from the model to glance at the tray. “I must've forgotten about this evening's tea.”

“If it clears your conscience any, I nearly forgot to start brewing it.” you admitted.

“Is that so?” Sunday hummed in response, nearly bewildered by your confession. “Hm, perhaps I should allow for a bit more leniency in the schedule...”

You frowned at the self-deprecating chuckle that left his lips, but you resisted making a remark. Without a further word spoken, you sat down in the chair that he had graciously pulled out for you, planted right next to his desk.

Peeking over at the files he was so adamantly focused upon, a small smile graced your lips at the underlined and emboldened heading, proudly declaring the parchment's title of ’Charmony Festival Preparations’.

“I can see why your memory slipped,” you mused, hoping to stave off any suffocating silence. “It’s an exciting thing to be in charge of something so memorable, isn’t it?”

Sunday tensed, a flicker of something unreadable dimming the usual poised gleam of his golden eyes.

“It... most certainly will be a festival one shall never forget.” Sunday finally replied.

You decided against inquiring as to why his wings had betrayed him, a subtle twitch disrupting their perfectly mundane flutter.

You also decided against dwelling upon the pitiful sight of gaps between his feathers.

As Sunday picked up his pen to scribble something upon the documents, a frown crossed your lips as you noted the way his eyes, with their appearance already marred by the evidence of lack of proper rest, had their corners crinkled from overexertion.

The remnants of a dying flame lingered upon the nearby candelabra’s wick, before extinguishing itself with a forlorn puff of smoke. As the light diminished further within the room, Sunday’s eyes squinted.

With a frown creasing your lips, you finally decided to speak up.

“Sir, if you’d like, I could relight the candle?”

Sunday paused to look up at you, shaking his head in light of your concern. “You really needn’t go through the trouble.” As your unwavering gaze met his, the visible extent of your worry piercing through his obstinate resolve, Sunday promptly faltered. “...but, of course, if you’re so insistent, I won't stop you.”

You nodded before getting up to scour his office for a matchstick, acquiring one with relative ease. As you struck the match against the igniter, you waited for the head to mingle with the worn-down wick with a steady hand.

Your focus soon fell upon Sunday’s weary countenance.

He was much akin to his candle, you reckoned—meant to burn bright for all to see, yet the burdens of his extensive obligations had weighed his benevolent, ever-giving wick down to a charred stub; whenever he had wavered, so, too, did his light.

And, much like a moth enraptured by a kindled flame, you, like most any other Dreamscape denizen, had clung to the luster he meticulously weaved from the luminance of his candle. Nonetheless, his elevated status hadn’t hidden that he was as helplessly human as those he served, and that even he, too, needed a lamppost to sturdy himself upon.

You wondered if he ever allowed himself to acknowledge such logic.

Once the match finally ignited the wick, you silenced your internal musing with a sigh, snuffing the lingering embers upon the wooden stick with a flick of your wrist.

As you set the candelabra back down onto his desk, it was then that you noted the still untouched cup of tea.

“Your tea must be getting cold by now...”

Sunday’s attention drifted away from his paperwork, and he glanced over at the cup. “Ah, right...” he hummed in acknowledgment, studying it carefully. “It’s chamomile, I presume?”

“As evident by the pigment, yes.”

“And the bitter leaves have been amplified by a squeezed lemon, correct?”

“Of course.”

“Thoroughly stirred, though not too harshly?”

“Only the gentlest of stirrings for you, sir.”

“That’s my wonderful assistant,” Sunday mused with a tired smile, lifting the drink up to his lips and taking a small sip from it, before setting it back down. “Life is quite more convenient when everything is coordinated as it should be, isn’t it?”

You nodded at his observation, all too familiar with the principles he's uttered before in the past. “It does have its perks.”

Sunday stirred the spoon in his cup around in slow circles, his expression growing unreadable.

“So, it truly is a shame whenever something disrupts how things ought to be...”

“You’ve... mentioned that before, yes.” you replied, hesitantly clinging onto his every word.

Sunday hummed as he took another sip. As he refreshed the tea against his palate, his eyebrows narrowed in concentration, prompting his lips to form a frown.

“I’ve noticed the sugar you've been sprinkling in.”

“And I’ve noticed that you've begun to molt.” you quickly retorted without much thought. It was childish, yes, you knew, but perhaps your hasty tongue had a point.

The Halovian stiffened at your remark.

“I beg your pardon?”

Your confidence wavered as Sunday’s eyebrows furrowed, yet your shame was outweighed by your concern.

“The floor is littered with proof, and as pristine as you keep your appearance, it’s hard to cover up unevenness caused by fallen feathers," you paused, your focus drifting from the wings near his temples to fall upon his paperwork. “And, given the stress that normally accompanies festival preparations...”

Sunday’s tongue clicked in frustration at the implication.

“Whether or not I was stressed—or even molting, for that matter—my feathers should hardly be any of your concern,” he replied, his voice trailing off as he eyed your approaching hands.

In a swift motion, he pinned your wrists down against the desk, a counteraction made in desperation to prevent them from reaching their destination.

“...and I would appreciate it if you kindly refrained from touching them.”

You tried your best to recoil one of your hands away, but they wouldn't move—how could they, when they now sought the mercy of his restrictive grasp?

Even as Sunday’s palms cordially arranged for your wrists to be wed to the wooden surface, however, you didn't budge. “Were this over anything else, I would gladly listen, but given the fact that you’ll need someone to help you safely-”

Sunday’s eyes squeezed themselves shut in frustration.

“Beloved assistant of mine, please do not be so obstinate.”

As the Halovian's hold upon your wrists gradually softened, you snatched them back to your sides.

“I learn from the worst.” you murmured.

Sunday let out a soft sigh in response before returning to his paperwork. A part of you wondered why you even dared to bother vocalizing your concern.

Nonetheless, in the ever-growing silence, it was only then that you realized how truly worn out the Halovian had appeared. The dark circles underneath his eyes and the missing feathers had been telltale signs, but even his countenance had changed; beneath his layers of practiced, superficial perfection, you could sense that he was exhausted beyond both your unwavering understanding and his intentional ignorance.

Your heart sunk to the pit of your stomach as your eyes caught themselves on the sight of dried blood in the center of one of the gaps in his feathers, before they reluctantly tore themselves away. It was hardly like him to ignore his appearance to such an extent.

A sigh crossed your lips as you focused upon a droplet of heated wax, witnessing it roll off the surface of the pitiful candle and onto the table.

You couldn’t hold your tongue for much longer.

“Sir, you really should examine your wings.”

“I hardly have the luxury of time on my side,” Sunday countered swiftly. “Were it not for the preparations, I would've already-”

“Then, please, at least let me try?” you interjected without second thought.

Sunday’s gaze tore away from his desk to stare at you, unblinking, as if you had just uttered the most irrational thing possible, and perhaps you indeed had—an offer made in haste could surely be considered as such, couldn't it?

“Did I not already beg you not to do so?”

“You did, but as your assistant, I’ve known you long enough to be certain you’ll just prioritize perfecting the festival over your own well-being, so...” you stared at the spot once more before glancing back at him. “Please.”

Sunday shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he pondered your offer, his wings twitching from what you assumed was contemplation. He parted his lips to speak, only to draw out a mere reluctant sigh.

Slowly, Sunday opened one of the drawers to his desk, pulling out a cloth and a spray bottle, before holding out his hand with the two items bundled together within his grasp. As he motioned for you to take the items with a nudge of his hand, you noted that his eyes never once met yours.

“Thank you.” you said with a soft smile.

Recalling the multiple occasions you had witnessed him clean his wings, as well as the knowledge you secretly procured from handbooks on Halovian biology, you spritzed the water upon the cloth and held it a few inches away from Sunday’s wing, all memories of the least intrusive methods coming to mind.

As you pressed the cloth against the surface, a sharp breath had made you halt.

“Forgive me.” Sunday muttered. “As you can tell, it’s... been a while.”

You nodded, all questions dying upon your tongue for the sake of his comfort, before gently dabbing the cloth against the spot, wiping away the bloody inequity and restoring his pristine visage.

Setting the cloth down on the desk, you smiled. “And... done.”

“Ah, thank you kindly.”

A small portion of your worry had ebbed away at in light of the relief in his voice, but returned with a vengeance once you remembered the sight of the disastrous floor from moments prior. As your gaze trailed away from him and towards the dark purple feathers that dotted the floor right next to those of cloudy white, Sunday’s gaze had soon followed.

Inquiries regarding their condition formulated themselves without much prompting within your mind, but you couldn’t dare speak them out loud.

Not when he had already been so stubborn over his first set of wings.

Not when he had already faltered so strongly in his breathing, a pattern you associated with immense discomfort.

In the absence of all conversation, you both tirelessly danced around the inevitable before something finally had to give.

“The festival has been, admittedly, more of a... project than I could’ve ever expected,” Sunday began, droning off with an awkward, tensed chuckle. “...and I suppose that, perhaps, amidst the madness of it all, the matter of my wings’ upkeep must’ve slipped my mind...”

“I... I see.” you acknowledged his words with a soft hum, accepting his unlikely-to-be-true excuse without further prompting.

Sunday sighed as his hands absentmindedly fidgeted with his gloves to smooth out an invisible crease, before he finally continued.

“The upkeep of a Halovian’s wings just hardly isn’t a thing to entrust so lightly to another being, you see, and I just, I...” his voice trailed off. 

The eyes that were once so keenly intent on scrutinizing the floor beneath his feet soon met yours.

Had you of been anyone else, you would've surely melted under his weary gaze, but no, quite frankly you couldn't and most definitely shouldn't, for you were merely his assistant, and such feelings must not be stoked by any such foolish thing-

“If I absolutely must trust another soul with such a hefty responsibility, I suppose it would indeed be you.” Sunday finally murmured.

You were startled, to say the least. Hurriedly, you gleaned for any signs of hesitance upon his features, finding nothing except a softness in his eyes that you prayed was not drawn from reverence.

“And you're sure of this, sir?”

Sunday hesitated, his expression unreadable before finally, he nodded.

As Sunday arose from his chair to stretch his stagnant muscles, intent on ridding himself of his white coat, he had reached for his shoulder with a barely-suppressed wince. Without thinking, you rushed over to his side, cupping the top of his shoulder with your palm, attempting to gently work off the sleeveless coat for him.

Seemingly frightened by the abrupt touch, Sunday breathed in sharply, hastily brushing your hand off of his shoulder before his picture-perfect poise could shatter.

“Please,” he murmured tersely, his hand still protectively grasping his clothing. “I believe I can handle doing this part myself.”

You nodded as you slowly stepped back, resting your treacherous hands at your sides.

As Sunday worked the snow-colored coat off of his shoulders, he grabbed the discarded garment and folded it into a neat square before putting it up on his desk, then focused on the silvery blazer that had laid beneath.

After a few moments spent fumbling with his multiple layers, Sunday was now stripped down to his dark turtleneck.

Your eyes fell upon the sight of the dark blue, wing-like vest that wrapped itself around his waist, and just as you were about to ask if they were yet another layer he had to remove, you froze once the ‘vest’ had shifted and twitched.

“Are those...?”

Sunday noted your confusion and shook his head, his fingers working diligently to unwrap the clinging, restrictive article of clothing.

What had twitched underneath the vest was a pair of deep purple wings, their plumes matching the pigments of what was strewn beneath you. As beautiful as the appendages were, the difference between their standard of upkeep compared the likes of which rested above his temples were like night and day.

A part of you wondered if, for whatever unspoken reason, he was ashamed of them.

The Halovian tensed under the weight of your prying gaze, trying to relax to force the dormant plumage awake as he averted his sight. “I know what you must be thinking,” he whispered, his voice taut from the effort. “...but I beg of you, please do not pry.”

Your heart ached at the way he struggled with the furled appendages.

“Do you... require assistance?”

“I...” Sunday fussed with the tight wrap once more, before reluctantly nodding. “I suppose.”

Your hands were quick to approach the wings, intent on massaging the tension out of their pinions so that they'd might unfurl.

The very moment a disgruntled, screechy craw from a raven rung from above, however, Sunday had faltered and hastily smoothened his garments back down, urging your hands to shy away.

You turned to face the direction of the sudden disruption, before tilting your head at Sunday, wondering why he seemed so distraught by the avian's call.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Yes, there is something wrong!” Sunday snapped, before his tone softened. “This... this is improper ! To have convinced myself to allow you to touch my primary wings was one thing, but this...” his voice broke off as he glanced down at his unsightly feathers. “...this... I truly never should've...”

A frown etched itself upon your lips at his sudden change of heart.

“I’m sorry, sir. I know a Halovian's wings are...” you hesitated, vividly recalling the multiple times he had recoiled at your touch. “...sensitive. I’ve studied handbooks once before, and-”

Surprise briefly flashed in his eyes at your admission, before his face hardened into a disapproving scowl the moment he interrupted you.

“You mean to tell me that you’ve studied handbooks upon such a topic, and yet still, you allow yourself to willingly fall victim to the whims of compliance over my foolish fallacies?” he sputtered, his tone abrasive. “You should've stopped me, for heaven’s sake!”

Irked by the criticism, you, too, began to bristle.

“If this truly is so wrong in your eyes, then did you really ever wish for my assistance?”

Startled by the bite in your words, Sunday bit back any further protests, swallowing down his anxious ire. Loneliness had been his home for so long, and your touch was nearly a dangerous siren's call—he couldn't truly bear the thought of losing such a privilege.

The puffed up, bristling feathers of Sunday’s higher wings smoothened themselves back down as he steadied himself, flexing his fingers against his palms.

“Please, just get on with it.”

“Thank you.” you whispered before leaning forward, your hands delicately palming the fragile cartilage of his wings as you tried to help them unbind themselves. Reluctantly, Sunday flexed them against your touch, trying to encourage them to spread.

“Still, this is all so... terribly insolent,” Sunday muttered through gritted teeth.

You stilled your efforts, desperately wishing you knew why he was so resistant to your assistance.

“Are you absolutely certain you want me to do this?”

Sunday winced from the loss of motion, the loss of blissful touch against the very surface that yearned for it, no less, and he was far too quick to nod his head.

“Yes, of course. Loathe as I am to confess such a thing, this... truly is a process that must be done,” he replied, his breath wavering. “It’s hardly your fault that I’ve been so... neglectful.”

As your hands tenderly helped work the cartilage to awaken, massaging the spots you figured must’ve been sore, it only took moments later for them to finally loosen from their protective stance.

Dark, raven-like wings, pigmented like the glimmering skies of midnight, had blossomed forth from Sunday’s sides and splayed themselves before you. Battered and bristled as they were, they were nonetheless a breathtaking view.

As the deep purple plumages fanned themselves out like curtains, you gaped with pity at the sight of the clipped plumes, the multiple defects marring an otherwise symmetrical pair of wings. A remark formulated itself upon your tongue, but died upon your lips once Sunday acknowledged your staring with a slight grimace, as if he could guess what you were nearly about to say.

You continued to stare at his fragile feathers with unwavering wonder.

“Your wings are truly beautiful, sir.” you whispered adoringly.

Sunday turned around to bare his back before you instead, swift enough to conceal the rush of both shame and bashfulness that had abruptly invaded his features.

Gently, you reached your hand forth and tentatively brushed against his plumage.

“Careful.” Sunday reminded you with a slight wince.

You nodded at his warning and reached for the cloth with your other hand, dabbing the damp material against any dried spots of blood where his plumes had fallen out, before placing it back down after you finished tending to them.

Your touch was light, delicate, as your fingertips mapped a path forged by concern against the surface of his wings, seeking out any broken feathers as you sought to soothe as many of his aches as you could.

Unbeknownst to you, your very touch was both a soothing balm for Sunday’s miseries and a temptatious instigator for a stirring within his very core.

Brushing past a sore spot located at the starting muscles of his wings had ripped a soft gasp from Sunday’s throat, and quickly, you stopped.

“Does it hurt?” you asked quietly.

“No, no, just...” he breathed out, distracting himself by how heavenly your hands had felt. “If you would just kindly massage them, that'd be-”

Before he could finish his sentence, you worked your thumbs carefully against the cartilage's base, inadvertently rendering him silent, save for a few tender, wavering breaths.

Your hands worked practical miracles against the bothersome likes of his tension, snuffing them out by the source as they brushed up and down the entirety of his wingspan, your body pressed close to his for better grounds.

As your breath cascaded upon the back of his neck, your fingers delved deeper against his muscles. “I hope this is enough...”

Sunday swallowed thickly at your closeness. “Oh, dearest assistant, you...” he paused, clearing his throat. “You haven’t the faintest idea how much of a blessing this is to me.”

Slowly but surely, Sunday’s ever faithful front of ‘perfection’ had bared its frayed threads before you and unraveled itself by its fragile seams, leaving the fate of his precious, oft-concealed vulnerability within your tender hands.

Every trembling breath at each pass of your hands, along with every visible tremor of his bones in wake of your care, had clawed further at your heart, constricting its cage with concern.

Weathered down by his responsibilities and blemished by the expectations placed upon his shoulders as he was, it was clear that he was blind to how thin he had worn down the wick of his perseverance—the very structure of his charitable soul.

Finally satisfied with the sight of relaxed feathers displayed before your very eyes, your hands had retreated back to your sides, and as sudden awareness of your close proximity washed over you like a rebuking flood, you hastily moved yourself away.

Sunday had turned around to face you, his pale skin flushed as he shifted his weight from side to side. The moonlight that filtered through the Pavilion's windows seemed to enhance his ethereal beauty, the glow of the evening catching upon his halo and permitting it to shimmer like an ever-glittering star.

“I must ask,” Sunday began quietly, his gaze fleeting about the room, from the candle, to the barely-sipped cup of tea, even to the untouched plate of strawberries. “Why did you do this all for me? Surely, there must be something you need in exchange...”

You shook your head and frowned at his words. Why did he believe an act of goodwill had such a price to pay?

With so many words you wanted to say and a plethora of woes over his wellbeing you wanted to profess, you held your tongue and swallowed down the bitter medley of trepidation, fearful of shattering the tenderness that graced this rare moment of solitude.

Surely, one day, there would come an opportunity where you could properly formulate all of your thoughts, but this night was far from being that night.

“It’s just that you’ve been working tirelessly these past few days in preparation for the Charmony Festival,” you began, eying the stack of paperwork that laid in a neat pile upon his desk, before turning back to him. “...and it seems to be my obligation to at least try to remind you to take a break.”

“I’m sure I would’ve remembered to take one eventually...” Sunday protested weakly, as if he himself hadn't believed his words.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Perhaps, once you’ve finally burnt yourself out.”

Sunday’s head wings lowered themselves with a meek display of shame upon being put under such conviction.

As his eyes flitted away from yours, far too sheepish to meet your perceptive gaze, you took a step forward and, without much thought behind your all too forward actions, you wrapped your arms delicately around his waist.

Feeling your familiar touch snake around his sides as it enveloped him into a warm, blissful embrace, Sunday stiffened.

You gulped as he tensed against your grasp.

“Forgive me,” you whispered an apology against his chest, careful to not overwhelm him with any further skin contact. “...you just looked as if you needed one.”

Sunday took a few moments to steady his breathing before responding. “I... suppose I did.”

You watched as, with trembling footsteps, Sunday dragged you both backwards, before stopping to allow himself to sit back down in his chair.

His gloved hands clenched at his sides before finding purchase on the tops of your shoulders, pushing you down so that you'd settle against his lap—adjusting you accordingly so it wouldn't look conspicuous—before finally reciprocating the hug.

Completely unsure of what to do with his hands, Sunday had freed one of them to lift your head up with a shaky palm, his cold glove a soothing touch against your chin.

With ever-softening glances being exchanged, the weight of so many unspoken confessions had hung in the balance of the room's silence, but to your surprise, you hardly minded at all. Sunday’s eyes were briefly drawn to your lips before he forced himself out of his stupor, resisting the deafening call of the tender temptation with a soft clearance of his throat.

It was for the best, however—you really weren't sure if you could've resisted the notion of leaning forward yourself.

You were startled as the top of Sunday's head brushed against the underside of your chin, leaning his face down so he could rest the side of his cheek against your chest, breathing softly as he melded himself close to you, cocooning you both together within the vast expanse of his wings.

“I... I truly thank the heavens upon every moment I remember that you're in my life,” Sunday murmured fondly.

Ignoring the abrupt, intrusive flutter in your chest, your arms strengthened the secure hold they possessed against his form.

“I feel much the same, Sunday.”

In the silence of the night, you held each other close, the beat of your own synchronized hearts as you clung to one another the only melody worth dwelling upon.

Even if you couldn't outright plead for him to be more mindful of his limits and capabilities—that his singular light was not enough to shoulder the burdens he subjected himself to, let alone be strong enough illuminate the entire sky—you were grateful that in your arms, he could find his ever-fleeting, redeeming solace.

In that moment, it was enough.

It had to be enough.

[literary-illuminati]

Book Review 68 - Babel by R. F. Kuang

Overview

I came to Babel with extremely little knowledge about the actual contents of the book but a deep sense of all the vibes swirling around its reception – that it was robbed of a Hugo nomination (if the author didn’t outright refuse it), that it’s probably the single buzziest and most Important sf/f release of 2022, that it was stridently political, and plenty more besides. I also went in having mostly enjoyed The Poppy War series and being absolutely enamoured by the elevator pitch of an alternate history Industrial Revolution where translation is literally magic. And, well-

It is wrong to say I hated this book, but only because keeping track of my complaints and starting organize this review in my head was entertaining enough to keep me invested in the reading experience.

The story is set in an alternate 1830s, where the rise of the British Empire relies upon the dominance of its translators, as it is the mixture of translation and silverworking, the inscription of match-pairs in different languages on bars of worked silver and the leveraging of the ambiguity and loss of meaning between them that fuels the world’s magic. The protagonist is pluckted from his childhood home in Canton after his family dies in a cholera outbreak and whisked away to the estate of Professor Lowell, an Oxford translator he quickly realized is his unacknowledged father. He’s made to choose an English name (Robin Swift) and raised and tutored as a future translator in service to the Empire.

The meat of the story is focused on Robin’s education in Oxford, his relationship with the rest of his cohort, and his growing radicalization and entanglement with the revolutionary Hermes Society. Things come to a head when in his fourth year the cohort is sent back to Canton to, well, help provoke the first Opium War, though none of them aware of that. The final act follows the fallout of that, by which I mean it lives up to the full title of “Or the Necessity of Violence: An Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution”.

To be clear, this was technically a very accomplished book. The writing never dragged and the prose was, if not exactly lyrical, always clear and often evocative. Despite the breadth of space and time the story covers, I never had any complaints about the pacing – and honestly, the ending was, dramatically speaking, one of the more natural and well-executed ones I’ve read recently. It’s very well-constructed.

All that being said – allow me to apologize for how the rest of this is mostly just going to be a litany of complaints. But the book clearly believes itself to be an important and meaningful work of political art, which means I don’t feel particularly bad about holding it to high standards.

Narrative Voice

To start with, just, dear god the tone. This is a book with absolutely zero faith in its audience’s ability to reach their own conclusions, or even follow the symbolism and implication it lays down. Every important point is stated outright, repeated, and all but bolded and underlined. In this book set in 1830s England there are footnotes fact-checking the imperialists talking heads to, I guess, make sure we don’t accidentally become convinced by their apologia for the slave trade? Everything is just relentlessly didactic, in a way that ended up feeling rather insulting even when I agreed with the points Kuang was making.

More than that, and this is perhaps a more subjective complaint but – for an ostensible period piece, the narrative voice and perspective just felt intensely modern? This was theoretically an omniscient third person book, with the narrative voice being pretty distinct from any of the actual characters – with the result that the implicit narrator was instead the sort of person of spends six hours a day getting into arguments on twitter and for this effort calls themselves a progressive activist. The identities of all the characters – as delivered by the objective narration – were all very neat and legible from the perspective of someone at a 2022 HR department listing how diverse their team was, which was somewhere between a tragic lost opportunity to show how messy and historical racial/ethnic/national identities are and outright anachronistic, depending. (This was honestly one of the bigger disappointments, coming from Kuang’s earlier work. Say what you will of The Poppy War series, the narration is with Rin all the way down, and it trusts the reader enough not to blink.) More than that it was just distracting – the narration ended up feeling like an annoying obstacle between me and the story, and not in any fun postmodern way either.

Characters

Speaking of the cast – they simply do not sound or feel like they actually grew up in the 19th century. Now, some modernization of speech patterns and vocabulary and moral commensense is just the price of doing business with mass market period pieces, granted, but still – no 19th century Anglo-Indian revolutionary is going use the phrase ‘Narco-military state’ (if for no other reason than we’re something like a century early for ‘narco-state’ to be coined as a term at all). An even beyond feeling out of time most of the characters feel kind of thinly sketched?

Or no, it’s not that the characters are thinly sketched so much as their relationships are. We’re repeatedly, insistently told that these four students are fast friends and closer than family and would happily die for each other, but we’re very rarely actually shown it. This is partly just a causality of trying to skim over a four-year university education in the middle third of one book, I think, but still – the good times and happy moments are almost always sort of skimmed over, summarized in the course of a paragraph or two that usually talk in terms of memories and consequences more than the relationships themselves. The points of friction and the arguments, meanwhile, are usually played out entirely on the page, or at least described in much more detail. In the end you kind of have to just take it as read that any of these people actually love each other, given that at least two of them seem to be feuding at any given point for the entire time they know each other.

Letty deserves some special attention. She’s the only white member of Robin’s cohort at Babel and she honestly feels like less of acharacter and more a collection of tropes about white women in progressive spaces? Even more than the rest, it’s hard to believe the rest of the class views her as beloved ride-or-die found family when essentially every time she’s on screen it’s so she can do a microagression or a white fragility or something. Also, just – you know how relatively common it is to see just, blatantly misogynistic memes repackaged as anti-racist because it specifies ‘white women’? There’s a line in this that almost literally says ‘Letty wasn’t doing anything to disprove the stereotype of woman as uselessly emotional and hysteric’.

Also, she’s the one who ends up betraying the other three and trying to turn them in when they turn revolutionary. Which is probably inevitable given the book’s politics, but as it happened felt like less of the shocking betrayal that it was supposed to be and more just, checking off a box for a dramatic reverse. Of course she turned on them, none of them ever really seemed to even like each other.

As a Period Piece

So, the book is set in the 1830s, in the midst of the industrial revolution and its social fallout, and the leadup to the First Opium War (which is, through the magic of, well, magic ,but also mercantilist economics, make into a synecdoche for British global dominion more broadly). On the one hand, the setting is impeccably researched, recent and relevant historical events are referenced whenever they would come up, and the footnotes are full to bursting with quotes and explanations of texts or cultural ephemera that’s brought up in the narration.

On the other, the setting doesn’t feel authentic in the slightest, the portrayal of the British Empire is bizarrely inconsistent, and all that richly researched historical grounding ends up feeling less like a living world and more like a particularly well-down set for a Doctor Who episode.

The story is incredibly focused around Oxford as a city and a university. There’s a whole author’s note about the research and slight changes made into its geography and I absolutely believe its portrayal as a physical location and the laws about how women were treated and how the different colleges were organized and all that is exactly as accurate as Kuang wanted them to be. The issue is really the people. With the exception of a few cartoonish villains who barely get more than a couple pages apiece, no one feels, sounds like, or acts like they actually belong in the 19th century. The racism the protagonists struggle with all feels much more 21st century than Victorian, and the frame of mind everyone inhabits still comes across more as ‘unusually blatantly racist Englishman’ than 19th century scholars and polymaths.

This is especially blatant as far as religion goes. It’s occasionally mentioned, sure enough, but to the extent anyone actually believes in Christianity it’s of a very modern and disenchanted sort – this is a society that sends out missionaries as a conscious tool of colonial expansion, not because of anything as silly or absurd as actually wanting to spread their gospel. Also like, it’s Oxford, in the nineteenth century. For all the racism the protagonists have to deal with, they should be getting so much more shit from ‘well-meaning’ locals and students trying to save their (one Muslim, one atheist, one probably Christian but black and protective of Haitian Vodou on a cultural level which would be more than enough) souls.

Or, and this is more minor, it is a central conceit of the whole finale that if a few (like, two) determined revolutionaries can infiltrate Babel they’ll be able to take the entire place hostage with barely any trouble. This is because the students and professors there are, basically, whimpy bookworms who’ll faint at the sight of blood and have no stomach for the sort of violence their work actually supports and drives. Which – look, I really don’t want to defend the ruling class of Victorian Britain here, but I’m not sure physical cowardice is really one of their failings, as a group? I mean, there’s an entire system of institutionalized child abuse in the boarding schools they went to to get them used to taking and dealing out violence and abuse. Basically every upper-class sport is thinly disguised military drill or ritual combat (okay, or rowing). Half of them would graduate to immediately running off and invading places for the glory of the queen. I’m not sure two sleep-deprived nerds with knives would actually have been able to cow the crowd here, is what I’m saying. (This would stick out less if the text wasn’t so dripping with contempt for them on precisely these grounds.)

Much less minor are our heroic revolutionaries themselves. And okay, this is more a matter of taste than anything but like – the Hermes Society is an illegal conspiracy of renegade current and former Babel scholars dedicated to using their knowledge of magic and access to university resources to oppose and undermine the British Empire in general and the work of the school in particular. Think Metternich’s worse nightmare, but in Oxford instead of Paris and focused on colonial liberation (continental Europe barely exists for the purposes of the book, Britain is Empire.) So! A secret society of professional revolutionaries in the heydey of just that, with a name that just has to be Hermetic symbolism, who concern themselves with both high politics and metaphysics.

They are just so very, very boring. This is the age of the Conspiracy of the Equals, the Carbonari, the Seasons! The literal Illumanti are still within living memory! Where’s the pageantry, the ritual, the grandiosity? The elaborate initiation rituals and oaths of undying loyalty? They’re so pragmatic, so humble, so (and I know I keep coming back to this) modern. It’s just such an utter wasted opportunity. Even beyond the level of aesthetics, these are revolutionaries with remarkably little positive ideology – the oppose colonialism and racism for reasons they take as self-evident and so don’t feel the need to theorize about it (and talk about them with the vocabulary of a modern activist, because of course they do), but they’re pretty much consciously agnostic as to what world should look like instead. They vaguely end up supporting a sort of petty-bourgeois socialism (in the Marxist sense), but the alliance with Luddites is essentially political convenience – they really don’t seem to have any vision of the future at all, either in England or the various places they claim as homelands.

On Empire and Industrialization

The story is set during the early nineteenth century, so of course the Industrial Revolution is a pretty core part of the background. The Silver Industrial Revolution, technically, since the Babellers translation magic is in this world a key and load-bearing part of it. Despite the addition of miracle-working enhancers and supports to its fundamental technology, the industrial revolution plays out pretty identically to history – right down to the same cities becoming hubs of industry, despite steam engines using enchanted silver instead of coal and thus, presumably, the entire economic and logistical system that brought this particular cities to prominence being totally unrecognizable. This is not a book that’s in any way actually about tracing how something would change history – which isn’t a complaint, to be clear, that’s a perfectly valid creative choice.

It does, however, make it rather galling that the single actually significant difference to history is that the introduction of magic turns the industrial revolution into a Legend of Zelda boss with a giant glowing weak point you can hit to destroy the whole enterprise.

On a narrative level, I get it – it simplifies things and allows for a far happier and more dramatic ending if destroying Babel is not just a symbolic act but also literally sends London Bridge falling down and scuttles the entire royal navy and every mill and factory in Britain. It’s just that I think that by doing so it trades away any chance for actually making interesting commentary on anti-colonial and -capitalist resistance. A world where a single act of spectacular terrorism really can destroy a modern empire is frankly so detached from our world that it ceases to be able to really materially comment upon it.

Like, the principle reason to not take the Luddites as your role models is not that they were morally vicious but that they were doomed – capitalism’s ability to repair damage to infrastructure and fixed goods is legitimately very impressive! Trying to force an entire ruling class not to adopt a technology that makes whoever commits to it tremendous amounts of money (thus, power) is a herculean task even when you have a state apparatus and standing army – adding an ‘off’ button to the lot of it just trades all sense of relevance for a satisfyingly cathartic ending.

(This is leaving untouched how the book just takes it as a given that the industrial revolution was a strictly immiserating force that did nothing but redistribute money from artisans to capitalists. Which certainly tracks as something people at the time would have thought but given how resolutely modern all the other politics in the work are rings really weirdly.)

All of which is only my second biggest issue with how the book presents its successful resistance movement. It all pales in comparison to making the Empire a squeamish paper tiger.

Like, the book hates colonialism in general and the British Empire in particular, the narrative and footnotes are filled with little asides about various atrocities and injustices and just ways it was racist or complicit in some particular atrocity. But more than that it is contemptuous of it, it views the empire as (as the cliche goes) a perpetually rotting edifice that just needs one good kick; that it persists only through the myth of its own invincibility, and has no stomach for violent resistance from within. Which is absolutely absurd, and the book does seem to know it on occasion when it off-handedly mentions e.g. the Peterloo Massacre – but a character whose supposed to be the grizzled cynical pragmatic revolutionary still spouts off about how slave rebellions succeed because their masters aren’t willing to massacre their own property. Which is just so spectacularly wrong on every axis its actually almost offensive.

More importantly, the entire final act of the story relies upon the fact that the British Empire would allow a handful of foreign students seize control of a vital piece of infrastructure for weeks on end and do nothing but try to wait them out as the national physically falls apart around them. Like, c’mon, there would be siege artillery set up and taking shots by the end of week two. As with the Oxford students, the Victorian elite had all manner of flaws – take your pick, really – but squeamishness wasn’t really one of them.

On Magic

So the magical system underlying the whole story is – you know how Machinaries of Empire makes imperial ideology and metaphysics literally magical, giving expert technicians the ability to create superweapons and destroy worlds provided that the Hexarchate’s subjects observe the imperial calendar of rites and celebrate its triumphs/participate in rituals glorying in the torture of its ‘heretics’? It’s not exactly a subtle metaphor, but it works.

Babel does something similar, except the foundational atrocity fueling the engine of empire on a metaphysical level is, like, cultural appropriation. As an organizing metaphor, I find this less compelling.

Leaving that aside, the story makes translation literally capable of miracle-working – which of necessity requires making ‘languages’ distinct natural categories with observable metaphysical boundaries. It then sets the story in the 19th century – the era of newborn nation states and education systems and national literatures, where the concept of the national-linguistic community was the obsession of the entire European intelligentsia. Now this is not a book concerned with how the presence of magic would actually have changed history, in the slightest, but like – given how fascinated it is by translation and linguistics you’d think the whole ‘a language is a dialect with a navy’ cliché would at least get a light mention (but then the book doesn’t really treat language as any more inherent or natural than it does any other modern identity category, I suppose.)

As an Allegory

Okay, so having now spent an embarrassing number of words establishing to my own satisfaction that the book really doesn’t work at all as a period piece, let us consider; what if it wasn’t trying to be?

A great many things about the book just fit much better if you take it as a commentary on the modern university with Victorian window-dressing. Certainly the driving resentment of Oxford as an institution that sustains itself and grows rich off the exploitation of international students it considers second-class seems far more apt applied to contemporary elite western schools than 19th century ones. Likewise the racism the heroes face all seems like the kind you’d expect in a modern English town rather than a Victorian one. I’m not well-versed enough on the economics of the city to know for sure, but I would wager that the gleeful characterization of Oxford as a city that literally starts falling to ruin without the university to support it was also less accurate in the 1830s than it is today.

Read like this, everything coheres much better – but the most striking thing becomes the incredible vanity of the book. This is a morality tale where the natural revolutionary vanguard with the power to bring global hegemony to its knees through nothing but witholding their labour are..students at elite western universities (not, I must say, a class I’d consider in dire need of having their egos boosted). The emotions underlying everything make much more sense, but the plot itself becomes positively myopic.

Beyond that – if this is a story about international students at elite universities, it does a terrible job of actually portraying them. Or, properly, it only shows a certain type; just about every foreign-born student or professor we meet is some level of revolutionary, deeply opposed in principle to the empire they work within. No one is actually convinced by the carrot of a life as an exploited but exceedingly comfortable and well-compensated technician in the imperial core, and there’s not really acknowledgement at all of just how much of the apparatus of international institutions and governments in the global south – including positions with quite a bit of real power – end up being staffed by exactly that demographic who just sincerely agree with the various ideological projects employing them. Kuang makes it far too easy on herself by making just about every person of colour in the books one of the good guys, and totally undersells how convincing hegemonic ideology can be, basically.

The Necessity of Violence

This is a pet peeve and it’s a very minor thing that I really wouldn’t bring it up if that wasn’t literally part of the title. But it is, so – it’s a plot point that’s given a decent amount of attention that Griffin (Robin’s secret older brother, grizzled professional revolutionary, his introduction to anti-colonialism) is blamed for murdering one of his classmates who had the bad luck to be studying while he was sneaking in to steal some silver – a student that was quite well-loved by the faculty and her very successful classmates, who have never forgiven him. Later on, it’s revealed that this is an utter rewriting of history, and she’d been a double agent pretending to let herself be recruited into the Hermes Society who’d been luring Griffin into an ambush when he killed her and escaped.

This is – well, the most predictable not-even-a-twist imaginable, for one, but also – just rank cowardice. You titled the book ‘the necessity of violence’, the least you can do is actually own it and show that violent resistance means people (with faces, and names, not just abstractions only ever talked about in general terms) who are essentially personally innocent are going to end up collateral damage, and people are going to hold grudges about it. Have some courage in your convictions!

Translation

Okay, all of that said, this isn’t a book that’s wholly bad, or anything. In particular, you can really tell how much of a passion Kuang has for the art and science of translation. The depth of knowledge and eagerness to share just about overflows from the page whenever the book finds an excuse to talk about it at length, and it’s really very endearing. The philosophizing about translation was also as a rule much more interesting and nuanced then whenever the book tried to opine about high politics or revolutionary tactics.

Anyways, I really can’t recommend the book in any real way, but it did stick in my head for long enough that I’ve now written 4,000 words about it. So at the very least it’s the interesting sort of bad book, y’know?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Farmer's Daughter 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your dad sits in the worn-out recliner, silent as the radio buzzes on an AM station. Your mother places a glass of water next to him but he doesn't acknowledge her. You've never seen him like this. Your dad's always been lively, often talking back to the radio. But now, he's like a shell, just staring.

"The rehab nurse will come tomorrow," your mom nears, "he just needs some rest for now."

You nod and back out of the room, a grim coldness in the air despite the warmth of spring flowing in from open windows. You enter the kitchen as your mother trails after you. Without a word, she flips on the burner beneath the blackened silver kettle. You lean on the square island and trace a finger around a ring in the wood.

"Do they know how it happened?" You ask.

"A clot. They say... things like that are hard to catch," she sniffs, "but it doesn't matter now. All that matters is he's home and alive and... he's going to get better."

"I'm sorry, ma," you frown.

You cup your chin and glance over at the door. When you looked in your father's eyes, it was as if he didn't know you. He just smiled weakly then went back to staring. What happened to man who used to jump down from his tractor to the dismay of his wife?

"We'll have to figure out what to do about the planting," your mother hums and chews her thumb. She pulls her hand away and stretches out her fingers, "Timothy's done a lot but... we'll never catch up at this pace."

"I can help," you offer, "ma, we'll make it work."

"No, I need you in here," she counters, "I'll be taking care of your dad. The hospital gave me all these pamphlets; exercises and all that..." she blows out a heavy breath and flattens her palm to her forehead, "how am I going to do all this?"

"Ma, we'll all help," you offer, "it's okay. We'll be okay. Dad will be okay."

You come around the counter and offer a hug. She latches onto you and rocks you in place. As she holds you, a rumble underlines the chatter on the radio humming from the front room.

You part and look over at the open archway to the hallway. You glance at your mother and give a nod. Visitors already.

You go down to the entry way, wondering where Timothy went. He was just out on the porch fiddling with some car part or another. You open the door and lean back on a heel as Walter greets you with a nod.

"Hey, hope I'm not... imposing."

"Um, dad just got home. He's..." you peek over at the front room, "resting."

"Of course, I figured, I just wanted to drop this off," he holds up the basket in his right hand, "had some extra stuff in my pantry."

"Oh, Mr. Marshall," you accept the basket, "thank you. You didn't have to--"

"Walt," he corrects.

"Walter," your mother's voice carries through the hall as she pads up softly, "oh, Walter, how kind."

She looks at the basket as you grasp the handle and Walter lets it go, the weight nearly bowling you over. You do your best to keep it above ground level.

"Heavy," he warns too late.

"Please, come in," your mother beckons.

"I wouldn't want to disturb him," Walter puts his head down, almost meekly. "Just wanted to bring some stuff."

"No, no, please, I just put the kettle on."

"Uh, alright," he accepts reticently. "Thanks, Maddie."

"Not at all," she assures and turns to sweep back down the hall.

He steps in and bends to untie his stained tan boots. He leaves them on the mat and faces you. You give an awkward smile and take stunted steps with the weighty basket.

"Here," he swipes it back as he catches up to you, "don't hurt yourself."

You let him have it. Your arm hurts. He follows you into the kitchen and places the basket on the island as you round to the other side.

"Black tea?" Your mother offers.

"Sure," he stands sternly, arms straight, stance wide.

She takes down three cups as you languish in radio's buzz. You never said much more than a few words to Walter. Walt. He never says too much either, he was always just a sounding board for your father's yammering.

"God!" The back door swings open and hits the wall, causing you and your mother to yelp as Walter merely looks over dully. Your brother clamours in and skids to a halt.

"Timmy, the floor," your mother reproaches.

"Dang it, sorry ma," he huffs, "I just... the tractor's smoking."

"What?" You and your mother stammer in unison.

"Yeah, black shit all out the exhaust."

"I'll have a look," Walter offers.

"Oh, hey, Walter," Timothy grins dumbly.

"You're so kind, Walter, but we can get Vol down here--"Don't bother with the bill," Walter shrugs off, "I'll get my boots."

Your mother sighs and you shake your head at Timothy. She might just be right. There's no way the three of you can get the spring planting done, especially if he's going to treat the tractor like one of his dinky cars he played with as a kid.

[hanafubukki]

“I’ll remember you though. I remember everyone that leaves”

Not only does Malleus have similarities with Stitch but also Lilo.

With Stitch, as Lilia pointed out, Stitch is cute and strong and people misunderstands him. They see Stitch and judge him right away for an abomination. They don’t want to get to know him. He’s reminded of Malleus and thinks they’ll get along.

Not only that, Lilia’s beach ssr is the card we learn why Lilia loves cooking. Why he learns to cook. How he learns to slow down and enjoy food with others because of Malleus. His family.

Then you get Lilo. She lost both her parents and was raised by her sister. People misunderstood her. She thought she was the cause of her parents death/played a role.

The parallels with Malleus are there. Malleus lost both his parents. He’s raised by Lilia, who was limited in what he could do just like Lilo’s sister, Nani, because she had to juggle work and Lilo. (Lilia has to sneak in/summoned, helps forge the treaty, helps Malleus get dressed, sing him to sleep, taught him, etc).

But now? There’s also the guilt.

Lilo believes it’s her fault that her parents died because she didn’t feed Pudge that day. She appeases Pudge by feeding him so it won’t happen again. So there won’t be anymore accidents.

And you know who else has this guilt! Who hasn’t accepted what his hatching means to Lilia? Malleus Draconia.

He sees how his birth brings happiness to Lilia and he rejects it. He instead offers Lilia a happy dream. With his parents alive. With Silver. Anyone but him.

He has this guilt. He knows the truth. He believe he’s the reason for it just like Lilo believes. He doesn’t want Lilia to die especially now that he knows that he’s the reason why. He doubles down on trying to give him a happy dream without suffering.

Because Lilia is part of his family and, “You don’t let family die. You don’t ever.”

That is exactly what Malleus is doing right now. He’s not going let him or anyone he loves die. He, like Lilo with Pudge, doesn’t want anyone to go through that loss.

As Malleus said, “all I ever do is lose one thing after another. Everyone eventually gets up from the table and leaves me behind in the end.” And just like Lilo, he’ll remember them. He remembers each one that leaves.

Ohana means family, family means no one gets left behind or forgotten, but in Malleus’s case how much of that is true?

He’ll never forget his family. He’ll always love them even after they are long gone. They are always in his thoughts. But he, for all his powers and status, he’s always the one left behind and forgotten, isn’t he?

All he’s trying to do right now though, is make sure no one feels the same pain he does. Like Lilo with Pudge.

***in case it’s not known, the “underlined” sections are hyperlinks. Please click on them for more painful context😘 🫶***

[doomed-syko]

ACTUALLY while looking through my camera roll to delete some pictures i’ve found this screenshot. it’s from february of this year and deffo sounds like it’s about eli…

ive been stalking ur account lately (im so sorry if it comes off as creepy i jusr have a lot of time on my hands n ur answers to asks really interested me 😭 u also seem like a rly fun person) but whats caught my eyes is the thing w saoirse n elijah, i was wondering if u had any ss of poems where it might b linked to/about elijah or she mentions "lobster boy"? ive never been interested in any celebrity's love life but this just really interested me & i wanna read more of saoirse's poems since she deleted most of them on her instagram

haha don’t worry — stalk as much as you want 💞😽

i actually don’t have any screenshots of her poems but if you scroll through the endless amount of story highlights she has on her ig there’s two highlights just full of her poems and a few of them are deffo about eli…. tbh i cba to look through them and take screenshots because at the end of the day, i don’t really care all that much about her lool 😭 but yeah just have a look

[goddessofvalyria]

Mr. & Mrs. Targaryen pt. 2 | Modern!Aemond Targaryen x fem!oc

Summary: Aemond Targaryen is the CEO of the family business, the Targaryen Company and is part of the élite of the King's Landing Society. Daelia Targaryen is the rebellious daughter of Daemon and Rhaenyra. They meet at a gala, unaware of how that meeting will change things forever...

TW for all the story: 18+, MINORS DNI, She/Her pronouns, the fem!oc is named Daelia Targaryen with long dyed black hair and purple eyes, kissing, sexual themes, dirty talking, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, masturbation (m and f) tits sucking/play, SMUT, sexual tension, sex, violence, guns, alcohol, drugs, angst, sad, death, murder, dark themes, Targcest (he is the uncle and she is the niece, they're Targaryen....) This is a modern Aemond in modern AU.

English is not my first language, be kind and enjoy the fic <3

Words: 3333

Previous part: Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Next part: Chapter 3

As the elevator doors slide open to reveal Aemond's apartment, Daelia steps into a world of luxury and modernity. The space is a sleek, black-and-chrome masterpiece, every detail meticulously chosen, reflecting both elegance and power. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of King’s Landing at night, the city lights twinkling like stars beneath them. The air inside is cool, tinged with the faint scent of something exotic and expensive.

Daelia strides into the apartment with a casual confidence, her satin dress flowing around her like liquid silver. The fabric clings to her curves, leaving her back exposed in a way that draws Aemond’s eye immediately. At the bottom of her dress, he catches a glimpse of her Gucci black thong, a subtle but deliberate detail that makes his pulse quicken. She moves with the grace of someone completely at ease in her own skin, her every step as deliberate as the tilt of her head when she glances over her shoulder at him.

“There is a beautiful view from here” she murmurs, her voice soft as she gazes out over the city. Her tone is almost wistful, though laced with a hint of something deeper, something Aemond can’t quite place. But he doesn’t respond immediately. He’s too busy watching her, captivated by the way the lights outside play across her skin, the smooth expanse of her back, the way her hair falls just so over one shoulder. There’s an effortless sensuality about her that he finds both intriguing and dangerous.

Daelia turns around, and Aemond’s breath catches in his throat as he notices the complete lack of a bra beneath her dress. The fabric falls in such a way that leaves little to the imagination, the lines of her body clearly defined beneath the satin. She’s nonchalant, almost as if she’s unaware of the effect she’s having on him, but Aemond knows better. Everything about Daelia is calculated, deliberate, and tonight, she’s playing a game that he’s more than willing to join.

She crosses the room with the same languid grace, his giant dog, Vhagar, watching silently from a plush bed in the corner. The dog’s presence is imposing, but it’s clear that Vhagar is more guardian than pet, her eyes watching Aemond.

“Dragonstone is so boring” Daelia says suddenly, her voice tinged with frustration as she sinks onto the sofa. “It’s beautiful, sure, but there’s nothing to do. No one to see. Just endless, suffocating tradition...and family.”

Aemond moves closer, slipping off his jacket and tossing it onto the back of a chair. He unbuttons the first few buttons of his shirt, the tension in the room thickening as he approaches her. He gestures to the seat next to him. “Sit with me” he says, his voice low and inviting.

Daelia hesitates for just a moment before she glides over, slipping off her heels with a sensual ease that doesn’t escape Aemond’s notice. She settles next to him, her body language both relaxed and charged, a dichotomy that keeps him on edge.

They talk, their conversation flowing easily, though underlined with a current of sexual tension that neither of them bothers to hide.

"You're different" Aemond said. "You too, uncle."

Daelia leans back against the sofa, her dress shifting to reveal more of her smooth skin. Aemond watches as the thin straps of her dress slide down her shoulders, and he can’t resist reaching out, his fingers brushing lightly against her skin, following the path of the delicate fabric.

She shivers slightly at his touch, but instead of pulling away, she leans into it, tilting her head to look at him. “Take off the eye patch fo me” she whispers, her voice barely audible but filled with a daring that sends a thrill through Aemond.

For a moment, he hesitates, the instinct to protect himself warring with the desire to give in to her request. But something in her eyes—something challenging and sincere—compels him to nod. With deliberate movements, he removes the leather patch, revealing the sapphire that replaces his missing eye, the jewel glinting in the low light of the room.

Daelia doesn’t flinch. Instead, she leans closer, her fingers tracing the scar that runs down his face, her touch featherlight but electrifying. “It’s sexy” she comments, her tone laced with genuine admiration.

Aemond can’t help the small, almost embarrassed smile that tugs at his lips. He’s used to people reacting with horror or pity, but never with the kind of fascination that Daelia is showing. “You think so?” he asks, his voice rougher than he intended.

She nods, her eyes never leaving his as she continues to trace the line of the scar, her touch almost reverent. “You wear your scars like armor” she says softly. “But I think they make you more… real. More human.”

There’s a moment of silence between them, the air thick with something unspoken. Finally, Aemond breaks it, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why were you really at the gala tonight, Daelia?”

She meets his gaze, her fingers still lightly resting against his skin. Her expression softens, a rare vulnerability slipping through. “I wanted to see my favorite uncle again,” she replies, her tone light but with an underlying sincerity that makes Aemond’s chest tighten.

His breath hitches as she leans in, her lips just inches from his. Her eyes flicker down to his mouth before meeting his gaze again, and Aemond feels the last of his restraint slipping away.

“Is that all?” he murmurs, his voice rough with the need he’s been trying so hard to contain.

Daelia smiles, a slow, knowing smile that speaks of shared secrets and desires. “For now” she whispers before closing the distance between them, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that’s both tender and searing, the culmination of all the tension that has been building between them since the moment they locked eyes across the ballroom.

As their lips meet, Aemond wraps his arms around her, pulling her close as the last of his resistance crumbles, lost in the intoxicating presence of the woman who has always been just out of reach.

Daelia closes the distance between them with a swift, deliberate motion, capturing Aemond's lips in a kiss that is anything but gentle. It's a passionate, searing kiss that ignites every nerve in his body, overwhelming him with the intensity of her touch. Her hands weave into his hair, pulling him closer as if she can't get enough, and Aemond feels a surge of something primal, something uncontrollable, rise within him.

He responds instinctively, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her onto his lap as the kiss deepens. There's nothing tentative about it now—it's all-consuming, a collision of desire and desperation that leaves them both breathless. The taste of her, the feel of her body pressed against his, sends his senses spiraling, and for a moment, he feels like he's drowning in her.

But then, just as he's about to lose himself completely, Daelia pulls back slightly, her lips still brushing against his. Aemond inhales sharply, trying to steady his breathing, but her presence, the scent of her, the warmth of her skin, makes it impossible to think clearly.

"My favorite uncle" she whispers against his lips, the words a soft, teasing caress that makes his chest tighten.

The phrase, so simple yet so charged, sends a shiver down his spine. It’s a reminder of who they are, of the history that binds them, yet it also speaks to the connection that has been simmering beneath the surface for years. Aemond’s hands tighten on her waist, his heart pounding in his chest as he struggles to find words, to ground himself in a moment that feels like it's slipping away from him.

But before he can speak, Daelia kisses him again, and this time, it’s even more fervent, more intense. Her lips move against his with a hunger that matches his own, and Aemond feels himself giving in, letting the heat of the moment consume him. The world around them fades, leaving only the two of them, locked in an embrace that is as fierce as it is forbidden.

Daelia begins to unbutton his shirt, her favorite uncle, has toned abs and a strong but soft chest. Almost angelic.. His v-line is defined and her eyes wandered to the hard bulge in his pants that presses under her thighs. Daelia remains to look at him in amazement, her hands touched the warm skin, she took off his shirt, His arms are long and veiny just like her hands, the muscles defined and toned.

"Undress me" she whispers kissing him on the lips, Aemond takes the dress in his hands and slips it off, over her head. She is almost naked, wearing only the Gucci thong, her breasts are large and toned, pressing against his chest.

The girl begins to move slowly against his hips, separating them only two strips of fabric. Daelia moans, she feels her panties getting wet, she is excited. Aemond tightens his grip on her hips with one hand, squeezing her breast with the other.

"I want to ruin you pretty girl" he whispers as their lips meet in another dirty and sexual kiss, Daelia bites his lip and continues to move on top of him. He is hard, almost painful. "Ruin me"

Aemond looks at her with his good eye and his middle finger slides between her thighs, pushing her panties aside and penetrating her. "Oh, uncle"

"Move your hips princess"

Daelia gasps and begins to move against the two fingers that are giving her pleasure, the feeling of his fingers inside her is heavenly for both of them: Daelia is hot, soaking wet, soft and tight, Aemond is hard, aching as she moves on his fingers, riding them desperately, Aemond adds his thumb again, wanting to make sure her clit is not deprived of pleasure.

Daelia is consumed with pleasure, Aemond's fingers are pushing her to the limit and she finds herself pressed against him, their lips connected. "Aem-" her lips are captured in a kiss. "Shh, niece" Aemond hisses continuing to give her pleasure, he can't wait to sink between her thighs and lick her, make her his, so much so that he wants to have her there forever, every night warming his bed.  "Uncle, I''m-I''m close" she whispers, her eyes shining and Aemond makes her come on his fingers. 

“Ride my fingers pretty girl”

Daelia is tightened around him, the orgasm overwhelms her. Between her thighs she is soaking wet, sticky and Aemond finds himself holding a woman in his arms for the first time. 

"Shh" he whispers. Daelia trembles, she notices the bulge in his pants. "Can I do something for you, uncle?" Aemond who is known for being a man who takes everything he wants during sex, shakes his head. "Not tonight" he whispers kissing her temple. "I thought you wanted to fuck me" she teases. "We'll have time to do that too" Daelia, calmer now feels a wave of shame. She is naked, wearing only a thong.

Aemond hands her his shirt, covering her. "Do you want to take a shower?" he asks. "I thought you kicked women out of your house after..." Aemond looks at her. "Not you" he gets up from the couch, Daelia covers herself with his shirt. "You need a shower" he leads her to the bathroom.

She enters, the bathroom is huge and she thinks about what it would be like to have sex in that shower or ride him in the jacuzzi. She jumps when she feels him behind her. "For you" Aemond hands her his black Metallica t-shirt and leaves.

Daelia stands alone in the bathroom, the sound of the shower echoing in the sleek, modern space. The steam rises around her as she steps under the hot water, letting it cascade over her body, washing away the remnants of the night. Her mind is still racing from the intensity of what just happened, the feel of Aemond's lips on hers, the weight of his hands on her skin. But here, in the privacy of the shower, she allows herself a moment to breathe, to collect her thoughts.

After a while, she turns off the water and grabs a towel, drying herself off before reaching for some makeup remover she found on the counter. The brand is expensive, the kind of luxury item she imagines a woman with status might use—probably left behind by some woman Aemond was once engaged to or involved with. The thought sends a pang of something unidentifiable through her, but she pushes it aside, focusing instead on removing the last traces of mascara and lipstick from her face. 

Once her makeup is gone, Daelia’s reflection stares back at her from the mirror—barefaced, raw, and more vulnerable than she’s felt in a long time. She wear the t-shirt Aemond he gave her, it drapes over her body, soft and comforting. She slips it on, the fabric cool against her freshly showered skin. Even though she’s dressed, the fact that it’s his shirt, combined with the intensity of their shared moment, makes her feel exposed in a way she’s never experienced before.

Before leaving the bathroom, she washes her Gucci thong in the sink, wringing it out carefully before hanging it to dry on the hot radiator.

She finds Aemond in the living room, sitting on the couch in nothing but a pair of black sweatpants. The dim light casts shadows across his chiseled features, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the intensity of his gaze as he watches her approach. The sight of him like this, relaxed yet still holding that aura of power, sends a thrill through her. 

He doesn’t say anything at first, just gestures for her to sit beside him again. The invitation is both casual and intimate, and she accepts, her bare feet padding softly across the cool floor as she moves to sit next to him. The leather of the couch is smooth beneath her, and she sinks into it, feeling the warmth of his body next to hers.

Aemond reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table, pulling one out and offering it to her. “A cig?” he asks, his voice low, a hint of that earlier tension still lingering.

Daelia takes the cigarette from him, her fingers brushing against his as she does. There’s a familiarity in the gesture, but also an underlying current of something more. He lights it for her, and she inhales deeply, the nicotine calming her nerves as she exhales a thin stream of smoke into the air.

Sitting here, so close to him, wearing nothing but his t-shirt, Daelia feels a mix of emotions. The power dynamics between them, the unspoken history, the raw attraction—it’s all there, simmering just beneath the surface. She glances over at Aemond, taking in the way he looks at her, his gaze intense and focused, as if he’s seeing every part of her, even the parts she tries to keep hidden.

Even though the moment feels charged, there’s also a strange sense of peace, as if for now, in this quiet space, they can just be themselves, without the weight of expectations or the shadows of their pasts looming over them. Daelia takes another drag of her cigarette, then leans back against the couch, feeling both vulnerable and strangely powerful in his presence.

Aemond reaches out, his hand resting lightly on her thigh, his touch warm and grounding. The silence between them is thick with unspoken words, but for now, neither of them feels the need to break it. They sit there, side by side, lost in their thoughts, the cigarette smoke curling up toward the ceiling as the night stretches on.

The room is steeped in a heavy silence, the only sound the faint crackling of the cigarette as Daelia takes another slow drag. The smoke curls up around her, hazy and delicate, as she speaks in a voice so soft, it’s almost a whisper.

“You were the first...” she murmurs, her eyes flickering down to the floor, unable to meet Aemond’s intense gaze. “The first kiss… the first to finger me.”

Aemond’s eyes widen slightly, though he tries to keep his expression neutral, the weight of her confession settling over him like a heavy cloak. “Were you… a virgin?” His voice is measured, careful, as if he’s treading on dangerous ground.

“I still am, you didn't fuck me” Daelia admits, her tone carrying a mix of defiance and vulnerability. She stands from the couch, the t-shirt she’s wearing—his t-shirt—falling loosely around her, making her seem both ethereal and exposed. “In the elite of King’s Landing, there are men from every house who ask my parents to be their bride.”

Aemond’s brow furrows as she continues, his mind racing to keep up with the implications of her words. But Daelia’s next confession stops him in his tracks.

“But I don’t want to get married, uncle...unless is you, Mr. Aemond Targaryen”

Aemond feels a twist in his chest, a mix of protectiveness and something darker, something he can’t quite name. He’s about to ask her why she’s telling him this when she turns to him, her eyes burning with an intensity that makes it clear she’s been holding something back.

“Why did you come here?” His voice is low, almost a growl, as if he’s bracing himself for whatever truth she’s about to reveal.

Daelia hesitates for a moment, her fingers trembling slightly as she takes another drag from her cigarette, the embers glowing bright in the dim light. “That was the truth” she says, exhaling smoke as she speaks, “But I hid part of it from you.”

Aemond’s gaze narrows, suspicion and curiosity warring within him. “What part?”

“I did it on purpose,” Daelia admits, her voice raw. “I thought that if you and I fucked, compromising me… maybe…” She trails off, her gaze dropping to the floor again, as if ashamed of the words she’s about to say. “Maybe I would have felt better about myself.”

The confession hangs in the air, heavy and charged, as Aemond processes what she’s just revealed. There’s a part of him that’s furious—furious at her for risking so much, and at himself for being drawn into this dangerous game. But there’s also a part of him that understands, a part that knows what it’s like to feel powerless and desperate to reclaim that power.

“My parents stopped me from seeing you,” Daelia continues, her voice growing stronger now, fueled by the emotions she’s kept bottled up for so long. "Do you remember? We when were younger… we were friends, but after the war that involved the family they said to me that you were a bad influence on me"

“And you like to break the rules” Aemond says, his tone accusatory yet laced with a hint of admiration. It’s something they share, this desire to defy expectations, to carve out their own paths in a world that tries to confine them.

“As you like to do, Aemond” she counters, her eyes meeting his with a challenge that sends a jolt through him.

In an instant, Aemond is on his feet, crossing the distance between them with purpose. He stands before her, his gaze locking onto hers, the air between them crackling with a tension that’s impossible to ignore. Slowly, deliberately, he leans in, pressing his lips to the soft skin of her neck. He kisses her there, a tender yet possessive gesture that makes Daelia’s breath hitch in her throat.

“Come to bed with me” he whispers against her skin, his voice low and thick with desire.

Daelia closes her eyes, the sensation of his lips on her neck sending shivers down her spine. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just lets herself feel—feel the heat of his breath, the weight of his words, the unspoken promise in his touch.

Finally, she opens her eyes and meets his gaze, her decision clear. She nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement, but it’s enough. Aemond takes her between his arms and guide her to his bedroom.

[ellamuffin97]

Feelings cascade .

Pairing : Loki x fem reader

Warnings : smut , oral receive (m) ,sub!loki, dom!loki , restraining, orgasm denial ,

Summary : Loki falls by accident on Sakaar , a planet of lost souls . Reader finds him and decides to keep him for herself .

Word count : 5.8k

He fell from the sky like a raven haired angel, with a dark green cape instead of wings and enchanting, beautiful eyes that seemed to burn every fibre of your skin and look right through you, learning your darkest secrets when he spotted you walking towards him with one of your companions, your face covered by a white cloth to protect you from the sun and dust.

Suspicion and hostility was glistening in the mesmerising blue of them. He pursed his lips, lifted his chin and raised his arms in defeat, promising subtly he meant no harm. Well of course, he didn’t. No one who came here, involuntarily, meant any harm. His fate was in your hands now. He might as well pray you were going to be merciful on him.

Checking him out from head to toe, you took in his muscly, well-defined but still slim and graceful body. He looked mischievous, intelligent and skilled, strong even. Heaven knew where he had come from and how he had ended up here but the amount of money you could already see the Grandmaster waving at you for him would be massive.

Licking your lower lip behind your cloth, you imagined the pile of units all yours for the taking if you handed him in, selling him as a gladiator. Perhaps he would be the one to win against the Hulk. That would bring you twice as much as you would already receive for offering him to the Grandmaster in the first place.

Still, you briefly weighed your options.

“Are you a fighter? Or are you food?” Your companion barked, grinning from behind his cloth and raising his gun to underline his words. There is only one correct answer if you want to live, stranger.

No. There was something about him… something fascinating. Whoever he was, you wanted to know. Every piece of his memories, every word that escaped his lips, every inch of his godly body…

The stranger chuckled darkly, the swift tone of light discomfort swinging in his voice when he spoke.

“I can ensure you, I am not edible. Certainly, I will hardly taste well.” It was smooth. Alluring and almost… seductive. Like he chose each word with utter thought, like his tongue was made of pure silver. You came to a choice quickly.

“I beg to differ.” You shot back, narrowing your eyes at him. Surely, he would taste beyond ravishing once you had him tied to your bed, stroking his stiff cock and licking over the tip to taste his arousal. Oh yes, this one you would keep to yourself. Fuck the units. He was too precious.

“I am King Loki of Asgard. Surely, we can come to an agreement that will work for both of us. What is this place? Where am I?”

Loki. The name suited him. Loki as in the God of Mischief? You had heard of the gods of Asgard. It would explain his handsome looks. Whatever title he claimed to have though, here on Sakaar it was insignificant, meaningless. Here, he would be nothing more than your toy.

Smirking maliciously behind your white cloth, you tilted your head once more. “Oh, I was unaware I was in the presence of royalty. I am terribly sorry, my king. But you see you are on Sakaar. There are no kings here, no queens and princes and princesses.”

“I’ll send in a call, we need an appointment with the Grandmaster, he needs to look at this one himself.” Your companion suggested, turning to head back to his spaceship.

“No. You can have my share of last week’s raid, I’ll keep him.”

Loki narrowed his eyes, his lips slightly parted. Mmmmm… you were already imagining nibbling on those thin lips all the while riding him senseless. You wondered what he would look like when he came undone, moaning breathlessly and helplessly underneath you.

“Are you sure? He looks like a piece of work.”

“I am sure.” You had never done this before. The men you had bedded before had been willing, whores of the Grandmaster he occasionally lent you without charging you for selling him gladiators. But Loki… you wanted him. Utterly. All of him. He was so different… perhaps eventually, you would let him go again if only you could have your fun with him first.

“Alright… guess I leave you two lovebirds alone then.” Grinning evilly, your companion turned around, returning to his spaceship. You remained standing as still as a statue until he flew off, the engine roaring loudly and the air pressure robbing your of your hearing for a moment. Then, you slowly took a few steps forward, eyeing Loki in an intrigued manner.

You didn’t expect him to back away—glued to the dirty ground, he watched your every move like a hawk, his hands—soft and clean hands with long fingers, god damn—still up in the air. It would pass off like it always did. Any moment now, he would attempt to strike, you would overbear him and then drag him onto your spaceship.

And he did. Loki conjured a shiny dagger out of thin air, hauling off both brutally and gracefully. You would have been lying if you had said you were not surprised. It must be true, what they said about him. A master of magic, tricks and illusions. Oh, it had been a very good decision to keep him all to yourself.

Dodging his powerful blow, you flung one of your obedience disks at him. The cool metal instantly latched onto the sensitive skin of his long and flawless neck, digging its hooks deep into him. Loki grunted in pain, more so when you activated the taser and sent him jerking until he fell to his knees, collapsing to the ground, his mischievous weapon of choice falling to the ground like a useless piece of wood.

You would keep it. Proper weapons were a rarity on Sakaar and you possessing an actual dagger from Asgard, one of the nine infamous realms, would gain you respect and polish your reputation. You could barely wipe the anticipating grin from your face when you grabbed his green cape and pulled him towards your spaceship.

For a god, it took him surprisingly long to recover from the electricity shocks you had given him on the way to your apartment. Loki didn’t put up a fight when you fought to toss him onto your bed, using two pairs of strong shackles to restrain him and chain him to your bedposts, which you both linked to a collar you put around his neck.

There was no symbolic reason to it, really. It merely served the purpose to threaten to crush his windpipe if he tried pulling at the cuffs too much so he would only end up hurting himself. He might have been the Trickster but you had a few up your sleeve as well.

God, he looked so beautiful. Especially unconscious, with all of his features relaxed and peaceful, he did in fact look like an angel, too perfect to be true. You would worship his body with your hands and tongue, that you were already sure of.

Your heart jumped in joyful anticipation and excitement when he finally opened his stunning blue eyes, blinking at the sudden brightness in your apartment. He needed a second to realise his surroundings had changed, another one to notice he was chained up.

A smirk crept up on your lips from behind your cloth when you watched him struggle for a while only to give up a few minutes in. He was indeed smart then. It was useless to fight the metal.

Clenching his jaw, his blue eyes darted around the bedroom until he found you. Curiously, he drank in your form. “You will pay for this.” He stated simply, his voice calm and composed. An amused scoff escaped your lips.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to threaten me… in the position you’re in right now?”

Loki smirked. He… what? Why did he smirk? It hit you straight between your legs, a familiar wetness pooling in your black panties. Pressing them together impatiently, you approached the bed and sat down on the edge just when he spoke up again.

“You are right, I apologise… I gave you my name.” He continued then, nodding courtly. “It is only fair if you give me yours.” Fuck, he was charming too. If he kept acting like this, you would give him everything he asked for.

“Me?” Still surprised, you smiled to yourself, hiding a sudden sadness flaming up deep in your guts. You hadn’t used your real name in years. “Call me Scrapper 101. Or just 101, whatever you prefer to scream.”

The God of Mischief frowned. “Surely you must have a real name?”

“Maybe…” The only other thing on this planet you trusted with your real name was your diary. An old scrapbook you had brought from Earth. It carried years of your deepest thoughts, wishes and desires, memories about your old life and information about your person. It was dangerous to keep it, that you were very well aware of but there had to be at least something you wanted to hold on to if you abandoned Earth for good for the rest of your life. It was quite safe in its hiding place behind your drawer.

“Well then, 101, who is it who is in charge here? You must have some kind of leader on this planet.”

So he wanted to talk? Fine… stalling you wouldn’t change what you were going to do to him. You could barely await ripping those expensive garments off his body, admiring his exposed body and taking in his naked form before tasting him.

“Oh, we do. The Grandmaster. He’s like… millions of years old. He runs and owns the place. I work for him. Whenever lost souls find their way here, I collect them and sell them to him in exchange for some cash. It’s an acceptable life compared to… whatever.” Compared to your previous one.

Loki frowned, noticing how you stopped yourself from telling him too much. He was instantly aware of how you didn’t want him to know anything about you—and there was no need to, really. Whatever you had had on Earth, it was over. You lived here now and you did things that questioned your morals but as long as you could still look in the mirror without being disgusted by yourself, you figured, it was alright.

“You consider me a lost soul? I am a king, little one. I have both purpose and a kingdom to rule. If you just let me talk to the Grandmaster…”

“Look,” you interrupted harshly. “I already told you there are no kings on this planet. You belong to me now, Loki and I’ll do to you whatever I please.”

The God of Mischief opened his mouth to protest, yet not a single sound escaped his thin lips. Fascination radiated off him as he watched you climbing on the mattress to straddle his lap. The leather material of his garments felt cool and comfortable against your skin. You had to suppress a moan when you finally took off the white cloth from your face and tossed it out of bed, revealing your face to him.

For a brief moment, Loki simply stared at you, slightly tilting his head.

“And what is it you are going to me, little one?” His teasing nickname for you sent jolts of electricity straight to your pussy. What was happening to you? No man had ever affected you like this. You blinked in an attempt to keep your hard-earned composure.

“I think you know, Loki…” you murmured absentmindedly, your eyes roaming over his body, taking in every centimetre. Licking your lips, you tore at the soft fabric to reveal his chest. A little pale but well-defined and muscly, flawless in every aspect. He was perfect. You sucked in a sharp breath upon eyeing him, causing him to chuckle darkly.

His reactions should concern you. Did he mean to confuse you? Did he know about the effect he had on your willing body? Impossible. He might be a god but he would not be able to read minds… right?

Shaking off the thought by pushing a few strands of your hair out of your face, you allowed your fingers to touch his skin, setting a hot burning fire to your hands. Trembling, you let them dance over his stomach until you reached the rough seam of his leather pants, ready to tear those off as well.

You were impatient. Aroused. Stupefied by this captivating man. Almost clumsily you undid the buttons, grabbing fistfuls of the fabric to get it out of the way.

“Are you sure about this, little one?” His smooth and now suddenly hoarse voice tore you back into reality. Your eyes shot up to meet his blue ones. It was like he captured you, plodding through your mind like a greedy scavenger.

Nodding mutely, you lowered your gaze again. He was perfect, through and through. Loki’s length was impressive, truly the size of a god and quite frankly, beautiful. Licking your lips once more, you already imagined what he would taste like. He wasn’t hard yet but you would take care of that with pleasure.

It was then he yanked at his shackles for the first time, gritting his teeth and hissing as his whole body jerked, his muscles tensing. He almost threw you off his lap in the process.

“Let. Me. Go…” He choked out angrily, narrowing his blue eyes at you. It was you who chuckled in response this time. There went his patience.

“What part of ‘you are mine now’ don’t you understand, I wonder?” You didn’t leave him any time to answer. Instead, without forewarning, you wrapped your right hand around his manhood, gasping at how nice he felt between your fingers.

He instantly fought a moan when you started stroking him, fascinated by how he started to twitch under your affective touches. You soon brought your left hand up to caress his balls, enjoying how he grew hard. Proudly, his cock, ready with need and lust, rested against his stomach after you released him, shifting backwards a bit to lean down.

You could feel him shiver when you licked over his tip for the first time, your eyes closing with relish upon learning his taste. He was downright delicious, a devilishly good-looking man you would never let leave your bed again.

Loki moaned, the uncontrollable sound echoing through your bedroom like a prayer. Throwing his head back, he bucked his hips to thrust against your tongue, begging for more friction. You smiled satisfactorily, obliging and taking the tip of him into your mouth, sucking him like a piece of candy.

Oh, he was. He was so much sweeter than any kind of treat you had ever tasted. Eagerly, you slid him deeper into your mouth, taking in as much as you could before allowing him to pleasure himself. Your hands resumed caressing his balls and stomach, stroking his thighs now and then as his moans grew louder, pure bliss radiating off him like tropical heat.

You could tell he was struggling with himself. Not wanting to give in to the bliss you gave him, he thrashed around on the bed, fighting his inevitable climax but oh, you were too desperate for his hot semen shooting into your mouth. You would take that orgasm from him, whether he wanted it or not.

Smirking around his thick cock, your movements grew more frantic. Fast and demandingly, your head bopped up and down his length, devouring him as if he was your last meal and then, you felt him twitching under your worshipping touches, pulsating with his release. Loki growled like a caged animal when he came in your mouth, shooting his warm seed deep down your throat.

Hungrily, you swallowed every last drop of him, noticing with delight that he did not turn soften as of yet. With a silent smack of your lips, you released him, his manhood still jerking under your heated gaze, requiring more of your seducing treatment.

“Now don’t tell me you didn’t like that, Loki…” You purred, gently driving your fingernails over his bare chest. Goose bumps erupted from where they left an invisible trail, making him hiss in fake agony once more.

“Untie me and I will show you how much I liked this.” He growled darkly. He was staring daggers at you—hot, glowing and pointy daggers like the one he had attempted to strike you with, yet at the same time you could clearly see the arousal and desire glistening in his blue eyes.

Giggling wickedly, you grabbed the seam of your dark pants. “Already? I have barely started…”

You were too impatient to remove all of your clothes, too proud to do so. This man might be your new-fetched slave but as of yet, there was no need to reveal more of you than you wanted him to see. This was about you and if he behaved, you might let him cum again, this time after having been sheathed deep inside your core.

Shoving your panties aside to expose your swollen pussy lips, dripping with arousal and need, you sucked in a deep breath when the cool air in your apartment hit your wetness, wasting no time in guiding his still erect length to your entrance.

His involuntary moaning urged you on, teasing both him and yourself as you slid his moist tip up and down your slit, grazing your swollen clit before finally pushing him inside you, grunting with pleasure at the feeling of him stretching your walls and filling you so good. You could feel him twitching inside you, begging for friction, begging to thrust but you took your time.

Painfully slow at first, you started riding him, supporting yourself by pressing your palms flat against his chest, feeling it heave under your firm grip. Sighing, you leaned forward to capture his thin lips in a tender kiss before pulling away again, tasting his mouth on yours.

“Loki…” His name left your lips like a prayer as your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your head falling back to expose your neck. “Oh Loki…”

Rocking your hips in frenzy, you moaned with every stroke, allowing him to buck his hips to meet your own. Antagonising waves of pure bliss cursed through your veins when you looked down to where your bodies became one, his cock stretching you so beautifully you almost came from the sheer sight of it.

Perhaps in time, you would trust him enough to leave him untied during sex, letting him worship and praise your body with his soft hands like you had his, permitting him to play with your clit while you pleasured yourself with his impressive cock. For now, however, you would have to take care of the job yourself.

Moaning shamelessly, you arched your back, one of your hands seeking out the most sensitive bundle of nerves to circle it, stroke it, and massage it until you almost lost your mind from all the pleasure building in your body.

A familiar knot tightened deep in your stomach, your walls clenching around Loki’s length as you climbed the ladder to orgasm higher and higher and higher, ready to let go and fall, tossing yourself down an uncompassionate abyss that would consume all of you.

Loki growled when he felt you getting closer, awaiting impatiently how you would milk his cock and drive him to his own blissful high once more. He was barely fighting it now. Instead, he desperately attempted to win the upper hand. It was a battle he would lose.

You screamed, your voice breaking when your orgasm hit you, washing over you and drowning you in endless waves of ruthless pleasure. Contracting around his hard cock again and again, you moved your hips rhythmically to ride it out until you collapsed on top of him, spent and satisfied.

His penis was still sheathed inside you, twitching and aching and begging for a finale… a tortured and disappointed moan escaping his lips when you forced him to slide out of you, rearranging your underwear and pulling up your pants again to get up.

Loki was a handsome man, a man one would want to be the father of their children, however… there was something too intimate about letting him cum inside you and you were not ready to have him do it just yet.

His blue eyes were wide with anticipation and hope, his gorgeous lips parted. Where you done with him? Where you going to finish him off? Biting your lower lip, an idea struck your mind.

“Beg for it.” You suggested casually, tilting your head as you eyed him down to catch every second of his reaction with a mischievous sparkling in them. You could practically feel the wrath and humiliation radiating off him, the war clamouring inside him. “Ask me to make you cum.”

Holding back an evil smirk, you waited for his reply. One second passed, then another one. You feared he would call you names and curse you and perhaps, in his mind he did but Loki knew better than to anger you. You were the one in charge here—you were the one who had chained him up.

“Fine,” He spat. “Do it. Finish what you started.” It was far from polite, submissive or begging of any kind but for now, you let it count. Your companion had warned you he would be a tough one to break but at least, he had asked.

You took your time to climb back on the bed, this time lying down next to him and propping your elbow on the mattress to be able to enjoy the sight of his half naked body. Your smirk grew wider as you grabbed his rock hard length and started jerking him off. The velvety skin against your palm made you gasp, your ears focusing solely on his wanting moans.

It didn’t take him long to lose his mind. Only seconds in, revelling under your tender touches, he began thrusting forward uncontrollably, fucking your hand like nothing else mattered. You gasped once more when he orgasmed, twitching and jerking in your hand, pulsating and staining your fingers with ropes of his warm seed.

Then, he finally softened, panting loudly and closing his mesmerising blue eyes to reclaim at least some of his composure. He was so beautiful when he came undone, even more so when he was relaxed. Smiling to yourself, you wiped your hand on the bed sheets and made a note to change them tomorrow before nuzzling into him and wrapping an arm around his steel chest.

“Sweet dreams, my king.” You murmured before giving in to a peaceful sleep.

Memories of last night haunted you like gentle caresses when your eyes flattered open. You could hardly believe this wonderful man was yours now. Today, your task would it be to get him to talk. Heaven, you wanted to know everything, every little detail. His past, his present, his future, his favourite colour and favourite book… all of it you wanted to belong to you.

A content sigh escaped your lips when you turned around to cuddle up against him—only to be met with an empty bed. Instantly, you shot up, ignoring how your vision went black for a moment. You were wide awake in the twinkling of an eye, looking around your apartment in shock.

He was gone. The shackles were gone. His dagger on top of your drawer was gone. No… this was impossible. Those shackles… ten horses would have been unable to break them. How on Earth had he freed himself?

Breathing heavily, you flinched when you sensed a movement from the corner of your eye. Your head spun around, spotting Loki leaning against the threshold of your bedroom door, his arms crossed and a smug and downright mischievous expression on his face.

“Good morning, little one.”

Panicking, you reached into the pocket of your jacket to pull out the taser. He only smirked, watching you struggle for a moment before conjuring it out of thin air, his long fingers toying with it playfully. Only now did you notice that he had removed the obedience disk from his neck.

“Are you looking for this?” He asked innocently, tilting his head.“I must admit, I was not prepared for this little trick of yours. You are quite the little minx. But I am the God of Mischief. A lot of people have made the mistake to underestimate my abilities. Breaking free from your pitiful restraints was almost too easy once you were sound asleep.” He explained. The eerie calmness in his voice worried you. You were done for. You were completely and utterly done for.

“I also enjoyed this a lot.” Smirking once more, he lifted up a brown scrapbook. Your scrapbook. “A quite entertaining reading, little mortal.”

You were frozen. Paralysed. Incapable of even opening your mouth.

“The Grandmaster was very understanding of my situation. He offered me my own apartment, a new wardrobe and a much desired position at his side. A much more appropriate way of treating a true king, would you not agree with me?”

“W-why have you come back? Are you going to kill me?” You finally chirped.

Loki frowned, acting confused. “Now, now, did we not have too much fun together last night? No. I will not kill you, little one.”

“Then what do you want?” You replied, your voice trembling like leaves in the wind.

“I want revenge. I warned you last night that you would pay for this. Now be a good girl and lay down again so I can tie you up.” He growled commandingly, narrowing his blue eyes at you.

Panting fearfully, you shook your head, moving slowly to get out of bed and fetch your weapon. The irrational part of you hoping that you would reach it in time blinded you too much to expect he would lunge forward and wrap his arm around your waist, possessively pressing you against his body.

Shrieking, you thrashed, attempting to hit him, slap him, bite him, whatever you could think of but it was no use. He was way stronger than you… and he was merciless.

“You robbed me of an orgasm last night, little one. In return I shall rob you of one of yours.” He growled hungrily.

Breathing in frantically, you flinched once more when he ripped your clothes off your body without forewarning, not bothering to leave them intact. Cool air hit your naked skin like a soft breeze when the sound of breaking fabric echoed through your bedroom, hardening your nipples within seconds.

Your resistance was short-lived. Soon, your strength was used up, your body resting defencelessly against his steel chest.

Loki chuckled when he lifted you up effortlessly to carry you over to your bed and threw you on it like a weightless pillow. Only the fraction of a second after, he was hovering above you, trapping you between the mattress and his body.

You glanced up at him mutely, with widened eyes and a fearful but anticipating expression on your face when he reached up to snatch your wrists and tie them to the bedposts. The tide had turned and you… you were at his mercy now. Naked, exposed and helpless, with him in charge… the thought both aroused and scared you.

“To be honest, I quite enjoyed last night. But you see I am not owned, little one.” He purred, his hot breath brushing against your ear. “I own.”

Wetness stained your naked thighs. You were panting heavily when Loki’s soft hands started travelling all over your body, exploring what you had denied him last night. With greedy blue eyes, he cupped your breasts, kneading them all the while licking his lips, playing with the hard nubs and twisting and rolling them between his fingers until you moaned from both pain and pleasure.

“You took pleasure from my body last night. Now Iwill take pleasure from yours.” He went on. The hoarse threat sounded like a dark promise, tingling right between your legs.

“Please…” Please what? Stop? Keep going? Give me more? Confused by your own reactions, you watched him undoing the buttons of his pants to free his pulsating erection. It sprang free in joyful anticipation, making you chew on your lower lip. He had felt so good inside you last night… would he be rough, now that he was in charge?

The cool leather of his armour brushed against your naked skin when he positioned himself between your legs impatiently, pushing your knees apart to grant himself better access. For a brief moment, he simply stared at your swollen sex, your pussy lips glistening with wetness just for him.

You moaned in pure bliss when he filled you to the hilt, not giving you any time to adjust to his size once he plunged into you possessively, taking what he wanted. Your wrists stung from the metal cuffs around them, your arms aching from trying to break free of them to touch him, guide him, anything.

Instead, Loki took control. Grabbing your hips firmly, his fingers digging into your skin, he started rocking into you relentlessly, fucking you good, hard and fast. He hit that sweet spot deep inside you over and over as he changed his angle to thrust even deeper, making sure to bring you right where he wanted you—to the brink of orgasm.

He was quick to succeed. Panting, moaning and screaming, you bucked your hips, arching your back, begging utterly devoted to let you cum. Just a little more friction… just a little more…

“Loki… Loki, oh, don’t stop, don’t stop! Ahhh…”

The God of Mischief smirked upon hearing your breathless pleas.

“Not until I have taken back what was mine to claim. Don’t you dare cum before me.” This time, you actually believed he would punish you cruelly if you ignored his order. Forcing your eyes shut, you clawed at your cuffs, trying hard to obey until he tensed to spill himself deep inside you, spurting ropes of his cum deep into your core. You would have had to lie if you had said it did not feel amazing to have him fill you up and mark you as his so intimately, your whole body shaking from pleasure as he rid out his orgasm and enjoyed the frantic twitching of his member against your tight walls.

His smirk grew devilish when he finally stilled, his cock still hard as it rested inside you, filling you completely.

“Go on.” He said, raising his eyebrows. “Cum. Make yourself cum on my cock like you did last night, you greedy little girl.”

Moaning, this time in annoyance and desperation, you bucked your hips, attempting to fuck yourself, bring yourself back to that wonderful chasm you wanted to send yourself flying down…

“I… can’t… I can’t, not like this…” You whined, sweat pooling underneath your naked body. Your limbs were shaking, your heart beating like a steam hammer. Loki tilted his head, grabbing your waist with so much force you screamed in sudden pain.

“What a shame…” He mocked sarcastically. He knew exactly it was impossible for you to orgasm like that.

Gritting his teeth, he started pounding into you once more, eager to make you cum around his cock this time. One of his soft hands reached down to massage your clit, flicking it relentlessly until you almost passed out from all the pleasure and sensations, the pressure building again faster than the twinkling of an eye.

“Beg me…” Loki growled, smirking again. You only moaned in response, unwilling to grant him that gratification just yet, even if it meant to torment yourself. “Beg me… beg me to let you cum.”

Was this how he had felt yesterday? Desperate, fighting your own body, devastated and so, so aroused it physically hurt?

Fuck it. You were lost. You had been lost to him the moment you had decided to keep him for yourself. He was dangerous and witty, would he not kill you if you disobeyed him?

“Oh God, please. Please, please, please, Loki, let me cum, please! I beg you, I beg you, please! Please…”

Sucking in a deep breath, you prayed it would suffice him. You needed to cum so badly… so badly…

Loki chuckled as he sped up his movements, stroking your clit as fast as he was thrusting into you. He tossed you right over that delicious cliff when he reached his second climax himself, spurting even more of his cum deep inside you.

Thrashing around wildly, you screamed your lungs out as if being tortured, trying hopelessly to ride down the waves of pleasure that threatened to break your body in two, shattering you like glass. Loki pulled out of you with one last groan, collapsing next to your spent form.

His seed kept dribbling out of you, staining the bed sheets and decorating your still lightly contracting pussy, your legs not ceasing to tremble uncontrollably.

“You should be able to see yourself right now, little one. So beautiful… you look ravishing with my seed painting your fragile body, marking you.” He purred, running his fingertips across your chest and creating goose bumps all over your breasts.

“It almost looks like you belong to me now, little one. A mere scrapper is, technically, below me, regarding my relationship to the Grandmaster.”

He was right. If the Grandmaster had in fact welcomed him as a cherished guest, you were nothing more but a mere slave yourself… his. And although you were scared shitless, dreading what else he had in store for you, the warm sensation spreading in your whole body made up for it. He was still the man you had wanted all to yourself. If he kept you… you would still get your way.

“You wanted all of me… now I shall take all of you.” He continued, making you shiver. “You will move in with me. I expect all of your belongings to be stored at my place by the end of the day but for now…” He really did sound like a king. Commanding, stern and intimidating but also charming, intelligent and convincing. “For now, you will answer all of my questions without hesitation and lies, am I understood?”

“Y-yes,” You stuttered.

“Good. What is your real name, little one? I want to hear it from you, not from a few scribbled words in an old scrapbook.”

So this was it. Utter submission. Utter devotion. Utter commitment. It felt strangely arousing, oddly satisfying and soothing.

“(Y/N)… m-my name is (Y/N).”

Loki’s mischievous smirk widened. “Hmm… I promise to treat you well, my little (Y/N). This’ll be such fun.”

[twstgarden]

❀ ❝ 𝗮 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿'𝘀 𝗯𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗵 ❞

━ malleus draconia x gn! reader (reader can be yuu and/or your oc) ━ it was malleus' birthday and you planned to surprise him with a gift you've made with your own hands. (f/n means first name)

this work may contain spoilers for chapter 7, diasomnia’s arc.

do not steal or translate without my permission.

it was another hectic day for malleus. though he was not in the briar valley palace being overwhelmed with plans for his birthday, he was still busy in night raven college. lilia was in the room with him, smiling at the fae as he greeted, “happy birthday, malleus! come, the guests await.”

the diasomnia dormitory head followed his guardian’s request, trailing behind him as they both went to the lounge. the celebration was splendid, to say the least. he received gifts and was greeted by students he never personally interacted with before – though they were steps away from him while delivering their greetings.

the platinum outfit he wore for this year’s birthday theme made him stand out – quite so, as he is the birthday boy. the interview was something he enjoyed as well; having deuce as his interviewer made it even more pleasant.

 the celebration was nearing its end, and while he was grateful, he cannot help but feel as if something is missing. his eyes wandered around the lounge, looking for a certain person but to no avail. lilia, who stood beside him, intuitively knew who he was looking for, merely smiling, and not saying anything.

once the celebration ended, the rest of the guests returned to their respective rooms and dorms, leaving only lilia, silver, and sebek in the lounge with malleus, sorting through the gifts. while doing so, the young fae’s gaze landed on a green envelope, opening the letter as he did not recall who handed it to him.

‘to my dearest,

pleasant salutations, my love. today marks the day of your birth, and i am more than happy to wish you a happy birthday. thank you for the beautiful memories you have made with me, and i hope we can continue to make more memories together.

you might wonder about my whereabouts throughout the whole party. in all honesty, i was preparing your gift. once you have received this letter, it is time for you to take a moment to indulge in my present made for you and only you.

let us put you to a test. search for an item that fits the description i underlined. good luck!

amongst the thorny bushes, i remain bright and romantic.

forever yours, f/n l/n’

a smile ghosted over malleus’ lips, chuckling to himself as he was intrigued by your behaviour. you would go as far as putting him to a test and sending him out on a scavenger hunt, searching for objects with nothing but riddles as a clue.

“how amusing,” spoke malleus with that amused smile on his face, “quite creative, however.” lilia peeked at the letter before chuckling and gently patting his shoulder, “what are you waiting for? time is ticking!”

and with that, malleus went around the dormitory in search of something that stayed bright and romantic amongst the thorny bushes. he has gotten his first clue. thorny bushes must mean the location is in the garden of diasomnia, no? however, they do have flower bushes and whatnot, so what exactly is he supposed to find?

still, he went to the dormitory garden, eyeing all the colourful bushes before his eyes landed on the thorn bushes nearby. nothing seemed out of place, but as he stepped closer, a glowing red rose hid within the bush.

“ah, is this the item i’m supposed to find?” mumbled malleus as he quickly grabbed the rose, the thorns not pricking him as he used his magic to avoid damage. upon contact, the rose glowed even more before disappearing into thin air, and what came in replacement was a quick reveal of the words, ‘turn around.’

and so, he did. the young fae turned around with a puzzled expression before his eyes landed on you standing there with a smile. how did he not notice you? surely, he could have heard your footsteps, no? his puzzled expression morphed into a shocked one before he smiled at you, noticing your arms tucked behind you as if you were hiding something.

“and what are you hiding, dearest?” asked the male with a smug smile.

“oh, nothing~” you replied, “close your eyes.”

malleus raised a brow, eyeing you for a moment before complying with your request, closing his eyes without another word as he waited for your action. he heard a soft twinkle as you spoke, “okay, you can open them…”

once he opened his eyes, you stood with your arms out, a snow globe rested on your palm as the miniature scenery had two dragons that look identical, but one seemed to be a baby dragon holding an ice cream cone. his eyes widened as you held it out to him with a shy smile, “i made this for you…”

made?

“made?” asked malleus. you nodded as you avoided his gaze, thinking he might not like it as you mumbled a response, “yes, i don’t have much to offer, but i am skilled with arts and crafts…” you eyed the snow globe again, shaking it a little to make it snow with a soft twinkle.

malleus smiled softly as he watched you shake the globe before gently grabbing it from you, looking at it closely as he realised the dragon looks like him. “a personalised snow globe… thank you, f/n…”

“happy birthday, malleus,” you greeted with a smile, the same smile that he had always loved, the same smile that brightened his lonely days, the same smile that greets him every morning. his eyes stayed on you as he looked at you like a lovestruck puppy, wishing for this moment to never end.

an eternity with you and those he holds dear is all that he asks for.

© twstgarden 2023 || please do not steal, translate without my permission, or use this to train a.i.

[angellayercake]

Banchetto: Insalata

Papa Emeritus III x Reader

AO3 | Contorno | Masterpost

A caprese salad consists of so few ingredients but as long as they are fresh and ripe they bring the perfect balance. For variety you pick an assortment of tomatoes, blood red heirlooms, green beefsteak and orange roma. The visual appeal of the assorted colours, shapes and texture more than make up for the non traditional choices. Freshly made mozzarella as well, all evenly sliced and then already the preparation is almost complete.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

You are reading. Well, you are trying to read but unfortunately the man sitting across from you is proving far too much of a distraction. It was mid morning, breakfast long since eaten and cleared away. You had joined him as you did so often now and it was barely creeping towards time to begin thinking about lunch. Copia had returned your notes and you were still in the process of working through them, adding sticky notes with your amendments into the recipes to help you when time came to make them. That’s what you should be doing at least.

Instead every few seconds you find your gaze pulled back to him. He is also reading, the glasses he only just admitted to needing perched on the end of his nose. They slip further down every time he scrunches his face at whatever it is he is reading and you have lost count of how many times he has paused to push them up carelessly. Every now and then he notices the smudges left by his fingers and removes them completely to wipe them on his handkerchief as he shoots you a smile. He had let his hair air dry this morning so it falls in soft waves over his forehead. The muted sunlight catches in his silver roots every time he pushes his hair out of his eyes. You think to tell him how good he looks at this moment but you don’t want to break the comfortable silence. 

It’s sickeningly domestic but you can honestly say you have never been happier. The shift was subtle at first as you had spent a great deal of time in his rooms anyway but in a matter of days that time grew longer and longer until you rarely left on more than an errand from morning to evening. He would ask you to sit with him as he worked, join him for meals, linger in the kitchen as you prepared and even once attempting to help you clean the dishes. That is until he ended up dropping a plate in his inattention, the resounding crash making your heart skip a beat in a much less pleasant way then it usually did around him. You couldn’t even begin to be annoyed with him though, his apologetic puppy eyes forcing you to let him off with only a banishment to the kitchen table and a kiss to the tip of his nose.

Affection was easier now, not always so underlined with that awkward tension you had almost become used to. He liked to touch you. To lace your fingers together across the table when you ate, rest his hand on your waist when you stood together, play with a lock of your hair as you spoke, press a chaste kiss to hand or your cheek in passing. You had been hesitant at first to return his affection so boldly but the way he would glow when you reached for him first, his wide smile emphasising your favourite creases at the corners of his eyes, was enough to override your self consciousness.

There was still tension there, hot little frissons if you look into his eyes a bit too long or his body rests a little too close. Part of you wants to chase it but you no longer felt the need to rush. Although unspoken it seems you both chose to relish in this period of getting to know each other better, talking about your likes, dislikes, views and opinions or just existing in each other's company. It is comfortable in a way you never imagined you could be with him but you are more sure now than ever that ‘Papa Emeritus III’ who had led the Ghost project and the church was only a very superficial part of who he was.

There’s a childlike glee in him every time he tells you stories of his life peppered with ridiculous puns and dorky jokes that feels so far removed from the persona you had thought you had known previously. And yet you can see how he thrived as a performer and took to that role so naturally. He puts his whole self into recreating the tale he is telling with animated hands, exaggerated expressions and often silly voices whether he is talking about his misspent youth, rising through the clergy ranks or his touring adventures. You would start to feel very uninteresting in comparison until he would start to tease stories from you. Your worst cooking disasters that have him crying with laughter and disbelief that you could ever make a potato explode. But when he asks you of your family and your childhood you see a sad wistfulness in his expression that makes your heart hurt and you hope that one day he might open up about some of the harder parts of his life as well.

The tolling of the 11 o’clock bell brings an end to your romantic reverie. It is time to return to reality and begin thinking about lunch. You uncurl yourself from the armchair, your movements capturing his attention. He beckons you towards him with a curled finger as he places his book down on the settee beside him. You should go straight to the kitchen but as he has distracted you all morning anyway what is the harm in a few more minutes. You are sure your eagerness is obvious as before you know it you are sitting in his lap with his arms around you. 

‘Where are you off to cara mia,’ he says once you are settled. You slide his glasses up and into his hair, pulling the long fringe out of his face and you can’t resist letting your fingers run through the length until you can play with the strands at the nape of his neck. ‘I have been enjoying you watching me so attentively.’

‘And I was enjoying the view,’ you tease. His deep chuckle rumbles through his chest pleasantly where you are pressed against him. He leans up for a kiss, unable to keep the pleased smile from his face. Your lips ghost over his, barely indulging him but leaning down to continue talking in his ear. ‘I am about to start working on your lunch.’

‘How about an amuse bouche first mia cuocoina?’ He is irresistible when he is like this so you indulge him. You press kisses along a teasing path, his temple, his sharp cheekbone and the tip of his nose before finally reaching his lips. He closes the remaining distance between you impatiently and just as you are about to deepen the kiss a loud knocking rings out through the room. He drops his head against the back of the settee with a huff of annoyance and you have to forcibly remove his hands from your hips for you to be able to get up. You open the door to find a ghoul waiting for you on the other side holding a basket and a note.

‘From Papa Primo, for you Sister.’ They hand it to you before abruptly turning to leave and you see Terzo’s head shoot up in interest as you close the door and turn around.

‘What is he writing to you about?’ He glares over the back of the chair, watching you put the basket down on his desk. 

‘Let me open it and I will tell you,’ you retorted. The basket is heavy and you have no doubt that this is yet another offering from Primo’s greenhouses. He hauls himself up from the settee with an exaggerated groan as you unfold the thick paper and read. 

Sorella it is about time my brother gets out of his rooms and I suspect you will have more success convincing him then I. If I could prevail on you to make us a light lunch and bring it along with him to the rose garden I would be very appreciative. Secondo and Copia will also be joining us as well as yourself if you would do us the honour. 

I will expect you both at noon. 

Primo

Terzo. It will be good to see you. Please do not give the sorella any trouble and do as you are bid. 

Handing the note to him you dig into the basket. Underneath the fragrant bunches of fresh herbs you find it’s filled to the brim with ripe tomatoes in a variety of sizes and colours, probably hand picked from the vine that very morning. 

‘Why do you get a longer note than me?’ He grumbles, squinting at his brother's cursive scrawl, clearly forgetting to drop his glasses back down onto his nose. Circling around him you knock them gently out of his hair so he can at least see even if they land a little crookedly. 

‘Lunch is going to be alfresco today,’ you call over your shoulder as you head into the kitchen to get started, not giving him any chance to argue. With less than an hour to prepare this is not going to be your most elaborate creation but you have some freshly made mozzarella and along with Primo’s offering you have an idea that should be perfect. 

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

The dressing for this salad could be as simple as a drizzle of balsamic vinegar but you do prefer to add a little more flavour. To an old jam jar you add olive oil, honey, freshly pressed garlic and of course the main ingredient, balsamic vinegar. Why a jam jar you may ask? Well the trick with a vinaigrette is understanding that the separate ingredients don’t really want to mix together. You can stir it, whisk it, even blend it but unless you are serving it straight away the mixture will begin to separate. You prefer to give it a good shake to mix everything and your trusty jam jar allows you to do that right before the dish is served.  

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

Prepping a quick salad with what Primo had sent you takes around half an hour but you are done with time still to spare. Terzo had disappeared to his bedroom after grumbling to himself about his ‘fratello esigente’ and was yet to return so you took the time to grab some leftovers to make this lunch a little more substantial. There was half a loaf of bread that you sliced up, some stuffed peppers and olives, cuts of ham and cheese and even some pepper taralli that had become a constant request since you had first made them all those weeks ago. 

With everything that would fit packed away in the little basket you go to find Terzo who had yet to reappear. Even with the amount of time you were in each other's company you still hadn’t spent more than a few minutes in his bedroom. You understood, you supposed. It was his one sanctuary away from everything but you hoped one day soon he might invite you even there. The door is open when you round the corner and you see him standing before his mirror, a pile of shirts sitting on the bed next to him. 

‘I’m ready to go Terzo,’ you say after knocking on the door frame. He turns to you with a frown on his face but your attention is drawn to his open shirt. His dark chest hair and olive skin contrast beautifully with the stark white of the shirt he is trying on. He starts to button it from his mid chest leaving an enticing glimpse but you can see his frustration build as he gets further and further down. His once flat stomach now protrudes slightly from his waistband, not enough to have the buttons pull but the shape of his body is visible. He looks incredible.

‘I can not go out like this cara mia,’ he says, turning back to his reflection to scrutinise his outfit. 

‘Why not?’ you ask. You cross the room coming to a stop behind him so you are looking at the same thing he is in the mirror. 

‘Look at me,’ he gestures up and down the length of his body before settling his hands where he seems to be most self conscious. You can’t have him thinking he looks anything less than irresistible for even a moment.You wrap your hands around his waist sliding them under his own,where he is holding his belly. You caress the soft swell back and forth while you try and catch his gaze in the reflection. 

‘I am and I see a happy healthy man who has enjoyed delicious food made for him by someone who lo .. cares about him very much.’ His eyes flash in surprise before he looks over himself again from your perspective, a smug smile growing on his lips. You hope he is just about to accept your compliment and didn’t catch your little slip but you end that train of thought there. 

‘Oh is that so?’ His spark has returned, your compliments feeding his usual confidence in his attractiveness. But there is something else in his expression like he has just figured something out. ‘You like me like this, eh?’

‘I like you. Full stop.’ He preens but you sense that he wants to push you further. Hopefully the time limit you are on will stall him for now. You aren’t sure that you are quite ready to admit how much you have enjoyed feeding him up.  

‘Mmm ok,’ he responds thoughtfully, turning in your arms and pulling you flush against his soft body. He kisses you soundly, chasing your lips every time you try to pull back. Before long though his playful mood shifts as he steps back. He takes your hands in his but otherwise maintains some space between you. ‘There is something we need to talk about though before we go.’

‘What is it?’ There is a hint of worry in his voice but you try not to let yourself speculate. You needed to just listen to what he had to say. 

‘Please don’t misunderstand me when I say this.’ He pauses for but a moment to press a kiss to your knuckles trying to reassure you of his sincerity. ‘Until very recently I have never truly felt my life was my own. I had a set path that I was to walk down and very big shoes to fill as leader and well, you have seen my brothers.’ He is torn between a fondness and frustration that you can understand. ‘No matter what I do I am their fratellino.’ He locks his eyes on yours willing you to understand. ‘This, I mean what we have, I don’t want their input not yet.’ 

‘I understand Terzo.’ It is a relief to know this was all he was concerned about. You had seen for yourself how they had treated him during the intervention you had been witness to. Even though you wholeheartedly agreed with them at that time. You can understand why he would want to keep what you have private, especially so early in whatever it was that was happening. Not to mention you had your own reasons for not wanting them to know.

‘You do?’ You can’t help but smile at the relief on his face. 

‘Of course. I think you are right.’ You had long since stopped worrying about the distinction between your work for him and your relationship but you are well aware of how it might look to others. How unprofessional you were being. ‘Your brothers asked me to do a job and they might not be happy to know that I have taken on additional duties.’ You say with a wink, trying to lighten his mood further. You’re rewarded with his deep rumbling laugh as he pulls you close again. 

‘Si, si. We should review these additional duties. I think I have some additions.’ He leers at you and you can feel your cheeks heat up in response.

‘Stop that we will be late.’ You swat at his chest and get to hear him laugh yet again but it really is time to get going. ‘And I am going to need your help carrying all this food.’

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

Now for your favourite part, making it all look pretty. You lay out your slices of mozzarella first, randomly placing them across the large tray you are using for this dish. The slices of beefsteak and heirloom tomatoes next trying to keep the colours balanced. You use the bright orange roma tomatoes to fill in the remaining gaps and then all that is left is fresh basil leaves tucked between the slices. 

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

‘Sorella you spoil us!’ Primo says helping you unpack the basket onto the table that had been set up. You had never paid much mind to this shady corner of the rose garden but it does seem like the perfect place for an alfresco lunch. The wrought iron dining set is well kept with only specs of rust appearing on some of the joints between the ornate decorations. Five chairs are positioned around half of the oval table giving everyone a view of the garden. The table had already been set with a plain table cloth thrown over, shining silver cutlery, pretty floral plates and a bottle of red wine, already been decanted, a lace cap sitting over the opening to discourage any tempted bugs. 

‘Oh it was nothing at all Papa. Most of this I had already prepared and the salad was simple enough.’ He smiles at you warmly, his light paints emphasising the creases of his expression. He had taken the centre seat and he gestures you into the seat to his right, patting your shoulder gently. You aren’t entirely sure why you have been invited to this family gathering but it would be rude to question his invitation. 

Secondo is sitting to his left already sipping on a glass of wine but he offers you a smile, a subtle lift of the corner of his mouth before his attention is drawn to Terzo. You glance to your right where he is sitting looking uncomfortable, even hidden behind his dark glasses. He seems to be staring into the nearest bush trying to ignore the presence of his brothers. As you take a seat you try to subtly rest your hand on his knee and give him a gentle squeeze, about the only reassurance you can, given your agreement not to give away the nature of your relationship to his family quite yet. He glances at you offering you a weak smile but he rests his hand over yours before clearing his throat.  

‘Is Copia too busy to join us now?’ He asks, sounding oddly formal but finally looking in Primo’s direction. 

‘He said he would be here,’ he replies calmly as he pours everyone a glass of wine, topping up Secondo’s last. After accepting his Terzo slumps back into his seat nursing his glass. Primo tuts at him. ‘Vieni adesso, Renzo, non vorrai essere scontroso con il nostro ospite, vero?’ He sits up abruptly lifting his glasses so he can glare at Primo. 

‘Quindi è per questo che l'hai invitata? Quindi mi comporterei bene?’ Secondo tries to conceal a laugh at his Italian outburst which only earns him a share of Terzo’s glare. 

‘I have my reasons fratelino, but let’s not argue today.’ He looks at him sternly. ‘Por favore.’

‘Nessun tipo di compagnia potrebbe farlo comportare da adulto,’ Secondo mutters but whatever he says seems to upset both Primo and Terzo. ‘Ey!’ He shouts, rubbing the back of his head where Primo had just administered a quick slap. 

‘None more of that! From either of you, capisce?’ He points at the two brothers waiting for them both to nod in agreement before sitting back down. The four of you sit in silence just waiting for Copia’s arrival but just when it begins to get unbearable you hear a commotion heading towards you.  

‘Sorry I am late,’ Copia calls out breathlessly as he rushes around the corner in a blur of red. ‘Meeting with Sister Imperator ran over,’ he pants collapsing into the chair next to Secondo. He had forgone his cassock today but was still buttoned up in one of his formal suits in spite of the seasonal weather. Clearly one of the perks of being a retired Papa was being able to dress more casually. You are not sure if you had ever seen them dressed this casually during any of their reigns. 

‘Everything has gotten so behind with the Ghost project since, well…’ He trails off glancing at Terzo. He clears his throat, deciding not to continue with that line of conversation. ‘Terzo, Papa, you are looking well.’ 

‘Thank you Cardinal, you look like you could do with a good night's sleep.’ He smiles but it is sharp, Copia’s misstep digging at his still sore pride. 

‘Well, shall I tell you all what is on the menu?’ You interrupt not wanting the awkwardness to linger any longer. 

‘Yes please do, Sorella,’ Primo says, relieved at your quick thinking.

‘What you sent over was absolutely perfect for a caprese salad because just yesterday I had made some fresh mozzarella so that is the main attraction of today’s lunch but I also brought some leftovers we had to make sure no one left hungry.’ You may be waffling slightly but they all listen politely as you point out all the separate dishes. 

‘Yes I see my fratello has not been going hungry of late.’ At least Secondo waited until after you finished but you watch nervously for Terzo’s response but he just relaxes back in his chair smirking at his brother. 

‘You are not wrong I have been kept most satisfied by Sorella.’ His double entendre makes you wince slightly but you just hope they mark it down to Terzo being Terzo. 

‘No need to tell us that we can see quite well, ' he says, patting his own distinctly flatter stomach. ‘Primo you were right to call us here today. We need to help Terzo by eating all of this food so he doesn’t have to.’ 

‘Ah ha,’ Terzo laughs. ‘So this is another intervention then no?’ Primo shakes his head but doesn’t intervene this time, deciding that this back and forth was mostly good natured.

‘Si, an intervention for your growing waistline fratello,’ On the surface it is harsh but you can tell this is familiar ground for them, teasing and competing to one up each other. You imagine there were many similar conversations had when Secondo lost his hair. 

‘I do not mind so much,’ he shrugs, resting his arm on the back of your chair and letting his fingertips graze your shoulder. ‘I think there are plenty of people who enjoy a well fed man.’ You feel your cheeks heat as he says it remembering back to your conversation and you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face, gaging your reaction. If you look at him now you are sure your cover will be blown.  Instead you hide your embarrassment by serving out salad between your plates but you miss the pointed looks shared between Secondo and Copia.  

There is a period of peace across the table as they all enjoy their food, the only conversation a series of compliments as they work their way through everything you brought. You are glad you decided to bring all the leftovers as you watched Primo using the last slices of bread to dip into the dressing, the only remains of the caprese salad and Copia groaning and rubbing at his stomach as he polishes off the last of the stuffed olives. 

‘I can see how you got so well fed Papa,’ he smiles in your direction. ‘I feel as if I could burst but I still don’t want to stop eating.’ You smile at his praise but you are pleased to see them all nodding in agreement.

‘Luckily for you Cardinal, all that is left is some taralli.’ You offer them each one, finishing off the last of your supply. 

‘You are lucky I didn’t know she had packed up this,’ Terzo grumbles. ‘Giving my favourite to these idioti.’ 

‘I will make you some more Papa, don’t worry,’ you reassure him. ‘I think I have the recipe down perfectly now if I do say so myself.’

‘Where did you get the recipe, Sorella?’ Secondo asks. He looks down at the taralli in his hand. ‘I can’t say I am an expert like Terzo here, but these taste exactly like the ones I remember. The ones your Madre used to send us, before.’ Before what you wonder? You glance between Terzo and Secondo but this time it seems they are sharing a fond memory instead of making digs at each other. 

‘I just found it online after Papa mentioned he would like them.’ You glance at Terzo but he doesn’t try to stop your white lie. 

‘It’s a shame you don’t have any of her recipes Terzo,’ He thinks aloud while eating his last bite. ‘I’m sure she had made the best food I had ever eaten.’ 

‘It is a shame, yes,’ Terzo shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ‘You know we weren’t allowed to keep anything from before.’ You look at Primo but he is staring down at his plate in defeat.

‘For what it is worth I am sorry ragazzi,’ He squeezes Secondos forearm and offers Terzo a sad smile. You feel like an intruder in this moment and as your eyes meet Copia’s you think he might feel the same. That is until you notice him tilting his head and looking at you deep in thought. You suspect piecing together the translations you asked him to look at with the conversation he had just heard. He takes in a breath looking like he is about to speak but you shake your head as subtly as you can until he clicks his mouth closed. That is a conversation for later.

‘Sorella, thank you for allowing us to share in your exquisite food,’ Primo says, drawing a line under the conversation that had just ended.

‘It is no problem at all Papa.’ You start to gather up the dishes, wishing you had brought another tray so you could give Primo back his basket. 

‘No no, leave the tidying to us please,’ he fusses, taking the pile of plates from your hands and handing them to a disgruntled Secondo. ‘Seeing how you convinced Terzo to actually come outside, why don’t you two go for a walk.’ There is a twinkle in his eye you are sure you have seen before. If the two of you hadn’t been so careful you might think he knew there was something between you. 

‘What do you say Papa?’ You feel like you finally have permission to properly look at him, and he looks breathtakingly handsome in the warm sun. ‘Shall we go for a walk?’

‘If it gets us out of doing dishes then I am in,’ he says, almost jumping up from his chair. 

‘It was good to see you Terzo,’ Primo says to him so softly it could have been missed.

‘It was good to see you all too,’ he matches Primo’s tone looking at all three of the men still sitting at the table for a moment more before turning to you with a dazzling smile. ‘Come now Sorella lets escape while we still can.’

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

The dressing you add last right at the point of serving. The jar has one last good shake before you remove the lid and pour it evenly over the whole salad. For some extra flair you start pouring at the centre and swirl until all the dressing is used. 

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

‘So that went well right?’ You are some way away from the patio so you risk moving closer, brushing your shoulders together but he doesn’t hesitate taking your hand in his.

‘Ah I suppose those nosey stronzos,’ he grumbles but there is no real bite to it, a reluctant smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

‘You know what I think?’ He only hums absentmindedly in reply, eyes following a butterfly as it dances amongst the flowers. ‘I think they missed you.’ He tips his head towards you giving you what you suspect is supposed to be an intimidating side eye but it misses its mark entirely when all you can see is the soft affection in his eyes and the sun shining off the silver grey strands running through his hair.  ‘And I think you missed them too.’

‘Bah,’ he gestures with his free hand picking up his pace as if to storm off but keeping his grip firm on you so you are forced to come with him. ‘Think you know me so well eh cara?’ It is a challenge but a playful one. There was a moment that you worried that the teasing and prodding of his brothers might have made him withdraw again but it seems that was not the case. ‘Let us see, where in this garden do you think is my favourite place?’ He stops in the middle of the path reeling you back towards him but he drops your hand to fold his arms over his chest. He thinks he has stumped you, you can tell by the smug look he is failing to conceal but you are certain you know the answer.

‘Do I get any clues?’ You ask. He thinks for a moment, tapping at the dimple of his chin.

‘It is the reason I insisted on the rooms I have.’ Maybe he thinks he is being cryptic but now you know for sure, but you don’t want to let on quite yet.

‘Ok so it is near your quarters.’ You affect a look of exaggerated deep thought and he grins at you, glad that you are playing along. Wandering slightly away from him you look about you as if looking for more clues all the while ignoring his suppressed chuckles. When the two of you spend time in his little kitchen, especially now, you spend most of your time stealing looks at one another. So often he has caught him watching you over the rim of his coffee mug except from when his attention is caught just outside his window.  Which not only gave you the chance to admire him as you so enjoy doing, but it also gave you a very good idea about his favourite part of the garden. Just in view of his window was a sculptural fountain depicting the Temptation of Eve.

‘Mmmm you are getting warm,’ he teases as you start to lead him back towards that part of the Abbey.

‘Anything else?’ You are just about to enter the walled garden when he catches up to you. He slides his arm around your waist and pulls you back against him and then lifts your hand to press a kiss to the back. 

‘It’s almost as lovely to look at as you,’ he whispers in your ear. You have to try to suppress the shivers that work your way down your spine but he is pressed so close you are sure he can feel it.  

‘Charmer,’ you chide, stepping away towards the centre of the square. ‘Stop trying to distract me.’ He reels you back in until he can rest his chin on your shoulder.  The fountain dominates the space, the nude figure intertwined with the vicious looking serpent while holding a perfect apple, poised to take a bite. 

‘You can see the fountain from the kitchen,’ you state matter of fact. You can see the very window from where you are standing visible amongst the trailing plants that climb the Abbey walls.  

‘Si and from my bedroom.’ He points towards the larger window at the end of the building as you try to orient the layout in your mind.  

‘Oh it’s like that is it,’ you tease.  

‘Hush I am trying to be sincere,’ he chides but there is no bite to it, not when he skims a kiss against your cheek. 

‘My apologies Papa.’ He clears his throat, the sound jarring in your otherwise soft conversation. ‘Terzo,’ you correct yourself. Happy now he nudges you forward until you are both standing at the edge of the splash pool and you watch for a moment, the ripples overlapping the reflection of the two of you in the water. 

‘Tell me cara mia, what brought you to this life?’ He leads you towards a bench carved into the wall surrounding this part of the garden, helping you to sit comfortably before taking a seat himself. 

‘To the Church of Satan you mean?’ It has been a long time since you thought of your life before the Ministry. 

‘Mmm,’ he hums, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

‘I was raised in the Christian Church,’ you begin. ‘For the first say fifteen years of my life that is all I knew. As I got older though I found myself questioning. Everything I wanted went against what I was taught and I just couldn’t understand why all these arbitrary rules were put in place to stop people being themselves.’ He nods along giving you his full attention. 

‘The arguments I had with my parents when I told them I wanted to go to culinary school, well it’s laughable now but I felt like my life was ending before it had even started. They were talking about me getting married and starting a family when all I wanted to do was learn and travel and live.’ Remembering that time fills you with that same frustration. They never were able to give you an answer other than it was God’s will and that was not enough for your questioning mind.  

‘So I left. I did everything I wanted to do and then one day I was working at a festival.’ He snorts, interrupting you for the first time. 

‘I can’t imagine you in a burger van,’ he sniggers to himself. You knock his shoulder with yours but that only makes him laugh harder.  

‘I was cooking for the VIP guests, thank you very much!’ You reply haughtily. In all honesty there was nothing wrong with working in a burger van, good food is good food, but you dread to think what mental image he has conjured up of you. ‘And that's where I saw Ghost for the first time and spoke to Papa Primo.’

‘Primo recruited you?’ He looks shocked and you are surprised he didn’t already know. 

‘Well I think it was more like I volunteered and he accepted,’ you explain. ‘He had requested some wacky off menu dish and I somehow managed to make something passable and he came to thank me. I joked about his costume and how I might consider joining if I ever found a real Church of Satan.’ 

‘And he told you about this place.’ he says thoughtfully. 

‘He did! I didn’t believe him at first but I came to visit first for a week or two, but it was like as soon as I walked in the doors it felt like I had found my place.’ You had felt at home for the first time in a long long time.  

‘What about your parents?’ He asks. ‘What do they think about you coming here?’

‘It took them a long long time to accept me straying from the life they wanted for me, even though they still don’t like it.’ They had only really accepted it when you had found success which always seemed ironic to you. ‘My being here? We just don’t speak of it. I’m sure they told all their church friends that I decided to join an obscure convent.’ It was a game you liked to play every now and then, wondering what they said when people at their church asked after you.

‘Ha! But here you are getting seduced by Satanic Popes,’ he lifts his eyebrows, clearly proud of his success in corrupting you from your fictional convent. 

‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ You roll your eyes at him but you are relieved that he joined you in finding humour in your strained relationship with your family. But it was his turn to share. ‘Now tell me why this is your favourite place.’

‘I used to come here when I felt lost.’ He looks down at his feet kicking at some lose stones. ‘When you have lost your way there is no one better than the Mother of Sin to help you remember what is important.’ It is a lot for him to admit given his leading role in the church. Many wouldn’t ever believe a man in his position could have ever had doubts. 

‘The bible says she was tricked into eating the apple, that her weak feminine mind was so easily warped by the serpent. But I think she made a choice. Perhaps she realised that if you are threatened and scared into ignorance you will never be free and that people deserve to choose for themselves what to do and what to believe.’ You sense his beliefs are as personal as they are philosophical. ‘Especially when so many things that bring people joy are supposed sins.’ 

You are reminded of sitting in the chapel and listening to him preach every word reaffirming your faith. He was an incredible leader and it makes your heart ache for him that he was removed from that position in such a humiliating way. You don’t voice this though. You have no doubt that these very same thoughts plague him but he is doing so much better now then when you had first properly met.  

‘Enough preaching for one day though I think,’ he laughs trailing off when he realises how long he has been talking and as much as you would happily listen to him talk for hours you let him leave the topic aside. ‘Where is your favourite place in the garden cara mia?’

‘Well that is easy.’ You don’t need to think for even a moment. ‘It’s the moon garden.’ He tilts his head in surprise. ‘I didn’t appreciate it at first, having all white flowers made no sense to me. One of the most beautiful things about flowers is the vivid rainbow of colours. But then one night I was leaving your quarters and I was on the verge of going to Primo and telling him I couldn’t do it.’ You remember that time well even though so much has changed since. Having to fight the urge to quit every time he rejected another meal. ‘You hadn’t eaten a thing and I was so upset with myself.

‘I owe you an apology, I think for being so difficult.’ He mumbles but the last thing you want to do is make him feel bad. 

‘No I mean you had your reasons,’ you say trying to reassure him.  

‘Maybe I did, I felt that I had nothing to live for I suppose.’ It hurts to hear but it isn’t a surprise that that is how he had felt. ‘But I could only stomach so much self pity before I got hungry.’ He winks at you and even this serious conversation doesn’t stop your instinctive blush spreading across your cheeks. 'Thank you for being patient with me.’ He follows the bloom of colour across your face with the tip of his fingers, his sincerity only making it worse.  

‘It was worth it,’ you admit, lowering your voice to match his soft tone. ‘Something told me I should walk through the gardens that night so I did and then it was like I had walked into another world. Every single white flower was glowing in the moonlight and I had to just sit and eventually I knew that everything was going to be alright.’  

‘And was it?’ His hand cups your face and even such an innocent touch has your heart racing as you work up the courage to say what you wish to.

‘The next day was the day you left me the recipe book.’ The moment feels fragile as he looks into your eyes searchingly. It feels good to have cleared the air of so many of your unspoken things. It’s probably inadvisable to allow him this close outside of his quarters but he looks as vulnerable as you feel right now and there is only one thing you can think to do. This kiss reminds you of the first time in the kitchen. The simple action of pressing your lips to his feels so intimate and for you at least, saying things you are far from ready to speak out loud. 

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

Hi hello yes it is me actually updating. Please no one die of shock. I had about 1000 words of this sitting here for the last six months and then suddenly I managed to write it all in the last three days. I want to promise there won't be another six months until the next chapter but who knows what will happen to my brain. Thank you to @ghostchems and @da-rulah for letting me talk about this endlessly and @writingjourney for cheering me on even when I wouldn't tell her any spoilers haha

I hope you all enjoyed and I will be starting a tag list over again because I have no idea who might even want to read this fic anymore so please just let me know if you want to be tagged in the future chapters 💜💜💜

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter One Hundred & One

“Your Grace?”

The Grand Maester’s chambers were dimly lit, the only light coming from a few flickering candles scattered across the room and the muted glow of a small hearth. Shelves lined the stone walls, filled with leather-bound tomes, jars of herbs, and countless vials of strange, murky liquids. A faint, musty odor clung to the air, a blend of old parchment and medicinal concoctions. The room was cluttered but organized, each item clearly having its place, from scrolls stacked neatly on the desk to tools used for various experiments.

Vaegon sat at a sturdy oak desk near the center of the chamber, quill in hand, scratching away at a letter with quick, deliberate strokes. As soon as he noticed Maera at the entrance, he rose immediately, setting aside his quill.

He bowed his head in respect. “I am surprised to see you here.”

The Queen’s gaze wandered as she stepped inside, trying to distract herself from the unease that had followed her into the chamber. Her eyes landed on one of Vaegon’s juniors in the far corner, hunched over a small table. The apprentice was carefully dissecting a dead toad, its insides laid bare as he poked and prodded with a tiny scalpel. Maera shuddered involuntarily, a wave of revulsion washing over her at the sight.

Vaegon’s voice pulled her back to the present, his words cutting through her discomfort. “Is it your collarbone that troubles you, Your Grace?” he asked, his voice laced with concern. His gaze dropped to her shoulder, recalling the wound she had sustained in battle.

Maera’s hand instinctively brushed over the spot, her fingers tracing the faint scar hidden beneath her dress. “No,” she replied softly, shaking her head as if to dismiss the thought. “It’s fully healed now, thanks to your care.” She paused for a moment, steadying herself before continuing. “I’m here for another matter entirely.” Her voice was calm, though a current of anxiety underlined her words, the reason for her visit still weighing heavily on her mind.

The Grand Maester’s violet eyes remained fixed on Maera, studying her closely as she stood before him. The Queen fiddled with the sleeve of her green and black dress, her fingers twisting the fabric as if it might anchor her swirling thoughts. She hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath, her chest rising slowly as she gathered the courage to speak.

"My moons blood has still not returned," she said, her voice measured yet betraying a hint of vulnerability. She paused, her gaze dropping for a moment before she continued, her tone softer now, almost as if admitting a weakness. "And…I’m concerned about my ability to have more children."

Vaegon scratched at his beard, his fingers moving slowly through the wiry silver strands as he considered her words. He hummed thoughtfully, the silence stretching for a beat before he spoke. "You are still feeding your daughter yourself, Your Grace," he began, his tone steady, almost placating.

Before he could continue, Maera shook her head sharply, cutting him off. "I know," she said, her frustration seeping through. Closing her eyes, she sighed, her fingers still tugging at her sleeve as her green eyes flickered with uncertainty. "I just need to be sure there’s nothing to worry about."

Maester Vaegon gave a slow, understanding nod, his expression softening. Without a word, he turned and called over to his junior, who was still hunched over the dissected toad, his concentration unwavering. The young man flicked his eyes up, his brow lifting slightly in question. At Vaegon’s command, he rose from his seat, carefully setting down his tools.

"The Queen requires an examination," the Grand Maester ordered, his tone firm yet respectful. The junior apprentice nodded quickly, setting aside his previous task and washing his hands in a basin nearby. He approached Maera with caution, his demeanor professional, though the faintest flicker of nervousness crossed his face as he stood before the Queen, preparing for the task at hand.

As the junior beckoned Maera to a nearby bed, she heard Vaegon clear his throat. “I will give you privacy, Your Grace,” he said with a respectful nod, before turning to walk toward the door.

But before he could take more than a few steps, Maera called out softly, “Wait.” Vaegon stopped in his tracks, turning to meet her gaze.

Despite the tangled feelings she still wrestled with regarding her estranged grandfather, Maera knew she could not deny his skill. He was one of the most learned Maesters in the Realm, and if anyone could provide her with sound advice, it was him. She stood still for a moment, the words catching in her throat, but then she gathered herself. “I would value your opinion as well,” she said, her voice steady but carrying a hint of vulnerability.

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of Vaegon’s lips, though he quickly masked it with his usual stern expression. “Very well, Your Grace,” he replied, his tone formal, though there was a warmth beneath it. He moved back to his desk, settling in quietly as the junior prepared the examination.

Behind a modest screen, Maera lay on the basic bed, the fabric of her dress hitched up to her hips, her smallclothes discarded. The cold air of the chamber chilled her exposed skin as the junior Maester began his work, his hands clinical and detached but still foreign. Maera clenched her jaw, her breath coming in shallow, controlled bursts. On the other side of the screen, Grand Maester Vaegon’s quill scratched steadily against parchment, the rhythmic sound a strange comfort amidst the invasive touches.

The sheet beneath her fingers crumpled as she clutched it tighter, her knuckles turning pale. Her body tensed, each sensation drawing her further into herself, her mind seeking solace in thoughts of duty and legacy. All had to be well; there was no other option. For the Realm, for her husband, for the future she was meant to secure.

As the junior Maester withdrew his hand, Maera hissed at the sharp discomfort that followed. He looked up at her with a blank expression, offering no immediate reassurance. She frowned, trying to read his face, but there was nothing there. "I am finished, my Queen," he said stiffly, stepping back from the bed.

Her heart sank slightly. There was no way to tell what he was thinking. Was there something wrong? He made a quick, nervous bow before adding, "I just need to consult with the Grand Maester," and hurried away, disappearing behind the screen.

The Queen sat up slowly, her body still tense as she readjusted her undergarments and smoothed the folds of her skirts. The room felt colder now, and her anxiety surged as she strained to hear the conversation between the two Maesters. Their voices were low, barely above whispers, but her senses were heightened. She heard fragments of the junior's voice, followed by Grand Maester Vaegon’s quiet but firm, "Are you quite sure?"

The junior continued to murmur, his tone cautious, and Maera’s patience wore thin. What were they saying? Why weren’t they telling her? The uncertainty gnawed at her until she could stand it no longer. Without a word, she hopped down from the bed, her shoes hitting the stone floor with a soft thud. The modesty screen scraped loudly as she moved it aside, the sound echoing through the chamber.

She strode toward them, her arms crossed, her green eyes flashing with frustration. "Well?" she asked, her voice cool and demanding, though her heart pounded with dread beneath the surface.

Grand Maester Vaegon glanced at her before nodding to the junior. "Thank you," he said, his tone measured. "You may study in the library for now. I expect you to read up on this.”

The junior’s eyes flicked nervously from Maera to Vaegon before he quickly bowed. "Yes, Grand Maester," he said, turning on his heel to leave.

Before he could step out of the room, Vaegon’s voice followed him like a command. "And remember," he said sternly, "this does not leave this room." The young Maester nodded, his face pale, before scurrying out through the heavy wooden door, leaving Maera alone with her grandfather.

She remained rooted to her spot, her arms still crossed, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. His expression was frustratingly unreadable, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his violet eyes—the same shade as her husband and daughter—betrayed little. She searched his face for any hint of emotion, wondering why he had sent the junior away to study instead of revealing what he had discovered.

“What does he need to read up on?” she asked, her voice cutting through the silence.

The Grand Maester didn’t answer immediately, his eyes drifting down to the parchments strewn across his desk. It was maddening. Anxiety crept up on her like a shadow, tightening around her chest with each passing second of silence.

She studied him more closely, trying to decipher what lingered beneath his calm exterior. His age had weathered his face, but beneath the lines and stern expression, there was something else—an echo of protectiveness, almost familial. It struck her how much he reminded her of her mother in that moment, the way his eyes softened ever so slightly, but still held something back.

“Is something wrong?” Maera asked, her voice more fragile than she intended, a crack in her usually firm demeanor.

Vaegon remained quiet, his silence gnawing at her. Her nerves wound tighter, coiling into a knot of dread deep within her belly. She chewed on her bottom lip, her mind spiraling. It was too much to bear—the waiting, the not knowing. The thought of not being able to bear more children clawed at her, turning her fear into something raw and aching.

“Is it—” she began again, her voice barely above a whisper this time, “Am I… unable to have more children?”

Finally, Vaegon sighed, a deep and weary sound. He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and for the first time, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “On the contrary, my Queen.”

Maera’s brow furrowed, confusion mixing with the relief she desperately wanted to feel. The Grand Maester stepped forward, his gaze gentle but firm as he delivered the news. “You are with child.”

There was a silence in the room following the news. After some time, the Queen found herself sat at one of the wooden desks, her elbow propped on the desk, her chin resting on her hand. Her eyes were distant, unfocused, as her mind grappled with the news. With child. The phrase echoed in her thoughts, tangling with the myriad emotions surging through her. It should have been simple relief, yet it wasn’t.

Across the room, the soft clinking of metal and glass caught her ear as Grand Maester Vaegon prepared a tray of refreshments. She heard the jug being carefully set down, the faint chime of plates being arranged with precision. The mundane sounds of his work contrasted with the rapid heartbeat in her chest, grounding her, even as her mind raced.

The news had landed like a stone, sending ripples through the carefully constructed calm she had built for herself. Now, those ripples threatened to become waves. She was with child again. The Realm would get its heir—or so she hoped. She traced small, idle patterns on the wooden surface of the desk with her finger, her thoughts swirling in sync with the repetitive motion.

Happiness... relief...But also fear. So much could go wrong, she knew that all too well. The pressures of the crown, the expectations of the Realm, the fragility of pregnancy—all of it weighed on her, heavier than any crown she had ever worn.

The soft thud of footsteps approached, and Maera looked up as Vaegon came to her side, the tray now in his hands. He placed a plate and cup gently in front of her, his old hands steady despite their age. Maera glanced at the offering as the Grand Maester poured water into her goblet, his movements careful, deliberate, as if trying to soothe her with the smallest of gestures.

A slice of pie was placed on her plate—small, simple, but a kind reminder that she should eat. Maera stared at it for a moment, her appetite absent despite the gnawing hunger in her stomach. She exhaled slowly, the enormity of the situation beginning to settle, but the knot of emotions in her chest refused to unwind. Vaegon sat beside her now, his presence steady and unintrusive, allowing her the space she needed to process the news. The silent support of her estranged grandfather was unexpected but appreciated.

The Queen picked up her fork, her fingers trembling slightly as she brought a piece of the pie toward her mouth. But just as it was about to reach her lips, she stopped. A wave of confusion swept over her, and she slowly placed the fork back down. Pushing the plate away, she looked at Vaegon, her brow furrowing.

"I don’t understand," she murmured, her voice quiet but laced with frustration. Her eyes fixed on the Grand Maester, seeking clarity. "My moons blood hasn’t returned. I thought... after childbirth, its return meant a woman was fit to conceive again. How could I be with child if—" She trailed off, her hand resting on her abdomen, the weight of her uncertainty pressing down on her once more.

Vaegon chewed thoughtfully, finishing the last bite of his food before swallowing. His violet eyes softened as he considered her words, but there was no surprise in his expression. Instead, he offered her a small, almost nostalgic smile.

"I have seen this before," he began, his voice calm, measured. "Among the lowborn women, those who have no choice but to nurse their babes themselves." He seemed to recall memories of his earlier years, his smile growing faintly as if remembering the simpler days when he worked among the common folk. "The womb can prepare itself for another child before the woman is even aware. Even without the return of the moons blood."

Maera nodded slowly, taking in his words, though the confusion still lingered in her mind. She picked up her fork again, this time without hesitation, and took a small bite of the pie. The savory taste of mushroom filled her mouth, and despite everything swirling within her, she found herself appreciating the flavor.

For a brief moment, she let the food ground her, allowing the familiar taste to bring some semblance of normalcy back to her. She chewed slowly, thoughtfully, her mind still whirring, but the edge of her anxiety had dulled. She had to admit, for all her misgivings about Vaegon, the man’s extensive knowledge was invaluable. Despite the complicated nature of their relationship, she understood that he was definitely well-suited for his role, and was glad that she had selected him.

Lost in her thoughts, Maera barely noticed the gentle brush of a hand against her own. Her green eyes flicked up, meeting the violet gaze of her estranged grandfather. Vaegon quickly withdrew his hand, as though startled by his own action, his expression betraying a rare flicker of uncertainty. Clearing his throat, he leaned forward slightly, his voice lowered to barely a whisper. “If this is not something you want…”

Maera furrowed her brow, unsure of what he meant at first. But then, with a sudden clarity, she realized what he was asking. Judging by her earlier reaction—her confusion, her silence, the shock in her eyes—it must have seemed as though the news of the pregnancy had unsettled her deeply, perhaps even as though she did not welcome it. Vaegon, with his quiet voice and thoughtful gaze, was giving her a choice. He was subtly offering her an out, something she hadn’t expected, and the understanding dawned on her that he would handle whatever decision she made with the utmost discretion.

Her heart quickened for a moment, but then she quickly shook her head, her voice breaking the silence that had settled between them. “No, no, that’s not it.” She spoke quickly, almost stumbling over her words in her haste to correct him. “I… I’m just in shock, that’s all.”

She let out a shaky sigh, feeling the weight of the situation settle more heavily on her shoulders. Maera leaned back in her chair, rubbing her forehead as if trying to ease the tension gathering there. “The King needs an heir,” she said, her voice firmer now, as though she were reminding herself of her duty. “And the Realm needs stability.”

However even as she said it, her thoughts drifted to Aemara, her baby girl still so small, still so dependent on her. A pained expression flickered across Maera’s face, and her hand instinctively moved to her chest, where her heart ached with the thought of being pulled in so many directions. “But Aemara… she still needs me.” Her voice softened as she spoke aloud the thoughts that had been haunting her since Vaegon had delivered the news.

Her eyes clouded with worry, the enormity of what lay ahead threatening to overwhelm her. As a Queen, she was bound by duty to the Realm. As a mother, her heart belonged to Aemara. Would she able to love another child as much as she loved her daughter? Would this pregnancy hinder her from being the best possible mother?

And then of course there was the war. Aemond would surely worry about Maera riding in this condition, but Ēbrion was a crucial tool in battle strategy. If the Blacks sensed weakness, they would surely take advantage. This was all so frustrating. How could she balance all of this, especially when each role demanded so much from her?

She heard the soft sound of a chuckle from across the room, unexpected enough to draw her out of her spiraling thoughts. She glanced up to find Grand Maester Vaegon looking at her with a rare softness in his violet eyes.

"I remember when my wife fell pregnant," he said, his voice carrying an almost wistful note. “It was something she always wanted and yet she was still so nervous.”

Maera furrowed her brow, her curiosity piqued. It was the first time he had ever spoken of his personal life. Of the blood that bound them. Of anything beyond their duties and relationship as Queen and Grand Maester. She had always known little about him beyond the fact that he was her estranged grandfather, a truth he had only recently confessed. She shifted slightly in her chair, the tension in her shoulders tightening. Now, with this small opening, it seemed as good a time as any to explore further.

"And you?" she asked, her voice quiet but firm, as if unsure whether she was crossing a line. Vaegon quirked an eyebrow at her question, his expression neutral but clearly considering her words. He tilted his head, and Maera reworded her inquiry, her own curiosity pushing her to press on. "How did you feel? When you found out she was pregnant?"

The Grand Maester let out a sigh, leaning back slightly in his chair. "I felt relieved," he said after a moment. "There was... less pressure. Less need for the marital duties required of me." His voice was calm, but there was a detachment in it, as though even now he held those memories at arm’s length, viewing them as part of an obligation rather than something emotional.

The Queen’s heart tightened at his words, and without warning, a quick, hot flare of anger surged through her veins. She could feel it boiling just beneath her skin, ignited by the coldness of his reply. Her hands clenched into fists on her lap, and her green eyes flashed sharply.

"Yes. And once you completed your duties," she said, her voice cutting through the space between them, "and your wife died in childbirth, you abandoned your daughters the moment they were born."

Her words were a whip, cracking with the bitterness and disappointment she had long buried. The raw truth of her accusation hung in the air between them, both of them knowing there was no way to soften it.

Vaegon’s face didn’t change much, but there was a flicker in his eyes, a shadow of something deeper than the impassive facade he normally wore. For a long moment, there was only silence, the weight of her accusation settling heavily in the room. Maera waited, her pulse quickened with her frustration, unsure if he would even respond to something so deeply personal.

“You did not like my late grandmother then?” She hissed, narrowing her eyes as they fixed upon his face.

She expected indifference, perhaps even some curt dismissal of the woman who had given birth to her mother, but Vaegon immediately shook his head. “It wasn’t like that,” he replied, his tone firmer than before. “She was not to…my taste.”

The Queen gasped at the sheer disrespect in his words. “How dare you—” she began, her anger flaring up, ready to chastise him for speaking so callously of the woman who had borne his children, who had played a vital role in their family’s lineage.

But before she could unleash her full fury, Vaegon raised his hands in defence. “The fault was with me, not her.”

Maera rolled her eyes, folding her arms tightly across her chest, her frustration with the Grand Maester barely held at bay. He continued, his voice a little quieter now, his eyes flickering with something she couldn’t quite place.

“Lady Edme,” he began, “wanted more. A loving marriage. A husband who could give her… everything.” His voice wavered for a moment, and Maera noticed the way his fingers fidgeted with the sleeve of his gown, a nervous tic she’d never seen from him before.

He took a shaky breath, one that seemed to catch in his throat before he muttered, almost too quietly for her to hear, “But due to my affliction, I couldn’t give it to her.”

The Queen’s brow furrowed, confusion replacing her anger. “Affliction?” she asked, genuinely puzzled now. Vaegon, though old, had always seemed healthy enough. He still performed his duties as Grand Maester with precision and focus. He had never shown signs of any illness or physical impairment whilst at Dragonstone, and she struggled to understand what he was referring to.

The Grand Maester rose from his seat with a slow, deliberate movement, his hands clasped behind his back. His steps were measured, almost hesitant, as he paced the chamber. “My brothers had died within a few years of each other,” he began, his voice low and distant. “Naturally, my father was concerned for the succession.”

Maera nodded slightly, knowing the tale well. Aemon, King Jaehaerys’s eldest son, had been next in line to the throne. But Aemon had only conceived a daughter, Princess Rhaenys, with his wife before his untimely passing. And then Baelon, Jaehaerys’s next son, had died a few years later, despite fathering two sons with his sister-wife, Alyssa.

The tragedy of their deaths had thrown the Realm into uncertainty. The question of who would succeed King Jaehaerys had ignited fierce debates and created divisions across the Seven Kingdoms. It was a story Maera had heard many times, but this was different. She had never heard Vaegon’s part in it.

“He said that…” Vaegon continued, his voice strained with something more than mere recollection. “He said that my appetites would change if I just married the right woman.” He paused, and his eyes flicked over to Maera, searching her face, as though the words he was trying to find were buried in her expression. “But I knew they never would.”

His words hung in the air, charged with something Maera could not place at first. There was a vulnerability in his tone, something raw and unspoken. His voice, though measured, trembled with a fear laced beneath the surface of his carefully chosen words. The pacing stopped, and Vaegon stood still, staring at the floor as though the weight of his confession pressed down on him.

Maera’s brows furrowed. She felt the same confusion from earlier tightening in her chest. What did he mean? His appetites wouldn’t change? She had always known him to be a distant figure, cold in his marriage, but now there was something more—something deeper that he was confessing.

And then she saw it, the look in his eyes as he glanced up at her. It was familiar. The same guarded, pained look her elder brother Dermot had worn all those years ago when he tried to explain to her, to their closest siblings, why he would never marry, never father children. A realization slowly dawned on her as the pieces began to fall into place.

The Queen watched as Vaegon threw his head back, a sudden burst of frustration replacing the vulnerability he’d shown moments before. His hands trembled slightly as he rubbed them over his face, clearly agitated by the memories. “I begged Jaehaerys,” he muttered, his voice low and biting. “Gods, I begged him to let me join the Citadel, to live a life of study and purpose, one where I could be of use to the Realm without…” His words trailed off, and he shook his head. “But he wouldn’t allow it.”

Maera’s green eyes followed his every movement, watching the tension in his body as he paced before her. His tone was sharp, clipped, every word laced with years of frustration. She could see the weight of his past in the lines etched across his face, the conflict in his violet eyes.

Vaegon rubbed his face again, the sound of his rough skin scratching against his beard filling the silence. His tone softened, almost bitter now. “The old King matched me with a young lady of noble birth, and expected me to produce heirs for the sake of the crown and the succession.”

Maera nodded slightly, allowing him the space to speak, her confusion ebbing, replaced by understanding. Vaegon had never been able to fulfil the expectations his father and the Realm had placed on him—not because of a lack of desire for power or duty, but because he simply wasn’t made for the life they had wanted for him. His detachment, his coldness toward his wife, toward his duties as a husband and father, all stemmed from something more intrinsic, something he had hidden for years.

The Maester’s pacing slowed, and finally, with a deep, exhausted sigh, he approached the table once more, sitting down heavily in the chair beside her. His earlier anger drained away, leaving behind only sorrow. His violet gaze grew distant, as if he were no longer in the room but trapped in some painful memory. “Edme knew,” he said quietly. “She wasn’t a fool, and she was not happy. How could she be? Her marriage was a sham.”

The Queen observed him in silence, giving the elderly man the chance to continue. She could see the sadness pooling in his eyes, the regret that clung to him like a shadow. Vaegon, for all his faults, had been bound by a life he had no control over, his choices made for him by others.

A small, almost wistful smile crept onto his face. “But the Gods took pity on me,” he said softly, as if speaking more to himself than to her. “Jaehaerys, in his final days, knew his death was near, and in those moments of urgency, he finally named Viserys his successor. And when the old King finally died, I did not feel sadness. Only relief.”

The Queen silently empathized with him, feeling the weight of his words settle into her chest. Her thoughts drifted to her own father, Lord Jasper Wylde, whose controlling hand had shaped so much of her youth. How many times had he tried to mold her into something she wasn’t?

He had banned her from sparring with her brothers, insisting it was unbecoming of a lady of noble blood. When her reputation had been tarnished by a scorned suitor, it was she who was blamed, not the man who had slandered her name. Her father’s chastisements had been relentless whenever she spoke out of turn or dared to question his authority.

It was exhausting, the constant weight of his disapproval, the way his gaze would cut her down with every word that slipped from her lips. She had loved him and tried to earn his favor, to be the daughter he wanted her to be, but nothing was ever enough for him. In a twisted way, she too had felt her own sense of relief when he died.

Vaegon’s voice interrupted her thoughts as he continued to share his story. “Edme unfortunately passed away in childbirth, but had given me two daughters. No sons to continue the legacy, no sons for the throne. In the eyes of the Realm, a daughter could not be an heir. And they were therefore disposable.”

Maera felt a pang in her chest at his words, thinking of her own daughter, Aemara, so small and vulnerable. She wondered if her own child was to be viewed the same by the world; not as valuable as a son, her worth determined by her marriage and the children she produced. The Queen shook her head, keeping her worries to herself and said nothing, listening intently as the Grand Maester continued.

“I named them both after my sisters,” Vaegon went on, his lips curving into the smallest of smiles. “Gael and Viserra. I ensured their future, made sure they were safe with their mother’s family. They were better off with their grandparents.” He paused for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the wooden table as if he were measuring the weight of his next words. “And after that… I approached the new King.”

Maera watched as the old man grinned at the memory. “I could immediately tell that my nephew didn’t want to be king,” he said with a quiet chuckle. “Not really. He accepted it, of course, but I always knew he’d have been happier with less. We were close in age, you see, and in many ways, I think he understood me more than my own father ever did. After presenting my case, he allowed me to join the Citadel, no questions asked.”

The Queen studied him as he spoke, taking in the details of the old man before her. Vaegon had led a complicated life, one filled with expectations he had never wanted, duties he had fought to escape. And yet, despite running from the responsibilities that had been forced upon him, here he was, at the side of his granddaughter—the daughter of the very daughter he had abandoned all those years ago.

Maera couldn’t help but wonder if the Gods had intervened once more, drawing him back into her life as if to make amends for his past. The same man who had once fled from the burdens of his birthright now served her, the Queen, with quiet loyalty and wisdom. Perhaps it was fate, or perhaps it was the Gods, tying the loose threads of their bloodline back together in this strange, unexpected way.

Vaegon let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his confession. “I know this is probably not what you wish to hear, nor are my reasons excuses.” His violet eyes, usually so composed, flickered with a vulnerability she had never seen in him before.“I only wished to be honest with you.”

The Queen remained silent for a moment, her mind swirling with thoughts. As she looked at the old man before her, common themes began to thread themselves together in her mind like a familiar, haunting pattern on an ancient tapestry. Fathers who could not accept their children for who they were. Men and women forced into roles they never wanted. Daughters discarded, thought of as less than sons. The same stories, repeating through the generations, an endless cycle of pain and rejection. When would it finally end?

She reached out across the table, her fingers brushing against Vaegon’s hand. The old man’s gaze lifted to meet hers, his breath catching in his throat. Maera’s grip was firm but gentle, her green eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made him hold his breath. “You speak of an affliction. Like it is an illness. A disease. Something to be disgusted by or to be treated.”

Vaegon’s expression froze, fear and uncertainty swirling in his eyes as he awaited her next words, bracing himself for whatever judgment might follow.

But Maera’s gaze softened, her lips curving into a faint, compassionate smile. “Yet you could not be more wrong,” she told him firmly, squeezing his hand for emphasis. Vaegon exhaled, the breath he had been holding escaping shakily from his lips.

The Queen held his hand tightly, the warmth of her touch reassuring as she continued. “My brother, Dermot, needs no cure,” she said quietly, her voice filled with conviction. “And neither do you. We are how the Gods made us. And the sooner the world stops trying to change us, the better a place it will be.”

The anger Maera had harbored towards her estranged grandfather had lessened, but it hadn’t entirely disappeared. The weight of the pain and betrayal he had caused her family still lingered, and she knew it would take time for her to truly let it go. She watched him carefully, the tension between them easing, yet still present.

"Whilst I don’t excuse your actions towards my aunt and mother," Maera said slowly, her voice steady but softened, "I understand you better now." Her green eyes searched Vaegon’s face, watching as the old man nodded in quiet acceptance. He didn’t attempt to justify himself any further, and Maera could sense that he wasn’t expecting forgiveness, only acknowledgment.

The chamber fell into a comfortable silence, something new and unspoken shifting between them. Maera realized that her relationship with Vaegon had changed—improved, even. The weight of their past wasn’t gone, but it was lighter now, and there was a mutual respect where only resentment had existed before.

Vaegon cleared his throat, breaking the stillness. "Can we keep what I have told you in this room?" he asked, his voice cautious but not pleading. He was asking for her trust.

The Queen nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips, but before fully agreeing, she paused. "On one condition," she added, watching as his brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "That you extend me the same courtesy."

The old man tilted his head, unsure of what she was asking. "You mean you don’t wish to tell the King?" His violet eyes, still sharp despite his age, studied her carefully.

Maera hummed softly, the corners of her lips curling into a smile as she glanced down at her stomach. She placed her hand gently over it, feeling the warmth of her body, the quiet stirrings of life within. "Aemond is protective. I do not wish him to worry," she explained, her voice light, though there was an underlying seriousness in her words. She lifted her gaze to meet Vaegon’s again. "I will tell him when the time is right."

Vaegon nodded, understanding the weight of the secret she was choosing to carry. He had spent a lifetime holding onto his own, and though he had never been free of it, he respected her decision. His lips curved into a rare grin, a flash of warmth breaking through his usually stoic demeanor. "It seems," he said, his tone light, "the future just became a bit more hopeful."

Notes: gay grandpa 🏳️‍🌈 pregnant queen 🤰🏻 smut next chapter 🔥

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[sanjoongie]

Sex and Embers and Frost

A ~Cotton Tails and Simmering Fires~ Series

ღAuthor's Note: this is an idea that was cooked up between @starlitmark and me. I was very excited to breath life into the opening of this world with these alt/emo/goth/punk hybrid dragon boyos. Hopefully you love them just as much as mia and i do😭

ღPairing: Dragon hybrid! Hwa x Bunny Hybrid! reader (f) x Dragon hybrid! San ღGenre: smut with no plot ღAu: hybrid au, strangers to lovers ღWord Count: 3,921 ღWarnings: oral (f receiving), temperature play, hair pulling, biting, hints to predator/prey play, breast play, squirting, cum eating, size kink, penetrative sex without barrier, double penetration, anal sex (f receiving), dacryphilia, hints towards mxm, degradation kink, creampie, overstimulation, mfm orgasm(s) ღRated: 18+ MDNI ღSummary: when your bunny friends drag you to an Gothic club and didn't tell you, so you dressed up in your typical preppy fit, not expecting to catch the eyes of two hybrid dragons ღMasterlist ღNext Chapter ღDedication: @mejuii & @downtoamagicalland, @flurrys-creativity​ &@songmingisthighs thank you for all beta-ing.

When they first meet~

Your blue eyes scanned the beauty that was the club that your friends had dragged you to. The Gothic arches were gorgeous  and the cross-eyed gargoyles added to the aesthetic but… you picked at your skirt and winced. You were dressed in your typical pink and white, that offset your white ears and blue eyes, being a bunny hybrid, but it was making you stick out like a sore thumb in this goth club.

Unfortunately, because you had taken the time to observe your surroundings, you had wound up separated from your friends. This gave the perfect opportunity, however, for two very interested dragon hybrids to, for lack of a better term, to pounce on you.

A hand descended on your shoulder and you jumped in the air in surprise. You had been so hyper focused on the architecture that your sense of your surroundings had been dulled and you had been caught unaware. 

A low, male chuckle sounded from behind you. “You look a little lost there, Hops. This isn’t your typical crowd is it?”

Your eyes widened at the man who had turned you around. His jelly-pink lips had a ring piercing, and it was safe to say, that wasn’t the only thing that stood out about the man. There were scales along his hairline, near his temple and scattered along his cheekbones, that were a shiny, deep purple. And his eyes were silver and slit like a lizard--your brain screamed to you that he was a dragon hybrid and most certainly a predator animal.

You shook your head and attempted to stand a little straighter. "I'm actually here with my fluffle--"

"Fluffle," he echoed you, "Cute."

You teetered on your heels uncertainly. "I think I'll--"

"Oh, you're not leaving us, are you, Hops?" Another man came to lean over the first dragon hybrid’s shoulder, hand hooked on the other’s broad shoulder. His long hair was tied up halfway, with strands framing his face and the lower half still left hanging. His scaling was black but iridescent and his slitted eyes were an electric blue. “I just got here.”

The purple hybrid’s chin set stubbornly at the black hybrid joining. “I got this, Seonghwa,” He said flatly.

Seonghwa put the hand that was on the purple hybrid’s shoulder on his head and ruffled his hair. “What’s wrong, San? Don’t feel like sharing tonight?”

Your eyes darted from one man to the other, trying to keep an eye on the predators in front of you. Your heart was beating out of your chest. But when your tongue came out to nervously lick your lips, both dragon hybrids narrowed their eyes on the motion. Your tongue froze at the corner of your mouth, an instinct to remain still when such a moment occurred.

San went back to frowning, “Hwa!”

Seonghwa smirked confidently. “Why don’t we leave it up to her, hmm?” Seonghwa circumvented San and was now standing in front of you. His size was underlined by the fact that he had to tip your chin to get you to make eye contact with him. You could feel your ears going flat. “How about it, Hops? Let’s go back to our lair and you can decide who you prefer the most.”

You were trembling and your stomach was curling and before your better judgment could kick in--you slowly nodded your head. “Please,” You whimpered.

Both dragon hybrids smirked and you shuddered in Seonghwa’s grasp. “Perfect,” He said happily, “Let’s go.”

Your mind was a whirl and the traveling between the club to their apartment was inconsequential compared to the position you were in right now.  Your tiny body was sat between San’s legs. He was currently peppering kisses from the slope of your shoulder up your neck and back again. He had discovered it was an erogenous area for you and wouldn’t leave it alone once he did. His ringed hands were holding your thighs apart, firmly so, because Seonghwa was kneeling between both your legs. 

“Stop squirming, Hops,” San growled, “Or I’m going to fuck you before Seonghwa can prep you fully.”

Seonghwa made eye contact with San from below, “That’s hot.”

“Shut up, Hwa,” San snapped with no real heat behind it.

“Be a good bunny for me, hmm?” Seonghwa said while his eyes were on your core where your panties still covered it, “I want all your cute noises. Don’t deny me them, okay?”

You were nodding. You had no idea what Seonghwa had in store for you but you did know that you loved the way San’s hands felt holding your thighs apart and those plush lips on your skin. 

Seonghwa’s hands almost held your leg reverently as his eyes rolled up to meet yours and his lips touched your skin. One minute he was leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin there and the next you watched a curl of mist leave his mouth. You frowned, because you could have sworn it was similar to a breath you would exhale in the dead of winter and then you were distracted by a flash of silver--was that a ball from a tongue piercing? You squealed as cold metal touched your skin.

San's fingers dug into your thighs, holding you even wider. "Something wrong, little bunny?" The next time his lips touched your neck, his lip ring felt abnormally warm, almost hot and you yelped.

"Wh-what's going on?" You couldn't help but stutter.

"We're dragons," San said simply, "You're okay with a little magic in your foreplay, right?"

"Yes," You said in a tiny voice that was completely full of anticipation for what this night would give you.

Seonghwa's tongue is out in full force, as he uses one long lick to go from the inside of your knee to your hip bone. The cold gives you goosebumps, but much to your embarrassment, it also made your tail begin to twitch, waiting for that coldness to meet your throbbing, hot mess of a cunt.

San chuckled lowly in your ear. "Hops, your tail is twitching. Is he making you feel that good?" You whimpered in response, your tail only moving more frequently. San moaned into your ear, gripping your earlobe between his teeth before letting go. "He hasn't even kissed your tiny pussy yet. You're such an easy bun, huh Hops?"

Seonghwa's shoulders quake in silent laughter but still he moved his head to hover over your mound. Those slitted eyes narrowed to near slivers, the electric blue iris being more prominent and terrifying you. That was the same look a predator gives its prey before striking the final blow. Your heart beat out of your chest again but you also felt some wetness leak further onto your underwear. Your body didn't know what it wanted: flight or fuck.

The cold ball of Seonghwa's tongue piercing played with your clit through your underwear and your back bowed in response. Your hands descended onto Seonghwa's head and one of your hands became a fist to grab Seonghwa's ponytail. You yanked on it hard, almost as if you wanted to pull his tongue away from you. In contrast, your body rolled into his licks. You could feel the cold breath of Seonghwa's coming to life between your thighs and you shivered at the threat. 

San bit into your shoulder and you could feel his sharp canines making indents into the soft skin there. "You're driving me wild, Hops. You smell so fucking good, like a damn sugar cookie."

"D-don't eat me," You pleaded from the animal side of your brain, only aware that a dragon hybrid had put his meat-ripping teeth into you.

Seonghwa's dry chuckles could be heard from in between your legs, no longer silent this time. "The irony," he said with a crooked smile on his face before he pushed aside your panties so he could have full access to your dripping cunt. "Wonder if she tastes like a sugar cookie too?"

You yelped and gasped at the same time because simultaneously as Seonghwa thrusted his long tongue inside of your hole, San let his lip ring turn momentarily burning hot. "Careful, Hops, or I might find that more appealing than our current activities."

"S-san," You mumbled his name, even though your eyes were on Seonghwa with his eyes closed, tongue fucking your cunt.

"This is what I'm talking about," San growled. "You stutter my name like that and I'm going to want to play Chase the Bunny."

His tongue swiped at your skin and finally let go of your legs. Seonghwa's leather jacket fell to the crook of his elbows as he braced your legs open instead. He took on your weight like it was nothing. San's previous occupied hands began to massage your breasts through your tight shirt. "Been wanting to play with these nipples all night."

Seonghwa's tongue had begun to curl inside of you, reaching a spot that was dangerous. Your eyebrows furrowed. "No wait, don't--I'll--"

Your body began to shake and you cried out as you squirted all over Seonghwa's face. It was pure good luck that Seonghwa already had his eyes closed but that didn't stop him from opening his mouth, accepting your wetness.

San's hand became slack against your breasts as his mouth dropped and he laughed in disbelief. "Did you just make her squirt?"

Your body was like a ragdoll against San's body when Seonghwa finally opened his eyes. He wiped his face with his hand, looking quite pleased with himself. "Fuck, Hops, that was hot."

You are whining in embarrassment but you still can't move. "I'm sorry."

San's light laughter peppered the air. "She's sorry, Hwa."

Seonghwa stood up, tweaking the end of your ear. "Don't be embarrassed, little bun, you just gave me the highest honor."

San unceremoniously shoved your body off him and you collapsed into Seonghwa's arms. San quickly began to unbutton his pants, the chains that connected from belt loop to back pocket twinkling merrily. "I'm so fucking hard, I thought I was going to come in my pants with her fucking tail playing with me."

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow at San. "New kink unlocked?"

San mockingly sneered at Seonghwa, showing another peek of his sharp canines. "Shut up."

Your skirt was already high up on your hips and your panties pulled out of the way but that wasn't enough for San. He easily ripped your underwear from your body with an impatient snarl. "This tiny puss is mine."

The air is filled with the smell of sex and faintly of embers and frost.  "Right, Hops?" San asked.

You looked up to Seonghwa, who shrugged. "Don't look at me. Unless you're saying your cunt belongs to me already. Then I won before San even got to prove himself. Kinda sad, don't you think?"

You gulped and swallowed but there was no moisture there. Your voice sounded tiny even to yourself but you somehow managed to say, "My tiny puss is yours… Sannie."

"Well, that's it, I'm fucked," San announced. 

With that, San pushed into your pussy, firmly and without pause until he was fully seated inside you. He was panting behind you. "Bet I'm so fucking huge inside of you, the way your cunt is clenching me, Jesus, you're tight." San slithered a hand from your hip to your stomach and pressed down, causing you to moan. "Fuck, I can feel my dick imprint, jesus, Hops."

Seonghwa petted your hair and ears. "You are a tiny thing. We could spit roast you right now and you would have no issues, would you?"

"B-both of you?" You squeaked. "At the same time?"

Seonghwa tipped his head to the side. "You can do it, right? You're a sweet little bunny that would give her all to us, right? A sweet little slutty bun who would take everything she got given, even if it drove her to tears. You'd cry big fat tears to be stuffed by both of us, wouldn't you, Hops?"

"You're not talking about my mouth anymore, are you?" You whimpered in realization.

Seonghwa smiled so sweetly even though he was thinking the filthiest thoughts. "Such a smart girl, Hops."

He tipped your head and rewarded you with a deep kiss, his lips still wet from when you had squirted all over his face. His lips and tongue took over your senses until it was all you could focus on. You didn't realize you were whimpering into his mouth until he started to chuckle and released you. "Forgot San was inside of you, didn't you."

You gasped. "S-san, I--"

San simply chuckled evilly behind you. You did not get to see the dirty look San sent Seonghwa. San had not, not truely, realized what he was getting into, letting Seonghwa challenge him. "I'm going to fuck you so good, that's the only name that's going to be falling from your lips."

"Unless," Seonghwa stared down San, "Hops agrees to being double stuffed."

"You can get her cute little mouth, I get this!" San snarled as he pulled back and then thrusted harshly into you. Your breath caught in the back of your throat at the pressure. 

Seonghwa's gentle hands pulled at your sensitive ear, pinching the bottom and making you yelp. His other hand quickly chucked your chin and his thumb slipped against your bottom lip. "And as lovely as that would be," Seonghwa agreed, on the surface at least, "I think that Hops would be better equipped to take us both at the same time. Then she can truly decide who she will choose at the end of the night."

San mercilessly pounded into you, making you grab fistfuls of Seonghwa’s sleeveless shirt, your tongue swirling around Seonghwa’s thumb that was still in your mouth. "This tiny bunny pussy is mine," San snarled.

Your head bobbed, humming in agreement. Seonghwa, however, was unsatisfied with the current predicament. "San," he growled.

San let out a loud, frustrated noise but halted the slapping of skin on skin. You breathed heavily and whined at the loss of the pleasure between your legs. San patted your hip, in an attempt to reassure you. "Don't worry, Hops, I'll fill you up, we just have to do a quick position change."

Seonghwa raised his eyebrows. "Let me slip inside of her. I bet she's so fucking wet, her slickness alone could prep her for me to fuck her puckered hole."

"Am I your fucking fluffer?" San snarled, "Should I put my mouth around you instead and make sure you're ready for her?"

A shiver traveled from the soles of your feet, throughout your body, making your tail flutter and your ears flip-flop. A slow, sure smile pulled at Seonghwa's lips. "Oh, does our bunny like the idea of my cock slipping between San’s plush lips?"

You could feel your face heating up. "You're both really hot."

"Oh, Hops," San sighed, "Fine. Slip inside of her. You won't have a hard time, she's probably loose now from taking my thick cock. Just hurry up!"

San pulled out of you and Seonghwa turned you to face San. He smoothed an appreciative hand down your spine and then pushed inside of you. "Oh fuck this bunny pussy!" Seonghwa exclaimed.

San chucked your chin and guided your head to his pelvis. You licked your lips at the sight of more scaling along San's hips and what amounted to a true treasure trail from his belly button to his cock. "Pretty," You couldn't help but coo, reaching out to trace the purple scales.

"Am I pretty to you, Hops?" San said in a low, soft voice. "Wanna touch? Wanna lick? Go on. I'll give you a tip. The skin along our scales is very sensitive."

You held San’s twitching cock out of the way so that your rough tongue could glide along the soft scales and skin. San watched with hooded eyes and his muscles jerked as it made its way along the treasure trail, to meet at the base of his cock. Just as you were about to lick your way up San’s shaft when Seonghwa grabbed a handful of your tail, making you yelp and cry out. "Okay, I take back my teasing from before. Her tail twitching against your cock is hot."

"Are you done yet?" San growled, once again no longer being the center of your world.

"My dick is drenching, Hops," Seonghwa observed as he pulled out of you. "Gonna fuck you full of dragon cock, huh? You ready to be double stuffed? You better give us those big fat tears you promised."

"I'm ready," you said in a shaky voice.

San held you in a reverse of the position you three had started in. His hands were under your knees as he sunk into you, face to face, and feet off the ground. He bit into his lower lip, tongue playing with his lip ring as he bottomed out again. Then Seonghwa approached from behind, nails digging into your hip bones as he pushed into your other hole. You were whimpering and moaning the entire time, taking both of their thick, long cocks. Once they were both bottomed out inside of you, you tossed your head back to rest against Seonghwa's shoulder.

"How do you feel, Hops?" Seonghwa asked.

"I'm so full," You whined.

"You like it though," San teased, a smirk playing with his lips, "I can feel you clenching down on me so hard. I'm surprised you didn't come from both of us entering you. You're such an easy lay."

"M-move?" You managed to ask, one ear flicking backward to listen to Seonghwa, while the other focused on San.

They did so without further ado, and you could only let out pitiful cries as they fucked you in both holes. You swore you were going to burst but also the pleasure was immeasurable, coursing along every damn nerve you possessed. When one pulled out, the other one pushed in, and it was a never-ending roller-coaster of rapture between your legs. The only thing your animal brain could focus on was the smell of strawberry jam coming from behind you and a sea breeze from behind you. Were those Seonghwa and San’s personal scents? They smelled heavenly.

"Poor Hops," San laughed, "You look so fucked out right now? Is your tiny little brain full of white noise right now? Getting fucked so good by a couple a dragon dicks, huh? I can barely understand how a tiny puss and ass like yours is taking us but I guess that just speaks volumes on how greedy you are for us. Taking us so fucking well, aren’t you Hops?”

That’s when the tears began. They welled up in your eyes and then started to slowly run down your cheek and dripped from your jaw to your bosom, only to make a trail down the valley of your breasts. You just felt a lot of things. You felt safe, you felt adored, you felt full and you felt sexy. It was just a lot and so the tears came easily. Your bottom lip trembled and you pouted as you said, “I’m taking you so well.”

“Aw, Hops, you look so fucking cute, crying for us,” San cooed mockingly.

“I can’t believe how well she’s taking my cock in her ass,” Seonghwa said in reverence again, “Damn, Hops, you really were built to be a little toy for a couple of dragon hybrids, huh?”

You can barely reply between the alternate thrusting, unsure if you’re getting better pleasure from the thick cock in your pussy or the long cock in your ass. “So. Fucking. Good.”

“Oh shit, I’m gonna come,” San cried out, his thrusts starting to become erratic but somehow hitting deeper inside of you. 

“M-me t-t-too,” You whimpered, feeling the curl in your stomach ready to snap.

“Gonna take all of me, Hops? Gonne let me fill you up with dragon cum, right? I bet you get a little bump from all the fucking cum I’m going to unload on you, oh fuck--!” San thrusted deep inside of you, holding himself there and grunted as his cock shot his load into you. He throbbed and twitched and continued to unload and even when he pulled his heavy cock out of you, there was still more shooting out. 

You would have been fascinated yourself if not for the fact that you were twitching and whining and convulsing from your own orgasm. Your pussy wouldn’t stop fluttering around him and it was like echoes of your pleasure continued to radiate from your lower half. It was both pleasing and exhausting and you were pretty sure you had never come harder in your entire life than in that moment. However, you still had another hole and dick to worry about.

“Now for the real show to start,” Seonghaa said, tucking his tongue between his lips.

“Are you kidding me?” San said with disbelief. “Like you could out do that performance.” He promptly dropped his head to your shoulder to relax.

You started to whimper, feeling a bit overstimulated. You shook your head desperately, your ears softly hitting your cheeks. “No. It’s too much. Too much!”

“Oh, come on, Hops,” Seonghwa grunted, “You can come for us again, can’t you? Gonna fill this ass with my cum. You want to be filled with both of us right? Come for me again, sweet bun.”

“Hhhhnnnnn,” You started to cry out as you felt another climax burst over you, this from Seonghwa fucking you up the ass.

You started to cry again, the pleasure being above and beyond everything you had experienced. With San out of you now, you had no choice but to focus on how your ass was taking every thrust of Seonghwa’s, pushing into it like you couldn't get enough of his cock. 

“See, I knew you could do it, Hops. You’re such a sweet little slutty bunny, just for us, right?”

“Just for you,” You repeated tiredly.

Seonghwa let out a desperate cry himself, fucking your ass as his climax tore through him. He unloaded into you too, and you whimpered at how fucking dirty this entire endeavor was. But it felt so fucking good, you didn’t have any regrets.

But the original question still floated in your mind: who would you choose after this?

"I chose you both," You said with a hoarse voice, sounding barely alive.

"Sorry, Hops, I can't hear you with my cum leaking out of your tiny hole, you wanna repeat that?" San muttered, his head still against your shoulder, words muffled but still just as mean.

"I choose you both!" You shout with a rough voice. "I can't pick. I want you both."

You bounce against Seonghwa's chest as he laughed behind you. "Bet you didn't see that coming, huh, San?"

"I hate you, Seonghwa," San grumbled. He raised his head and kissed your quaking nose. "Fine, Hops. You get to have the both of us."

"Just like that?" You wondered.

"Well, hardly," Seonghwa corrected you. "Your body is ours now. Don't you know how dragons are with treasure? We're greedy sonsabitches. Once you're a part of our hoard, you never leave."

"What he means is, your sweet little body is ours now, Hops. To do with what we want, when we want. And you know the best part?" San leaned forward to push aside your hair so he could directly speak into your flickering ear. "There's more of us."

This time it's Seonghwa's turn to finally narrow his eyes at San. "Really, you're going to bring the rest of them into this?"

San shrugged. "You started it."

"I'll end it, you hatchling," Seonghwa threatened.

San stuck his tongue out childishly at Seonghwa and you giggled when the purple hybrid called the black dragon Grandpa.

ღNext Chapter

Tagging: @hijirikaww @toxicccred @starillusion13 @flurrys-creativity @stardragongalaxy @a-soft-hornytiny

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Wherever You Are

Sequel to Come Out, Come Out

Warnings: noncon and violent elements. Warnings are not exhaustive. Please curate your reading accordingly.

Summary: Steve comes home.

As always, please, please, please, send me your thoughts and feedback, horny and otherwise! Love you all so much 💗

A sudden vertigo overcomes you, sweeping you out of your static sleep. You blink away the shroud of drowsiness and greet the man above you with a vacant stare. Your breath hitches as you turn fully onto your back to face Steve.

“We doing this again?” He stands straight and crosses his thick arms over his bulging chest, “the hiding?”

“Sorry, Captain,” you push yourself up, bending your legs in front of you as you keep your heels on the blanket below you, half of it trailing behind you under the bed.

“I don’t like you sleeping under there. You know that.”

“I do, sir, but…” You bat your lashes and pout. You can’t tell him who you are truly hiding from. “I don’t like sleeping alone in the bed.”

He tilts his head and the stony edge leaves his jaw. He nods and bends over you, gripping you around your sides as he lifts you to your feet. He steadies you before him before he lets you go, fingertips brushing up your nightgown.

There’s a cut above his cheek and smear of dry blood down his stubbled throat that trails onto his dark collar. There’s a rent in the fabric across his chest, another deep along his torso, that one reddened and tattered. He cradles your chin as you eyes drift down to his wounds and he forces you to look at him.

“Starshine, I’m alright,” he assures you as his thumb caresses your cheek, “go get the kit.”

“Yes, Captain,” you touch his hand gently, angling your head up as he leans in. You give him a kiss, breathing in the scent of blood and sweat. You part and give a meek smile before you spin on your heel.

You flit off to find the silver chest stored under the bathroom counter. You hear him just through the doorway as he starts to strip away his layers. The clink of buckles and rustle of fabric underlines the silence. 

As you return to the bedroom, he sits on the bench of your vanity. The one he proudly reminds you he built himself. He still wears his grimy boots and stained pants, the dark blue fabric dusted with some unknown soot.

He sighs as he pushes his head back and stretches his neck. He winces as you see how it tugs at the shallow slice along his abdomen. His firm muscles draw taut and his broad chest rises and falls. Along his left peck, a purpled welt stretches up to his shoulder but the skin remains unbroken. 

He sets his head straight and watches your approach. You lay out the kit and flip the top open. You flick away the last of your fatigue with a flutter of your eyelashes. You take out the alcohol first and set to cleaning the cut along his stomach first.

“It’s going to sting,” you warn, just as you do every time, even though you know he barely feels it. 

“Worth it,” he purrs as he brushes your hip, welcoming you closer as you set to work.

When you finish with the bloody slice, placing a bandage neatly over it, you move on to his hands. You only just notice his split knuckles. He gives you each in turn, letting you clean them and wrap a few fingers. 

You finish with a dab of witch hazel over his bruises. He watches you intently. You’re overly aware of his attention as his hands wander along the silky fabric of your nightgown. As you tidy up, he lifts the hem and leans around to get a glimpse of your ass. He gives a tiny spank before he sits back, resting his elbows on the edge of your vanity as he looks you up and down.

“Good girl,” he praises, pushing his legs wide.

“Captain,” you eke out as you close up the kit and dump the peel wrappers and cotton balls in the small bin beside the vanity.

“I’m sorry I was gone so long, starshine,” he says, “as much for myself as you, you know?”

“I know, Captain,” you face him again.

He nods curtly, wordless order. You walk around his knee and stand before him, just in the vee of his legs. He pats his thigh, his eyes slipping down to the gesture and back up again. You sit obediently on his leg as he brings an arm forward, setting his hand against the small of your back.

“You missed me,” he slides his other elbow off the vanity and sits straight, reaching to your hand and dragging it up over your lap.

“Yes, Captain.”

He lifts your hand and places it against his jaw, guiding it along the thick trim of his beard. He leans into your touch and lets you go reluctantly. You keep your fingers moving, petting him as he hums in delight.

“Give Captain a kiss,” his voice grinds like gravel.

You lean in and press your lips to his. It’s easier now. Before, everything you did was so mechanical but you know better now. It only makes him mad when he sees your reluctance.

His tongue pokes out, gliding along your lips. You let him in, angling your head as he invades your mouth. His hand creeps up your back and he braces the back of your head. He locks you in a hungry kiss, snarling as if he might devour you whole.

When he pulls away, you’re breathless and dizzy. His eyes are dark pits you could fall into. His hand falls to the back of your neck as his other dances along the edge of your nightgown. He gives a small tug as his eyes drift down your body.

“Stand up,” he orders.

You stand.

He leads you without a word. Turning you to face him and knocking apart your feet with his boot. He draws you closer until you stand over his leg. He slips his hands beneath your nightgown, raising it above your pelvis as he frames your hips. He forces you down to straddle his thick thigh, a small gasp escaping you as you wince. You’re still tender…

“I missed you, baby girl,” he lets a hand fall down to your ass, the other keeping a firm hold on your hip, “I want to feel how much you missed me.”

He rocks you once. Pull your pelvis forward then urging it back. The friction of your cunt on his thigh sparks a thrill that ripples down your thighs. You nearly squeal as the sensation reminds you of the rawness nestled between your legs. You repeat the motion. Mimic how he moved you. You tilt against his thigh, another babble trickling from your lips.

You trail your other hand up his arm, watching how the tendons in his arm react, bicep rounding as you grasp his shoulder.

His hand clamps around your hips as the other brushes down to knead the tender flesh of your thigh. You let out a willowy breath as he leans in and hovers his lips before yours. You kiss him, heeding another mute order. You have to know how to read his body as much as his words.

You roll your hips, grinding against him as your fingers graze along his beard. You push your hand back to twine into the tails of his hair. His need melts into you as the pressure blooms beneath you. You squeak and moan, a mixture of pleasure and pain.

You ride him without restraint. The bench creaks below his weight and yours. He groans into your mouth as your tongues meet in desperation. Your legs quiver and burn as you chase your release. It’s close yet so far away. 

Gasp and pull your mouth from his, puffing wildly as lifts his chin and lets out a gritty growl. You dip your head down and kiss his neck, nipping at him as you clutch the strands of his hair and dig your nails into the firm muscles of his shoulder.

“That’s it, I can almost feel it, baby girl, hmm, you gonna cum for your captain?”

“Mmhmm,” you purr as you ply frantic pecks along his throat, “yes… cap… tain.”

You rut spastically as the swell of fire roars through you. You quake as the slickness between your leg smears along your cunt and onto his pant leg. Your pleasure spills over as it spreads to the creases of your thighs.

You slow, little by little, shame coursing anew in your veins as your orgasm recedes. You still and lift your head, wavering just slightly as you look Steve in the eyes. You drag your hand down to his chest.

“You came, didn’t you, starshine?” He asks with a taunting smirk.

“Yes, Captain, I did,” you answer and turn your face down in embarrassment.

His fingertips tickle along your thigh and up to your ass. He feels along your nightgown, almost curiously and follows the curve of your chest up to the base of the strap. He glides the thin string down your shoulder, then the other. 

He pulls down the top of your nightie and fondles your chest with his large hand. Your nipple react at once and goosebumps rise across your skin. You tremble and look down to watch him grope you.

“You’re… sensitive.”

“Captain,” you breathe cluelessly.

“Were you a good girl?”

“Good?”

“You didn’t touch yourself, did you?” He pinches your nipple and you yelp.

“No, Captain, never,” you whimper.

“No?” He tweaks the other and you squeeze his arm, “so why are you so… tender?”

“Captain?” Your eyes round, “I swear, I didn’t–”

“Hmmm,” his hum undercuts your protest and he clucks and he smirks, “Buck did say you were a good girl. Maybe he was a bad boy, huh?”

You gape at him. He’s mocking you. He knows why. He knows everything. You look up to the corner where the lens is. He sees it all.

“He won’t have to be bad if you don’t hide from him,” he bounces your tit in his hand, “you know he likes to play games.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And you know I don’t like it when you make me look bad,” he flicks your nipple with his fingernail and you yelp as you cover it with your hand, “when you act like you have no discipline.”

“I didn’t– I was scared, Steve– Captain,” you panic and pull your hand away from your chest to press to his, “please, Captain, I was only afraid.”

He growls as his throat bobs. Thoughts storm in his eyes as they bore into you. He grasps the bunched fabric of your nightgown and rips it all the way to your waist.

“You will behave this time,” he sneers, “won’t you, starshine?”

“Yes, Captain.” This time?

“Go put something pretty on,” he grips your hips and slides you down his thigh, “he’ll be here soon.”

You don’t argue. You stand and let the nightgown fall to your feet. His eyes rove up and down and he gives a noise of approval.

“Or maybe, you should stay like that, baby girl,” he taunts, “you’ve never look more delicious than you do right now.”

[tojisun]

https://www.tumblr.com/tojisun/739286806700376064/as-a-strange-little-dude-who-collects-bones-im or hear me out…Soap with a little true crime/ conspiracy theory gf! He’d totally get behind the deep dives trying to find the truth!

AHHHHHH YEA I SEE IT I SEE THE VISION!!

shes a goth girl into true crimes/conspiracies!! (esp after how he and bimbo!reader have this conspiracy talk sesh happening?? he’s definitely falling for a true crime/conspiracy theory gf!!)

giggling imagining johnny and his gf (you) hiding from each other their… interest (borderline obsession tbh) because they’re both afraid of being judged. so you know, they’d watch these movies that kinda deal with conspiracies or the main character is being targeted by a serial killer and they’re vibrating on their seats, both holding back from exploding in jittered excitement because they wanna be the chill partner, ykyk?

well, one day, johnny forgot to wheel away his whiteboard of conspiracies (currently, he’s trying to prove that pigeons are govt spies) and you come home to see this board with detailed analyses and accounts; dates are underlined with a red marker, while a blue marker was used to write the names of people who have been “silenced” after “exposing” the “truth” about pigeons. it’s lacking a red string that connects one case to another, but that’s only because johnny was using washytape — the designs are, ironically, birds.

johnny’s in the kitchen, preparing dinner, when he remembers what he forgot; he skids to the living room, hoping to salvage a piece of his dignity, only to see you standing in front of the board, your mouth agape.

“i can explain,” he starts, cringing to himself at hearing just how more suspicious that sounded. “i-”

“oh my god, jock,” you say, breathless in your own excitement. “oh. my. god. jock!”

“what?” johnny asks, confusion now triumphing over his mortification because if you’re still using his nickname, then that must mean things are okay, right?

“wait here!” you scream before turning to run to your room. you flung your bag to the carpet where it sags like a sad potato sack. johnny picks it up and hides it in the closet.

he waits like promised, fiddling with his thumbs while shooting looks between where you’ve ran off to and the board. he rereads some anecdotes, his mind running on overdrive, before snapping his head up at hearing the sound of your feet padding back towards him.

you have about three leather-bound notebooks clutched in your embrace, two of which look worn, while the other it still quite crisp. his nose wrinkles in confusion but johnny decides to wait it out, trusting you to take over.

you fall to the carpet, crowding the coffee table, before urging him to sit beside you. johnny does, his legs knocking against each other as he crouches down and shuffles to move closer to you. he watches as you lay out your notebooks, hands gentle as you begin to flip through the pages.

johnny still feels so lost as to what’s going on.

“mo luaidh?” he asks.

you hum in question, still focused on finding a specific page, he guesses.

“what’re you lookin’ for?”

“oh, just- ah! here!” then you’re thrusting your notebook to him.

johnny takes it with care, his eyes flitting through the pages — “to what end is it satirical? what if, amidst the jokes, the government began to use it in actuality? what if they began to capitalize on it? what if we had given them an excuse to hide behind? had we served them a cover on a silver platter? how do we trust that they’re not conniving enough to truly take advantage of this? ‘birds aren’t real’ but to what extent?”

“what-” johnny’s voice peters. “holy shit?”

he whirls to look up at you. “is this-”

“yes!” you say, giggling. “i thought it was just me!”

johnny drops your notebook back on the table to pluck you from where you sat and plop you on his lap. you laugh when he begins to pepper kisses across your face, exaggerated smooching-noises ringing between you two.

(his office gains another whiteboard.)

—

i went fuckin bonkers again aeojdajef forgive me!!!

ikik the pigeon conspiracy is mostly a parody atp but its just. funny hehaeejr