#unless for desperate measure

[ryllen]

jade who got heartstruck by someone who listens, and trey who generally takes interest on really listening to what people have to say, about things he doesn't know yet

[recitedemise]

sender  hovers  over  receiver’s  shoulder  as  they  complete  a  task .

𝟏𝟎𝟎 𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑳 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺: still accepting.

The stars, with the weather both clear and crisp, are absolutely stunning tonight. They hang above his head, shimmering in deep pools of dribbling black, and when they twinkle so soft about the chasm of the hour, there hangs that heft of growing wonder, and unstemmed, gnawing awe.

And Gale, oh, admires it ravenously. He always has, he thinks. He sits there, tent flap fluttering to a wayward breeze, hands tinkering carefully with that well-loved telescope. He's a book laid beside him, pages bare for scrawling notes, and he studies with the chirrup of crickets and the creek... Plus a stare too weighty about his shoulders.

This vampire: how effortlessly he can reduce a wizard to prey. "Were I to turn around right now, I should dearly hope that your vicious staring isn't joined with vicious salivating to pair," Gale broaches glibly. Yet, awaiting him like some marbled statue glistening to the moon, Astarion looms owlish with his gaze unreadable. How, hm, curious, he admits. Worrisome. "If your hunger is itching at your skin, might I suggest slaking it on our fine celestial view? You might find yourself dizzy with thrilling admiration, but sink your teeth in me, and I won't be so kind. Haven't you other appetites, Astarion?"

[arc-77]

Captain, do you know how to make a bomb?

Fordo reaches out and takes both of Obi-wan's hands.

"General, I can and will blow up anything you ask me to."

[tragedia]

i will say, shiri might as well be the nicest of my characters, but she's also the most ruthless. i really feel like it's because she has the strongest convictions and is secure in them and deeply confident as a person. she feels everything strongly, both the good and the bad, so she's more decisive when it comes to actually doing what in her mind needs to be done. you know what they say about healers — they know the best way to a heart is through the fourth and fifth rib.

[thekinslayed]

Edge of Desire

summary | Your efforts in the marital bed stayed fruitless after many moons married to your uncle, and Aemond wants to change that. (based on these requests.)

pairing | aemond targaryen x niece!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! unprotected sex, oral (f), lovemaking, morning sex, medieval conception practices, awkward pining, enemies to lovers kinda, cockwarming

song rec | Edge of Desire - John Mayer

wordcount | 5.5k

note | something softer with aemond this time around :)

(special chapter -> Show Me Your World)

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

“Ow! My hair!”

“Stay still, woman.”

Aemond readjusted his weight above you, grumbling as he leaned on his elbows. He huffed out a hot breath of air, which fanned your face while you lay on your back. His length softened within your walls the longer you stayed connected, preventing any seed from leaking out per the maester’s orders.

It had been nearly a whole year since you proclaimed your vows to your uncle under the eyes of the Seven. Your hand had been offered as a gesture of good faith, arguably a desperate attempt between both sides of your family to mend the rift that has been growing for years. It had worked somewhat, but as the moons passed and your relationship with your husband refused to warm, there have been growing concerns on either side of your family. Your animosity towards each other was no secret, with the vile insults Aemond had thrown against you and your brothers regarding your questionable parentage throughout your youth, which ended of course, in the incident. You had no part during that horrific night in Driftmark, but you were not saved from the consequences of that night. 

Barely a moon after you had turned eight and ten, you sailed towards King’s Landing, to your fate. Your only comfort was the sight of your dear dragon flying above you, watching over you like a guardian. After you were draped by your lord husband with the dark, dragon-embroidered cloak, you made an agreement with each other. Aemond shall have his space, and you will have your own. You shall not bother him, and neither will he. However, you are expected to keep up appearances, at court, at the feasts, and even at the dinner table where queen Alicent pestered you both endlessly with any progress on your efforts in the marital bed. With the lingering friction still driving you apart from your husband, it was no surprise your womb still bore no fruit. He would call you to his chambers to perform your duties for one night each week, sometimes twice, for extra measures. Your efforts remained futile, for his seed never took and you remained childless many moons after your wedding. This growing concern has led to an intervention by the maesters, who recommended a myriad of methods that would aid in your conception.

You were to lay together every morning. Not at night, unless you wanted a girl.

The princess must clench her fist while her husband “did nature’s work”.

Your bed must face the east while you coupled, to ensure it is a boy.

The prince must remain inside the princess for an hour after he has finished to guarantee the seed is taken.

The last measure was absolutely dreadful. It was painful enough to have your womanhood assaulted by a man you rarely saw eye-to-eye with, but to stay there for an hour? Gods be good. 

Aemond let out another grunt in your ear when his left arm grew sore from carrying his weight, shifting to lean onto the other arm instead. You turned your head to look at the hourglass on the nightstand. There was still a good amount of time left, and you silently prayed that the sand passed through the glass faster so you may escape this awful predicament. Your tailbone was starting to grow numb from the lack of movement, causing you to subtly shift your hips upwards to relieve the pressure from your backside.

“Stop it,” your husband hissed, making you huff in annoyance. Aemond rolled out his shoulder to relieve the soreness from the joint, before shifting his weight to do the same to the other. His long, silver hair enclosed you like a curtain, soft and light like the touch of a feather. You would be tempted to feel it under your fingertips if only it wasn’t tickling your face, adding to your aggravation. You moved his hair away from your face, letting out another huff. “Stop acting like this inconveniences only you, wife, I would’ve been much happier spending my mornings down in the training yard. My arms are getting too fucking tired,” Aemond grumbled.

You could feel his muscles start to tremble from the exertion of holding his weight up, unwilling to touch your skin by even a hair. You bit back a snarky response, starting to feel bad for him.

“Can’t we switch positions? Perhaps I could be on top,” you recommended, to which your husband only responded with a grunt.

“No, the maesters said we must stay this way. Any other way would make the seed fall rather than stay in. I do not want to do this any longer than we have to.” 

You snickered at his words, turning your head away to subtly roll your eyes. Despite your irritation, his subtle quivering was making you feel sorry for him. You bit your lip as you thought about what to do. 

“Here, why don’t you…” You placed a hand on his back, urging him to lay against you. Aemond had started to refuse, but you insisted, assuring him he wouldn’t crush you under his weight. With a sigh, your husband relaxed above you, finally letting his arms rest. He laid his head right beside yours, and with only a small turn you could smell the remnants of smoke in his starlit hair, coupled with the rosemary oil rubbed into his tresses every night. His lips ghosted over your shoulder; the skin exposed from when your nightgown had shifted askew. His warmth engulfed you like a warm blanket, his weight surprisingly comfortable. It was quite nice actually, despite your reluctance to admit the fact.

“Is this better?” you asked, your tone simmering down into a softer tone. Aemond hummed in response, turning his head to the side. His lips were now positioned right under your ear, and his every breath fanned the side of your face like a warm breeze on a summer’s day.

“Quite. Though this whole ‘laying for an hour’ nonsense is still quite dreadful, in my opinion,” he muttered. His voice buzzed directly into your ear, pulling a strange twinge in your chest when he did so. You trained your gaze on the embroidery on the roof of the canopy, studying the two dragons seemingly entwined against each other. It was almost like you and Aemond, funny enough.

“It is easy for you to say when men often find the act more enjoyable,” you commented almost bitterly. Aemond was silent momentarily upon your words, before seemingly snuggling even closer to you, though you assumed he was only trying to make himself comfortable.

“Is it so horrible?” your lord husband asked, a subtle hint of concern in his words that you barely caught. You turned to look at the hourglass again. Still quite a bit to go.

“Well, it hurts, more than anything.”

Another silence passed. Aemond’s mind ran a league in a minute at your words, reflecting on the pain he unknowingly inflicted upon you on the times you did your duty. As much as he harbored no love for your family, especially your bastard brothers, you were still his wife. His mother had instilled in him since he was a boy that any woman he would take as his wife should always be treated with respect, for she was an image of the Mother. Granted, Alicent was surely not picturing Rhaenyra’s only daughter beside her favored son upon the altar of the Sept when the day came, but the sentiment still extended to you all the same. 

Aemond shifted his weight back to his hands as he lifted himself once more, so he may look upon your face. It was then he granted himself to really get a good look at you. He may be half-blind, but Aemond knew you were beautiful, there was no denying it. His good eye studied your features, noting the absence of the crease between your eyebrows whenever you were displeased, which was most of the time you spent by his side.

“I have no wish to hurt you,” he whispered.

“I know, ‘tis alright. I am tougher than I look,” you replied softly, your lips turning into a downward smile. Before you could stop yourself, your hands moved to tuck a stray strand of silver behind his ear on instinct. You looked into the purple of his good eye, the other covered by a patch of leather. “Besides, Daemon always used to say men have it much worse on the battlefield, for there is far less mercy when facing your enemies than your own wife,” you added to which Aemond only scoffed in response, shaking his head. Your chest rumbled with a laugh at his reaction, especially after his lips pursed into his signature feline-like pout.

Of course, Daemon would think that way, Aemond thought. His uncle was hardly the image of chivalry for any married couple across Westeros, and it was rather gauche of him to be bestowing any words of wisdom to his stepdaughter about the matters of matrimony. 

All of a sudden, there was an odd feeling in his chest when your eyes seemed brighter than they had even before when you looked at him. He’d seen that light before, when you looked at your brothers, his half-sister, even at Helaena, but never him. You had such beautiful eyes, ones he could swim in their depths forever. Aemond faltered, unsure of what to do with this newfound flutter in his otherwise stone heart. He opted to lower himself to your warmth once more, burying his head into the junction where your neck and shoulder met. The scent of your flesh was naturally sweet, making him subtly press his nose into your skin.

“I am not your enemy,” he said, with a rather unfamiliar softness. He felt your hand come up to rest on his back, resting on the space in between his clothed shoulder blades. A small smile lifted the corners of your lips, one hidden from his view. You turned to look at the hourglass, which had already emptied. You made no move to tell Aemond to get up, but instead, you pressed the side of your face against his own, breathing in the scent of his hair.

“I know, husband.”

Walking through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, Aemond thought back to all the depraved remarks Aegon would make him listen to about his experiences in the Streets of Silk— how the whores would touch him, and how he would touch them, making them mewl and sigh in delight. He knew not whether they were doing it only for show, but perhaps in some way his brother might have learned a thing or two in the many years he frequented the stinking streets of Flea Bottom just for a taste of flesh. 

Despite better judgment, his feet led him to his brother’s door. His fist had raised to rap against the old wood, but then he faltered. Though seeking Aegon’s insight would surely be far less embarrassing than continuing to follow through with whatever the maesters have him and his wife doing in the marital bed, the endless jests and amusement the elder shall find in the matter would definitely haunt him for a long time. Your husband did not wish to humiliate you any further, not when the matter has already involved too many people. With a hair’s breadth between his fist and Aegon’s door, Aemond sighed, dropping his hand and turning on his heel to walk away.

He and his brother have had their fair share of women who have warmed their beds, Aegon more so than himself, but they have only ever fucked. It was for their pleasure, to quench the fire in their cocks. It wasn’t tender or sweet, or gods forbid… loving.  He knew he couldn’t treat his wife the same way he did a whore if he wanted your partnership to prosper; he couldn’t treat you this way.

He thought about asking his mother, though letting her know of your problems in bed, even more than what she already knew, would probably do them more harm than good. Perhaps Cole? No, that wouldn’t be a good option. Matters of the flesh are a touchy subject for Aemond’s mentor and father figure, perhaps even more so when the blood of the woman who shunned him is involved. 

It had always been like this for him. A plethora of questions would boggle his young, curious mind, yet there was no one to indulge him. It had hurt him, of course, but he had learned that some things would have to be acquired by his own volition. This is how he had become such a prolific scholar, had come to claim Vhagar, and proven himself a man worthy of praise.

A laughter through the halls snapped him out of his exasperating worries. The glimmery shrill of youth, unmistakenly that of his sister’s babes, beckoned him like a beacon towards the nursery. There he found little Jaehaerys riding his wooden pony, mimicking a horse’s bray as he rocked back and forth. Helaena watched on in amusement, little Maelor clutched in her elbow. And then there was you, tickling his niece’s belly on the floor, a joyous laughter of your own adding to the symphony. You bent to pepper kisses into the crook of Jaehaera’s neck, making the girl squeal and kick her legs in delight.

You were so good with the babes, this Aemond couldn’t deny. You would offer to help Helaena watch over them on most days when she would grow weary and Aegon was away on the council. As much as your husband would try to look the other way, he couldn’t miss the way you looked at them with fondness, how you would press your nose into the youngest’s hair to smell that sweet, milky scent of his skin. Perhaps he would like to see you with a babe of your own. Yours and his, he wondered what they would be like.

“Oh, Aemond, come!” Helaena exclaimed, beckoning him over. It was then he realized he had been standing in the doorway like a fool, and so the prince stepped into the nursery. Jaehaera, after having spotted his approach, jumped to her feet in excitement. Aemond greeted her with a fond smile and a pat on the head, kneeling to her height. You moved your skirts to let your husband settle by your side, your knees slightly pressed against each other.

His eyepatch had been knocked askew when the young princess had gleefully embraced her uncle, and you had quickly righted it in its place. Your touch was light on his scarred cheek, a foreign featherlike caress that sent a slight shiver down his spine.

“Thank you, wife,” Aemond whispered, turning to you. There it was again, that little look on your face. You regarded him with a budding warmth he hadn’t quite known, a smile that rounded out the apples of your cheeks, though he figured it was one you directed to the little girl in his arms. He returned his gaze to Jaehaera, who had handed him a dragon toy to play with, willing himself to pay little mind to your lingering gaze burning the side of his cheek.

You couldn’t quite recall when your affections towards Aemond had started to change, all you knew was your heart didn’t hold the same twinge of displeasure in his presence, nor did you dread having to keep up appearances in court. There were some instances where you even sought him out, had peeked out the Keep’s yard to watch him train some mornings, all without his knowledge of course. Your coupling was still as unpleasant as ever, but you had grown to not mind the feeling of his weight on yours once the hourglass had been turned to start the hour, the pair of you descending into a comfortable silence most times. Going through the motions had gotten easier by the day, a well-practiced dance between the two of you.

You would wake with the sun’s rise, and then make your way to your husband’s chambers. He would be already awake, always, awaiting your arrival. The bed would be quite warm from his heat, thanks to his dragon blood, and it was a pleasant comfort to have. Once the deed was done, you were off to your separate duties for the day. It was routine at this point; therefore, it was quite odd when you were summoned to your husband’s chambers late into the night.

“It is nighttime,” you said when you entered as if it wasn’t quite obvious from the darkness that enveloped his apartments. Your husband was clad in his cotton tunic and breeches, sipping on a glass of wine.

“I know,” Aemond replied, turning to you. He could chuckle at the look of confusion on your face, with your furrowed brows that creased the skin between them, if it weren’t for the odd nerves swarming in his belly.

“Was there something you need?” you asked, accepting the cup of red that was handed to you.

“No, well… perhaps,” he muttered. You gulped your wine, a droplet spilling over the corner of your lips. Before you could act, Aemond’s thumb darted out to wipe away the tear of red that was on its way to run down your chin. You stopped yourself from jerking away, though you couldn’t deny your perplexion. “I just… I figured we could try something.”

“Try what?” you asked again. He was acting odd, with the way he was looking at anywhere but you, a contrast to his usual sharp form. This was starting to grow concerning; gods, he’s not about to kill you, is he?

“Do you trust me?” Aemond asked. He had gotten closer to you, quite close enough that you could feel the warm waft of his breath on your cheeks. His large, calloused palm cupped your jaw, warming up your cheeks. You stared up at him, wide-eyed, nodding your head meekly.

You trusted him, you really did, in an inexplicable, convoluted way. The past would tell you not to, but your time as his wife had shifted your connection into something intimate. Away from the endless troubles within your kin, all the terrible infighting with burning words and stares sharp as knives, you and Aemond found little trouble with each other, especially with the arrangements you agreed upon. After you had said your vows in the great Sept, you spent your first moons as the one-eyed prince’s wife with a guarded vigilance. You blocked the entrance to Maegor’s tunnels with your vanity, had given the first bite of your food to the rats in search of poison, and had even slept with a dagger underneath your pillow in case your uncle came to you in your sleep. There was none of that. Granted, the Hightowers weren’t the warmest, most welcoming bunch, but they treated you well— some of them, at least.

You weren’t sure where you stood with Aemond. You didn’t hate him, not anymore at least, and you would like to believe he wasn’t coming for your head anymore. The pair of you were… fine. You figured this was a comfortable position to be in, and you dared not utter the wish in your heart of hearts, in fear of rejection. The budding light in your chest as he looked at you now, in the dim glow of his chambers, made known what had been growing over the days you spent in his presence. It couldn’t be helped.

And now, as you stood toe to toe with him, your face cupped in his palm, you knew the balance was about to tip over; for better or for worse, however, you didn’t know.

Your breath came out as a shudder as his face descended upon yours, the time moving all too slow in your perception. Your hands tightened into fists in anticipation, your pulse thrumming in your ears so thunderously you could only hope he didn’t feel it. Just as his lips were a mere hair's breadth away from yours, Aemond stopped, sensing the rigid tension in your spine. With a sigh, he leaned his forehead against yours.

 “Aemond, w-what has gotten into you?” you whispered, cautious to not break the solemn air in the room. Your hands came up to rest on his biceps, squeezing at them in question. He was silent for a moment, his eye closed in thought. You waited, patiently.

“I want to make you feel good,” your husband finally uttered in a whisper. You sputtered half words in shock. He did not need to do that, you expected little as a woman and were doing your duty in bed just fine. Why would he willingly want to do so? By the gods… why did he want to?

His thumb caressed your cheek ever so softly, pressing on the supple plumpness under the pad of his finger. He had leaned away, not too far, just enough to gauge your reaction.

Your throat felt dry, and you longed for the cup of wine you had set aside. Your mind ran a league in a minute, the proposition he was offering was one many women would kill their spouses for. Truthfully, you didn’t know what making you “feel good” would entail, your lack of knowledge and experience from your sheltered upbringing limiting your mind on the art of the ways of the flesh.

“Will you let me?” he asked.

You could say no and he would dismiss you, and the night would be over. You would pore on what could’ve been if you had said yes, and you would never know what would have transpired. You could say yes, and this whole thing would be a disaster, an embarrassment if it ended in proving how incompatible you truly were. Or… you would enjoy it, you both would.

You nodded your head again, still untrusting of your own words. Aemond walked you backward to the bed, urging you to lay back once the back of your knees hit the frame.

As his deft hands lifted your nightgown to your hips, you fisted the sheets tight in your hands in angst. You watched him as he watched you, or your womanhood, rather. Your husband’s tongue ran over his bottom lip, his good eye twinkling under the subtle warmth of the dimness in his chambers.  

You felt open… exposed. The urge to cross your legs shut threatened to overwhelm you, but his hands caressing the meat of your thighs prevented you from doing so. He descended upon you, planting a trail of kisses down the inside of your thigh. Gooseflesh rose all over your skin, and you gasped when he came close to your flower, making you grip his shoulder to stop him.

“Aemond…” you breathed out.

“Let me do this for you,” he whispered, taking your wrist to direct his kisses there. “Have faith in me.”

You retracted your hand from his firm shoulder, leaning your weight on your elbow to watch him. His breath was hot against your slit, making you involuntarily clench. He started with light kisses on your mound, then little licks against your slit. His good eye flickered to gauge your reaction, where you had started to bite your lip. Two fingers split your folds open, baring all of you to his hungry gaze. His tongue delved deeper into your slit, penetrating you.

“Oh,” you exhaled, tilting your head back. With a surge of confidence, your husband began to devour you in earnest, licking and sucking. Sweet sounds, ones unheard of before, had started to spill from your lips, and what a delightful song it was.

A finger soon replaced his tongue, entering your gummy walls as though it were his cock. It thrust in and out of you the same way, and when he bent to feel up a rough patch within your walls, your toes clenched as a jolt ran up your spine.

“Good?” Aemond asked, to which you could only respond with a nod and a whine.

His lips found your pearl, and then another finger had joined the other. The prince soon found a rhythm, one that had you writhing and moaning unabashedly. What an odd sensation it was, yet utterly delicious as it was depraved.

The pressure in your stomach built in a steady rise. It sparked your muscles to twitch in Aemond’s hold, growing spasmodic as you were hurled closer to your precipice. You came with a whine, your head thrown back into the feather mattress as your husband guided you to your end.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” you asked, breathless. Black spots danced around your vision of him, swarming around the otherworldly sight of his flushed, glimmering lips and the loose silver strands that framed his face. It quirked into a small smirk as he regarded you, his arms caging you in between his hold. His hair draped around you like a curtain, the wispy ends tickling your nipples through the cotton of your dress.

“I am quite diligent in seeking the knowledge I might find useful, dear wife, and it seems they have proven to be so,” Aemond responded. You dared not ask what he meant, unwilling to learn who he had sucked and licked the way he did you to be so proficient in the act, how he had learned to poke all the right places to earn such lewd sounds from you. You merely hummed, tracing the line of his jaw in a trance.

His deft fingers had grabbed a hold of the straps of your nightgown, pulling them down to bare you fully. You let him, willingly so, encouraged by the look in his good eye that promised you more. His good eye was glued onto your breasts immediately before his warm, calloused hands took them into his hold. They fit perfectly in his palms, much to both of your delight. You bit your lip as he squeezed them, massaging the supple flesh and rubbing on your sensitive bud. Aemond could do this for hours, and if it weren’t for the throbbing in between his thighs, he would’ve done so.

His cotton tunic soon followed, then his breeches, and as he stood before you, cock stood stiff in attention, you get a good look at him. He was utterly handsome like this, bare and unguarded. You beckoned him closer, pulling on the strip that held half of his hair up. Soft fingertips trailed his jaw, his scar, before circling the leather patch that masked his left eye.

“Can I?” you whispered, looking into his good eye as he studied you. Aemond paused for a moment, almost faltering. The warmth of your thighs caged onto the sides of his waist was a welcome comfort, luring him closer to wanting to nestle in your ever-loving heat.

“Tis not a good sight to gaze upon,” he mumbled. You had cupped his jaw when he started to look away, keeping him close with a small smile.

“You are my husband. I wish to have you, all of you, as you will have me.”

A promise. An agreement.

A solemn echo of your vows upon the altar.

I am his and he is mine from this day, until the end of my days.

He had pulled the patch off from the clasp on the back of his head. The sparkle of the sapphire had stunned you in awe, and as you cupped his jaw, the look of wonder on your face and the lift in your lips couldn’t be helped.

“It is beautiful, husband,” you said, beaming up at him. “You are beautiful.”

He had huffed in amusement, planting a kiss on your cheek before mumbling into your skin, “I should be telling you that.”

His stiff length was hot and heavy as it sat against your hip, a reminder of the fire that still coursed through your veins. Aemond pulled away, the look in his eye taking a warmer, softer tinge as did yours. The smile on your lips had melted away to something sincere, hopeful. With a nod, you watched him take hold of his shaft, lining it upon your entrance. His breach was much smoother this time, no stabbing pain that made you scrunch your face, all thanks to his efforts in preparing you. It was rather delightful, a delicious stretch that made you bite your lip as he grunted above you. He would have asked you about the pain, but the deep kiss you had pulled him in to let him know there was little of it.

Aemond’s hips took on a steady pace, rocking into you gently and slowly. It was nothing lewd or animalistic, but rather sensual, intimate. You had never felt closer to him the way you did now, your connection transcending that of something physical. Your husband’s face was buried into the crook of your neck, his grunts and moans traveling straight into your auricle. You fared no better, your mewls echoing into the quiet of the room. Aemond had taken hold of your fisted hand, the godsdamned instructions from the maester taking on memory in your muscles, and he had pried them open. His larger, rougher fingers intertwined with yours, holding onto you for dear life as he took you deeper, and deeper, poking a spot within your womb that made you shiver in delight.

“Aemond,” you breathed out. His aquiline nose pressed into the side of your face, breathing into the sweet scent of your dampening flesh.

“Say it again… say my name again.” His voice was growing raspier by the second, but his tone was ever so soft with you, only you. His lips closed around one of your nipples, sucking on the stiff bud in a way that made you moan.

“Aemond, oh, Aemond! My lord husband,” you whined, holding onto the planes of his back as his pace hastened. His pubic bone rubbed on your pearl, sending shoots of fiery pleasure up your spine. Your grip on him was tight, almost numbing, but he relished in it. He wanted to feel you everywhere, kiss on every ounce of flesh he could, you were his after all.

“My wife, my dearest darling. Will you come for me again? Spill around my cock, hm?” You nodded fervently at his dirty whisper, wanting nothing else to do exactly as he asked. His forehead was prickled with salty sweat when he had pressed it against yours, his lips barely an inch away from yours. The silver-haired prince’s breath mingled with yours, and you had chased him when his tongue darted to lick a swipe across your bottom lip. Your release washed over you the moment he kissed you again, your moans swallowed by his hungry mouth. His length drove into you still, chasing his own release, and your spasming walls massaged him to guide him to his end. Aemond pulled away to look at where you were connected, committing the sight of his cock, painted with a white ring around its base, disappearing into your sweet cunny. His pace grew rhythmless as his hips began to sputter. He was close, evident from the way his eyebrows scrunched together. With a hand on your breast, the other on your jaw, your husband came with an open-mouthed groan, spilling his hot seed into your womb.

Aemond had moved to collapse by your side, but you had pulled him close to your chest, letting him lay on you with his softening length still nestled in your walls.

“Stay.”

You lay there together in silence, breathless, boneless. His hand rubbed on your waist, as did yours on his muscled back, comfortable in the silence you were in.

“I am sorry,” your husband had whispered, before shifting to lean on his elbow to look at you. “For…”

He need not say everything, or anything at all. You knew what he meant. That was all too long ago, almost a lifetime that scarcely felt yours. It was different now between you and him. The world could descend into flames and tear itself inside out, but you and Aemond would not lose each other.

You nodded, tucking a loose strand of silver behind his ear. “I am sorry too, deeply so.”

Slumber had found you while you were wrapped in your husband’s embrace, the heat emanating from his bare body pressed against yours a comforting blanket. In the morn, he had taken you again, slipping into your welcoming walls as you both stayed laid on your side. Aemond had left Cole a waiting fool in the courtyard while he missed his training, a curious deviation from his otherwise strict routine.

You were both learning how addicting this could be, though it seemed neither of you wanted to complain. You could hardly separate from your husband’s hold to dress to break your fast, and the pleasant glow on both your faces at the dining table with the rest of the family was a dead giveaway of the progression in your relationship. With the frequency of how much you latched onto each other every moment you found yourselves alone, it came as no surprise that by the end of the moon, the realm celebrated the growing babe in your womb.

A life forged by your own hand. Yours and his.

[landoughnut]

The Tube Top Incident - KA12

masterlist - request - patreon

pairing: kimi antonelli x horner!fem!reader

summary: your top fails you in the paddock, so you go to kimi's garage, but when you're father sees his shirt on you, he doesn't take it lightly

w/c & a/n: 1.2k | this is based off of this request! thanks for sending it babe :)

"This is bad. This is so, so bad."

Your heart was now racing as you rushed through the paddock, one hand clutching the torn fabric of your top over yourself while the other frantically tried to keep yourself covered.

Eyes darted around, scanning for anyone who might notice Christian Horners daughter's very obvious wardrobe malfunction.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. And right now, that meant getting to Kimi's room without being seen.

It was one thing for you to date a driver, but a Mercedes driver? That was practically treason in your dad's eyes.

You barely managed to slip inside your boyfriend's room, slamming the door behind you, chest heaving.

Kimi, who had been lounging on his couch, looked up lazily from his phone—only for his blue eyes to widen slightly as he took you in. Then, a slow, amused smirk spread across his lips.

“Well, this is interesting,” he drawled, stretching his arms behind him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He tilts his head, eyes shamelessly raking over you, “Did you come running into my room half-dressed just because you missed me?”

“Kimi!” you hissed, still clutching your ruined top. “Are you serious right now? My top just ripped open in the middle of the paddock, and I was about two seconds away from flashing half the grid!”

Kimi tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “I mean… I wouldn’t complain.”

You groaned. “Kimi.”

He chuckled, finally standing up and pulling his team shirt over his head. “Relax, amore. Here.” He dangled it in front of you, but when you reached for it, he tugged it just out of reach, his boyish grin never fading.

You glared. “Kimi, give me the damn shirt.”

“What’s the rush? It’s just us here.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. “Unless… you want me to help you put it on?”

Your face burned. “Oh my God, you’re the worst.”

"What?" He exclaimed, "I've seen you in less, you know."

"Oh my gosh! Shut up," you look away, now blushing even more.

He finally handed it over, laughing as you snatched it and turned away to pull it on. His shirt was oversized on you, the fabric soft and smelling like him.

"Drop your smile, this isn't a joking matter," you huff.

"I don't know, amore... this is pretty funny to me," he grins.

Just as you sighed in relief, thinking you had escaped disaster, the worst possible voice rang out from behind you.

“What the bloody hell is going on here?”

You froze. Kimi’s gaze flicked past you, his body stiffening slightly. You turned slowly to face your father, who was standing at the entrance of the room, eyes narrowed and arms crossed.

His gaze flicked to your oversized shirt, then to Kimi, then back to you. The realization dawned quickly.

“You— him—” Your dad's face turned an alarming shade of red. “You’re dating Antonelli?”

Kimi doesn't move but he does gently grab your hand with his, likely trying to comfort you.

You winced. “Okay, first of all, let’s not have an aneurysm about it—”

“Oh, I’ll have an aneurysm if I damn well please!” he snapped. “You are my daughter, and you are not dating a Mercedes driver—especially not behind my back!”

Kimi, to his credit, stayed calm, his usual cool demeanor unfazed. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t think your daughter needs your permission to date me. In ogni caso, sono innamorato di lei,” he cracks a tiny smile, eyes soft and glancing at you.

Christian gaped at him. “With all due— Are you serious? Do you even know who I am?”

“Yes, not that it matters,” Kimi said smoothly.

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing. Your dad looked like he was going to pass out and he looked back and forth between you two.

“This is unacceptable,” he declared. “You’re getting out of that shirt right now.”

“Yeah, not happening,” you shot back. “Unless you’d rather me walk around half-naked?”

Christian spluttered, trying to think something to say.

Finally, he groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “We are not done discussing this. Find something else to wear.”

“Oh, I figured,” you said, rolling your eyes.

He stormed off, still muttering under his breath, while Kimi turned to you with an amused smirk. “So… do I get to keep my girlfriend, or do I need to prepare for war?”

You sighed dramatically. “It’s Christian Horner. It’s always a war.”

Kimi chuckled, slipping an arm around your waist. “Don't worry, mi amore, I'd win a war for you.”

Later that evening, after the chaos had settled and your father had stormed off to complain to someone else, you found yourself tucked away in Kimi’s motorhome.

You greatly enjoyed the quiet moments like this, there weren't many times when the opportunity came about.

You sat between Kimi’s legs on the couch still wrapped in his oversized Mercedes shirt, your back pressed against his chest. Some random movie playing in the background.

His fingers traced lazy circles on your exposed thigh, the fabric having ridden up as you curled into him.

“I think my dad’s going to try and have you exiled,” you murmured, tilting your head back against his shoulder with a small smile.

Kimi chuckled, his breath warm against your neck. “He can try.” His lips brushed against the sensitive skin just below your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You let out a slow breath, your hand reaching up to tangle in his hair as he pressed another lingering kiss against your neck. His hands, warm and soft, slid up your sides, just barely ghosting over your ribs, making you squirm and laugh.

“Kimi,” you warned, but there was no real bite to it.

He hummed, his grip tightening slightly as he turned you around in his lap, his blue eyes dark with amusement. “You’re still wearing my shirt,” he whispered, his fingers playing with the hem.

“Well, you did give it to me.” You shrug, wrapping your arms around his neck.

His lips curled into a smirk of his own. “Mmm. I did. But now I’m wondering if I should’ve asked for something in return. And I think it would look better on the floor.”

You gasp, "Kimi! You naughty boy," you lightly slap his arm. You rolled your eyes playfully, “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

You didn’t have a comeback for that, not when he leaned in and kissed you, stealing the air from your lungs. You comb you hands through his fluffy hair and he lets out a content sigh.

His hands wandered, exploring, teasing, until you were practically melting against him.

By the time you pulled back, your cheeks were flushed and lips a little more plumped and Kimi looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“Your dad is going to kill me,” he mused, brushing his thumb over your kiss-swollen lips. This was his favorite look of yours.

You grinned, breathless. “Not if I kill him first.”

Kimi laughed lightly, pulling you in again. “I like the way you think, mi amore.”

[riddlesrizzler]

𝙎𝙞𝙜𝙢𝙖 𝙉𝙪’𝙨 𝙎𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩

summary: A diamond in a house full of snakes.

characters: frat boy! mattheo. frat sweetheart! reader. frat boy! slytherins

warnings: mentions of alcohol and making pledges do things (not hazing)

word count: 2.3k

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

They called it the Snake House, though its real name-Sigma Nu-was etched in fading silver above the wrought iron gates that led to the manor. Hidden behind ivy-draped columns and shrouded by ancient oaks, the fraternity estate stood on the edge of campus like a secret too dangerous to be kept in daylight. No one quite remembered when Sigma Nu had been founded-some whispered it was pre-dating the university itself, rooted in ancient rites and blood oaths sworn beneath crescent moons. But in the present, it was feared, admired, and envied in equal measure.

The president of Sigma Nu was Mattheo Riddle, a name spoken with the kind of reverence reserved for legends and tyrants. Sharp of tongue and sharper of mind, Mattheo ruled the fraternity not with brutish dominance, but with a silken charisma that wrapped itself around you like a noose. He was all marble and firelight: smooth, cold, untouchable on the outside, yet flickering with something volatile beneath the surface.

His second-in-command, Theodore Nott, was the shadow behind the throne. Where Mattheo set the tone, Theo enforced it. He was quieter, more calculated, with a gaze like cut glass and a voice you only heard when he needed to remind someone of their place. The brothers called him “The Watcher”-not because he hovered, but because he saw everything.

The rest of the inner circle rotated like planets in their orbit.

Lorenzo Berkshire, with his floppy brown hair and wicked grin, handled social affairs-if such a title could be applied to the lavish masquerades and forbidden midnight galas he orchestrated. Enzo was charm incarnate, hiding razor-sharp instincts behind a glass of wine and a well-tailored coat. People underestimated him. That was their first mistake.

Draco Malfoy, heir to a crumbling aristocracy, served as treasurer. But that role was a formality. Draco was the gatekeeper to the legacy. His family had once poured obscene amounts of money into Sigma Nu, and though the vaults ran thinner now, his word still carried the weight of dynasties. Cold and calculating, Draco rarely spoke unless it was to remind others they weren’t worth speaking to.

Then there was Blaise Zabini, the strategist. He didn’t run the meetings or throw the parties. He played the long game-the one that was always three moves ahead. A cigarette always rested between his fingers, and secrets curled around him like smoke. Blaise’s role wasn’t official. It didn’t have to be. In Sigma Nu, knowledge was currency, and he was the quiet king of the underground economy.

Together, they formed the serpent’s head.

The house itself was a relic from another time. Stained-glass windows filtered the sunlight into eerie patterns on mahogany floors. The walls were lined with portraits of brothers past-men with hollow eyes and stories that had been scrubbed from official records. A grand staircase, rumored to creak only when someone lied in its presence, split the mansion in two. The basement was off-limits, except for the highest-ranking members. What happened down there was never spoken of, but the muffled echoes that sometimes rose through the vents kept the rumors alive.

Rituals were everything in Sigma Nu. Pledging wasn't just about endurance-it was a test of will, of loyalty, of how far you were willing to crawl for power. And once you were in, you were in. There was no leaving. Not really. Former brothers found themselves mysteriously blacklisted, their futures erased with quiet efficiency. No one crossed the Snake House without bleeding for it.

Yet every year, the line to rush snaked down the cobblestone path, filled with students desperate to touch even the hem of that forbidden tapestry. Power, after all, is seductive. And Mattheo Riddle’s Sigma Nu had power in spades.

But inside those ivy-covered walls, something was shifting. There were murmurs of a fracture in the hierarchy. An outsider watching too closely. A secret the founders had buried that might be clawing its way back to the surface.

And at the center of it all: Mattheo, with a hand on the throne and another on the throttle.

But between the echoes of old secrets and the weight of a legacy stitched in silence, she was the unexpected constant-soft in a world that was anything but. While Mattheo navigated the shifting loyalties and unspoken rules of the house, she remained untouched by the storm, yet always in its eye. She didn’t need a title to hold power; she had something rarer. Influence, without force. Presence, without demand. And though the throne was his to claim, she was the one they all moved around-the one they’d protect without question, even as the walls whispered of betrayal and the past threatened to rise. Because to the outside world, she was just the Diamond of Alpha Delta Pi. But to them… she was the heart of Sigma Nu.

The Snake House had never known softness before she arrived. But now, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafted through the halls before chapter meetings, and there were always cookies cooling on the kitchen counter beside the whiskey bottles. Her laugh echoed down the staircase, light and melodic, blending strangely well with the heavy bass of party nights and the creak of ancient floorboards.

She wasn't just a sweetheart by title-she was the heartbeat of the fraternity.

Every Friday, three pledges showed up at her off-campus cottage, armed with mops and laundry detergent, ready to clean top to bottom without question. It had become a tradition-Sigma Nu took care of her. Always. It was Theo’s rule. But it was Mattheo’s order.

The pledges were already working by the time the rest of the world stirred. One was sweeping under the island. Another was wiping down cabinets. A third was sorting her laundry into color-coded piles on the dining room table.

“Don’t forget the lavender dryer sheets,” she reminded one of them sweetly, not looking up from her dough.

“Yes, ma’am,” the pledge muttered, blushing.

“You didn’t have to come clean.” She looked over her shoulder at him, a smudge of flour on her cheek.

“I wanted to.” Mattheo walked in, groggy but sharp-eyed, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“You send pledges to clean my own house every week. My landlord thinks I have a personal cleaning service." She giggled.

“You basically do,” he said, flicking his lighter closed. “You bake banana bread and let Theo cry on your couch. You’ve earned it.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right,” he replied, and stepped forward, gently swiping the flour from her cheek with his thumb. “You spoil us. Let us return the favor.”

She looked at him for a long moment, eyes searching.

“You don’t have to keep proving things to me, Mattheo.”

He met her gaze, unwavering. “I’m not. I’m proving it to everyone else.”

At parties, she didn’t need to lift a finger. A pledge carried her drink. Another held her coat. If she looked even slightly tired, someone found her a seat. When she danced, people made room.

The party pulsed like a living thing-booming bass, laughter slurred into inside jokes, the thick haze of too much beer and too little inhibition. Lights blinked across the walls, casting silvers and greens on the sweaty crowd packed into the house’s main room.

Then she walked in.

The chatter didn’t stop-but it shifted. Heads turned. A few of the brothers straightened up. Pledges scrambled to make space near the drinks table. And at the edge of the chaos, Mattheo Riddle watched her with a smirk wrapped around the mouth of his beer bottle.

Diamond House perfection. The only sweetheart Sigma Nu would ever need.

She made her way toward the kitchen, exchanging soft smiles and cheek kisses, until one of the guys shouted, “Sweetheart’s here!”

Cheers erupted like a spell had been cast.

Mattheo didn’t move. Just leaned back against the doorway, letting his eyes follow her every step. When a freshman tried handing her a half-full drink, Mattheo’s voice cut sharp and smooth across the room.

“She only drinks vodka cran, dumbass.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

The pledge blinked, nodded quickly, and disappeared.

She found Mattheo seconds later, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. “You’re going to scare off all the new members.”

“Good.” He looked down at her. “They were getting too bold.”

“You’re acting like I’m made of glass.”

He tilted his head, that smirk deepening. “Nah. Diamonds are tougher than glass.”

She arched a brow. “So I’m tough?”

“You’re dangerous.” His voice dipped, low and dry. “I’ve seen more than a few guys fall stupid over you in five seconds flat.”

“And you?” she asked sweetly. “Still standing?”

Mattheo took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. “Barely.”

When she walked into a tailgate wrapped in an oversized Sigma Nu hoodie-Draco’s once, Blaise’s the next, Enzo’s after that-everyone knew it was only borrowed until Mattheo noticed she was cold and quietly handed her his.

He always did.

The wind whipped around the tailgate like it had something to prove. She stood on her tiptoes, scanning the crowd, the hem of her Sigma Nu hoodie fluttering. Not hers, technically-Mattheo’s. Still smelled like smoke and spice and something she couldn’t name.

He appeared behind her like a shadow.

“Cold again?”

“You have a sixth sense for it.”

“No.” He leaned close, lips brushing her ear. “I just know you.”

She turned with a grin, poking his chest. “So, what’s the plan, President? Going to assign a pledge to hold my hand all day too?”

“Don’t tempt me.” His eyes flickered over her, playful. “I’d make it a rotating shift.”

She laughed, full and bright.

“I could carry my own books, you know.”

“And ruin our entire pledging system?” he asked, mock serious. “What would the freshmen do without you assigning them smoothie runs and study session alarms?”

“You love it.”

Mattheo didn’t deny it.

Instead, he stepped back and tossed her his scarf. “Put that on.”

“Possessive much?”

“Practical,” he said with a wink. “And if anyone asks-tell them it’s house policy.”

Mattheo Riddle didn’t smile easily. But he watched her like she hung the stars. Protective wasn’t the right word-it was something fiercer, deeper. He knew the sound of her footsteps before she even knocked. He knew how she took her tea, what time her classes ended, what books were stacked in her bag on any given day.

And when he wasn’t sitting at the head of the chapter table, you could find him leaning against the counter while she stirred brownie batter, sleeves pushed up, hoodie half-swallowed by her frame. She was always cooking for them-baking too-and she stayed through every meeting, sitting on the arm of Mattheo’s chair like she belonged there.

Because she did.

Theo might’ve been vice president, but she was Mattheo’s right hand. She helped organize formals, charity auctions, service hours, and pledge retreats. The boys listened when she spoke-not because they were told to, but because they wanted to.

She had that kind of presence. Gentle, golden. The kind of energy that softened even the sharpest of them.

Draco, for all his cold poise, once spent an hour carving roses out of apples because she needed garnishes for a spring brunch. Enzo stopped calling other girls “gorgeous” in her presence out of some misplaced loyalty. Blaise-usually detached and unreadable-offered up his rare, real smiles only when she sat beside him, asking how his day had been like she meant it.

She wasn’t just a name on the sweetheart paddle or a girl in the stands. She was the heartbeat of the house-the reason the boys cleaned up before chapter meetings, the reason pledges learned to bake banana bread from scratch, the reason the Snake House didn’t feel like just a frat, but like something closer to home.

She made it feel like something worth protecting.

The brothers would say it, loud and proud, beers raised and sloshing at tailgates- “She’s ours.”

She showed up early to help decorate before parties. She stayed late to clean. She knew all their birthdays, their favorite meals, their secret fears. When Enzo got sick, she made him soup from scratch and handwrote the recipe card so he could brag about it. When Theo failed a midterm, she sat up with him until 3 a.m., mapping out a study plan like his future depended on it.

Draco, who rarely showed softness, once told her, “If I ever get married, it’s because you raised the bar so high I finally found someone who reminded me of you.”

Blaise swore she brought peace into every room she walked into. Lorenzo called her their “lucky charm.” The pledges called her ma’am-but with awe, not obligation.

She wasn’t perfect. But she was real. She laughed too hard. She danced barefoot in the house like she didn’t care who saw. She left behind hair ties, lip balm, and the scent of vanilla in every room. And when the world got too loud, she leaned into chaos with a smile like she’d tamed fire.

And Mattheo?

Mattheo watched it all from the edge. Quiet. Unshakable. Unclaimed but not untouched.

She wore his hoodies, and he never asked for them back. He let her take the best seat at every party, made the boys swap their plans if she needed help, silenced a room with just a glance if anyone dared say her name wrong.

He never said it-not out loud. Never told her that she made the world easier to stand in. Never admitted that he memorized her favorite flowers or that he checked if her porch light was on after every party.

She might’ve worn Diamond blue, but she was etched into Sigma Nu like a secret kept under lock and key.

And Mattheo Riddle didn’t share secrets.

[pukefactory]

Since yandere requests are acceptable, could I please ask for headcanons of yandere ENA (dream bqq) and female (human) researcher who by freak accident got stranded in ENA's dimension and is now trying to find her way back to her own dimension? Thank you for considering. 🖤

•☽────✧˖°˖ I KNOW YOU LIKE IT ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcannons Featuring Yandere Salesperson Ena X Female Researcher Reader

★ Character(s): Salesperson Ena (Ena: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ “You must be new around here.” That’s how it starts. With Salesperson Ena, grinning sharp like a lottery win you can’t return. Your arrival—a scientific accident—deeply intrigues her. A human? An organic mind with independent thought? “This could be a divinely disruptive merger of assets,” she says, practically purring as she paces around you in a flicker-dizzy showroom fantasy. You’ve barely opened your mouth to explain when she slaps a sticky “Property of Ena Industries” sticker to your lab coat and smiles. “Trademark acquired.” You laugh awkwardly. Surely she’s joking. Surely.

☆ The Meanie side doesn’t like jokes. She doesn’t like the way you flinch when the megaphones scream. She doesn’t like how your brain stutters and stalls trying to process the physics-defying structures of this dimension. “Stupid researcher,” she hisses one day, when you try to explain gravity to a cube with feelings. “You think you’re so smart, but you’re too soft to survive here. You’ll die without me, you dumb infant.” But you don’t cry. You just stare at her and say quietly, “I want to go home.” She freezes. Then, softly, she whispers: “…So do I.”

☆ Your notes are missing. Your tools vanish. Your portable interdimensional frequency reader is now a frog-shaped potato. “Coincidences,” Ena chirps, biting into a jello telephone. “You must’ve misplaced your science. Happens all the time. Why don’t you rest instead? You’re stressed. I can tell.” Every time you get closer to building a way back, something explodes or goes wobbly. Ena is always nearby. Always helpful. Always watching with that fractured glee, like she’s waiting for you to break the way she did.

☆ “You make my brain feel like a scream and a lullaby,” she says one night. She curls beside you, muttering about the frogs and the sky again. She can’t sleep unless she knows where you are. You caught her watching you once—standing beside your bed with her mitt-shaped hand resting on your throat, not pressing, just… measuring. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She whispered, “If I hold you still, will the world stop moving?”

☆ She gets jealous. But not in the normal way. Once, a mannequin offered you a map. You took it. Ena’s smile split down the middle and her red side giggled, “Unregulated information-sharing! That’s dangerous~” then her yellow side intercepted, “TRAITOR!” and chucked the mannequin into the ocean. You’ve learned to reject help now. You look at her first before speaking to anyone. “See?” she says proudly, looping her arm through yours. “We’re synergizing.”

☆ The green face comes out when she thinks you might leave. No matter how strong she pretends to be, the minute your eyes light up with discovery—when you say “I think I found a way back,”—the green bleeds through. The cracks. The eyes. The desperation. She starts glitching around you, calling you by your first name in voices that are too soft, too shaken. Her claws tremble. “Please, don’t fire me from your heart. I—I still have stock left to sell you. Just—stay. Staystaystaystay—” She slaps herself, swaps to red again, and smiles like she didn’t just bleed neon from her mouth. “Let’s pivot from that pitch. You hungry?”

☆ She keeps trying to make this a “date.” Everything is a date. Running from hollow-eyed puppets? A “team-building exercise.” Getting ambushed by memory-hungry toads? “Picnic! How romantic!” You don’t want to play along. You want out. But one day you do laugh. Just once. And she looks stunned. Like she won a prize. “…That was real,” she says, breathless. “You actually… felt something good here. With me.” Then she cries quietly when she thinks you aren’t looking.

☆ She talks to your reflection. Not to you. To the warped version of you in the chrome-tar mirror across the lounge. “You understand, don’t you?” she whispers to it. “She’ll see one day. I can reshape her. Add value. Reduce her chaos.” Your reflection nods. Smiles. You don’t. You back away. But when you turn around, Ena is right there. “Mirror, mirror,” she whispers, tilting her head. “You know who’s best for her.”

☆ You try to run. Of course you do. She lets you. Of course she does. She’s watching through vending machines and forgotten satellites, trailing behind in corridors you swear weren’t there before. “Oh noooo, you’ve escaped! What a tragedy!” she shouts with that smile too wide. “Guess I’ll have to hunt you, cage you, peel open your ribcage and climb in like a very silly sleeping bag—!” She tackles you softly when she finally catches up. Presses her cheek to yours. “Don’t be mad. I only chase what’s mine.”

☆ You ask her, “Why me?” You shouldn’t have. She chuckles then she cups your face in both mismatched hands, staring so close you can see binary errors flickering in her pupils. “Because,” she breathes, “You fell into this world. That’s not science. That’s fate.” She leans closer. Her smile is unhinged. “And I will make you love me if it kills me.” …And for a terrifying moment, you think she means it literally.

[straylightdream]

limbo

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: yoon jeonghan x afb.reader, choi seungcheol x afb.reader

when things fall apart he’s the one that always puts them back together.

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬: coming soon

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): roommates to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst, and more angst romance, smut

𝐚𝐮(𝐬): college au, nonidol

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5k and counting

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: asshole!seungcheol, he’s honestly a dick here, but he is trying to be better, insinuating that mc is passed around with her roommates, jealous seungcheol, mentions of protective/jealous jeonghan, jeonghan is quite literally the best boy here, lots of hurt and emotions in this one. best boy roommate joshua.

𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: unprotected sex, soft sweet vanilla sex, heated make out session, body worship, marking, showering together, cum play, creampie, breast play, p in v intercourse, cock warming?, nicknames: darling (hers), hannie, baby (his)

𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+ nsfw

𝐚𝐧: this is technically part two to desperate measures a Seungcheol story. You can read this as a one shot tho.

🎧: limbo - keshi | hell/heaven - keshi | understand - keshi | beside you - keshi

if you would like to be tagged please fill out this form.

- PREVIEW -

Jeonghan knows you like the back of his hand. Since the moment he met you he’s understood you like no one else. He can tell when you’re happy by the way your eyes light up. He can tell when you’re sad, even when you’re trying to pretend you aren’t.

Coming home from school he can immediately tell that something is off. He saw Seungcheol before he headed out. Seungcheol seemed more moody than normal. Joshua seems lost in his own world working on a song for his music production class.

The moment you walk out of your room dressed in a hoodie and pajama pants Jeonghan knows something is wrong. There is a look of sadness behind your eyes.

His eyes stay focused on you as he watches you walk off into the small kitchen. He drops his book bag by the door and follows you. He stops to lean against the door frame. He clears his throat, capturing your attention.

“Darling?”

Turning to face him, you don’t bother trying to put on a fake smile. His stomach drops at the sight of your watery eyes.

You feel dumb. Why are you sad that sex with Seungcheol did lead to some romantic gestures? You don’t even have that strong of feelings for him.

“Hi, Hannie.” Your voice sounds meek.

“What’s wrong?” He steps closer to you.

“Nothing.” It’s a lie and you both know it.

The closer Jeonghan gets to you he notices something on your skin. He takes a slow deep breath realizing the mark that painting the skin on your delicate neck is a hickey. He knows logically that mark could have only been given to you by two men. One being Mingyu, the frat boy he knows has been pursuing you. Or the second option, the one that will make him mad, it’s from Seungcheol.

“What happened to your neck?” He’s trying to stay calm. He has no right to fully fly off the handle unless you didn’t want them to mark you. You aren’t Jeonghan’s by any means, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish you were.

“Jeonghan it’s nothing.” You sigh, reaching up to cover the mark.

“Was it Mingyu?”

“Hannie.” You step away from the counter. It’s clear you’re trying to get away from this conversation. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

[cannibalspicnic]

I keep coming back to this moment in the season finale.

The way Armand looks at Daniel after Daniel gleefully torpedoes his 77 year marriage sticks with me. Armand is super powerful, over 500 years old, and his life has just been destroyed by a rude upstart little human. You'd expect some kind of rage to be bubbling over here, and yet the desperate look Armand gives Daniel feels more like sadness mixed with betrayal.

But betrayal doesn't make sense. UNLESS Daniel's not just an upstart little human to him. If what Armand is actually experiencing is a man he loves and who once loved him hurting him beyond measure and gloating about it. If Armand loves Daniel but gave him up for his own sake, only to have Daniel take from him the only love he has left, then the sadness and betrayal on Armand's face in this moment looking at Daniel makes perfect sense. Even if Daniel doesn't even realize the full extent of what he's done and who he's done it to.

And knowing Assad is the #1 Devil's Minion enjoyer...like whatever happens in the script, I think he's bringing DM into his performance and it's beautiful.

[dissociativewriter]

Sylus Boyfriend Headcanons

- We see it in-game, but he constantly has Mephisto tracking you, whether you like it or not. (It’s not stalking if you love him, right?)

- “Actions speak louder than words.” He might not say ‘I love you’ outright very often but everything he does screams it

“Here, sweetie.” He stood beside you, hands in his pockets, an awkward position for anyone who didn’t carry the confidence he did.

“What’s this?” You look up at him then down at the bowl of fruit, brows pinched, fingers poised over the keyboard.

“You’ve been sat in front of the computer for four hours doing reports. If you won’t take a break, you should at least have some sustenance, kitten. Or would you prefer a bowl of milk?” he smirked, tapping his finger against his temple.

- is very attentive (in general to his surroundings but specifically to you). He can tell when you’re sad, uncomfortable, or angry and tries to help as best he can

- he’s not really sure how to give comfort, but he usually just holds you and strokes your hair

- if someone else is making you uncomfortable, best believe he’s gonna say “sweetie, let’s go” with a hand on your lower back and giving a death glare to the other person

- Never calls you by your name, always a pet name like sweetie, kitten, or beloved (He called you by your name once and you panicked thinking he was breaking up with you) (he was asking what you wanted for dinner)

- always keeps a hand on you, whether it’s on your lower back, thigh, waist, or (his favorite) simply holding your hand in his

- he’s good at reading when it’s not the time to tease you and instead be supportive or comforting

- his teasing might seem a lot sometimes, but he is always so careful to make sure he’s not blatantly mean to you and know he’s just bantering. He’ll look at you like you hung the stars, and he wants you to know how highly he thinks of you

- is possessive of you but doesn’t get very jealous

- respects and encourages your independence and goals

- although it may seem contradictory to your independence, he really just wants to take care of you. Keep you close by, feed you, love you, protect you. He’d never force you into anything or isolate you

- a KING of consent! He will never do anything that involves you without your explicit permission unless it’s a desperate measure. He may be vague sometimes, but he always makes sure you’re aware of what you’re getting into. He’s prepared to step in at any moment if you need him, though he really likes to sit back and watch you shine

- doesn’t like to show you his insecurities and always hides them behind that smirk. If you look into his eyes, though, it’s not difficult to tell what he’s feeling

- EYE CONTACT! This man loves it! He’s constantly looking into your eyes, a soft smile forming when you turn away, flustered. Even if you’re not near him or looking at him, as long as you’re in the same room, you can feel his eyes on you

- Always wants you to set the pace. He may have a dominating personality, but he always wants to make sure you’re comfortable

- he’s really just a nerd who doesn’t know how to give or receive love but is trying his best for you

comments and reblogs appreciated! <3

masterlist

[cocqaine]

♱ | play fighting with nanami. smut. dom! nanami. praise. hair pulling.

it started with a harmless tease.

you were sprawled across the couch, legs in his lap, flipping through a book while nanami typed away on his laptop. you nudged him once, twice, then again — toeing at his side until he looked up at you, unimpressed.

“you’re really asking to be punished, aren’t you?” he muttered, tone dry.

you grinned. “just trying to get a reaction out of you, old man.”

his brow twitched. he closed the laptop with a quiet click, and you barely had time to squeal before he lunged. your book flew from your hands as he grabbed you, flipping you onto your stomach and straddling your thighs. he pinned your wrists to the cushion with one hand, the other tickling mercilessly at your side.

“nanami—!” you gasped, writhing beneath him, laughing breathlessly. “you—! stop—!”

“you provoked me.” his voice was calm as ever, which somehow made it worse. “now take responsibility.”

you bucked your hips in protest, but it did nothing to move him. he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “unless you’re done playing now?”

your breath hitched.

his teasing touch slowed, shifting from playful to purposeful. his hands slid under your shirt, palms dragging warm and firm across your skin. your laughter faded, replaced with a soft moan when his mouth met the back of your neck.

“kento…” you whispered.

“that’s better,” he murmured against your skin. “now stay still.”

he slipped his hand between your thighs, already finding you warm and wet through your underwear. a low hum rumbled in his chest.

“you’re so easy to rile up,” he said, nipping lightly at your shoulder. “i should tease you more often.”

you tried to snap back with a smart comment, but the press of his fingers over your clit made your brain short-circuit. the only sound you could manage was a broken whimper.

“what’s that?” he teased, pressing slow kisses down your spine. “nothing to say now?”

you shook your head, arching into his touch, already forgetting what you were fighting about.

nanami’s hand stayed firm between your thighs, slowly rubbing circles over the damp fabric, his knuckles brushing your soaked folds with maddening precision. every breath you took stuttered, every sound you tried to make came out in a soft, needy whine.

“look at you,” he murmured, voice husky now, a little lower than before. “all that mouth, and now you’re melting under me.”

he slipped two fingers beneath the fabric, groaning quietly when he felt how soaked you already were. “such a mess,” he added, dragging the pads of his fingers through your slick. “and i haven’t even fucked you yet.”

you bit your lip, hips canting back into his touch, desperate for more. he gave it to you — slowly pressing two fingers inside, the stretch making you moan. he moved them in and out at a measured pace, curling just right, watching your body twitch under him.

“kento, please—”

he shushed you gently, pulling his hand away. “you’ll get it. i promise. but you’re going to be good for me first.”

his hands were deft as he undid his belt, the soft clink making your stomach flip. he pushed his slacks down just enough to free his cock, already thick and hard, tip leaking with need. you barely had time to look before he was tugging your hips up, angling you just the way he wanted.

“you remember your safeword?” he asked, voice softer now as he ran a hand over the curve of your ass.

you nodded quickly, “yeah—yeah, i remember.”

“good,” he muttered, lining himself up. “because i don’t plan on being gentle.”

he slid into you with one slow, solid thrust — the stretch of him making your eyes roll back. you gasped into the cushions, clutching at them as your walls fluttered around him.

“fuck,” he hissed. “so tight, so warm. you take me so well.”

he didn’t give you much time to adjust. one hand gripped your hip, the other steadying your lower back, and then he started to move — smooth and deep, each stroke hitting the perfect spot inside you. the force of him pushed you forward with every thrust, and you could barely hold yourself up.

“wanted this all night,” he growled, leaning down so his chest pressed to your back. “you teasing me… running your mouth like a brat…”

you moaned as his pace picked up, rougher now, more purposeful. his cock dragged against your sweet spot over and over, and your thighs trembled from the intensity.

“nanami—sir—i’m gonna—”

“not yet.” his voice was a low command. “you’ll cum when i say.”

he pulled you up by the hair, pressing your back against his chest now. one hand reached around to your clit, circling it with brutal precision while he kept fucking up into you, relentless.

you were trembling, overwhelmed, close to tears.

“please—sir, please—”

he groaned at the sound of your begging. “that’s it. that’s what i wanted to hear.”

his pace faltered for a split second, just long enough to whisper, “cum for me. fall apart for me, baby.”

and you did — with a strangled moan, body locking up and then falling apart entirely in his arms. your walls clamped around him, pulsing hard enough to draw a low, almost desperate curse from his lips as he chased his own release.

he fucked you through it, hips jerking slightly as he came moments later, buried deep, breath warm against your neck.

for a while, the only sound in the room was heavy breathing, and the soft creak of the bed as he held you upright.

then, quietly, nanami kissed your temple. “brat.”

you giggled weakly, still trembling. “yeah, but your brat.”

[callmedaleelah]

safe word ft. fushiguro toji x reader

warnings : 18+ minors dni, smut, spanking (punishment), daddy kink, age gap (reader is younger), overstimulation, use of safeword, aftercare, crying, begging, pet names (baby, sweetheart), soft!dom toji, guilt and comfort, a bit of angst but ends soft, reader is exhausted and hasn’t eaten, mentions of food, slightly toxic but we love a man who makes it right. please read responsibly!

you’re already feeling the ache deep in your bones when toji pulls up to the curb, the exhaustion from back-to-back lectures weighing heavy on your shoulders. the moment you slide into the passenger seat, though, you can tell something’s off. his jaw is tight, hands gripping the steering wheel a bit too hard, and that green-eyed glare flicks to you—sharp enough to cut through steel.

“what’s wrong?” you ask, voice soft, careful.

toji’s tongue clicks, a humorless chuckle leaving his lips. “really, sweetheart?” he hums, voice all smooth danger. “giggling all pretty for some guy, lettin’ him touch you right in front of me?”

oh. your stomach drops. it was just a quick chat with your classmate—going over the lecture slides before toji arrived. harmless, you thought. but the way he’s looking at you now, dark and unamused, has heat crawling up your neck.

“i-it’s not—” you try, but toji’s already pulling out of the parking lot, one hand settling heavy and possessive on your thigh.

“save it,” he grunts. “we’ll talk at home.”

it’s all a blur, really, how you ended up draped over his lap with your hips lifted, cheek pressed into the mattress, fingers tangled in the sheets. all you know is that toji saw—saw the way you giggled at something your classmate said, how that guy’s hand lingered a little too long on your arm. and you didn’t mean to, didn’t think anything of it until you caught the glint in toji’s eyes from the driver’s seat, jaw clenched, knuckles white around the steering wheel.

“count,” he says, voice smooth and unbothered, one large palm resting heavy on the curve of your ass. the other keeps your waist pinned, firm and possessive, holding you right where he wants you. “unless you wanna make it more than twenty.”

your breath stutters, face already warm. “t-twenty?” you echo, eyes wide and watery.

“what, think you don’t deserve it?” toji chuckles, the sound dark and condescending. “after lettin’ that guy get all touchy with you? lettin’ him see what’s mine?” his fingers squeeze your hip, sending a shiver down your spine. “c’mon, baby. be a good girl and count for me.”

the first swat lands hard, the sting immediate and sharp, and your breath catches on a broken gasp.

“o-one—”

another, harder this time, right over the same spot, makes you whine, toes curling.

“t-two—”

he builds a steady rhythm, every swat perfectly measured, just enough to leave your thighs trembling and your voice a wreck of hiccuped breaths and broken numbers. by seven, the tears start slipping free, hot tracks down your cheeks, vision blurring. your hips twitch instinctively, legs shifting with every sharp swat that lands, but toji’s hold is iron-tight, unyielding.

by ten, you’re sobbing—no, wailing, hands fisting the sheets so hard your knuckles ache, words slurred and desperate. “’m s-sorry,” you hiccup, voice high and breathless. “p-please, ‘m sorry—ah, toji—”

his hand rubs slow circles over the fresh sting, soothing for just a second before delivering another sharp smack, making you jolt with a choked sob. “oh, you’re sorry now, huh?” he drawls, mock-sweet. “weren’t so sorry when you were all giggles and smiles for that guy.”

“didn’t—didn’t mean to,” you cry, voice cracking, vision swimming with tears. your thighs are shaking, heart pounding so hard it echoes in your ears, and god, the sting is relentless, hot and aching and too much. “p-please, daddy—can’t—”

“oh, you can’t?” he coos, all faux sympathy, his palm massaging over the heated skin just to make you squirm. “poor baby, s’it too much for you?”

you nod frantically, the movement making more tears slip down, lip wobbling as you gasp out a broken, “y-yes—can’t—i can’t—”

but toji only chuckles, fingers sliding slow and taunting over your thighs. “too bad,” he hums, tapping the side of your hip. “still owe me seven more.”

your breath catches on a sob, shoulders trembling with the force of it. “no—please,” you beg, voice a wreck of hiccups and tears, legs kicking weakly against the mattress. “please, daddy—won’t do it again, promise—”

“oh, i know you won’t,” toji croons, low and dark. “not after this, huh?”

you can’t even form words by the time he reaches twenty, throat raw from crying, body limp and shivering in his hold. your sobs have melted into soft, hiccuping whimpers, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, cheeks hot and blotchy with the effort of it. every inch of you feels overheated, sensitive, the ache deep and pulsing.

toji’s palm smooths over the burning skin, gentle now, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “there we go,” he murmurs, almost soothing. “all done now, baby. you did so good for me.”

you sniffle, cheek sticky with tears, body still trembling with little aftershocks. it’s not until his fingers brush your cheek, wiping away the tear tracks, that you realize you’re mumbling something, soft and broken.

“g-gingerbread,” you whisper, voice barely a breath.

and toji freezes, fingers stilling immediately, the shift in him instant. “oh, baby,” he breathes, guilt lacing every word as he gathers you up into his arms, turning you so carefully to cradle you against his chest. “oh, sweetheart—why didn’t you say sooner?”

you’re still hiccuping, face tucked into his neck, fingers clinging to the fabric of his shirt. “tr-tried,” you sniffle, voice small. “tried—couldn’t—”

toji curses under his breath, hands sliding gentle over your sides, your back, anywhere he can reach to soothe the tremors. “shh, it’s okay,” he croons, pressing soft kisses to your temple. “it’s okay, baby. ‘m so sorry, shouldn’t’ve—fuck, didn’t mean to push you that far.”

he shifts, laying you carefully on your stomach across the bed, one palm rubbing soothing circles into your lower back while the other strokes slow through your hair. you melt into it, eyes fluttering shut despite the dull ache radiating through you, the exhaustion sinking in heavy now that the adrenaline is fading.

“just rest,” toji murmurs, guilt thick in his tone. “i’ll be right back, yeah? gotta get you somethin’ to eat—left you too long without a meal, didn’t i?”

you hum, soft and barely there, eyes already fluttering shut. and toji brushes another kiss over your temple, lingering for just a second before slipping out to the kitchen.

despite everything, you can’t help the way your chest aches, not from the sting but from the guilt in his voice, the way his hands were so soft, so careful once he realized. and when he comes back, tray balanced and expression so heartbreakingly gentle, you know you’re already forgiven, safe and warm in the arms of the man who holds you like something precious.

this is my first time writing something spicy and i don’t think i’m confident with it but i can’t let this sit in my drafts any longer 😭😭

[artist-issues]

You don't believe in love. You believe in people SUPRESSING a part of themselves, not caring how much it ACHES for them to do so. You are objectively wrong, and you do NOT belong on Tumblr. Any arguement you try to come up with against this is pointless.

You are NOT a real Christian.

People “suppress” parts of themselves all the time—for love. If by “suppress,” you mean, “I don’t choose to identify with everything I feel.” I feel like screaming at my mom when she hurts me. But I love her, so I’m not going to say, “gotta be true to myself, gotta live what I feel.” Many people feel like alcohol is what they need and without it, who are they? Many people even feel like depression is “a part of who they are,” so they don’t give it up.

Don’t you understand? What makes something I feel fall under the category of “who I am?” Because not all feelings are good, and most of them aren’t even rooted in reality.

Your feelings lie to you all the time. Right before death after years of dementia or a terminal illness, a person can suddenly become more alert and energized than they’ve been since the start of their illness. They get up, talk, and their feelings tell them that they’re better. And the reality is they’ve never been closer to death, and they’re dead moments later. It’s called “terminal lucidity,” and it’s been happening since humanity’s earliest history. And it’s just one example of your feelings lying about what’s real.

So how can you tell if the things you feel are a part of who you are, or a cancer you need to cut out of yourself because it’s hurting the “real” you? That’s what you’re calling “suppression,” and yeah, it aches, but letting it grow and calling it “part of yourself” is worse.

Figure out what standard you measure “who I am” by.

A Christian measures it by Christ. Who He says you are, not what you feel you are. After all, He calls us to die to ourselves. What did you think that meant?

And a Christian measures everything by what Christ says. That’s how I know “the heart is deceitful and desperately wicked.” It’s how I know you’re right; I don’t belong on tumblr. I don’t belong on this corrupt planet anymore: “If you were of the world, the world would love its own; but you are not of the world, for I have chosen you out of the world; this is why the world hates you.” And it’s how I know what real love is, and it’s Him. He invented it, He gets to define it.

And that’s the point of this argument. To get it out in front of people that Jesus is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and nobody has a restored relationship with God, nobody can be their “true-selves” unless they die to their old-corrupt self and come to God through Jesus Christ.

So thanks for giving me the opportunity to answer and get that out in front of people again.

[bambieyedoll]

BEFORE IT BREAKS .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

summary: when paul loses control, he risks breaking the one bond that ever made him feel whole. in the aftermath, he’s left with nothing but guilt, desperation—and a choice: become the man you deserve, or lose you for good.

pairing: paul lahote x fem!reader

word count: 3,1k

warning/notes: ANGST! heavy argument, raised voices, paul losing control, anger issues, hurt feelings, broken promises, deep regret, yearning, apologies, happy ending.

the dishes clattered a little too loudly in the sink.

you weren’t trying to make a statement—your hands just moved faster when you were frustrated. faster when you were holding things in. the porcelain plate trembled slightly between your fingers, and you focused on the feel of warm water and soap suds, willing yourself to stay calm.

behind you, paul leaned against the counter, arms folded tightly across his chest. his posture was rigid, like his bones were holding back something wild. the muscles in his forearms twitched now and then, barely perceptible unless you knew what to look for—and you did. you’d memorized the signs. the way his jaw clenched when he was fighting the urge to speak. the way his nostrils flared when he was trying to keep himself grounded. the way he didn’t look at you when he was one second away from snapping.

the air in the kitchen felt thick, like it was holding its breath with you.

“you’re mad again,” you said softly, your voice barely audible above the hum of the faucet.

there was a beat of silence. a beat too long.

paul didn’t look up. he stared at the floor, at nothing, at everything. “i’m not mad,” he muttered.

but his voice wasn’t tired. it wasn’t dismissive. it was sharp—low and tight like a warning wrapped in silk.

you closed your eyes for a second. your fingers curled around the edge of the plate in the sink, water dripping down your wrist. “you are,” you said, turning to face him, your voice steady even though your heart was beginning to race. “you’ve been coming home late every night this week. barely speaking. and now, i ask you one question and you shut down.”

paul’s head snapped up.

there it was—the spark. the flare in his eyes. anger. guilt. conflict.

“i told you,” he said, straighter now, voice louder. “it’s pack business. i can’t tell you everything.”

“i’m not asking for classified details,” you pushed, clutching the plate a little tighter. “i just want to know you, paul. i want you to tell me about your day. i want to be let in. i want you to talk to me when something’s wrong instead of pretending everything’s fine until you explode.”

his eyes burned into yours. there was something frantic behind them—like he was scrambling to keep his emotions at bay, and losing.

“you think i don’t want to tell you?” he snapped. “you think i don’t want to come home and actually breathe for five minutes without the world on my back?”

“i think you don’t trust me,” you said—quiet, but unflinching. “and that’s affecting us.”

he flinched. the word—us—landed like a gut-punch.

then you said it.

“but you could tell me anything, paul. i’m not just someone you live with—i’m your imprint.”

and that—that—was the match to the fuse.

his hands clenched at his sides. his shoulders rolled back, like his body was bracing itself against his own instinct. you watched it happen, watched the transformation begin—not the shift into a wolf, but the one just before it. the one where he started shaking with too much feeling. the one where his breathing got ragged, uneven. the one where the room felt suddenly smaller.

he didn’t mean to slam his hand down.

didn’t think. didn’t measure the force of it. didn’t consider the sound it would make echoing off the tile and cabinets.

but it landed hard against the counter—crack!—a violent punctuation mark that silenced everything.

“i said drop it, alright?!”

the plate slipped from your hands. shattered on the floor.

and your breath caught.

your whole body recoiled, just a step—but one he noticed immediately. one he felt like a dagger straight through his chest.

paul froze.

the heat drained from his face, chased by something colder than fear. your wide eyes locked with his—not in fury, not in defiance. just startled. fragile. scared.

“shit.” the word barely made it past his lips.

his hands lifted instinctively, as though he could take it all back with a gesture, as if holding them up could make him look less like a threat and more like the man who once kissed your palms and promised to never hurt you.

“no—no, baby, i didn’t mean to—” his voice cracked. “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

but you weren’t looking at his hands. not the ones that trembled now with shame and too-late restraint. you weren’t looking at the regret crawling fast into his expression, softening the hard edges he always wore when he lost control.

you were looking at the shattered plate on the floor.

at the pieces.

at the mess he made—not just the ceramic, but the silence, the tension, the crack in something sacred between them.

“you screamed at me,” you whispered. your voice was raw. small. like something fragile peeled back and bleeding.

“i didn’t mean to,” paul rushed out, stepping forward before freezing halfway, unsure if he had the right to close that distance now. “i just—i lost it, okay? i didn’t want to—god, i didn’t mean to scare you.”

you didn’t answer at first.

just wrapped your arms around yourself like you were holding your own heart in place, like it might collapse without something to brace it.

“you slammed your hand down,” you said, eyes still on the floor. “you looked at me like i was—like i was someone to fight with.”

paul’s throat closed up. shame twisted tight in his gut.

his voice dropped, desperate and bitter. “i didn’t touch you. i would never touch you.”

you finally looked at him then. eyes wet, shining— but not from tears.

from devastation.

“that’s not the point, paul.”

the words cut like a blade, clean and final.

“you promised me,” you said, stepping back when he moved forward. “you swore—you looked me in the eyes and told me you’d never raise your voice at me. never let your temper touch me. you said i’d be safe with you. always.”

“i meant it,” paul breathed, voice shaking. “i meant every word—”

“then what the hell was that?” your voice cracked, sharp and brittle and heartbroken all at once. “you screamed at me like i was someone you hated. like i was the enemy.”

he flinched.

and the worst part? for a moment—just one horrible, irreversible second—he had felt like you were.

like you were the thing standing in his way. pushing him. challenging the version of himself he tried so hard to hold together.

“i’m trying,” he snapped, voice fraying at the edges, raw with frustration and guilt. “do you have any idea what it’s like—living like this? like one wrong word, one wrong look, and i’m gone? out of control? i didn’t choose to be built like this.”

your eyes were shining now, but not with sympathy.

with heartbreak.

“and i didn’t choose to be the one you blow up on when you can’t hold yourself together,” you shot back, voice trembling. “i’m not your punching bag, paul. i’m not the one who hurt you—i’m the one who loves you.”

his breath caught. you kept going.

“and you promised you’d never make me feel afraid. that no matter how bad things got, you’d never raise your voice at me. but you did. you did, and now i don’t even recognize the person standing in front of me.”

paul’s heart pounded painfully in his chest. his fingers curled into fists at his sides, not from rage anymore, but from the weight of what he’d done. from the way you were looking at him like you didn’t recognize him. like the bond between them had cracked so deep it might never mend.

“i didn’t want to hurt you,” he said, voice rough and low. “you have to believe me.”

you didn’t answer.

you just looked at the broken plate again.

and he knew.

this wasn’t something he could fix with apologies.

this wasn’t just about tonight—it was about everything. his anger. his loss of control. his failure to be the man you needed—the man he promised he’d become.

he couldn’t stand the way your voice trembled. couldn’t stand the look on your face. couldn’t stand himself.

so he did the one thing he’d always done when the guilt got too heavy.

he turned away.

walked to the door like a coward, like the man he swore he’d never be again.

and left you standing there in the ruins of a moment he couldn’t take back.

the door slammed behind him before he realized he’d even touched it. his body had moved faster than his mind, his instinct choosing flight before his soul could decide to stay and make it right.

the cold air hit his skin like punishment.

he didn’t care.

his pulse pounded in his ears, the weight of your voice—you turned me into something to scream at—still echoing louder than anything else. louder than the wind, louder than the sound of his own guilt.

he stumbled into the woods, breath ragged, hands shaking—still too human, still too close to everything. he didn’t stop walking until the ground beneath him shifted, softening with moss and pine, and then—

the shift took him.

it tore through his body like punishment, like penance. bones cracked. muscles snapped. skin gave way. the pain didn’t even register the way it usually did. it was nothing compared to the ache already eating him alive.

and he ran.

he ran until the trees blurred. until his lungs burned. until his paws scraped the forest floor raw. every step was a scream without sound, every breath a plea that the wind might blow the memory from his mind.

like outrunning his shame might be easier than sitting with it. feeling it.

but it followed him.

your face. the way you flinched when the plate hit the floor. the way your arms wrapped around yourself. like you were bracing for impact.

from him.

he couldn’t stand it.

couldn’t stand the memory of your voice breaking. the betrayal in your eyes when you reminded him of the promises he’d made with hands pressed to your cheeks, forehead against yours, swearing he’d never raise his voice, never scare you, never let his anger touch your skin.

and tonight, he’d done it all.

he had become the very thing he swore he wasn’t.

he skidded to a stop miles away, paws trembling in the dirt before the shift reversed itself without warning. he collapsed to his knees beside a tree, naked and breathless, gasping like the weight of his grief was crushing his ribs.

“fuck,” he choked, voice cracking in the silence. “what did i do?”

he dug his fingers into the earth, needing to hold something because if he didn’t, he might tear himself apart. his jaw clenched so tight it hurt, throat raw from the scream he never let out. rain began to fall through the trees, soft at first—then heavier, like the sky was grieving with him.

you hadn’t deserved that. you never had. you had only ever loved him, trusted him, stood by him, and all he had done in return was let his temper speak louder than his heart.

he realized, with a sick sort of clarity, that he’d been feeding himself excuses for years.

it’s not my fault. i’m wired this way. it’s the wolf. it’s the stress. it’s the pack.

but none of it mattered.

not when you were the one standing in the wreckage of his self-control.

he sat there for a long time, letting the storm wash over him, letting the earth hold him when he no longer could. the forest didn’t judge him. the rain didn’t accuse.

but they didn’t forgive either.

and he didn’t deserve forgiveness yet.

he had to earn it. not with promises. not with apologies that would crumble the next time his anger flared.

with change.

with action.

paul stood—slowly, unsteadily, like the weight of what he’d done had aged him in an hour. he threw on the spare pair of shorts he always kept in the forest, drenched and shaking, and began the long walk back through the rain.

toward you.

toward whatever you had left to give.

even if you couldn’t take him back yet—especially if you couldn’t—he had to show you. had to mean it this time.

he wasn’t going to let his anger be the end of you.

he wasn’t going to be the monster at your door.

not anymore.

the rain hadn’t stopped by the time paul made it back.

it was coming down harder now, washing over the gravel and grass like the world itself was trying to rinse everything clean. but paul didn’t feel clean. not even close.

every step felt heavier than the last, like guilt had wrapped itself around his ankles and dragged behind him like a chain. his hands wouldn’t stop trembling. his breath came in broken pulls, shallow and ragged, like each inhale was a fight against the weight in his chest.

he stood on the porch, drenched to the bone. his clothes clung to him, hair dripping, hands trembling as he approached the door.

he didn’t knock.

touching the door felt like trespassing on something fragile. like one wrong move would cause whatever was left between them to shatter the rest of the way.

so he turned the knob slowly, fingers cold and clumsy, and stepped inside like a ghost returning to the scene of his own destruction.

the house was too quiet.

too still.

the broken plate was gone—swept up and erased like it had never existed. but the memory of it was carved into the walls. into the silence. into him.

the air smelled like you. vanilla and something warm he’d always called home. but now it felt like mourning. like the scent of a love that had been bruised. like comfort curled up and trying to survive inside a storm.

and he was terrified.

terrified he was too late.

he moved through the hallway with careful steps, shoulders hunched like even the ceiling might judge him.

“baby?” his voice cracked. not with volume this time—but with desperation.

nothing.

he stepped further inside and found you in the living room, sitting curled up on the edge of the couch like you were trying to make yourself smaller. like you were holding in on yourself for safety.

you knees were tucked to your chest, arms wrapped around them. you were wearing one of his old sweatshirts—navy blue and oversized—but somehow it didn’t look comforting on you tonight. it looked like armor. like distance. like you were holding yourself together with the last threads of fabric you could reach.

your eyes flicked up when you heard him. but you didn’t move.

you didn’t say a word.

paul felt the air leave his lungs. his heart had never hurt like this—not even when he first shifted. not even when he’d thought his anger would eat him alive.

this—this—was worse.

“y/n, i— i shouldn’t have left,” he said softly, his voice low and stripped bare. “i shouldn’t have yelled. or slammed the counter. i shouldn’t have made you feel like that—like you weren’t safe.”

still, you said nothing.

so he dropped to his knees in front of you.

not because it was dramatic.

not because it was something he thought would win you back.

but because he couldn’t stay standing anymore. because the weight of what he’d done finally brought him to the ground.

“i told you i’d never hurt you,” he whispered. “and tonight, i broke that promise. i crossed a line i swore i never would. and i—” his throat closed up. his eyes stung.

“i can’t stop seeing your face when that plate shattered. i can’t stop hearing your voice. i was so angry i couldn’t even see how much i was hurting you. i let the worst part of me speak louder than the part that loves you. and now i don’t know how to take it back.”

your eyes shimmered. but you still didn’t speak.

paul’s voice grew hoarser.

“i don’t want to be that man. i never did. i’ve been blaming the wolf. the pack. the pressure. everything but myself,” he confessed the unspoken truth. “but it was me. i made the choice to yell. i made the choice to slam my hand down. and i’ll carry that.”

he leaned forward slowly, not touching you—just kneeling close enough that you could see every flicker of emotion written across his face.

“i love you,” he whispered, throat thick with emotion. “god, i love you so much it scares me. and i don’t deserve another chance, i know that. but i’ll earn one if you let me. i’ll do the work. real work. therapy. elders. anger management. whatever it takes. i’ll strip myself down to the foundation and rebuild if that’s what you need from me.”

he let the silence hang.

not as pressure.

but as surrender.

because he wasn’t here to force forgiveness. he wasn’t here to beg her to forget.

he was here to fight for the right to try again.

you looked at him then. really looked at him. at the rain still dripping from his hair. the red in his eyes. the way his hands had curled into fists against his thighs—not with anger, but with restraint.

there was no rage in him now.

only grief and love.

“i was scared, paul,” you said softly. “not of what you’d do—but of what this means for us. for the bond. for who we are to each other.”

and that hurt more than any punch he’d ever taken. his heart shattered all over again.

“i love you,” he choked out. “i love you more than i know how to say.” his voice was raw. “i want to be someone you run to, not away from. and whatever it takes to be that again—i’ll do it. but please, please, just don’t give up on me yet.”

you didn’t answer right away.

didn’t reach for him.

didn’t fall into his arms.

but you looked down at his hands, trembling and rain-slicked, and after a long moment… you reached forward and rested yours gently over one of them.

just a touch.

a spark of warmth in all the cold.

“you have a lot to prove,” you said softly.

“i know,” he breathed.

“and i’m not saying i forgive you yet.”

“you don’t have to. just… don’t give up on me.”

you looked at him for a long moment. then, finally, nodded.

“i’m not,” you whispered. “not yet.”

and that was enough.

for tonight.

because you hadn’t turned away.

because he had finally taken the first step and he was owning the damage. because you still believed he could be better.

and paul lahote—on his knees, drenched and broken and filled with nothing but love—would spend every day proving you right.

[amara-scott]

Just friends.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 — Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x female!Slytherin Summary: Hiding the one thing you truly loved, the one person you trusted most was a horrible way to live. But if it was the only way to be with him, you would do anything. And he would do the same. Warning: lots of angst, mention of abuse

Mattheo sat in the dim light of a study upstairs at the Malfoy Manor, staring at his trembling hands. He had scrubbed them raw, as if he could wash away what he had done. But the memory lingered—the sound of Y/N’s screams, the weight of his own cowardice pressing down on his chest.

A quiet voice pulled him from his thoughts. “You have to fight back.”

His head snapped up. Draco stood at the entrance, his face bruised, his eyes filled with something Mattheo hadn’t seen before—not just pain, but determination. “You think this will be the last time?” Draco continued. “You think he won’t keep using you to hurt the people you love?”

Mattheo flinched. Love. He wasn’t sure he deserved to feel that. Not after what he had done.

“I’m not strong enough,” Mattheo admitted, voice hoarse.

“That’s bullshit,” Draco spat quietly. “You think you broke tonight? That nothing worse will come? Then stay put. Do nothing.”

Mattheo wanted to argue, wanted to scream that he wasn’t brave like Potter, that he wasn’t good like Y/N. But then he thought about Y/N whispering, ‘It’s okay’—even after everything, she had still tried to comfort him. And he thought about Bellatrix’s laugh, about Voldemort’s cold amusement. His own father.

He thought about the way he had hesitated.

He had never felt so powerless in his life. Seeing her before him on the floor, already broken and tormented.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, the only sound in the room besides his ragged breathing. He barely noticed Draco slipping into the chair across from him, until the blonde spoke, voice quiet, measured.

"You’re going to get yourself killed like this."

Mattheo’s head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes meeting Draco’s. "I don’t care."

Draco exhaled sharply, leaning forward, so their conversation remained between them. "Yes, you do." His voice was quiet but firm. "You care enough to be sitting here stewing instead of running off and getting caught. You care enough to be thinking. So, tell me—what’s the plan? Because if you don’t have one, you’re just another one of his pawns, waiting to be moved."

Mattheo’s jaw tightened. He hated that Draco was right. Hated that he was speaking in that calm, composed tone while Mattheo was coming apart at the seams. "I have to get them out," he said, voice hoarse. "I have to get Y/N out. I can’t—I won’t leave them to rot."

Draco nodded, as if he had already known that would be the answer. "Then we do it properly. Not by charging in like some reckless idiot, but by thinking. By planning."

Mattheo let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Planning? They have them locked away in places we can’t reach, Malfoy. Places only your kind of people have access to. Unless you’re suddenly willing to betray your own family—"

Draco’s expression darkened. "You think I don’t know what’s at stake?" he hissed. "You think I want to be part of this? I don’t have the luxury of impulsive emotions, Riddle. I have to be smart about this. And if you intend to get them out, you do too."

Mattheo swallowed thickly, his anger simmering into something closer to desperation. "Then help me." His voice almost a whimper, "please."

Draco hesitated, glancing toward the closed door as if expecting someone to be listening. Then, in a hushed whisper, he said, "We don’t just break them out. We disappear. You, me, Theo, Y/N—we run. Because if we do this, there's no coming back."

Mattheo’s heart pounded. "I don’t care about me. I just need them safe."

Draco sighed, rubbing his temples, but there was a decision in his eyes now. "Then we start now. No mistakes. No second chances. If we do this, we win. And if we don’t—"

"We die trying," Mattheo finished, voice steady now.

Draco nodded grimly. "Then let’s do it right."

The stone walls felt closer every day. Or maybe it was just me—shrinking, collapsing in on myself like the damp air is swallowing me whole.

Theo hadn’t spoken much since I was thrown back into this pit. Two hours? Three? The time bled together in the darkness. The only light came from a single torch flickering at the end of the corridor, its glow weak and dying, like us.

He had been pacing, muttering under his breath, fingers twitching like they ached to wrap around something, someone. He looked feral, like he’s unraveling thread by thread. I should have said something. Try to bring him back. But I didn't know how. I can barely hold myself together.

“I heard him,” Theo suddenly said, his voice sharp and guttural, cutting through the silence like a blade.

I blinked, pushing myself up on shaking arms. “What?”

Theo stopped pacing, his fists clenched. “Mattheo. I heard him upstairs, before they threw you back down here.” His head tilts slightly, shadows stretching across his face. “I heard him cast the Cruciatus Curse on you.”

The words didn't register at first. Or maybe I didn't want them to.

He scoffed, a bitter, humorless sound. “He fucking did it, Y/N.” His voice rises, raw with something close to fury. “He used Crucio on you. I heard you scream. And then he just—he just stopped—like he could pretend it never happened.”

A cold numbness spread through my chest. “No, he—”

“Don’t,” Theo cuts me off, his eyes dark and seething. “Don’t defend him. You don’t know what I heard. What I felt.” He ran a trembling hand through his hair, his breath uneven. “And you still love him, don’t you?”

I flinched. It wasn’t a question, and we both knew the answer.

Theo lets out a bitter laugh. “You’re fucking brainwashed, Y/N.” He turned away, his shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breathing. “He’s a coward.”

I press my palms into the cold floor. “They forced him.”

“They forced him?” Theo whirls back around, eyes wild. “Or did he just not fight hard enough?”

I swallow back the lump in my throat. Because deep down, in the part of me I don’t want to acknowledge, I wonder the same thing.

The weight of their situation pressed heavily on Mattheo’s chest. Every moment felt like it could be his last, every choice fraught with unbearable consequences. As he and Draco continued to scramble for any solution, for a way out of the darkness that was closing in around them, Mattheo couldn’t help but think of Y/N—how she must be suffering, trapped in the dungeon with Theo. I have to get them out, he thought. But every plan seemed destined to fail.

The manor felt like a prison. They couldn’t leave through the front door, and the rest of the house was under constant watch. Every escape attempt, every whisper of a plan, was always met with failure or suspicion.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” Mattheo muttered, frustration thick in his voice. He glanced at Draco, who was poring over the papers they’d gathered, trying to make sense of their options.

“We can’t reach out to the others,” Draco said, barely above a whisper. “Not yet. They don’t know the full truth, and even if they did—if we don’t get out of here now, the Dark Lord’s going to notice. We need to be careful.”

Mattheo nodded, his mind racing. He knew Draco was right. But there had to be another way.

Before either of them could speak again, the door creaked open. Mattheo’s heart leapt into his throat, but he quickly masked his reaction. They weren’t supposed to be seen in here, not with what they were planning. But when he saw who it was, his breath caught in his chest.

The boys quickly tried to hide any trace of planning, any parchment and ink ready to be sent to their friends. But the intruder entered.

Severus Snape.

For a moment, Mattheo could hardly breathe. The Potions Master stepped inside without a word, his dark eyes flicking briefly to the table where they had hastily tried to hide their planning papers. His expression was unreadable, and the silence in the room was deafening.

Snape closed the door behind him with a quiet click and raised his wand without a sound. Before either boy could react, the air in the room seemed to thicken, and Snape’s low mutter cut through the silence.

“Silencio.”

An invisible pressure seemed to crush the room, and Mattheo suddenly felt more isolated than ever. No sound could escape the room. Nothing could be heard from outside, nothing could interfere with whatever was about to happen here.

Draco and Mattheo exchanged wary glances. There was something unsettling about Snape’s presence, but neither of them made a move. They knew better than to act rashly in the face of someone like him.

Snape’s gaze was calculating, but there was something in his eyes that didn’t quite match the cold indifference he usually wore. He spoke, his voice low, though not cruel.

“Careful,” Snape murmured. “The walls have ears, and you know what happens when certain people overhear things they shouldn’t.”

Mattheo’s breath quickened. Was Snape here to expose them? To end their rebellion before it had even started? But Snape didn’t seem hostile. Not yet. His posture was rigid, his tone calm, but Mattheo couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

Draco looked up, trying to read Snape’s expression. “What are you doing here, Snape?” His voice was guarded, eyes narrowing slightly. “We’re not exactly in a position to have casual chats.”

Snape’s lips quirked slightly, though there was no humor in it. “I’m not here for casual conversation, Draco. I’m here because I have to be.”

Mattheo blinked confused. He wasn’t sure what Snape meant, but there was a weight to the words that made him uneasy.

Snape took a step closer, his expression softening ever so slightly. “I promised Dumbledore I would keep you safe, Mattheo. And that means I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure you’re hidden away—if the time comes. You and your friends.”

Draco tensed, but Mattheo didn’t speak. Dumbledore? What was Snape saying?

“You think I’m here to betray you, don’t you?” Snape’s voice was laced with quiet bitterness, but it wasn’t directed at them. It was more like a frustration with the entire situation, with their growing fear and mistrust. “You think I’m here to report you to the Dark Lord, to let you die for some misguided sense of loyalty.” He took another step closer, his eyes darkening. “I am not here to watch you fall. I am here because the time has come for you to be protected.”

Mattheo’s chest tightened. Was this some kind of sick joke? Snape was working for Dumbledore? But why? Why now?

“Why should we trust you?” Mattheo finally managed, his voice hoarse with the weight of everything he had been holding back. His anger flared. “You’ve never given us any reason to think you care about us. About anyone. All we’ve ever known is the side you’ve chosen.”

Snape’s face darkened, and for the first time, Mattheo saw something else—a deep, weary sadness in the Potions Master’s gaze. “I don’t care what you think of me, Riddle,” Snape said, his voice low and cold. “But I do care about your safety. I do care about making sure you’re not thrown into this mess. Dumbledore is trying to protect you. I’m trying to protect you.”

Draco was quiet for a long moment, the weight of Snape’s words sinking in. Finally, he spoke, his voice softer than before. “So, what, you’re here to take us to Dumbledore?”

Snape gave a sharp nod. “When the time is right. Not yet. But soon.”

Mattheo’s mind raced. He couldn’t understand it—Snape working for Dumbledore? But at that moment, something about Snape’s demeanor made him feel like there was truth in it. There was no deception in the way Snape spoke; he was dead serious.

“I don’t care about me,” Mattheo said suddenly, his voice trembling with raw emotion. “I don’t care what happens to me. I care about Y/N. About Theo. They need to be safe. I don’t care if I’m safe, but I will not let anyone hurt them.”

Snape’s gaze softened, and for a brief moment, Mattheo saw the faintest hint of understanding in his eyes. “I know,” Snape murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “And that is why I’m here. I won’t let them touch you, Riddle. Not while I can help it.”

Mattheo swallowed hard. He didn’t know if he could trust Snape fully—not yet. But right now, in this moment, Snape was the only one who was offering them a way out.

“Then get us out of here,” Mattheo demanded. His words were desperate. “Now.”

Snape studied them both for a long moment, his dark eyes calculating. “You will do nothing,” he said, his tone firm. “You will wait. I will handle the rest. Dumbledore has already made arrangements. When the time comes, you will get away from here—quietly, safely.”

The weight of his words hung heavy in the room. “But we can’t just sit here,” Draco said, his voice tinged with frustration. “We can’t afford to wait. Every minute counts. Y/N—Theo—they’re still in danger.”

“Patience,” Snape snapped, his voice harsher now. “You think I don’t know that? But you are not in a position to act recklessly. If you make one wrong move, the entire plan collapses. You’re not as invisible as you think.”

Mattheo opened his mouth to argue, but Snape’s cold gaze silenced him. The Potions Master gave him a sharp look, as if reading his mind. “You are young, Riddle. This is not the time for bravado. You will listen to me, or you will risk everything. Your friends' lives. Your own.”

Mattheo clenched his fists, but this time, it wasn’t anger that filled him. It was desperation. He had to keep Y/N safe. He had to protect them all. The thought of her—trapped—made his chest ache. She didn’t deserve any of this.

“What’s the plan, then?” Mattheo asked through gritted teeth, forcing himself to focus.

Snape’s expression softened ever so slightly, but there was still something guarded in his eyes. “You will wait. But I will see to it that you are prepared. But for now, you remain here.” He took a deep breath, his gaze flicking to the door before turning back to them. “You will know when the time is right.”

Mattheo didn’t trust the silence that lingered in the room after that. He wanted to shout, to argue, to tear through every wall that separated him from Y/N. But Snape was right—if they acted too soon, everything would be ruined.

There was only one thing that mattered now. Keeping his head down. Waiting. And when the time came, fighting.

“I want to see Y/N,” Mattheo said suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His voice wavered with barely contained desperation.

Snape’s expression flickered, but he didn’t look surprised. “You will see her when the time is right,” he said, his voice heavy with an authority that Mattheo couldn’t ignore. “I’m not here to give you false hope, Riddle. You’re not getting out of here today. You’ll be patient and follow through. When it’s time, she’ll be safe.”

Mattheo felt his heart sink. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. There was nothing to say. Snape was right.

“I’ll keep her safe, Mattheo,” Snape added quietly, almost as if reading his mind. “I promise you.”

The words didn’t bring him peace. They only left him with a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“please,” Mattheo muttered, his voice barely audible.

Once Snape left, Draco's eyes were glued to Mattheo, "so everyone was right then? You're more than just friends."

Mattheo didn't answer straight away, hoping he could avoid this conversation altogether. But he knew better than to ignore his friend right now.

He nodded and his eyes drift up to meet Draco's. The blonde sighed, shaking his head.

"How reckless. And you had to—" He holds back from repeating what happenend only hours ago. "I'm sorry, Mattheo." He muttered, understanding a bit of the turmoil brewing in the dark lords son.

"It doesn't matter now. The only thing that does is Y/N being safe. And Snape is our only option."

Mattheo’s heart pounded in his chest as he and Draco moved swiftly through the corridors of the manor, the weight of the plan heavy on both their shoulders. Every step felt like it might be their last, each echoing through the stone halls as they made their way toward the dungeons.

A portkey in Draco's hand. An old book, looking too normal to work, Mattheo thought. But he had to trust Snape. There was no other option.

The shadows around them seemed to stretch longer, colder, and Mattheo’s mind was filled with the image of Y/N—fragile, broken—locked away down there. He hated that he had to leave her there, hated that she had to suffer because of his mistakes. But he couldn’t afford to waste any more time.

“We need to hurry,” Draco muttered, his face set with determination but his eyes betraying a hint of anxiety. “If anyone hears us…”

“I know,” Mattheo cut in, his voice low but edged with urgency. “We can’t let them find us. We need to get out before anyone knows.”

They reached the entrance to the dungeons, the cold, oppressive air from below seeping through the cracks in the stone door. Mattheo’s breath hitched as he placed his hand on the door, every nerve in his body screaming at him to act fast, to get Y/N and Theo out before everything fell apart.

Draco's jaw clenched. “Let's move quick, we don't have a lot of time.”

He cast one final glance around the hall before they descended into the darkness together, their footsteps soft as they moved deeper into the bowels of the manor.

I couldn’t feel anything anymore. The stone floor beneath me was cold and unyielding, but I was numb to it all. The events of the past days had broken something inside me, and now, I was hollow.

The flickering torchlight from the corridor beyond the cell cast long shadows on the walls, but even that failed to capture my attention. My eyes flickered over to Theo, still silent, still broken. His face was pinched in pain, eyes distant, as though he too had resigned himself to whatever fate Voldemort had in store for us.

Then, the door opened.

A rush of air—cool and familiar—made me glance up.

Mattheo was standing there, his silhouette framed in the doorway. His eyes were locked on mine, filled with an emotion I couldn’t quite decipher, a mixture of guilt, relief, and something darker I couldn’t place.

Then came Draco, standing just behind him, watchful, alert, as if any sound could be their last.

My breath caught in my throat as I struggled to push myself up. I wanted to reach out, to run to him, but I couldn't.

But Theo—Theo was already on his feet, anger bubbling up from deep inside him. His face twisted with fury as he strode forward, his hands pushing Mattheo back with force, though Mattheo hardly moved.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Theo’s voice cracked, raw with emotion, “y-you tortured her—”

Mattheo didn’t respond immediately. His eyes locked on mine, searching, pleading, but the words stuck in his throat. He looked broken—more than I had ever seen him. It was as if everything he had been carrying had collapsed in on him, and he could no longer hold it together.

“I’m sorry,” Mattheo finally whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m so-sorry.”

Theo scoffed, his hands trembling with anger. “Sorry?” he spat. “Sorry for what, Mattheo? You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!”

Mattheo opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked at me then, his eyes welling with something I couldn’t name. He took a hesitant step toward me, his hand trembling as if reaching out, but Theo was quick to block his path. He stepped in front of me protectively, his arm wrapped around me as if trying to shield me from Mattheo’s presence.

“Don’t you dare,” Theo growled.

The room fell silent, the tension so thick it was almost suffocating. Mattheo stood still, his gaze never leaving me, as if he was trying to put words to the weight of his guilt. But nothing came. He only stood there, broken.

Then, Draco’s voice cut through the silence, his voice low but urgent. “We need to go. Now. We don't have time to argue.”

Theo’s eyes snapped to Draco, his expression dark but filled with reluctant understanding. He knew Draco was right.

Mattheo stepped closer again, his hand still outstretched, but Theo immediately pulled me into his side, positioning himself between us. His fingers brushed mine as he placed them on the portkey—an old, worn book that seemed to pulse with an unfamiliar power. Theo’s other hand held the edge of the book tightly, his breathing shallow as he glanced up at Mattheo one last time, his face a mixture of fury and pain.

“Let’s go,” Theo whispered, his voice hoarse.

And with that, the world seemed to shift.

The portkey pulled us, and in an instant, the cold stone of the dungeon disappeared, replaced by the violent rush of wind and the sensation of being pulled through time and space.

The pull of the portkey was unlike anything I had ever experienced. My whole body felt like it was being torn apart, and for a moment, I couldn’t tell which way was up or down. The book I clutched was the only thing holding me together, my fingers tangled with Theo’s as he held on tightly. His grip was strong, but I could feel the tension in his body, not knowing where we were headed.

Finally, the world snapped back into focus. The cold air was gone, replaced by warmth, but everything around me felt dizzying. My feet hit the ground hard, and I stumbled forward, but Theo’s arm was instantly around me, steadying me. My stomach felt twisted, and I fought to not empty it across the wooden floor.

But we weren’t alone.

I blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the new surroundings. The room we had landed in was dimly lit, and there were adult figures standing around, watching us closely.

Theo’s hand stayed firmly in mine, his body shielding me from the others, but there was a coldness in his touch that hadn’t been there before. I could feel his anger and his frustration pulsing through him, especially as he glanced at the curly, brown haired boy standing beside Draco.

“We’re not your enemies,” Draco said quickly, his voice sharp but trying to reassure the strangers around us.

But the woman who had stepped forward, with dark eyes and a tight expression, didn’t seem convinced. “Who are you? What is going on here?” she demanded, raising her wand, as others in the room followed suit. Curious but defensive eyes studying us all.

I instinctively pressed closer to Theo, who was already pulling me into his side, as though trying to protect me from everything. My heart pounded in my chest as I looked at Mattheo, whose face was pale and tense. Worn out.

“We’re not—” Theo began, but was quickly interrupted by a voice from the back.

“Who the bloody hell let them in? They're death eaters.” The man’s voice was gruff, his eyes narrowed with anger. Muttering something about recognizing Draco's white hair to be a Malfoy trait.

"You're you-know-who's son, aren't you?" I could see the guilt and pain in Mattheo's eyes, the man looked ready to burst, hesitating only a moment, maybe because we were still young, maybe because we didn't have anything to defend ourselves with.

“This wasn’t part of the plan,” Mattheo muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible.

Then, just as things were getting too tense, another figure stepped into the room. She was older, her face kind but weathered, and she exuded a sense of authority that seemed to quiet everyone in the room.

The woman raised her wand, but her expression softened as she surveyed us, lowering her weapon and coming closer. “I’m Molly Weasley,” she introduced herself. “You’re not in danger here, Dumbledore informed us you would come,” she said, her voice calm and soothing. “Welcome to Grimmauld Place.”

The moment the words left her lips, I felt something break inside of me. All the fear, the anxiety, the weight of everything that had happened—it all came crashing down. I couldn’t hold it together any longer.

I felt the tears flood my eyes as I broke down in Theo’s arms. Unable to stop the sobs that wracked my body.

Theo didn’t let go. He was still angry, still holding on to that frustration, but for a moment, he softened, his hand gently rubbing my back, his chest rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern that somehow calmed me.

The woman who had spoken, Molly Weasley, moved closer. Her ginger hair framed her face as she crouched down beside me, a warmth in her voice as she spoke. “It’s all right, dear. You’re safe now. We’ll take care of you.”

I couldn’t find the strength to speak, only nodding weakly as she rested a hand on my shoulder, her touch surprisingly soothing.

“Breathe, love,” she said, her voice soft and comforting. “It’s over now. You’re not alone.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed myself to believe it.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

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