#you don’t want to lead the lamb to his death. you lead the lamb to his death anyway.

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales 6

Summary: More battles and more bargains come into play as things go from bad to worse.

Content Warnings: Blood and Gore, Violence, Character Death (Unnamed); Mentions of Slavery/Assault/Incest (the twins are back)

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

-------

I’ve aged a decade in the time it takes to get inside the Imperial Palace. The blistering heat makes sweat bead down the back of my dress, every inch of heavy fabric feeling like it’s plastered to my skin. Everything feels too heavy on my body. I need to get home and into the tub, maybe with enough soap and water I will be able to purge the oppressive weight that clings to my skin.

Though I have my doubts. It’s not just the heat or the dirt, it’s this whole place. Everything I have known and loved about the city feels like it has been stripped down to nothing but the oozing, wretched thing that has been hidden beneath golden arches and layers of stark white marble. It reeks of a decay that has nothing to the crucified bodies hanging outside our doors.

Senators and Commanders mingle, wives dripping in expensive jewels hanging from their arms, laughing and talking about how magnificent this celebration for Amarantha is. I’d be shaking with the rage I feel clawing up my insides were it not for the way Rhysand still held me in his mental grip.

“Steady,” he warns for what feels like the fiftieth time today. I don’t know how he’s managed to stay so calm, especially when his men have been taken through the back streets of the city. There is a prison on the outskirts of the capitol, on the eastern wall, hopefully there will be less cruelty on the streets now that they’re away from the parade, but it is still a fate I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It cannot be easy to be forced to stay here, with the enemy at every turn, while your men labor in a dungeon, yet he and Cassian, stand with their heads high behind me.

One of the guards untethered them from the back of my horse, but holding their chain in my hands is just as bad as leading them on horseback. Cassian gives me a wide berth, far enough away that if I take two steps ahead I’ll drag him by the throat. Azriel, however, hovers near my left shoulder, head down like he’s trying to hide, even as I watch his shadows slither down the back of his legs and scatter across the floor in search of something. One still remains coiled around my ear, hidden by my hair.

“Be careful around the twins,” I warn as my cousin catches my eye and makes her way towards us. She’d been too far behind us in the procession for me to see her reaction to the horrors, but, judging by the grin on her usually stoic face, I’d say she enjoyed it. 

Rhysand shifts so he’s standing behind my right shoulder, so I’m framed on either side by a towering Illyrian. Their presence is soothing, especially when Brannagh’s grin could peel paint. She obviously wants trouble. I’d be a fool to think the bloodshed outside was enough. She’ll need something to sink her fangs into before the night is over to be satisfied with the day. 

“There you are, cousin!” We have the same slate colored eyes and that is where the family resemblance stops. Everything about her is rigid and uniform and for so long being near her had made me feel like a lamb being watched by a lion. Yet, with the males at my back, I don’t feel so small anymore.

“I’m surprised you made it,” she says, eyes raking over Rhysand, then Azriel, then Cassian, sizing each of them up to see which would be an easier meal.

I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to punch in her teeth. 

“First the Games, now this,” Dagdan says as he abandons an attempt to woo one of the Senators with his bullshit war stories, and joins us. “Maybe we are related after all.”

Rhysand withdraws his mental presence from my head and I draw my mental shields back up to make sure I keep the twins out. 

Brannagh walks a slow circle around us, tongue running over her lower lip. “I really didn’t think you were capable of this.” Her bony fingers reach out to flick the chain looped around their throats. “It’s a little… what’s the word you always throw at us? Barbaric for you?”

“All it took was Mommy Dearest to lose her head for you to grow a spine, huh?” Dagdan sneers.

Azriel’s shadow hisses angrily in my ear as his head jerks up off his chest. The glare he throws over my shoulder could melt a glacier, the heat in it seering across my skin. 

“This one’s pretty,” Brannagh coos at him, her fingers reaching out to brush across his cheek.

“Don’t touch him,” I bite out through my teeth. 

“Careful, we bite,” Cassian snarls.

This only makes Brannagh grin further and my first instinct is to draw all three of them behind my back, as if they were small children in need of protection and not three fully grown warriors. As if I had not seen them kill a Giant and a handful of Wargs in the Arena just yesterday. 

“Were they fun?” Brannagh teases, making another circle so she can draw her nails over Rhysand’s nearly bare chest.

Red tints my vision. 

“They look like they’d be a good fuck.”

I clench my hands into fists to keep my power from erupting and taking out everything in the room. Rhysand can’t save me from this one, not without them sensing his mental presence. And if we are to play this game, I need to be able to stand on my own two feet. I might not be the most skilled fighter in this room, but I have plenty of other weapons in my arsenal. 

“How would you know? The only thing you’ve ever fucked is Dagdan.”

She flinches like I’d punched her right in the stomach. It was all rumors of course, but the whispers were there. The twins still insisted on sharing a room; still went everywhere together. They were toxically co-dependant and on more than one occasion they’d mentioned old practices of keeping bloodlines pure. I knew it was a sore spot, I didn’t care very much if it was true. As long as the blow landed; as long as I had something strong enough to cut her, so the bond screaming in my ears didn’t prompt me to cut off the hand still lingering too close to my mate’s skin. They were not hers to touch. 

Cassian chokes out a cough, trying to keep back a laugh as Brannagh’s face twists. 

Dagdan’s teeth flash in a snarl.

I merely grin as I give the chain in my hands a very subtle tug. “I think we’re done catching up, cousin. Do enjoy the rest of the celebration.” I do my best to leave them in the dirt as we head deeper into the palace. I’m sure she’ll find a way to make me pay for the remark later, but for now, I’ll count it as a victory. 

The exchange took place in the open foyer, the roof held up by pillars and the outside world only separated by billowing sheer curtains. I mount the steps that lead us into a secondary foyer, where bubbling fountains and a pool of multicolored fish take up much of the space. Standing guard atop the fountains are twin statues of our gods of war and victory; the golden bowls at their feet overflowing with coins left by worshipers as they come and go from the Palace. We need more than a little luck and victory on our side and I leave a handful of coins on Victory’s altar. I will go to the Temple later and beg the Mother for forgiveness for how blind I have been, and seek a Priestess to make an offering for her blessing in what is quickly becoming an act of outright treason.

I feel Rhysand’s violet gaze on me as I make the offering. 

“The twins really are… like that?” Cassian asks as we round the fountain. It has to be morbid curiosity that prompts the conversation, but the fact that he’s speaking to me at all makes my heart race in my chest. I’ll take whatever scraps he’ll throw my way, if it only means he doesn’t hate me as much as he did yesterday.

“I’d be more surprised if they weren’t than if they were,” I say, unable to suppress a shutter when thinking about it. “They’ve always been… together… and weird about it.”

“Sure, and we’re the animals.”

I can see the back of Amarantha’s blood red head as the inner circle makes its way towards the atrium for food and whatever entertainment could be dragged into this den of vipers for the afternoon. Servants carrying goblets of wine drift through the clusters of visiting dignitaries and soldiers. There’s more than a couple armored gladiators, acting as guards for their sponsors, in attendance. I try to keep track of who belongs to who as we go, in order to give us an edge for the next match. Senators Beron and Tamlin, former lords from Prythians courts, now given new titles within the Empire for merging their kingdoms, both have sponsors shadowing them. The males have to be half Giant, with arms and thighs thick as tree trunks. Their armor has to be custom made to be able to fit them. I don’t know the names of either males, only that they’ve been employed long enough for their conditions in the Arena are they don’t fight Amarantha’s Attor. Too much money has been put into them to let them get torn to ribbons by that beast. 

I slide my way through the throngs of people to get closer. To play this game, there is no doubt that they will have to go back into the Arena a couple times. I need to start finding ways to give them an edge. I can start by seeing up close just how much taller they are then Cassian. If they have to go hand-to-hand in the future, I want to see how they compare next to each other so I can plan to get around it. 

The gladiators have at least two feet on Cassian, which makes me basically an ant in comparison. I already have to tilt my head up to look my mates’ in the eye, these males make me have to keep distance between us to be able to see anything other than they’re stomachs. 

Cassian is fairly nimble, from what I’ve seen so far, as long as the wound on his leg is healed by the next match, he can use that to his advantage. But the thought of having to watch him fight males this size makes my stomach twist. I’m going to need to do more than size up the competition. 

Beron is accompanied, as always, by several of his sons, but it is always Eris by his side. The well dressed male turns a grin in my direction when he catches sight of me. “Highness,” the bow is graceful, fox-like in a way that reminds me of Lucien, wherever he is in the crowd to avoid his Father. It’s not like him to leave Tamlin alone in these situations, they’re usually joined at the hip.

“It does me good to see you outside,” Eris continues, as he reaches out to take my hand and press a chaste kiss on the back of my knuckles.

Azriel’s shadow hisses in agitation in my ear as something hot flickers down the bond.

“It’s been too long since you’ve graced us with your presence.” I’ve known the Vanserra’s for a long time, Eris is not quite the flirt Lucien is, but he has no shortage of sway over females, males too for that matter. It had always surprised me that Father hadn’t tried to arrange a union between us. Eris was known, from time to time, to share the same savage brutality the Emperor valued in his court; it should have pleased him to have Eris for a son in law. 

“Are you finally feeling better?”

“It took longer than I expected to recover,” I say honestly. Better to not oversell anything; all lies have a little truth woven in. “But getting some air has been good.”

His russet gaze jumps to the males behind me, and the grin I’ve known for decades turns serpentine. “And profitable, I’d imagine?”

“For the Empire, of course, all earnings will go to aid the far reaches.”

“So I heard,” he nods, still studying them. “You always did have a bleeding heart, Highness. It is good to see it benefit you.”

The compliment feels underhanded, but so do most things around here. 

“When will we get to see them in action again?”

Talking about them like they’re not standing here makes me want to start smashing things, but I reign in my temper. “I was just about to ask you the same about your Father’s gladiators.”

He glances back at the male and shrugs. “Felix is always ready, but we’ve gotten no summons.”

Interesting. The Gamesmaker should already have a match-up in place, even if the Arena will be closed for repairs for a few days still. 

“How unfortunate, it’d be quite the fight for Cassian.”

I feel Cassian shift a little closer, the scent of sandalwood and snow-capped mountains invading my senses. It is an effort not to step back and lean into him, he’s never dared be this close before. 

“It would be quick,” he states.

Eris huffs a laugh. “For your neck to be broken, brute? Yes, we’d be in agreement.”

There’s a snap as Cassian’s wings ruffle and whip closed again, his agitation so clear I can taste it. The frayed edges of our bond simmer, but I can’t tell if the rage is his or my own. We are alike in that aspect.

“Who was summoned, then?” We can’t linger too long here, especially not for information I do not yet need. Rhysand still needs to get a better look around and we’re starting to linger on the stairs, people clustering behind us.

“Not Tamlin’s man either,” Eris says with a shrug. “I’m as in the dark as you.”

“You?” I force a teasing smirk to my features. “I thought you knew everything around here, Eris?”

His russet gaze darkens as his perfect teeth dart out to bite his lower lip. It’s a move I’ve seen thousands of people swoon over. “I’ll happily find out for you, Highness.”

Azriel’s shadow snarls in a language I can’t make out, but it is Rhysand’s side of the bond that ripples with promised violence. Is that jealousy I feel? I try to shove the thought aside; hoping that they feel this thing between us is too much to ask for. I will only hurt myself if I start to hope that I am more than a means to an end.

“Please do. I’d be indebted to you.” That’s all it takes for the Autumn male to bow and disappear into the crowd.

Senator Thessian and his large entourage of guards pushes past us on the stairs, the armored guard slamming into Rhysand from behind hard enough that he stumbles forward, hands reaching out to catch himself on my hips before he can take both of us to the floor. My whole body freezes under the contact, the warm press of his body against mine enough to make all rational thought fly out of my skull.

He leans in, like he might offer an apology, breath ghosting over my neck as his lips brush the shell of my ear. My whole body shivers in anticipation. “Clever, little vixen.”

The low baritone of his voice makes heat rush between my legs, something hot coiling in the pit of my stomach. Now the citrus and jasmine scent of him invades all my senses and I really, truly have no thoughts left in my head. 

My knees wobble as he gives my hip a squeeze, even as the bond roars at the loss of contact as he steps back. Maybe it’s just been awhile since I’ve been intimate with anyone, but that small amount of contact feels like an electric current beneath my skin. It is an effort to keep moving up the stairs and not turn and do something foolish, like press my lips to his and slide my fingers into his hair. 

The atrium is a wide, open room with tables piled with food lining the far walls. On the left are floor to ceiling windows, thrown open to let in the warm summer breeze, a few Praetorians standing at attention amidst the billowing curtains.. There are low couches along the walls, some of which are already taken. If not by anyone with a gladiator, I don’t linger on who sits where. 

A servant with a tray of wine passes and I snag one to try and calm the sizzling beneath my skin. I didn’t realize one of today’s many battles would be trying not to throw myself at my mates. 

There is a raised dais against the far wall, the couches and lounge chairs far more plush and ornate than the rest. Father has found his seat, a slightly less gaudy throne than usual, and reclines as a servant fans him with a palm frond. Amarantha has taken her usual seat on his right, reclining against one of her pleasure slaves. The male wears little but a strip of crimson fabric between his legs, every inch of bare skin lean and smooth. There’s another perched on the armrest of her chair, holding a goblet of wine for whenever she needs it; a third sitting at her feet, running idle fingers up the side of her calf. All that attention, and yet her dark gaze still tracks the males behind me with enough hunger I debate how much trouble I’d be in if I threw my own wine glass at her head.

She is not the only one who pays such close attention to the Illyrians. A couple dignitaries’ wives and high ranking soldiers gawk blatantly at how much skin they have on display. More than one head turns to get a better look at Rhysand’s ass in this get-up.  He neither cowers or preens under the attention; it’s like he doesn’t even register it. I can’t help but wonder if that was the point: Everybody is so busy ogling him, they’re not really paying attention to what he’s doing. It’s a good mask, it shields his intentions and lets him observe without it being obvious, but the way they look at him, like he’s a piece of meat makes me wish I had claws to scratch out their eyes. 

I take another sip of wine, trying not to look too desperate for the emptiness it’ll bring as I head in the direction of the dais. 

“You’ve surprised me,” Father says as we approach. It’s the first real acknowledgement he’s shown me all day.

The shadow curled around my ear burrows a little deeper under my hair to avoid detection, the soft ether brushing against a sensitive spot on my temple that has me gripping the wine glass a little tighter to keep from reacting.

“As I said, I am trying to do better, Father.”

His gaze flicks to the chain in my hand, down the length of it like he’s inspecting the strength of each wrung before finally arriving on the occupants tethered to it. He grins in triumph as he takes in their attire. Maybe they were right to ignore what I’d brought out. It certainly looks like I’ve intended to humiliate them by dressing them in the same attire many of the Senator’s slaves are sporting. 

“Tell me how you managed to bring the three of them to heel when Amarantha couldn’t?” 

Amarantha bristles in her seat, her perfect teeth flashing in her pale face.

Another small victory. 

“Tell him you instructed the healer to give us a sleeping drought in our wine.” The twins haven’t reappeared and his sudden return in my head nearly makes me jump out of my skin. “And faebane in the water this morning.”

I repeat his instructions as I move to take the seat that is mine on his left and force myself not to think about how it’s a couch instead of a chair like his because it used to be shared with my Mother. 

“You’re hoping to acquire mirthroot in the city to keep us docile until the next match.”

I repeat that too, making a mental note to ensure that I follow through with it. He will monitor my every move in the city, if I don’t follow through, he’ll know it and then we’re dead. An issue that seems far less pressing when Rhysand’s hand brushes over my wrist. Watching him in the Arena did nothing to show just how agile he is, not when he expertly maneuvers my hand towards his chest, the chain blocking his part in this. The next thing I know, I’m moving to sit and he’s falling into the couch behind me so it looks like I pushed him down into the seat so I could recline against his chest. The motion takes him seconds, it looks like he rehearsed it down to the exact placement of the chain to hide the fact that he’d been the one moving me and not the other way around. 

Azriel seats himself on the armrest wordlessly; Cassian grunting as he sits on the floor with his back against the couch. I get the distinct impression he is only keeping his shoulder against my knee because being any farther away would mean his wings were in reach of Father’s hands. 

It takes me a minute to find my bearings again as my brain short circuits over how close they all are. Rhysand’s heartbeat is steady against my back, his skin warm even through the fabric of my dress. He lets his head lean back against the back of the couch, feigning exhaustion or maybe repulsion from being “forced” to be this close to me. I’m close enough that I could run my hand up Azriel’s thigh if I wanted, and damn me do I want to. Or close enough to Cassian that my fingers itch to brush through the thick strands of his hair. It is a cruel trick of fate that my mates are close enough for me to touch and I can’t.

At the mention of the mirthroot, one of Amarantha’s males leans around the Emperor to offer a rolled cigarette, even dried the hint of mirthroot is obvious. The male’s eyes are glassy, shining under the effects of it himself, the grin on his features lazy and unbothered. Far too soft a male to be shackled to Amarantha. 

I tap Cassian on the shoulder to prompt him to take it. A mistake because he flinches like I hit him and I think I might have undone any effort I’d made to get him to at least tolerate my presence. He snatches the offered cigarette, and the liter that follows and passes it back to me with a huff.

The Emperor watches the exchange with more interest than he’s ever shown me in my life. “What would you have done, Amarantha?” He asks.

“The same,” she says through her teeth. 

I take a deep breath through my nose to keep from making a disgusted face at her. “Ember said that’s what she used to do for Amarantha’s slaves before she came to my keep, so I simply took a page out of her book.” 

I pass the cigarette and liter to Azriel, and pray the sight of the flames doesn’t cause the same reaction it had when he’d been branded. He grits his teeth, but there is no angered flash down the bond or hiss from the shadow to indicate it’s anything other than a show as he lights it and takes a long drag. 

“I’m glad to see that in your seclusion you’ve finally grown half a brain,” Father says. “I was beginning to worry that your Mother’s poisoned tongue had gotten to you.”

I flinch despite myself and all three of the males tense around me. Cassian’s jaw ticks, the flutter of movement brushing across my knee. For the first time all day, his hazel gaze flicks to me, and  maybe it’s a trick of the light, but I swear I see a flash of pity there.

“No, it didn’t,” I whisper, unable to put any feeling into the words. I haven’t been back here since the execution. I’d found every reason to avoid it. Being back feels like peeling a scab off the wound and letting it bleed all over the floor.

Azriel takes another drag and I wish more than anything to take a hit of it myself and numb this feeling in my chest. What I would give for the empty numbness that had filled me in the early months of my grief. There are so many tangled emotions here, between the loss and my mates and the horrors of what we just witnessed outside. I cannot pick just one to focus on; can’t find some outlet to expel the building pressure. It all tangles and lodges itself in my throat like it's trying to drown me.

Rhysand’s fingers brush over my arm as he draws his hand up to take the cigarette from Azriel. To an onlooker it looks accidental, maybe it is, maybe I’m just reading into it, but even that faint brush drags me back to the surface for a bit of air again. At least I am not alone in the water anymore. Mother had always been emotionless, nothing got to her. I was always the one that felt too much. At least now the emotions can be shared.

“Your actions yesterday inspired me,” the Emperor says after a beat. 

Apprehension licks its way up my spine.

“I haven’t taken a champion of my own in a long time. It’s become dull, betting on someone else’s man.”

Shit!

Azriel’s shadow dares to peek out around my bangs, observing the crowd as they begin to settle in their seats with plates of food, as if on some silent command. Brannagh and Dagdan join us on my left, on the seat closest to the dais, the stare they level at me hot enough to melt glass. So much for Rhysand being in my head the rest of the evening. 

With a wave, the Emperor motions over a creature I have no name for. It walks on two legs like a man, but is covered head to toe in thick, brown, fur. Horns curl from the top of its head; a beak with a hooked tip jutting from its face. Its hands end in talons like that of a bird, but there are five on each hand instead of three. Its tunic has been folded down around its waist, leaving its chest bare, revealing a spider web of scars gouged through the heavy layer of fur. A thin, whip-like tail ending in a spiked tip flicks back and forth behind it as it walks, each step sending a shutter through the Palace. 

My skin pricks with goosebumps. Some strange sort of alchemy made this thing.

“I was hoping to test it in the Arena, but with the repairs in order, I thought a smaller show would do just as well.”

My stomach hurdles into my throat.

“Why don’t we pick one of your champions to break it in, daughter?” The Emperor suggests as if this is a thought that just came to him and not something he’s been planning from the beginning. 

I take another sip of wine as I turn to look at him, trying to steady the rapid pounding of my heart. I can’t let one of them fight this thing! Its maw opens and snaps shut with a clack as it stands before us, growing impatient.

“I’d personally like to see Cassian’s thick skull get crushed like a watermelon,” Amarantha chimes in from her seat.

I’m really going to throw up right here in front of all these people.

“A splendid idea from our woman of the hour, don’t you think?” He grins like he’s caught me, like he knows I’ve been playing games and have walked right into his trap.

“Nothing can be as bad as listening to you speak, Amarantha,” Cassian snarls as he gets on his feet, effectively making the decision for me.

He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, wings ruffling behind him, but before he can step into the center of the room, he turns to face me, much to my surprise. Hands scarred from swordplay reach out to give the chain around his neck a little tug. “Mind letting me off the leash, Princess?”

One of the Praetorian steps forward to unchain him but I stand and snag the key from his hand instead. I’ve seen enough males get stabbed or injected with something right before a fight to give the opponent an upper hand to know I can’t trust anyone near him. And, maybe, just maybe, the act of giving him a little relief from the chain might make him not hate me so much.

My hands shake as I reach up to his neck to unclasp the chain. I know better than to take the whole collar off while there are so many people watching even if I wish I could. His breath is warm on my face as he watches me, waiting for his moment of freedom. The urge to stretch up on my toes and kiss him for luck is overwhelming; maybe in another life we could have. 

I step back with the chain in my hand and return to my seat before I can follow my impulses. 

Cassian turns to face his opponent and even though I saw him perform yesterday, I can’t shake the sinking feeling that I have just sent him to his death. The creature sizes him up like it's calculating the best spot to take a bite out of him and its beady eyes settle on the bandage tied around his bare thigh.

Rhysand leans forward, resting his chin on my shoulder to watch, arm loosely looped over my waist. It looks casual. No one bats an eye at the gesture, but I am pretty sure he’s done it so he can keep me from jumping off the couch.

Azriel leans forward, bracing himself with his knees on his elbows, hazel gaze tracking the steps of Cassian’s opponent as he also calculates its weak spots. 

“Let’s make it interesting, shall we?” The Emperor asks, leaning over to be heard over the rush of excitement the audience gives to the challengers.

I tear my gaze away from where I’m trying to memorize every line in Cassian’s wings, every curve of tattoo over his back and shoulders, just in case. “How so?”

“Cassian wins and I’ll let you pick their next opponent in the arena,” he suggests. 

I like the offer; it gives them a better chance at surviving. 

“Cassian loses, and you give Rhysand to Amarantha.”

The world flips and spins and the roaring in my ears has me clutching my hands in my skirts to keep a surge of power from destroying the room. My power singes the fabric, only the smoke from the mirthroot hides the smell. 

There is no way in Hel I am making that kind of bet!

Rhysand stiffens behind me, heartbeat skipping for half a moment before he pretends to be unbothered by the comment and takes another drag of the mirthroot. 

I’d rather throw myself on a blade than chance that. Cassian is an exceptional fighter, but I cannot take that risk. I am already risking his life by letting him fight like this, how can I risk both of them?

My chest aches. There are too many opportunities to lose them. Too many things that can go wrong. 

“And let our people think I am weak and incapable of following through on the deal we made yesterday?” I challenge. My voice trembles as I fight to hold his gaze steady. 

Azriel’s shadow hisses what sounds like a warning in my ear.

“You know if we split them up now it makes me look as if I can’t handle them.”

“Attached, are we?”

“No, but I am tired of looking weak,” I hiss. “If Amarantha wants them, she can challenge me for them herself.”

Rhysand stiffens behind me. The twins are too close for him to slip into my mind again, but I can practically feel him shouting at me down the bond.

She huffs a laugh around the other side of him, “As if you’d stand a chance in that!”

I ignore her as I hold my ground with my Father, “You have always thought so little of me.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“So if you really want to make this interesting, then fine. If Cassian wins, I pick when and who all their matches are with. And if he loses, well, you’ve already chosen a husband for me I’m sure, so you can speed up the process and I’ll provide them the heir you so desperately want by the end of the year.”

The bond shakes so hard in my chest it feels like Azriel’s screaming in my ear. Rhysand has gone still as death behind me and I didn’t think I said it that loud, but Cassian’s head whips in our direction, eyes wide.

Father throws his head back and laughs at that. “This new found confidence is amusing. I will allow you to pick the next two fights, but not all.”

Better than nothing.

“Deal.”

I think I can hear Azriel’s teeth grinding together beside me, so I force myself not to look at him. The bond thrums like he’s in physical pain and I hate that I have caused it, but I will not barter with their lives.

“To first blood!” The Emperor calls to the room.

“To the death!” Brannagh chants instead. 

When this whole Empire goes up in flames, I’m pushing her in first.

The crowd begins to murmur to themselves, debating. “I’ll put some money on it if they fight to the death,” Tamlin tosses out. 

“As will I!” Shouts a commander whose name I’d never learned.

The motion goes around the room in a full circle, by the time the Emperor concedes, I’ve drank my full glass and abandoned it on the couch. Didn’t we just do this?

The Praetorians provide blades for the two males, but the Emperor’s creature can’t hold the blade with its claw tipped hands and tosses it to the ground with a screech. Its barbed tip tail draws back behind it as it drops into a defensive stance. 

I forget how to breathe as Cassian drops into his own.

Time slows in a familiar sensation of undiluted horror as the creature moves first, striking forward with its tail like a spear. Cassian pivots back a step, rearranging his feet as he blocks with the sword.

The crowd cheers excitedly and I distantly recognize coins changing hands as they take bets, but cannot tear my eyes away enough to watch who is participating in it. Cassian remains on the defensive as the creature rears its tail back and attacks from the other side of its body this time, testing the Illyrian’s reaction time. When the strike is blocked a second time, it switches tactics and goes for a punch, talons extended towards Cassian’s face.

While the creature is taller, it is not as agile, and Cassian side steps out of the way of the blow, using the momentum to lunge into the next step and strike the tip of his sword across his opponent’s stomach. Its ear shattering screech shakes the room as the blade makes contact, drawing black blood. If it wasn’t for Brannagh, the challenge would be over, Cassian would have won. It would have been easy for once.

Enraged, the creature strikes with its talons again, missing a second time, but catching Cassian in the jaw on the backswing. The whole room can hear Cassian’s teeth clack together as he stumbles backwards.

It takes everything in me not to squeeze my eyes shut, not to wince and react to every blow. I have to keep telling myself that this is part of the game and I cannot give them away, but by the Mother it is harder and harder with every passing second!

Rhysand remains with his chin propped up on my shoulder, the bulk of his weight keeping me in my seat. I so desperately want to reach out and take his hand, give myself something to ground in, but I can’t. I have to accept that this might be all we’re ever allowed to touch, especially after today.

The creature strikes again with its tail, once, twice, a third, each like a punch. The third blow shatters Cassian’s sword into pieces and my heart plummets into my stomach as he dodges a fourth assault. He’s not so fast on the fifth and that barbed tip punches right through his bandaged thigh! Blood splatters as the tips hurdles through muscle and sinew until it pushes through the back of his leg.

One of the dignitaries' wives reaches for a bucket and wretches as Cassian’s roar of pain rattles my teeth. 

Azriel flinches, looking like he might just jump into the fight and stop it, but then catches himself. 

The bond screams and bashes against my insides as my powers flare again, singing more of my skirts as I hold them in a death grip that only worsens as the creature yanks the barb back out of Cassian’s leg, bringing him to the floor. Blood pours from the wound from both ends, cascading down his calf to make a puddle on the stark white tile.

There’s enough of my skirts to hide the motion, Rhysand buries his hand beneath them to hold onto my hip tight enough to bruise. I don’t know if that’s to keep me in place or himself. 

The creature snarls out a noise that sounds like triumph as it pulls its hand back, aiming to use its claws to sever Cassian’s head.

Not again! Not again! Not again!

I have to stop this! I have to do something!

At the last second, Cassian throws himself out of the way, knees tucked to his chest as he rolls out of reach, right to where the creature’s discarded sword lies. He snags the blade with a grunt, one hand pressed to the gaping wound in his thigh as he pushes himself back onto his feet. His face twists in pain at the slightest movement, but he manages to stay upright. 

Rhysand breathes a little easier behind me, but his grip on my hip hasn’t let up.

The Emperor frowns beside us, displeased with the outcome thus far no doubt. He really expected this to be easy. 

The creature strikes again, sticking to what it has found successful, and it becomes a mistake. Cassian twists at the last second, blade raised so when the strike comes, he doesn’t need to block it. At this angle, not only does it miss him, he has a height advantage and he brings the sword down as hard as he can, cleaving the tail in half. The barbed tip hits the floor twitching as the creature reels backward and wails.

Holy shit! I’ve seen a lot of warriors in my life, but I don’t think I’d ever describe them as beautiful until now. Each move is calculated, backed with training and muscle. His tattoos seem to come to life with his body as his muscles shift and strike. 

He doesn’t let up as his opponent stumbles back either, he uses the distraction to his advantage and plunges the sword into the creature’s shoulder. He might have been aiming for the heart, but the wound in his leg gives him too great a limp to lunge far on. The blade catches in bone, the resounding crunch deafening in the domed ceiling, and when he reels back to pull it out, he twists it just enough to make his opponent’s arm absolutely useless.

With two of its preferred methods of fighting gone, the creature bends at the waist and charges with a roar, hoping to use its horns like a battering ram into Cassian’s chest.

An otherwise horrifying sight, if Cassian didn’t laugh and step dramatically out of the way so the creature rams right into the wall. “Is that really all you’ve got?” He taunts as a rain of dust falls on his head. 

The creature screeches as it yanks itself free from the wall and shakes its head, clearing the debris from its beady eyes. 

Cassian spins the blade in his hand, adjusting his grip, and I think it might be one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen in my life.

He can’t crouch with his leg, but he doesn’t need to. The creature tries to ram him again and he dodges and brings his hilt down on its neck, knocking it to the floor. He wastes no time in rearing back with the blade and bringing it down, easily cleaving the creature’s head from its shoulders. 

Amarantha throws up her hands in a huff at the sight.

I finally take what feels like my first breath in an hour as Cassian tosses the blade on the floor. He did it! He won!

Azriel removes his elbows from his knees and reclines back against the armrest, clearly satisfied with the outcome. 

“Excellent! Excellent!” Praises the steward as he goes about helping anyone who placed bets collect their proper earnings. 

I tear my gaze away from the carnage to the nearest guard, “Find him a healer, now.” Before he bleeds out on the floor or Father decides he has another champion he wants to test. 

The Emperor takes a long drink from his goblet, eyes narrowed on the severed head the staff has to now clean off the floor. Around him, his dignitaries drink and argue over why they bet the way they did. It is business as usual, completely unbothered by the blood around them. 

When he finally turns to me, I have to brace myself against the anger simmering in his eyes. This is usually the part where I put my chin to my chest and try to make myself as small as possible. Usually. But not today. 

“It seems I’ve underestimated their talent for bloodshed.”

Cassian hobbles back over to us and I make a show of telling Azriel to help him before he gets blood everywhere, so no one thinks I just let them wander off on their own. 

“The Games will continue at the start of next week,” the Emperor continues.

That gives us days. I try not to look at the gaping hole in Cassian’s thigh. Thank the Mother it looks like it missed bone, but how is he supposed to participate with that? There’s no way it heals in time, even if I have Ember work twelve hours a day on him.

“I expect you to have their opponent picked out by the Senate meeting in the morning. You still have that end of your bargain to uphold.”

This victory will not be without repercussions, but it is still a victory nonetheless, and we have to take what we can get.

--

Managing to procure the mirthroot I need to trick my Father into thinking I’m following through with the regime I’d given him, as well as finding horses for the Illyrians to ride back on takes longer than usual, given the massive partying happening in the streets. We have to take the backroads home to avoid being pelted with more rocks, or outright mobbed. Compared to the rest of the day, the journey is uneventful, spent mostly with the others ensuring Cassian doesn’t pass out on the horse. 

The sun is already changing colors by the time we return to the River House, but I know if I try to prepare for bed now I’ll never sleep. Instead, I leave Anise with instructions to look into potentially safe opponents in the Arena, so when I see Eris again tomorrow I can compare their notes, and then set out for the Temple built on the edge of the property. 

I doubt there are enough blood offerings and animal sacrifices to cleanse the sins of this Empire, but I offer as many as I can in apology for my part in it. I don’t know how I’ve been so blind to all of it. I can’t stop seeing it now, it should have always been so obvious to me.

The Priestesses do not ask why I linger for over an hour, praying long past the time it takes for my offerings to burn atop the altar. I’d hoped that, if I said them hard enough, the weight of the day would slip off my shoulders. I’d thought, with enough sacrifices, the guilt would ease, but I can still feel my mates’ agitation and pain clearly through the bond. 

I return to the House as weary as before. Tomorrow will be a whole new set of problems. I cannot put it off by lingering in the Temple. 

The walk doesn’t clear my head, or loosen the tension, and I climb into the tub with that same heaviness still clinging to my skin. I heat the water as hot as I can, hoping it might cleanse me in a way my sacrifices couldn’t.

Exhaustion creeps its way in as I scrub and scrub and scrub until my skin is pink. Every time I close my eyes I can see the crucified bodies, gasping for air as they slowly suffocate under the weight of their own body pinned to the wood. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sight; I can only imagine how it would feel to know each of those males before this. The bond still swirls beneath my skin, heavy with agitation the hot water can’t touch. 

I wish there was a way to take that from them, but how can I do that without calling attention to the mating bond? 

I give myself a few extra minutes in the blissful heat before dragging myself out and tossing a silk robe over my waterlogged skin. My brush is on the vanity where Anise left it this morning and I have just started to brush the knots out of my hair when I hear the bedroom door open. My hand stills halfway through my hair; it is unlike Anise to not announce herself when it’s this late. 

The door clicks shut again, the eerie silence that follows enough to make my heart drop into my stomach. The darkness of the room makes it hard to see beyond the candlelight that fills the bathing chamber and my hand goes instinctively into the vanity drawer, where my Mother had always kept an extra knife. The blade is cool in my fingers, the handle smooth and undamaged from never being used. The benefit of having constant guards is you usually never see the threats against you, though there are always exceptions.

There’s no footsteps on the carpet, but I can practically feel movement next to my bed. 

I’m a sitting duck here among all the candlelight, but if I step into the darkness beyond I’ll be totally blind. Better to wait for something to make itself known. 

I suppose there’s enough guards around, I can always start screaming for help if it comes down to it.

A heartbeat passes before something dark and snakelike comes slithering across the floor. The ether loops itself around my ankle and crawls up my thigh like a purring cat before the shadow takes its perch behind my ear.

I set the knife on the vanity with a sigh of relief as Azriel steps into the light. “You scared the shit out of me!”

His shadow caresses the back of my ear in apology, far more expressive now than it was earlier. “Sorry.”

He side steps out of the doorway, but not in my direction, which is odd until Rhysand steps out of the shadows behind him.

“How did you two get in here?”

“Found the lever on the door to your secret tunnel,” Azriel says as his eyes trace up my bare legs, brazenly taking in all the damp skin I have on display.

Heat flushes up my cheeks and I have to look away from him. The candlelight and the hour of the evening makes this feel more intimate than it should, given the way Rhysand looks like he might burst out of his skin. I certainly shouldn’t be entertaining the idea that Azriel would look at me as anything other than a means to an end. Hope is too dangerous a thing to have right now. Just because we agreed to do this, doesn’t mean they’re anxious to accept me as anything other than help. Besides, I need to remind myself that it will be even more dangerous for us than it already is if we were to acknowledge the bond.

 “We were careful, no one saw us,” Azriel assures.

I should be relieved that they’re being safe about it, but the frown on Rhysand’s face makes me rethink it.

“What the hell were you thinking back there?!” He snarls.

Normally, that kind of outburst from a male would make me jump back in surprise, but at this point I’m too exhausted to move, let alone figure out what the hell he’s referring to. “I’ve had a lot of thoughts today, Rhysand, you will have to be more specific.”

The chain rattles around his neck as he steps further into the room, like it's fighting to hold back his powers. “Your bet with Hybern!”

Ah, right. That. “What of it?” Is he really still upset about that? Cassian won, nothing was lost.

Azriel winces and the shadow at my ear hisses in warning. 

“What of it?” He repeats, his voice rising to an octave just shy of shrill, like he can’t believe he heard me right. “You can’t just offer yourself up like that!”

“And what was my alternative?”

“He gave you an alternative!” He seethes. “All you had to do was say yes!”

I fold my arms over my chest in irritation, but I don’t miss the way both their eyes dip to my chest at the motion. “Oh so it’s ok for you to put your body on the line, but I can’t do the same with my own? Seems a little hypocritical, if you ask me.”

“That’s different!”

“How so?”

He’s inched his way into my space step by step, until I’m very aware of the jasmine and citrus scent of him. Sometime after he returned home he’d changed into the clothes I’d had laid out for him, the swirl of ink along his chest just barely poking out around the dark collar. Even hidden, the urge to reach out with my hands and trace the swirls with my fingers remains. 

“Because,” he says through his teeth. “It’s not a deal I can live with.”

“You don’t have to live with it because Cassian won anyway,” I retort, tearing my gaze away to look at Azriel. Rhysand is too close to me like this. I can barely think past the urge to touch him, let alone hold the argument like I need to. “Tell him he’s being ridiculous.”

Azriel folds his arms over his chest and frowns. “He’s not. You shouldn’t have made that deal.”

I throw my hands up and push past Rhysand, trying to give myself room to breathe. “You two are impossible!”

They follow like I’m still holding onto their leashes, footsteps somehow impossibly silent despite their size.  

“You’re honestly going to stand there and tell me you’d rather I offered you up to Amarantha?”

“If it meant you were safe,” Rhysand snarls. “Yes.”

I find myself gritting my teeth, a snarl working its way up my throat. “Well that’s not a deal I could live with, Rhysand.” 

Their legs are a hell of a lot longer than mine, Rhysand manages to snag my arm and turn me back around to face him before I make it more than three steps into the darkness of my chambers. 

His face looks strained, eyes rimmed red. He has to be exhausted. The bond feels fragile, strained from all the emotions that have been blared down it today. “I need you to find a way to deal with it,” he says, voice verging on pleading. 

I hate myself, but I can’t help but wonder what the hand holding onto my bicep would feel like travelling down the rest of my body. 

“Whatever you have to tell yourself, whatever you have to do, I… We need you to find a way to live with it.”

Azriel comes to stand on the other side of him, so they’re nearly shoulder to shoulder. “If Cass had lost and you had to…” even in the dim light coming from the bathroom I can see the heaviness in his eyes. 

I glance back and forth between them. “You’ve all suffered enough, I can handle myself. I knew what I was doing.”

Rhysand shakes his head, “I can bear a lot of things, but not that.”

Hope is a cruel bastard, and I’ve never learned to master it. “Why? What does it matter to you?”

He lifts the hand not holding onto my arm, fingers just barely brushing over my damp cheek and my heartbeat is suddenly very loud in my own ears. His mouth opens like he might say something, and then he clamps it shut again, debating with himself over the words.

While he can’t seem to find the words, Azriel’s scarred hand reaches out to gently grab my chin and tilt my face in his direction. “It matters,” he huffs, voice low and rich and the reverberations of it send shivers down my spine. “Because you’re our mate.”

------

Author's Note: Hehe was gonna wait for the reveal at the end but couldn't bring myself to do it. Let me know what you thought about it! And as always, if you want to be added to the taglist, let me know :)

@sirenpearldust, @saltedcoffeescotch, @littlemissfix-itfic, @waka-babe, @raisam

//

@anainkandpaper, @rafeecameronsbitch, @whothehelliskayleigh, @lifetobeareader, @blimpintime,

//

@hjgdhghoe, @krowiathemythologynerd, @urfunnyvalentin3, @mack234-blog1, @kissfromnovalie

//

@marrass , @lia-h-r, @celestialzdiviner, @daughterofthemoons-stuff, @tenshis-cake,

//

@of-outerspace, @erencvlt, @corvusmorte, @lindsayjoy444,

[coolestork]

Of Darkness and Danger

Konrad Curze x Reader (Filthy FILTHY Smut)

-

Description: You offer yourself to darkness, not knowing fully what it entails.

Note: First smut eveeeeer, hopefully it's dirty enough. Leave a comment if you'd like to be fed more porn. ʕ •̀ω•́ ʔ✧

-

You sought him out, knowing full well that this could be your ruin. Not for power, not for survival, but for the raw feeling of surrender—to let the abyss swallow you whole and make you feel something real, no matter how dangerous. It was madness, perhaps, but it was your madness.

The halls leading to his chamber had been silent but oppressive, as though the stone itself recoiled from his presence. Each step closer had pulled your breath thinner, your heart racing faster. And when you reached the threshold, standing before the heavy iron door, you hesitated only for a moment.

You were offering yourself to the monster, hoping that in the consumption, something of you might finally feel whole.

The room was suffocatingly dark, lit only by faint, flickering luminors casting jagged shadows across the cold stone walls. You couldn’t see him, not at first—but you could feel him. His presence was oppressive, a suffocating weight that made your skin crawl. The air crackled with a predatory charge, and you knew he was watching you, his piercing, cold gaze slicing through the darkness.

“You shouldn’t be here,” came his voice, low and venomous, dripping with malice and a hint of amusement. “And yet, here you are, trembling like a cornered lamb. Tell me, little one—did you come here to beg? To tempt the monster in the shadows?”

Before you could answer, he was there, his towering frame materializing out of the darkness. Konrad Curze loomed over you, a living nightmare cloaked in obsidian armor etched with screaming faces. His pale, deathly face twisted into a cruel smirk as he reached out, his gauntleted hand gripping your jaw with enough force to make you gasp.

“You cower,” he hissed, leaning in close, his breath brushing your ear as he whispered, “Is it fear… or something darker?” His sharp, elongated teeth caught the dim light as he grinned, his blackened eyes narrowing. “You’re scared of me, aren’t you? I can smell it on you—the way your body betrays you.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He never would. Konrad’s massive hands tore at your clothing with calculated cruelty, the fabric shredding under his talons like paper. His claws scraped against your skin, just enough to sting but not to draw blood—yet. “Look at you,” he growled, tilting his head as though inspecting prey. “So fragile. So breakable. It would be so easy…”

His hand slipped lower, wrapping around your throat, his claws pressing lightly against your skin. He didn’t squeeze—he didn’t have to. The sheer size of his hand, the icy grip of his fingers, was enough to make you shudder. “You like this,” he murmured darkly, his voice a low, mocking purr. “You like the danger, the pain. You want to be consumed by the darkness, don’t you?”

When he finally pushed you onto the cold stone floor, his massive frame pinned you down, his armored weight pressing into you.

“You’re so small,” he sneered, his massive hands gripping your hips and dragging you into position as though you weighed nothing. “So weak. And yet, you dare to offer yourself to me? Foolish little thing.”

Standing up, Curze disarmed with eerie grace, each motion deliberate and predatory. The hiss of depressurizing seals echoed as he released his collar, shadows dancing over the midnight blue of his warplate. Plates shifted and fell away, revealing scarred, sinewy flesh pale as death itself.

Gauntlets clattered to the floor, his bare, clawed fingers flexing—no less lethal without their armor. The chestplate followed, exposing a lean, scarred torso carved by violence and hardship. Each breath pulled taut against his ribs, his body a grim testament to survival.

Piece by piece, the greaves and thigh plates followed, his movements slow and methodical. Dark, sweat-matted hair clung to his temples, framing a gaunt face with hollowed cheekbones and eyes that burned with unsettling intensity.

Stripped of his warplate, he was no less menacing, dangerous even when bared to the bone.

His cock was enormous, the sheer size of it making you gasp in both fear and anticipation. He laughed, a low, guttural sound that sent chills down your spine. “Do you see it?” he taunted, running the blunt head along your entrance. “Do you realize what you’ve begged for? What it will do to you?”

He didn’t ease into you—there was no patience, no tenderness. He forced himself inside you with a savage growl, reveling in the way your body struggled to accommodate him. The stretch was immediate and brutal. “Look at you,” he snarled, his hands bruising your hips as he began to thrust.

Each thrust was punishing, his pace relentless as he drove deeper, his cock stretching you so completely that you couldn’t form words, only broken gasps and cries. He leaned down, his sharp teeth grazing your throat as he whispered, “Scream for me, girl.”

Konrad's breath was hot against your ear, the edges of his voice sharp with cruelty. "How shameful," he rasped darkly, each brutal thrust drawing out a sharp gasp from your lips. "Taking me so well… stretched open and ruined, as it is meant to be."

He chuckled lowly, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. "What’s the matter?" he taunted softly. "Can't even speak? Good. All I want to hear are those broken little sounds."

His pace was merciless, every snap of his hips deliberate and punishing. "Do you feel it?" he whispered, voice thick with sadistic pleasure, a twisted purr. "How full you are? I can feel how tight you're clenching around me... trying to keep every bit of it inside."

A guttural snarl broke free as he slammed deep, his body shuddering violently. "That's it," he breathed against your trembling skin.

His release hit like a dam breaking, a torrent of molten heat flooding your insides with brutal, unrelenting force. His cock throbbed violently, each pulse sending another thick surge deep into you, filling you until you swore you could feel it spilling into places it shouldn’t reach. The sheer size of him, combined with the relentless ache of his brutal pace, left you stretched beyond reason, and yet he buried himself deeper still, grinding his hips against yours to keep every drop inside. His growl reverberated through your body, low and guttural, as if dragged from the depths of his twisted soul, a sound of victory, of possession.

The slick, obscene mess of it was inescapable, seeping out around the thick base of his cock even as he refused to pull out. He pressed down on your stomach with a clawed hand, his palm rough and unyielding as though savoring the way his seed filled you to the brim. “Feel that?” he rasped, his voice dark and low, as if speaking to himself more than to you. “That’s me. All of me.” His claws scraped along the skin of your hips, leaving faint, bloody trails as he held you in place. The wet, filthy squelch of him inside you was obscene, every twitch and grind forcing another involuntary clench around him, dragging a cruel laugh from his lips.

It didn’t stop—he didn’t stop. Even as his release slowed, it came in smaller, possessive spurts, as though his body refused to let you go until he’d marked every inch of you from the inside out. His hips rolled lazily now, pushing his cum deeper, ensuring that nothing went to waste. “You’ll feel me for days,” he hissed, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. “Every step, every breath—you’ll know what I’ve done to you.” His claws trailed down, gathering the slick mix of your fluids from where it leaked out around him, smearing it deliberately along your thighs, your stomach, as though marking you was an extension of his claim.

When he finally pulled out, it was slow and deliberate, as if savoring the way your body clung to him, reluctant to release him despite the stretch and ache. His cock dragged against your raw, oversensitive walls, and as he slipped free, a thick gush of his cum followed, spilling out of you in sticky rivulets. His eyes narrowed in satisfaction, watching as the mess coated your thighs and the ground beneath you. He dragged two fingers through the mess, spreading it across your skin with deliberate cruelty before shoving his fingers into your mouth, forcing you to taste the aftermath of his debauchery. “Swallow,” he commanded, his voice a venomous whisper. “Know your place. Know me.”

-

Note: a lil sum sum for you corrupted souls. ILY.

[millionsknives]

‘the last thing i want is to be a burden on him’ my brother in christ you have led the lamb to the slaughter and laid him down on the altar

[everythingseasoning]

UPDATED MASTERLIST (where I’ll be updating chapters) // the following post is outdated.

Something More - Series Masterlist

Pairing: Sorcerer Geto x Non Sorcerer reader. Sorcerer Gojo x Non Sorcerer reader. Only one ship will prevail, and this is the story of Suguru being saved. It’s riddled with angst, it’s messy, and it’s so difficult, but it’s realistic.

Author’s Note: Pre Series: Hey all! We will be exploring themes of grief (all three characters will really go through it), jealousy, possible manipulation (done out of good intent, question mark), Satoru starting to learn about what connection beyond Jujutsu and Suguru is, the tide of darkness that threatens to overtake Suguru, what it takes to save Suguru, Satoru beginning to learn that he’s more than a weapon, and more. Satoru heavy in the beginning, Suguru heavy in the middle. Chapters will be lengthy, but it’s worth it. Hope you come along for the ride :) My second series will follow up with a new reader, and Satoru, and it will be a continuation of this story, but with different main characters.

Premise: Suguru never stopped loving you. He’d broken up with you, but that was to protect you. He wouldn’t involve you in his dangerous life anymore. One year later, and it’s evident that he’d still ruin himself for you, in every single way. After the breakup, you’ve become a curse magnet, and Suguru is distracted, worried. He keeps messing up in missions, seeing you in every civilian. He keeps leaving in the middle of training, just to watch you secretly from afar, exorcising those curses on your shoulders, making sure you’re okay. Satoru, on the other hand, is annoyed. He wants Suguru to get his head back in the game. Determined to figure out a solution to the problem of you, Satoru starts to secretly visit you at your workplace, the local cafe. He spends time with you, trying to figure out why curses flock around you. But Satoru gets an unexpected surprise, when he realizes he’s catching feelings for you, too.

Themes: Ego death. Coming back from a spiral through support, love, time, more. Non Defection AU (reader helps Geto through dark times), Geto is a teacher at Jujutsu Tech! // Learning that you’re more than what you were raised to be. Gojo doesn’t understand love *yet.* Gojo having a peak into a kind of human connection that goes beyond his conditioning. // Depictions of Grief, Angst, Jealousy, Betrayal, Reconnection, Developing Self-Identity and Dreams //

Tags: Geto was your loving ex. Reconnection. // Love Triangle, Slow burn, Eventual Sailed Ship // 21+ main characters (Riko and Haibara’s death is pushed back a few years)

Status: ongoing

Word Count:

Warnings: Swearing. Canon violence. Eventual smut (ch. __). Kidnapping (by a curse). Mature themes, viewer discretion is advised.

[JJK Masterlist]

ch. 01 | The Person In The Cafe (outlined)

ch. 02 | Second First Date, Question Mark (outlining)

ch. 03 | Warm / CLASH (outlining)

ch. 04 | Weaknesses, Weaknesses (outlining)

ch. 05 | Cursed Either Way

ch. 06 | ‘You’re A Shitty Teacher’ - First Lesson

ch. 07 | Sudden Death. What Was I Made For?

ch. 08 | Picking Up The Pieces - ‘Just Hold Them In Your Hands’

ch. 09 | What Are We?

ch. 10 | Slaughter Of The Lambs / Crushed To The Darkest Depths (Suguru’s POV)

ch. 11 | Don’t You Dare

ch. 12 | —Saved.

ch. 13 | Put One Foot Forward (mature)

ch. 14 | A Hundred Kilometers Backwards

ch. 15 | I’m Going To Get Them Back

ch. 16 | Bodyguards And New Fates

ch. 17 | Sunrise And Acceptance (mature)

ch. 18 | Back To Everything And Nothing / Forever Love, Tied Knots

bonus: ch. 19 | Don’t Give Up Anymore / Chance To Be Me / Evermore (Satoru’s POV)

Reblogs, Feedback/Comments are Highly Appreciated!

Tag List ( Comment to be added :)

Background Info || Asks || Feedback and Love ||

Author’s Note: Post Series:

Spinoff Series: Story’s Not Over (featuring the other lead)

[oceandolores]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | chapter 20

dbf!joel miller x female reader

"You poor thing, sweet, mourning lamb. There's nothing you can do."

summary: negan show you his true colors

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, pedophilia, cannibalism, human trafficking, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 20

masterlist!

previous | chapter 19

next | chapter 21

The chill seeped into your bones, spreading slowly through your veins until you felt almost numb, the dampness clinging to you like despair itself.

Every heartbeat was a labor, each breath a painful reminder of the ache that pulsed through you, but worse than the physical pain was the yawning emptiness in your chest—the thought that you might never see Joel again.

It was a raw, hollow ache, a sharp pang of grief you couldn’t push away. You knew that you were on the edge, slipping closer to oblivion, but there was one last thing you needed to do, one final message that could reach him if somehow, in a miracle, it found its way.

Weakly, you took a scrap of paper you’d found buried under debris, your shaking hand struggling to hold onto the pen as you pressed it to the paper.

With every ounce of strength left in you, you began to write, letting your soul spill out in those last, broken words. Each line held the weight of the love you’d carried, a love too big, too deep, to die even in this place.

You thought back to that very first meeting, back when his voice was a gentle lull that wrapped around you, soothing away years of pain. He had been your only light, your guiding star in a night that had grown so, so dark.

You loved him fiercely, with a loyalty born of survival, a love that had grown in the cracks of your brokenness. And even now, at the end of it all, that love was unbreakable.

"To my love, Joel," you began, words blurring as tears welled up, spilling over the edges of your bruised eyes.

 "I don’t know if you’ll ever see this, but if you do, know that you have been everything to me. You gave me life in a way no one else ever did. For every moment, every touch, every look, I thank you. You loved me with a love I had never known, a love that carried me through this world when I didn’t know how to stand on my own."

You paused, gathering strength, your chest rising in shallow breaths, and continued, letting the words flow with the quiet intensity of a prayer.

"I never blamed you, Joel, not for anything. I know about the things you did, the choices you made. And I want you to know that it's okay—I understand. You were trying to protect me, even if it meant walking through the fire. You did what you had to do to keep me safe, and I could never judge you for that. If anything, I thank you for it. You are my protector, my guardian, my love."

The memory of him, every part of him—the way he’d pull you close, the warmth of his hand on yours, the steady beat of his heart as you lay together in the quiet—flashed through your mind.

"I pray for you, Joel. Every night, every moment I have left, I pray. I pray for your peace, for your strength, that God may keep you safe and lead you out of this darkness. I know I’m not there to hold your hand, but you have my heart, and it’s with you always, no matter what."

You could feel your own heartbeat slowing, your strength fading, but you forced your fingers to keep moving across the paper, etching the last of your soul into each word, a final testament to a love that would outlast even this.

"If you read this now it means I found you. I found you just to tell you that I made it real far, Joel. I never blamed you for loving me the way that you did. And while you were torn apart, I would still wait with you there, no matter the cost."

The weight of your words pressed down on you as you neared the end, each sentence a painful goodbye.

"Don’t think about it too hard, honey. Or you’ll never sleep a wink at night again. Don’t worry about me or these green eyes, baby. Just know that I love you. And I’ll see you when you get here."

A single tear slipped down, leaving a trail on the ink as it dried, forever a mark of the sorrow you’d carried for him, even here, even now.

"I love you forever, Joel," you scrawled at the end, closing the letter as if it were a prayer sealed with your own heart’s blood.

You looked at it for a moment, each word a testament of your devotion, the truest thing you had ever written. And as you pressed it close to your chest, you whispered a quiet vow, hoping he could somehow feel it—wherever he was, wherever you were.

"You’ll always have me with you, Joel. In your heart, in your soul. Every breath you take, I'll always be with you. Don’t ever blame yourself. You were my savior, my love. I forgive you, and I love you. I love you. I will always love you. Always."

"Good night, my love. I'll see you soon."

you whisper as you wrote, voice trembling, as if even the air itself could carry those words to him, beyond the walls of this hell, across the endless miles between you.

It hurts, knowing this letter is a goodbye, your last way of leaving a piece of yourself with him, in case you can’t make it.

You’ve always been afraid of dying, a fear so deeply rooted that it seemed impossible to unearth. But now, lying here, battered and bruised, it isn’t death that scares you—it’s the thought of never seeing him again, of leaving this world without his arms around you one last time.

Your mind drifts back to the memories of him, the warmth of his steady embrace that felt like home, his hands worn yet gentle, holding you with a kind of care you’d never known.

Joel, with his brown eyes that looked at you like you were his whole world, like you were something worth saving, worth loving. His voice echoes in your mind, gravelly and low, calming in a way that made you feel safe no matter how dark the world seemed.

You think of the way he’d call you his "doll," "babygirl," a name that melted the armor around your heart every time.

The pain in your body fades, giving way to a softness as you sink into memories. You can feel the ghost of his touch, his arms wrapped around you, as though his warmth could chase away even this darkness.

His laughter fills your mind, and in its sound, you find a strange peace, a comfort that holds you like his arms once did.

In the silence, you let yourself feel the depth of your love for him, a love so fierce it made you feel like you could rise again, like every wound, every hurt could be forgotten if it meant one more chance to see him.

You think of the nights spent curled beside him, his breathing soft and steady beside you, each rise and fall like a lullaby just for you.

His love was the one beautiful thing in a broken world, a light that shone even now, against all odds.

Your body aches, each breath heavy, but as you let yourself fall deeper into his memory, you feel something like calm. The shadows around you blur, your mind slipping into that in-between place where pain and peace blend.

Joel is still there, in your thoughts, his face the last thing you hold onto as the darkness begins to take you. You feel yourself slipping, surrendering to the pull of exhaustion.

And with that, you let go, letting yourself drift into that soft, you need a sleep for a while, you feel his warmth surround you one last time.

***

Emma stumbled back into her apartment, her hands shaking as she slammed the door shut behind her. Panic thundered in her chest, her breaths coming too fast, her mind racing through everything she’d just seen—your face, your desperate plea, the bruises darkening your skin. She could barely process it all.

“What happened?” Jim’s voice broke through, his brow furrowing as he stepped toward her.

She searched for her phone, fingers clumsy as she threw aside bags, tossed papers, looking. “Jim, I—I found her. I found her,” she whispered, her words barely more than a gasp.

“Who?” Jim asked, reaching out to steady her. “Emma, who did you find?”

“Her, Jim. Get my fucking phone!” she demanded, desperate. She couldn’t stop now—not when she was this close. Jim didn’t ask questions, immediately helping her search through the mess scattered across the counter.

The moment her hand closed around her phone, she pulled up Tommy’s number, dialing so fast her thumb nearly missed the button. The first call went to voicemail, and she cursed under her breath. “Pick up,” she hissed, “please, just pick up…”

On the second ring, Tommy answered. “Emma?”

“Tommy.” Her voice broke, raw with relief and desperation. “I found her. I found her.”

“What? What are you talking about?” Tommy asked, voice thick with confusion. “Is Joel with you?” Emma asked. "No, where is she?"

"She’s in California. You need to get here, now, both of you. She’s… worse, Tommy, she’s in real bad shape. I don't know how long she can make it.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Tommy stammered, trying to catch up. “She’s in California? How the hell did you—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she snapped, cutting him off. “The man who took her is Negan Smith. Me and Jim are getting his address now. We’re going to look for her, but she told me to tell you—tell Joel she’s waiting. Please, Tommy, don’t waste time, just get your fucking ass here!”

The line went silent, and she held her breath, hoping Tommy could understand the urgency. Finally, he spoke, steady but heavy with something like relief and terror all at once. “We’re coming.”

Tommy clicked off the call, his hands still clenched around the phone, trying to wrap his mind around Emma’s words. California. So far away.

He dialed Joel, only for it to go to voicemail. “Dammit, Joel, where are you?” He tried Frank next, desperate, hoping he’d find him there, but no answer.

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, Joel paced another faceless motel, this one in Arizona. He felt lost, like he was sinking deeper and deeper into a void where every day took him farther from you.

Each motel, each new face at the reception, each empty hallway echoed with his failure. His whole body ached with the weight of it, the guilt that clawed at his heart every time he looked around and realized you weren’t there.

The reception bell jingled as he approached the counter. He didn’t even know what he was hoping to find anymore—just some scrap, any hint of you he could hold onto.

But then his phone buzzed, and Tommy’s name flashed across the screen. Joel felt his pulse spike, something instinctive telling him this was it, that there was news. He picked up, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Hello?”

“Joel, I know where she is.”

The words struck him like a blow to the chest. His heart plummeted, hope surging painfully against the fear that threatened to choke him. “What? Is she… Is she alive?”

“Yes, Joel,” Tommy’s voice was thick, strained. “Emma found her, she’s in California. She saw her, talked to her. She’s with a man named Negan Smith.”

Negan.

That name seared through him like a brand, snapping everything into painful clarity. Negan. He remembered you talking about him, the creepy guy, the shadow he’d ignored.

Rage bubbled up, fierce and raw, as he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. For missing it when you’d been right there, telling him about this man.

Without another word, Joel bolted from the lobby and strode across the parking lot, his mind consumed with the drive to reach you, to finally bring you home.

He’d torn the world apart already, but now it felt like nothing would be enough until you were safe, back in his arms.

“Where are you?” Tommy asked, voice taut.

“Arizona. It’s a nine-hour drive to California.” He heard Tommy’s exasperated sigh through the line.

“That’s too long, Joel. You need to get there fast. Emma’s working on getting his address.”

“I’ll book a flight tonight,” Joel replied, his tone fierce, unwavering. “You call the cops, Tommy. I don’t fucking care what you have to do, just get them there. I need to get her.”

He hung up, his pulse hammering as he strode into the night.

Joel drove through the night, his heart pounding in rhythm with the steady hum of the engine. The world outside was a blur of dark shadows and streaked lights, but his mind—his mind was full of you.

Images of you flooded his thoughts: your laughter echoing softly like a melody he’d heard a lifetime ago, the way your eyes lit up when you looked at him, the warmth of your touch, gentle and steady, grounding him like nothing else could.

And now, knowing you were out there, alone, with that monster… the thought tore him apart.

Anger rose like a firestorm within him, burning hot and consuming, and it took every ounce of control not to press down on the accelerator, not to tear through the night faster, harder. He needed to be there now, not hours from now.

Every second felt like an eternity wasted. The image of Negan’s face—the face he’d missed, ignored—came to him, filling him with a fury he didn’t know he was capable of.

The man who’d stolen you, who’d dared to lay a hand on you… Joel’s hands clenched tightly around the wheel, his knuckles white with the force of his grip.

He thought of you and the memories that had kept him going this far: the nights you’d whispered your fears to him, the way you’d leaned into him when things got tough, and that look in your eyes when you told him you loved him.

The love you’d shown him was like light pouring through the cracks in his broken heart, filling him with a warmth he hadn’t felt in years. And he’d failed you—he’d let you slip away into darkness when he should have known, should have seen.

In between the flashes of rage and regret, fear twisted through him like a silent, cold shadow. What if he was too late? The thought clawed at his chest, each passing mile stretching that possibility, and he cursed himself for every second he hadn’t realized the danger.

The thought of seeing you again both terrified and thrilled him—he feared the pain in your eyes, the hurt that would linger, yet he longed to hold you close, to know you were safe and back in his arms where he’d vowed to protect you.

Joel’s mind raced back to that promise he’d made himself—to shield you from harm, to give you the love, all the love you deserves. Now, he’d tear through hell and back for you, for a chance to fulfill it.

The streets stretched on before him, dark and endless, but his heart held one single, unbreakable truth: he would find you, he would take down anyone who stood in his way, and he would bring you back into his world—safe, whole, and loved.

***

Emma's nerves were already frayed as she and Jim pushed through the dim alleys and streets of Los Angeles, searching for any scrap of information on Negan Smith.

The city felt different tonight—empty and strange, almost like it was holding its breath. Los Angeles was supposed to be bustling, noisy, alive. But tonight, everything seemed quiet. Almost too quiet.

Emma gripped the flyer tighter, her eyes tracing over the worn, printed face—the photo of you that Joel’s friend Frank must’ve spread around the city.

Seeing your face printed on thin paper only made it all the more real, and the desperation clawed at her chest. She and Jim decided to split up, covering more ground quickly. Jim went downtown, and she pushed her way into a nearby bar.

The bar was a haze of dim lights and smoke, and Emma moved through it, flashing the flyer to anyone who would look her way. She repeated herself like a prayer, "Have you seen this girl? She’s missing—please, any information."

But most people ignored her or shook their heads. She was about to turn away when a voice broke through the noise.

"I saw her before,"

Emma spun around to find the speaker. A man in his fifties, dressed in a black leather jacket, his hair slicked back, eyes sharp. He gave her a slight, knowing smile, and it sparked something in her—a spark of hope or maybe just a flicker of relief. She approached him quickly, holding up the flyer.

“You’ve seen her?” she asked, her voice trembling.

He nodded, eyes flicking over the flyer with feigned casualness. “Yeah, I saw her working at a strip club downtown.” His voice was gravelly, the sort of voice that had seen a few lifetimes and wasn’t surprised by much.

Emma’s heart jolted at his words. “A strip club? Where? Please, I need to know where she is.”

“Relax,” he said, his voice a slow drawl. He waved a hand, motioning for her to follow. “It’s just a few blocks from here. Just follow me." He turned and began walking, a calm confidence in his stride.

Emma hesitated, glancing around the quiet bar. The shadows felt heavier, deeper, and she forced herself to push down the strange unease that was growing in her.

She had to follow him.

This was the first real lead she’d had. Taking a deep breath, she slipped her phone into her pocket, her hands clenching into fists as she trailed behind him.

They turned down narrow alleys and side streets, the noise of the city seeming to fade with every step. He moved with a steady purpose, leading her farther from the lights and crowds.

She could feel the sweat building on her palms, her pulse quickening as the buildings around them grew taller and more isolated. This didn’t feel right.

She looked over her shoulder once or twice, but there was no one else around. The sense of being followed lingered, like an itch she couldn’t shake.

"Where are we going?” she asked, her voice sharper than she’d intended.

“Just a little farther,” he replied smoothly, barely glancing back. “It’s right up ahead. Just around the corner.”

Emma hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to stop, to turn around, but she pushed the fear aside. She was so close. She couldn’t give up now.

They rounded another corner, and she stopped dead. The alley was empty, an eerie silence pressing in. She took a shaky step back.

“Where’s the club?” she whispered, her voice tight with fear.

The man turned slowly to face her, a small, sinister smile spreading across his face. He took a step forward, the shadows casting his face in sharp, menacing angles.

“You said you're looking for a guy name Negan too right?" "Look, this is your lucky day, sweetheart, I'm Negan."

Emma’s heart dropped as the realization hit her. She took a step back, eyes darting around for any escape route, she's trying to run, before anything else, Negan capture her and bang her head to the wall till she unconscious.

Meanwhile, Jim was scouring the downtown area, his heart pounding as he asked strangers, bartenders, shopkeepers if they’d seen you.

The emptiness of the streets gnawed at him, a chill creeping down his spine as he moved from one place to the next. There was something off about tonight, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He kept glancing around, feeling as if someone was watching him.

He checked his phone, hoping Emma had found something. Nothing. His heart hammered, a sense of dread building with each passing minute. He took a deep breath, shoving down the unease. He had to find you. Emma had to be okay.

Then, as he turned into another side street, something cold and sharp pressed against his back. Jim froze, his stomach dropping as a rough voice whispered into his ear.

“You should have kept out of this.”

And then, in an instant Negan snap his neck, everything went black.

***

A hazy fog clung to your senses as you opened your eyes, your vision flickering, swimming in and out as you tried to grasp onto reality. Pain throbbed in your temples, like distant thunder echoing in your head.

Slowly, the room around you settled into shape, and you took in the familiar darkness, the cold, damp walls of the basement—the place you had been trapped for what felt like forever.

Then, like a sharp, jarring note that shattered the silence, you heard it—a scream. It was high-pitched, frantic, echoing in the room. A woman’s voice, raw with terror, but somehow familiar.

And then Negan’s low, mocking laugh cut through the air, making your heart slam against your chest.

“Wake up, princess,” he drawled, his voice laced with twisted amusement. “Look who I got for you.”

You blinked, forcing the blurriness to subside as you pushed yourself up, still dizzy, still groggy. When your gaze finally focused, a sick, cold dread washed over you.

Tied to one of the basement’s support beams, her hands bound cruelly behind her, her ankles tied together, was Emma.

A dirty cloth gag was tied around her mouth, stifling her desperate pleas, her eyes wide and red-rimmed with terror as she looked at you.

“No, no, no…” you choked out, the word falling from your lips like a shattered promise. Emma—Negan had her.

A wave of nausea twisted in your stomach as you struggled against your own bindings, but they were unyielding. It was all your fault. Emma had come looking for you, and now she was trapped here, in this dark hell.

Negan crouched beside her, a smug, dark glint in his eyes as he watched your horror unfold. “Got you your best friend,” he sneered, his lips pulling back in a twisted smile. “Seems like little Miss Detective here thought she could play hero. Isn’t that cute?”

Your voice cracked as you struggled to find words. “Let her go,” you managed to say, your voice wavering but resolute, despite the terror coursing through your veins. “Please… let her go.”

Negan chuckled, ignoring your plea as he grabbed a fistful of Emma’s hair, yanking her head back so she was forced to look up at him. The cruel grip made her wince, but her gaze flicked to you, desperate, pleading.

It was like a dagger twisting in your chest, knowing that you were helpless to protect her, that she was suffering because of you.

“Oh, sweetheart, you don’t get to make demands here,” Negan said, his tone mocking, dripping with venom. He dragged Emma’s head to the side, making sure she could see you, as if enjoying the torment on both your faces.

“This one? She came looking for you. Sniffing around like a lost puppy. Now she gets to stay a while.”

Emma’s gaze locked onto yours, her eyes wild with fear, and in them, you could see all the questions she couldn’t ask aloud, all the pain she was enduring. Tears pricked at your own eyes as guilt crashed over you like a wave, suffocating and cold.

“You… you don’t have to do this,” you pleaded, your voice shaking, but Negan merely chuckled, shaking his head with a look of cruel amusement.

“Oh, but I want to,” he murmured, his hand still tangled in Emma’s hair. His fingers tightened, making her gasp in pain. “She thought she was clever, thought she could outsmart me. So I think it’s only fair she learns the consequences of getting involved in things she doesn’t understand.”

The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as panic clawed at you. Your heart pounded painfully, and you could feel every beat echoing in your ribs like a warning, a reminder of how fragile this moment was, how everything could break in an instant.

Your mind raced, every thought a frantic, spiraling whirlwind of despair and helplessness. How had it come to this? How had you become so powerless, so trapped, that even trying to save a friend only brought them harm?

You couldn’t breathe. The thought of Negan turning his sadistic focus on Emma was unbearable. She didn’t deserve this—none of it. She’d come to help, risking everything just to find you, and now… now she was here, locked in this nightmare with you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking as you looked up at Negan, hating the vulnerability in your eyes, the tears you couldn’t hold back. “Please… just let her go. She doesn’t deserve this. None of this is her fault.”

Negan laughed softly, a sound that seemed to crawl up the walls, filling every shadowed corner. “Fault?” he echoed mockingly. “Oh, princess, I don’t care about who’s at fault. This isn’t about fairness. It’s about reminding you that you belong to me now. And she’s just the price of your little rebellion.”

You could feel the desperation clawing at you, suffocating, as if your lungs were filling with ice. Every fiber of your being ached to scream, to fight, to do anything to break free and protect Emma, but you were trapped, chained by the twisted, nightmarish rules of this place, this man.

Negan knelt down beside Emma, his hand still gripping her hair as he leaned in close, his voice soft but dripping with malice. “Now, don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll have plenty of time to talk things over with your friend here. It’s going to be a long night.” His smirk widened as he released Emma, standing up and dusting his hands off with mock satisfaction.

Your voice cracked as you begged, desperation spilling out of you like blood from an open wound. “Don’t touch her! Please, Negan, I beg you. I’ll do anything—just please let her go. Please.”

But he only smirked, a twisted, satisfied glint in his eyes. “Oh, now you’re begging? Did you already forget you killed my child?” His voice was venomous, laced with resentment that had simmered far too long.

And then his fist met your stomach with brutal force, and you doubled over, gasping as pain radiated through your body, so sharp and consuming it left you breathless.

Emma’s muffled scream echoed through the darkened basement, desperate and broken as she watched you suffer. She was struggling against her bindings, but there was nothing she could do, no way to stop what was happening.

Negan only laughed, his voice mocking, cruel. “You didn’t think your actions would have consequences, huh?” He punctuated his words with another savage kick, sending a fresh surge of agony through you.

“You… need to be taught a lesson. Acting like a fucking brat,” he sneered, grabbing your hair and yanking your head up, forcing you to look at him. His eyes gleamed with sadistic satisfaction as he added, “You know what happens to those who try to defy me?”

And then he threw you across the room like you were nothing, his rage boiling over as he stormed out, his footsteps echoing up the stairs. You lay there, every nerve in your body alight with pain, each breath a struggle.

But as soon as the door closed, you forced yourself to move, to drag your broken, battered body across the floor to Emma. You could hear her desperate, panicked breaths as you reached her and pulled the cloth from her mouth.

“Oh my god, oh my god…” Emma whispered, her voice shaking as she looked at you, eyes wide and glistening with tears. “We need to get out of here. Grab my phone. Call Tommy, now!”

With trembling hands, you grabbed her phone from her pocket, your heart racing as you dialed. Every second felt like a lifetime, each beat of your heart thundering louder in your ears.

And then, as the call began to connect, your breath hitched—a new call was coming in. An unknown number.

You answered without thinking, and your heart nearly stopped at the sound on the other end. That voice, the voice you’d dreamt of, longed for. A voice you had feared you’d never hear again.

“Emma? It’s Joel. Where are you? I’m heading to California tonight, I—”

“Joel.” Your voice broke as you whispered his name, and on the other end, he fell silent.

Time itself seemed to stop as Joel processed the sound of your voice. For so long, he had feared this moment, had dreaded that he’d never hear you again, never have the chance to hold you, protect you.

And now, hearing your voice—shaken, scared, but alive—struck him to his core. You were his heart, his soul, the person he’d die for without a second thought. Every ounce of guilt, every sleepless night, every sacrifice was for you.

“Doll,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Doll, where are you?”

Tears poured down your face as you choked out, “Joel, please, please… come now. I need you, Joel. Please, I need you.” Your words were desperate, trembling, but somehow, they made him feel stronger, more determined. He couldn’t lose you—not now, not ever.

“Baby,” Joel’s voice softened, his own panic barely masked as he struggled to stay calm for you. “Tell me, where are you? Do you know?”

“He got Emma,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “He has us both, Joel, please… he’s hurting her, he’s… Joel, I need you.”

His voice was tender but firm, a quiet strength weaving through each word as he spoke. “I’m coming to save you, darlin’. I won’t let anything happen to you, I swear it. I’ll never let you go again. Just… just hang on for me, alright? Stay strong, baby. You’re gonna be okay. I promise you, I’ll save you.”

You could hear the worry threading his voice, but his words wrapped around you, a fragile shield against the darkness that threatened to consume you.

“I’m scared, Joel,” you sobbed, unable to hold back the fear anymore, the terror clawing its way up your throat. “I’m so scared.”

“I know, baby, I know,” he whispered, voice breaking slightly as he struggled to hold it together. “But you’re strong, remember? You’re stronger than anyone I know. Just hold on, okay? I’ll be there before you know it. Don’t be afraid. I love you, baby. Just… hold on for me.”

You clutched the phone, drawing strength from his words, the promise of his love steadying you. You closed your eyes, holding onto his voice like a lifeline, but then—Negan’s footsteps thundered back down the stairs.

Before you could react, he wrenched the phone from your hand, tearing Joel’s voice from your ear.

“NO!” you screamed, reaching out, but Negan shoved you back with a cruel laugh, bringing the phone to his ear.

“Well, well, well… look who it is.” His voice was dripping with malice, savoring every second. Joel’s voice, faint but seething with fury, crackled through the line. “I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill you, you bastard. You lay a hand on her, and I swear—”

Negan grinned, his eyes glinting with dark satisfaction. “Oh, you’ve got a mouth on you. I’ll be sure to let her know how much you care, right before I break her. You’re too late, Miller.”

Negan’s laugh echoed through the dimly lit basement, twisting around you like thick smoke, suffocating and inescapable. He tossed Emma's phone onto the floor with a careless flick, then turned his gaze to you, eyes gleaming with a sick thrill as he dragged you closer, his grip merciless.

Fist after brutal fist connected with your ribs, your cheek, your stomach, each strike dulling your senses as you felt yourself sinking into a haze of pain, your breaths shallow and gasping.

Emma’s voice cracked through the brutality, a desperate, pleading cry. “No! Stop it! Stop it!” Her words barely seemed to reach him, her voice like a whisper lost in a hurricane as he continued to beat you, his face contorted with a twisted, frustrated rage.

“Can you just stop disobeying me, for god’s sake?” Negan’s voice was vicious, laced with a fury that seemed to have no end. “You were so fucking good this year!”

You could barely hold yourself upright as he finally threw you back, the cold, hard floor against your bruised skin like ice on a burn.

You crawled toward Emma, each movement a struggle, forcing yourself to meet her terrified eyes as you tried to breathe through the pain. Negan’s voice brought you both back to the nightmare at hand.

“Oh, I kept this for a long time, as souvenir when I found them,” he drawled, hauling a large, worn burlap sack into view, his eyes dancing with a twisted delight.

“Wanted to show you something. You might recognize them… thought they looked good in my freezer.”

Your body tensed, dread crawling up your spine as he reached into the sack, the slow, sick satisfaction on his face a silent promise of horror.

He pulled something out, the shape grotesque and heavy, and when he turned to show you, the sight struck you like lightning.

In his right hand dangled Pastor Ben’s head, eyes frozen in a lifeless, glassy stare, his mouth twisted into a grotesque half-scream. And in his left, Jamie’s head, his delicate features now haunting, locked in an expression of terror.

Blood, dark and coagulated, clung to their severed necks like rust, framing their faces in a sick parody of halos.

“Say hello to your little friends!” Negan taunted, waving the heads before you with a triumphant smirk.

You felt bile rise in your throat, the world spinning around you as nausea crashed over you in waves.

Emma’s scream shattered the silence, a piercing, helpless cry, and her eyes were wide with pure horror, her skin pale as she trembled beside you.

Negan grinned, savoring your reactions as if they were the finest applause. “I took their heads! Isn’t it lovely?” He leaned in closer, eyes boring into yours. “This is what you’ll end up as if you don’t learn to obey.”

His words cut through the haze, sharp and venomous, and you felt a surge of disgust, a sick revulsion that clawed at your insides. You barely had time to process it before Negan’s gaze shifted to you, a dark smirk twisting his lips.

“Oh, and sweetheart… how was the meat?”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest. No. No, it can’t be. Panic flared in your mind, snapping puzzle pieces together in a grotesque image you couldn’t bear to look at, and yet it was inescapable.

Every bite you’d taken, every piece of flesh that had crossed your lips—all of it now made sense in the most horrifying way.

Negan chuckled, watching the dawning horror spread across your face. “Oh, please, don’t look so shocked. The meat wasn’t them.” He smirked. “They were from some other girls… from Chicago, West Virginia. They tasted good, right?”

Emma’s face turned green as she doubled over, retching. You felt yourself recoil, the taste of bile in your mouth as every meal, every bite you’d ever taken under Negan’s watch replayed in your mind with sickening clarity.

The horror of it seeped into your bones, an all-consuming violation that made your skin crawl, like you could never be clean again.

“You’re… you’re sick,” you managed, voice trembling with disgust as you glared at him, the fury in your eyes a tiny flicker of defiance. “YOU ARE FUCKING SICK!"

Negan’s laugh filled the air, his amusement bright and mocking. “Oh, come on now—is that any way to speak to the man who’s fed you so well? You liked it, didn’t you?” His eyes glittered with a dark, twisted joy as he leaned closer, his voice a low, mocking whisper. “Every bite. You loved it.”

Your skin crawled, your mind reeling as you tried to comprehend the depth of his depravity. He was more than a monster—he was something far darker, something that defied words, something that preyed on the most innocent parts of you, staining them with his cruelty.

The basement had never felt darker. It swallowed you both, thick with the scent of rust and damp cement, as if the room itself was bleeding along with you.

Every word that left Negan’s mouth was poison, each syllable seeping into your skin, weighing down on you like the very air around you was suffocating, pressing you down with an invisible force that you couldn’t escape.

His laughter was hollow and sharp, echoing through the space like broken glass—each jagged shard settling into your bones.

Then, you felt something brush against your fingers: small, cool, metal. Emma’s trembling hand nudged a pair of scissors into yours. You didn’t know how she had managed to get hold of them, her hands bound and body weakened, but the feel of it, sharp and hidden between the two of you.

She was guiding them into your hand as Negan continued, his voice oily with satisfaction, oblivious.

His monologue washed over you like filth, each word sinking deeper into your mind, tainting you with his delusions. He was recounting the first time he had seen you, the twisted way he had painted your innocence into something dark and sick, a figure molded just for him.

 “When I saw you on that porch,” he whispered, his voice dropping lower, almost tender, “I knew you’d be the one to take care of me, in ways you didn’t even know you could…”

"I'll kill them all just for you, your parents, I was the one who saved you, not Joel fucking miller!"

The cold edge of the scissors grounded you, your grip tightening around them as you worked to free Emma’s wrists. She remained silent, her eyes locked on his, fear mingling with a fragile resolve as you both waited, breaths quiet, slow.

Negan’s smile widened, his eyes narrowing as he continued, his words punctuated by a grotesque sincerity. “We could start a family, sweetheart. I could give you a chance.” He leaned in, his voice now almost a whisper. “A daughter, maybe. She could take care of me… when you’re gone.”

Your stomach lurched, bile rising as his sick fantasy unveiled itself. Emma’s eyes met yours, wide and pleading, her lips forming the barest of a silent Now.

With a surge of adrenaline, you both lunged. Emma’s hands flew to his shoulders, pinning him with all the strength she could muster. Your arms were shaking, but you held the scissors steady and drove them toward his chest—but he twisted, and the blade sunk deep into his hand instead.

"FUCKKK" Negan howled, a guttural sound, and shoved you both off with a violent rage. Emma crashed against the wall with a sickening thud, and you were thrown to the cold floor, the wind knocked out of you. You struggled to sit up, gasping, as Negan looked at his bleeding hand with a snarl of disbelief.

“You… bitch!” he screamed, fury twisting his face into something inhuman, his eyes burning with hate as he yanked the scissors from his flesh, blood dripping thickly to the floor.

He stalked toward you, his face a mask of unbridled rage. He grabbed you by the hair, hauling you up, and slammed your head against the wall, once, twice—each impact sending a sickening jolt through your skull, blurring your vision as spots danced in the dim light.

His words were coming in snarls, disjointed and raw with anger. “I’m fucking done with this! You wanna learn the hard way? I'll fucking show you the hard way so you’ll fucking learn.”

He threw you to the ground, your body limp and battered, as he turned to Emma, the cruelty in his gaze sharpening. She tried to crawl back, gasping, but his hand wrapped around her throat, lifting her off the ground with a terrifying ease.

You pushed yourself up, weak and dizzy, desperation clawing at your chest as you reached for him. “No! Let her go!”

He only laughed, his grip tightening around Emma’s neck as her face turned red, her mouth gasping soundlessly. He looked into her eyes with sick satisfaction, a mockery of tenderness as he whispered, “Any last words, brat?”

Through her labored breaths, her gaze defiant, Emma spat out her final words. “Go to hell.”

In a swift, brutal motion, Negan drove the blade into her chest. The world shattered around you, your scream tearing through the air as you watched the life drain from her eyes, her face contorting in pain before stillness claimed her.

"EMMA!"

It felt as if your very soul had been ripped out, leaving you hollow, raw, a vessel of pure agony.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, as you stared at Emma’s lifeless form, her body crumpled on the floor. Every part of you screamed, your insides twisting as though poisoned, the horror and grief coursing through you like venom.

The shadows around you seemed to stretch, swallowing you in their merciless embrace, as though the darkness itself was feeding off the horror.

Negan turned to you, his eyes dark, gleaming with a satisfaction that was worse than any nightmare. “See what happens when you disobey?” he sneered, his words twisting into the broken pieces of your mind.

You didn’t feel human anymore, nothing but a body suspended in suffering, consumed by terror and grief. Emma’s last breath echoed in your mind, a sound that would haunt you forever.

This was a hell you could never have imagined. And you were trapped, completely and utterly, with no light left to guide you out.

The tears streamed down your face, hot and relentless, each sob tearing at your throat like jagged glass. It was your fault—Emma was dead because of you.

The weight of guilt settled heavily on your chest, crushing the air from your lungs. You curled in on yourself, the reality of her lifeless body lodged in your mind, echoing endlessly, a reminder of your failure to protect her.

“I will kill you,” you rasped, your voice breaking as you glared at Negan. He still held Emma by her neck, her body dangling lifelessly, an object of his amusement.

He stepped closer, a wicked grin spreading across his face, mocking you with every slow movement.

“What did you say?” he taunted, his voice a sickly sweet whisper as he leaned in, pretending to strain to hear your words.

“I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!” you screamed, the sound raw and desperate, echoing off the cold walls. His laughter was a dark melody, wrapping around you like a noose.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he chuckled, his tone dripping with condescension, “you’re not brave enough for that. Just a scared little girl, always waiting for someone to save you.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting with malice.

“See you had so many chances to fight back, to break free, but you never did, did you? You’re just a kid—a broken one. Nobody wants you, nobody loves you. Nobody but me.”

His words sliced through you, a cruel reminder of your isolation, your vulnerability. He leaned in closer, the stench of his twisted satisfaction wrapping around you like smoke, suffocating.

“You think your precious Joel will save you? I’ll kill him before you even know it.”

A wave of rage surged through you, boiling over as you shouted,“Just kill me, Negan! Just fucking kill me!”

He advanced, a grotesque puppeteer, toying with the strings of your desperation. Emma’s body dangled from his grip, lifeless and haunting, a cruel reminder of what he could take from you.

The image of her crushed spirit seeped into your heart, and you felt your resolve waver.

“There’s no fun in that, is there?” Negan mused, glancing at Emma’s still form.

“Why would I want to end it quickly when I can keep you around? Besides…” His voice dipped lower, darkly playful. “You’re already dead, aren’t you?”

"You're dead inside."

The words wrapped around you, twisting like barbed wire, leaving you gasping for breath. He crushed a piece of paper beneath his boot, then picked it up, chuckling as he read.

“Oh, look what we have here,” he said, eyes sparkling with sadistic joy. “It’s your letter to Joel. A goodbye letter. How sweet. So you’ve been preparing, huh?”

He tucked the crumpled paper into his pocket, an act so cruelly casual it made your skin crawl. “I assure you, you will never see him again.”

"Now, excuse me miss, I got a dinner to prepare," he said then walking away with Emma's body.

“YOU’RE A FUCKING COWARD, NEGAN! WHY DON’T YOU JUST KILL ME? FUCKING KILL ME YOU FUCKING COWARD!” you screamed, fury boiling over. But he simply ignored you, his grin never faltering.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he turned and shut the basement door behind him, sealing you in darkness. The finality of it sent a chill through your veins, a cold that seeped into your bones.

You were left alone with the grotesque trophies of his madness—Ben and Jamie’s heads, their lifeless eyes staring blankly at you, accusing you, mocking you.

The basement felt like a tomb, the air thick and suffocating, heavy with despair. You curled up on the cold floor, the dampness seeping into your skin, a reminder of the hopelessness that surrounded you.

Your mind spiraled, trapped in a whirlpool of horror and grief, each thought crashing against the next until you were drowning in your own anguish.

The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded. You pressed your palms against your ears, trying to block out the memories of Emma’s screams, of Negan’s taunts, but it was no use.

They echoed in the recesses of your mind, a relentless reminder of your powerlessness.

You felt hollowed out, like a shell abandoned on the shore, waiting for the tide to reclaim you. The darkness around you was alive, pulsing with the shadows of what could have been—what should have been.

Hope was a fragile thing, and in this hell, it felt like a distant memory, a whisper that barely reached you.

But as despair threatened to consume you whole, a flicker of defiance ignited within. If you were still breathing, still alive, there was a chance—a chance to escape this nightmare, a chance to honor Emma’s memory.

You wouldn’t let Negan win.

You pressed your back against the cold wall, forcing yourself to breathe, to think. There had to be a way out of this hell. You had to find the strength to fight back.

Emma wouldn’t want you to give in, to let the darkness swallow you whole. You would find a way, no matter what it took.

And with that thought, you began to plot your escape, feeling the embers of resolve ignite within the abyss of your despair.

***

The hum of the airport was a chaotic symphony of voices and footsteps, but all Joel could hear was the steady thrum of his own heartbeat, echoing like a war drum in his ears. He had just landed at LAX, adrenaline surging through his veins, a desperate urgency propelling him forward. He fumbled for his phone, his fingers shaking as he dialed Tommy's number, praying for the answers he so desperately needed.

“Tommy, I need Emma's address now!” Joel's voice was a low growl, laced with anxiety.

“What? Are you in California now?” Tommy’s voice crackled through the line, confusion apparent.

"He's got Emma too, Tommy. I--I spoke to her. I fucking spoke to her, I--I need to save her, I got no fucking time, I have to be quick," Tommy can hear Joel's voice trembling as he mentioned you.

Tommy then spelled out Emma's address, "Okay, I'll look to her place first. Have you told the cops?" Joel asked Tommy.

"I did, but Joel if they--" before Tommy can answer Joe cut him off, "I don't give a shit, Tommy, just fucking get them here to back me up"

Without waiting for a response, Joel hung up, his mind racing faster than his feet as he rushed to catch a taxi, the city blurring around him in a haze of panic and dread.

When he finally reaches her apartment, he bounds up the stairs, knocking hard on the door. Nothing. Not a sound. He knocks again, harder this time, his fist meeting the wood with mounting fury.

He can feel it, that something terrible, lingering in the stillness like the silence itself is holding its breath. Another knock, louder—and at last, a door down the hall creaks open, and a middle-aged woman peers out.

“Are you looking for the Parksons?” she asks, eyeing him with concern.

Joel’s voice is a rasp. “Yes. They’re not answering.”

“Oh, I’m the landlord. Sometimes, those two… newlyweds, you know,” she says with a weak smile, her tone teetering between nervousness and sympathy.

“Can you open the door for me?” His voice cracks with urgency. “I’m Emma's uncle. I need to see her.”

Reluctantly, she nods, fumbling with her keys as she reaches the door. But as she turns the lock, Joel catches a sickly, metallic odor seeping out. The unmistakable stench of blood. His stomach clenches, but he swallows hard, steeling himself.

The door swings open, and the sight waiting within is a nightmare come to life. The room is in complete disarray, shattered glass and scattered furniture telling of a struggle that couldn’t have gone quietly.

And to the horror.

Jim stands—or rather, he’s been arranged to stand, stripped of flesh, skin turned into a macabre canvas, his body held upright on a broom handle speared through him from his base to his throat. He’s frozen in a ghastly semblance of life, his hollow eye sockets staring blankly ahead, his mouth agape, still stretched around a piece of paper lodged between his teeth. Blood pools beneath him, glistening under the dim light, each drop a fresh echo of brutality.

The landlord lets out a piercing scream, stumbling back in horror, and Joel, teeth clenched and trembling, growls, “Call the fucking cops.”

The woman ran back to her apartment to call the cops, Joel’s jaw tightens, his expression hard as iron. This is no crime of passion, no ordinary act of violence. This is a message.

He steps forward, tearing his gaze from Jim’s body only to focus on the note lodged in his mouth. He reaches up, his fingers brushing the edge of the paper. His heart is racing, each beat a heavy thud echoing through his chest. He’s seen violence. He’s waded through blood and death and destruction, but this… this is personal, a wound carved directly into his soul.

With a deep breath, he pulls the note free, his eyes darting across the letters scrawled in familiar handwriting. 

Your handwriting.

"To my love, Joel,  I don’t know if you’ll ever see this, but if you do, know that you have been everything to me. You gave me life in a way no one else ever did. For every moment, every touch, every look, I thank you. You loved me with a love I had never known, a love that carried me through this world when I didn’t know how to stand on my own. I never blamed you, Joel, not for anything. I know about the things you did, the choices you made. And I want you to know that it's okay—I understand. You were trying to protect me, even if it meant walking through the fire. You did what you had to do to keep me safe, and I could never judge you for that. If anything, I thank you for it. You are my protector, my guardian, my love. I pray for you, Joel. Every night, every moment I have left, I pray. I pray for your peace, for your strength, that God may keep you safe and lead you out of this darkness. I know I’m not there to hold your hand, but you have my heart, and it’s with you always, no matter what. If you read this now it means I found you. I found you just to tell you that I made it real far, Joel. I never blamed you for loving me the way that you did. And while you were torn apart, I would still wait with you there, no matter the cost. Don’t think about it too hard, honey. Or you’ll never sleep a wink at night again. Don’t worry about me or these green eyes, baby. Just know that I love you. And I’ll see you when you get here. I love you forever, Joel You’ll always have me with you, Joel. In your heart, in your soul. Every breath you take, I'll always be with you. Don’t ever blame yourself. You were my savior, my love. I forgive you, and I love you. I love you. I will always love you. Always. Good night, my love. I'll see you soon."

The words blur in his vision, his fingers trembling as he clutches the note. It’s like a knife twisting in his chest, the blade digging deeper with each word, carving into his mind, into his heart.

No, it can't be, no, you can't be gone, no.

“No…” he mutters, his voice strangled. “No, no, no…” 

He feels his stomach drop, the words blurring as his heart races, his chest burning with every shaky breath. Rage, heartbreak, a helpless desperation—it all crashes down on him, layer by suffocating layer, the letter slipping from his hands as he chokes out

"NO! NO! NO!"

His roar echoes through the room, rattling through his entire body, as if he’s trying to break open some hidden door to whatever darkness holds you now. The weight of loss is unbearable. You are gone—or so he thinks.

Then, in the stillness, his eyes catch something else. A second note, hastily pinned to the wall. The writing is hurried, yet taunting, every stroke sharp, every word a threat.

If you want her body, come to this address. P.S. Negan xoxo.

Joel’s fists tighten, rage flooding through his veins, cold and unyielding. He knows it’s a trap, knows Negan is luring him in like a lamb to slaughter.

But he doesn’t care. Because if there’s a chance—even the smallest, faintest chance—you’re alive, he will take it. He will hunt Negan to the ends of the earth.

His pulse pounds in his ears, driven not by fear, but by a brutal, vengeful need that has now taken the place of hope.

In his mind, he sees flashes of all he’s lost, the faces of everyone he’s ever failed. This time, he won’t let go. He can’t.

This isn’t just about vengeance; it’s survival—the survival of what little humanity he has left, and you, the last spark of it he’ll ever know. And if that spark is gone?

Then he’ll burn the world with Negan’s ashes.

[the-artist-grimm]

Hi, I have just discovered your AU and I like the design, also the name made curious about what's the AU about

(Note this Lore Post is HIGHLY Outdated!!!! See the masterpost for current lore!)

Thank you! And for the ‘Crimson Angel AU’ think of it as translating to ‘Blood-Soaked Angel AU’, since I think that’s more of a better visual/description, but crimson just sounds prettier for an actual title.  This is gonna be a little long for more-in-depth lore dump so see the READ MORE for well, more! And my apologies for the rambles that have slowly taken over my brain, it's a little chaotic but the basic gist of it XD

(Note Anthea goes by she/they and I alternate between the two so if that causes reading issues let me know)

In this case, the ‘Blood-Soaked Angel’ is my lamb, Anthea, who starts off the story as being a seemingly kind, friendly, and optimistic person just wanting to help, but is really just someone who is trying to understand why they lived when their family and people did not, and just going with self-sacrifice and self-destruction as the only way to ‘prove’ they deserved to live. 

Got a mini backstory comic here with some explanations, though TLDR Anthea already had this sense of being responsible for keeping everyone else’s spirits up after losing their father, and when heretics destroyed the rest of their family/village at age 12 and they survived by the shear luck of just being out on a routine supply run, they feel as if they don’t deserve it. 

From there Anthea bottled everything up and wandered the forests for a bit until being found and taken in by Ratau, who taught her not only how to fight but also told her stories of his time as vessel, of which any involving The One Who Waits were the most interesting. A lonely, bitter, and kinda angry god of death, despite  his appearance, kept and appeared to care for the two young kits by his side. TOWW sounded different from the other bishops Anthea had only ever known to be violent, and thus she began to worship him as a sort of comfort-since thinking a gentler god greeted her family and would one day greet her was a better thought than the horror they must’ve faced prior to death. She lived day to day just pretending everything was fine, being a good kid, and helping out around the shack, while internally treating every moment like borrowed time, thinking she had to keep being useful to everyone else. (Ratau knew she had people-pleasing issues but didn’t realize the extent for a long, long time) 

Cut to Anthea being 26, and after she and Ratau were heading back one afternoon after some errand or visit were ambushed by heretics who managed to injure Ratau when they tried to escape, and though they got away, they were pursued. Thinking she’d lived on borrowed time long enough and wanting to prevent another person she loved from dying, Anthea took advantage of Ratau’s injury keeping him from stopping her and drew the heretics away, being captured as a result. 

Bishops, execution, Anthea gets the shock of hearing that they’re the final lamb prior to sacrifice, then suddenly they’re waking up in the gateway to the god they’ve worshiped for years, and he’s just as Ratau described. A lonely, bitter god with two young kits (I place Aym and Baal as teens since it leads to some interesting moments), by his side. Yet where that’s all Ratau saw, Anthea also saw the chains. The wounds bleeding an endless stream of ichor. The way TOWW struggled prior to their approach, how his voice and smile were strained. This god they’d built up as this better to the bishops is trapped and painfully so, and when offered the chance to help him, Anthea jumps at it. They must’ve lived for SOMETHING, must be the last for some greater purpose because there were so many other lambs who ‘deserved’ to live more, so if it’s for this prophecy then so be it. 

Game plays out, Anthea begins to see past the bitterness/anger Nariender puts up to see someone genuinely hurt by those he cared about and struggling to trust after while also seeing he’s not exactly perfect, whilst Nariender in turn starts to call Anthea out on the whole self-sacrificial stick as them just trying to die to make themself feel better instead of just facing the fact that they lived, others died, and that’s all there is to say. Slowly the two become friends, got an idea for example that Anthea starts to use the crown to show Nariender what he’s missed in the world as a means of comforting him/helping him remember not all was as bad as he recalls (aka they’re unintentional dates lol), Anthea also starts befriending the twins since they remind them of their own brothers which gains more Nariender friendship points at someone making his kids happy, and that friendship slowly turns to a genuine love from both sides. 

Anthea plans to keep her feelings hidden until after Narinder’s free, though secretly starts to work on an engagement present to confess by leaving the crown at the temple and going to the Lonely Shack at night. (the engagement also meant to be a symbolic ‘hey you don’t have to feel the same but just know I’ll be with you from now on I won’t leave you’). Is also Anthea finally taking steps to live life for herself and move on to something that makes her happy. Meanwhile Narinder has no idea what these feelings he’s having are-just that this weirdly kind, cheerful, but also melancholic and frustratingly self-sacrificial lamb makes his heart race, and is now for some reason being a little distant. He’s been trying to figure out how to return to the world above without sacrificing Anthea, but now has whatever this is distracting him, and thus has the crown follow one night, only hears part of Anthea discussing/being teased about planning a proposal but not who said proposal is for, and being unused to jealousy but very used to being cast aside and betrayed gets angry/scared/heartbroken and decides to just go through with the sacrifice anyway since it’s easier than trying to figure out why he’s feeling like this. 

Endgame battle hits, during which Anthea feels very confused/hurt by his order to sacrifice themself, as just the other day here was their dearest friend lightly scolding them for willingly dying just to visit. They try to reason with him and Narinder doesn’t want to hear it, so he orders the twins to fight Anthea which neither are willing but are forced, and Anthea has no choice but to kill both since Nariender refuses to hear reason. The anger, grief, guilt, and heartbreak they’ve bottled up finally boils over as red wings appear on their back like they briefly do in-game when the lamb refuses (this all started when I saw the scene in-game and thought the visual/symbolism was really cool), and they fight and defeat Nariender. 

When back at the compound Nariender’s just lashing out and cursing Anthea on the dais because he’s angry and hurt at her betraying him until Anthea just calmly tells him why he was spared-she loved him. Nariender finally looks at her and is hit with the realization that this lamb who’d always looked at him so warmly with adoration is now giving him the most blank, lifeless expression as she tells him he’s free to do as he pleases before leaving. And he now realizes that because he didn’t stop and think things through and instead let anger take the focus he completely neglected to realize that here was someone who loved him-who loved him even as they learned of his faults, saw his lowest, ect, and he just threw it all away over a misunderstanding he could've EASILY just asked about. He even sacrificed his guards (read sons) just because that was somehow easier than talking. Which begs the question, who else loved him? Who else did he miss? Was his imprisonment really all on the bishops, or was he also to blame? Whilst Anthea’s now stuck with a godhood she didn’t want, two more loved ones dead, and a broken heart. 

The two gotta learn where to go from here, the now blood-soaked ‘angel’ who’s begun to realize just how much giving pieces of yourself hurts, and a fallen god who’s begun to realize things aren’t as black and white as he thought. They get better! Eventually...

Might try making a fic, might just keep this as drabbles and rambles along with art, but right now I’m having fun making fanart/aus for the first time instead of just watching from the sidelines, so I hope you enjoy the ride. But for now enjoy some angsty doodles :D

[shadowandlightt]

Of Nightmares and Memories /five/ Azriel X reader

Series Warnings: Kidnapping. Mistreatment. Cursing. Pining. Violence. Depression. Talks of suicide. Eventual smut

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

They came not an hour later. You hid in your rooms like the coward you accused Tamlin of being. They didn’t put up a fight as Amerantha’s men, Rhys included, hauled them off towards the mountain. It left you in a state of dismay. Because with Tamlin gone, and the Faebane slowly leaving your system, there was no reason for you to stay here in Spring. You could easily run back to the night court and hide in one of the cabins your family owned. You could easily hide in the mountains and pray that one day Amerantha would meet her match. 

Only you couldn’t bring yourself to leave. One day you tried, only to turn and vomit in the rose bushes. You then turned around and went back to your rooms and crawled under your covers. You stayed there and didn’t move for the rest of the day. 

On the third day, Feyre showed back up. Much to your surprise, claiming to love Tamlin and willing to go under the mountain to save him. You rolled your eyes, but knew that love well. Because you would have given your wings if it meant seeing Az again. 

“She’ll kill you,” You say from your spot at the kitchen doors, “The second she realizes you’re there, she’ll kill you. But she’ll draw it out, make it slow and painful.”

“Not helping,” Alis hissed at you. 

“Who are you?” Feyre whips to face you. 

You only smirk, “A friend. That’s all you need to know. Rhys might be your only hope.” 

“Rhysand is a brute.”

“Perhaps,” You shrug, “But he wants out from under Amerantha as much as the next, only he has the power to make it happen.”

“What are you saying?” She questions. 

“If he comes to you with a bargain, take it,” You tell her, “It could just save your life. Play his games, it might just save you from hers.” 

“Don’t be a fool,” Alis said, “Don’t make any bargains.”

“Fine then, die and damn us all.”

“Why are you trying to help me?” Feyre asks. 

“Because, dear human, I want to go home,” you said almost wistfully, “And I can’t as long as that bitch is in power.” 

“Where is home for you?” 

“The Night Court. But I’ve been held here for hundreds of years.” 

“How old are you?” Her voice shook as she asked. 

You only laughed and shook your head, “My age is of no concern to you. I’m not even sure I know it anymore anyway.”

Alis sighs from behind Feyre and gathers some supplies. you  watch her carefully, wondering if she’s eager to send the poor human to her death, or if she hates the idea as much as you do. But you can only hope that Rhys will help her in any way that he can. You can only hope that he wants out as much as you think he does. 

“If you ever feel alone, look towards the shadows,” You explain, “I’m not promising I’ll be there. But if I feel I can risk it-” 

“Now that would be foolish,” Alis adds. 

“Thank you, Alis,” I hiss back, “You should go, now. Mother knows what that Bitch has done to your precious Tamlin.”

The idea of him getting his happy ending made you sick again. The idea of him being able to be happy when he’s caused so much suffering….you almost couldn’t handle it. But if this meant Rhys and the other members of the Night Court could be free then you had to allow it to happen. You had to try to aid the young girl in any way that you could. 

“Stick to the shadows,” You tell her, “You won’t get far once you enter, but always listen. And keep your wits about you.”

“Thank you,” She said in earnest. 

You watched from the broken front door as Alis led her away. You weren’t sure you’d ever see the human again, but you weren’t sad to see her go. It felt like leading a lamb to the slaughter, but it had to be done. There wasn’t another choice. Not if you wanted to survive, not if you wanted everyone to be free again. 

Each day you flung your powers out further and further, urging your shadows just a little further. They whispered back to you, telling you of what was happening under the mountain. How Feyre was dying, sick with fever and how Rhys came forth with a bargain. She headed your advice and took the bargain, marking her with a tattoo and a bond with Rhys. 

Each day you tried to find a way to contact your brother, but you knew you couldn’t risk it. There was no way you could reach his mind from so far away, not with the lingering effects of years of Faebane still in your system. 

You prayed that maybe Feyre would tell him about you and he would figure it out for himself and come for you once all of this was over. You prayed and prayed. There was nothing but silence. No news came. Your shadows were skittish, growing restless waiting for Amerantha to do something. 

You lost weight from not eating. The lack of food would kill you eventually, and maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. If Valaris parished and there was nothing left of the people you called family- no one left but Rhys who thought you were dead anyway…would death be so bad? It could all be over finally, and maybe the Mother would be so kind as to bring you back to Az in the next life. 

Three months. A mere blip in your young life, but feeling like a lifetime nonetheless. It took three long months before you saw three figures coming up the road. They were moving fast, all three of them. Feyre, it seemed, was no longer human. Your shadows neglected to tell you that when they said she’d survived and Amerantha did not. 

You made your way downstairs, towards the door which you’d managed to somewhat fix. None of them looked worse for wear, but you knew whatever Feyre had been through would stay with her for a long time. And Tamlin had the ornate ability to simply sweep things under the rug and forget about them. He would do the same with her. 

She looked High Fae, smelled like it too. With traces of my brother. So small, almost undetectable, but there. Shimmering like the bond you knew they had. You wondered when he would call in his bargain, when he would take her away from this place and show her the splendor of the Night Court, the beauty of it. 

“You’re still here,” Tamlin stopped, a scowl forming, “I set you free.”

“You set me free, perhaps, but I would have died before I made it back to my own Court. Safer to stay here until I could contact my brother.”

“That won’t be happening,” Tamlin said slyly, “Feyre, darling, why don’t you go inside with Lucien. I’ll be inside in a moment.”

Your eyes narrowed as she did as she was told. Lucien spared you a glance, pity swirling in his eye. It made a pit form in your stomach. You wouldn’t be leaving the Spring Court, you realized. You would be forced to stay here until the day you died, or until Tamlin finally decided to kill you. 

Maybe you would make it your mission to push him as far as you could so he would kill you. Maybe then you could finally know peace, and not whatever it was that you knew now. 

“I thought I was going to free you,” Tamlin took a step towards you, “But then your brother made that Bargain with Feyre, and made me look like a fool under the mountain.” 

“So once again, I’m to become your bargaining chip?” I question, “What? Me for Feyre?” 

“Perhaps.”

“I could mist you,” You hiss. 

“Ah, but you can’t,” Tamlin laughs, “Because even after all this time, the Faebane is still in your system. You can’t even winnow, because if you could, you would’ve left by now.” 

He surges forward and grips your cheeks in his hand. You yelp in pain before going completely still. You won’t let him have the satisfaction of seeing you in pain, or anything. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of it. 

“You, little one, are going to be here for a very long time,” He squeezed your face harder, “And I’m going to enjoy finally breaking you.”

Little did he know, you were already broken. 

“Go to hell,” You spit out. 

“I was already there,” He smirked, “It didn’t take.” 

“He’ll kill you once he finds out,” You force out, “And I’ll watch and laugh.” 

“I’m counting on him trying.”

Tag List

@historygeekqueen @queerqueenlynn @wallacewillow0773638 @sstrohma @saltedcoffeescotch @hnyclover @thelov3lybookworm @maddybraps @minnieoo @witchymomfrien @mariahoedt @one-big-fangirl @amara-moonlight @st0rmyt @annamariereads16 @hunterksmith

[cremefrappe13]

Reborn (Saint Vanilla & Child!OC)

Again, the Beast Ancients AU and character of Saint Vanilla belongs to @cuppajj

I wrote this mostly for fun and I think it was an okay job.

Trigger Warnings: mentions of death, major character death

Reborn (Saint Vanilla & Child! OC)

Saint Vanilla had finally done it. He “purified” (disintegrated) his child at last. His first and only child, Honeyflower, had finally been purified by him. He remembered the face of exhaustion and absolute terror the young girl had on her face when she embraced him in a hug, and the tears she had shed upon disappearing. However, Saint Vanilla had felt a sense of… emptiness after he “purified” her. Perhaps it was his fatherly instincts disappearing after watching his child disappear before his eyes? It could not be though… He stared at the ceiling as he tossed and turned in bed, thinking about his daughter. He tried to sleep, but his mind was faster than sleep itself as Saint Vanilla kept tossing and turning, trying to avoid all thoughts on his daughter and what he had done to her. However, what he did was right, was it not? Her soul was so pure, and the sooner she was purified, the lesser her soul would be tainted when she “ascended” right?

Right?

Saint Vanilla was not sure anymore, as he questioned his own decisions, but his Messiah complex did not allow him to think that he was wrong, let alone even consider the possibility he was feeling guilt over his actions. After all, Honeyflower had been the sweetest, most innocent thing before she ran away and let herself be tainted. However, she had already been purified, so there was no point in thinking about it anyway! He just had to move on and finish his mission of purifying every cookie on Earthbread and finally transcend to join her. Even so, Saint Vanilla still felt a pang of emptiness every once in a while without Honeyflower by his side, smiling up at him or clinging onto his robe for protection. Still… her screams and cries of pain as she was “purified” would never leave his mind. “Papa..! What’s happening to me?! It hurts… so much!” “Shhh, don’t worry my dear… you’re ascending, just like Papa will one day do too…” “But I don’t want to ascend! I want to stay here with you..! It hurts, make it stop please, MAKE IT STOP!!” “Honeyflower, don’t fight it, it’s for your own good.” “NO! I WANT TO STAY WITH PAPA!!!” “…” “PAPA! PAPA..!” “…” “Pa…pa…” “…” “…”

Those very moments kept replaying in Saint Vanilla’s mind, still haunting him in his dreams as he tossed and turned in bed, recalling his dear daughter’s cries for him to stop the process, or to end the pain, and then the silence. Either way… she was gone. For good. Saint Vanilla continued to do what he usually did, preaching the “good” message on how he would be the one who would transcend to redeem the world, leading the Lambs of Penance (his cult) and continuing to purify as many cookies as he could, trying not to think about his daughter who was waiting for him on the other side of his path of transcendence. Other than his occasional waves of emotion, Saint Vanilla’s progress with his plan went along smoothly. Well, until Strawberry Crepe had escaped the Vanilla Kingdom with Frigid Cacao’s son, but he would let the Lambs of Penance deal with that. Saint Vanilla was just planting an orchid in his kingdom when he noticed a child, all by herself. He turned to her and recognised her as one of the children of a member in the Lambs of Penance. Saint Vanilla noticed the girl disappear as quickly as she had come, and it sent a ripple of something through his heart… was it sorrow? Or was it guilt? Saint Vanilla could not tell as he pondered more about his daughter’s fate. Saint Vanilla from that point, started to become disillusioned, as he kept thinking he saw his daughter in fields of sunflowers, maybe even his own orchids, or sometimes behind a building. Occasionally, he would think that he heard Honeyflower playing in her room when he passed by it, but all Saint Vanilla found in the room was emptiness and a hollow echo of his daughter from the remnants and traces she left behind in her “purification”. He would always sigh and try to shake it off, but even he could not outrun the clutches of guilt and grief, always being unable to ignore his mind’s tricks on him, making Saint Vanilla feel rather out of it. Well, at least until he saw a small girl, eerily similar to his daughter. The way she had ran amongst the field of sunflowers in his kingdom, laughing with the other children whose parents were Lambs of Penance. It was as if Honeyflower had been reborn into a new life. A better one, without the constant threat of Saint Vanilla trying to purify her, and without others pushing for her to be purified. Saint Vanilla, as he watched this from his orchid staff, felt a father’s relief, yet his own selfish desires took over him, wanting to “purify” this version of his daughter once again. And so the same, tiring cycle repeated: Born, live, “purified” Born, live, “purified” Born… live… and be “purified” It was just the same cycle of futility all over again. No matter how many times Honeyflower may or may not have been reborn, if Saint Vanilla ever saw a smidge of his daughter in other cookies, they might as well kiss their life goodbye, as he would relentlessly pursue them, to finally “purify” all traces of Honeyflower from this world. After all, a good father always wants the best for his daughter, right?

[taereaderwriter]

Game of Thrones - Recommendations

Sador ‘The Hound’ Clegane

The Hound and the Vulture (ongoing?) - @summervale

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

P1 note: Third person reader-insert! A wandering widow and a wanted warrior. They're no "The Bear and the Maiden Fair," but they're close enough, right? After saving his life, the scavenger is half tempted to sell him out and half tempted to have her way with him. The dog is half tempted to throw her in the Trident and half tempted to throw her in the Blackwater Rush. 

if he’s as bad as they say, then i guess i’m cursed (complete) - @diorstarr

Part 1 | Part 2

Summary: It starts like most bad things do. Because Joffrey finds it funny. Or, you get married to The Hound. 

Love? (complete) - @justallamaimaginingthings

“A/n: That was not even requested, but after 8x05 I needed some Sandor fluff, so there you go. Hope you enjoy it and don’t hesitate to drop by my askbox whether it is to request anything, leave a comment or just to chat”

Sandor Clegane x Reader (Wildling) (complete) - @lunnybunny12

“A/N: The reader is a wildling in this story and has never heard of the hound before.”

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of death and no fluff

Listen to me (complete) - @myfictionaldreams

Request: “The reader is a fighter an she almost gets killed in battle but sanders saves her once the battle is over he finds her in her room and they get into an argument that leads to rough smut with biting marking and dirty talk if you don’t mind”

The Hound’s Wedding (complete) - @myfictionaldreams

Summary:  King Joffrey needed a way to send a message to your brothers in Winterfell. What better way than marrying you off to the bloodthirsty Hound.

Warnings: +18 readers only, Loss of Virginity, Size Kink, Reader is a Stark, Size Difference, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex

The Teasing Game (complete) - @myfictionaldreams

Summary: There was nothing you loved more in life than teasing Sandor Clegane. What happens when he can’t take it anymore and he finally snaps?

Warnings: 18+ readers only, smut, teasing, size difference, jeaousy, mentions of masturbation, choking, biting, marking, rough oral sex (male receiving), rough sex, multple orgasms, dirty talk, hair pulling, threats of violence

Sandor Clegane/ The Hound NSFW Alphabet (complete) - @brrahbrrahcharacterimagines

The Lamb and The Hound (complete) - @brrahbrrahcharacterimagines

Part 1 | Part 2

P1 Warnings: Light attempted rape mentioned (not by Sandor), Battle of Blackwater, fire mention

P2 Warnings: Sex, Dom(M)/Sub(F) dynamic, maybe a size kink, sharing a bed, boner?, cursing, loss of virginity, possessiveness, breeding kink, cum

Tormund Giantsbane

Cold Hands (complete) - @author-morgan

Summary: After the Battle of Castle Black, Jon needs someone to ensure their wildling prisoner makes it through the night. Because Tormund's the type you just want to rage fuck and I've been looking for an excuse to write for him since like 2017.

Lord Robin Arryn

Grown Up (complete) - @brrahbrrahcharacterimagines

Chapters

[nom-nommmm1]

Hi there! I saw you wrote for Lords Of Chaos (my gulity pleasure) And was wondering if you could write a short with Pelle, where he meets a male reader after a show who sneak backstage to compliment him on his voice. They bond over finding out they have similar interests, like the concept of death and certain artists, and one thing leads to another when the reader teases him about being “softer then he thought.” So smut in dressing room after show scenario. Hope your having a decent 2024 so far :)

SOFT - DEAD/PELLE

Masterlist for more !!

Hihi thank you for the request! I appreciate it very much, my 2024 is going ok so far :) also this is my first male x male so pls be kind!!

Content warning !!: dom!Pelle x male!reader, pelle being sweet, but then rough with the reader, blowjob, cum eating, unprotected sex

As the show was ending the blond singer and his band thanked the audience and made their way backstage. Once they left the crowd started rushing to the parking lot, pushing me back as I try to walk closer to the stage. “Fuck!” I yell out as I try to push by the mob of people. I manage to make my way to the stage, sneaking to the backstage area. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

As I try to sneak around I hear a familiar voice call out. “Hey hon, I don’t think you’re supposed to be here” the voice says, coming closer to me with every word. I turn around to see the one and only Dead. My cheeks flush a little as he looks down at me, now being a few inches away from me. “What’re you doing back here?” He asks smirking a little.

“Listen I understand I’m not supposed to be back here, but I’m a huge fan and wanted to say that I think your voice is really nice” I quickly say as the blond looks at me up and down, analyzing me with his big brown eyes. He then smiles. “Why thank you, I’ve been perfecting it over the past couple of years” he says looking down into my eyes softly.

I smile, blushing a bit. “Y’know I don’t think I’ve ever had someone sneak backstage just to talk to me” he says chuckling. “Well…I am a big fan” I reply looking down at my shoes in embarrassment. Dead moves down to my eye level so I am forced to look at him. “Hey it’s fine, what’s your name sweetheart?” He asks giving me a sweet smile.

“Oh my names Y/n” I reply. His eyes flicker from my body to my eyes. “Such a lovely name” he says before taking my hand in his, gently rubbing the smooth skin on my knuckles. I blush a little looking down at my shoes once again. Dead puts his hand on my chin, tilting my head up so I look him in the eyes.

“What’s the matter you pretty little thing?” He teases, backing away from me whilst smiling. “It’s nothing..I just didn’t think you’d let me talk to you” I say chuckling nervously. “Well, why wouldn't I? I think you're pretty cool” he replies sitting on the couch behind him, patting the spot next to him for me to sit on.

“So, what's your favorite metal band?” he asks looking down at me, turning his whole body to face me. “Probably Lamb of God,” I say smiling, now turning my body to face him as well. “Oo good choice, I love Lamb of God” he replies. “Okay, now what about you, what's your favorite band?” I ask.

He looks down, thinking for a moment, twiddling with his fingers until he finally thinks of one. He faces me again before saying “Probably Darkthrone or Slayer, I don't know there are so many good options!” he says dramatically putting his hands on his head. I giggle. Pelle then stops moving around. His hands are still on his head, but he's looking at me through his hair, shielding his face.

We both stop laughing, the room goes silent. His piercing eyes are on me, looking through me. His blonde locks in his face. I look down at the ground again. “You know” I pause, glancing at him before continuing. “You’re softer than I thought”

“Oh yeah?” he says teasingly. He gets up close to my ear. “I'm gonna show you just how sweet I can be” he whispers whilst picking me up. I yelp blushing a bit. He walks us down a dimly lit hall, making it to a door. “Pelles dressing room” engraved on the door. This is really happening.

He chuckles seeing me get visibly needy. He opens the door, practically throwing me on the couch as the door shuts behind him. He rushes over to the sofa, harshly connecting his lips with mine. He puts his hands on the back of my head, shielding me from hitting the wall roughly. I gasp in shock. He chuckles, sliding his tongue into my mouth.

I kiss back, trying to mimic his fast pace. I put my hands on his shoulders to support myself. He puts me in his lap. “Is this alright?” He asks, still having his lips connected with mine. I nod. He smiles taking his shirt off, throwing on the ground behind him.

He moves in closer again, tugging at the hem of my shirt. As I am about to remove my shirt Pelle stops me, putting his hand on mine. “Wait” he says in his deep voice. I stop, looking into the singers brown eyes, waiting for him to answer. “I want you to show me just how big of a fan you are” he says. My eyes widen and Pelle scoffs. “I thought you said you were a big fan now’s the time to prove it sweetheart”

He whispers the last part in my ear. I blush feeling heat rush to my inner thighs. “So are you in or are you out? The decision is yours sweetheart” he says looking at me with lust-filled eyes. I nod looking at him, waiting for him to react. Pelle chuckles roughly taking me off of his lap, putting me on my knees. He looks at me through his blonde hair. “Don’t be shy now” he says forcefully moving me to be face to face with his erection.

I take a deep breath, recollecting myself quickly before I start to unbutton his tight skinny jeans. He groans feeling me palm him through his boxers. I slowly take off his boxers. His member being freed from the harsh fabric that was keeping him down.

I wrap my hands around his cock glancing at him as he groans once more. I slowly start to rub up and down his base. Pelle tries to move his hips. He becomes impatient with me and puts his hand behind my head and forces my face to be right next to his erection. “Open” he says firmly. I do as I’m told and I open my mouth.

He puts his member in my mouth, he moans his head hitting the bed as he throws his head back in pleasure. I grunt against his cock making him move his hands to my hair. He uses his hands to forces my mouth on his cock moving at a quick speed. I gag as he hits the back of my throat.

He chuckles at the sight of me crying on his cock. He quickens the pace, throat-fucking me at a frightening rate. I gag once more, taking him all in. I stroke his base before his red tip hits the back of my throat again. This begins to happen every time, him relentlessly throat-fucking me until his release. “Take it all in” he says tipping my head back to make sure I swallow it all.

Pelle then moves me so I am turned around facing away from him. “Now is the fun part” he says before undoing my pants. Once he gets my pants off he pulls down my boxers and there’s a moment of silence, neither of us moving or even breathing just silence. “Are ya ready?” He asks looking down at me.

I nod my head eagerly. He then pulls my cock from its confines, I whine a little as he starts to slowly stroke me. He quickens his pace before putting his own member in me. I moan loudly, Pelle puts his hand over my mouth to try and muffle the sounds by me. “Shhh, be quiet now” he warns before starting to pump in and out of me whilst stroking my cock.

I whimper in his hand. He quickens his pace on my cock, staying inside me while doing so. He starts to lose control as he feels himself getting more tired by the minute, but he still is trying is best to keep a rhythm. He pumps in and out of me again, while stroking my cock at the same exact pace. I moan more than I thought I ever could.

Pelle moves one hand to my hip, angling me in the perfect spot. Pelle hits just the right spot, he uses then to his advantage as he speeds up, relentlessly hitting my good spot, I whine and shout before Pelle releases once again, this time in me. As I feel his orgasm within me I feel mine come and I release all over the couch of the dressing room. After awhile he pulls out of me and just stares at me in awe.

“We should do that again sometime” he says handing me his phone to put my number in. I happily do so and look at him again. After a few minutes of silence he clears his throat “you should probably get out of here” he says handing me my clothes and leading me to the door. “See you next time y/n” he says before shutting the door behind you in a mischievous tone.

AHHH ITS IS DONEEEE Oml I’ve been working on this for literal weeks. 😭 I’m sorry for the delay!! Hope you enjoyed bye bye ♥

[forgottendolly]

Things I loved in Station Theatre’s RTC because I can’t stop thinking about it and I don’t think I ever will😔😔 (in no particular order whatsoever😇🙏)

- JANES REACTIONS TO HER BIRTHDAY SONG

- Virgil the rat chewing the power cable and his little ears and head just bobbed 😭😭

- JANES PIGTAILS

- The whole pre jawbreaker monologue (yes, I cried… sobbed more accurately)

- Mischa blowing a party blower at Jane and her getting scared x2

- Constance’s cotton Candy earrings 😞💗 I need them for myself!!!!!

- Ocean and Constance doing their little “improv” skit was done so perfectly I laughed so hard 💀

- Jane running and hugging Ocean during her “i love you guys” speech and just not letting her go LIKE FULL ON HOLDING ONTO HER AND DRAGGING ALONG AS OCEAN BACKED AWAY

- CONSTANCE RECORDER SOLO SLAYED I THINK I BURST MY LUNG SCREAMING

- Ricky and Jane ARE REAL

- Ricky coming out in all black with his head down at the start and half doing the choreo

- Noel laughing when Karnak tells Ocean that the person who wins will be decided by a unanimous vote

- Jane saying “for me? 🥺” when Constance offers her the hello Kitty cupcake

- Her proceeding to squish said cupcake in her hand and try to eat the paper decoration on top leading to the others having to stop her

- Mischa offering Jane a sip of vodka and she drinks like half the bottle 💀💀

- Jane making her doll dance

- NOEL APPLYING LIPSTICK BY A MIRROR HELD UP BY JANE (ICONIC ALONG WITH THE STAINED CIGARETTE)

- SBM COSTUME CHANGEEE 2012 FLASHBACKS

- Ricky teaching Jane how to ballroom dance after TNBS

- RICKY SLAYING THE ACCORDIANN

- Janes headless pose at the start and end of the show

- Janes little neck ribbon

- “Do you want to know what I find really super hurts?” DEATH STARE

- Mischa throwing money into the audience (yes I kept one sorry not sorry)

- Jane picking up two of the pieces of money and handing them to people in the audience

- someone getting picked up and spun around more than once??? YES. You heard me, more than once. I almost got knocked out by Janes shoe and honestly would have thanked her

- Monique ate the whole time

- Seriously OBSESSED with Noel’s Lament

- Spacedolls I repeat SPACEDOLLS

- Janes little bottom eyelashes

- Oceans cute little hair bow I LOVER HERR

- Mischa flipping everyone and everything off every 3 seconds

- Jane trying to bring Ricky with her to the other side

- Jane giving Ricky her doll before she leaves to the other side

- The group going over to hug Mischa after Talia, including Constance Jane and ofc Noel

- Ricky ASL 💗💗💗💗

- Clip on earrings (ifykyk)

- JANE GETTING THE HAT

- Penny lamb life compilation (I was in tears) AND THEN WITH THE BEAUTIFUL ITS NOT A GAME VOCALS?!! HEART SHATTERED!

- Having to hold back Jane from biting ocean after the “and she’s a freaky monster” line

- Noel saying hello to Jane and Jane moving her little dolls arm say hi back

- The ropes they used to make Jane look like a marionette doll during TBOJD

- Constance bring the puppet master during TBOJD

- The headless doll being on the side of the wall and the kid sitting next to me pointing it out cause my blind ass didn’t see it at first

- Talia skirts 💗💗

- The way Jane goes limp after her introduction song

- FORNICATION… UNDER CONSENT OF THE KINGGGG!!!! *holding long ass sword above her head*

[cutpaperbleedswater]

Re reading Catching Fire has gotten me thinking.

Peeta as a character is pretty tragic, his mother’s abuse and his father’s silence, knowing that the people who he cares about probably don’t feel the same and is under the impression his death would mean very little to them. In the first games, he and Haymitch both pick Katniss to be crowned Victor at first opportunity and spins a love story that humiliates her but if he were to die, she’d be able to get with someone (Gale, from what Peeta thinks) after a few months, he made a deal with the Careers which is high level foolishness if without a bigger goal. To find himself dying, caked in mud, probably thinking about how Katniss isn’t seeing him like this and then find, oh wait, she is, because that’s an option now and the fact there’s a chance he could win too. I stand by the thinking he went into the arena with no want to get out of it only to find that he did, because let’s face it, Katniss did the most controversial Selfish/selfless on the planet and risked both their deaths for him after he was ready to snuff it for her. And then after all that, finding his lower left leg had to be amputated and taught how to handle that, walk into the final interview with a small illusion that Katniss likes him and walk into his new home knowing it was all a lie, just Katniss doing what she thought best for her and hers and then freezing him out in the months leading up to the Victory tour, wherein which I doubt Peeta had many visitors, maybe his father/brothers and perhaps Delly and he’d definitely offer up his home for his family only for his mum to say good riddance and herd them home. I have low doubts that he’d spend ‘Gale Sunday’ with the Everdeens and maybe bring a sketchbook to Haymitch’s if he felt far too lonely. Not to mention the nightmares where he was armed with only his paints.

Then in the second games, he makes a deal with Haymitch to save Katniss, which he does, only for a group of people Peeta had never thought existed. Haymitch giving Katniss the impression that he was going to save her and us reading it from her perspective makes it feel like even what he wanted to be his last moments, his wishes were ignored even after the amount of stress on his selflessness and how he did deserve a moment of selfishness. Then dying, figuring out Katniss loves him by a good old r+ kiss, murdering someone whilst looking for her and then being captured and tortured. Really the only time he got what he wanted was when he was taken instead of her at the risk he suffered at, and her living at the first games ofc. The idea of him doing everything to show her his improvement, holding out the can of lamb stew in the Capitol, working hard in court ordered therapy and actually returning home is actually sweet when you realise the direction it could’ve gone. Also his whole family dying without closure is pretty sad too and the fact he was a very friendly person so he would’ve somewhat personally known plenty of the bombing victims. Also the fact the only time he’s truly looked after is when he’s too crazy to acknowledge it.

He’s my baby. Suzanne Collins is an angel for creating him for us.

[esther-dot]

HELPPPP, I KNEW THAT DAENERYS STANS HATED MIRRI MAZ DUUR, BUT AT LEAST, I THOUGHT THEY DIDN’T HATED HER FOR KILLING DROGO. GUESS I WAS WRONG.

https://www.tumblr.com/swordsandarms/716956244482637824/ultimately-mirri-was-selfish-outside-of-how-it?source=share

I talked before about how Drogo didn’t follow Mirri’s instructions, so I’m not sure she can be blamed for his death (link) and of course, the same thing applies with Rhaego:

And, if Mirri did intentionally set out to kill Drogo, I support that, just as I would support Dany if she had determined to kill him. The man is a rapist and a slaver, if his victims chose to take him out, I’d have no complaints!

I don’t think OP’s statements about Mirri take the facts of Rhaego or Drogo’s deaths into account, and I certainly disagree with the whitewashing of Drogo. If we go back and read the set-up, I would argue we’re being guided to sympathize with Mirri—not him. I think that view/the Dany view is being undercut:

Across the road, a girl no older than Dany was sobbingin a high thin voice as a rider shoved her over a pile of corpses, facedown, and thrust himself inside her. Other riders dismounted to take their turns. That was the sort of deliverance the Dothraki brought the Lamb Men.

I am the blood of the dragon, Daenerys Targaryen reminded herself as she turned her face away. She pressed her lips together and hardened her heart and rode on toward the gate.

[…]

Slaves, Dany thought. Khal Drogo would drive them downriver to one of the towns on Slaver's Bay. She wanted to cry, but she told herself that she must be strong. This is war, this is what it looks like, this is the price of the Iron Throne.

[…]

"I've told the khal he ought to make for Meereen," Ser Jorah said. "They'll pay a better price than he'd get from a slaving caravan. Illyrio writes that they had a plague last year, so the brothels are paying double for healthy young girls, and triple for boys under ten. If enough children survive the journey, the gold will buy us all the ships we need, and hire men to sail them."

[…]

"You heard my words," she said. "Stop them." She spoke to her khas in the harsh accents of Dothraki. "Jhogo, Quaro, you will aid Ser Jorah. I want no rape."

The warriors exchanged a baffled look.

Jorah Mormont spurred his horse closer. "Princess," he said, "you have a gentle heart, but you do not understand. This is how it has always been. Those men have shed blood for the khal. Now they claim their reward."

Across the road, the girl was still crying, her high singsong tongue strange to Dany's ears. The first man was done with her now, and a second had taken his place.

"She is a lamb girl," Quaro said in Dothraki. "She is nothing, Khaleesi. The riders do her honor. The Lamb Men lay with sheep, it is known."

"It is known," her handmaid Irri echoed.

"It is known," agreed Jhogo, astride the tall grey stallion that Drogo had given him. "If her wailing offends your ears, Khaleesi, Jhogo will bring you her tongue." He drew his arakh.

"I will not have her harmed," Dany said. "I claim her. Do as I command you, or Khal Drogo will know the reason why."

"Ai, Khaleesi," Jhogo replied, kicking his horse. Quaro and the others followed his lead, the bells in their hair chiming.

"Go with them," she commanded Ser Jorah.

"As you command." The knight gave her a curious look. "You are your brother's sister, in truth."

"Viserys?" She did not understand.

"No," he answered. "Rhaegar." He galloped off.

Dany heard Jhogo shout. The rapers laughed at him. One man shouted back. Jhogo's arakh flashed, and the man's head went tumbling from his shoulders. Laughter turned to curses as the horsemen reached for weapons, but by then Quaro and Aggo and Rakharo were there. She saw Aggo point across the road to where she sat upon her silver. The riders looked at her with cold black eyes. One spat. The others scattered to their mounts, muttering.

All the while the man atop the lamb girl continued to plunge in and out of her, so intent on his pleasure that he seemed unaware of what was going on around him. Ser Jorah dismounted and wrenched him off with a mailed hand. The Dothraki went sprawling in the mud, bounced up with a knife in hand, and died with Aggo's arrow through his throat. Mormont pulled the girl off the pile of corpses and wrapped her in his blood-spattered cloak. He led her across the road to Dany. "What do you want done with her?"

The girl was trembling, her eyes wide and vague. Her hair was matted with blood. "Doreah, see to her hurts. You do not have a rider's look, perhaps she will not fear you. The rest, with me." She urged the silver through the broken wooden gate.

It was worse inside the town. Many of the houses were afire, and the jaqqa rhan had been about their grisly work. Headless corpses filled the narrow, twisty lanes. They passed other women being raped. Each time Dany reined up, sent her khas to make an end to it, and claimed the victim as slave. One of them, a thick-bodied, flat-nosed woman of forty years, blessed Dany haltingly in the Common Tongue, but from the others she got only flat black stares. They were suspicious of her, she realized with sadness; afraid that she had saved them for some worse fate. (AGOT, Daenerys VII)

The author wants us to know how horrific this is. The author tells us how abused these women are. And then the author has a sly line about Dany which initially leads us to side with Dany, believe these women are unnecessarily worried about her intentions, but what eventually befalls Mirri?

"You will not hear me scream," Mirri responded as the oil dripped from her hair and soaked her clothing.

"I will," Dany said, "but it is not your screams I want, only your life. (AGOT, Daenerys X)

The fires swept over Mirri Maz Duur. Her song grew louder, shriller … than she gasped, again and again, and her song became a shuddering wail, thin and high and full of agony. (AGOT, Daenery X)

A malicious, painful death at Dany’s hand. I simply don’t think the point of any of those scenes is that Mirri is a baddie.

[spookitordukeit]

Your COTL au sounds epic and I can’t wait to learn more about it!

Hdjdvdjsbkdbdkdbsjdbjdbdj omg thank you!!!^^ I haven’t played the game myself yet but I have (tragically) come down with a serious case of brainrot…😔 nothings set in stone yet, but I can definitely ramble about some ideas I have!!

Okay, so first off, I haven’t seen many Fem Lambs, and I absolutely adore writing fems, so my Lamb will be She/They. I think I’ll be sticking with ‘The Lamb’ as her name as well.

As for the cultists, I’ll be revamping characters from a (very, I’m talking 2012) old Original Work I have. I never posted anything, but I feel like now is finally the time to let them shine!

There’s Anya the harlequin rabbit person, Reiketsuna the snow leopard, and Daichi the bat. Those are the main ones I want to revamp, especially Anya, as she has always been my favorite.

Of course there’s also ‘The Wolf’ I mentioned in the other posts. Something something, a sweet lamb comes across an dangerous, injured wolf and nurses it back to health. Undying loyalty and all that, yknow? I’ll probably be basing him off of Hotaru, the wolf person. Might change a few things though as his personality and the Wolf I want to make are vastly different…

AOUGH. And i really want a ferret…. They’re so cute😔 WHAT ABOUT A SALAMANDER?????

I’m also playing with the idea of adding Hoshihiko and Koichiko, (the fox and weird half dragon half priest person … thing. Respectively.) but I’d need to majorly rehaul them, seeing as they were the main hero and villain of that story… idk though, maybe I can work them in? Augh.

I also want to put more focus on how the cultists are, indeed, animals. They act, think, eat, play, forge bonds, and live, in vastly different ways; And I think it would really fun to explore that. Foxes are mostly solitary unless rearing young, and then they form what’s called a ‘skulk’. Wolves always in packs and form deep family connections. Snow leopards are always solitary, roaming as ‘the ghosts of the mountains’. Sheep have large flocks and a leading sheep or shepherd.

Sheep can not be solitary or else they experience extreme distress. A sheep will follow their leader even when being led into danger and death, that is how deep the instinct to be follow is…

Jsbdjdbdjsvsj. Don’t mind me, I’m insane. Anyway! Here’s the finished Lamb design and the idea for the Wolf. (I have no idea how to draw furries… plebse forgibv…😔)

The creachures…. I’ll get to Narinder eventually I prommy

Anyway- always feel free to ask if you have questions :3 I do very much enjoy answering and spreading my little diseases lol

[hannahwatcheshorror]

THE MENU (2022)

💁‍♀️Strong Female Lead

A nice artistic horror film with a SAW type feel of bad people being punished for their bad actions. Beautiful cinematography, food dressing, and scenes in general. All things considered a fairly fresh take on the horror genre.

⭐⭐⭐⭐

We hit the ground running, meeting Margot and Tyler the (apparent) couple and (possibly) main characters for the film. Tyler is a little nasty freak for food and Margot is just trying to eat. Next is one short character introducing boat ride to the island featuring some real heavy hitters in the real world like Judith Light, John Leguizamo, Arturo Castro just to name a few (that I knew anyway). On the Island we meet Ralph Fiennes as Chef Slowik himself (Voldemort is here, with a nose and a pallet cooking us dinner, y’all, get pumped up).

THE MENU begins, which is a very select meal crafted by the chef and made by his staff but things are strange in the dining room. Guests are not appreciating the food (except Tyler who is a whole mess), guests are being rude to staff, but then the staff will kind of clap back at the guests which is great but also eerie. Guests are already grumbling at the chefs fancy and innovative menu that doesn’t include bread (because bread is for poor people and these people don’t deserve it, clever) so when the third course has the patrons private information laser printed on the tortillas everyone starts to get a bit cagey. Before the fourth course, Chef informs Margot he knows she isn’t supposed to be here and basically that he is sorry… and then The Mess.

The Mess is the fourth course, an almost ritualistic suicide of one of the “lesser” staff in the kitchen. The guests are horrified but the staff overwhelm them (giving one guy the finger!). Chef tells them all why they are here, deserving of their fates (some more than others) and we move on to Man’s Folly. The men of the group are allowed to attempt escape while the girls eat and talk shit, then the inevitably captured men come back for the next course (but the last boy found got a snack!). Tyler is bugging because he missed what the girls ate, but that's fine because Chef reveals that Ty-ty knew for 8 months that this was a death trap, but he wanted to eat there so bad, he came AND brought a date! What a schmuck!

Chef has Tyler cook, because he will not shut up about being good in the kitchen. Homeboy puts leeks, shallots, and lamb in a pan together with like four tablespoons of butter while flop sweating then feeds it to Chef after letting it cook for about 30 seconds. Chef spits it out then whispers in Tyler's ear and I can almost guarantee he just told the dumb fecker that he wasn’t going to be getting any more food for the evening because the boy promptly shows himself to a back room to hang out. Margot is unphased the man who was happy to let her die for a meal killed himself over a meal.

Margot is given an errand, briefly escapes, “accidently” kills a staff member, calls the “coast guard”, thinks she gets help, doesn’t get help, and has to sit right back down where she started.

In a final attempt to save herself, Margot stands, claps (like Chef), and basically demands better service, says she hasn’t liked the food and is starving. She just wants something simple and filling and I blurted out with her, “HAMBURGER,” but of course she said “Cheeseburger.” (But that is what I mean when I say Hamburger, because of course there is cheese on it! Gah!) It is nice to see such an art heavy film in the mainstream in 2022 (yes, the culinary arts count as art).

If you think our heroine wins the day because she asks for a simple, non-artistic food you would be wrong, it is because the food she asks for at the end is made by Chef Slowik and not by his staff (also being a burger man was in another life when he was happy which helped a lot too but I DIGRESS). That made all the difference. He got to experience the joy of cooking he hadn’t felt in ages, the joy of making art for someone and making them happy. That is what saved her life, so that she could live another day and eat her leftover burger. And when it comes down to it, isn’t that what we all want? To live another day so that we may eat our leftover burger?

[thornswoggled]

Hello! I wanted to share some thoughts and questions and honestly this probably will be really jumbled up but here we go!, okay so I’ve been thinking (wanting) Chise can obviously Do sleeping magic as Angelica had said in one chapter were chises Magic and her Special technique will be more towards sleeping as we know. Which led me to thinking what if Chise sings another song? Not a lullaby maybe her own song Were she accidentally sings someone to sleep and if that happens will she do it Out in a fit if anger finally? What if Her dragon curse (a death curse) triggers in her song and it turns into kinda like a Song of death?,And not just that but what if a type of event happens for example Something goes on With the college maybe it involea that new mage that showed up or something else entirely. As we know Elias does favors and solve problems for the church. and mages will keep there word involving deals and promises and doing tasks for something in return. So I was thinking Elias does something for the college for something in return and it Involves an event. Elias goes to the event and maybe it’s an event only for Mages or entity’s and creatures and Faye so Elias can go. But what if chise comes along as a plus one? Or instead she ends up coming along because. Hold on let me finish that thought in a minute. As we know in the college arc There’s the Houses the sargant house and obviously these are known as the Seven Shields so what if Chise ends up going along to this event with the St. George’s and Elias doesn’t know? What if Elias informs chise he’s going to be out on business you know and he’ll be back in 3 days or something. And Maybe prior It’s brought up that Chise does sing and so maybe this event loses there lead singer or something goes wrong and there’s a spot a performer is supposed to fill. So somehow chise stands on the stage and she sings you know? Elias is there and he’s dumbfounded or something but imagine she’s Singing her sing infront of a bunch of Faye and maybe even that new mage from the latest chapter is there. And chise is now just exposed Maybe her voice is leaking mana and projecting some sort of spell and maybe she gets stage fright and Her dragon curse leaks through you know, her eyes change color and again she’s exposed Faye’s are drooling over her Sleigh Veganess and it’s this whole thing? And maybe Joseph’s Joins Elias (he probably wants out of his Well or something and maybe he knows about the event maybe it’s yearly and he’s been then before maybe he has more of status after all In one of the episodes specifically the graveyard one he says that parts and martial are hard to come by and expensive so that instigates he’s been in the black market and maybe is well known in some fashion) anyway I’m just really wanting and curious to see chise Singing and putting herself in danger in some fashion but i don’t want her singing some sort of Lamb Lullaby about 16272 sheep and NO! I need something more and again with Elias literally not knowing chises taste in music, this will make his curiosity peak and he’ll be like so stiff his red Beaty eyes watching her perform it something. My mind has short circuited so many times typing this it’s probably so all over the place and my thoughts become unfinished leading on to more and more thoughts about tamb. Oh wait I just had this whole Arc idea and speculations about tamb. I’ll come back later

wow you could probably get a pretty lengthy fic out of that idea!

as for why we've never seen chise sing again, i think shes justifiably afraid of messing someone up again - potentially harming elias and being without his guidance for several days seems to have shaken her a little. but also shes still very new to magic, and hasnt found her niche yet... theres her singing, but theres also this depiction of her magic taking the form of plants/vines, and on top of all that she also has a dragons curse so that comes with its own stank. and on TOP of THAT, there are also people who say things like "chise would probably excel at xyz magic if she was taught properly." all of this is to say she has her fingers in a lot of pots. personally i will be fine if we never see her sing again because i get secondhand embarrassment when people sing in fiction... but thats my own hangup

can someone please get chise a ticket to warped tour. oh, well, wait, that was only a north american thing.... can someone please get chise a ticket to wacken open air. she could do a death growl if you let her. i know this